“Do you not see her ministering to Tessa James, teaching the girl to sew and using that opportunity to meet the child’s need for new clothes at the same time? Do you not see the happiness her friendship has brought me?” She inched close to him again. J.T. fought the urge to retreat.
“You know I’ve always struggled to fit in. Between the scandal with Mother and my own shyness, friends have been a rare commodity for me. Yet the first day I brought Hannah a jar of milk, genuine affection sprung up between us.”
J.T. frowned. He’d been so busy as a young man trying to keep a roof over his sister’s head, he hadn’t paid much attention to how she fared with other kids. Had she been lonely all this time?
“And what of Mr. Culpepper?” Delia continued. “How many months did the people of Coventry, you and me included, let that man wander around in the stench of his grief doing nothing about it? Hannah took him under her wing and in less than a week managed not only to get him to bathe but, more importantly, to return to church.
“If anyone can be an influence for good in a shop filled with fancy dresses, Hannah Richards can. She already has.”
The life preserver was slipping from his hands, and he didn’t know how to reestablish his grip. The truth embedded in his sister’s words swirled around him in a current that pulled him in a direction he didn’t want to go. Why couldn’t he just cling to his simple understanding of what God wanted from his people? It had served him well in the past. But Hannah had muddied the waters with her contradictions. She didn’t fit into his clean, simple way of thinking.
J.T. ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the roots. He hissed under his breath at the self-inflicted pain. Then Delia reached out and gently tugged his arm free. Surrounding his large hand with her two smaller ones, she peered up at him.
“You’re afraid, J.T. Afraid to believe that someone who values beauty and is so beautiful herself can also be good.” She squeezed his fingers, and a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I saw how you looked at Hannah this morning. You’re developing feelings for her, aren’t you? Despite your rigid rules. Don’t let Mother’s choices poison yours. Just because she broke your heart doesn’t mean that Hannah will, too. Beauty in and of itself is not wrong.”
Without conscious thought, a verse he’d quoted often while Delia was growing up tumbled from his lips. “ ‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.’ Proverbs 31:30.”
His sister shook her head, her smile fading. “No one’s arguing that a woman should pursue beauty above a relationship with her Lord. Maybe it’s time you went back and reread that chapter in Proverbs. Look again at the woman who is praised as a godly example of virtuous femininity. The wife whose value is above rubies. I dare you, J.T. Look for yourself. What type of clothing does she wear? How does she earn her living? Then maybe we can have this discussion again.”
CHAPTER 19
J.T. trudged back to the livery, a Bible tucked under his arm. He’d never thought of himself as a coward, but he’d been extremely tempted to toss his conversation with Delia to the wind and ignore her challenge. What if he dug deeper into the Word as she suggested and discovered he needed to adjust his beliefs? Could he do that? They’d been his rock for so long. Guiding him. Shaping him. If they turned out to be shifting sand . . .
Tom waved at him as he approached the office. “Doc came by to rent the buggy. Said Mrs. Walsh was due to have her next young’un any day, and he wanted to pay a call on her. I hitched up the roan. Hope that’s all right.” He crammed his hands into his pockets and rocked up and back on the balls of his feet.
J.T. slapped him on the arm. “You did fine. I’ll add it to his account.”
A grin exploded across Tom’s face.
The Bible under his arm poked J.T.’s ribs as he moved past the young man and reached for the knob on the office door. A similar jab from within made him hesitate. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Uh, Tom?”
The boy spun around and trotted back to J.T.’s side like an eager puppy. “Yeah?”
“Would you mind sticking around for an extra hour or so? I’ve got some things to work on, and I’d rather not be disturbed.”
“Sure.” Tom eyed the black leather protruding from beneath J.T.’s bicep. “If them things need a Bible to figure out, I reckon they must be mighty important. No one’ll bother you unless there’s an emergency. I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks.” J.T. pulled the book from under his arm and lifted it to the brim of his hat in salute. Then he entered his office and closed the door.
