An Unlikely Love (6 page)

* * *

Grant's strides ate up the distance to the hotel. The science class had been interesting, but disappointing as far as information about improving crops was concerned. So far he had learned nothing with which to counter his father's continued assertions that he was wasting his time coming to the Chautauqua classes.

A crowd blocked the intersection of paths ahead. People milled about waiting to get into The Hotel. Others came out and walked across the clearing to the path.

He swept his gaze over the moving lines, frowned and looked to the side of the building. Marissa was talking with an older woman. She glanced around and their gazes met. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He yanked his hat from his head and started toward her, an eagerness to be with her driving his steps.

She said something to the woman, lifted her hems and came toward him, a picture of shyness and dignity that stole into his thudding heart.

“Good evening. I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Marissa.” Pink flowed into her cheeks when he spoke her name. His fingers crunched the brim of his homburg. He put it back on his head out of danger.

“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.” She looked down, brushed at the front of her long skirt.

He pulled his gaze from the mass of blond curls that fell to her shoulders from under the small excuse for a hat she wore, and looked toward the building. “I didn't have time last night to make proper plans. Would you like to get something to eat?” She looked up, and his mouth went so dry he'd have choked on a bite of food.

“Thank you, but I was uncertain about our...plans, also, so I dined earlier with my tent mate.” She took a breath. “Mr. Winston, I—”

“Grant.” The pink spread across her cheeks again. He made a manly effort to ignore her blush. It was either that or give up breathing. “We seem to be blocking the exit route standing here.” He smiled and offered her his arm.

She looked up at him, started to say something, then glanced at the people coming out of the hotel and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

He had the distinct impression she'd been about to refuse his company. He started across the clearing toward the downhill path before she could change her mind. “I'm afraid our choice of entertainment is sparse. We can go to the drawing class being offered by Mr. Paul Frank. Or perhaps go for a walk.” He looked down at her and grinned. “I'm doubtful you would like to go rowing on the lake.”

“You are correct, sir.” She tugged him to a halt, a small frown creasing her brow. “Grant, I need to—” Her frown deepened. He watched fascinated as she nibbled at her lower lip with her teeth. “Did you say the artist conducting the drawing class is Mr. Paul Frank, the famous caricaturist?”

“That is my understanding.”
He'd never known God made eyelashes so long...

She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”

“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.

A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.

“—call out as soon as you recognize
what
or
who
I am drawing.”

Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I'm afraid we're too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.

“It's a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.

They paused, looked toward the platform.

“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.

Grant glanced at the disconnected lines on the blackboard, shrugged and started forward again. “It looks like a chicken to me.”

She shook her head. “If it's a chicken, what is that wavy line at the bottom?”

He stopped himself from taking a deep sniff of the lavender scent that rose from her hair, glanced at the blackboard again and grinned. “A broken branch?”

“A
branch
? Is that the best you can do, O ye of little imagination?”

He pulled his eyebrows down in a mock scowl. “You cast aspersions on my artistic sensibilities?”

“Not at all. There's no need. Your lack thereof is evident.” She grinned and nodded toward the blackboard. “Mr. Frank is drawing a woman's hat. That wavy line is the brim.”

He stopped, gave a soft cackle and flapped his elbows. “Chicken!”

Her laughter was like music. She patted her head. “Hat!”

“We shall see.”

“Indeed, we shall.” She looked back toward the canopy. “This is much better than if we had stayed in the back. I can see over the heads of everyone.”

“Good.” He removed his coat, spread it over the leaf-strewn ground at their feet and made her an exaggerated bow. “Your seat awaits—if you don't mind sitting on the ground, that is.” He held his hand out to her. She looked at it, caught at her lower lip with her teeth. The impression came again that she was about to refuse. He braced himself.

“As long as the ground doesn't quiver.” She gave a little laugh and placed her hand on his.

It was trembling. The slight tremors traveled all the way to his toes.
Blushes. Trembling. Miss Marissa Bradley was not as calm and detached as she acted. So why was she feigning disinterest?
He curled his fingers around her soft, delicate hand, helped her seat herself on his coat, then lowered himself to the ground as close to her as he dared.

“It's my hat!”

A woman on a front bench shrieked out the words.

“You're right, madam. And this...is you.” The artist connected two lines, and the face of a woman appeared beneath a hat trimmed with feathers. The audience burst into applause.

Marissa shot him a smug look from the corners of her eyes and grinned.

His pulse leaped. He returned her grin and shrugged. “I'll get this next one.” He pulled his face into a mock frown, stared at the new lines on the blackboard and stroked his chin. “I've got it!” He leaned forward and placed his lips close to her ear. “It's a chicken.”

She burst into laughter.

He sat and drank in the sight of her. He could look at her all night.

