Four

By the third curtain call, with the audience appearing to have lost little steam, Willow knew they had a hit on their hands. The entire cast bowed again to uproarious applause, and though Francine would probably later remark on the behavior as vulgar, the men filling the cheaper seats stomped and whistled.

Philip gripped her hand so tightly her fingers tingled. She had to give him credit. He played his role as the masterful, brooding, mercurial Mr. Rochester with skill and flair. The consummate professional on stage. Too bad that professionalism disintegrated the moment he stepped into the wings.

The house lights brightened, bringing the audience into view for the first time. Though she had told herself not to be silly, she couldn’t help searching the sea of gas-lit faces for the one that had occupied her thoughts and even her dreams this week. Curtsying, waving, acknowledging their appreciation over and over, she looked for him. Her chest squeezed when she didn’t find him.

Stop it, Willow. Be patient. There’s such a crush in here, you probably couldn’t find your own sister in the crowd.

This thought did make her smile, since Francine considered it her duty to make sure everyone saw her.

Clement leaped onto the stage carrying an armful of red roses. She kept her smile in place, familiar with this opening night ritual, but he didn’t stop in front of Francine, as was his custom. This time he breezed past and stopped before her. When he laid the flowers in her arms, the audience erupted again. “Congratulations, my dear. You are a sensation.”

Pleased, bemused, and surprised, she cradled the fragrant blossoms. She hoped her makeup hid the blush she knew colored her cheeks. “Thank you, Clement.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her brow to more raucous applause. “You deserve every rose, every laud, every praise. I have never seen a more gifted performance.” He patted her hand. “Now, go get out of your costume and into a party dress. The reception will begin as soon as you arrive.”

The opening night gala. A ballroom festooned with streamers and hothouse flowers, a laden buffet table, and hundreds of guests. As she threaded her way back to the dressing room, weariness seeped through her and a faint pounding began behind her eyes. If tonight’s party followed the familiar pattern, it would be approaching dawn before she could be alone and sift through all the thoughts tumbling in her head.

“Help me with my dress.” Francine, always the last to leave the stage, marched into the dressing room. “Hurry up. We’re expected.”

Foolish of her to hope for some small word of praise or approbation for a good performance, and yet, the armor she’d grown around her heart where her sister was concerned proved to have a few vulnerable spots still. Francine had taken up where their mother had left off, and Willow saw no end to the criticisms and petty jealousies in sight.

“I must say, I enjoyed my role as Mrs. Fairfax more than I thought I would.” Francine dampened a cloth and removed the stage makeup from her face in wide swipes.

Willow said nothing. She unhooked the back of Francine’s costume and stepped away to see to changing her own clothes.

“Of course Clement had to present you with the flowers. He had no choice, since you were billed as the lead, but really, you’re going to have to work on your role. Wooden doesn’t begin to describe you. You could’ve been reading a menu rather than responding to the love of your life. Philip positively carried you through the proposal scene.”

Francine continued her sideways picking all through redressing her hair and reapplying her makeup. Willow could find it in her to pity her sister, so concerned with the outside shell and, nearing thirty, forever in pitched battle against her archenemy, time.

“Hurry up. We don’t want to keep people waiting. Help me with my gown.” Francine held her arms up so Willow could slip the silvery silk and lace evening gown over her head. The gaslight winked on the crystals sewn into the bodice.

“You look beautiful.” Willow straightened a few stray wisps of hair. “Are you going to wear the diamonds?”

“Of course.” Francine checked her reflection. “I wouldn’t be caught dead on opening night without my jewelry.” She opened her case and withdrew the necklace their mother had bequeathed to her. Securing it behind her neck, she dipped in again for several rings, bracelets, and a pair of teardrop earrings that caught the light.

Willow fastened her sister’s gown up the back and turned so Francine could help her with the removal of her own costume. Stepping into a white evening gown of chiffon over satin, she held her breath while Francine jerked at the buttons.

Please don’t tear the fabric.

She finished, and Willow pulled the pins from her hair, letting the brown mass tumble out of the severe style necessary for her role as Jane. Brushing so quickly her hair crackled, she then pinned it up loosely on her head, encouraging a few ringlets to fall over one shoulder and pinning an ostrich feather and crystal clip to the back of her head. She lifted her single strand of pearls, also a bequest from her mother, and clasped them about her throat.