A tangle of harness leather cluttered the top of his desk. With one hand, he scooped it up and tossed it onto a barrel in the corner as he circled the table and lowered himself into his cane-backed chair. He set the Bible on the desktop in front of him, then pushed it over to a corner. The scrape of leather on wood echoed loudly in the small room, but J.T. ignored it. He swiveled away to collect a different book.
He extracted the account ledger from the drawer to his left and flipped to the page that held the current entries. With a nub of pencil, he added a dollar to the doctor’s balance and totaled the sum since the man’s last payment.
Black leather tugged at his peripheral vision. He scratched an itchy spot on his jaw and turned back to the ledger. Might as well total up all the accounts. It’d make the end-of-month tally much easier. J.T. welcomed the mathematical diversion, his focus only occasionally drifting over to the Bible that sat patiently on the corner. Until the numbers ran out. With no sums to keep his conscience at bay, the black book loomed large, creeping into his line of sight.
He scanned the room for something else to do. The harness still needed work. And he’d been meaning to fix that rickety shelf since last month. The pipe on his potbellied stove was dented. The windowsill needed dusting.
Dusting?
J.T. braced his arms on the desk and pressed his forehead into the heels of his hands. As he exhaled, a self-castigating chuckle vibrated against the wall of his chest. He was a coward if he’d rather dust a windowsill than read a passage of Scripture. This was a livery office, for pity’s sake, not a fancy parlor. Dust was part of the decor.
With a small groan, he pushed the ledger aside and drew the Bible toward him.
Lord, I don’t know what you’re aiming to teach me, but I pray for enough wisdom to recognize it when I see it.
Standing the book on its spine, J.T. thumbed the pages back until he found Proverbs. He turned to the last chapter and began to read. Nothing momentous caught his attention in the beginning, except the warning to Lemuel against giving his strength to women. J.T. had been a believer in that philosophy for ages. However, his assurance started dissolving around verse nineteen with the mention of the noble wife’s spindle. And at verse twenty-one, it deteriorated completely.
“ ‘She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.’ ”
Silk and purple? Her household clothed in scarlet? Wouldn’t a modest woman wear plain clothes like wool dyed brown or dark blue?
Yet God’s Word clearly stated that this virtuous woman wore purple silk.
And it got worse the further he read.
“ ‘She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant. Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.’ ”
Not only did she wear the fancy clothes, she sold them to others. Just like Hannah. And the Bible declared it honorable and worthy of rejoicing.
There was more to the virtuous woman than her occupation and dressing habits, of course. Proverbs painted her as trustworthy, kind, diligent. Strong, productive, and wise. She practiced good stewardship, reached out to those in need, and feared the Lord. All qualities Miss Richards demonstrated, as well.
How could he condemn Hannah for selling fine clothing when the virtuo
us woman did the same? In the biblical example, her husband and children praised her and called her blessed. For Hannah, all he’d done was tear her down and call her a stumbling block. Not exactly the kind of thing to recommend a fellow as husband material.
J.T. closed the Bible and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. He still believed true beauty came from a woman’s spirit, not her physical shape or choice of garment. Yet God seemed to be telling him through this passage in Proverbs that it was possible for a woman to have both. Not only that, but it implied a smart man would claim such a female and count his blessings. J.T. glanced out the window to the shop across the street. Apparently, I’m an idiot.
As he stared, his vision blurred with images of what could have been. Thankfully, a dilapidated freight wagon came to his rescue. It rolled to a stop in front of his window and blocked his view. Giving himself a mental shake, J.T. stood and walked to the door. He never missed one of Harley’s visits.
The county junkman had befriended J.T. during the dark time after his mother left, a time when his father had been too consumed with grief to worry about where food or other necessities would come from. J.T. had snuck off to town one evening a week and dug through people’s garbage, searching for anything that might interest the old man. Cracked mirrors, tuneless music boxes, wheels without spokes—these acquisitions provided shoes for him and Delia, secondhand winter coats, and occasionally a ribbon or some other small pretty to surprise his sister with at Christmas.
