Thoughts of Pa led him to Hillsboro. If he returned, what job awaited him there? According to Pa’s latest letter, Pa was set on trying to get a chicken farm started on the old homestead. Thomas supposed he could help, but for how long? Did he really want to be a chicken farmer? He wrinkled his nose. He knew he didn’t. Not forever.
But Hillsboro held one big draw: his parents and little sisters. And in the Mennonite community of Hillsboro, he’d no doubt be able to find a Christian woman—maybe even Belinda Schmidt. He could settle down, start his own family.
He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath of relief that he’d never verbalized his intentions to marry Daphne. Had he asked her father for her hand, he’d have a bigger burden of regret than the one he already carried. A betrothal was taken seriously.
“Thank you, Lord, for giving me a second chance to seek your will in a life’s mate.” The words slipped out in a heartfelt whisper. No matter how he pined for Daphne, he would not concede to his desire to see her. He would not disappoint his Maker by becoming unequally yoked with an unbeliever. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and offered another prayer.
“Father, open Daphne’s heart to accept your Son.” He paused, searching his heart for hidden motives. Did he want Daphne to discover God’s Son for his good, so he could pursue her once more, or did he want it for her good? Convinced his intentions were pure, he finished, “Bring her into a relationship with you, and then guide her on the pathway you have planned for her. Amen.”
With the release of Daphne into his Father’s hands, Thomas turned from the window, sat on the sofa, and once more picked up the book, opened it, and read aloud, “ ‘Chapter One, The Cyclone . . .’ ”
Daphne bent her knees, hiding the book in her lap. Should Father open the door and peek in, as he’d begun doing in the past days for some reason she couldn’t fathom, he would see her reclining in her bed but wouldn’t know she had sneaked in contraband.
Father heartily disapproved of women authors, claiming their emotionally-based disposition made them unsuitable for something as serious as writing. But Daphne’s friend Rosemary Robbins, who marched in women’s rights parades and who openly pooh-poohed the dictates of society, had lent her a novel called
To Have and to Hold
.
Written by an American author named Mary Johnston, the book told the story of a Colonial soldier who unwittingly purchased a wife already claimed by another man. The book was full of adventure and heartbreakingly romantic moments. She could barely set it aside when the young wife, Jocelyn, eloquently persuaded the governor to free her husband, Ralph, who was mistaken to be a pirate. Yet despite getting lost in the pages, the moment she lifted her attention from the book, she thought of Thomas.
The familiar sting of tears made the words on the page waver. She closed her eyes, willing herself to gain control. She hadn’t realized a body could manufacture so many tears. Ever since last Sunday, when Thomas had failed to arrive for his usual brunch with her family, tears had been her companion. Her appetite had fled. Her chest ached continually. If he didn’t return, surely she would, as her father had scornfully predicted, wither up and die.
Thinking of Thomas benefited her not at all. Determinedly, she fixed her focus on Ralph’s capture by Indians. But just as she once more engrossed herself in the story, the squeak of a turning doorknob brought her chin up. Father poked his head into the room. Daphne quickly flopped the coverlet over the book and pushed herself higher on her pillows. “Yes, Father?”
“You’re still awake.”
A statement, not a question, but Daphne nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He came into the room, stopping at the carved footboard of the four-poster bed. With his hand curled around one turned corner post, he gave her a stern look. “Your mother says you refused dinner.”
Daphne shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“This is becoming a bad habit, Daphne.” Father didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Avoiding eating will not affect Thomas Ollen-burger.”
Daphne flinched at the brusque mention of her dear heart’s name. “I can’t help it. When I try to swallow . . . it refuses to go down.”
“Nonsense. You could eat if you wanted to. Your behavior won’t garner the attention you seek.”
Daphne hid a bitter grin. His actions belied his words, because here he stood, in her bedchamber, showing her more attention than she could ever remember receiving in times past. She threw aside the covers and pulled herself from the bed. When she stood before him in her nightclothes, his face suddenly filled with red.
She gave herself a cursory glance, taking in the layers of white cotton backlit by the soft glow of her bedside lamp. Although the voluminous gown showcased nothing of what was underneath, it could be considered indecent. But Daphne didn’t care. He had come to her, admonished her. Now he would listen.
