Sweet Forever (4 page)

“Because Andrew told me he was afraid he might not get any as the smell of meat makes Patsey ill now.”

“Then I suppose I’m the one to blame if they are not cooked well,” Rosaleen said with a grin. She was finding it increasingly difficult to disavow Patsey’s claim.

“Squirrel! I haven’t had squirrel since—Well, I can’t remember when I last had squirrel.” Rosaleen gave an inward groan when Tobias Stilwell dropped his lanky frame onto a dining room chair.

A look of dismay replaced the smile on Jacob’s face.

Since his appearance two weeks ago, the cookstove salesman had not ingratiated himself to anyone at the boardinghouse. His habits rivaled the worst Rosaleen had seen during her years aboard the steamboats. Except at mealtime, he perpetually kept a wad of chewing tobacco in his jaw. He’d continually spit the foul-smelling brown juice in the general direction of the nearest spittoon, seemingly unconcerned whether he hit the mark. Worse, the looks he raked over Rosaleen gave her cold chills and caused her to lock her attic room door at night.

Good-hearted Opal Buchanan couldn’t seem to bring herself to send the unsavory character on his way, even though his promised payment for room and board had yet to materialize.

“Rosaleen, do you remember how many squirrels you fried up?” Jacob’s tone sounded benign, but Rosaleen caught a mischievous glint in his eyes.

She’d learned in the past month that Jacob Hale had a penchant for practical jokes. She remembered how Opal had laughed, recounting that she’d once made the mistake of teasing him about always being the preacher and never taking a day off. Later that day, she’d discovered all her candles missing from their holders. After searching the house over, she’d found them under a bushel basket turned upside down on the back porch. Opal told her Jacob later confessed to the prank, saying he was attempting to make a point about a verse in the Gospel of Matthew. Rosaleen couldn’t remember the scripture Opal quoted, but it had something to do with not hiding a light under a bushel basket but putting it on a candlestick so it would light the house.

“No, I never actually counted the squirrels,” Rosaleen answered Jacob, unsure of his intention but keen to play along.

“Andrew said he killed six squirrels, but that sure looks like more. Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “By the way, have you seen that tortoiseshell cat that’s been bedeviling Mrs. Buchanan? I heard her tell Andrew she wanted him to get rid of that thing one way or another.”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen it at all today.” Rosaleen fought to keep a straight face, realizing what Jacob was up to. She’d learned that the one thing Opal Buchanan and Tobias Stilwell had in common was their mutual disdain for the feline species.

“One, two, three—” His face wearing a deadly serious expression, Jacob poked a fork at the golden brown pieces of fried squirrel.

Tobias had become very still. Rosaleen ventured a glance in his direction and was forced to press a napkin to her mouth. The salesman’s eyes began growing large, and his pinched features took on a greenish pallor all the way up to his balding pate.

“Andrew must have counted wrong, because I’m counting legs and back pieces for seven animals,” Jacob concluded.

Tobias Stilwell practically leaped from his chair, causing it to fall backward with a thud. “I–I’m not really hungry. I—I just remembered I have an appointment in Cincinnati day after tomorrow.” His hand shook as he righted the chair and mumbled, “Please give Mrs. Buchanan my regrets and tell her I’ll be sending my payment.”

“What’s gotten into him?” Opal Buchanan carried a plateful of cornbread into the dining room just in time to see Tobias race out.

“Suddenly remembered an important engagement,” Jacob told her with a poker face as good as any Rosaleen had ever witnessed. He gave a deep, soulful sigh. “Alas, I’m afraid we will no longer be enjoying Mr. Stilwell’s stellar company.”

“Thank the Lord! I’ve been praying for this for two solid weeks.” Opal sank to a chair, relief blooming on her face.

“Prayer works, Opal. All it takes is a little faith.” Jacob’s eyes lit as a sudden thought seemed to ignite behind them. He turned an impish grin toward Rosaleen. “I just decided on my theme for Sunday’s sermon. ‘Faith without works is dead.’ ”

Rosaleen allowed her gaze to meet Jacob’s, dancing with fun. As they shared a secret grin, she acknowledged the truth screaming from her heart.

How am I going to leave now that I know Patsey is right?

She glanced down at the patched calico dress Patsey had loaned her. “I have nothing decent to wear for a social call.”

“And that is precisely the reason you need to visit Becky. She told me she’s found a few of her dresses from last summer that are a little too snug since the birth of my niece, Lucy. She’s sure they will fit you perfectly.”

Rosaleen stiffened. She didn’t like being considered a charity case. Worse, she did not want to feel beholden to Jacob’s sister. “From what I remember, your sister looked very trim. I’d think with a small alteration. . .”

Jacob’s grin suggested he had no plans to cede the argument. “My guess is Becky’s glad for an excuse to buy new dresses.” His smile softened with his tone. He took her hand in his. Rosaleen’s heart began racing at his touch.

