An Unlikely Love

“Thank you for the warning.” She looked at the woman and laughed. “I thought, perhaps, I would have to sleep in my waterproof.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Indeed.” She swept her gaze over the furnishings in the surprisingly spacious tent. There were two cots, two chairs, a desk and, thankfully, a washstand equipped with a pitcher and washbowl. A bucket of water holding a tin dipper sat on the floor beside it.

“There’s a pump and a stone fire pit with a huge iron pot two tents down that way.” The woman swept her hand to the right. “We’re to get our water there. Someone from the camp tends the fire that keeps the water in the pot warm. It’s a luxury I didn’t expect.”

“I’m not familiar with tent living, so any further bits of wisdom you care to share will be appreciated.” She shoved the hood of her waterproof back off her head and shot a wary look at the unmade cot. The guide had placed her trunk beside it. Both sat beneath one of those sagging pockets of rain. “It will also be to your advantage as we are to be housemates—or perhaps I should say tent mates.” She looked back at the young woman and smiled. “Thank you for sharing your quarters with me. I’m Marissa Bradley.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Temperance?”

“Yes.” She braced herself, resisted the temptation to ask how the woman knew. Temperance was not a favored subject with many women. They preferred to hide from the truth. She had done so for five years. And her mother.

“You’re very young and pretty to be a crusader. I admire your courage. And I’ll be writing about you and your lectures. Make them good, for if they’re not, I’ll not hesitate to say so.” The young woman came forward, peered straight into her eyes. “I’m Clarice Gordon. I write articles for the Sunday School Journal. And for other papers on occasion, so you must take my warning seriously.”

“I shall, Miss Gordon.”

“And, as we’ll be sharing living quarters for two weeks, I suggest we dispense with formality and call each other by our given names. Would you agree, Marissa?”

How forward! Still, it made sense. “I would indeed, Clarice.”

“Good. Then the air is clear between us. Now—” Clarice Gordon gestured toward a tall, clean section of tree root standing upright beside the flap. A blue waterproof dangled from one of the high roots. “Behold our coatrack. Why don’t you hang up your waterproof and I’ll help you make up your bed? You did bring bed linens with you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. They were on the list.” She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up to drip-dry, shivered in the damp air and hurried to her trunk to get her quilted cotton jacket. “What do we do for meals, Clarice?”

“We go to the hotel.”

She jerked erect, her bed linens in her hands. “A hotel!”

Clarice laughed and shook her head. “It’s only called that. It’s a rather poor excuse for a building, but it is made of wood.”

“I see.” She shook out a sheet and spread it over the mattress tick, placed her hand on the surface and felt for the stuffing material. Cornhusks. “And the food?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of dining at the hotel. I only caught a glimpse of it when my guide showed me where it was located. It’s downhill a short way from here.”

“Everything is downhill from here.” She shot Clarice a wry look, spread the top sheet and reached for a blanket.

“That’s true.” Her tent mate grasped the edge of the blanket, looked up and grinned. “But there is one advantage. Your prayers will have a head start over those offered from below.”

As if that mattered. She smoothed the blanket over her side of the cot then pulled out the pillow she’d jammed into the trunk lid and fluffed the feathers. It was too late for prayers—Lincoln was dead.

* * *

“What do you mean you’re going to this Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly thing? Isn’t going to church on Sunday good enough for you?”

Grant placed his wet shoes on the hearth, looked at his father’s set face and braced himself for a long discussion. “The assembly is not only about church. I went to Fair Point tonight and bought a pass for the entire two weeks.”

“Besides, more church teaching is always a good thing, Andrew.” His mother looked at his father and smiled. “And I’m sure there are a lot of lovely young Christian woman attending the Chautauqua classes.”

Oh-ho. He tugged off his damp socks and glanced over at the settee. His mother always had such a lovely, serene look about her, but there was a she-bear inside her that reared up and charged to his defense whenever his father was displeased about something he said or did. He was her only child and could do no wrong in her sight—with the exception of his not getting married.

