The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set

by Keely Brooke Keith

  “It isn’t like a book, Hannah. It is a book. You’re writing a novel.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said without meaning it. She hadn’t meant to write a book. It was a story—a story that kept her mind occupied during monotonous and lonely days, a story that allowed her to produce something bigger than laundry and dinner. It was still a story that never should be shared. It was part of her private world. “Henry probably doesn’t have the time to print my little story.”

  Olivia shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask. I think a bound, printed copy of your story would make a lovely gift for your father’s fiftieth birthday.”

  “What if Henry says no?”

  “Then you handwrite a copy.”

  “What if he tells everyone I write fiction?”

  “Henry isn’t like that.”

  If she finished her story and Olivia kindly edited it and Henry printed and bound it into a book, she would have succeeded in the goal she was putting before herself, but somehow success felt more dreadful than failure. If she failed to produce the story, there would be no book, no gift, no embarrassment, no torture of wondering what someone else thought of her words. But then she would be guilty of taking her talent to the grave. Scary as it was, she had to explore Olivia’s idea. “What if Henry says yes?”

  “Then you will have your manuscript turned into a book, and your father will be delighted.”

  Hannah stood and busied her hands at the stove. “No, I mean if Henry prints it, he will read it too.”

  “I’m sure he will enjoy the story.”

  “But what if he doesn’t? Literature is subjective. You taught me that. You said readers perceive the story through the lens of their own experiences and preferences. What if Henry ridicules me? What if I can’t write a strong ending?”

  “Then I will tell you it needs more work before it is printed.”

  She had trusted Olivia with her story for six years. Olivia would stop her from sharing a story that wasn’t fit to be read. But even if she finished the story and liked the ending and took it to Olivia and she approved of the story, she would have to trust Henry. Her simple pastime felt like ivy that began as a ground cover and was now blanketing the house, sucking the moisture from the wood. She turned back to face Olivia. “I’m not sure I can do this. I never wanted to be a published author.”

  Olivia tilted her head. “Then don’t think of it as publishing a book but as making a present for your father. Henry and my husband have been friends their entire lives. He is trustworthy. Ask for his confidence in the matter and tell him I sent you.” Olivia’s playful grin returned. “He might not always be pleasant, but he will treat you fairly.”

  Chapter Six

  Henry chewed his cheek while waiting for the elders to slog through mind-numbing village business and get to his father’s request to make the printing press a village-supported trade. The weekly Wednesday night elders’ meetings always droned for hours, but tonight’s agenda set a new standard for tedium. Henry’s toes curled inside his boots as he fought the urge to blast out of his seat and beg Reverend Colburn to get to what mattered.

  Sitting at Henry’s left, his father shifted on the wooden pew. Matthew kept a stoic expression while Reverend Colburn opened the floor for the elders to discuss the use of the late Mr. Weathermon’s cabin. Gabe McIntosh sat to Henry’s right, smelling of sawdust after a day of building. Gabe crossed his arms when his father stood to speak.

  “My son Arnold would like to have the empty cabin. Arnold plans to ask Hazel Roberts to marry soon. The cabin would suit them well.”

  There was a brief murmur between the men as discussion began. Gabe elbowed Henry and smirked. “My brother and your sister.”

  “Bound to happen,” Henry mumbled, not amused.

  The elders’ discussion of Mr. Weathermon’s old cabin didn’t hold Henry’s interest. His mind drifted and he cast his gaze to the window. The rain had stopped and the sun had long since set, but no stars were visible since the chapel interior’s lamplight was reflecting off the glass.

  Four large oil lanterns burned in the room. It seemed excessive, but ever since Dr. Ashton had found an efficient way to refine the oil he’d discovered in the shale down the coast, all the homes and workshops had brightened.

  All except the print shop.