“Rosaleen, Becky wants to help you. We all want to help you. We believe that helping others is the same as helping our Lord. Jesus tells us in Matthew 25:40, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ ”

The kind look in his eyes eroded her resolve.

“Please, Rosaleen, allow Becky to help you. Allow us all to help you.”

Rosaleen swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Kindness, charity, and generosity were qualities she’d rarely encountered. She returned to dusting the cherry table that no longer needed it. “I still have nothing fit to wear.”

“Mrs. Buchanan was able to salvage that purple frock you were wearing when I found you.” His gaze held hers in a tender embrace and her heart stood still. “Whatever you wear, you will look fetching.”

A half hour later, Rosaleen stood in Opal Buchanan’s bedchamber, the yards of purple silk rustling as she shook out the dress. Though water stained and with a bodice cut far too low to be proper for day wear, it was the best she had.

After donning the dress, Rosaleen stood before the dresser mirror, her heart aflutter. Opal had managed to brush away all visible remnants of river mud. Rosaleen had to admit, aside from its inappropriate style and damaged condition, the dress did flatter her coloring.

Three times she twisted her auburn locks into a figure-eight bun without complete satisfaction. Grimacing her dismay, she covered her unruly hair with the gray silk bonnet Opal had loaned her.

It’s only Jacob. I see him every day.

The silent admonitions did little to calm Rosaleen’s
palpitating heart. What she saw in the cherrywood-framed mirror only added to her unease. The image of a saloon girl mocked her from the glass.

Soiled dove.

Rosaleen’s face burned with grief and shame.
Not because I wanted it. Never, never. . .

She choked back a sob and felt the tentative grasp she’d had on her nerve slip.

During her time with Bill McGurty, the looks she’d gotten from respectable people had stung. Their furtive glances had seemed a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity. Aboard the steamboats, mothers had nervously shooed their children past her while gentlemen openly ogled her when their wives were not looking.

It had brought back all the cruel taunts and snide comments she’d endured from upper-class girls at Mrs. Griswold’s Academy after they learned of her illegitimacy. Those hurtful jeers blended with Wilfred and Irene Maguire’s disparaging description of her as “the filthy little spawn of a harlot.”

Rosaleen drew a deep breath and, with trembling hands, wrapped Opal’s black lace shawl around her shoulders left bare by the dress’s revealing bodice. Her heart pounding, she headed down the stairs.

“You look lovely.” At the bottom step, Jacob greeted her with a deep bow, a bell-crowned white beaver hat in his hand. He looked every inch a gentleman in his maroon claw-hammer coat over a buff waistcoat, satin neckerchief, and close-fitting black trousers. Yet the eager anticipation sparkling in his blue eyes lent an irresistible boyish charm to his features. Even the thin scar running parallel to his left cheekbone added to, rather than detracted from, his good looks.

As they strolled along the boardwalk edging Main-Cross Street, Rosaleen’s gaze took in the beauty of the little river town. Graceful oaks, sycamores, and maples lined the street, shading its broad expanse of smooth gravel.

“Ah, here we are.” Jacob’s smile widened when they neared a two-story brick home.

A fragrant greeting wafted their way from phlox, larkspurs, and petunias growing beneath the two tall, narrow windows. Left of the windows, two white-painted pillars supported a corniced portico jutting out from a recessed doorway.

“You’re sure we are not intruding upon your sister’s time?” Rosaleen’s stomach felt the flutter of nervous butterflies as the wrought iron gate creaked a tiny protest against Jacob’s hand.

“Nonsense. Becky has been pestering me about you for the past month. And since you refuse to attend Sunday services,” he teased with a quirk of his mouth, “I decided an afternoon visit was in order.”

Rosaleen’s heart quickened at the reassuring touch of his hand on her back, guiding her up the two stone steps to the little enclosed portico.

“Mrs. Archer.” A bright smile lit Becky Morgan’s face when she met them at the door.

Accepting the woman’s warm hug, Rosaleen noticed the same scent of verbena she remembered from her first day in the doctor’s office.

“I’m so glad Jacob succeeded in convincing you to come for a visit,” the doctor’s wife said as she took Jacob’s hat and Rosaleen’s bonnet before ushering them into the parlor.

Far smaller than the one at Opal Buchanan’s boardinghouse, the Morgans’ little parlor seemed cozy and inviting. The leaves of a large maple in the side yard dappled the afternoon sun onto the rose-patterned carpet. An early summer breeze fluttered the lace curtains at the tall, narrow open window.

Rosaleen’s gaze roamed the room until it fixed on an object between the window and hearth. Suddenly, she felt her heart leap and her fingers itch. All other thoughts were swept away at the sight of the square piano.

“Rosaleen, do you play the piano? Rosaleen?”

“Yes,” Rosaleen finally answered Becky Morgan’s question with a breathless whisper. “I learned while employed at Mrs. Griswold’s Academy for Young Ladies in Jackson, Mississippi. Mrs. Griswold insisted that every girl under her roof learn at least the basic skills and social graces.” Rosaleen experienced a bittersweet pang, remembering how her natural talent for the instrument had won her teacher’s praise but scorn from the woman’s other students. She turned a wobbly smile toward Becky. “I loved playing and discovered I have a talent for it.”

