Sweet Forever (5 page)
“That is but part of our donation. Myrtle has graciously agreed to be pianist.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” Truer words could not have come out of Jacob’s mouth.
“Just doing our part, Reverend. Of course there will be a modest plaque affixed to the instrument, denoting Myrtle and I as the donors.” Stinnett puffed out his chest, causing Jacob to fear the brass buttons might pop off the man’s robin’s-egg blue broadcloth coat.
“Thank you, Mr. Stinnett, and thank your good wife.” Jacob watched Roscoe Stinnett saunter away, and the hope that had sprung briefly in his chest withered. He was glad for the new piano. Not only for the congregation, but so Rosaleen would have daily access to the instrument she loved. Yet what a perfect opportunity it would have been if she could have played for services and thus heard the Word proclaimed.
I trust You, Lord. I thank You for this and pray that in some way You will use this to bring Rosaleen to You.
“Never saw a man so eager to work that he plumb forgets to eat.” Mrs. Buchanan smiled and shook her head.
Rosaleen watched Opal nestle a bottle of sweet tea and two tin cups into a basket, alongside freshly baked bread, fried chicken, and apple pie. Her large hands worked deftly, carefully tucking linen towels around the food.
Rosaleen chucked two pieces of wood into the Resor cookstove and chose not to be drawn into a conversation about Jacob Hale. After their afternoon outing the week before, she’d had enough trouble keeping the minister off her mind.
And Jacob Hale did unsettling things to her heart. His smile, his laugh, the sweet tenor of his voice, all set her heart dancing. She remembered the way his blue eyes had sparkled with appreciation at her piano playing. . .
No, I must not allow myself to get too close.
“Rosaleen, would you please take this basket down to Jacob and Andrew?” Opal straightened to her full height of nearly six feet and pushed back a strand of graying blond hair that had escaped from the bun at the back of her head. “With four new boarders, I have a million things to do, and Patsey will not be coming until this afternoon.”
Feeling the familiar clash of emotions, Rosaleen closed the stove door with a
clang
and turned toward the kitchen table. “Of course.”
Jacob Hale was a boarder, and her job as hired girl was to tend to the boarders. She brushed her hands on her calico apron and wished she could stifle the gladness bubbling up inside her at the thought of seeing him.
“You tell the fine young reverend that if he doesn’t get himself back here in time for supper, he’ll get a right smart sermon from me.”
Rosaleen only grinned at Opal’s poor attempt at a stern face.
Outside, she inhaled deeply. The delicious smells of the bread, chicken, and apple pie blended with the pungent herbs growing in Opal’s garden. Hollyhocks reclined against the white picket fence. Their bright pink flowers alive with the constant buzz of honeybees added to the cornucopia of fragrances.
As she headed up Mulberry toward Main-Cross Street, Rosaleen experienced a stab of sadness. She almost wished she could stay in Madison. On such a beautiful early June day, it was easy to believe she might actually blend into the population of the little river town.
As she walked the three blocks west on Main-Cross, she noticed fewer curious glances from the townspeople. It seemed most folks had become aware that she was Mrs. Buchanan’s new hired girl.
Cool river breezes caressed her face when she turned south on Broadway Street. There, the downward grade of the street became steeper. She slowed her steps the final block to the building site of the church at the corner of Broadway and Second.
If only I could stay. If only I could have a future here with. . .
Rosaleen blinked away tears, unable to finish the thought. She looked down toward the Ohio, teeming with a flotilla of all shapes and sizes. Barges, ferries, and flatboats dotted the busy waterway.
The deep, breathy whistle of a steamboat wafted up from the river, sending a chill through her body. It reminded her of why she couldn’t stay. Bill McGurty might be out there, lurking, ready to pounce like the predatory animal he was.
No, she couldn’t stay. The moment she’d set aside enough money, she must leave for New York.
The ring of a hammer calmed her fears. Jacob was close by. The thought sent her heart skipping.
There is no future for me here in Madison, especially with a preacher, s
he scolded her errant heart. It paid no heed, quickening even more when the smell of freshly cut lumber reached her nostrils and the building site came into view.
Jacob rose from pounding a wooden peg into a floorboard. “Hallo,” he called with a wave of his hand, a smile stretching his handsome mouth.
She thought he looked a bit disconcerted as he walked toward her, brushing sawdust from his white linen work shirt and black trousers. Returning his smile, she raised the basket. “Opal sent me with your lunch.”
“Mrs. Buchanan is of the opinion that if left to my own devices, I’d starve to death.” Lifting the cloth for a peek inside the basket, he sniffed its contents. “Mmm. I’m not so sure she’s wrong,” he said with a chuckle, taking the basket from her hand.
A thoughtful look knitted his blond brows together. “Andrew and the three other men who’ve been helping me today have gone home for dinner. As Mrs. Buchanan seems to have sent enough for about three people, I’d be more than happy if you’d stay and share the repast with me. It could be a picnic.”