“You aren’t even done with your makeup.” Francine dabbed on perfume and checked her reflection once again.

“It won’t take me long. You could go ahead.”

A snort. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Arriving all alone and stealing the limelight?”

“I only didn’t want to hold you up.” She wiped off the makeup she’d worn on stage. Though it looked ghastly in the candlelight of the dressing room, the heavy paint was necessary in the lighting of the theater to make her look natural. Without the eye-rouge, base, and powder, she would appear so pale and undefined as to be almost faceless.

But a ballroom full of theater guests was a different audience, and she could dispense with the heavy makeup. She took only a moment to powder her face and smooth her eyebrows before taking up her beaded evening purse and cloak, squaring her shoulders to brave the crowd. She swirled the black velvet cloak over her shoulders and tied the strings at her throat.

Her heart thumped against her ribs as she followed Francine from the theater to the hotel next door and into the ballroom reserved for the party. Perhaps he would be there, and she would have a name to match the handsome face.

Music and light poured from the ballroom, and people laughed and talked, helping themselves to the buffet and reliving the performance.

Clement met them at the door. “My dears, your public awaits. I’ve already spoken to several critics, and they’re all in raptures.” His hands never stopped moving, fluttering over his hair, tugging at his tie, ducking into his pockets, only to be withdrawn immediately. “Let me take you in.”

Francine took his arm. “Philip will bring Willow.” She raised her chin and flicked a glance at Philip over Clement’s shoulder.

Willow hid her grimace and stood back from the doorway to allow Francine to enter alone. A smattering of applause filled the air.

“She’s choked with envy.” Philip tugged on his white gloves. “And no small wonder. You did play your part beautifully.” He offered his elbow. “Come, my darling Jane Eyre. As your beloved Rochester, I shall see you into the party.”

She rebelled inwardly at being called his anything but untied the strings on her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders.

A hotel servant took the garment, and Philip let out a low whistle. “I say, that dress is striking. You’ll upstage every woman in the room.” Again he held out his arm.

Laying her fingertips lightly on his sleeve, she put on a calm, pleasant expression and prepared to act the part of the ingenue Clement wanted her to be.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, the room erupted into applause. Bodies pressed close, shaking her hand, showering her with compliments, and each encounter sapped a little more of her energy. Philip and Francine imprisoned her between them.

Several people called her Jane, a testament to her acting skill that they actually thought of her in terms of the character, but it left her hollow—as if she weren’t a real person, as if they didn’t see the real her.

Francine accepted every plaudit as if it belonged to her, and Willow was more than happy to let her have the attention. When she could finally escape the reception line, she found a quiet corner to sip a cup of punch in and study the crowd.

He wasn’t here. She really shouldn’t have expected him, and yet though her mind told her heart over and over he shouldn’t be this special to her—not after one chance encounter—her heart refused to be sensible.

“My dear, that dress becomes you delightfully,” Clement said as he approached.

“Thank you. It’s one Francine ordered, but when it came, she thought it made her look pale.”

“Well, on you it is enchanting. You look like an angel.” His knowing, pale eyes roved her face. “I’m not blind, Willow, nor is the rest of the cast and crew. They see how Francine treats you.”

She swallowed, touched by his concern. “It isn’t that bad. She just cares so much. Being the center of attention means everything to her. It’s all she has, all she knows.”

“The theater is all any of us knows. None of us could walk away unscathed.”

His words struck her. Was the theater all she had? Could she walk away unscathed?

❧

Silas rested his fishing pole on his shoulder and dangled his tackle box from his fingertips. Shutting the door on the parsonage and his sermon notes for next Sunday, he couldn’t help the tickle of anticipation at playing the truant for an afternoon by the creek.

A warm spring breeze, so welcome after the bitter winter just past, brushed across his face. He breathed deeply, hitched the strap on the bag holding his lunch higher onto his shoulder, and set out for Martin Creek.

With each step, he shed the responsibilities and cares of his flock and allowed himself to relax and embrace the beautiful day. Following the burbling stream, he descended the hillside toward the rock-strewn oxbow where rainbow trout darted in the crystal water.

Would she be there?

