edged his way to the rail to catch a first look at the campgrounds that housed the Chautauqua Assembly, nodded in response to the cheerful waves of people in dozens of rowboats and canoes that dotted the water closer to shore.
The Griffith blew its whistle. A bell ashore rang out an answering welcome, the sound mingling with the pounding of hammers. The construction going on would account for the pile of sawed lumber on the lower deck. He’d have to look into that, perhaps work it into another article for his paper.
The boat lurched again, steamed slowly toward the end of a wide dock.
He shifted his gaze to the grassy shore teeming with people then lifted it to the wooded hillside. Paths, lined with shingled rooftops interspersed among the trees, crisscrossed the hill in every direction. Here and there immense roofs showed in open glades. People swarmed on the paths, appearing and disappearing at breaks in the overarching cover of the branches of the trees. It put him in mind of a beehive. He’d heard several thousands of people attended the annual Chautauqua Assembly each August, but he hadn’t really believed it until now.
Deckhands leaped to the weathered boards of the dock and snubbed the ends of the mooring ropes around the protruding ends of thick pilings, while others dropped the gangplank in place.
He turned from the rail, caught a glimpse of a plain brown dress with a small nondescript bustle near the gangway and glanced back toward the benches. The wren had left her perch. He moved forward with the other passengers lining up to disembark.
At the head of the line, the young lady with the thin wood box stepped onto the gangplank. He watched her cross the narrow span then walk the length of the dock, the short train of her gown trailing along behind her. She waved a hand to whoever was in the window at the gatehouse at the end and then kept right on going through the open gate.
So she was known to the gatekeeper. That she was familiar with the Chautauqua grounds was evident in her purposeful movements as she turned and threaded her way through the people on the shore. Not that she didn’t look feminine. She did. Very.
He frowned at his preoccupation with a young woman he would likely never see again and stepped onto the gangplank. He was curious to know what was in that box the wren guarded so carefully, was all. He liked answers.
* * *
Clarice stood by the fence and eyed Dr. Austin’s cottage. She’d spoken with the leader of the assembly a few times, but she’d never disturbed him at his home. Still, timidity never gained information for an article. She pushed through the gate, lifted her hem with her free hand and started up the porch steps shadowed by a striped canvas awning.
The cottage’s door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on the porch floor.
“Well, good morning!” The object of her quest smiled down at her from the top of the short flight of steps. “Miss Gordon, is it not?”
“Your memory serves you well, Dr. Austin.” She returned his smile and backed down the two steps she’d climbed.
“As your articles about the assembly do you.” Dr. Austin descended the steps and stopped in front of her. “You wished to see me, Miss Gordon?”
“I did, sir. But I see you are on your way out.” She swallowed back her disappointment and smiled. “With your permission, I will return another time.”
“Of course.” He pulled the gate open and bowed her through. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you this way, Miss Gordon, but I’ve been summoned to a meeting I must attend.” His brown eyes peered down at her. “Is this call about your annual article?”
“Yes, it is.” She held back the frown itching to form. She didn’t want to receive a no in answer to her idea because she didn’t have time to present it properly. It was imperative that he agree. What would she do if he refused? She thrust the worry from her. He would agree. She’d convince him...someway.
“Then perhaps you would do me the honor of walking with me to the Herald office. We can talk on the way.” He motioned her onto the path.
There was no choice. She couldn’t say she had to be elsewhere. She gripped her writing box and moved forward. He fell into step beside her and slanted a look down at her, the same sort of look she gave her students when they weren’t forthcoming. She accepted the cue. “Dr. Austin, I have had the good fortune to have had a Chautauqua Experience article printed in the Sunday School Journal each year since you began the Chautauqua Assembly.”
His nod set his beard whispering against his shirtfront. “And excellent articles they’ve been, Miss Gordon.”
Warmth spread through her at his compliment. “Thank you, sir. But it is the article I will write for this year’s Chautauqua edition of the Sunday School Journal I wish to discuss with you.” She took a breath and glanced up at him. “The Chautauqua Experience articles I have written thus far have been from the viewpoint of an attendee. I would like to write this year’s article from the viewpoint of the leaders, teachers, lecturers and entertainers who make the Chautauqua experience possible for the thousands of people who come here each August. To that end, I’ve come to request an interview with you.”
“I see. This way, Miss Gordon.”
Dr. Austin gestured toward an intersecting path, then lowered his head and stared at the ground as they walked. Her stomach tensed at the contemplative look on his face. She couldn’t write the article as she envisioned it unless he agreed. She could pick and choose among the teachers, but Dr. Austin had to be included. The readers would expect it. Would he agree to her idea for a new viewpoint?
The board-and-batten building with a painted sign that read Assembly Herald appeared ahead. She slowed her steps a bit to gain time. The tension in her stomach turned to knots. She had planned to write the article from the new perspective so she would be able to conduct interviews with the various teachers and entertainers over today and not have to return. She could not spend the next two weeks here at Chautauqua attending the classes and lectures to take notes for an article the way she had in the past. She had no money to pay Mrs. Duncan to care for her mother. With the increase in her weekly payment to Mrs. Smithfield for her mother, she barely had enough to pay for their room and board until the next school term began. And even then, her teacher’s wage would not cover—
“I believe we need to discuss this further, Miss Gordon.” Dr. Austin raised his head and glanced over at her. “Your articles have been very well received by our readers and I’m not certain changing them is a good idea. But I am willing to listen to your argument.” He glanced at the Assembly Herald building and frowned. “I’m uncertain how long this impromptu meeting will take, but if you could possibly wait until I’ve finished, we could continue our discussion.”
He hadn’t said no. She might still convince him. “I will wait, Dr. Austin.”
“Excellent. There is a bench over here.”
She followed him along the short stone path that ran parallel to the building, sat on a bench beside a door bearing a small sign that read Herald Office and rested her writing box on her lap. Her index finger searched out the small scratch in the smooth waxed surface and traced the indentation from end to end and back again in a tempo that matched the tapping of her foot. How would she care for her mother if he said no? She needed the money she would earn from the article to cover the increased room and board for September.
Her chest tightened, squeezed air from her lungs. She forced a breath and opened her box, pulled
