Where the Heart Leads (17 page)

But this evening his feet moved as if his shoes were crafted of lead. An odd dread filled his stomach. Although he’d debated with himself all afternoon, he still wasn’t sure how to approach Daphne concerning her father’s unusual comment about being coerced into hiring him. If it was true—if he had the position at the newspaper only because Daphne had forced her father to hire him and not due to Thomas’s own abilities—he didn’t think he could continue working there.

As he lifted his hand to pound the brass lion’s-head knocker against its circular plate, a longing to pray for peace and assurance rose up within him, but he ignored the feeling. Prayer wouldn’t change what had already taken place. He’d just have to make the best of what would come next.

The door swung open, and the Severts’ butler invited Thomas to enter the foyer.

“Good evening. I’m here for—”

“Miss Daphne,” the man interrupted, not so much as a hint of a smile softening his austere expression. The Severts’ household staff members carried a far more formal air than Clarence and Mildred, who served Nadine faithfully and cheerfully. “I shall retrieve her directly.”

The man walked with wooden movements up the stairs and disappeared around the top bend. Thomas remained just inside the door on the marble-tiled floor. He held his hat in his hands, staring at the polished toes of his boots while he wondered what he would say when she came down. The
pat-pat
of feet on carpet captured his attention. Daphne . . .

As always, her beauty made his breathing quicken, and he allowed his gaze to travel from her beaming face to her slender hands. One of her hands draped gracefully over the staircase railing; the other held her sunshiny skirt just high enough to expose shapely ankles graced by ribbon ties on white slippers. With a gulp, he returned his focus to her smile and the shiny curls that bounced on her narrow shoulders. She came directly to him and held out one hand, fully expecting a kiss. Without hesitation, he bent forward and pressed his lips to the center knuckle. Her fingers curled over his, giving an almost indiscernible squeeze.

He jerked upright, slapping his hat onto his head.

“You are punctual, as always,” she said brightly. “I thought perhaps today you might be tardy given the excitement at the
Beacon
. Have you already settled into your new office?”

“Not until Monday.”

She affected an adorable little pout—one of her most familiar expressions. “Ah.” Then she giggled softly. “Of course, whether your belongings have been transferred to the third floor or not, we know the promotion is for sure. So we have cause to celebrate! Have you chosen a special place of dining this evening?”

“Actually, no.”

“No? Whyever not?”

Thomas swallowed hard. Her fingers still held to his hand. He gave a gentle tug, guiding her out the front door to a wicker settee tucked in shadow beneath an overhead balcony. “Before we go, I need to know something.”

She seated herself, placed her linked hands in her lap, and lifted her expectant, open gaze to him. He paced the width of the settee twice before sitting beside her. Yanking his hat from his head, he ran his hand over his hair and plunked the hat on the seat next to his hip. He cleared his throat, met her gaze, and finally blurted, “Did your father really want to hire me?”

She reared back, her hand rising to rest against the lacy bodice of her gown. “What an odd question.” She shook her head, giving him an indulgent look. “Thomas, my darling, does Harrison Severt strike you as the kind of man who performs actions against his own will?”

Over the past weeks, Thomas had learned Daphne was a master at answering questions indirectly, which turned the topic away from the one he intended. He wouldn’t allow her to dissuade him this time—this was too important. “Daphne, please answer me. Did your father hire me at your request?”

Daphne tilted her lips upward, her eyes sparkling. “You needn’t be equivocal, Thomas. Simply offer your thank-you and let us be off for dinner.” She started to rise.

Thomas caught her hand. “You admit it, then? Your father didn’t hire me because he thought I was an able candidate, but because you . . . coerced him?”

The flash in her eyes set off a warning in the back of Thomas’s brain. But just as quickly as it flared, the fire died and she offered her familiar sulky expression. “What an ugly word. Why, as if Father could be coerced by a mere woman! I’m not entirely sure who has just been insulted more—Father or myself.”

A sense of remorse rose within Thomas’s chest, but he refused to allow it to overshadow his desire for the truth. “I didn’t intend to insult you, but I can’t keep a position I didn’t earn on my own merits.”

“I fail to see why not.”

Thomas’s brows jerked downward. How could she be so oblivious?