“It's amazing how Mr. Frank does that.” She tilted her head, studied the blackboard, then looked at him and shook her head. “I believe,
this time
, your ‘chicken' is a man.”

He narrowed his eyes at the blackboard. “And I believe you may be right.” He pulled his eyebrows into another mock scowl. “It's beginning to look like President George Washington—with a
chicken
feather in his
hat
.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes twinkling. “A plume straight from his plantation no—”

Two quick blasts from a steamer's whistle rent the air. A few people rose from their seats and made their way into the aisles between the rows of benches.

“Alas, we shall never know. That's the warning from the
Colonel Phillips
.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “The lanterns make the canopy area so bright I lost track of the time.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. His pulse raced at the feel of her hands in his. He locked his gaze on hers and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry to make you miss the rest of the entertainment, Marissa, but I've only time enough to walk you to your tent before I leave.”

“That's not necessary.” She lowered her gaze and gave a little tug. He relaxed his grip, and she slipped her hands from his, stepped back and shook out her long skirts. “You'd best hurry.”

It sounded like a dismissal. He nodded, leaned down and picked up his coat. He'd never had to beg to court a woman and he wouldn't start now. But right was right. “A gentleman doesn't leave a lady to find her own way home, Marissa. So, unless you have made plans for another escort, I'll see you to your tent on my way down the hill.”

“Plans for another
escort
? You think—” She stiffened and tugged at the waist of her gown. “Good evening, and
goodbye
, Mr. Winston.”

He stared at her rigid posture, hastened to apologize. “I didn't mean to offend, Marissa. I only thought—”

She lifted her hand. “It's not your fault, Mr. Winston. I gave you the wrong impression when I broke the rules of propriety. But...so you will
know
.” Her chin lifted. “I do not live
down
the hill. If I did, I would have been pleased to have you see me home.”

The past tense was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that she would have accepted his escort. “Marissa—”

“I live
up
the hill—at the very top. And I
do
have another escort, of a sort. My tent mate. You remember Miss Gordon. She is there—”

He winced as she waved a hand toward the bench in front of the platform.

“—taking notes for her article in the
Sunday School Journal
. I will walk home with her when the class is over and her work is done. Now, I suggest you hurry, lest you miss your steamer. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

He grinned. He couldn't help it. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen standing there with her chin jutted, her eyes flashing blue sparks and her cheeks so flushed they matched the color of that gown she was wearing.

“You find me amusing, Mr. Winston?”

Whoo! An ice-cold voice and a red-hot anger. Quite a combination.
He shook his head, held her gaze with his. “No. I find you intriguing, Miss Bradley. And I, also, find you a lovely, very proper young lady I look forward to seeing again. You mistook—”

“I mistook nothing, Mr. Winston. Your meaning was quite clear!” Her chin raised another notch. “As for you seeing me again—I'm afraid that will not be possible. I shall be too busy. I begin lecturing tomorrow and—”

“You're a speaker?” That information drove his explanation from his thoughts. “Then I shall attend your lecture. What subject—” A long single blast of the steamer's whistle sounded a final warning of imminent departure. His time was gone. “No matter. I shall find you. Until tomorrow afternoon, Marissa!” He spun on his heel and sprinted for the path that led to the lake.

Chapter Four

“W
inston!”

Grant looked over his shoulder to find the person who had called out to him. A man waved his hand above the heads of those crowded on the trail. He stepped aside and nodded as John Hirsch, owner of the Stone Tavern in Mayville, strode up to him.

“You going to this temperance thing, Winston?”

“I plan on attending, yes.” Hopefully, he'd find Marissa there. He had to try to repair his faux pas of last night and he'd already missed his chance of attending her afternoon lecture, thanks to his father.
He fell into step and headed up the hill beside the tavern keeper. “I've read the temperance people are growing in numbers, and I'm curious to hear one of them speak.”

“So am I. I've heard they close down taverns and men's clubs, wherever liquor is sold. I'm here to find out if that's true—and if this speaker has any plans to cause trouble around here.” John Hirsch's face darkened. “There'll be plenty of trouble if she riles up local women to try and shut down my place. And the other bar owners in the area feel the same. There's a group of us going to be here. You're welcome to join us.”

“Sorry, I'm meeting someone.”
I hope.
He shot the tavern owner a questioning look. “How do you know the speaker is a woman?”

“Stands to reason, don't it? Men are the ones that do the drinking. No women come to my place.”

“That's true.” He acknowledged the hand John Hirsch raised in farewell, looked at the people overflowing the canopy into the clearing and frowned. Hopefully, he could work his way to a spot where he'd be able to hear the speaker while he searched the attendees for Marissa. Would the subject even interest her? He veered to the right, spotted a space beside an outside support post and edged into it. People crowded in behind him, muttering about being late, about not being able to get closer to the speaker.

