Matthew came beside him. “Then what is?”
When he didn’t answer, his father patted his back. “I suggest you slow your pursuit until you are certain of your heart. Don’t offer her something unless you are fully committed. It’s too small of a village and Hannah is too sweet a girl.” He stepped to the door to leave. “You are under the pressure of the elders’ challenge and shouldn’t stop your work to chase butterflies.”
Henry watched Matthew walk away. His father was right. His time was already committed. Even though he’d spent many days imagining how love and marriage and a family might improve his life, he would only hurt Hannah if he pursued her when he didn’t have time to offer more.
He rubbed the stiff scars of his left hand. Maybe someday they could court, but for now it wasn’t reasonable for either of them. The only affection he should pursue was his first love—printing.
Chapter Eighteen
Hannah reached between the cold prison bars for the figure in the dark. Before she saw his face, she could feel Aric’s strong spirit. A string of opalescent pearls dangled at her wrist beneath her puffed velvet sleeves—a gift from the prince. She was Adeline.
The tall, attractive figure stepped into the light, thinning the shadows on his unshaven face. Between the bars he clasped her hand and kissed her forehead. “I’ve found you at last.” He held up the jailor’s keys. “Your freedom, my love.”
The jangle of iron keys echoed through her stone cell. He unlocked the prison door, and it swung wide with a rusty creak. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You never gave up on me!”
“I never will.”
“What came of the battle?”
“The slave traders have been defeated.” He knelt to unlock the chains cuffed around her ankles. “Their victims are free.”
“And the kingdoms?”
“Reunited. Father abdicated, and I am king.” A proud grin warmed his expression. “The kingdom is mine, but I would not be pleased to rule without you by my side. Marry me, Adeline, for you were born to be my queen.”
Her breath caught on the magnitude of his words, but before she could answer, he kissed her. As he pulled away, her eyelids fluttered open. Instead of Aric, it was Henry who stood before her. Her sleeves were now a flower-print cotton fabric. Henry was her prince, her rescuer, her true love all along.
She traced a finger along his stubble-covered jaw, but instead of feeling whiskers, she felt something soft but lifeless.
Hannah opened her eyes and stilled her fingers, which were stroking her pillowcase.
She rolled onto her back in the bed she shared with Doris and sighed. That was the perfect ending to her story—not the part of the prince turning into Henry—before that. Aric should rescue Adeline, declare his love, and together they will rule the kingdom, happily ever after.
She checked the miniature clock on her desk beside the bed. Half past one. She’d only slept two hours. The feel of the story was as fresh in her mind as the kiss her dream prince had placed upon her lips. She had to write.
Moving in careful increments, she slid her feet to the floor. Doris let out a little hum in her sleep. Hannah glanced at her sister in the dark as she quietly opened her desk drawer. Once she’d gathered her paper and pencil, she tiptoed to the kitchen and lit the lamp on the table.
By dawn, her eyelids felt as heavy as Adeline’s chains had been, but just like her heroine, she was free. The story was complete and the ending perfect. She read over the final pages once more to check for errors then tucked it back into her desk drawer as her sister stirred.
The routine of her morning—cooking for her family, washing dishes, assigning chores to her sisters—blurred in a haze of fondness for her completed story, pride in her accomplishment, and overwhelming affection for Henry Roberts.
She’d spent as much time sorting through her feelings for him as she had spent writing her story. Now the story was complete, and her feelings were clear. She loved Henry, and he had influenced her writing more than he knew. Desperation to show him the story added urgency to her every task.
She should take the pages to Olivia to be edited before she showed Henry. Not only had Olivia kindly critiqued her story thus far, but also she would edit it. Hannah had assured Henry the final copy would be edited. But if Olivia was busy, it might be several days before Henry would have the privilege of reading it. And several days before she had the privilege of accepting his praise after he’d read it.
Maybe she could edit it herself.
She grabbed a dust rag from the shelf above the washtub to appear to be working and hurried to her desk in the corner of her and Doris’s bedroom. The girls had gone to clean the coop, and only her father was still in the house, repairing his fishing net in the mudroom. She scanned the final pages and didn’t see a single mistake. She could always show Olivia the story later. Maybe she’d even surprise her with a printed and bound copy.
The fear of having others read her work dissolved in the certainty that the story was strong—better than strong. It was everything a love story should be. Soon, she would have Henry’s approval, which would validate her efforts. Then he would turn her story into a beautiful book.
She imagined giving her father the book on his fiftieth birthday. She would roast a chicken for dinner and bake apples for dessert. Then, after her siblings had given him their presents, she would kneel before him, tell him how much his guidance had encouraged her writing, and present him with the book. No, no. She would give it to him on his birthday morning before anyone else was up, so he would have the day to relish her gift before the others presented theirs. He would be so proud of her. Though thrilled with the notion of seeing Henry, this book business was for her father.