  One spill of burning fuel could consume six months’ worth of Henry’s precious work. He would rather squint in candlelight than risk torching his exquisite pages. No matter what the genius Ashtons came up with, he would stick to candles. And as long as Hannah Vestal kept trading her candles for his paper, he was in no danger of wanting for light.

  Hannah Vestal. He wanted to see her but didn’t know why. It might be a long while before she came to trade again, considering the amount of paper she’d taken at once. Surely she was writing a novel to need so much paper at once. But she didn’t behave like any writer he had known. Why had she acted secretively about needing paper? Maybe she wasn’t a writer. The writers he knew back in America boasted about their craft as if the profession were an appointment so divinely bequeathed the populous would be destitute without them.

  Hannah wasn’t like those writers. She hadn’t experienced a society that held the pursuit of fame in higher regard than the desire for holiness. She hadn’t experienced much socializing at all but spent her life minding five siblings and her parents’ home. Maybe the solitude had made her scared of people. Or of men. Or maybe she was just modest. Still, if she was a writer and her writing was any good, she wouldn’t be secretive about it. Perhaps he should make a point of speaking with her after church on Sunday to see if she would divulge clues to her paper usage.

  Beside him, Matthew stroked his white side whiskers while his gaze shifted between Mr. McIntosh and Reverend Colburn as the matter of Mr. Weathermon’s cabin was brought to a vote. The reverend’s dignified voice resounded through the narrow chapel. “All those in favor, say aye.”

  Matthew and the other elders replied, “Aye.”

  “Those opposed, say nay?”

  No one objected.

  Henry glanced at Gabe beside him then shot a look down the pew to Jonah. The three of them had spent eight years marveling at the elders’ exhaustive discussions that usually ended in divided votes. Perhaps if the elders were feeling inclined to vote quickly and in the affirmative on Mr. McIntosh’s request, they would be accommodating when the matter of the printing press was raised.

  Reverend Colburn adjusted his slipping spectacles then silently read his notes at the lectern. Henry scratched the thickly scarred skin between his middle finger and the nub of his missing ring finger while the reverend followed the words he read with his pencil tip. What was taking him so long to read?

  Finally, the reverend spoke, repeatedly glancing at his notes. “The Roberts family is making changes, or rather, Matthew has come to a decision about the occupations of his eldest two sons. Simon isn’t suited for the work of the printing press but has taken over the family’s farming while Matthew has devoted his time to making paper. He gave the printing press, including the workshop, to Henry. Of all this, I heartily approve as he is passing his primary vocation to his eldest son.”

  Since Henry was not allowed to speak up as a junior member in the council, he gave his father a light nudge. Matthew drew a trifolded square of scrap paper from his breast pocket and pinched the seam repeatedly between his fingers while he waited to be addressed.

  Reverend Colburn continued speaking. “The occupation of printing and binding books to supply the school and church and to begin the village’s library now falls to Henry, who has no home or land of his own with which to sustain himself. The Roberts family is pleased to allow Henry to remain at home and to provide him room and board for the time being. Like any man in Good Springs, once he decides to marry we would appoint him land and help him build a home.” He removed his spectacles. “However, Mr. Roberts has proposed the village support Henry’s livelihood continually by making the press a village-supp
orted profession.”

  The reverend looked over the men seated in the first pew and settled his gaze on Matthew. “Have you prepared a statement?”

  The elders in the front row craned their necks to look at Matthew. Henry tightened his abdominal muscles, bracing himself for his father’s speech.

  “I have.” His father stood and straightened his lapel then unfolded his paper. “A pressman’s life is defined by slow and precise work. Unlike the swinging of a hammer, the setting of type requires delicate perfection. The press’s quiet heroism often goes unnoticed, unlike the often quick rescue of a physician.”

  Henry went back to chewing his cheek to refrain from groaning.