“Father, when you came home so angry with Thomas—”
“Daphne, must we discuss—”
“Yes!” She clasped her hands together beneath her bodice.
“Yes, we must. Until I am assured that Thomas will remain in Boston—remain in my life—I cannot eat or sleep. I’m weary of crying and feeling glum.”
Her father lifted his face to the ceiling, his lips twisting into a grimace of displeasure.
She dashed forward and shook his arm. “Please, Father. I know you think me melodramatic, but truly, my heart is breaking. Can’t you tell me what transpired between the two of you? Why, if as you said, you kept him in your employ, has he continued to distance himself from me?”
Father pointed to the bay window of the room, where two chairs and a round table formed a seating area. Daphne interpreted the gesture as a command to sit, and although she preferred to remain standing, she decided her obedience might elicit greater cooperation from her father. On the way to the chairs, she lifted her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and slipped it over her nightgown.
Although Daphne sat, Father paced with his hands clasped behind his back. “Daphne, I know you are smitten with this boy, and I understand the reasoning.”
Daphne smiled, envisioning Thomas’s handsome face and tall, strong form.
“Yet this separation is no doubt for the best, for both of you.”
Her smile quickly fled. “But why? You’ve spoken highly of Thomas. You have always praised his work ethic and appreciated his efforts at the newspaper. When he has visited the house as a guest, you’ve treated him warmly.”
“Yes, I have,” her father concurred, “but welcoming him as a guest and approving of him as an employee does not equate with accepting him as a son-in-law.”
“But, Father!”
“Daphne, hush and listen.” Father sat in the opposite chair, crossed his legs, and rested his laced fingers on his knee. He might have been in a business meeting instead of in the midst of a heart-to-heart talk with his child. “I have offered Thomas a position on the paper, which he would be wise to accept. It would be to my benefit, as well, to keep him in my employ because, as I’ve indicated previously, he performs his duties skillfully and is above reproach.
“However, he is not of our circle. Yes, he and Harry have become chums, as youth are prone to do, but they are men now. Men go their separate ways. Ollenburger cannot change his station in life any more than Harry can change his. Especially after Harry assumes leadership at the
Beacon
, it will be necessary to curtail any kind of friendship, or it will be detrimental to the overall workings of the newspaper.”
Daphne stared at her father, his image swimming with the rush of tears. “Father, are you saying Thomas isn’t good enough to continue a friendship with Harry?”
Father’s mustache twitched briefly. “That is exactly what I am saying. The boyish alliance must end.” He pointed at her. “And your infatuation with him must come to an end, as well. It can go no further than what I’ve allowed thus far. I presumed you would tire on your own of that overgrown bumpkin. I should have intervened long ago.”
The tears spilled down Daphne’s cheeks in a torrent of agony. “But I love him, Father!”
“Love isn’t enough to bridge the differences between you.” Father’s matter-of-fact, emotionless tone crushed her. “After reading his rebuttals to my editorials concerning Watson’s election, I am more convinced than ever that he will never fit into our world.”
“Then why did you offer him a better position at the paper?”
Father’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Daphne, I never allow personal feelings to interfere with what is of benefit to my business.”
Miserably, Daphne bowed her head.
Of course.
She had hoped Father’s decision to retain Thomas had been in response to her plea. She should have known it would have nothing to do with her. She longed to rail at him, to accuse him of cold-heartedness and insist he leave her room, but the ache in her throat made speech impossible.
Father reached across the small table and grazed Daphne’s hand with the tips of his cold fingers. The touch, no doubt intended to offer comfort, instead sent tremors through Daphne’s frame. “I must insist, Daphne, that you allow Thomas Ollenburger to go his separate way.”
Daphne pressed her hands to the scrolled armrests of the chair and pushed herself upright. Her fickle legs quivered beneath her, but she clenched her fists and willed herself to remain upright. Looking steadily into her father’s face, she dared voice a defiant question. “And what if . . . what if I choose to pursue him instead?”
Father’s forehead pinched into a scowl of fury. He cupped her cheek with one hand, his fingers biting into the flesh beneath her jaw. “That, my daughter, would be a mistake.”