Harley never admitted it, but J.T. long suspected that the man set things aside specifically for him and Delia and accepted whatever J.T. could offer in payment, no matter how lopsided the trade. He’d never forget the winter after his father died, when their food stores consisted of little more than a handful of potatoes and one onion. The only thing J.T. had to barter with was a rusted pocket knife that wouldn’t close. Harley had exclaimed over that knife, saying that it was a rare specimen, and that once he cleaned it up, he knew of a buyer that would pay a king’s ransom for it. He then proceeded to hand over a mound of foodstuff in trade—a sack of flour he claimed had been thrown out because of weevils, a can of lard apparently too dented to sell to anyone else, tinned vegetables that had lost their labels, and a barrel of salt pork that Harley complained took up too much space in his wagon.
Without the junkman’s generosity, they would not have survived that winter, and even though J.T. no longer spent his spare time salvaging items for trade, he still made a point to buy a selection of Harley’s goods whenever the peddler crossed his path. And deliberately overpaid him each time.
Eager to greet his old friend, J.T. opened the door; but before he could reach the street, Tom ran out of the stable like a guard dog, barking up a storm.
“You gotta come back later, Harley. The boss is working on something real important and can’t be disturbed.”
J.T. came up behind the youngster and clapped him on the back. “That’s all right, Tom. I’m done for now. Why don’t you bring out a couple water buckets for the man’s horses.”
“Yessir. I’ll have them out in jiffy.”
Tom disappeared into the stable, and J.T. turned back to the stoop-shouldered man climbing down from the seat. He found the ground with a moan, then winked up at J.T.
“Ain’t as spry as I used to be.”
J.T. grinned and accompanied Harley to the back of the wagon. “I’m not exactly a kid anymore, either.”
“Don’t feed me that nonsense, Tucker. You’re still in your prime.” Harley gave him a playful jab with his elbow. “What you need is a pretty young wife to chase after. My Sarah’s kept me going for near on forty years.”
The grin slid from J.T.’s face as he glanced across the street. His stomach churned, but he covered it up with a forced chuckle. “Well, now, if I could find me a gal like your Sarah, I just might do that, but I reckon she’s one of a kind.”
“That she is, son. That she is.” Harley untied the tarp that kept all his goods from escaping. Each man took a side and rolled the canvas covering back. When they reached the front of the bed, Harley wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Don’t get discouraged, boy. The Lord will bring the right woman to you when he sees fit. You just got to keep an eye out for her so’s you don’t miss your opportunity.”
J.T. stared at his boots. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
But what if a man’s eyes didn’t open until after he’d already pushed the woman away? Would God, or the lady in question, give him a second chance?
Hoping to distract Harley from his advice-giving, J.T. reached over the side of the wagon and picked up a warped eggbeater. He cranked the handle until it hummed, stirring the air. “What’d you bring today?”
The salesman in Harley overpowered the meddler. A familiar gleam sprang to life in his eyes.
“I’ve been saving something for you. I think you’ll be pleased.” He shuffled odds and ends and hefted out a large crate covered in oilcloth. With a flourish, he flipped a corner of the cloth back. “See? What did I tell you?”
Shingles. Enough to repair Louisa’s roof before winter hit if he ever got things squared away with the current owner. “You remembered.”
Harley drew back, affronted. “Of course I remembered. What kind of a junkman would I be if I didn’t acquire what my customers are looking for?” His ready smile reappeared quickly, though, as he leaned over his prize. “They’re machine-cut cypress from the sawmill in Bandera. Notice the clean, even lines.” He handed one to J.T. to inspect. “Met a fellow who worked down there. He traded ’em for an ear trumpet. Guess all that mill work took a toll on his hearing.”