  Matthew continued with his flowery monologue. “The work of the pressman benefits not one customer at a time but the village as a whole over time and, therefore, he should be supported by the village as a whole. The pressman’s purpose in Good Springs is not simply to trade a product nor does the printing press exist solely to supply books to individuals for entertainment but for the furtherance of our education, for the guarantee that the Scripture won’t be lost when our few Bibles fade, for the preservation of our culture from one generation to the next, the reinforcement of our values, the respite of the soul when swept into story, yea, for the enrichment of our very lives.

  “As the village population doubles or triples every twenty years, the supply of Bibles and schoolbooks must increase, and that, men of Good Springs, takes the whole life of a committed pressman.”

  Several of the elders nodded in agreement, including Reverend Colburn.

  Henry’s toes relaxed inside his shoes. His father’s eloquence appeared to have stirred the elders to approval.

  “Thank you, Matthew,” the reverend said. He looked at his notes and then at Henry. “Are you committed to this occupation for life, son?”

  He stood beside his father and squared his shoulders. “I am.” All that was left was arranging the terms of his support, and he could leave here a satisfied man.

  Reverend Colburn patted the air, directing Henry to sit. Then he addressed the elders. “Is there a man among us who does not see the need and value of the printing press?”

  No one spoke.

  The reverend nodded. “Very well, Matthew you may be seated too. I recommend the village of Good Springs supports the livelihood of the pressman, not in perpetuity, only for Mr. Henry Roberts’s lifetime and only under certain conditions.”

  His father hadn’t mentioned the possibility of conditions. Henry swallowed air.

  “First, we shall require proof of Henry’s skill in the craft, especially his attention to detail, as the creation of no books would be preferable to error-filled texts. Second, since the nature of the work requires independence and persistence, we shall also require proof of Henry’s ability to work skillfully and faithfully to see a project completed in a timed capacity. I know of no other way to test him than with an assignment. Henry, if you want the village to support the printing press, you must produce an error-free copy of the New Testament, printed and bound, by Good Springs’s eighth anniversary celebration.”

  Henry’s lips parted but before he could object, his father spoke. “Reverend, that is only four months away.”

  Reverend Colburn raised a palm, halting Matthew’s protest. “If you don’t believe it can be done, we will discuss other recommendations at a future meeting.”

  Henry would rather work twenty hours per day for four months than allow his livelihood be lost in council debates. He shot to his feet. “I can do it.”

  Matthew tugged on his sleeve, trying to make him sit.

  What was he thinking? Only four months to print an error-free copy of the New Testament with no help, not even an ink boy? Every muscle in his body told him to recoil and pray his father could convince them to sponsor the press in the future, but he didn’t budge. He looked Reverend Colburn in the eye. “I accept your terms, sir, should the elders agree.”

  The reverend nodded. “All in favor say aye.”

  Henry held his breath as he slowly lowered himself to the pew.

  The elders responded in unison. “Aye.”

  “Those opposed say nay?”

  When there was no response, the reverend pointed his pencil at Henry. “You have four months, son. I look forward to reading your work.”

  Chapter Seven

  After helping Doris carry bundles of floral decorations to the school for the upcoming dance, Hannah dithered on the road in front of the bustling schoolhouse. She could turn south and walk to the print shop or turn north and go home. The print shop was nearby. What could it hurt to try?

  She wanted to take Olivia’s advice and ask Henry to print and bind her story if she finished it in time for her father’s birthday. She’d gotten an early start on her cleaning chores this morning, and her father would support her if he knew what she was doing. There was no good reason for her hesitation. Still, she preferred standing on the road to choosing a direction.

  Perhaps it was the comfort of the late spring sunlight glinting between the gray leaf trees overhead that beckoned her to stay put. Or maybe it was the soft morning air whispering through the village that gently immobilized her with its kind caress.

  No, it was fear.

  The same fear that made her hide her pages and keep her stories to herself. How could she write courageous characters that carried on despite their fear if she let fear strand her on the road between her safe home and the printer who might help her make a present for her father?

