Page 38 of The Heart of Bennet Hollow

“Next stop Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania!” The conductor ambled down the aisle between coach seats.

The train chugged as it slowed. In her seat, Lizbeth nestled the borrowed copy of Jane Eyre into her carpetbag.

Just beneath that lay the embroidery piece she’d worked on through all the journey.

It was nearly finished now. If she stayed focused, she would have it completed in a day or two.

Just in time to try and sell it in Stroudsburg.

As for the verse, she was still working to unearth its guidance—much like her journey to be the friend that Hattie deserved.

To be a young woman who walked with grace and kindness amid these twists and turns of life.

What did it mean to embrace the truths of each stitch?

That the night was indeed behind her—filled with doubt, regret, and things that she could not go back and change.

Instead, the day was at hand along with new opportunities and brand-new hopes.

The window shade rocked as the train stopped.

Lizbeth braced a hand against the seat back in front of her.

Already, she had seen more of the world out these windows than she could have imagined.

Rolling hills, dense forests, colorful cities, and wide-open skies.

Now she searched only for sight of Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen, who had retreated to the dining car to pay the tab for their midday meal along with Lizbeth’s own.

They’d advised her to meet them near the exit, so she rose and lugged her carpetbag down the aisleway.

With each step between seated passengers, she still felt like a stranger to herself in such new clothing.

Jayne had sewn her a skirt from the tablecloth she’d cut up for fabric before Christmas.

Striped colors of wheat and sky hinted at the coming spring atop her petti-coats, which Ma had washed and starched like new.

In place of an apron, Lizbeth’s sash brushed the seat backs as she passed by, made from ivory lace that she’d scrounged from the rag bag.

The lace had borne a nasty hole, but Maryanne had darned it to near newness with creamy thread.

To her best blouse, Lizbeth had embroidered flowers with dainty scallops on the collar.

The same flowers in the sampler she was stitching.

Both kept her hands and heart busy on snowy nights. All leading her to this very moment.

When she bumped into a man’s arm as he braced a suitcase over his head, Lizbeth righted the wooden comb Ma had lent her.

Her once-stylish knot felt a mite crooked, but she could remedy that once her hands were free.

Even her younger sisters had joined in to create her ensemble.

Kit put a stout polish to Lizbeth’s boots, Maryanne had ironed all her things with care, and Lacey had knitted up a simple drawstring pouch out of deep red yarn to hold the coins Pa had given her along with two handkerchiefs.

It graced Lizbeth’s wrist now as she disembarked with other passengers.

Here she was, out in the great big world, a girl from coal country dressed up in lace.

Lizbeth eased down the train car’s steps, spotting Mr. Jorgensen waiting on the platform near the telegrapher’s office. He waved and she aimed that way.

“Soon as my husband gets all his messages sent, we’ll hail a carriage.” Mrs. Jorgensen straightened her hat beneath the afternoon sun. “My, what nine hours aboard a train can do to oneself.”

“It’s been ever so lovely.”

Mrs. Jorgensen glimpsed Lizbeth’s carpetbag. “Are you all right carryin’ that?”

Lizbeth didn’t want to admit that she owned very little. “I’m just fine, thank you.” She followed Mrs. Jorgensen through the crowd as the sights and sounds of Stroudsburg enfolded them into its beating heart.

“I see our driver,” Mrs. Jorgensen called over the bobbing heads.

Lizbeth followed her to a waiting carriage and climbed aboard, marveling at the glossy wood and sleek mares.

Behind them, Mr. Jorgensen helped the driver load the Jorgensens’ trunks along with Lizbeth’s humble suitcase, which Pa had dug from the attic and dusted off.

Her carpetbag, she kept in her lap. At sight of the familiar items from home, Lizbeth sat, feeling grounded even as excitement brimmed inside her.

Mrs. Jorgensen patted her hand. “It’s such a joy to have you with us. I know Hattie’ll be just beside herself to see you again.”

“Thank you. I’m eager to see her as well.”

“As am I!” Mrs. Jorgensen braced her hat again as the wagon lurched into motion.

Lizbeth held on tight, watching the road as the driver sent the horses clip-clopping into motion.

Lingering traces of snow dusted the hedge line, but the lane was dry.

With every turn through town, she kept watch for any sight of the parsonage where Hattie and Reverend Coburn lived. Cool, crisp air filled her lungs.

“Such a lovely little town,” Mrs. Jorgensen mused as the carriage swept past shops, quaint houses, and stables.

“It is. I can see why Hattie’s spoken so highly of it in her letters.”

“Oh.” Mr. Jorgensen patted his coat pocket. “That reminds me.” He pulled out a telegram and read it.

Perhaps this was the chance to broach the subject of another person they all knew. “Along with Hattie’s letters, we’ve expected word from Mr. Brydolf,” Lizbeth braved. “Who visited us not too long ago.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Jorgensen said.

“He gave Jayne some writing stationery so as to keep in touch.”

Mr. Jorgensen’s attention stayed on his telegram.

“How thoughtful,” his wife answered in his stead.

“Your ma hinted that he’d taken a shine to your sister.

Which I daresay we could all see for ourselves.

” Mrs. Jorgensen’s smile was genuine as she touched her high lace collar.

“Has he said any more about it? Or was he too busy being persuaded by his glum friend, Mr. Drake?”