He chided himself for allowing his thoughts to return once more to the young woman. His attempts at concentration since meeting her had been paltry at best. The fact that he’d been unable to locate her since then had driven him to distraction. If he could only see her once more, convince himself his memory had played him false, that she wasn’t as perfectly beautiful as he remembered, then perhaps he could get her out of his mind and focus on his job as a pastor.

And that was the only reason his steps quickened as he reached the place where he’d last seen her.

She was there.

He had to blink to make sure his mind wasn’t tricking him.

She sat on the flat rock, her arms wrapped around her up-drawn knees. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, and she had her brown hair tucked up, revealing her slender neck and the delicate line of her jaw.

His foot loosened a pebble that skipped and bounced down to the water, and the sound caused her to turn toward him. Even from a dozen paces her gray eyes sucked his breath away.

His memory hadn’t played him false.

“Good after—” His voice rumbled in his chest, sounding rusty and hoarse. Silas cleared his throat and tried again. “Good afternoon.”

Her welcoming smile made his chest feel like the sun had risen just under his heart. Satisfaction, as if he’d finally found something he’d been looking for all his life, washed over him.

“Good afternoon. I see you came prepared to fish me out if I fell in today.” She pointed to his gear.

Laughing all out of proportion to her small joke, he approached her and set his equipment on the bank. “I’m playing the truant from work this afternoon. It’s much too nice to stay inside.”

“I agree. I escaped for a while myself. Sometimes I just need to get away from everyone.”

“Am I intruding? I’ll go if you like.” Please say no. Please ask me to stay. The plea rose up so strongly he almost voiced the words aloud.

“I’d be glad of your company.” A blush pinked her cheeks, and her lashes fell. “I’m sorry I had to rush away before. I was late, and my. . .employers won’t tolerate lateness.”

She lifted a pine branch from the rock beside her and trailed it in the water. Resin from the broken tip created a rainbow pattern on top of the water, and sunshine threw brilliant reflections up under her hat brim and lighted her face with ever-changing dapples.

The burning desire to know everything about this woman surged through him, but he sensed her reserve and cautioned himself to go slowly. “I wasn’t offended. Your devotion to your employers is admirable.” Seating himself a respectable distance away on another sun-warmed rock, he studied her profile. “It’s nice we’re both able to take an afternoon off every once in a while. I know I was getting weary battling the books. The boys I was preparing a lesson for would much rather be out climbing trees and playing ducks and drakes.”

“Ducks and drakes?” Her tip-tilted nose wrinkled. “I’ve not heard of that.”

“It’s another name for skipping stones.” He cast about his feet and located a flat stone the size of a silver dollar. He brushed it off and tossed it in his palm, testing the weight. “This is a perfect skipping stone. Watch.” Silas stood and hurled the stone, watching in satisfaction when it bounced across the water half a dozen times before disappearing beneath the surface.

Her delighted laughter rippled through him.

She tossed her stick into the stream, rose, and dusted her hands. “I’ve never skipped a stone in my life. Show me again.”

He found another rock, flicked it at the stream, and winced when it ricocheted off a boulder with a clack. “Hmm, not so good.” He grimaced. “You try it. Find a good flat rock. Those work the best.”

She found a stone and tossed it into the stream. Plop. “Well, that was unspectacular. What did I do wrong?” A tiny crease appeared above the bridge of her nose.

He found another flat stone. This time his toss netted him eight skips.

She tried twice more with poor results, and each time the concentration on her face deepened and her determination to master the skill became more pronounced.

“You need to throw more from the side. Make the rock fly parallel to the water for as long as possible.” He flipped a stone across the surface of the creek. “And don’t forget, I’ve had a lot of practice at this.”

Another of her attempts ended in failure and a splash that wet the hem of her dress. “I’m never going to get this.” She blew out a breath and went to searching for another stone.

“Here, let me help you.” Silas stepped up onto the rock beside her and reached behind her to take her right hand in his. This close to her, he couldn’t help but notice the porcelain quality of her skin and the bird-delicate bones of her hands and wrists. Giving her plenty of time to stop him, he eased his left hand around her waist to steady her. “Draw the stone back like this”—he suited action to words—“and throw it like this.” He pantomimed, slowly propelling her hand forward on a flat plane. “One, two, three.” On three, the stone sailed through the air, skimmed the water, flipped, skipped, bounced, and after a half-dozen hops, plopped into the water.

