A Touch of Grace (33 page)

“So, Jonathan, what is it you wanted to talk to us about?” Mr. Gould took his favorite chair in front of the marble fireplace in the room designated as the men’s room. Mrs. Gould entered also and settled herself in the chair next to her husband, her needlepoint in hand. She chose a new color and, after threading the needle, began to stitch. Jonathan was too nervous to sit.

He swallowed around the lump in his chest. He’d put this off as long as he dared, and here it was Sunday evening. He’d rather be playing chess with Daniel anytime, even though he always lost. Or talking with Grace, even though Mary Anne always accompanied her.

“I thought … I mean, I believe …” He stopped. This was far worse than he imagined. He sighed all the frustration out and started again.

“Father, Mother, I think I found what I want to do with my life, and the problem is, I’m not sure …” He wanted to say, “I am absolutely sure,” but decided to couch his words in the least offensive way possible. He sucked in and exhaled another breath. “I’m not sure you will be as excited about my plans as I am.”

“Plans are a good thing.” His father templed his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “What is it you think we will not approve of?”

“Father, please remember that my going to North Dakota was your idea.”

“I am aware of that. I made the choice after a lot of deep thought as to what might help you overcome your undisciplined ways.”

Mrs. Gould shot her husband a look that Jonathan recognized as censorship. Although they never argued or even sharply disagreed in front of their children, Jonathan had learned to recognize the signs, and sometimes, if he were honest, he’d used them against his mother to get what he wanted. This discussion was too important to waste on games, however.

“I like farming. I liked the hard work and seeing something grow because I planted the seeds. I loved the smell of cut grass that became hay. I learned to string fence and care for the animals. I saw the heart-break of losing the livestock, and I felt like I belonged in that small town with such heart that I can’t describe it. I know you’ve always had a great deal of respect for the Bjorklunds and what they do. I want to join them, buy land and cattle and machinery, and …”

He heard his mother take in a horrified breath but kept his attention on his father.

“You think you learned enough this summer to take on a farm of your own?”

“No, not at all. I learned enough this summer to know that I need to learn a whole lot more. I can begin this in one of two ways: go to work for a farmer, like I did, or go to agriculture school and then work for someone else. Or, there is a third way. School first, then hire a manager with a lifetime of experience to teach me and work beside me.”

“And where would this agricultural college be?”

“There is a good one in Grand Forks, North Dakota.”

“Have you looked into anything in the eastern states?”

“No. From what I understand, farming the prairies is different from farming here.”

“We have dairies in New York State, New Jersey, all over. In fact, I found the cows for you in Pennsylvania.”

“I’m sure there are. But out there, you can see forever. The sky is a huge blue bowl, and storms come across those plains in dancing curtains of rain.”

“The north wind blows down in the winter with blizzards and cold beyond your wildest imagination,” his father added.

“I heard stories of it.” At least Father isn’t saying an out-and-out no. He sneaked a peek at his mother. The way the needle flashed in and out of her frame said as much as her pursed lips and wrinkled brow.

Mr. Gould leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over the other knee, elbows propped on the chair arms. “And what would you use as money to buy this farm? If there were a farm for sale.”

“I have a sizable inheritance.”

“That you would use for such an outlandish scheme as this? Your grandfathers worked hard to amass the money you would so glibly throw away,” his mother put in.

Mr. Gould looked to his wife with a slight shake of his head and a glint in his eyes. She returned to her needlework, her back ramrod straight.

“Do you have any idea what it would cost to set up a farm like the Bjorklunds have?”

“No, sir. I’ve not talked to anyone else, because I felt it honorable to discuss this with you first.”

“I see.” He returned his relaxed foot to the floor and leaned forward again. “I have known for a long time that you have no desire nor the affinity to come to work in the company, like Thomas has done. Without purpose, I feared you could become a rake, and that would be a terrible waste. I hoped you would find your place and interest in college, in getting a good education.”

Jonathan nodded. “I have. I’ve not said I do not want to go to college, have I?”

“No, you haven’t, for which I am thankful. But I am not convinced that your plan is the best for you.”

Jonathan started to say something but his father held up a hand.

“No, we’ll not have a debate here, for I know you can out-debate me.”

Jonathan knew he was referring to the times he’d brought home a topic from the debate squad at school and coerced his father into arguing with him.

“You can be most persuasive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I wonder too how much your desire to farm in North Dakota has to do with your attraction to Miss Knutson.”

His mother drew in a loud breath. At least that idea hadn’t occurred to her until then.

Jonathan sat down on the hassock and studied his hands. “I would like to think that I love farming, not the farmer’s daughter. But I have to admit that I asked her father if I could court Grace, and he said yes, if she was willing.”

“And?”

“I wanted to talk with you first.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother drop her needle-point into her lap and collapse against the back of the chair.

“She is not suitable. Not at all suitable.” The words hissed out through her clenched jaw, much against his father’s judgment, if the stern gaze he shot her was any indication.

Oh, Mother, if you would only see who Grace is inside, instead of
judging her speech and lack of the social niceties. All those young women
you deem suitable are so unsuitable to me. To think of one of them washing
dishes or digging in the garden … well, some might do that one day, but
I can’t imagine any of them planting a garden to feed the family through
the winter
.

“Jonathan, your mother and I will do some talking and thinking about what you have said. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would continue to prepare for Princeton as you agreed.”