She gathered all one hundred ninety-six pages, tied them with twine, and tucked them into her satchel. Forgetting about the dust rag, she carried the satchel to a basket of candles on the storage shelves in the kitchen. She made sure her father could see what she was doing and slid a few candles in the satchel. “I need to go into the village for a while. I have to trade these for paper.”
Christopher glanced at her then returned his gaze to his net mending. “Trade with Henry?”
“Of course.” She was trading the candles as part of their arrangement for the book’s printing, but she couldn’t let her father know it. “Henry has the paper and cutting board.”
Her father gave her a knowing grin. Was it because of Henry or had he caught her dishonesty? The trade for paper wasn’t necessary. She closed her satchel and tied its flap securely. “You were the one who told me to write. You said you wanted to see me use my God-given talents.”
“And I meant it.” He shifted out of the doorway as she descended the mudroom steps. “Be back by lunch.”
“I will.”
She hoisted the satchel’s strap over her head to let the bag hang across her body as she scurried through the yard. The morning grass wet her hem, but she didn’t care. The warm sun flickered off the dew across the pasture. She looked to the side of the property where her mother was buried. The stone marker stood beyond the incline. Though it wasn’t visible from the path to the road, she whispered in its direction. “I finally finished it, Mama. It’s perfect.”
The vacant road into the village welcomed her with its soft morning haze. A jackrabbit sat at the road’s edge across from the Cotters’ house, chewing its breakfast. Birds chattered in the grass and underbrush and the gray leaf trees above. The stately trees reached their limbs across the road to lace their leaves with one another high above the lane.
Hannah almost hummed as she walked the road into the village, but that seemed more like something Doris would do. Her completed story gave her a taste of freedom. Perhaps that was why carefree girls like Doris hummed and twirled; only their ribbons weighed them down.
The print shop door stood open, and a rhythmic tapping came from inside. Hannah smoothed her hair and straightened her posture as she walked to the doorway. Scant light hazed th
e north-facing window near Henry’s letterpress. The candles she’d traded to him last month burned brightly in the center of the shop. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light after being outside.
Henry’s back faced the door as he leaned over the letterpress, tapping a little tool against a row of type. He turned a degree when she stepped inside. His brow was furrowed with annoyance but relaxed the instant he saw her.
“Hannah,” he said closing the distance between them. “What a delightful surprise.”
“I brought you something.”
He tossed his little tool to the worktable beside them. It landed at the base of a candelabrum that held a triplet of burning tapers. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking hopeful and boyish. “Something for me?”
She opened her satchel and first drew out the candles she’d brought, setting them on the worktable two at a time, wanting to build suspense. “These are the beginning of my payment.”
The hope drained from his expression as he glanced from her to the candles and back again. “Payment?”
“Yes, you remember our agreement.” She lowered her volume. “More candles in exchange for printing my story.”
“Oh.” He moved a hand to the worktable. She expected him to touch the candles, but instead he straightened a stack of his finely printed pages. Once the pages were perfectly aligned, he picked up his tool and thumped it against the palm of his good hand.
Hoping she’d misread his disappointment, she continued her coy presentation. “I brought the first part of my payment because… even though it is two months early…” she almost squealed with excitement as she drew out the completed manuscript, “my story is ready to be printed.”
She waited for him to gasp from surprise at her efficiency or wrap her in his arms and profess his pride in her and his love for her. He only stared at the manuscript and kept thumping the tool against his palm.
She took a half step forward and slid the twine-bound pages onto the worktable next to the candelabrum. “I thought you would be… rather… aren’t you pleased?”
His Adam’s apple raised and lowered as he swallowed. “Yes, of course, I’m pleased for you. You set out to finish your story and achieved just that.”
Perhaps she was being oversensitive about his reaction because she’d only slept two hours last night. Maybe she’d expected too much from him. He’d given no indication he was the sort of man who celebrated such accomplishments. Still, didn’t human decency dictate he should at least congratulate her?
She’d probably surprised him too much. Some men needed a few moments to process news. She cast her gaze about the room to give him time to conjure a response worthy of the interest he’d claimed to possess for her. Her eyes moved from the letterpress to the cabinet of thin drawers to the window with the view of the stone library next door.
He said nothing.
She picked up her bound manuscript and flashed him a smile. “The ending came to me in a dream. I’ve never written anything so quickly in my life.”
He glanced back at the letterpress. “Hannah, I’m pleased with your efficiency, however, this is quite unexpected. I didn’t think we would have to do this for a couple of months.”
What did he mean have to do this? He’d been apprehensive about her writing ability at first, but since the dance he’d seemed smitten with her. Didn’t admiring a person extend to their creations? This story was, after all, as much a part of her as her eyes and voice. She proffered the manuscript. “Don’t you want to read it?”
He pressed his lips together. “I won’t have time to read the whole story until my project for the elders is complete. But I believe a final page can reveal the merit of a work.” He laid the manuscript on the worktable and untied the twine. “And since you’re especially proud of the story’s ending, you should have no problem with me reading only that much for now.”