A pang of guilt caused her to glance up Broadway. She really should be getting back. Her guilt evaporated in the warmth of his hopeful smile. “Yes, I’d like that.” Disregarding her sternest admonition, Rosaleen’s heart leaped when he took her hand in his.
He led her toward a whitewashed bench in the shade of a willow tree. Settling the basket on the bench between them, he handed her one of the two linen napkins then said a short prayer of thanks over the basket of food.
Rosaleen spent the uncomfortable moment watching men unload barrels from a flatboat. Prayers were for people like Jacob—people of whom God approved.
“I hope dining in the proximity of my friend’s resting place does not offend you.” A look of unease flitted across his face as he glanced at the nearby gravestone.
“No, not at all.” She followed his gaze to the granite slab beneath the willow. Noticing the date on the marker, Rosaleen realized the grave was not an old one. “You were close to Mr. Whitaker, then?” She handed him a piece of buttered bread.
“Yes.” He smiled down at the gravestone. “He was the circuit preacher who ministered to my home village. I’m afraid I was a bit of a scamp as a boy—got into a scrape or two.” He grinned around a bite of the bread. “Along with my parents, Orville never gave up on me. One Sunday when I was nineteen, he preached a sermon from the book of Acts, the account of Peter preaching on the Day of Pentecost.”
He paused to uncork the bottle of tea and pour them each a cup of the amber liquid. “I’d read that scripture many times. But somehow, that day, it spoke to my heart. I knew I’d come to a fork in the road and must either turn away from God’s Word altogether or embrace it completely.” Again, his face turned toward Reverend Whitaker’s grave marker. “Thanks to Orville and my good Christian parents, I chose the latter.”
Rosaleen had no knowledge of the scripture Jacob cited. What few sermons she’d heard her guardian preach had been thunderous admonitions from the Old Testament. She’d found no comfort in Wilfred Maguire’s sermons.
“Was it then that you became a minister?”
“Yes. I began riding the circuit with Orville while he patiently taught me the deeper truths of the scriptures. Passages I’d read but never fully comprehended.” His voice lowered. “Orville opened my heart to Christ’s message of love.” A pensive frown cleft his forehead, and he looked down at his dusty boot tops crossed at his ankles. “I only pray I might approach his deep understanding of the scriptures as well as his persuasive oratory.”
His gaze shifted to the foundation and open floor of what would be the church. The distant look in his eyes suggested that he saw far beyond the bare beginnings to the finished building. “It will be beautiful, a fitting legacy to Orville. Especially after Andrew bricks it and we hang the bell.”
He gave a quick wave of his hand, his voice sounding almost apologetic. “Oh, I know it sounds a bit boastful. Not all churches in Madison have bells. But I’ve been saving money for a five-hundred-pounder. According to the Verdin Bell Company of Cincinnati, it will cost a hundred dollars, but I’m determined to have it. At present, I’ve saved almost half the amount.” His fists clenched, flexing his arm muscles. “I can almost feel the bell’s glorious weight tugging against the rope in my hands as I ring it for the first time, inviting all within earshot to come and worship Christ.”
Suddenly, he turned to face her, his blue gaze searching hers. “You were not taught the scriptures from childhood, were you?”
“No,” Rosaleen murmured, glancing down at the cup of tea in her hands. She’d been content to sit and eat quietly as Jacob imparted bits of his past and future plans for the church. Now, she took a sip of sweet tea, wishing his quiet deduction hadn’t felt so much like an accusation.
“I know nothing about you except that you worked at a young ladies’ academy and play the piano like an angel. I’d like to know more, if you don’t mind my asking. I’m afraid I’m a curious sort.” With a disarming smile, he leaned back on the bench and began munching on a chicken leg.
Rosaleen felt her inhibitions melt at Jacob’s caring tone. He might as well learn of her shameful heritage. Surely, then, he’d stop pestering her to attend his church services.
She looked down at the napkin in her lap, unwilling to watch disgust replace the kind expression on his face. The story began to tumble out like apples from a torn sack.
“I was raised until the age of twelve by my adoptive father, Rory Maguire. He was a gambler and the fourth son of an Irish earl. He met my mother, Rosie, a commoner, on the ship to New York from Ireland.”
Rosaleen fidgeted, unfolding and refolding her napkin. This was the part she most dreaded telling. “My mother was alone, single. . .and two months away from my arrival.” She cast a wary glance toward Jacob. Finding no look of disgust or condemnation on his face encouraged her to continue.
A smile tugged at her lips. “Papa said he fell in love with my mother almost immediately. That she was sweet, full of life, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”
“Then you must resemble her.”
Rosaleen’s heart hammered at Jacob’s quiet comment. Disconcerted, she fixed her gaze on her hands twisting the piece of linen in her lap. “When they reached New York, Papa got my mother a decent apartment and asked her to be his wife. As a token of his intentions, he bought her the brooch you’ve seen me wear.”
Jacob nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed it. It’s beautiful. He must have loved your mother very much.”
Jacob’s gentle tone caused a knot of tears to gather in her throat.
“They married, then?” Jacob asked before taking a big bite of chicken.