She shrugged, her eyes wide and innocent. “Perhaps I did influence Father when it came to hiring you. He sees numerous applicants every week, young men eager to join the staff and make names for themselves in the newspaper world. Mentioning your name gave you an advantage over those others and brought you to the forefront of Father’s attention.”

A band seemed to surround Thomas’s chest, squeezing as Daphne admitted his fear—she
had
coerced her father.

“But,” she continued blithely, unaware of his inner turmoil, “once on staff, only your own efforts would
keep
Father’s attention. Father hires and fires at will—and he is not hesitant to send someone packing.”

Thomas remembered Mr. Severt’s treatment of the hapless Perkins. He nodded slowly.

She placed her hand on his wrist, and he wondered if she felt his pounding pulse. “Thomas, let me assure you that this promotion from advertising proofreader to editorial copy editor is something you earned yourself. Father would never offer such a prominent position based on the say-so of his daughter.”

For a moment, a look of hurt flickered in her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly he wondered if he had imagined it. Her fingers tightened on his wrist. “You
earned
this promotion, Thomas, so celebrate it, as I so heartily celebrate it.”

Looking into her sincere face, Thomas melted. “Of course I celebrate it. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

Her dark eyes shone, and she leaped to her feet. She snatched up his hat and pressed it into his hands. “We have so many reasons to rejoice, Thomas! Such wonderful things are happening!”

Suddenly the closing line from Belinda Schmidt’s last letter ran through Thomas’s mind:
Every day, I pray God’s will for you
. He sucked in his breath as he wondered,
What is God’s will for my life?

Daphne caught his hands, tugging him from the bench. “Let’s go.”

On the carriage ride to town, Daphne continued to bubble. “And think of what the promotion means for you, Thomas. Of course there is the prestige of editing Father’s writings—Father trusts only a handful of employees with his own work. With the increase in pay, you can afford to move from Mrs. Steadman’s home. Independence now awaits you, Thomas, and independence opens the door to . . .”

Although she didn’t complete the sentence, Thomas understood. If he had his own place of residence, he could establish a family of his own. He released her name on a low growl. “Daphne . . .”

“What?” It seemed she feigned innocence.

Thomas shook his head, trying to rein in his thoughts. Was a commitment to Daphne God’s will? He hadn’t prayed before accepting the position of editorial copy editor, and he couldn’t remember praying about pursuing a relationship with Daphne. Confusion filled him. His breath rushed out so rapidly, he felt as if his chest might collapse. Thoughts rolled through his mind like tumbleweeds across the prairie, without direction or control: This new position meant independence . . . his own apartment . . . an opportunity to rise in prestige . . . a sufficient salary to support a family.

The final thought reverberated, growing in volume with each echo. Support a family . . . a family . . .
a family!

Daphne pinned her gaze to his but remained silent. The secret promises shining in her dark eyes made Thomas’s mouth go dry.
A family . . .
The longing to have all his father had—a home with a wife and children—once more filled him.

He grabbed hold of her hands and opened his mouth to share his desire, but the carriage rolled to a halt and Clarence called, “Mister Thomas? We at the restaurant.”

With reluctance, Thomas released his hold on Daphne. The opportunity for a private conversation had passed, but there would be time later. He gestured to the door. “Let’s eat.” When she tucked her little hand between his elbow and rib, her upper arm brushing against his as he escorted her into the restaurant’s dining room, he experienced a jolt of reaction so strong it might have been electricity coursing through his veins. There was so much he wanted to discuss with her.

16

T
HE CONTENTS OF THE LETTER
took the air from Belinda’s lungs. Had she not been already seated, her legs might have given out beneath her. Across the parlor, Malinda lifted her attention from the embroidery hoop. “What is it now?”

Her sister’s impatient tone suggested she was often forced to listen to a series of complaints. Belinda admitted with a humorless chuckle that complaints were offered regularly in the house, but they were always offered
by
Malinda rather than
to
her. Knowing her sister awaited an answer, Belinda waved the single page. “Thomas. He received a promotion at the newspaper. He is now copy editing editorials for the paper’s owner.”

