An Unlikely Love. Dorothy Clark
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Mr. Winston was standing by the gatehouse looking her way. Her cheeks warmed as their gazes met. She averted hers lest he think her bold and stepped onto the path.
“Watch your step, Miss Bradley. The rain makes the fallen leaves slippery.”
It was an understatement. Everything was slippery. And dark. Torches sitting in boxes of what looked like sand atop posts spaced along the way sputtered out light useful only for guidance. She stopped trying to hold her skirt hems up to keep them from becoming soiled and simply tried to maintain her balance and not become separated from her guide among the throng of people on the path.
* * *
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Johnson.” The flap door of the tent fell into place behind the departing guide. Rain pelted the sloped canvas roof, dripped off the overhanging eaves outside. Marissa shivered and cast a wary glance up at the sagging pockets where the edges of the four roof sections met the tent walls.
“Don’t touch those! It makes them leak.”
She shifted her gaze to the slender, dark-haired woman with whom she would live for the next two weeks. Light from a lantern sitting on a small writing desk revealed a glint of amusement in the young woman’s gray eyes.
“I don’t mean to sound bossy, but I learned that lesson the hard way. That’s why I’m working here in the center of the floor.” The young woman laughed and gestured toward a large wet spot on the rough board floor beside the far tent wall. A drop of water hit the wood, splattered.
Marissa glanced up at the sagging canvas above the wet spot. Another drop formed, fell. Oh, dear...
“I thought it would be smart to push up on that sagging part of the roof and shove the pooled water over the side. I was wrong. When I let go, it started dripping where my hands had touched the canvas.” The woman pulled a face and waved her hand toward the juncture of roof and wall. “As you can see, it’s still dripping. But only there—nowhere else, though it looks as if it will. Anyway, I’ll move the desk back as soon as the rain stops and the canvas dries.”
“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