The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set

by Keely Brooke Keith

  There was nothing particularly unpleasant about her life. Her family had more than they needed, and she had a good life caring for them. It was in the still moments where she found her mind racing in desperation to change her circumstances while her heart ached too much to do anything about it.

  She missed her stories, missed discussing her writing with Olivia, missed Henry. Her only companion now was her desperation for escape.

  Perhaps God would relieve her suffering and allow her to be inflicted with the same ailment that took her mother’s life, so she could die in her thirties as well. Only a decade to go and she could join her mother in Glory. The morbid thought almost brought happiness—the first twinge of joy she’d felt since Henry had dashed her love of writing and her hope for love.

  She untied her apron and stepped out the back door to loosen the crumbs from it. With the first shake of the apron, a folded-up slip of paper flung into the air and landed in the grass near the stoop. She knew better than to open it, but her fingers unfolded it anyway.

  Pencil markings covered the page with notes for a love letter she’d planned to have Prince Aric send Adeline in her story. She’d left the vowels out of each word to disguise the meaning in case one of her siblings had found the note and assumed she had written it to a man or a man had written it to her.

  That would never happen now.

  Ripping the paper again and again, she yearned to feel the way she’d felt when Henry was intrigued with her. He’d never said he loved her, but he’d looked at her like she was captivating. Whatever had been between them was undeniable.

  It was care and desire and interest and attraction. And she’d barely had a chance to enjoy it before it was over.

  Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe she’d imagined it too. Maybe she’d been so engrossed in her story she had projected the feelings she created for her characters into real life.

  A salty tear slid between her lips as she held the tiny squares of ripped paper in her hands.

  No, her feelings for Henry were real.

  She’d admired him very much—loved him even. She’d wanted to know everything about him and spend more time with him, even to the point of imagining shirking her promise to her mother. How could she not see it was love before it fell apart?

  As she sat on the stoop holding the tiny bits of paper, Wade led the puppies from the front of the house to the barn. A moment later he closed the barn doors and walked back to the house. He eyed her as he passed by and stepped into the mudroom, but she turned her face away. His boots clunked as they hit the floor, then he plodded through the kitchen. At least he didn’t say anything about her crying. Maybe he hadn’t noticed in the low light of nightfall.

  Male voices murmured lightly in the parlor at the other end of the kitchen. Then, footsteps descended the mudroom steps behind her. She didn’t look back but closed her cupped hands over the ripped note.

  Christopher stepped out to the stoop with his feet bare and closed the door behind him. He sat beside her. Without a word he held an open palm in front of her as a parent does when they expect a child to give them a broken toy.

  Tears blurred her vision as she poured the bits of torn paper into her father’s waiting hand.

  He closed his fingers over the sad confetti and withdrew a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. He kept his caring voice low. “Was this a letter from Henry?”

  “No.” She wiped her eyes. “It was for my story.”

  He angled his chin. “Are you still writing?”

  “No.”

  “Are you and Henry still friends?”

  “No.”

  “Did one affect the other?”

  When she said nothing, he turned his face toward the barn across the yard. “I had a feeling.”

  “At least you have feelings. Henry doesn’t. I thought he did at first, but he only cares about his printing.”

  “He is under tremendous pressure from the elders right now. Reverend Colburn assigned him a task too big for any man.” He nudged her softly. “I’ll let you in on a secret. For the elders, it isn’t so much completing the assignment that matters, but how Henry handles it.”

  “He told me about having to print a copy of the New Testament in four months. He seemed busy but confident. Perhaps those characteristics will aide him in his assignment even if they make him a lousy suitor.”

  “So he asked you then?”

  “Asked me what?”

  “To court.”

  “We never got that far.” She wished her mother were here to talk to. Her father cared, but how much should she tell him? As a man he might not understand the intricacies of feminine emotion. If he knew Henry had broken her heart, he might become angry with Henry. Or her.

  She glanced at his profile. Her father was a man, but he was also a caring man who had raised six children alone. He’d proven his compassion time and again. She blotted her nose and wadded his handkerchief in a tight ball. “I needed Henry’s opinion about something… something that matters a great deal to me. And he was very harsh.”

  “Harsh?”

  “He ripped out my heart, threw it to the floor, and crushed it with his muddy boot.”

  She waited for Christopher’s shocked response. When he said nothing, she looked at him.

  His eyes were wide and his lips curved in a half-grin. “Henry did all that, did he?”

  “Metaphorically, of course.”

  “Of course.” Christopher held the bits of paper in one hand and leaned the other palm behind him on the stoop. “When your mother and I were first courting, before that even, she would get so angry with me over small things. Sometimes, I knew I’d befuddled my words and caused the trouble. Sometimes, I didn’t have an inkling of my wrong. But that didn’t stop her from being upset with me.”

  Most of Hannah’s memories of her mother were of an ill and soft-tempered woman. Before Susanna’s illness, her parents had always spoken kindly to one another. “I can’t imagine Mother being ungracious to you.”