He scanned the profiles of those seated under the canopy looking toward the platform at the front. There was no beautiful face with a pert nose and a small determined chin in sight. A grin tugged his lips into a slanted line. She'd jutted that chin at him like a weapon last night. Marissa Bradley had spunk to spare. He liked that. He'd never cared for coy, simpering women.

The desire to see her strengthened. He glanced over the crowd again. If she wasn't here, he didn't know where to look for her, beyond the vague “top of the hill” direction she'd thrown at him in her anger. Ah! She could be sitting up by the platform with Miss Gordon. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder. If he could get through those who were vying for position behind him, he could make his way to where he could see the faces of the people seated on the front benches. He inched around the post, glanced toward the front and froze, stared at the slender, black-garbed woman on the stage.
Marissa?
Shock held him rooted in place. He fastened his gaze on her face, strained to hear what she was saying over the rustle and bustle of the other latecomers seeking a place to stand.

“I am not telling you anything you do not already know. We are gathered here from many different cities and towns in many different states. Think of your hometown. How many churches are there? How many taverns where strong drink is sold? In most towns, for every minister there are three or four or more barkeepers, and while churches meet, at most, a few days a week, the taverns and bars and men's clubs sell their products of destruction all the days of the week.”

There was a murmur of agreement from many around him. But it had always been so. He scanned the nearby faces. If Marissa's aim as a temperance speaker was to plant seeds of discontent among those listening, she was doing a good job.

“And what happens inside those shops? The proprietor tucks the coins offered into his till and gives the patrons drinks that numb their brains and dull their senses. When the patrons go home to those who love them above all others, their drunken state causes them to inflict pain with their words and their hands. The same is true of those who drink only in their homes. And though I am aware that not all who drink to excess turn mean or abusive, they still inflict pain and shame upon their family by their very state.”

There was a collective gasp followed by furtive looks and bowed heads. A woman in front of him blinked tears from her eyes. Another rubbed at her upper arm and winced. He glanced from face to face of the people in front of him, noted frowns and set jaws on the men, overbright, downcast eyes on some women, lips pressed into firm lines and heads held high in others. He leaned forward and slid his gaze over the attendees on the seats that had been blocked from his view by the post, focused on a woman who sat clutching a handkerchief, her head slowly nodding as if it had a will of its own. Sarah Swan? Why was the grocer's wife here? Toby Swan was a friendly, jovial man—

“—brother died
an untimely death because of the ravages of strong drink.”

The pain in Marissa's voice jerked him from his thoughts. He slid around the post for a clearer view of her, remembered her speaking of her brother that first night on the steamer.

“Lincoln is the reason I stand before you today. I want you to know you are not alone in your hurt and your shame. And to
implore
you to take steps to help your loved ones before...” Marissa's head bowed then lifted. “...before it is too late.”

So
that
was why she was lecturing on temperance. Grief was in her voice, the line of her slightly bowed head, her rigid posture. He clenched his hands, wished he could comfort her. He locked his gaze on her, willed her to look his way, to notice him, to at least know that he was here and that he cared that she was hurting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the consumption of strong drink in all its forms is more prevalent today than it has ever been in our nation. It is destroying families and ruining young people's lives. And it has to stop! I know many of you feel helpless and alone, but you're not. And if you will only find the courage to speak the truth at church meetings and women's clubs, at sewing and quilting bees when you return to your towns, you will find others will gather strength from your honesty and stand with you. There is comfort and strength in knowing you are not alone. And there is power for change in numbers. The temperance movement is growing. I urge you to add your voice to our protest against the damage done to families by strong drink and those who provide it.”

Whoa!
Grant swept his gaze to the other side of the canopy, found John Hirsch and his cohorts standing in a group on the edge of the crowd. They did not look pleased.

“That concludes my message. Are there any questions or—”

Voices erupted into a cacophony of called questions and challenges. He darted a look back at Marissa. Her hands rose for silence.

“I will be pleased to answer your questions, ladies and gentlemen. But I cannot hear when you all call them out at once. Please keep order while presenting your questions. I will answer all that time allows tonight. And if it becomes too late, I will answer any remaining questions after my next lecture.” She nodded toward someone on her right. “Have you a question, madam? Please stand and speak out so all can hear.”

A woman stood, her back straight as a ramrod. “Do you include wine when you speak of ‘strong drink'?”

Wine?
He shook his head. That was ridiculous. They drank wine in church during Commu—

“I do indeed, madam. Wine can alter a man's judgment and personality the same as all strong drink.”

A man shot to his feet, his chin thrust out in a belligerent jut. “Who are you to vilify wine, when Jesus Himself made wine at the wedding feast at Cana?”

