Thump. Thump. She could plant herself in a library world such as this one forever. Thump. Maggie Abbott stamped the catalog card of Harriett Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin and placed the book on the stack to be shelved. Books she could read when the library of Bay View’s Chautauqua wasn’t humming with academy students. Books she didn’t have to shelve since she had just begun a new position as the front desk attendant.
The library matron had left her to lock the door at closing, and Maggie couldn’t wait to dive into the newest arrival. She placed the stack of books on the return cart then reached for H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine.
Only for a moment before leaving. A few delicious words were all she needed.
Lifting the cover embossed with the image of a winged sphinx, she heard the creak of the stiffness of a newly opened novel. She fingered beyond the beautiful vellum pages and drank in the words of the first chapter. She ignored her stomach growling and made quick work to forget that Father would be waiting for the dinner she was responsible to prepare.
“Sorry, Miss …?”
Deeply lost in the world of a time-traveling English scientist inventor, Maggie jolted at the sound of the rich baritone voice behind her. Nearly dropping the precious volume, she clutched it to her white linen bodice and twirled to face the unexpected intruder.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit overdue.” The man’s voice reverberated through the empty library. Dark brown, drilling eyes matched the voice. His starched white collar and a fine-threaded suit coat announced he was a Bay View summer cottager, or perhaps a lecturer from the academy?
“We’re closed.” Her voice squeaked. Her heart still pounded with the surprise of her reverie interrupted and by the vision of a gentleman who might just have resurrected from the pages of her novel. Maggie pinched the tender skin beneath her elbow where she still clutched the book.
Ouch. Definitely not imagining.
“Ah, but the door was open. Therefore, the library is still open.” He cocked a grin and braced his hands on the desk between them.
“Yes. I suppose you have a point.” Maggie sized him up. Confident. Authoritative. As if the world belonged to him. Yet something in his curious grin hinted otherwise. Whatever it was, Maggie looked intently back at him and set her novel down. “How may I assist you, sir?”
“I need …” He hesitated, glancing at the spine of the book she clutched. “Do you always read adventure novels?”
“This one just arrived. I admit the first pages promise an exciting story. Reading as much of the materials as I’m able is a requisite. Loving them is a privilege.” Maggie grinned, still infected by the thrill of the pages she’d just finished.
“And you prefer such adventure over the latest craze of suffrage or social injustice readings?”
“Oh sir, I believe overcoming the injustices of the world requires great imagination and mystery. I should think the most vital characteristics of a woman of substance begin with her willingness to imagine adventure and her desire to understand the mystery of humanity.” Maggie blurted her heart’s musing without thinking how it might sound to the refined man.
His eyes studied her novel once more, silent to her reply. Perhaps she’d spoken too boldly? Nervous prickles hovered over her skin.
A twinkling sparked his eyes as he looked up, as if calculating several different options while he stared openly into her eyes. “Actually, I need more than just a little assistance. If I might request a bit more of a, say … collaboration?”
Maggie’s wits perked to attention. “Of course. A library assistant is ready to help, is she not?”
“Oh, not just ‘help.’ Participation. I’ll need your word, your commitment. It could take all summer—if you can do it.” The curious grin returned, framed by a strong jaw and a well-trimmed mustache. Seemingly quite aware he entertained her and her alone, the gentleman glanced down at his timepiece and around the empty library before handing her the edition of the Saturday Review for checkout.
“Well, sir. I’m intrigued, but how am I qualified for this collaboration you speak of? I know nothing of the requirements, or of you.” She stamped the date on the check-out card. What an interesting chap. She suspected Wells’s time traveler was just as mysterious, and she couldn’t wait to read further.
“As a lecturer of Bay View’s academy, I’m in charge of the material the students study in our Reading Circle on campus. I’ll need selected readings pulled, read, and ready to discuss. If it goes well, the material you help me develop will be used for the Bay View Magazine, which you no doubt know is read nationwide since our small community of summer cottagers compose the second most popular Chautauqua in the nation—right behind the original community in Chautauqua, New York.” His eyes twinkled as he awaited her response before he hooked her with the first challenge. “Start by reading the rest of that novel you were lost in when I entered.”
“Read this? How does simply reading one novel count as collaboration?”
“That”—he searched for the name plate on her desk—“Miss Magdalena Abbott, is an answer you shall learn. I assure you, it is an honorable quest.”
Learning. The one thing Maggie craved, and was always yearning to do. It was her insatiable curiosity that had driven James Abbott to deposit her care into the hands of the librarians while he worked after Maggie’s mama had died. The library was the one place where she could travel in her mind. How could she say no to learning?
Maggie swallowed as he waited, his stance expectant and confident. His shoulders were wide and solid looking. How could it hurt to join in his proposed adventure?
“You came here for this express purpose at five minutes after five o’clock?”
“Well, not entirely. I came for a copy of the Saturday Review. But then I saw you, Miss Abbott, and it was clear you’re the solution for our new Literary Reading Circle success. What do you say? Will you help me research the Reading Circle curriculum? Think carefully. I’m giving you a chance to participate in the greatest national craze of higher-level learning that the ideals of Chautauqua offer—a chance to learn about culture, religion, politics, the great outdoors, and the arts—a chance to join the movement that started two decades ago and stands to influence generations to come.” Though he held out his hand for her to shake as if they were merely making a business deal, his eyes twinkled as though he believed every word of his speech.
Maggie’s heart thrilled. Her hand jutted into his larger one. Her lips moved despite her doubts about her qualifications for the task. He spoke as if any man or woman were a welcome contributor to the Chautauqua movement that was sweeping the nation. He didn’t have to know she was merely the uneducated daughter of a gardener. “Yes. I’ll do it.” Her hand in his didn’t exactly bounce with the shake of a gentleman’s deal.
