All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Read online

  Henry rubbed the palm of his left hand and stretched it wide, trying to relieve the phantom itching in his two missing fingers. Keeping himself busy at the press helped to keep his mind off it. His hands were as eager to set type as he was. Only a few more pages to print for an order of eight readers for the school and he could work on his next project: Shakespeare’s Sonnets. He checked his pocket watch. It was pointless to wait for Simon any longer.

  Henry stepped to the shop door and picked through a box of sorts, examining the copper-platted letters in the early morning light. After years of learning what had been his father’s trade back in Virginia, Henry’s letterpress skills now surpassed his father’s. Though his brother had learned the trade too, Simon’s pages were far inferior, certainly not worth binding.

  Reverend William Colburn walked past the print shop. He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “Good morning, Henry.”

  Henry tucked his half-hand into his apron pocket. “Good morning, Reverend.” He nodded politely then returned to the worktable inside. He found the letters he needed for the final pages and set the sorts in the bed of the press, carefully aligning the type. Precision in the row produced excellence on the page. Every page deserved perfection.

  The late spring wind blew loose petals past the doorway. Henry glanced up, expecting to see Simon. A stack of yesterday’s misprints rustled beneath a rock on the desk. If Simon came to the print shop today, Henry would have him find the sorts instead of setting type. A helper might speed the work, but he wasn’t in the mood to waste ink and paper on Simon’s shoddy work today.

  Nor was he in the mood to teach.

  Teaching slowed him. Henry’s father had taught him well and had known when to let go. That’s when Henry’s enjoyment of the letterpress grew into passion. If he did nothing else for the rest of his life but print and bind books, he would die a satisfied man.

  A satisfied man with a disfigured hand.

  Of course, he would spend his life making improvements to the press. There was no such thing as a perfect process. If that fact wasn’t obvious in making books, it was obvious in the way Good Springs was being governed. Only one elder from each of the eight families that formed the settlement had a voice in the weekly council meetings. As the oldest son who would one day inherit his father’s position on the council, Henry had spent years attending those meetings in silence.

  The elder council expected the next generation to learn by listening, but the leaders had too much control. Ideas for improvements had swirled inside Henry’s mind, locked behind closed lips during the weekly meetings. A man could only tolerate mediocrity for so long. The flawed system needed an overhaul.

  He squatted to open one of the thin drawers at the bottom of the press cabinet. An array of rarely used sorts crowded the drawer. The way his father organized the type needed an overhaul as well. If Henry was going to continue to share the print shop with his father, they needed to have a talk about organization.

  A man’s voice carried on the wind, and a moment later a shadow darkened the shop. Henry continued setting type and didn’t look away from the rows of reversed letters. “You’re late again, Simon.”

  “With good reason.” Simon stepped into the print shop but stayed in the doorway, leaving on his straw hat. His bottom lip protruded the way it had since they were children, making him look unhappy even when he wasn’t.

  Their father walked in too, but he was grinning wide enough to puff his gray side whiskers. “We had a calf born this morning, Henry. You should see her. Beautiful cow. That’s three so far this spring.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.” Henry continued working. “Will you have the paper finished in time for me to start my next project this afternoon?”

  “I should, yes.” Matthew Roberts scratched his cheek as he moved to the type cabinet. He opened one of the drawers Henry had reorganized. “You run your print shop far more efficiently than I ever ran mine and produce much finer pages than I did.”

  Henry dislodged his attention from the letterpress. “This is your shop, Father.”

  Matthew closed the drawer and studied Henry, his eyes sharply focused beneath his drooping brow. “It’s time we made some changes, son.”

  Simon smirked and his thick bottom lip curved.

  Henry wiped his fingertips on a dry rag and stuffed it into his back pocket. “What kind of changes?”

  Matthew lifted his chin toward the letterpress. “I brought all this from Virginia to teach you my trade. You mastered it. Now that I’ve developed an efficient method of making paper from the gray leaf tree pulp, I want to give that my full attention. And your brother,” he motioned toward Simon, “isn’t suited for indoor work. He has taken to the farming.”

  Henry crossed his arms. “What are you saying?”

  Matthew rested his palms on the edge of the worktable and leaned forward. His mouth worked, adjusting his porcelain false teeth. “It’s my duty as a founder of this settlement to make sure my sons have work that sustains them and improves the settlement. You are the firstborn, and I intended for you to take over the farm, but things aren’t going the way I planned when we first settled here.”

  Henry looked out the window at the new stone building next door. The empty library’s tapered door—made from the planks of the Providence—stood ajar. He’d much rather print the books needed to fill the settlement’s library than work on the farm, especially after the accident. He rubbed the scarred nubs where his pinkie and ring finger had been torn off. “Are you dissatisfied with my preference for print work?”

  “No, son, I’m not. You followed my footsteps, and now I’ve found something that demands my attention more than printing. The elders agree with me that I should focus my time on making paper for the village. I’ll still care for our livestock, but Simon will manage the fields. I want you to take over the print shop… permanently. It’s time for you to have your own livelihood.”