  Christopher leaned forward. “And that’s just it. When we were courting, I never thought of Susanna as being ungracious. I knew nothing of the ways of women, and so I assumed it was my fault. Granted, I was young and foolish enough it was possible I was wrong in each circumstance.”

  He looked up as the first glints of starlight broke through the night sky. “I was happy to take the blame because I loved her.”

  Hannah’s heart sank. “Then Henry doesn’t love me. If he did, he would have made amends by now.”

  Her father raised a finger. “He has a different temperament than I do and has endured things I never have, so I can’t claim to understand him. I watched him work the ship’s sails for months during our voyage here. No matter the conditions, he was the first man at the ropes and the last man standing in a storm. He helped build most of the houses in this settlement until the accident. And now he works long hours each day at an intricate job with a hand that pains him.” He shook his head. “Henry Roberts is not a man to be judged quickly.”

  She huffed. “No matter how quickly he judges?”

  Christopher peeled his gaze from the stars. “Did he judge you harshly, Hannah, or did he give you the honest opinion you asked for?”

  “Well, yes, but…” She couldn’t tell her father this was about her writing without explaining she’d taken her story to be printed for his birthday. It would only sadden her father to know she’d failed him. “I feel as though he betrayed me.”

  “Did he?”

  “He led me to believe I had a chance at something.”

  “A chance and a promise are two different things. Did he give you a chance at whatever this was?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, he didn’t mislead you?”

  “Well, no.”

  Christopher’s voice came in a near whisper. “The reason your mother and I kept courting was that she forgave me after every time she’d been upset with me. We were young and immature and her complaints against me were
petty. But still the grace of God ruled in her heart and was growing in her to where each time we fought she forgave me quicker. Soon, she realized I truly loved her and she no longer became upset with me easily. Our courtship was difficult, but it was worth it. By the time we were married, she’d learned not to let the little things matter too much and not to let the right things matter too little.”

  She traced a finger in the dirt beside her feet and imagined Henry asking her for forgiveness. What would she want him to apologize for? For giving her his opinion of her writing when she’d asked him to? For not liking her story? Those weren’t personal affronts. “Perhaps I’m like my mother.”

  “More than you will ever know.” Christopher smiled. “I believe Henry to be a wise man or I wouldn’t have given him my permission to court you. Try to put aside your anger and think about what upset you. It usually isn’t the incorrect judgments that offend us, but those that contain some truth. Was there any truth to his words?”

  Henry told her the story’s ending was trite and illogical and she hadn’t given it enough thought. She’d stayed up all night writing it and had been so excited to see Henry she hadn’t taken her pages to Olivia to be edited, as she normally did… as she’d promised she would… as she should have.

  Perhaps Henry was right.

  The manuscript was tucked inside her desk drawer where it had remained untouched since their argument. Maybe she should reread those last few pages. What if Henry was only pushing her to work harder, to make the story better? She had reacted badly, ran out like a child, and buried her talent in the drawer.

  Buried in a drawer, not buried in a grave. Since she was still breathing, God wanted her here. Though night had fallen, the surrounding darkness seemed to lift. She wiped her final tears and faced her father. “Henry’s opinion was harsh but honest. And yes, I asked for it, so I shouldn’t have faulted him. I fear our relationship is beyond repair now.”

  Christopher poured the little bits of paper back into her hand. “If he loves you, nothing is beyond repair.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Her father gave her shoulder a squeeze as he stood. “Then the experience will give you something to write about.”

  After her father went inside, she looked up at the stars and prayed if God wanted her to write, He would rescue her from this despair.

  A warm breeze blew through the orchard and reminded her of a scene in her story. The boldness she’d felt while writing filled her mind and brought with it the desire to reread her story. She should see if there was any truth to Henry’s assessment.

  Popping up from the stoop, she hurried into the house, through the kitchen, and into her bedroom. She sat at her desk and opened its drawer. There her manuscript hid, wrinkled and abandoned. She smoothed out the creases on the cover page and began reading.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Henry pinched a copper sort between his thumb and forefinger while he wiped it clean. His scarred hand ached, begging him to be done with work for the day. One by one he set the cleaned sorts neatly in their place in the letter cabinet. His work would be over for the day when he said so, not when the pain took hold.

  Gabe stepped into the doorway of the print shop, holding a covered glass jar filled with black soot. “From Olivia.”

  “Excellent.” Henry lifted his chin at the worktable. “Set it there.”

  “She said this would be the last jar of soot she can collect for a while since school is starting next week.”

  Henry glanced outside at the late summer sunset. The long hours he’d spent in the print shop had made the months blur. “So soon.”

  “She’s having the younger children start class two weeks before the others this year. Thinks it will help them settle into the routine.”

  Henry wasn’t in the mood to talk, let alone talk about other people’s children. He would never have a family, never have children. He wouldn’t need to know about sending them to school, only what books to print and how many copies. He pointed at the jar of soot. “Give your bride my thanks.”

  Gabe nodded and set down the jar. He rounded the worktable and began reading the uncut pages drying on the line. “Already at Ephesians?” He flashed a smile over his thick shoulder. “You might finish this project in time after all.”

