Where the Heart Leads (21 page)

She squeezed hard on his hand. “Of course not
slavery
. Men should be paid a fair wage for their service, but allowing them to be in positions of authority over us—”

“Them?” Thomas yanked his hand from her grasp, his tone cold. “Meaning colored people?”

“In this case.” Daphne held out her hands. “Thomas, pray tell, what is the problem here?”

Thomas turned away, staring across the room at the bustle of activity, yet seeming to look past it. The muscles in his jaw twitched. As the color drained from his face, it seemed to take his energy with it. He slumped in his chair. When he faced her again, the cool recrimination in his eyes made her feel as though she were looking into the face of a stranger.

“Your father holds the same beliefs as Watson—that colored people are inferior to white people.”

Slowly, Daphne nodded, her breath held so tightly her chest ached.

“And you—do you agree with that view?”

Daphne’s lips parted, her breath escaping. She rubbed her dry lips together before answering. “Is the view I hold of importance to you?” A part of her hoped her view held great importance— that Thomas truly cared about what she thought. Father certainly didn’t put much stock in anything she said.

“Your view is very important. I need to know.”

“Then . . .” She lifted her chin in an attempt to appear confident when underneath she quivered with apprehension. “I believe Father is right. There is a need for social hierarchy, and the highest positions of hierarchy rightfully belong to white men of means.”

“White men of means have superiority.” Thomas stated it bluntly, as if seeking her confirmation. His emotionless tone gave her the courage to press on.

“Yes.”

“Over colored people.”

“Of course.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “You said ‘of means.’ Does that mean white men of lesser financial wealth hold lesser value?”

Daphne exploded with a huff of displeasure. Why was he creating such an issue over something so inconsequential? “Yes. Father is highly educated, wealthy, a man of influence. That entitles him to leadership. Superiority, as you put it.”

In the same even, detached voice, he said, “So your father, with his money and education, is
better
than my father, who has no more than a basic education and little wealth.”

Daphne winced. “Well, when stated in that manner, it sounds uncivilized, but in truth . . . yes. My father is better than your father.”

Although Thomas spoke calmly and impassively, fiery splotches decorated his neck, indicating strong emotion. “There is no finer man than my father.”

Daphne hid her smile. He sounded like a recalcitrant child issuing a challenge in the schoolyard. Teasingly, she said, “And if you were to ask Harry, he would say the same thing about
our
father.” She waited, but no answering grin came in reply. With a sigh, she said, “I understand your strong feelings. Yet you must see that, in many ways, my father
is
superior to yours. Perhaps not in a moral or personal sense, but most certainly in a social sense.”

“And me?”

The clipped question took Daphne by surprise. “What about you?”

“Are you better than me?”

Heat built in Daphne’s cheeks. “W-why, of course not! You . . . you’re every bit as educated as Harry, and—”

“But I grew up in a little town, raised by an uneducated miller who still struggles with the English language. I don’t have endless wealth and likely never will. You were raised in Boston by a man of great financial means. Socially, are you superior to me?”

Daphne didn’t care at all for the route the conversation had taken. “Now you’re being insulting.”

He waved his hand, dismissing her feeble attempt at redirection. “I want an answer, Daphne.” Thomas leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “Just this morning your father reminded me of my humble upbringing. So tell me . . . Am I less than you because I grew up on the prairie of Kansas rather than in a big city? Am I less than you because my father doesn’t have much money? Am I less than you because—”

“Thomas, please! You are scaring me.” Daphne blinked rapidly as tears flooded her eyes. “Why are you treating me in this manner?”

Though no thought of manipulation had prefaced her reaction, she realized by Thomas’s response to her tears that she’d chosen the right tactic. He sat back in his chair, his stern face relaxing into an expression of remorse. He opened his fists and reached for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she offered her hands, and he clasped them gently, sweetly, the way she had come to expect.

“I’m not angry with you, Daphne.” The tender timbre of his deep voice let her know her Thomas had returned. “But I’m angry at myself for being so blind.”

Confusion struck again. Before she could question him, he continued in a sad, resigned tone that chilled her even more than his fury of moments ago.