  “Livelihood?” Henry’s gaze dropped to the rows of letters awaiting ink. He loved the work and planned to move away from home someday, but running the press all day wouldn’t leave time to clear land and build a house and plant and harvest food. He needed his father’s involvement in the print work to justify his still living at home. “I’ve had a few orders, but there isn’t enough work for me to trade for a living. I’m not charging anyone for this order of books for the school.” He picked up a jar of freshly mixed ink and stirred it. The air filled with the mixture of soot and walnut oil. He breathed in the aroma. “I wish this were a living, but it isn’t. Not yet. I would have to spend my time planting and hunting just to survive.”

  Matthew looked at Henry’s damaged hand and compassion filled his voice. “You have a bed at my home—always will, unless you marry.”

  Simon snickered. At first it rankled, but then Henry joined him. It was true: he would never marry. No woman wanted a man with half a hand, and he didn’t know a woman in the village who would warrant the effort of courting. Women required too much adoration and still found offense at a man’s every comment and gesture.

  Matthew examined a page hanging up to dry. “Son, with your skill and speed at the press, I believe you could produce enough books for the library and school and church to earn a living.”

  “You talk as though the elders would make the press a village-supported trade. Last I heard they planned to fill the library over the centuries. Did I miss something in one of the meetings?”

  His father brushed Simon’s shoulder. “Go on back to the farm. I’ll be there shortly.”

  After Simon left, Matthew walked to the doorway. He pointed toward the stone building next door. “The elders wouldn’t have approved the building of a library if books weren’t important to this village.”

  Henry recalled the elders’ meetings before the library was built—the mulling of petitions, the allocating of resources, and the hours of deliberation on the books that might one day fill it. It had taken all of his strength to not jump into the debate
s on either side; it wouldn’t have mattered which side so long as his voice had been heard. Between the meetings, he’d had his father’s ear. That was when he’d been able to influence the progress. “They approved the library because you were the printer and would be in charge of creating and maintaining the collection.”

  “Son, I’m no librarian.”

  “Nor am I.”

  “I’m a papermaker.”

  “And you already support your family with the farm.”

  Matthew lifted an authoritative brow. “The print shop should be your occupation. We will get you the orders you need to trade for a living. I could help you with the press at first, but you don’t need me.”

  “I work better by myself.” Henry scanned the one-room former cabin. From the impeccably arranged top drawers of type to the organized worktable, every detail of the print shop was falling under his management. His father had already given him control, and it was time he accepted it. “The village needs paper and you could produce enough if Simon took over the farming. The village also needs a printer and should support the making of books.”

  “Then we agree.” Matthew rubbed his wooly side whiskers. “I will speak to the elders.”

  Agreeing with his father didn’t mean he would get his way with the elder council. He shook his head. “Since this involves me, I prefer to speak for myself.”

  “As the elder, I must present the requests from my family to the council. They will have questions for you, to be sure, but I see no reason for them to deny you the living.”

  In the eight years since the families of Good Springs gathered at the Ashton family’s estate in Accomack County and planned the group migration, the one thing Henry had come to expect was a fervent debate on every issue. This time their debate would determine his future. The challenge lit a spark in his chest. “And if the elders object, there is always room for persuasion.”

  “Persuasion?” Matthew chuckled as he walked out. “If you could make a living out of that, you would be the richest man in the Land.”

  Chapter Three

  Hannah flipped through a stack of loose pages until she found the scene in her story she wanted to revise. In the soft light of her oil lamp, her tired eyes lost focus, blurring the pencil markings. She leaned over her narrow writing desk and mindlessly tapped her fingers on the page in dull thumps. Her scene needed a complete rewrite.

  Doris stirred in her sleep, rustling the quilt on her side of the bed they shared. Hannah’s fingers stilled their tapping. She should go to bed, but her characters wouldn’t let her rest. With the children asleep, she could finally hear her own thoughts, which were filled with snippets of a story she’d tried to tell for years.

  The story barely resembled her first naive draft. Originally, the young maiden Adeline’s epic adventure began when she was forced to take a perilous voyage across a monster-filled sea. The sentences were strings of flowery prose Hannah’s mind had compiled from old fairy tale books.

  She’d read those first chapters to her pregnant mother, who always summoned the strength to smile and praise her talent. After the twins were born, her mother’s illness worsened. Hannah’s days were long and draining, but her desperate imagination raced with creative energy. She poured her soul onto the page by adding a love story to the adventurous plot. Adeline survived the voyage to a foreign land and met Aric, the brave and prosperous prince.

  When Hannah’s mother passed away, the story felt simplistic, worthless. Without her mother’s approval and input, she questioned everything she wrote. She summoned the courage to ask Olivia to read it in secret. Olivia made grammar and spelling corrections, but it was her advice on plot and character that ignited Hannah’s desire to reshape the story into a masterpiece, though no one else would ever read it.

  Suspenseful layers began to develop. Adeline and Aric were forbidden to court, so they had to meet secretly to evade the evil queen. Just when they had formed a plan to marry, Adeline was captured by a neighboring kingdom and forced into slavery.

