An Unlikely Love. Dorothy ClarkЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Sunshine streamed through the cracks between the boards of the walls to stripe the dried mud on the floor. The crude benches alongside long tables covered with oilcloth were filling with people. He ushered them to one with three empty places, helped them onto the bench, then took his place and looked around.
“I’m glad it’s not raining today.”
“Me, too.”
He glanced at the women across the table.
The younger of the group smiled and pointed toward the ceiling. “Last night we had to eat while holding umbrellas.”
“Which was no easy feat!”
He looked from the laughing women to the roof. There were streaks of blue sky showing between many of the boards. It didn’t take much imagination to picture rain pouring through those wide cracks to drown the plates of food on the tables below. “I see what you mean. Thank you for the warning, ladies.”
Marissa slanted a look up at the ceiling and laughed. “It looks as if they would be wise to plan soup for the daily meal when there is inclement weather.”
She had a quick wit. He chuckled, admiring the sparkle of bright flecks in her blue eyes.
A man walking in the aisle behind them stopped, cleared his throat. “What’s that you say, young lady?” The women across the table lifted their heads, and their eyes widened.
Marissa gasped. “Dr. Austin!” Pink flowed into her cheeks. “Please forgive me, sir. I meant no—”
“Do not apologize, young lady. I am in your debt.” The leader of the Chautauqua Assembly smiled. “Good strong soup that will not be harmed by the addition of a bit of rainwater is an excellent idea. I shall pass it on to the cooks.” He gave a polite bow and walked off.
The women stared after him.
Miss Gordon burst into laughter. “You should see your face, Marissa!”
In his opinion she looked beautiful—if a bit chagrined.
Marissa lifted her hands to cover her cheeks, glanced down at the table. “What are you doing, Clarice?”
He shifted his gaze to the box Miss Gordon had opened. It held all manner of writing supplies.
“I’m making a note to include this story in my article. It’s the sort of personal touch that will make my report on this assembly lively and entertaining as well as factual. I shall title it ‘The Chautauqua Experience.’” Miss Gordon pulled out pencil and paper, dashed down words. “This is exactly what I was looking for. Something that will make my article stand out from all the other dull, factual reports and gain the editor’s and publisher’s attention.”
His eyebrows rose. “Publisher?”
Marissa Bradley glanced at him, something akin to apprehension in her eyes. “Clarice is a reporter for the Sunday School Journal.” She turned back to Miss Gordon. “You’ll not mention me by name?”
“Not if you don’t wish me to. Let me think...” Miss Gordon stopped writing, looked up and grinned. “Ah! I’ve thought of the perfect name! I’ll call you ‘Miss Practical.’ Do you agree, Mr. Winston?”
“With your choice of the name ‘Miss Practical’ for the article? Yes, indeed. But as the perfect name for Miss Bradley...” He drew his gaze slowly over her face, his pulse leaping as pink again stole across her delicate cheekbones. “It is too early in my acquaintance with Miss Bradley for me to have an opinion as to that.”
A pudgy hand holding a plate of food inserted itself between them. He nodded his thanks as a woman placed tin plates holding boiled potatoes, green beans and two-tined steel forks in front of them, then looked back at Marissa Bradley trying to judge her reaction to his intimation that he would like their budding acquaintance to continue. She had her gaze fixed on her plate. No encouragement there.
He frowned down at his food, stabbed a bite of potato. There was something about Marissa Bradley that drew him in a way no other woman had done. Perhaps it was the mystery of the sadness in her eyes. Whatever it was, he intended to see her again—though instinct warned him she was a very proper young lady and would refuse a direct invitation. Propriety!
He jabbed a forkful of green beans, lifted them to his mouth as he pondered the problem. How could he overcome the social conventions of propriety? Another “chance” meeting? He worried the idea around a bit, smiled and impaled another potato. With all of its activities, the assembly should offer ample opportunity. He would find a way.
* * *
Marissa rose from the bench and slipped out of the tent to avoid the crush of people when the lecture was over. What a wonderful speaker! The woman had been so concise in making her points about each moral idea she presented. Envy struck, brought forth a long sigh. If only she could be that succinct when she was speaking. Unfortunately, memories always came swarming into her head and her heart got involved. Her subject was not an academic one. It was personal. She lived it.
Grief rose in a sickening wave. Tears stung her eyes. She lifted her hems and ran down the short, narrow path to the larger main one. It was crowded with people. The hum of their voices, chatting and laughing, caused her tears to overflow. She looked around, but there was no place to go where she could be alone. Dusk was falling, and it was too dark to go into the woods, even if she dared.
She drew a long steadying breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks and joined the flow of people going downhill.
“...saw them putting up the canopy on the shore.”
“...the concert...”
“...perfect end to the day.”
Bits of conversations about the evening entertainment flowed around her. She eavesdropped shamelessly, using the distraction of learning more about the concert to get her emotions under control. Sorting the pieces of information from the general hum of conversation was challenging, like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, and it kept her from remembering. The tightness in her chest eased.
Light flared against the dark trees beside the path ahead. She looked up at the man who had lit the torch in its box of sand, watched as he closed his lantern and climbed down the ladder of short cross boards nailed to the post. A young dark-haired woman stood in the flickering light writing something on a piece of paper that rested on top of a slender wooden box.
“Clarice!”
Her tent mate turned and looked up the path.
She waved her hand and hurried forward. “I see you are taking notes for your ‘Chautauqua Experience’ article.”