Hearts Entwined: A Historical Romance Novella Collection

by Karen Witemeyer

  She turned, but he dropped everything in his arms to snatch her by the elbow.

  She looked back at him, a quiver ticking her lips.

  “I’m not worth it, Marianne.” His own father and mother hadn’t thought him worth this much trouble, so how could she?

  “Don’t say that.” A deep sadness filled her eyes, causing moisture to well up in his own.

  The mill’s huge clock bell bonged. The crowd around them had already disappeared. And as quick as a puff of smoke, she pulled herself from his grasp and ran faster than a pickpocket who’d swiped a handbag.

  On the second ring of the clock, she reached the door, hefted it open, and disappeared inside.

  He stared down at the lunches scattered at his feet. One of the things he loved most about Marianne was her generosity. So when she’d shoved those lunches into his hands . . . it was almost as if he’d made her give up what made him love her most.

  He stooped to pick up the lunches. Today was not off to a good start whatsoever. He was now late, and his thoughts were a muddle. Whether he ran to the office now or stumbled in later, he likely had no chance at appeasing his boss today.

  Setting the last lunch on the top of the pyramid he’d made against his chest, he headed for First Baptist’s large stone building that took up a quarter of a city block. There were often many homeless men tucked into the nooks and crannies of the building, seeking shelter from the wind.

  Marianne’s generosity shouldn’t go to waste, so he’d hand out her lunches there.

  Her parents were supposed to return in two weeks. Surely she’d give up mill work by then and return to helping others to her heart’s content. But if she moved off their estate, would she be safe?

  Of course the staff who’d been loyal to her since she was an infant would either keep her from moving out or stand guard until her parents came back and convinced her to give up her notion of marrying him.

  Though he was unlikely ever to be loved by a woman so fine again, there were good men with decent fortunes who could make both her and her parents happy. A union with a man like that would not rob the world of the rare and generous heart of Miss Marianne Lister.

  Chapter

  6

  The lunch bell rang, and Marianne stopped her machines and let herself droop. The whine of belt and gears and the clack, clack, clacking that now invaded her dreams lessened as the machines cringed to a stop. Not that she could hear any better once they ceased, since the workers ate in shifts and plenty of machines still ran.

  When her parents returned, how would she keep from rolling her eyes when Mother complained about the honking and backfiring automobiles that now congested the streets?

  Of course, if she could convince Calvin to marry her, she might never hear her mother’s complaints again. She swallowed against the misgivings in her throat. She’d told him this morning she’d keep right on working to prove she loved him, but would it be enough? He’d not seemed impressed, but rather determined to talk her out of it.

  But he’d been hurt badly once. She’d seen it in his eyes. He’d told her before that his family had broken up during rough times, but she hadn’t realized how hurt he’d been until he told her he wasn’t worth her effort.

  The last moving part on her machine stilled, but she made no move to leave. She simply stared at the cotton sliver, now limp and motionless. If her parents never got over their disappointment in her marrying Calvin, could she survive the heartache of being disowned?

  However, God didn’t promise anyone tomorrow. If she abandoned her pursuit of the man she loved but then lost her parents to death or some other tragedy, she’d regret letting him go.

  But would she regret her parents’ everlasting disapproval more?

  Ducking to retrieve her lunch sack from under her machine, she ran her hands along the folded top, wishing Calvin had been wrong about how it would hurt not to be able to help the Moore sisters.

  Practicing to become Mrs. Hochstetler might mean getting used to having little, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t give at all.

  On the other side of her machines, Mrs. Smith was heading toward the lunch room. Though she was the oldest woman who worked at the mill, she was always cheerful, even if her expression was often pained—most likely from the tightly wound salt-and-pepper bun at the back of her head. Considering her threadbare clothing and meager lunch rations, she didn’t have much. But she was always giving what she had—a mother’s listening ear and heart.

  And that was exactly what Marianne needed right now.

  Forcing her achy feet to speed up, she cut over to catch Mrs. Smith, who’d passed the last machine in her row. “May I ask you a question?”

  The woman’s green eyes sparkled above her thin-lipped, wincing smile. “Yes, young lady, of course.”

  Marianne fingered her lunch bag. She’d come up with how to tell the Moores about her sudden lack of provisions, but she’d yet to think up a plan for finding suitable, temporary living quarters. If she asked her servants about a place to live, one would likely wire her parents. “I’m looking for a place to stay. I can’t afford much, and I’ve no family to live with me. I was wondering if you might know of a place that’s safe.” Mother would worry and fuss no matter where she lived, but hopefully Mrs. Smith could direct her to a place Mother wouldn’t worry about as much.

  Mrs. Smith’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh, if this isn’t a fortuitous day. My roommate, Mrs. Norris, remarried this past weekend, and I’m in need of someone to share my room. If you could stand to live with an old woman, that is.”

  Was Mrs. Smith a widow? She’d assumed someone so happy in a place of such drudgery had a loving family to go home to.