Instead, he held her hand gently and squeezed, not letting go immediately.
“I need your name, sir.”
“Wesley Graham Hill the Third. Wes or Wesley to my friends.” He released her hand, swept up the copy of the Saturday Review he’d come for, and exited as quickly as he’d appeared.
Panic and exhilaration rushed through Maggie’s every fiber. She’d just made a private agreement with none other than the nephew of Bay View’s members-only Chautauqua founder?
Maggie’s heart fluttered at the idea of a real chance for a legitimate impact in the adult educational movement that had swept the nation’s resort communities, and had pressed the small cottage community of Bay View to form its own academy that was now burgeoning at the seams with over seven hundred students. Surely he realized she wasn’t a member or a student. Didn’t he?
“Heavens, what was I thinking?” She pinched herself once more. Whether for reality’s sake or for chastisement, she wasn’t entirely certain.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit overdue?” Wesley kicked a stone, sending it skidding over the boardwalk outside the library. What kind of an idiotic line was that? Miss Abbott must have heard that line from more than one lad lucky enough to gain her attention. The fact that she hadn’t evicted him from the premises on the spot with a string of well-rehearsed words from a suffragette speech was the simple reason he’d blurted out the unplanned proposal. He guessed she possessed both brains and beauty—two things he could stand to live with the rest of his life.
If his friend and co-lecturer Samuel Hicks had been keeping Miss Abbott’s existence a secret while snatching up all the literature acquisitions for the Reading Circle, he’d never forgive the chap. How many evenings had he endured picnics in the grove, reclined at the edge of a blanket while listening to the regurgitation of a borrowed speech? Not to mention one too many poetry recitations spoken more from pretense than conviction. Wouldn’t a woman rather live her life of equality than talk about it for hours on end, having never once set her foot in the ocean of her very own adventure or self-expression? How many nights had he tried to explain to Sam that he’d know what he was looking for in a woman when he saw it?
Wesley bounded up the steps of Uncle Bernard’s house. Perhaps this was the summer that wouldn’t be as predictable as the squeak of the hinges on the oaken front doors of the Victorian cottage on Maple Street, where he’d spent every summer of his existing memory.
Hopeful anticipation tightened in his chest and tugged a grin into place with the thought of seeing Miss Magdalena Abbott soon. Turning the brass knob, Wesley strode over the threshold and down the hallway toward the parlor, where voices filtered and the sound of silver spoons stirring in china teacups heralded feminine company among masculine voices.
“Ah, Wesley, we thought you’d forgotten all about us.” Samuel Hicks stood, teacup in hand, dressed in his finest clothes for the evening’s outing. A devilish twinkle in his widened eyes, followed by a wink, told Wes he’d been set up once again.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I have?” How could he forget his challenge to Sam? A pledge based more on ornery determination and sheer resolution to prove his friend wrong than on a belief that Hicks would take him up on his claim that Bay View didn’t harbor the woman of his future, and that she couldn’t be found even if he had tea with all the ladies of the Association one by one.
Sam had argued that Wes’s requirements in a future wife were far too demanding, that there were plenty of lovely candidates flocking Bay View every summer if he’d just open his eyes. Wesley had stood his ground that God had just one perfect plan for him, and it had raised the stakes, pushing the two of them toe-to-toe in the brotherly daring they’d enjoyed all through childhood. What would have ended years ago in spit and a handshake resulted instead in Sam taking it upon himself to test Wes’s theory, bringing a string of ladies by the house for tea before they strolled through the grove to watch the million-dollar sunset over the bay.
Sure as the sun would set over the waters of Little Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan, the two young ladies sitting in the Hills’ parlor were proof of Sam’s determination. Aunt Maud quite enjoyed the parade of young ladies since she had no children of her own. Wesley’s aunt had longed for a daughter, but instead had been a marvelous mother to Wesley after the death of his parents. Watching her now, engaged in small talk, made it all the harder to stop Sam’s escapades when he saw how much she loved the company of each young lady. Aunt Maud was the sort of lovely woman that lavished her heart on everyone, and he loved her for it.
It was Uncle Bernard’s more hard-nosed demeanor that gripped Wesley with dread. The man was driven to make Bay View the most popular Chautauqua in the nation, one which published a widely read magazine and drew diverse, famous speakers and well-known performers, while building the first onsite accredited academy. He was obsessed with the idea of transforming Bay View from a cluster of Methodist tent meetings along the bay to an up-and-coming academic powerhouse, poised to enter the twentieth century. Some said he’d sacrifice heart and spirit for the prestige, power, and ideals of his quest. Why, he could even boast that his efforts brought the likes of the nation’s vice presidents to summer in the grandest hotel overlooking the bay.
Tonight, instead of his usual distraction with the latest political column of the newspaper, Uncle Bernard’s voice rose to a tone he used when clinching difficult deals with the Association board of directors or working a stump speech in a fund-raising campaign.
“Well, Wesley, I’m glad to see you value punctuality at least a little.” The barbed chiding belied his uncle’s smile as he turned to introduce the lady assigned Wesley’s courtship for the evening. “I’ve been anxious for you to meet this lovely young lady, Miss Mary Reed. The two of you have many passions in common, and I should think you’d want to be on your way. I’m afraid I’ve quite talked you up, and you’re sure to take a liking to each other.”
One sideways glance at Sam confirmed friend and family alike were out to settle a match with the girl as if she were the daughter of William Jennings Bryan or the heir of General Custer. As if her social standing had anything at all to do with her substance.
Because wits or not, her appearance had nothing on the vision still fogging his mind or the spirit that was already infecting his soul—the vision and essence of the library princess Magdalena Abbott.