Beaming, Jacob’s sister clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Perhaps after refreshments we could prevail upon you to play something.”

Offered the one temptation she could not resist, Rosaleen’s desire for an abbreviated visit vanished. She felt herself being pulled deeper into the world of Madison—deeper into the world of Jacob Hale.

❧

As his sister served them lemon cake and tea, Jacob had to admit the afternoon outing had not been entirely unselfish on his part. Beyond the joy he derived from spending time in Rosaleen’s company, he’d hoped to learn more about the beauty who’d wrapped her lovely fingers around his heart. And if he could grow their friendship, he might persuade her to attend worship services.

Now, something as unexpected as his sister’s new piano promised a glimpse into Rosaleen Archer’s carefully guarded past. Becky’s request for her to play the piano had lit Rosaleen’s eyes with a brightness Jacob had never seen in them. At his sister’s urging, Rosaleen reminded him of a filly prancing in its carriage traces, eager to be off. As she was already on her feet, he suspected he’d have to physically restrain her in order to keep her from the piano.

For the better part of an hour, Jacob sat enthralled while Rosaleen worked through Becky’s stack of sheet music, treating them to one beautiful piano piece after another. His sister’s parlor rang with ballads and sonnets, as well as classical pieces
.

The afternoon sun shimmered copper lights over Rosaleen’s lovely dark auburn tresses as she swayed with the melodies. Her eyes closed, her features held a beautiful tranquility. Somewhere in the midst of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” Jacob knew he’d lost his heart.

Later that afternoon, as he strolled with Rosaleen along the streets of Madison, Jacob tried to keep his heart in check. He was still reeling from the discovery of her musical talent.
What other wondrous facets of this intriguing woman remain to be disclosed?

“It’s as beautiful as the finest plantation houses in Mississippi.”

Rosaleen’s words jerked Jacob from his musings to the new home of railroad baron and financier, J. F. D. Lanier. She’d stopped their trek along High Street to admire the west side of the mansion with its brick facade painted light ocher brown.

“Yes, it’s quite spectacular.” He turned his attention to the grandiose example of Greek Revival architecture. Two white pillars supported a rather modest northern entrance, while at the south side four gigantic white pillars graced an expansive portico. Beyond that, a manicured lawn and garden swept down to the banks of the Ohio River.

“I’m sure I’ll have to wait until I get to heaven for my mansion.” His chuckle died at her somber demeanor. “Rosaleen, why do you avoid Sunday services? You should pay no attention to Opal’s critiques of my sermons, you know.” His attempt to inject levity failed to bring a smile to her face.

“I just don’t think. . .I don’t think it would do me any good.”

“Why do you keep saying that? Have you read the scriptures at all?” An urgency to reach her caused frustration to rise within him.

“A little.”

“But you don’t think they pertain to you in any way?”

“No.”

“How could you think that? The scriptures are for everyone.”

“Reverend Hale!” Roscoe Stinnett’s booming voice shoved its way into their conversation. “How are you on this fine May afternoon?”

Groaning inwardly, Jacob pasted a smile across his face. He preferred to believe that the quality of his sermons were the reason the president of Riverfront Porkpacking chose to attend his fledgling congregation. However, he suspected that was not the case.

In the midst of Madison’s burgeoning industrialization, the forty-five-year-old Stinnett seemed determined to position himself as one of the town’s fathers. Being a charter member of a new congregation could only elevate his standing in the community.

“I am quite well, Mr. Stinnett, thank you very much. Mrs. Archer and I were just admiring Mr. Lanier’s new home.”

A prickle of irritation marched up Jacob’s neck when Stinnett afforded Rosaleen only a cursory nod. Jacob knew the man considered her an underling because she worked as a housemaid.

“Nice piece of architecture I suppose, though far too pretentious for my taste.” Roscoe placed one hand over the other on the gold knob of his white walking cane and gave the financier’s opulent abode little more than a glance. His haughty tone and dismissive attitude did nothing to hide the envy on the man’s face. Jacob didn’t doubt for a minute that Roscoe Stinnett would have a home twice the size of Lanier’s if he could afford it.

Roscoe’s tone and countenance brightened. “It is very fortuitous that we should have met this afternoon, Reverend Hale. My good wife and I have, only today, decided to make a considerable donation to the new church.”

“That’s very generous of you. I have opened an account at the bank, so you could simply—”

“No, no, my dear boy!” Stinnett’s laugh shot through Jacob, causing his teeth to grind as his jaws tightened. “The donation is a piano. A Chickering square from Boston. Full cast-iron frame, new overstring design, all the rage, don’t you know. Should arrive within the month.”

Jacob felt Rosaleen’s fingers grip his arm. His heart soared. A piano might be just the enticement needed to get her to services.

No one else will be able to play as well as. . .