“You see, Nadine tried to warn me. But I wouldn’t listen to her. I ignored my own conscience, too. But I can’t ignore—” He lowered his head, drawing in a breath that raised his shoulders. His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Then, abruptly, he let go, almost as if he’d found her taste unpleasant. A chill of abandonment briefly shook her frame.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Daphne. And somehow I must right it. The first step is to”—he rose, taking a physical step back-ward—“ distance myself from you. You . . . are . . . far too distracting. You keep me from seeing what’s right. As for the next steps . . .” He swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to bob. “I must return to the office. Good-bye, Daphne.”

He strode away, leaving her bewildered and sorrowful.
“Good-bye, Daphne.”
The words resonated in her head. He’d said them dozens of times before, at each leave-taking—yet today they held something new. Something final. This good-bye, she realized, was meant to be a permanent one.

20

T
HOMAS
BYPASSED THE ELEVATOR
and used the staircase to return to his office. The stale air in the enclosed concrete stairway felt heavy and dead, and by the time he’d completed the first flight, his chest ached. But, he conceded, the ache might have more than one source.

Conflicting emotions coursed through him, almost making him collapse. Had he really considered marrying someone whose ideals and values so opposed his own? Why hadn’t he seen, as Nadine had instructed, beneath Daphne’s surface? Today, listening to her spout the nonsense about one man being of greater value than another, she had appeared . . . ugly.

Didn’t the Bible he’d read from childhood indicate God was no respecter of persons? That slave was equal to master, servant no less than his employer? Even the Jews and Gentiles were declared the same in God’s eyes. And if God viewed all men equally, what right did men have to place one race as inferior to another?

Mr. Lincoln—one of the greatest men to ever live, Pa claimed— had declared all men equal.
All
men. A battle had been fought to unite the country in this belief. Equality. Freedom. His own people, the Mennonites, had come to America for those very ideals! Pa called the United States of America the land of opportunity— freedom to live, work, and worship as each man saw fit. Here, in the land of opportunity, there was no place for the social hierarchy that existed in other countries.

With a great intake of breath, Thomas forced himself to complete the second flight of stairs, and with each upward step, his conviction grew. He might not be as rich, powerful, or educated as some, but thanks to the upbringing of a simple miller, he knew right from wrong. Social hierarchy—holding one man in lordship over another—was
wrong
.

Rounding the corner for the final flight, his fingers curled tightly over the metal handrail, he paused. A part of him longed to cry out for comfort, for peace, for help—but the words remained at bay. Why ask God for help now when he hadn’t consulted Him in any of the decisions that led to his discovery of Watson’s and Daphne’s character?

No, this problem he would need to solve for himself. Pa always said,
“If a mess you make, son, clean it up.”
So Thomas would clean it up. He stepped out of the stairway and gulped the fresher air, eager to clear his lungs. Standing in the hallway, allowing his heartbeat to return to normal after his long climb, he considered the task ahead.

Mr. Severt wanted Thomas’s feedback on the editorials. Well, Severt would get feedback . . . and something more.

Belinda watched as Summer Ollenburger paused in scrubbing her daughter’s dress on the washboard and lifted her shoulder to push the hair from her eyes. “Have you heard from Thomas recently?” Summer asked.

Belinda wrung the excess water from a towel, gave it a brisk snap, then clipped it to the clothesline. The task completed, she faced her neighbor and forced the painful answer. “No, ma’am. It has been several weeks.”

Frowning,
Frau
Ollenburger turned her attention back to the dress. She scrubbed with more force than Belinda believed necessary, considering she held one of Lena’s small frocks rather than one of
Herr
Ollenburger’s work shirts. “I hoped you had. He hasn’t written to us, either. Gussie got a brief note, which she shared with all of us, but since then . . . I’m concerned about him. I haven’t even heard from Nadine.”

Belinda reached into the rinse tub for another towel. A tiny prickle of gladness teased, knowing Thomas hadn’t written to his family—at least she wasn’t the only one who had been left wondering how he fared. Then guilt struck—she shouldn’t be glad of the Ollenburgers’ worry. She said, “I’m sure he’s just very busy with his new job and his new home.” She didn’t add,
and Daphne Severt
. It pained her to even think of Thomas with Daphne—and she couldn’t bear to speak the words aloud.