He dropped his socks beside his shoes and rushed to defuse her implications. “That’s true, Mother. But it’s the science classes being offered at Chautauqua that interest me. I’m hoping by attending I will learn something that will help me better care for the vines and increase their yield and thus our profits.” A pair of beautiful but sad blue eyes flashed before him. And to satisfy my curiosity about Miss Bradley.

“We’re doing all right.”

His father’s gruff words pulled his thoughts away from the intriguing young woman and focused them on their situation. He shot a glance toward the settee and tempered his response. His mother did not know about the demand note his father had taken against the coming harvest to meet expenses after the killing cold last winter had destroyed so many of the old vines.

“We can always do better.” As the concords prove. He stopped himself from uttering the words aloud and stepped close to the fire to dry his pants legs. “Scientists discover all sorts of new ways to make crops healthier and increase yield.”

His mother rested her needlepoint on her lap and smiled up at him. “I’m sure that’s true, son.”

His father snorted, shook his head. “You’re sure whatever comes out of the boy’s mouth is true, Ruth. If these scientists are so smart, let them figure out a way to control the weather. Now, that would help.”

“Perhaps one day they will.”

His mother’s support of him was automatic. He aimed a smile her way.

His father leaned sideways in his wheelchair, picked up a piece of wood and placed it on his lap, then turned and wheeled himself along the hearth and added the wood to the fire. “This damp gets into a man’s bones and makes them ache. And it’s not good for the grapes, either.” A piercing look accompanied the words. “You need to see to the vineyard, Grant, not go gallivanting off to some science classes that are nothing but a waste of time.”

He let the criticism go. It was his father’s frustration with his own inability to go out into the fields talking. A change of subject was in order before his father became overheated and jeopardized his health. “The stems of the concords are turning woody, but the seeds are still a little green. The full-bodied flavor and sweetness hasn’t quite developed yet, either. I figure to let them hang another three or four days. It’ll be time to start harvesting the south slope then.”

“Sounds about right.” His father nodded, rubbed his knees with his palms then looked up at him. “I’ll send word out to the wineries. The vintners will want to come take a look at the grapes so they can make their bids. We need to give the winner enough warning so he can get his schedule together and hire pickers to harvest the grapes.”

He nodded and glanced toward the window, thought about a solitary figure standing on the steamer’s deck in the rain. Perhaps, if he found Miss Bradley as intriguing as she seemed, he would invite her to join him for a picnic and watch the pickers. “I’ll bring in a few clusters before I go to Fair Point tomorrow and we’ll make our final decision. And you’ve no need to worry. The science classes are scheduled late in the day. I’ll be here to oversee the harvest. And there’s something else...” He reached into his pocket, withdrew the list of lectures being offered and held it out to his father. “This is another reason for my going to the assembly. They are holding a series of lectures on temperance. I plan to attend them.”

“Temperance!” His father snorted, shoved the list away. “A waste of time. Men drink. Always have, always will. You need to spend your time here, tending the vines.”

“There’s nothing to do for the next few days except watch for the grapes to ripen to maturity. I’ll check them every morning.” He turned to dry the front of his pants, frowned down at the fire. “There are a lot of taverns and inns in the surrounding towns and villages, and I’ve no doubt a good many of the owners will attend those lectures. Mix them in with those people in favor of temperance, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there are fireworks that will rival those I’ve heard they’re planning to shoot off on one of the boats in the middle of the lake.” He wiggled his toes against the warm stone beneath them and glanced down at his father. “What’s that old saying... ‘A wise man knows his enemy’? I don’t intend to miss those lectures.”

Chapter Two

Grant whistled his way along the path at the top of the low, rolling incline of the vineyard’s south slope. The sun warmed his shoulders, glinted on the knife in his hand and gleamed on the grapes in his basket. It was perfect weather for finishing the ripening of the grapes. And for the opening of the Chautauqua Assembly.

