will be praying for you, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Austin gripped her walking stick, rose and looked down at her. The older woman’s face was taut, her eyes overbright. “May the Lord bless you for what you are doing on behalf of women everywhere, Miss Bradley. And may He give you courage and strength as you carry on.”
Her throat swelled. Her chest tightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Austin.” She smiled and rose to her feet. “I hope we meet again before the Chautauqua classes are over and we all go our separate ways.”
“Oh, you may rely on that, Miss Bradley.” The older woman’s eyes flashed, her mouth firmed. “Rose and I will both be attending your lectures. And taking part in the after debates. A woman can stay silent only so long! Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Austin.” She resumed her seat on the bench and waited while Mrs. Austin and her daughter joined the flow of people going up the hill.
Debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded...temperance is such a volatile subject...
Her stomach knotted. She took a breath and straightened, ran her fingers over the smooth enamel of her mother’s watch. Her mother had eyes like Rose’s—except they were green. Once they had sparkled with laughter; now they were shadowed with grief and fear.
Don’t go to Chautauqua, Marissa. Please don’t go. Stop this insane traveling around to strange towns to speak about temperance. You cannot bring Lincoln back, and you may be hurt!
The memory of her mother’s plea brought the answer she hadn’t given bursting forth in a furious whisper. “What does it matter if I am made uncomfortable, or even injured, Mother? It is far less than you and other women like you suffer! And if it helps to stop young men like Lincoln from wasting or losing their lives—” Her voice broke on a sob. She spun about so those walking on the path couldn’t see, covered her face with her hands and waited for the pain to ease.
Muted chatter and laughter came from the people on the path. Birds twittered. A chipmunk rustled through the dry fallen leaves looking for provender. She drank in the peace, absorbed the strength of it into her heart. The tears on her cheeks dried. She clasped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.
“Lord, please help me when I speak tomorrow evening and the days following. Please don’t let me disappoint Mrs. Austin and Rose and all of the other women who are ashamed or afraid and need someone to speak for them. Please let these lectures bring them comfort and strength in the knowledge that they are not alone. And please let them steer young men like Lincoln away from paths of destruction. Amen.”
Fresh dedication to the temperance cause erased her fears and strengthened her determination. She opened her eyes and glanced up at the sky. The light was beginning to fade. But there was still time to go to the tent and freshen up before going to the hotel to meet Grant Winston.
She rose and shook out the skirt of her plum gown, closing her mind to the question of why freshening her appearance should matter when she was only going to tell Grant goodbye.
* * *
Grant’s strides ate up the distance to the hotel. The science class had been interesting, but disappointing as far as information about improving crops was concerned. So far he had learned nothing with which to counter his father’s continued assertions that he was wasting his time coming to the Chautauqua classes.
A crowd blocked the intersection of paths ahead. People milled about waiting to get into The Hotel. Others came out and walked across the clearing to the path.
He swept his gaze over the moving lines, frowned and looked to the side of the building. Marissa was talking with an older woman. She glanced around and their gazes met. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He yanked his hat from his head and started toward her, an eagerness to be with her driving his steps.
She said something to the woman, lifted her hems and came toward him, a picture of shyness and dignity that stole into his thudding heart.
“Good evening. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Marissa.” Pink flowed into her cheeks when he spoke her name. His fingers crunched the brim of his homburg. He put it back on his head out of danger.
“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.” She looked down, brushed at the front of her long skirt.
He pulled his gaze from the mass of blond curls that fell to her shoulders from under the small excuse for a hat she wore, and looked toward the building. “I didn’t have time last night to make proper plans. Would you like to get something to eat?” She looked up, and his mouth went so dry he’d have choked on a bite of food.
“Thank you, but I was uncertain about our...plans, also, so I dined earlier with my tent mate.” She took a breath. “Mr. Winston, I—”
“Grant.” The pink spread across her cheeks again. He made a manly effort to ignore her blush. It was either that or give up breathing. “We seem to be blocking the exit route standing here.” He smiled and offered her his arm.
She looked up at him, started to say something, then glanced at the people coming out of the hotel and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.
He had the distinct impression she’d been about to refuse his company. He started across the clearing toward the downhill path before she could change her mind. “I’m afraid our choice of entertainment is sparse. We can go to the drawing class being offered by Mr. Paul Frank. Or perhaps go for a walk.” He looked down at her and grinned. “I’m doubtful you would like to go rowing on the lake.”
“You are correct, sir.” She tugged him to a halt, a small frown creasing her brow. “Grant, I need to—” Her frown deepened. He watched fascinated as she nibbled at her lower lip with her teeth. “Did you say the artist conducting the drawing class is Mr. Paul Frank, the famous caricaturist?”
“That is my understanding.” He’d never known God made eyelashes so long...
She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”
“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.
A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.
“—call out as soon as you recognize what or who I am drawing.”
Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I’m afraid we’re too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.
“It’s a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.
They paused, looked toward the platform.
“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.
Grant
