Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet DeanЧитать онлайн книгу.
but didn’t slow her progress. With both hands, she hiked her skirts and hustled across the street. As she trudged to the back of her shop, closed for this momentous day, the mud grabbed at her shoes. Her shoulders heaving with exertion, she pried the dirty shoes from her feet and dropped them outside the door, indifferent she’d ruined their fine leather. Then climbed the stairs to her quarters above the shop.
She removed her soggy skirt, and then wilted onto the bed, dropping her hat on the floor. A curtain of rain veiled the window, darkening the room. Her mother’s words echoed in her head. It’s a man’s world, Adelaide. If you think otherwise, you’re in for a rude awakening.
Today, four men had found her unworthy to rear a child. She’d built a successful business, had taken care of herself and her invalid mother, and all without a man’s help. But what she wanted most, a child and family, she couldn’t have without a man, without a committee of men.
“Why, Lord? Why was the answer no?” No reply came.
There would be no little girl to sew for, no little girl to love. No little girl, period.
A sob ripped through her, then a piercing wail. She burrowed her face in the pillow to muffle the sound, but then remembered she had no one to hear. No one to see. No one to care.
The dam she’d built to hold back her emotions crumbled, releasing a flood of tears. As she wept, spasms shook her body until, long minutes later, exhaustion quieted her. Every part of her echoed with hollowness, emptiness. For the first time in her thirty-one years, she felt old. Old, with the hope squeezed out of her.
But then she remembered Mr. Graves’s wink.
Somehow the gesture had united them against the others. He appeared to have confidence in her ability to mother a child. Like butter on a burn, the thought soothed her wounded heart.
But even if no one else did, Adelaide had faith in herself. And even a stronger faith in God. God would sustain her.
What if the committee’s decision wasn’t God’s final word?
At the thought, Adelaide sat up on the bed. Her chest swelled with hope and her mind wrapped around a fresh determination. The committee’s rules weren’t etched in stone like the Ten Commandments. She’d never believed all the conventions in her world concurred with God’s plan. Until she knew in the core of her being God didn’t want her to mother a child, she would not give up hope. She would believe a child waited for her, waited for the comfort of Adelaide’s arms.
Charles couldn’t get the memory of Miss Crum out of his mind. He wished he hadn’t agreed to sit on this committee. He wanted no part in impersonating God. No part in causing the kind of pain he’d read on Miss Crum’s face.
If Charles understood anything, he understood pain.
He forced his attention back to the discussion, chagrined to discover everyone looking at him, waiting for him to speak. “I’m sorry. Would you repeat that?”
“We were saying the Drummonds have the ability to train a boy in farmwork. They lost their only child to a stove fire a few years back. A terrible tragedy.”
Charles examined the burly man and his timid wife. From the little he’d listened to, Mr. Drummond had done all the talking. The man seemed affable enough, but during the interview, his wife had avoided eye contact. Perhaps she was merely shy. “Mrs. Drummond, you haven’t said. Do you want a boy, too?”
She looked to her husband, hesitating a moment. “I’d be open to a girl.” Her voice quavered, but for the first time she met Charles’s eyes. He saw a flicker of hope, and something else, something that gnawed at his memory. Before he could identify it, she lowered her gaze.
Mr. Wylie checked a list. “We’ve been told to expect a brother and sister. Would you be willing to take both of them?”
Mrs. Drummond’s gaze darted to her husband.
“How old are they?” Mr. Drummond asked.
“The boy is ten, the girl is, let’s see…” Wylie scanned a paper in front of him. “Seven.”
Mr. Drummond rubbed his chin. “Two pair of hands would be a help,” he said, considering. Then he smiled. “The missus would like a girl. We’ll take them both.”
“Excellent. We don’t want to split up siblings unless we have no choice.”
Mr. Drummond nodded. “Family means everything. Husband, wife…” He hesitated, his tone emotional. “Children. Nothing should divide a family.”
Mr. Wylie pushed the papers away and looked at Charles. “Any objections, Mr. Graves?”
The couple had the proper references, had said all the right words, but what did that prove? The entire exercise was ludicrous. But perhaps no more so than nature’s method of selecting parents guaranteed they’d be adequate for the job.
Yet some kind of sixth sense twisted a lump in his throat, made him hesitate, but just as quickly, he dismissed it. The others knew them, had greeted them warmly.
For the hundredth time he questioned why God, all powerful and all knowing, allowed unsuitable people to have children. He could only be certain about one thing. A child would be better off living in Noblesville than roaming the streets of New York City or living in one of its crowded orphanages. “I have none.”
“Good!” Mr. Wylie sent Mr. Drummond a smile. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Ed, for helping fix the church roof.”
Ed nodded. “Glad to do it. We can’t expect the parson to hold an umbrella over his head while he’s preaching.”
While Wylie ushered the Drummonds from the room, Charles rose from his chair and crossed to the window. Even in the sudden downpour, the streets crawled with horse-drawn wagons and buggies. A typical Saturday, the day area farmers came to town to transact business or sell produce.
Like most county seats, the courthouse dominated the square, giving a certain dignity to the mishmash of architecture surrounding it. Noblesville was a nice little town. The decision to move here had been a good one. He’d been able to help his brother’s family and to bring The Noblesville Ledger back to life. That had been his father’s plan, but long before that revelation, owning a paper had been Charles’s dream, a dream he’d soon achieve.
His hand sought the telegram inside his pocket, notification his father had died peacefully in his sleep. Charles crushed the flimsy paper into a tight ball. Maybe now, he could put his past to rest.
He looked down the block to The Ledger, then across the street to Miss Crum’s millinery shop. She wanted a child to love, not a worker for her store.
Charles turned from the window. “I’m uncomfortable placing these youngsters to be laborers on farms.”
“Work never hurt anyone.” Wylie hunched forward, biceps bulging in his ill-fitting coat until Charles expected to hear ripping fabric. “Hard work builds strong bodies, sound minds.”
“Some of these ‘Street Arabs’ have been pickpockets and beggars,” Paul spoke up. “We’re saving them from a life of crime. If they work hard, they’ll make something of themselves.”
Charles’s thoughts turned to Miss Crum, an easy task. She stuck in a man’s mind like taffy on the roof of a tot’s mouth. Her eyes had captured him the first moment he saw her. A dazzling blue, they were deep-set under straight, slim brows, gentle, intelligent eyes. Her hair, the color of pale honey, had been smoothed back into a low chignon. Clearly a proper, straitlaced woman, the kind of woman who attended church on Sunday wouldn’t abide a man like him.
She’d shown a passel of courage facing the committee, even more strength of will when she’d left with her dignity pulled around her like a cloak. Of all the women he’d met that day, Miss Crum was the only one he felt certain would give a child the kind of home he’d read about in books.
He might have fought more for her, but thoughts of