He glanced up, checked the sun’s position in the blue sky and smiled. He had plenty of time to meet with his father, clean up and eat, then ride into town and catch the steamer. The science class was scheduled last in the afternoon. A vision of lovely blue eyes above a pert nose wiped off his smile and furrowed his brow. Where would he find Miss Bradley? It was too much to hope that she was interested in science.

He quickened his steps then turned onto a path between two of the rows of vines that flowed down the gently sloping incline in long, regimented courses. Healthy, hardy vines clung with tenacious tendrils to the strung wire trellises at his sides. He looked left and right, scanning the new vines he was starting between each of the ones he’d planted over the past five years. The new ones would be ready to be replanted in the spring. And there were enough of them that they would finish the rows in the new field he’d started. And that would double the size the vineyard had been when he took over its care after his father’s crippling accident.

Satisfaction surged. He cast a proprietary gaze over the clusters of purple fruit peeking through the lush growth of leaves and puckered his lips to blow out another tuneless melody. Of the different vines he’d introduced into the vineyard to prove to his father that scientific methods of experimentation could be applied to growing crops, these concords had proved the best. They had survived last year’s harsh winter that had killed the canes of most of the other new varieties and also a large portion of the vineyard’s old, original vines. None of their neighbors’ vines had fared as well. And the concords yielded a crop that ripened earlier than the others he’d tried. They’d have no worries about an early killing frost this year.

A grin slanted his lips. His father was getting excited about the concords. Being the first to market put him in position to negotiate a good price from the competing vintners. Perhaps they could make profit enough to pay off the demand note and have money left to carry them through next year. And with his percentage of the profit that was his year’s wages, his plans for buying a business of his own would take a leap forward.

He reached under the canopy of leaves on his right, cut off a heavy cluster and placed it in the basket with the others. One more bunch from farther down the row and he’d have the sampling they needed to make up a harvesting plan to present to the winning bidder. He hurried down the path, his mind already jumping ahead to the late afternoon science class. Perhaps today he’d learn other ways to improve the vineyard. And he would for certain meet the intriguing Miss Bradley again.

* * *

Marissa frowned, shot an uneasy look in the direction of the rumble of male voices and tugged her dressing gown closer around her shoulders. It was a little unnerving to prepare for the day when you could hear strange men talking and walking about.

She finished fastening her skirt, moved back to her bed for her bodice, slipped in one arm, shrugged off the dressing gown and slipped her arm in the other sleeve in the same movement. A few quick twists of her fingers buttoned the bodice down the front. She craned her head to look over her shoulder, reached her hands around to the back of her skirt and shook out the gathered folds of fabric that fell from the center of the waistband into a short train at the hem.

“These bustles are so impracticable! How am I supposed to keep my hem from dragging in the mud left by last night’s rain as I go from tent to tent? It’s impossible!” She muttered the complaint into the empty air, snatched up her dressing gown and folded it. “At least the dirt won’t be so noticeable on the dark colors of my mourning clothes.”

She looked down at her dark gray day dress and blinked away a rush of tears. I miss you, Lincoln. She pulled her thoughts away from her deceased brother, picked up her brush, swept her hair to the crown of her head and gathered it into her hand. A glance into her small mirror showed her hair had formed its usual soft waves with curls dangling around her forehead and temples. It made her look less serious. She sighed, secured the hair in her hand with a gray silk ribbon, let the thick mass fall free then caught it up again into a loose bunch at her crown. Two quick wraps of the ribbon about the hair held it in place while she tied the bow. When she lowered her hands the freed curls frothed over the back of her head. They always did, no matter how she tried to secure them. She’d given up the battle and ceded them victory years ago.

