Off to a brilliant start, Dunderhead,” Brady muttered, striding purposefully back to Nathaniel Harmon’s place of business. All those gallant plans, and what’s the first thing he does in Diana Montclair’s presence, but act the village idiot? Maybe he should borrow one of Nate’s wood clamps … that ought to keep a big, overgrown mouth shut.
What quality about the gently bred gal made him act like a clod or blurt out the first thing that popped into his mind? Shaking his head in a futile attempt to slough off his frustration, Brady glanced toward the well-kept mansion positioned halfway between the parsonage and Nate’s place. So the front bedroom belonged to her….
A barely discernable movement behind the ruffled pink curtains stirred the gauzy panels. He didn’t immediately avert his gaze, but merely adjusted it slightly, as if trying to spot a missing shingle above the chamber. Nothing seemed amiss, at least from this vantage point.
At the clop of approaching horse hooves, Brady redirected his attention to the wagon turning from Main Street onto Birch. He waved when he recognized Betsy Walker at the reins.
The brown-eyed blond tipped her bonneted head and smiled a greeting while the rig clattered past him, its bed laden with supplies to be divided between her own home and her father’s farm. Though married, she still did the marketing for both households. Aunt Edna had mentioned that Betsy’s father and siblings managed breakfast on their own, but they ate dinner and supper with Betsy and Ty each day.
Once the dust cloud settled, Brady angled across the street to the carpentry shop, where spring’s sweet freshness gave way to the more pungent smells of cut wood, resin, and glues emanating from the squat building. He’d grown to appreciate those distinctive odors.
The front door stood open, amplifying the high-pitched whine of the lathe as he went inside.
“Oh. You’re back.” The master carpenter looked up from the foot-powered machine now slowing to a stop. The warmth of Nate’s smile and a merry twinkle in his eyes kept him from being downright homely. The twitch of a grin widened his graying handlebar mustache, curled on either end to the size of a two-bit piece. Somehow, the waxed perfection detracted from the man’s underbite, lessening the prominence it might otherwise have. “Edna feed ya good, did she?”
“Yep,” Brady replied, patting his stomach. “To the gills.” He navigated the clutter of partially completed projects scattered about the remaining floor space. Even in a town the size of Hickory Corners, Nate found a ready market for the excellent cornices, cabinets, and finely crafted furniture produced in his shop. What didn’t sell locally he transported to settlements in the outlying areas, so the livelihood generated a steady income.
Brady went to check the joinings on the mahogany desk he’d been working on before noon.
“Lookin’ good, don’t ya think?” Nate prodded, his faded blue eyes making a slow perusal from where he sat. “Right fine job on the carvin’ and joints. You’ll soon be puttin’ me outta business, Lad.”
“That’ll be the day. You’ve taught me everything I know. If not for you, I wouldn’t be able to tell a chisel from a keyhole saw.”
The older man gave a nod. “Well, holler if ya need any help. I’m almost finished with these table legs.”
“Will do.” Brady returned to measuring lengths of the woods he’d use to construct drawers. Then he began sawing, taking care to keep the angle of the cuts straight, the way he’d been taught. He smiled to himself, picturing the piece finished and in Uncle Noah’s office at the church. The unassuming minister had made do with a dilapidated relic long enough. His upcoming birthday would provide the perfect excuse for a well-deserved surprise. Little enough thanks, Brady mused, after he and Aunt Edna took him in, showed him what love is. The two of them turned him around. Saved his wayward life from ruin.
Now, if only he could learn to corral his mouth. A golden-haired vision stole into his thoughts, adorned in translucent colors as delicate as the hues of a rainbow. Would she ever forgive him for embarrassing her last summer?
“Whatcha stewin’ over?” His employer set down the table leg he’d finished shaping. “Considerin’ the season, must be gal trouble.”
Brady shot him a droll grin. “What makes you say that?”
“A man don’t get to be nigh onto two-score years without learnin’ a thing or two.”
“Reckon not.”
They both resumed working, the whirring of the lathe and the sharp grating of the saw’s teeth echoing off the hard planes of cabinets and shelves. Then Brady stopped mid-stroke, waiting until Nate did the same. “I don’t suppose—” he began, feeling uncomfortably warm in the vicinity of his neck. “Aw, shucks. Ever get yourself on some young lady’s wrong side?”
“Whoo-ee.” The man’s guffaw accompanied a smart whack on his sturdy knee. “Ain’t nobody on this earth done that more’n me. In case ya never noticed, I don’t have myself a little wife t’home, greetin’ me of an evenin’.”
Brady shrugged. “I figured you just weren’t interested.”
Running stubby fingers through his graying hair, the carpenter grew thoughtful. “I was interested enough, all right, in my younger days. Just seemed to have this talent for puttin’ my foot in my mouth. All the way up to my belt buckle.”
“Somehow, I know what you mean.” Brady wagged his head.
“Well, time helps more often than not. Eventually a gal forgets what the problem was.” With a decisive nod, Nate fingered a section of smooth, turned wood on the machine and began pumping the treadle with his booted feet once more.
Brady tried to draw comfort from his employer’s words, but couldn’t quite believe things could work so smoothly in this case. A goodly number of months had gone by since he’d humiliated her in front of the other girls, unintentional or not. And before he had a chance to apologize she’d been on her way back East. He had his work laid out, all right, trying to redeem himself in Diana Montclair’s eyes.
Sunday dawned surprisingly clear after a day and a half of steady rains. Glancing up at the damp circle on the ceiling above the maple chest-on-chest that contained her frilly “sit-upons,” as the teachers from the academy so delicately termed “underthings,” Diana wondered how long it would be before a chunk of wet plaster would come crashing down on her head, shingles and all.