A murmur spread through the crowd. Grant stared at the man's angry face and his gut tightened. This could get nasty. He glanced at Marissa standing alone at the edge of the platform, slipped back behind the post and edged through the cluster of people behind him. He had to get to her in case things got unruly. He hurried along the space between the people and the edge of the woods toward the platform, paused as Marissa's voice rose clear and firm above the muttering.

“It's true that Jesus made wine at Cana. But, as that wine was
freshly
made, I do not believe that it ‘biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder' as does wine ‘at the last' as we are told in Proverbs, chapter twenty-three. That chapter carries a strong warning against drinking that type of wine. It says we are not to look upon it, and warns us of the consequences.”

He searched his memory but couldn't recall ever hearing of such a warning.

“‘Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contention? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.' Ladies and gentlemen, I
know
these things are true! And not only for those who drink the wine, but for those who live with them also.
That
is why I include wine when I speak against strong drink! Next question please.”

One of the men with John Hirsch pushed forward. “I've heard you people close down taverns and bars. You close churches that hold Communion services, too?”

Another of the group thumped the man's shoulder, looking pleased at the trap his cohort had sprung. “That's right! Fair's fair.” The group snickered.

Grant started forward again. Marissa was no match for—

“We do not. The warning says, ‘They that tarry
long
at the wine...' That does not happen at a church Communion service, sir.”

There was a burst of applause. A woman surged to her feet. “I want to start a temperance group when I go home.” There was a chorus of agreement. The woman looked around, stood straighter. “Will you tell me—”

A blast of a steamer's horn drowned out the rest of the woman's words. He looked toward the lake, glanced back at Marissa. She was holding her own, and he had no choice. At least John Hirsch and his friends had to leave, too. He blew out a breath and headed for the path to the lake.

* * *

The jet buttons that fastened the bodice of the dress she'd removed shimmered through her watery gaze. Marissa blinked away the rush of tears. She hated the black dress. It made Lincoln's death real. Not that it wasn't every minute of every day. But the dress brought back the raw pain of his passing. And talking about it this evening...

She drew a breath and gave a quick tug on the black ribbon that restrained her curls. They fell onto her shoulders and tumbled down her back. She stared down at the ribbon in her hand, played it through her fingers. Grant had been there. She'd thought after their tiff last night that she'd seen the last of him in spite of his declaration. But he'd come. She'd seen him standing beside a support post at the back, and the tightness in her chest had eased, her pain had dulled. How could the mere sight of a man she'd known for such a short time make her feel better?

She tossed the ribbon on top of her black hat lying on the dress draped over her open trunk and slipped beneath the covers. Clarice would be back from the necessary any moment, and she was in no mood to talk. Sadness for all those women who had come to her lecture seeking answers and asking for help to change situations they perceived as hopeless weighed on her. As did the anger of the men who came to stand against the temperance movement and challenge its message. One way or another, those men were ensnared. If not by the need for strong drink itself, then by the money they made providing it to those who had such a need. Her heart ached for them.

A long sigh escaped her. “Blessed Lord, You alone have the power to free all of those who are entangled by the webs woven by strong drink. Help them to seek You, Lord, that You might break the bonds that hold them prisoner, for Your Word declares, ‘If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'”

The tent flap rustled. She closed her eyes, feigned sleep as Clarice prepared for bed. Grant had come to her lecture, but when she had glanced his way the second time he was gone. A woman had stood in his place by the post. Had he been offended by her message? Was he a drinker and thus opposed to the temperance movement? She drew a breath against a sudden, hollow feeling in her stomach, let it out quietly. Her budding relationship with Grant was one more thing strong drink had stolen from her. She would never know what might have been.

Tears stung her eyes. How she hated wine! It had cost her everything she held dear—her happy family life, her brother and any chance for love. She lay unmoving, wishing Clarice would go to sleep so she could rise and get her Bible to hold. Clutching God's Word close to her heart always helped to stave off the bitter loneliness.

* * *

The door whispered open. Grant pulled his shoulder away from where it rested against the porch post and turned. His mother lifted the cup in her hand, gave him a tentative smile and stepped out onto the back porch.

“Our bedroom window is open and I smelled the coffee. I thought I'd come and join you—unless you prefer to be alone?”

He pasted on a smile and shook his head. “Not at all. It's a lovely night, though there's a breeze quickening and the smell of rain in the air.”

The hem of her dressing gown brushed against the painted floorboards as she came to join him by the railing. “Are you concerned a rain will harm the grapes this close to harvest?”

“No. It would take a real cloud buster to hurt them now.” He took a sip of his strong black coffee and gazed out over the fields of vines.
How would Marissa feel about them?

“Well, something has you restive.” Moonlight fell on her face as she tipped her head back to look up at him. “You're not usually up making coffee during the wee hours of the night.”

“Um...” Odd how that look made him want to spill out the truth like when he was a five-year-old. “Do you know about the Temperance Movement, Mother?”