Daphne waited until he left the room before she rubbed away the remembrance of his touch.
O
N SUNDAY MORNING
, Daphne knelt on the floor of her bedroom with one eye shut, peering through her keyhole. A cramp throbbed in her neck, and her open eye felt dry and itchy, but she remained in the spot until Father and Mother passed her room and headed downstairs. Once she was sure they were in the breakfast room, she pushed to her feet, slipped her door open, and stepped into the hallway.
On tiptoe, she crept to Harry’s room and tried the doorknob. She sucked in her breath. Locked! Crossing to the railing that overlooked the lower floor, she listened intently. The gentle clink of silverware against china plates let her know her parents were occupied. Treading as softly as possible, she returned to Harry’s door, raised her knuckles, and rapped gently. She cringed at the sound, holding her breath until she heard Harry’s cough.
Bending forward, she put her face next to his keyhole. “Harry?” She pressed her ear to the door and listened. No reply. Clenching her fists, she called again in a hoarse whisper: “Harry!”
Snuffles told her he’d awakened. The padding of feet sounded, and she jumped back as the door swung open. Her brother growled, “What do you want?”
She placed her hand over his mouth and shoved him back into the room. He pushed her hand aside, and she whacked her finger against her own lips to stifle the anticipated outburst.
“Harry, I need your help.” Yesterday, while sequestered in her room, she’d plotted a way to see Thomas. On Sundays Father rarely left the house, so he wouldn’t miss the barouche, but given his recently adopted habit of visiting her room, he might miss
her
. She needed someone to cover for her absence, and the only available person was Harry.
Harry ambled back to his bed and sat at the foot, his widespread knees creating a hammock of his nightshirt. He ran his hand down his face. “With what?”
Daphne sent one more furtive look down the hallway before closing his door and rushing to stand before him. “Getting into town. I need to see Thomas.”
He groaned. “Oh, Daph . . .”
“Please, Harry.” She made a steeple of her hands and pressed her fingertips to the underside of her chin.
“How will you—”
“Fred can take me in the barouche to Thomas’s cottage. I know Father won’t miss the horse or carriage, but I need you to keep him busy so he won’t come looking for me.”
Harry shook his head, yawning. “Won’t work, Daphne.”
She huffed. “Why not?”
“Because Tom won’t be at his cottage.”
“How do you know?”
Harry scratched his head, leaving his hair standing in disheveled ridges. “I talked to him Friday—stopped by the
Beacon
to see if he’d decided whether or not to start reporting for the paper. Also invited him to brunch—”
Daphne’s heart skipped a beat.
“—but he refused because he had plans.”
She swallowed the sorrow that threatened to transform into a surge of tears. “If you know his plans, then tell me. Where will he be? I will go to him, wherever he is!”
Harry eyed her with one dark brow arched higher than the other. “Even Mrs. Steadman’s?”
Daphne took a step backward.
Glancing at the clock ticking atop his cherry highboy, he shrugged. “He’s probably at church right now with Mrs. Stead-man, and then he’ll spend the afternoon with her.”
Daphne deflated. She hadn’t figured Thomas’s foster grandmother into the situation. How could she speak privately with him at Mrs. Steadman’s place? All her careful plotting shattered, she sank onto the bed next to Harry.
He put his arm around her. “Listen, Daphne, I know it’s hard for you to accept, but Tom . . . he’s not coming around anymore. He might not even stay in Boston. He told me he’s praying about the job Father offered, but he isn’t sure where God means for him to be.”
Daphne stared, openmouthed.
Harry nodded. “That’s right—he’s waiting for
God
to tell him what to do. And if he doesn’t take the job, he’ll probably return to Kansas right away. So maybe you’d better—”
Daphne leaped from the bed and spun to face her brother. “I won’t forget him! I can’t! I-I love him too much to let him go!”
For several long seconds Harry sat silently with his forehead furrowed. At last he stood. Throwing his arms outward, he said, “All right, Daph. I’ll keep watch so Father and Mother don’t discover your absence, but I think you’re making a mistake.” His mouth contorted, giving Daphne a glimpse of her brother’s heartache. “You’re setting yourself up to be hurt. For whatever reason, Tom doesn’t want to associate with us anymore.”