Jonathan felt his shoulders curve inward to shield his heart. Had his father not listened? Of course he had listened. He’d been very polite, just as he was when running board meetings. Jonathan had gone with his father and older brother to some of those meetings. While Thomas had been excited about it, he’d wished he could be anywhere but there, preferring to be out on the shore in a sailboat, tacking before the wind. He had thought at one time of becoming a captain of a ship, but that slid away, as did becoming a surgeon. He’d always figured he would have to go into the family business someday, just like his brother and his male cousins. He heaved a sigh. At least Father had not said no and given orders that would be hard to accept. But now Mother would oppose him. Was there any hope after all?

A
VISIT WAS ONE THING
, but an interview quite another.

The carriage turned in to a drive not far from the Goulds’, and the horses trotted up a slight grade to a house three stories high and with enough dormers and turrets and arched windows to resemble a castle she had seen in pictures. The Wooster mansion only lacked a moat. And she thought the Gould house ostentatious. She could feel Jonathan watching her. If only she could take his hand and feel some sense of comfort, of someone else in this with her. Yet she hadn’t seen him since the party, and Mrs. Gould was quite cool to her. Except for Mary Anne and Fiona, it was as if she had suddenly become quarantined. And she had no idea what gaff she had done to merit even more exclusion.

When the carriage stopped, she watched the carved wooden door open and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t dreamed up this sprightly little lady who brightened the day just by appearing.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Mrs. Wooster said as she was handed into the carriage. “Isn’t this a wonderful day?”

And suddenly it was. Here, she was on an adventure that would make Sophie shiver in delight: a drive through New York City with amenable companions, a chance to see more of the sights, and an interview that could change her life. Not that it had not been tossed topsy-turvy already, but since she’d come this far, she could certainly go the next mile. Or however many it took.

After greeting the men, Mrs. Wooster looked to Mr. Gould. “I spoke with Joseph Ettinger—he is on the board for the Fenway School for the Deaf—and he said that they are actively pursuing benefactors for the school, not that every school in New York and probably everywhere is not. But they are not looking to expand so much as to redo what they have to make it more functional. The school is on the old Fenway estate, which I’m sure you already know.”

“My mother’s school is not looking for benefactors.” Grace couldn’t believe she’d joined the conversation, if that’s what she had done. Ever since the fete she’d been hesitant to volunteer anything for fear of ridicule.

“Really? So your family supports the entire thing?”

“Well, those who come pay tuition and room and board. Much of the work around the school is shared by family and those old enough to help.”

“How old must the students be to attend there?”

“Seven, but Mother prefers eight or nine. It depends on the child. How civilized they are. Many were barely manageable until they could begin to communicate more easily. One child had to have a keeper at first. Some adults have come too.”

“Most schools have both adult and juvenile programs. The Fenway School does.”

Grace could feel Jonathan’s gaze upon her.

She turned in amazement at the rows of maple trees beginning to turn yellow and red and orange. As if God were dripping paint on them, she thought.

They’d left the city behind and now the road traveled between farms with views of the Hudson River through the trees. At one point they stopped at an inn to use the facilities and ate lunch from a basket Cook had packed for them. The conversation continued, with Mrs. Wooster making sure that Grace could understand her. Before long, Mr. Gould announced they were nearly there.

“This was so much more pleasant than the train,” Mrs. Wooster commented. “Thank you for choosing to use the carriage.”

“You are most welcome. I thought Miss Knutson might enjoy this too.” He smiled at Grace from his seat with his back to the driver.

Grace nodded. But the nearer they drew to the school, the more she fought to keep her butterflies under control.

A bronze sign on a brick wall announced Fenway School for the Deaf, and the carriage turned onto a tree-lined drive. The building ahead lay somewhere between the size of the Gould mansion and the Wooster castle, with more the look of an English country manor she had seen in a magazine. A large black dog came to stand by the carriage when it stopped, its tail wagging, tongue lolling. If this was the welcoming committee, this could indeed be a good place.

When Grace stepped down, Mrs. Wooster put her arm through Grace’s. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Something like that.”

“Never fear. This is the start of something momentous for you. I have a feeling you are about to realize God’s purpose for your life.”

Now I know why I feel at peace with you. You speak with God. Is
that why I feel such a disconnect with Mrs. Gould? But what is God’s
purpose? Other than marriage and children?
What was wrong with her first dreams anyway?
Remember, Toby is not in your dreams any longer
. When awake, she knew that and sometimes had to overcome the sadness again. At night her dreams still included him and a house or farm in Blessing. Or did they? She tried to think when she had last dreamed of Toby. Right now, even his face was blurred as she walked up the brick-laid path to the front door. In fact, too many of her dreams recently had included Jonathan, and that just couldn’t be. Their worlds had no possibility of ever blending.

Mr. Gould rapped with the knocker twice before a woman, who looked to have been in a hurry, opened the door.

“Welcome to Fenway. I’m afraid we just had a bit of an emergency that had to be seen to.” She stepped back and motioned them in. “I am Mrs. Callahan.” She extended her hand to Mr. Gould. “And I am sure you are Mr. Gould and Mrs. Wooster.” She smiled at Grace and signed as she spoke. “You must be Miss Grace Knutson. I am so pleased to meet you.”

“This is my son Jonathan. He learned some sign when he worked in North Dakota this summer.”

“I take it you are able to hear?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I wanted to be able to talk with Grace—er Miss Knutson more easily.”

“An admirable effort. I wish more family members and friends felt that way.” She turned. “Come along. I thought we would have tea and chat a bit first. Then I will show you the school.” She signed and talked at the same time, her smile making Grace feel even more comfortable.