The hem of her gown swished softly across the rough boards as she set to work using the housekeeping activity to hold at bay the sadness that still overwhelmed her at times. She folded her nightclothes, placed them under her pillow and straightened the covers on the cot, forcing her thoughts to the day ahead. What would this morning’s meeting for the teachers and speakers hold in store for her? Perhaps she would learn why the leaders had invited her here to Chautauqua. She had written them that she was not a professional speaker but had only addressed a few small women’s meetings at various towns around her home. Still they sent her a second invitation. And she couldn’t refuse. Not when it meant a chance to spare others the pain of—

She broke off the thought, opened her trunk and withdrew the enameled pendant watch she’d borrowed from her mother. An expensive Cartier watch. The symbol of her father’s remorse for abusing her mother while in a drunken state. She had only to look at the watch to remember her father’s uncontrolled anger, the sounds of her mother’s pleading voice, the cries she tried to muffle. Her face tightened. She pinned the watch on her bodice, pricked her trembling fingers on the clasp. How many times had she and Lincoln heard or seen...? And then Lincoln—

Tears welled into her eyes. “Dear Lord, I pray You will give me the words to speak to convey the dangers inherent in the use of strong drink. And that You will use those words to bring comfort or conviction to the hearts of those who hear that they may be spared the suffering my family has known. Amen.”

A sense of purpose swept away her concern over speaking before such large numbers. It was the message that was important, not how eloquently it was presented. She settled her small unadorned black hat forward of her clustered curls, picked up her purse, pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the sunshine.

* * *

The rustle of people taking seats filled the tent. A hushed murmur floated on the air. Marissa clutched her purse and walked midway down the aisle between rows of benches to an empty spot at the end of a pew on her left. “Excuse me. Are you waiting for someone to join you, or is this seat available?”

An older woman looked up and smiled. “I’m not expecting anyone. You’re welcome to the seat. I’m Mrs. Austin...from Cleveland, Ohio.”

She smiled her thanks, eased the folds of her bustle beneath her and slipped onto the bench. “I’m Miss Bradley. I’m from Fredonia—a small town not far from here. Are you—”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

She shrugged an apology for her unfinished question and turned her attention to the platform at the front of the tent.

“For those of you whom I’ve not yet met, I am Dr. John Austin.”

Austin! She slid her gaze toward the woman seated beside her, received a smile and a whispered “My brother-in-law,” nodded and again faced the speaker.

“I want to welcome you to Fair Point, and thank you for coming. You teachers, speakers and entertainers are the heart of this Chautauqua Assembly. It could not take place without you. And now for an explanation of our purpose and some rules about your classes or lectures.” Dr. Austin clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward, his bearded face sober. “It is our belief that every facet of a person—spirit, soul and body—should be ministered to in order to promote an abundant life. Therefore, this assembly will devote itself to Bible study, teacher training classes, musical entertainment, lectures on important issues of the day and how they relate to the church, recreational activity, praise meetings and devotional exercises.”

Important issues of the day. That would include her subject of temperance.

Dr. Austin cleared his throat, stepped to the edge of the platform. “It is also our belief that education should be available to every man, woman and child for the enrichment of their lives and the betterment of mankind. Therefore, reading and the discussion of books shall be an ongoing class. Also, the advances in the sciences will be demonstrated and taught.”

She took a breath and glanced around. All of the people looked so competent and accomplished. And she felt so inept and uncertain. As if she were still walking on the Colonel Phillips’s quivering deck.

Grant Winston. A vision of him walking toward her out of the darkness slipped into her mind. It was strange how safe she had felt with him beside her. And how reluctant she was to see him go when they’d been separated onto their different paths after disembarking. Would she ever see him again? She frowned and fingered the cord on her purse. That was highly unlikely. There were so many people attending the assembly it would be impossible to— The assembly. She jerked her thoughts back to the speaker.

“—in addition to the Bible readings.” Dr. Austin glanced down at the paper he held. “Today’s topic for the late afternoon featured lecture will be moral ideas. Tomorrow, it will be on drawing caricatures. And the day following will feature the first of the lectures on temperance.”

There was an audible intake of breath among those listening, a general stirring as people glanced at one another. She caught her breath at the reaction, looked down at her lap. Two more days to prepare.