“Busy I understand,”
Frau
Ollenburger countered, giving the dress a final push down the length of the washboard and then lifting it from the sudsy water. She dipped the gingham dress into the rinse tub as she continued. “But neglectful is unlike Thomas. In all the years he lived in Boston, he never allowed more than a week to pass between letters. His father has lain awake nights, worrying. Not even all of Peter’s reading about Plymouth Rock chickens—a topic with which he has become completely enamored—has removed his concern.”

“Is he still talking about chickens?” Belinda couldn’t help smiling. Imagining the big man’s fascination with the domesticated fowl painted an amusing picture.

“Oh, yes.”
Frau
Ollenburger glanced up from the washtub, a wry grin on her face. “There have been times in the past weeks that I’ve regretted teaching him to read English. He even wrote to North Carolina for a pamphlet on the care of Plymouth Rocks.” She gestured to their small yard. “Where would I keep chickens?” With a soft laugh, she turned her attention back to the wash. “But at least it has provided somewhat of a distraction for him. As for me, I’m tempted to make a telephone call to Thomas from the bank.”

“Does Thomas have a telephone?” Belinda clipped the last towel to the line, peeking over her shoulder at her neighbor.

Frau
Ollenburger gave a dress a twist to dispel extra water, flopped the frock over the line with a quick flick of her wrists, then flung her hands outward. “I don’t know! He might have one. I’m sure it isn’t as uncommon in Boston as it is here.” She pointed her finger at Belinda, as if scolding. “But I know Nadine has one, and if I were to call her, she’d let Thomas know in no uncertain terms how his lack of attention is affecting everyone at home.”

Holding back a giggle, Belinda faced the clothesline. She had never witnessed
Frau
Ollenburger’s anger before, if one could call the outburst angry. Though stronger than anything she’d previously seen from the woman, the eruption was mild compared to Malinda’s frequent stormy blasts. Belinda didn’t find the woman’s emotional display amusing, but her reference to Nadine Steadman brought a hint of merriment. Based on past letters from Thomas, she knew
Frau
Ollenburger’s former mother-in-law was a formidable force.

“I’m sure Mrs. Steadman could convince Thomas to write.”

No answer came. Belinda shifted to face her neighbor. The sadness in
Frau
Ollenburger’s face stirred Belinda’s sympathy. She crossed the rough ground to take her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret.

He’ll write. He’s busy now, carving his own pathway, but it doesn’t mean he never thinks of you.”

Frau
Ollenburger captured Belinda in a tight hug. “Thank you, dear one. You always know just the right thing to say.” For a moment she cupped Belinda’s cheeks with her soft hands, smiling. “I won’t fret. But I will continue to pray that our wayward boy finds the time to let his pa know he’s doing well. We’ll all fare better when we know.”

A blush built in Belinda’s face. Did
Frau
Ollenburger mean to include her when she said
our wayward boy
, or was the gentle pat on her cheek mere coincidence? The woman dropped her hands and turned to the washtubs.

“Well, let’s empty these tubs in the garden.” With a teasing smirk, she added, “There’s nothing growing that is in need of a drink, but habits are hard to break. I can’t make myself dump water in the alley where it’s wasted on weeds.”

Belinda laughed and caught hold of the handle on the opposite side of the tub. It felt good to work under the early fall sun with
Frau
Ollenburger. Although she had enough of her own duties to fill her days, she spent as much time as she could with the Ollen-burgers. Their friendship became increasingly important as Malinda slipped further and further into melancholy, reminding Belinda of her mother’s sad journey toward death.

The water sloshed across the empty garden plot, soaking into the rich dirt. Belinda stared at the disappearing pool of sudsy water, wishing it were as easy to toss away troubles and sorrows.

Frau
Ollenburger’s concerned voice brought Belinda back to the present. “You look overtired, Belinda. Are you catching a cold?”

“No, ma’am. I’m fine.”