“We did it!” She turned in his arms, gave a little hop, and hugged him, the light of triumph gleaming in her eyes.

He returned her exuberant embrace, thrilling at the feel of her in his arms.

“Thank you.” She leaned back and seemed to realize what she’d done. She let her hands drop from his shoulders and stepped back. Pink surged into her cheeks to replace the glow of accomplishment.

“Careful.” He kept hold of her elbows, lest she tumble into the stream in her haste to put some distance between them.

“I’m sorry. I overstepped.” She gripped her fingers together at her waist and gave him a good view of the top of her hat.

Reluctantly, he let go of her. “You did nothing of the sort.” He put his finger under her chin and raised her face until she had to look at him.

Confusion clouded those gray depths, and an awareness— the same awareness he’d felt from the moment he’d first seen her—that he was a man, she was a woman, and something strong drew them to one another.

He smiled, trying to coax a response from her. “I’m hungry. Will you share my lunch with me?”

She grasped at this as if he’d thrown her a lifeline in the midst of her storm of uncertainty. “I’d be happy to.”

He took her hand to help her to the bank but let it go right away. He didn’t want to scare her, and the power of his feelings, so fresh and new, surprised him. “I have sandwiches and apples.” Digging in his rucksack, he produced the napkin-wrapped bundles. He shrugged out of his coat and spread it on a patch of grass for her. “There. Don’t want your dress to get muddy.”

“I suppose I should’ve had a care for that before I sat out there on that rock, but the water seemed to be calling to me, and I just had to get closer to those ripples.”

Silas handed her a sandwich. “I’ll say grace.”

She stilled for a moment and nodded, bowing her head.

“Lord, thank You for Your beautiful creation, for sending spring after winter to remind us of how You are faithful to keep Your promises. Bless this food to our nourishment. Amen.”

“Amen,” she whispered.

He bit into the thick bread and sliced ham. Bless Estelle for baking a ham for him this week. He swallowed carefully. “I had hoped to see you in church this past Sunday. Martin City only has one house of worship, so I was sure you’d be there.” He winced, hoping his eagerness didn’t come across as an accusation. For all he knew, she’d been indisposed, or her employer had required her presence on Sunday morning.

She shrugged. “Oh, I almost never go to church.”

Cold shock poured over him so he had to check to make sure he hadn’t slipped into the water, and he realized how far along the path of his future his thoughts had already raced. The one command God required of His children when it came to choosing people to commit to for life, the only requirement He stipulated was they be not unequally yoked, believer to unbeliever. It had never entered his mind that this beautiful girl who had stolen his imagination and was on the verge of stealing his heart wouldn’t know Jesus as her Savior. His potential bride had suddenly become his mission field.

She appeared unaware of the blow she’d dealt him, taking a delicate bite of her apple and dabbing at her lips with the corner of her napkin. The similarity between the temptation of Eve and his own temptation now yawning before him didn’t pass him by without notice.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m a total heathen.” She scanned the aspens on the far bank. “My father was a man of deep faith, and he passed that on to me. Why, if it wasn’t for my faith in God’s saving grace, I think I would lose all hope in this life and certainly my hope for the next.”

The muscles in his stomach loosened a fraction. “So you know Jesus as your Savior, but you don’t go to church?”

“Oh, I’d like to, but my schedule rarely allows it.” She tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth, and her eyes clouded. He sensed her backing away from his questions. Glancing at the sky, she wrapped her half-eaten lunch back into the napkin. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Wait.” He shot to his feet, tumbling his sandwich to the ground. His apple bounced right into the stream and bobbed away. Before she could escape, he grabbed her wrist. “Please, there’s one more thing I have to know about you.”

“I really do need to be getting along before I’m missed.”

“I can’t possibly let you go without telling you my name and asking for yours. My name is Silas Hamilton.” He let go of her wrist and held out his hand, praying she would take it.

She hesitated and shook her head as if to chase away a thought. Slipping her fingers into his palm, she clasped his hand and solemnly studied his face. “My name is Willow. Willow Starr.” Without another word, she took her leave, slipping through the white aspen trunks and disappearing over the brow of the hill.

He stood on the bank staring after her. Willow Starr. Where had he heard that name before?