Beauty for Ashes
ACCLAIM FOR DOROTHY LOVE
“
Beauty for Ashes
is a touching story about finding joy and healing in the midst of heartache. Set in the small town of Hickory Ridge, Dorothy Love takes readers on a beautifully written journey into the heart of the South during the years that followed the Civil War. As her characters search for healing, they must choose to either cling to the past or trade the bitterness in their hearts for love.”
—M
ELANIE
D
OBSON, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
T
HE
S
ILENT
O
RDER
AND
L
OVE
F
INDS
Y
OU IN
L
IBERTY
, I
NDIANA
“Dorothy Love paints a vivid picture of the post-Civil War south [and] the need to rebuild hope. And she does it beautifully . . .”
—C
ATHY
G
OHLKE, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
P
ROMISE
M
E
T
HIS
“You’ll adore this book from beginning to end. The story will capture your heart from the first line. Love uses romance and humor to tell the story of characters who are trying to better their lives and break down barriers.”
—
R
OMANTIC
T
IMES
, 4 ½
STAR REVIEW OF
B
EYOND
A
LL
M
EASURE
“With well-drawn characters and just enough suspense to keep the pages turning, this winning debut will be a hit with fans of Gilbert Morris and Lauraine Snelling.”
—
L
IBRARY
J
OURNAL
REVIEW OF
B
EYOND
A
LL
M
EASURE
“Beautifully written and with descriptions so rich I’m still certain I caught a whiff of magnolia blossoms as I read.
Beyond All Measure
is pure Southern delight! Dorothy Love weaves a stirring romance that’s both gloriously detailed with Tennessee history and that uplifts and inspires the heart.”
—T
AMERA
A
LEXANDER, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF
T
HE
I
NHERITANCE
AND
W
ITHIN
M
Y
H
EART
“Soft as a breeze from the Old South and as gentle as the haze hovering over the Great Smokies, the gifted flow of Dorothy Love’s pen casts a spell of love, hate and hope in post-Civil War Tennessee. With rich, fluid prose, characters who breathe onto the page and a wealth of historical imagery,
Beyond All Measure
will steal both your heart and your sleep well beyond the last page.”
—J
ULIE
L
ESSMAN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF
A H
OPE
U
NDAUNTED
“Dorothy Love captures all the romance, charm and uncertainties of the postbellum South, delighting readers with her endearing characters, historical details and vivid writing style.”
—M
ARGARET
B
ROWNLEY, AUTHOR OF
A L
ADY
L
IKE
S
ARAH
,
REGARDING
B
EYOND
A
LL
M
EASURE
“Find a porch swing, pour yourself a tall glass of lemonade: [
Beyond All Measure
] is the perfect summer read!”
—S
IRI
M
ITCHELL, AUTHOR OF
A H
EART
M
OST
W
ORTHY
B
EAUTY FOR
A
SHES
D
OROTHY
L
OVE
© 2012 by Dorothy Love
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Love, Dorothy.
Beauty for ashes / Dorothy Love.
p. cm. -- (A Hickory Ridge novel ; 2)
ISBN 978-1-59554-901-3 (pbk.)
1. Widows--Fiction. 2. Tennessee--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.O8387B43 2012
813’.54--dc23
2011046298
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother
“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,
to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness . . .
that he might be glorified.”
I
SAIAH 61:3
CONTENTS
H
ICKORY
R
IDGE
, T
ENNESSEE
May 1876
Carrie Daly watched a knot of people hurrying past the dress-shop window and tried to think of something—anything—except the wedding. These days, everybody in Hickory Ridge made a point of speaking to her about it. For Henry’s sake, she smiled and thanked them for their good wishes, ignoring the creeping dismay at the bottom of her heart.
“Hold still a minute longer, Miz Daly. Almost done here.” Jeanne Pruitt, the wife of the mercantile owner and the new proprietress of Norah’s Fine Frocks, knelt on the floor to attach the lace trim to the hem of Carrie’s dress.
