An Unlikely Love (2 page)

“Come along, miss.”

A deckhand motioned her forward. She tugged her hood farther down over her forehead and stepped into the line at the top of the wide gangway. Lantern light from posts at the end of the dock shone on the water between the steamer and the shore. It looked deep. Rain pocked the dark surface, danced on the plank and the dock. Was the plank slippery? An image of her sliding off the side into that dark water flashed into her head. She frowned and moved forward with the line, grateful she'd worn her boots instead of packing them. The couple in front of her stepped onto the gangway. She was next. She clenched her fingers about her purse and wished for a railing to hold on to.

“We meet again, Miss Bradley.”

Grant Winston smiled and moved away from the steamer's railing, stepped into line beside her. Had he been waiting there for her? Such forwardness was unacceptable. But she was too grateful for his strong, solid presence to demur. She nodded and moved onto the wide gangway, her steps steadier and less timid because he walked beside her.

“Those with admittance passes go to the line on my right please. Those without passes go to the line on my left.”

She lifted her gaze beyond the man standing in the center of the dock a short distance ahead directing passengers. A small shingled building stood at the far end of the weathered boards, the lanterns hanging from hooks on the small structure illuminating the two lines flowing toward open gates at each side. The dark tree-covered hill sprinkled with lights rose a short way beyond. Her stomach flopped. How was she to find her way? Unless...She drew her gaze back, hoping. “I'm to be on the right, Mr. Winston.”

“And I on the left. I've decided to purchase a pass for the full two weeks.” He smiled and bowed her across in front of him, stepped into the other line.

Her hope flickered then steadied. Perhaps Mr. Winston would find her again when they had both cleared the gates. She swallowed her trepidation, extracted her speaking invitation with its attached pass of admittance from her purse and followed those ahead of her to the gatehouse.

“Next, please.”

A quick glance to her left showed Grant Winston's line was moving much slower. The prospect of receiving any help from him vanished. She stepped up to the side window and handed her invitation to the man inside the small house.

“Ah, you are one of our speakers. It's good to have you with us, Miss Bradley.” The bearded man smiled and motioned behind him. “Mr. Johnson will show you to the accommodations for teachers and speakers. Tell him about your baggage.”

“Thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he waved her through the gate, then paused as a man garbed in a black waterproof with a piece of blanket draped over his shoulder stepped forward.

“Mr. Johnson at your service, Miss Bradley. Have you any baggage?”

She nodded, scanned the piles of trunks. “That alligator, camelback Saratoga sitting on top of the near pile is mine.”

“Very good, miss. If you will follow me please.” The man hefted her trunk to his blanket-draped shoulder and started across the narrow strip of flat land to a beaten path that disappeared into the trees on the hill. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. 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 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.”