Her heart skipped from both delight and devastation that he would read her words. She took a deep breath as he flipped the manuscript over and selected the last page. He leaned against the worktable and held the page close to the candlelight as he read. She walked to the window unable to watch him read her work.
The taut silence in the room broke when he shifted his weight away from the worktable. He returned the page to its place in her manuscript. “Is this your best work?”
She walked toward him, ignoring the sickly feeling produced by her fluttering heart. “I believe it is, yes.”
He thumped his little tool against his palm once more and went back to work at his letterpress. He tapped the letter row with the tool. “The ending is trite. It’s ample sign the story is not ready for binding, much less printing. I suggest you work on it more.”
Hannah stared at his back, his words pricking her ears like bee stings. How could he throw out criticism so flippantly then go back to his work as if he’d commented on humidity or stale bread? Her story was not so trivial as hot weather or old food. This story was her lifeblood and writing it had carried her through years of pain and loneliness. Her fists clenched so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. “How dare you!”
He barely took his focus off his type long enough to flick a glance at her. “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? She wasn’t his sweetheart and never would be if this was how he treated someone he cared for. She picked up the final page of her manuscript and shook it at him. “You only read one page. You don’t know the whole story.”
“I read enough to know you chose an overused trope. It’s a fairy tale romance.”
“It is not!”
He straightened his spine, blowing out an impatient breath. “You have a prince rescuing his love interest, declaring his love for her, and suggesting they will rule the kingdom happily ever after.”
“So?”
“So, he is returning from a battle where he fought the slave trade. That would leave the kingdoms filled with wounded and scarred individuals. He is reuniting two kingdoms. That would come with political problems. His father is abdicating the thrown. That would cause family turmoil and palace chaos. You have ignored the logical consequences of your plot’s complications and instead tied up the story with a romantic happy ending. You might as well sprinkle in a few magic beans because it’s a fairy tale.”
“It is a love story.”
“Sentiment isn’t believable. A reader’s trust is built by the author’s logic. The ending is illogical, and therefore I must assume the rest of the story is too.”
“How could you be so heartless? You’re convinced everything you do is worthwhile, but you criticized my whole work harshly after only reading one page.”
“One crucial page.”
“Are you even capable of loving anyone but yourself?”
He froze with his lips parted and pierced her with his sapphire gaze.
She didn’t care that she’d offended him after the way he’d judged her story. She grabbed her manuscript and stuffed it into her satchel without bothering to tie it first. “I knew you would be a stern critic, but I also thought you would be happy for me. I thought you might show some respect for my hard work even if it wasn’t to your taste. I thought you would—” Keeping her eyes on him, she reached back to grab the candles she’d brought to trade. Her hand bumped the candelabrum, knocking its three burning tapers onto a stack of his printed pages, setting them ablaze. She gasped.
Henry jumped toward the worktable and beat the fire with his leather apron. “What have you done?” His voice bellowed like the roar of a crazed animal as he swatted the flames. “You ruined a month’s worth of work!”
Her voice seized up. She couldn’t have replied if she’d wanted to. Smoke stung her crying eyes. She hugged her satchel to her chest and ran out of the print shop, weeping.
Chapter Nineteen
Henry slammed his fist into the heap of charred pages on his worktable. Ash flew into the smoky air. “More than half of my pages are ruined! What am I supposed to do now,
Father? What?”
Matthew calmly brushed a hand broom over the worktable, whisking ash and remnants of Henry’s work into a dustpan. “Now, son, this is nothing you can’t handle—a mere setback. Roberts men have fought fires and infestations and dripping roofs in our print shops for generations. No flame nor storm nor pest can stop our presses.”
Losing the pages fueled only half of Henry’s anger; his quarrel with Hannah fueled the rest. He ground his teeth until they ached. “I never should have gotten involved with her.”
“The fire was an accident.” Matthew’s eyebrows arched high, sending a wave of deep wrinkles through his forehead. “Let’s not blame the girl.”
“I don’t. I blame myself.” He glared down at the mess. “Almost a month’s work wasted.”
“On the printing project or on Hannah?” Matthew held the dustpan outside the open door and knocked the ashes into the wind. As he returned to the worktable, he caught Henry’s eye as if expecting an answer.
When Henry said nothing, his father whistled one long flat note. “I see. If you have committed to pursuing Miss Vestal, go to her and beg forgiveness. No woman in love can resist a sincere apology from her suitor.”
If only it were that simple. He hadn’t wronged her by doing something he ought not do but by being true to his principles. What would he say in his apology? That from now on he would ignore his professional standards, forgo logic, and swallow his truthful opinions? What would be left of him then? A shell of a man. A printer who produced volume after volume of rot. A spineless romantic with an overflowing library from which no one with a modicum of intelligence would want to read.
Once again, a woman had asked too much of him. He shook his throbbing head. “She wants something I cannot give.” He motioned to the blackened pages. “You needn’t worry yourself with this, Father.”
The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set Page 55