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