  Maybe if Calvin met Mrs. Smith his fears would be allayed about money and status being all that could make a woman happy. “I’d enjoy getting to know you better. You’re such a light in this dreary mill.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” The woman’s face looked abashed despite her tight expression. “You’ll be the one who’ll brighten my room. It is only one room, though, with two small beds and a washroom down the hall to share with the others on the floor. But the heating is adequate and there’s a breeze off the river that lessens the smells.”

  If Mother found out the biggest perks of the place she was living were that she wouldn’t freeze to death and it didn’t smell too badly, Mother would believe her daughter had lost her mind. “And the rent?”

  “Two dollars and seventy cents weekly.” Mrs. Smith frowned while they passed a particularly noisy machine, then hollered once they passed, “But dinner and breakfast are provided.”

  With needing to supply her own lunch and other necessities, she’d perhaps have eighty dollars saved by the end of the year. That meant only six dollars a month to spend on others or emergency needs of her own.

  Would six dollars a month be enough? Hopefully she was miscalculating, but Calvin’s job certainly paid better. “Sounds good. An answer to prayer, actually.”

  “Wonderful.” The woman gave her arm a squeeze. “Meet me at the front doors after work, and I’ll show you the place. If you like it, would you move in immediately? I’m not sure how long the landlords would be willing to leave it empty.”

  “I can move in by the end of the week.”

  “Excellent. I’m sure they’ll wait that long.”

  They stepped into the lunchroom, drowning in loud voices instead of whirring machines.

  Mrs. Smith waved at a woman with dark blond hair across the way. “Excuse me, I must talk to Elspeth.”

  Marianne didn’t bother to call out a good-bye since Mrs. Smith was already several paces ahead and wouldn’t hear. She glanced over at the table where she ate with the Moores and several other young girls who worked the machines on the second floor. When they spotted her, their happy faces nearly broke her heart. She was loath to see their old, hungry expressions return since they’d only recently exchanged them for shy giggles and full stomachs.

  Her feet grew heavy,
as if the stray cottony fluff that flitted about the mill’s floors and staircases wound tight around her boots instead of dancing in the drafts.

  If only she could eat with Mrs. Smith and avoid their disappointment. But she couldn’t. She had to either face the girls or go home.

  Though she really could go home, quit this grueling work, and go back to a life of ease. Then she’d have enough money to take care of these five sisters and the others in this mill who often went without.

  But she couldn’t right the whole world alone. Money could only go so far, and even if she married someone rich, he’d control her access to their wealth.

  If she let herself think about all the injustices, neglect, and hurt she couldn’t fix, even if she spent Papa’s every dollar, her stomach would be in such a permanent knot she’d lose all hope she could make a difference in people’s lives. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  God, what do I do?

  What you can.

  Yes, she’d do what she could and trust God to answer needs she couldn’t—whether she be rich or poor. She gripped the top of her paper bag tightly, marched over to the table, and slipped onto the end of the bench. Her aching feet thanked her.

  The youngest Moore sister, Ruth, spied Marianne’s single paper bag and lost her smile.

  “Good day, Marianne,” the eldest sister, Patty, said with a forced happy expression, her gaze visibly resisting the urge to look at Marianne’s less than full hands.

  “Good day to you.” Hopefully it would end up good somehow. She unrolled the bag and pulled out the contents meant for one. “I’m afraid my life has taken a sudden downturn, leaving me with no extra money, but I still have good things to eat.” She took out her small knife and cut her bread into pieces so thin they looked more like crackers than slices. “I know it’s meager, but I intend to share.”

  “Oh no, miss.” Ruth’s voice turned sad. “You just eat it.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I want to share.” She pushed the thin bread slice toward the ten-year-old. “You usually have marmalade in your lunch box, yes? Perhaps you could put a little on each piece.”

  “Yes, miss.” Ruth’s eyes dulled, but she fished out the little glass jar of marmalade and handed it to her redheaded sister, Laura, whose lovely face was taut with gloom.

  Marianne studied her small wedge of cheese and wondered if she could even cut five slices off it.

  A small chunk of ham was placed in front of her. She looked up to see Patty offering her a brittle smile. “It’s not much, but . . .”

  She swallowed and forced out a simple thank you. These girls had been working here for seven months, and before she’d arrived, they’d worked twelve hours a day on rumbling stomachs. They could survive it again, and she’d learn to do so, as well.

  Fingering the short piece of cotton she’d picked off the floor earlier, she slowly munched on her skimpy lunch. Would her love for the man who made her pine for his smiles and dream of his touch grow sour on an empty stomach as he claimed it would? Or could she be content with doing what little they could together?

  If love couldn’t be sustained in times of want or disagreement, what business had she of saying vows to anyone?

  At some point she’d have to move on from Calvin if he refused her love, but for now, she’d do what she could to show him that her love was true, even when it was being tried—and tried hard.

  Chapter

  7

  The sun was still bright in the sky, and the strong, warm wind lifted Calvin’s spirits. Getting to leave work early because Mr. Kingsman had left for Teaville on the afternoon train made Calvin feel as if gravity wasn’t working as well today. It had felt extra heavy since he’d watched Marianne run into the factory three days ago.

  At least without Mr. Kingsman’s stifling presence he would get somewhere on the Holdern account he’d procured this past week on David’s behalf.

