An Unlikely Love. Dorothy Clark

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