Malinda’s scowl didn’t relax. “So?” She leaned back over her work, jabbing the needle in and out as if through a sheet of iron rather than muslin.

Belinda sighed, lowering her gaze to Thomas’s neat script. She resisted the urge to share her thoughts. Malinda wouldn’t understand and would no doubt belittle her. Rather than subject herself to verbal abuse, Belinda stayed silent. But how her heart ached. She had hoped Thomas’s stay in Boston would be brief and he would return to Hillsboro to be near his parents. Near her. But with this new job, it became more likely he would make Boston his permanent home.

As she read the remainder of the letter, a pressure built behind her eyes until she could no longer contain her emotions. She jolted to her feet, crumpling the letter into her pocket.

Malinda’s head shot up. “Where are you going?”

“Outside.” Belinda headed toward the back of the house.

“You’re being foolish.” Malinda’s strident tone followed. “Moping won’t bring him back here. And even if he were here, he doesn’t care for you. Those letters are due to obligation, not devotion. Do you hear me, Belinda?”

Belinda ignored her sister and charged out the back door into the sultry late August evening. She sucked great gulps of air, an attempt to calm herself. But tears still clouded her vision. Choking back a sob, she stumbled across the browning grass to her familiar place of refuge and closed herself inside. The stifling heat of the windowless shed matched the oppressive weight in her chest. Dropping to her knees, she moaned, “Heavenly Father, why . . . ?”

She curled her hand over the crushed letter in her pocket, recalling the paragraph that had twisted her heart with despair.
With this increased income, I can now move into my own place. I found a cottage that suits my needs. I’ll be living in it by the end of the month.
I trust Daphne will also find it acceptable even though it’s much smaller than her family’s estate. But if she’s to be the wife of a lowly copy editor, she’ll have to become accustomed to a more humble dwelling.

Thomas had mentioned Daphne before—the younger sister of his college friend. Belinda was familiar with the name, but not until this letter had she realized the extent of Thomas’s interest in the young woman. Or maybe, she acknowledged with a pang of self-recrimination, she had overlooked the truth in order to hold on to hope that Thomas would one day see her as more than a casual friend.

Foolish,
Malinda had said. Yes, Belinda had been foolish indeed thinking her letter-writing would bind Thomas to her. How could she have let herself believe for even one minute he would feel as connected to her through her letters as she did with him? Despite his moments of kindness during his brief time in Hillsboro, she was still Belinda Schmidt, the girl who had tormented him throughout his growing-up years. Their past—and her behavior—would always be a stumbling block between them.

Belinda raised her face to the planked ceiling overhead. She glared at the weathered gray boards. “Is it too much to ask for a little happiness? Neither Mama nor Malinda appreciates all I do for them. I thought—I thought Thomas appreciated my letters, but now . . .” She swallowed, her chest heaving with the effort of holding back sobs. “Now I see he’s just used me, too, to meet his own need for information. He never c-cared for m-me . . .”

Pain stabbed so fiercely, Belinda couldn’t contain it. Doubling over, she wrapped her arms across her stomach, rocked herself, and allowed the tears to flow. Between bouts of wracking sobs, she poured out her hurt in a mingled torrent of complaints, regrets, and requests. Then, finally spent, she drooped against the rough shed wall and peered upward once more. A small crack between two overhead boards allowed in a slender beam of early evening sunlight. Shimmering dust motes danced through the shaft of white.

She squinted, focusing on the glittering bits of grit, fascinated by the play of light on each miniscule particle. How could dirt— just plain old ugly dirt—take on the appearance of diamonds when drifting through a beam of light? For reasons beyond her understanding, a small candle of hope lit within her breast. Could all of the heartache of these days—Malinda’s surliness, Papa’s death, Mama’s despondence, the thankless hours of toil—be somehow transformed into something pleasant? Something of beauty?

A portion of a verse from the book of Isaiah suddenly filtered through Belinda’s mind. She whispered the words aloud. “ ‘Give unto them beauty for ashes.’ ”

Eager to confirm the thought, she pushed to her feet and raced to the house. She closed herself in her bedroom, opened her Bible, and searched until she located the text in Isaiah’s sixty-first chapter, the third verse. She read the entire scripture aloud, pronouncing each word carefully.