  She was simply requesting Henry’s services, not his opinion on her story. Olivia had assured her Henry would be fair, and she trusted Olivia. What was the worst that could happen? If Henry said no, she would have to give her father a handwritten copy of the story, which had been her original plan.

  She rebuked her fear, stepped over a puddle left by yesterday’s rain, and headed south.

  Once near the print shop, she crossed the sandy gravel toward the log cabin that originally housed the Cotter family when they first arrived in the Land. The workshop’s door stood ajar, and its window gaped at the mid-morning sun.

  She stepped into the doorway. “Hello? Mr. Roberts? Henry?”

  No one answered.

  Her vision adjusted to the darkness in the vacant one-room workshop. The scents of copper and ink and man filled the space. The impeccably arranged shelves held little boxes of backward letters and stacks of paper, all arranged at perfect right angles.

  She trailed a finger along the edge of the press and let her skin linger on the smooth polished wood of the ancient contraption. How many books had it printed in its lifetime? How many more volumes would come to life beneath its weight?

  A half-page’s worth of moveable type was nestled backward in rows on the letterpress. Henry must have been in the middle of setting type when he’d left. She looked closer. The top row read: The Gospel According to Matthew.

  Her fingers itched to inspect the copper-plated letters and open the cabinet full of narrow drawers, but it would be rude to snoop. As she backed away from the letterpress, her elbow brushed a stack of pages on the worktable. She quickly straightened the pages and readjusted a paperweight atop the stack then stepped outside.

  The empty road stretched through the woods to where her family’s property capped the northern end of the village. Chimney smoke rose from the houses to the south, but no one was on the road. She walked to one end of the print shop and peeked around the corner. Only gray leaf trees waved from the woods that stood between the back of the building and the shore, so she walked to the other side. The outhouse door was closed, and she would not knock.

  The stone facade of the recently built library next door commanded her attention. She’d seen inside only once—after the village’s dedication ceremony—and that was for a quick look with her family. Other families had been waiting their turn to go in, and the twins had whined about being hungry, so she hadn’t given the room a close inspection. The library had been emp
ty then. Was it still?

  Two sawhorses stood between the library and the print shop with a stack of lumber nearby. She padded across the sawdust-covered ground. The library’s narrow wooden door had been constructed from the Providence’s deck planks and still smelled of seawater. A two-inch gap parted the door from its frame, so she pushed it farther open. The iron hinges creaked.

  “Hello?”

  Only a faint echo of her voice answered.

  She stepped inside. Wooden bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling around the perimeter of the library, save for one section of bare wall by the door. A plumb line hung from the top of the wall there, and a stack of tools rested near the baseboard. That must be what the lumber was for.

  Her shoes scuffed along the stone floor as she perambulated the room. She couldn’t remember ever having walked on such a smooth stone floor before. All the houses in the Land had wooden floors, as did her family’s farmhouse back in Virginia. The stone gave the place a sacred feel, like the way she imagined the inside of a temple or mausoleum. Though as the town library, the hallowed air might warm once the shelves were filled with books.

  A shadow darkened the doorway, and Henry stepped inside. He ran his right hand through his reddish brown hair and slid his left hand behind his back. “Miss Vestal?”

  As he stared down at her from a foot taller, she tucked her chin. “So sorry to trespass.”

  His lips curved into a smile, but his brow creased with an authoritative scowl. “You aren’t trespassing. This is a public building.”

  Her eyes met his and she almost looked away again, but something about the blue of them held her gaze. His scowl released and all that remained was a grin—charming with a hint of mischief. She mirrored his expression, hoping it might help her cause. “I’ve come to request your printing services.”

  “Ah.” He folded his hands in front of his ink-stained leather apron but said nothing else.

  “Upon Olivia’s suggestion.” Her voice echoed in the empty stone room, distracting her. “I can trade you candles or, if you prefer, apples from my father’s orchard if you are willing to wait until autumn for payment.”