“And, of course, every day there will be nature walks in the woods and promenades along the shore, boats for rowing and all manner of entertainments—music, steamer rides, fireworks...”

Steamer rides? Not for her. Unless... She closed her eyes, pictured Grant Winston standing beside her at the rail of a steamer with sunshine warm on their faces and a soft breeze riffling their hair. A smile touched her lips. He had sun streaks in his hair, the way her father did before he moved them into town. Was Grant a farmer? Or perhaps a logger? Or—

She started at movement beside her and opened her eyes. People were standing. She hastened to her feet, stepped out into the aisle and joined the flow of people exiting the tent. She had missed the rules for speakers Dr. Austin had spoken of! How could she—

“Marissa!”

She stopped and turned at the soft call. Her tent mate was hurrying up the aisle toward her. She released a soft sigh and waited for Clarice to catch up to her. Clarice would have notes.

“Well, that was interesting! What a crowd!” Clarice paused, motioned her into the line of people in the aisle and headed for the tent opening. “Are you ready to eat something, Marissa? I wasn’t able to get a seat at a table earlier and I’m starving!”

Marissa smiled and dipped her head to a man who stepped aside to let them precede him through the tent’s entrance. “I am a bit hungry.” No doubt because she had two more days before she spoke. She paused, looked around. People were entering the woods in all different directions. “Which way do we go for the ‘hotel’?”

“Up.” Clarice laughed and stepped into the trees.

* * *

Grant strode along the dock, showed his admittance pass to the gatekeeper and hurried across the flat shore area, his empty stomach rumbling. Discussing the grape samples with his father had taken longer than he expected. Not that it surprised him. His father was set against his coming to this assembly. How could the man still be so against science when he had proven to him with the concords that experimentation worked?

He frowned down at the line map on the back of his pass, tucked it in his pocket and started up a wooded path at a fast pace taking his frustration out on the hillside. He was a grown man with his own ideas, but the doctor had warned against any heated confrontations because of his father’s ill health. One fit of anger could overstress his weak heart. It made his obstinance doubly hard to deal with. If it hadn’t been for his father’s crippling accident, he would be a scientist by now, not a vineyard manager trying to cope with old-fashioned ideas.

He halted. People were clustered at a crossing of paths ahead. He glanced at the sign nailed to a long building made of rough boards. The Hotel. This was the dining hall? Hopefully, the food was better than the building.

He glanced inside and looked for a young woman with blond curls dangling at her forehead and temples. It wasn’t much to go on, but he’d find Miss Bradley. He had time. The science class wasn’t scheduled until later. And she had to eat. He stepped back outside, took up a place by the door and scanned the people entering the clearing. His pulse jumped at the sight of blond curls and a pair of lovely but sad blue eyes. She was with another lady. Well, he’d met the challenge of finding her. That was enough...for now. He smiled and stepped forward, dipped his head. “I see you survived the steamer ride, Miss Bradley.”

She glanced up at him, surprise in her blue eyes. “I did. Thank you again for your assistance on that slippery deck, Mr. Winston.” She smiled, glanced at her companion. “May I present Miss Gordon?”

There was a shyness in Marissa’s smile that tugged at him. He bowed an acknowledgment and shifted his gaze to Miss Gordon. A pair of gray eyes with a speculative gleam in their depths studied him.

“It’s unpleasant dining alone. Perhaps your friend would like to take his meal with us, Marissa.” Miss Gordon ignored Miss Bradley’s soft gasp and continued to gaze at him. “Unless you were waiting for someone, Mr. Winston?” There was a challenge in her tone.

Marissa. He tucked the name into his memory and slid his gaze to its owner. Her cheeks were pink. She was obviously embarrassed by her friend’s boldness. He hurried to smooth over the social misstep. “I would be honored to escort you both to dinner, if you have no objection, Miss Bradley.”

She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I should be pleased at the sight of another familiar face at the table, Mr. Winston. The crowds of strangers are a bit overwhelming.”

“Then I am happy to serve.” He stepped to the door, motioned them into line before him.