Much as she cringed at the thought of Brady Forbes stepping foot in her private boudoir, she knew Millie had been right in seeking help. Expelling a breath of resignation, she looped a fresh chemise and some drawers over one arm and moved to the matching wardrobe to choose a gown for church. The russet silk, perhaps, so as not to show the inevitable mud she and the rest of the congregation would track in.
An hour later, after a delay caused by a loose button on the housekeeper’s dress, Diana and Millie arrived at Hickory Corners Church mere moments before the start of the service. They took seats in their customary pew. Although the rustic meetinghouse could not compare to some of the loftier houses of worship Diana had attended in Philadelphia and Boston, she found the atmosphere here noticeably friendlier and more welcoming.
Even with most of the churchgoers facing forward in anticipation of the opening prayer, Diana realized how many of the townsfolk had become familiar to her during her many visits. She tried not to be obvious in picking out the ones easiest to recognize.
In their Sunday finery and seated with their respective husbands now, rather than being clustered shoulder to shoulder the way they used to, Elsa Gerhard, Samantha Stahl, and Betsy Walker offered tentative smiles of greeting. So did the Widow Warner, whose makeshift crutches lay propped against the wall alongside the pew she occupied. Diana returned their smiles with a polite one of her own, wondering if any of the girls would approach her afterward to visit.
Her meandering gaze idly drifted across the aisle … and met Brady’s lopsided grin. Even before she could lower her lashes, she noticed how tall and splendid he looked in a chocolate frock coat and matching trousers, every strand of his nearly ebony hair in place. She couldn’t suppress a tiny smile, but assured herself it was only proper to return his, after all.
Interrupting her musings, Reverend Tidewell, in his best black suit, his tuft of white hair slicked back, stepped to the lectern. He raised a bony white hand to signify silence, then bowed his head. “Our most gracious Father and Lord, we ask Thy blessing on this Sabbath service. May all that is said and done in Thy name be honoring and glorifying to Thy precious Son, in whose name we pray.
“Now,” he continued, “let us begin by standing and singing ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,’ page twenty-seven in the hymnal.”
The pump organ wheezed out a few chords in introduction, and Millie edged closer to share the open book in her hands. The older woman’s contralto blended pleasantly with Diana’s clear soprano through every verse, yet the lovely lilt of Elsa’s sweet voice stood out ever so slightly above the rest. Brady, she noted, only held a hymnal and followed the words in silence.
But directly behind Diana a rich tenor belted out the lyrics. Recognizing the particular range, she surmised that successful attorney Martin Crabtree must also be visiting from Capital City. The handsome bachelor possessed considerable charms, and with his fine education seemed somehow out of his element in rustic Hickory Corners whenever he came to visit his gossipy mother.
“Please be seated,” the minister said, his expression gentle as ever as he assessed his flock. “I must say, it’s gratifying to see such a goodly number of folk present this morning, after yesterday’s rain.”
Nods and smiles made the rounds.
After a slight pause, he cleared his throat, removed reading glasses from a breast pocket, and put them on. His kindly eyes scanned the congregation over the gold wire frames. “The title of my sermon this morning is, ‘Ye Are the Salt of the Earth.’ Turn with me if you will to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter five.”
In the ensuing shuffle of pages, Diana stifled a yawn and sought a more comfortable position on the hard pew, bolstering herself for a long half hour’s tedious dronings. She didn’t exactly see any connection between living people and the common substance, salt. Besides, she had other things to occupy her mind, such as ignoring the surreptitious glances from a certain bachelor across the aisle. And the occasional brushings of a man’s booted foot against her heel—which occurred a touch too often for it to be merely accidental. No one ever accused Martin Crabtree of being subtle. Straightening in her seat, Diana moved her feet safely out of his reach. She stared unseeing toward the minister, while her fingers toyed with the lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule, folding it a dozen ways, then rolling impossibly narrow rolls.
Eventually she heard the good reverend announce the closing prayer. Revitalized at having endured the Sunday service, she smiled with satisfaction and stood for the benediction.
A noticeable rustle of skirts and scuffle of feet immediately followed the minister’s final “amen,” and Millie moved a few steps away to chat with her lady friends.
“My, my.” Fair-haired Martin stepped in front of Diana, his most dazzling smile focused on her as he gave a somewhat-formal bow. His expertly tailored suit enhanced his manly form to perfection. “If it isn’t the lovely Miss Montclair, gracing our little hamlet with her glorious presence. Home for another summer?”
The rust-colored plume on Diana’s bonnet fluttered as she tilted her head with cool reserve, first at him, then at his sharp-nosed mother. Obviously the young man had inherited his marvelous features from his late father’s side. “Mr. Crabtree. Mrs. Crabtree. How nice to see you both.”
“You’ve not answered my question,” Martin prompted. “How long will we mere mortals be treated with the benefit of your angelic face?”
From across the aisle, Brady snickered, then shook his head and blended into the departing crowd waiting to shake his uncle’s hand.
“Actually, I’ve come home to stay this time,” she admitted, a little miffed at the departing carpenter’s attitude.
Martin’s golden eyebrows rose high. “Do tell. That is splendid news, is it not, Mother? Just splendid.” A smugly serene look passed between the pair.
At that moment Elsa stepped nearer, her sleeping cherub in her arms. She looked every inch the doting mother. “So glad to see you at service, Diana. I do hope you’ll be coming to Mrs. T’s on Tuesday.”
“I’m considering it, yes,” Diana said.
“See?” Martin Crabtree said, adding a knowing smile. “You’re in great demand with the locals.”
In the distance, Diana caught Samantha’s and Betsy’s decidedly frosty glares in the attorney’s direction and furtive glances in her own as the two took their leave. Her confusion gave way to doubt. Even if she attended the sewing circle every week from now until doomsday, would she ever truly be part of their close-knit group?