In her stocking feet, Carrie balanced on the small step stool and listened to Mrs. Pruitt’s detailed recounting of her recent visit to her sister’s place in Muddy Hollow. The new dressmaker wasn’t as stylish as Norah had been. She was, however, a magician with needle and thread. The ladies of Hickory Ridge kept her busy repairing seams, restyling old frocks, and occasionally making a new dress from scratch. Now, with a final snip of her scissors, she finished both the hem and her tale and got to her feet. “You’re all set, dear. Take a look.”
Carrie crossed to the cheval glass in the corner and studied her reflection. The dress, a pale robin’s-egg-blue silk, featured wide ruffled sleeves and a neat bustle in the back. A row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons graced the bodice. It was much too fancy for farm life—once the wedding was over, where would she ever go to wear it?—but Henry had insisted that she have the best. “It’s beautiful, Jeanne. You outdid yourself.”
“I’m glad you like it. That color exactly matches your eyes.” Jeanne’s gaze met Carrie’s in the mirror. “Things must be busy at the farm these days.”
Turning sideways, Carrie eyed the bustle and smoothed it with her fingertips. “Everything’s ready except for baking the cookies. And the cake.”
Jeanne grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “Every last soul in Hick’ry Ridge is hankering for an invite to the wedding just to eat a piece of your coconut cake. And to see the Caldwells, of course. I hear they’re due in from Texas tonight.”
The prospect of seeing her dear friends took Carrie’s mind off her apprehensions, if only temporarily. She nodded. “Wyatt sent a wire from Nashville yesterday afternoon. I can’t wait. I’m only disappointed they aren’t bringing Wade and Sophie.”
“It’s a long way to bring a little one on a train but I’m sure this won’t be their last trip to Hick’ry Ridge.” Jeanne folded a scrap of lace and placed it on a shelf. “Wyatt Caldwell may not own the lumber mill anymore, but he can’t stop caring about it.”
“I’m glad
someone
cares.” A tiny frown creased Carrie’s forehead, and she absently rubbed the small bony protrusion on her wrist, the result of a fall from the hayloft the summer she turned nine. Hard times at the mill had everyone worried. Only last week Henry had mentioned that orders had slowed to a trickle. And the Chicago Yankees who now owned the place, safe and secure in their distant lakeside mansions, were talking about letting some of the mill hands go. Why Henry wanted to get married now, taking on so much responsibility when times were so uncertain, was the mystery of the ages. But his mind was made up.
Jeanne patted Carrie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you change out of that dress and I’ll box it up for you.”
Carrie stepped around a muslin-draped dressmaker’s dummy and a scarred pine table laden with fabric samples and pattern books. Behind the folding screen, she shucked out of her new dress, draped it over the top of the screen, and slipped into her everyday green calico.
Jeanne folded the new frock, nestled it into layers of tissue paper, and tied the box shut with a length of yellow ribbon. “There. Hang it up as soon as you get home so the wrinkles won’t set.”
Carrie picked up her bag, her parasol, and the dress box. The bell above the door tinkled as she stepped out onto the boardwalk. A horse and wagon rumbled past, a sturdy farm girl at the reins. At the far end of the street, on the porch of the Verandah Hotel for Ladies, two residents sat in rocking chairs watching groups of noisy, barefoot boys congregating outside the bakery. Businessmen in dark suits and bowler hats hurried toward the railway station, their valises bumping against their legs. A train whistle blew, two sharp blasts that echoed against the fog-shrouded mountains. Cupping one hand to the dress-shop window, Carrie waved another good-bye to Jeanne and started along the boardwalk to Mr. Pruitt’s mercantile, thinking about what she needed for baking the cake. More sugar, a pound of butter, a dozen—
“Look out!” A man’s booming voice shattered her reverie. She looked up just in time to see a horse charging toward her, the young woman in the buggy yanking furiously on the reins. The horse was immense, coal black and sleek as an eel. His hooves pounded the street. His legs pumped like pistons. Carrie stood transfixed, clutching her package as the huge beast thundered toward her, scattering a group of farm women outside the post office and nearly colliding with a freight wagon just turning onto the street.
“Whoa,” the buggy driver cried, her voice shrill with fear. “Whoa there.”
The horse bore down on Carrie. He neighed and reared, his eyes wild with fright, his immense front feet pawing the air.