  Olivia had lauded the way Hannah changed the story and encouraged her to keep growing in her craft.

  Now Adeline’s character yearned to stretch beyond her storybook limitations. She wasn’t happy with the future Prince Aric offered. Ambition was bubbling inside her, but she had no goal to challenge her and prove her strength. Maybe there was something bigger for Adeline back in her homeland. Maybe not. Either way, she couldn’t spend her life sitting prettily in a musty castle while the prince was away on his own adventures.

  Doris stirred again, and Hannah feared she was unsettling her sister by keeping the light burning so late. She tucked her last piece of blank paper under her elbow, slid a pencil behind her ear, and carried her lamp through the parlor, walking carefully, quietly.

  As she rounded the fireplace and stepped into the kitchen, the glow from her lamp illumined a figure at the far end of the table. Her pulse quickened before recognition set in. “Father? What are you doing up?”

  Christopher raked his fingers through his loose, gray hair. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

  “I could sleep if I went to bed, but I need to write.” She set her lamp on the center of the table. “Would you like a cup of water?”

  He shook his head and grinned a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You used to say want.”

  “Hm?”

  “You used to say you want to write. Now you say you need to write.”

  She filled a cup halfway then sat in front of her lamp, leaving two empty chairs between her and her father. “I don’t think it means anything.”

  “I do.” Christopher propped his elbows on the table and peered at her over his folded hands. Fatigue softened his kind eyes. “What are you writing about tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or you want to keep it to yourself?”

  “No, I really don’t know where to start.” She broke his gaze. “And yes, I prefer to keep my writing to myself.”

  He leaned back in his chair and tucked one hand into his nightshirt. He used to only do that when the room was cold, but as he got older, he did it more often. “Your mother loved hearing your story.”

  He let the silence hang as if his statement were a question.

  Hannah had no reason to keep her writing from her father, nor did she have a reason to believe he would appreciate it. Oh, he would understand the words and the actions. He’d probably praise her efforts, but the deeper nuances of Adeline’s yearning and Aric’s appeal would be lost on him. It would be lost on anyone, except her mother and Olivia.

  When she didn’t reply, he tried again, tapping a finger on her blank page this time. “And I’m sure it’s a good story or Olivia wouldn’t keep helping you with it after all these years.”

  “She’s taught me grammar and the finer points of storytelling that she says all the great writers must learn.”

  “God has bestowed upon you a zeal for your craft in addition to natural talent. I hope you will share your writing with me someday.” His voice lessened in volume, bearing the sadness of loss. “Your mother wanted you to finish the story.”

  Hannah’s gaze shot to him. “I did. I have finished it. Many times.” She thought of all the changes she’d made over the years and stared at the blank paper. “But then I’m not satisfied with it, and I go back and change the story. And then I have to rewrite other parts.”

  “Perhaps you don’t want it to end.”

  Of course, she wanted her story to end. What would be the point of writing every day if there were no completion? Every day for years, the scenes had played in her mind as she’d cooked and cleaned and bathed muddy children. She’d physically worked to keep her promise to her mother, and she’d mentally worked on her story to finish it. “Completion is eluding me, that’s all.”

  “What do you need?”

  She flipped up the corner of her last blank page. “More paper.”

  “I’ll find something to take to Mr. Roberts tomorrow and trade for
paper.”

  “No, I want to trade for my own paper. I’ll take him some of the extra candles I made.”

  “Very well.” Her father tilted his head. “However, I suspect you need more than paper.”

  She shrugged, awaiting his suggestion.

  “Perhaps you need the motivation to finish the story.”

  “I have a motivator… satisfaction. I want to finish the story in a way that pleases me.”

  “By when?”

  She shrugged again.

  “For whom?”

  She didn’t understand his question. “For me.” When he gazed blankly, she tried once more. “For Mother?”

  He remained silent for a moment, staring at his hands then he shifted in his seat. “My father, your Grandpa Vestal, died a week after his fiftieth birthday. I didn’t receive word until a month after his passing. The news of his death came as a shock. He’d been a robust man, no sign of illness. His heart gave out at only fifty years of age.”

  Hannah listened, half wishing she could sit in the lamplight with her father all night and half wishing he’d go to bed so she could be alone and write.

  “I think of his death more often now that my fiftieth birthday is approaching.”

  “Your birthday is in March. Today is the Sixteenth of November.”

  He held up a finger. “The Seventeenth. It’s past midnight.”

  “Still, your birthday is four months away.”

  “Four months spends quickly at my age, dear.” He grinned, creasing the skin around his eyes, but solemnness replaced his pleasant expression. “Life spends quickly at my age… at any age. I hope you will share your story while I’m still around to read it.”

  His suggestion bore a hole in her heart. She touched his hand and rubbed his rough knuckles. “You can’t believe your life might end at fifty because your father’s did. Would you want me to believe my life will end at thirty-four because Mother’s did? I’m past twenty now, so that doesn’t leave me much time.”