“Now, Martha.” Mr. Jorgensen looked up from his reading. “Drake’s a fine man.”

A small ache met Lizbeth’s heart at mention of William. “It’s hard to say just yet, but we hope to hear more soon. Are you well acquainted with Callum Brydolf?”

Mr. Jorgensen folded the telegram into his vest as shadows from roadside trees wove shade over the moving carriage. “A fine, fine fellow. We had the two boys over for supper a time or two. While Drake’s usually reserved, his friend always lightened the mood considerably.”

“He had us all laughin’ with his stories,” Mrs. Jorgensen chimed in. “Those were good evenings.”

“Do you still have the pleasure of hearing from him?” Lizbeth asked. Hopefully that wasn’t too forward a question. “Mr. Brydolf, that is.”

“Afraid not.” Mr. Jorgensen consulted his pocket watch. “Most of my dealings have been with Drake. In fact, he’s the reason I needed to send those telegrams back there.”

Lizbeth felt a little pang flicker through her again.

“They seemed awfully urgent.” Mrs. Jorgensen’s voice lowered.

“They were.”

All at once, Mrs. Jorgensen clutched the side of the carriage door. “There it is!” She pointed to the end of the lane.

Lizbeth tipped up her chin, catching sight of a stone cottage tucked among the trees. “It looks just as Hattie described.”

In a flutter of birds from the lawn, Hattie stepped out in the sunlight and waved. Reverend Coburn joined her, matching the posture of the stone fountain beside him.

Lizbeth waved alongside the Jorgensens, all discomfort dashed at sight of her friend.

She had long since decided that it mattered none that Reverend Coburn had asked her to marry him, and for her to have declined.

He now had his rightful future and she’d grown glad for him and Hattie.

That peace warmed Lizbeth as the carriage pulled up to the gate braced by the bare branches of a sleeping rosebush.

Lizbeth made space for the others to climb down first. They embraced their daughter in turn and Lizbeth hung back to allow for their teary reunion.

Reverend Coburn hedged in with handshakes, and soon, Lizbeth was out of the carriage and being pulled into a hug by Hattie.

The comforting sense of home somehow wrapped around her.

“Oh, Lizzy. It’s so good to see you!”

“I’m glad as all get-out to be here.” She shook Reverend Coburn’s hand when he extended it, a further assurance that they could lay all discomfort by the roadside.

Her dearest friend had found contentment, even if it was with the man who still had a knack for being clumsy in his speech as he showed them through the garden, pointing out the various plants.

Lizbeth smiled, recalling her goal to see others in a new light.

Hattie gently tried to hurry them along as the reverend announced all the varieties of herbs along the path. She winked in Lizbeth’s direction, and soon they were all indoors and being shown upstairs to their rooms.

“This one has a nice view of town.” Hattie pushed open a narrow door. “Take some time to settle in and unpack. Then come down when you’re ready. The fellas are plannin’ an evening stroll, so I thought us ladies might have some tea.” She squeezed Lizbeth’s hand before slipping out.

As Lizbeth unpacked, she soaked in the views along with each detail of the day, meaning to recount it all to Jayne and her sisters once home.

Lizbeth tucked the small satchel with her sampler and embroidery thread neatly on the nightstand and withdrew the hoop and linen.

She smoothed her fingers over strands of delicate blue thread that now read:

The night is far spent,

the day is at hand:

let us therefore cast off the works of darkness,

and let us put on...

The verse gave her hope and yet her heart still weighed as a branch beneath a load of snow.

Was it because she had yet to find the guidance that these beautiful words held?

They implied that light was at hand, if she simply turned her mind and heart in that direction.

The peace in humility and the healing of new beginnings.

A thawing that came with redemption. But it had to begin with her surrender, and more importantly, a sacrifice of pride.

.. and the seeking of forgiveness. If that was the need, how did she accomplish such a thing?

Her heart circled back to her nightly prayers, which seemed the right place to begin. And from there?

She touched the letters cast off.

It meant action. That something needed to change.

More importantly, something needed to go.

For the last few weeks, she’d been feeling the effects of where her pride had led her.

That by assuming she knew all that the world needed and required of her, she’d made bold assumptions that weren’t always right.

Lizbeth fingered the embroidery needle. If the opposite of pride was humility, was that the cause for the sleeplessness she’d been experiencing of late?

The actions of others had slowly been humbling her. Hattie’s courage to face the unknown with dignity. Jayne’s and Pa’s generosity for her to come here. All along with simply seeing that the world was so much bigger than she. Setting aside her pride was one thing, but there was more work to do.

The seeds of that humility rooted more and more inside her.

A rather tender reckoning. Perhaps Jayne wasn’t the only one who had reason to pen a letter of the heart.

Perhaps Lizbeth had a letter to write all her own.

An apology even. Since, like Jayne, any sentiments of the heart could no longer be said in person.

She longed to ease the hurt she had so clearly inflicted upon a man who had simply extended his hand to her in an open field.

One who she now knew was laboring, quietly and humbly, to help save her family’s farm.

Shame riddled her. Not because she’d refused his hand. But because she’d been unkind. She’d shown the very failings she’d accused him of. If there was a way to somehow remedy that... to explain her regrets... then perhaps it was time to try.