“These will be perfect,” J.T. said. “Better than any I could have picked up around here.” He tossed his sample shingle back into the crate, replaced the oilcloth, and set the box against the wall of the livery.
As usual, Harley insisted on showing him a handful of other treasures, none of which caught his interest. But when the peddler removed a quilt from a three-legged side table to show him the ornate carvings, J.T. glimpsed a couple of chair backs.
“Are those chairs a matched pair?” he asked.
“Ah, you have a fine eye. They are indeed. Help me lift them out.”
They cleared away a mantel clock, a chipped bowl and pitcher set, and several miscellaneous pots and pans from the seats of the chairs before J.T. could lift them out. Careful to position them between the wagon and the livery so no one from, say, across the street could see, he took stock of their condition.
“They’re missing a few spindles,” Harley said, “but the overall construction is sound. A little sanding, staining, and they’ll be good as new.”
J.T. sat in each and wiggled the framework. They held his weight fine, and except for being a bit banged up, they were decent chairs. He could shape a couple spindles and refinish them in the evenings. It’d probably only take about a week to get them done.
Once again, the shop across the street drew his gaze and prompted an ache in his chest. He’d have to make up an awful lot of ground if he hoped to win Hannah’s heart. In the meantime, he would take care of her practical needs. The woman might not think she needed him, but she definitely needed chairs.
CHAPTER 20
“Cordelia, I’m so proud of you.” Hannah marked the tape measure with her thumb and held it up for her friend to see. “You’ve lost an inch around both your waist and chest. Two inches from your hips. You’re making marvelous progress.”
A blush rose to Cordelia’s cheeks. “J.T. did mention that he thought I looked thinner.”
“And he was absolutely correct.” At the mention of Jericho, Hannah’s mind immediately jumped back to her encounter with him under the tree, but she didn’t allow it to linger. Cordelia deserved her full attention.
“Do you really think this will work?” Cordelia asked as she buttoned up her dress. “I just came from the telegraph office, and Ike doesn’t seem to notice any difference in me at all.”
“
Well, the change is subtle. The new dress will be more dramatic.” Hannah idly flipped through one of her fashion magazines while Cordelia finished dressing. She’d seen the dresses a hundred times, so her eyes wandered to the bonnets and faces of the models. A pattern began to emerge, and Hannah stood a little straighter. “What do you think about adding a change that’s not so subtle, one we can do now?”
Cordelia tilted her head at her reflection in the mirror, then turned sideways to examine her profile. “What kind of change?”
Hannah came up behind her and began pulling pins from her hair. Cordelia raised her brows in silent question.
“It just occurred to me,” Hannah said, “that all of those stylish ladies in Peterson’s Magazine have not only fashionable dresses but fashionable hairstyles, as well.” She met Cordelia’s widening gaze in the mirror. “If we’re giving you a new look, we might as well revamp all of you, including your hair.”
She raised a hand to her head. “My hair?”
“Sure.” Hannah hugged Cordelia’s shoulders as excitement ricocheted through her. “Your hair is one of your best features. It’s so thick and wavy. We could cut just a little in the front to give you some bangs. Nearly all the models in the magazine have them. I bet yours will curl up on their own without you even having to crimp them. Then we can exchange your simple bun for a braided chignon. Nothing too fancy, just something different and slightly more elegant. You’ll need to wear it lower on your neck so it won’t be hidden by your bonnet, but I imagine it won’t go unnoticed.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Hannah gave Cordelia a squeeze and waited for her to decide. She didn’t have to wait long. In the mirror, Cordelia’s chin jutted out a bit and her lips tightened in a determined line.
“Let’s do it.” She turned around and faced Hannah directly. “Now. Before I change my mind.”
Hannah grinned and took up her shears, and twenty minutes later Cordelia’s new style was complete. Wavy bangs disguised her broad forehead, giving her a more dainty appearance. The looser chignon softened her face and drew attention to the curve of her neck. When Hannah finally let her see her reflection, Cordelia gasped.