  “Might.”

  “What will you work on next?”

  He had planned to print Hannah’s story if she fixed its flaws and had it ready. But in the six weeks since the fire, she hadn’t come around the print shop and had barely given him a glance when he saw her at church. She didn’t want his services after their argument, didn’t want him at all. He tried to shrug off the hurt, but nothing helped. “The elders will tell me what to print. If the village is contributing to my support, I’ll work on whatever is needed.”

  “Olivia is eager for you to print more story books,” Gabe said as he lifted the lantern from the worktable and held it near the wet pages for a closer look. The bright oil-burning flame washed the page. “Not reprints of the books from America though. She was hoping for new stories to teach from. Perhaps something by a new writer here in Good Springs.”

  Henry wasn’t taking the bait and talking about Hannah’s writing. He continued cleaning the sorts despite the stiffness in his hand.

  Gabe returned the lantern to its place and leaned down, propping his elbows on the worktable. “My father and I were at the Vestals’ yesterday. Have you ever seen the pottery wheel Mrs. Vestal brought from Virginia?”

  Henry glanced up. “Only when we were unloading the ship.”

  “Wade wants to learn to make pottery, even found some good clay to use. But Susanna never showed anyone how to work the pottery wheel. We all gave it a try, kicking the fly wheel and squeezing the clay.” Gabe chuckled. “Wade got more frustrated with us by the minute. He didn’t say anything. Mr. Vestal tried to mold the clay and keep the wheel spinning just right. I tried. Father tried. Finally, Wade got fed up with us flinging balls of clay across the barn. His cheeks were as red as that apple,” he said pointing to the fruit Henry kept in a bowl on the shelf.

  Henry put the last cleaned sort in the letter cabinet and closed the drawer with the heel of his hand. “What did Wade do?”

  “Nothing. He stormed off and kicked a clump of clay on his way out of the barn.”

  Henry wiped his fingertips with the cloth. “It could happen to any of us.”

  “What could?”

  “Die without teaching someone else what we know, leaving no instruction of our life’s work.” The notion stirred him. “We should do something about it before anyone else passes away and takes their profession with them.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I must think about it. Our purpose in coming to unsettled land was to form a more civilized society, but if knowledge is lost, quality of life will regress for future generations.”

  Gabe nodded solemnly. “Or we will leave each other as frustrated as Wade was yesterday. I’ve always felt sorry for the Vestals since Susanna died.”

  “As have I.”

  “Especially Hannah.”

  “She manages fine without my sympathy.”

  “Is that all it was? Sympathy?”

  Gabe wouldn’t keep pushing if he didn’t think it was important. They had crossed an ocean together, built a settlement together, and followed their fathers into the elder council together. Henry looked across the worktable at his closest friend. “I care for her… very much. But I ruined it.”

  Gabe removed his elbows from the worktable and slowly straightened his spine like a carpenter whose muscles were tired from working all day. “What happened?”

  Henry grabbed a rag and found a dusty spot on the letterpress to wipe so he wouldn’t have to look another man in the eye while he talked about his failure. “I made her angry.”

  “Do you love her?”

  He nodded. “But not well enough. She deserves better.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Th
is.” He raised his left hand in the air with its scarred stubs pointing at the ceiling. “She deserves a whole man who can build her a house and plow the earth and—”

  “You’re not a farmer. You’re a printer. You were learning to be a printer from your father long before the accident. Your choice of profession has nothing to do with missing a couple of fingers.”

  “But having only half a hand affects me now. I’m working sixteen hours a day to prove my abilities to the elders so the village will support this trade—”

  “Because it’s necessary to the settlement.”

  “Because I cannot do all the rest by myself.”

  Gabe crossed his arms. “You can fish. You can hunt. You can support yourself and a family as well as any man here.”

  “But I do not have the time right now to support even myself and certainly don’t have the time to give Hannah the attention she needs.”

  “Is that why you refused to print her story?”

  He tossed the rag to the worktable. “How did you know?”

  Gabe glanced at the open door then lowered his voice. “I knew Olivia sent Hannah to you to ask about printing it a while back. Then, you and Hannah started getting sweet. And now, the two of you aren’t speaking to each other, and Hannah told Olivia she has given up on writing. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  “Then why did you ask me?” It wasn’t really a question, and Gabe didn’t answer.

  Henry’s hand ached, his shoulders ached, and his tired eyes needed rest. He slid a wooden stool out from under the worktable then sat and blew out a weary breath. “The story needed work. It wasn’t ready to be printed. We would both regret it if I printed it as it was just to please her. I told her so. She got upset. Grabbed her things to leave and accidentally knocked burning candles onto my finished pages.”

  Gabe drew his head back. “That was the fire your father told the elders about in the meeting last month? The fire that put you behind on this project?” He motioned toward the drying pages hanging beside them. “No wonder Hannah quit writing and you’re miserable.”

  “I’m not…” It was no use lying to Gabe, or himself. “My father said to focus on my work for now, and he was right. I can’t stop what I’m doing and chase after a girl who won’t listen to reason.”