  Calvin left the sidewalk for the embankment that sloped to the lower level he rented from the Yandells and waved at his landlady kneeling beside her flowerbed.

  He pulled out his keys, but something fluttering furiously in the trellis caught his eye.

  Every year, Mrs. Yandell arranged pots of flowers on his porch since she declared bachelors needed plants, too, but what was she doing to his trellis? He stepped toward the dying vine, which traveled up the ironwork to the balcony above him, and fingered the short, roughly made strings tucked in among the yellowed leaves. He didn’t care what Mrs. Yandell did to his porch, but this had to be for some purpose other than beauty, for it had neither rhyme nor reason. If not for the wind, he’d not have noticed.

  He chugged back up the side lawn and stopped beside his landlady, waiting for the older woman to notice his presence.

  She smacked her dirty gloves together and looked up. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hochstetler?”

  If it weren’t for the other pots waiting to be dispersed, he’d have offered to help her stand. “I was wondering what you were planning with my porch’s—”

  “Would you like more mums?” She quirked an eyebrow. “A certain color?”

  “As always, do as you please, but I’m rather curious about the strings you’re tying onto the trellis. What’s their purpose?”

  She frowned. “Purpose? I figured you knew, though I thought it strange myself. Bruce told me not to get involved since you’re not doing anything untoward.”

  Untoward? How did strings in his trellis make anything untoward? “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m not the one putting the strings there—some young lady is. I’ve noticed her a few times, but she’s only here when you’re not and she never stays more than a minute. I was afraid she was stealing, but all she does is tie a bit of string to the trellis and leave.”

  He could only think of one woman who had any idea where he lived. “Does she have dark brown hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, and walk with an easy grace?”

  “That would be an apt description.” His landlady immediately frowned. “I’m sorry. Should I have told you about her? If she’s trouble, I can have Bruce keep her away.”

  “No, she’s not trouble.” Not in a way Mrs. Yandell would categorize trouble, anyway. The day he’d rented their basement two years ago, she’d made an offhand remark about how he wouldn’t need the tiny apartment long since he was too handsome to remain single.

  “When was the last time you saw this woman?”

  “Yesterday. She’s always here right before you come home.”

  Yesterday? She was still coming after what he’d said to her? “What was she wearing?”

  “A brown dress.”

  She was still working at the mill? “A work dress or a fine one?”

  “Definitely work, though the shawl was daintier than the weather required.”

  “Excuse me, but I need to return to town.” He called out his thanks as he waved good-bye and trudged back up the hill to the street. If Marianne was still working . . .

  He glanced at his timepiece. Just ten minutes until six. With a quickness in his step, he walked back through the neighborhood, the wind at his back pushing him along. His leg muscles protested the pace he set, but he wanted to see if she did indeed still work at the mill.

  The day after he’d distributed her extra lunches to the homeless, he’d watched for her. The work crowd was huge, so maybe he’d missed her, but he’d been sure he’d convinced her he wasn’t worth so much effort.

  The bell announced the end of the workday just as he reached Howard Street. He stood in front of a pair of law offices, watching the workers trickling out of the Liscombe buildings. How long until he’d see Marianne? And what could he say to her that he hadn’t already? He’d told her to set her sights on someone better. Had explained the problems their union would create. And with Herculean effort, he’d kept himself from kissing her breathless every time she came near.

  Pacing, he walked along the sidewalk, scanning the crowd. The throng of men, women
, and children leaving through the main gate swirled and churned in so many directions, it was foolhardy to think he could find—

  A group of four blondes and a redhead surrounded Marianne’s darker head as she smiled sweetly at one of them, seemingly deep in conversation.

  He jogged across the street, dodging traffic, and once he made the other side, he had to relocate the group. Thankfully the carrot-colored hair acted as a beacon. As long as Marianne stayed with that group he’d be able to catch her.

  The women’s homeward pace was surprisingly quick, but with a sudden clearing in the throng of pedestrians, he sprinted up alongside them. “Good evening, ladies.”

  The group instantly quieted and stared at him.

  He pulled at his tie. “I just—”

  Marianne threaded her arm around one of the blondes’. “Don’t worry about Calvin. He’s a friend.”

  Everyone’s eyes widened. A man in a suit befriending one of their status was certainly surprising—but then, much more so was a woman of Marianne’s status befriending them. Though they couldn’t possibly know who she was.

  “Calvin, these are the Moore sisters.” Marianne gestured to each woman as they walked. “This is Ruth, Shirley, Patty, Laura, and Jenny.”

  “How do you do, ladies?”

  They only blinked at him.

  “Excuse us, this is our street,” the oldest one said, and then the five of them threaded out of the crowd and disappeared so quickly it was almost as if they hadn’t been there.

  Marianne slowed, the crowd around them breaking behind her as if she were a rock in a stream . . . and it seemed like she was hardheaded enough to be one.

  And beautiful enough to stand out despite wearing a drab work dress speckled with cotton fluff just like the rest of them.

  “What did you want, Calvin?”

  What did he want? A lot of things he couldn’t have. “Were those, um, the sisters you bring lunches to?”

  “Brought lunches to. You told me feeding those five girls would be beyond a man of your means.”