“No. One evening Papa came to my mother’s place to let her know he’d found a domestic position for her as soon as she delivered her baby. He found her alone and in labor. Unable to find a midwife, Papa helped to bring me into the world. An hour later, my mother died.” Rosaleen’s voice drooped. Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered why she still wept over a mother she’d never known.
“Rosaleen, I’m so sorry—”
She waved off his condolences. “Before she died, my mother begged Papa to take me and raise me as his own. And so he did.” Her voice lifted with her spirit at the memory.
“We traveled the steamboats up and down the Mississippi, Missouri, and Ohio Rivers—wherever the next card game presented itself. Papa provided me a happy and interesting childhood, although many times we barely had enough money to get by. I’m afraid my father, though a persistent gambler, was not a very successful one.”
“Then you’ve never had a real home?” For the first time, she caught a glimpse of concern flit across his face.
She shook her head and took a sip of sweet tea. “No, but never having had one, I didn’t miss it.”
“Is that why your father sent you to the young ladies’ academy—so you’d have a home?” He pitched the chicken bone to the grassy slope where a pair of blackbirds set upon it, noisily feuding over the prize.
“No. My father became ill.” She fought new tears and somehow managed the hateful word, “Consumption. I was but twelve and he didn’t want to leave me alone. His older brother and wife, from whom he’d been estranged for many years, live in Natchez, Mississippi. They reluctantly agreed to take me but found my illegitimacy unacceptable. Within a month, they sent me to Jackson, Mississippi, and into Mrs. Griswold’s employ as a housemaid.”
Her voice lowered, and she winced at the recollection. “Six months later, I learned of my father’s death.”
“Rosaleen, I’m sorry. I never meant to resurrect such painful memories.”
The sweetness of Jacob’s voice and his hand covering hers sent more tears sketching down her cheeks.
“Sooo,” Jacob stretched out the word, “where does Mr. Archer come in?”
She drew in a shaky breath and continued. “August of last year, Mrs. Griswold’s academy closed, and I returned to my guardian’s home.” Her lips twitched with a tiny, forced smile. “The moment I arrived, I was informed I’d be marrying Mr. Donovan Archer, a riverboat pilot thirteen years my senior.” Rosaleen turned the thin gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Thoughts of her late husband always brought a rush of fond memories, and she smiled. “Donovan was looking for a wife familiar with life on the river.”
“Then you and Mr. Archer weren’t—I mean there hadn’t been a courtship—I mean. . .”
Rosaleen hurried to Jacob’s rescue when he stumbled for an appropriate description of her unexpected union. “It was a marriage of convenience. Mr. Archer was a widower of some years and a kind and honorable man.” She met Jacob’s intent gaze and hoped he could discern from her look the sentiment of love lacking in her brief marriage. She also hoped to convey the mutual respect and caring that had defined it.
“I’m sure he was,” Jacob replied. “I’m so sorry to learn of the grief you’ve experienced but glad God sent you a season of joy, however brief.”
While they finished the two pieces of apple pie in silence, Rosaleen found it impossible to read the thoughts behind his eyes.
Suddenly, he leaned toward her and took her hands into his, causing her to emit a soft gasp of surprise. The comfort of his strong, warm grasp filled Rosaleen with longing. She could only imagine how wonderful it might feel to be enveloped in the sanctuary of his arms, to rest her head against his chest.
“Rosaleen, you are young. God has so many wonderful things waiting for you, if you will only allow Him to guide you.”
Her gaze followed his to the building under construction.
“I realize it doesn’t look like much now, but God willing, by winter, I will be the pastor of a fine church and growing congregation. A congregation that could be the family you’ve been denied. I pray that you might allow me to be a part—”
“Jacob!” The man’s shouted greeting and the mule-drawn wagon rattling to a stop on Broadway broke into Jacob’s entreaty. “We got that load of two-by-eights from the lumber yard.”
Heart pounding, Rosaleen stood and hastily covered the remnants of their lunch with the linen cloths. What had he been about to suggest? She told herself that she was thankful their conversation had been brought to an abrupt close. She attempted a light tone but couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice. “Mrs. Buchanan will be wondering what’s keeping me.”
Jacob sent a quick glance of dismay toward the three men unloading the lumber from the wagon. As he caught her arm in a gentle grasp, his gaze searched hers. “Please, just consider the possibility of my suggestion.”
Rosaleen nodded, amazed that he’d still want anything to do with her after what he’d learned. She hurried toward Broadway, the graveled street blurring through her tears. What must he think of her? She’d told too much. She was glad she’d stopped short of confessing the horrors she’d experienced at the hands of Bill McGurty.
He meant nothing more than wanting me to attend his church, that’s all.
Whether she believed that made little difference. She knew it was best if she did believe it.
Three blasts of a steamboat’s whistle shot fear through her, and she quickened her steps. She must leave Madison at the earliest possible moment.
As difficult as it might be to accomplish that task, it would be simple compared to the impossibility of expunging Jacob Hale from her heart.
