Page 43 of The Heart of Bennet Hollow
A brass bell clanged as Lizbeth tugged on the shop door, but the door didn’t budge. Locked? Leaning toward the window, she peeked inside. The parcel wrapped under her arm was too important for her to simply turn away. At the sight of a worker within the store, she tapped lightly on the glass.
The man angled her way, black apron and moving broom stating his purpose. “We’re closed today.” His voice came muffled through the glass.
The man went to turn away, but Lizbeth knocked this time. She didn’t wish to startle him but needed this moment. This chance.
Shoulders slumped, the man shook his head in irritation. Lizbeth stepped back, relieved when he turned a key in the lock. “I’m sorry, miss. You’ll have to come back on Saturday. We’re only open during the week for appointments.”
“Please, sir. I haven’t come to shop. I have an item for you to consider. For purchase. It’s a sampler that I stitched. I see you have others hanging.”
“They’re some of the finest pieces in the nation.” He began to ease the door closed. “But if you must, try again on Saturday.”
Her foot caught the edge of the door before it could click closed. “Please, sir. My train leaves before then. I’ve come a long way. All the way from Virginia.”
The man consulted a pocket watch.
“I’ll only take a few moments of your time.”
Sighing, he sized up the paper package she clutched in her arms. “Five minutes.”
The door creaked on its hinges as he braced it open for her.
Heart stuttering, Lizbeth slipped into the shop where ornate samplers hung on the walls, some looking a century old.
With Hattie and the Jorgensens expecting her for an afternoon drive through the countryside, she had mere minutes to spare before they had intended to leave by carriage.
Lizbeth swallowed hard. A beautiful mirror graced the nearest tabletop along with pocket watches for sale, lacy fans and silk top hats.
The man slung open a curtain, bringing in more light. He leaned the broom against the wall and repeated, “Five minutes.”
She steeled all her courage as she set the bundle on the counter and tugged at the twine. “This is stitched on a piece of antique linen.” In truth, she’d found it at the bottom of a trunk once belonging to her grandmother.
“Hmm.” The man adjusted his spectacles. “Where did you get this from?”
“I—I made it. Honestly.”
His brows pinched together.
“I stitched it myself over the last year. The motifs are inspired by the woods where I live and the threads are all colors from my family’s farm.
I’ve hand dyed the threads myself. The blush color comes from rose petals that grow just outside our churchyard.
” The same roses that once snagged poor Reverend Coburn’s coat.
It was her story, splayed here on the counter, and she was blessed to get to share it. Blessed to get to live it—trials and all. Lizbeth unfolded the paper further and watched as the shop owner carefully unfurled what lay within. Her sampler shone delicately in the electric lanterns overhead.
“Silks?” he asked.
“Wool.” It would mean a lesser value, but wool thread was all she could come by.
“Hmm.”
The man liked that sound.
Holding the piece up to the light, he examined her handiwork. His face was drawn and stony. “How did you come by this deep violet?” he asked.
“Blackberries, sir. From beside our creek.”
“And the verse?”
“From the book of Romans.” She brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “It’s seemed fitting lately.”
He turned the piece over, scrutinizing the back.
All the knots and trimmings that weren’t meant to be viewed.
He flipped it over again. “Did you have a price in mind? I do have clients at times looking for unusual designs but usually such pieces are passed down through the generations.” He looked at her over the spectacles on his nose.
“It’s why we mostly sell antique pieces.
But this aged linen is, as you mentioned, quite something.
” He pulled off his spectacles and for the first time since coming here, she sensed a softening.
“Are you certain you don’t want to hold on to this? ”
Dearly, she did, but it wasn’t an option. “I would prefer to sell it, sir. It would be better for my family.”
Leaning one arm on the edge of the counter, the man studied her sampler again, even measuring it with a length of tape. He wrote down the dimensions and finally jotted down a sum that she couldn’t see. He slid the slip of paper her way. “This is my offer.”
$6.00
Not as much as she had hoped for. The sampler had taken her months to finish.
How could this make a dent in the debt her pa owed for the farm?
How could it make any kind of real difference?
Lizbeth touched the sampler again, recalling the way William had snipped and kept two of the threads.
Could she not do the same? A way to keep it with her.
.. while stepping forward into the future that awaited her and her family.
She could do this.
“I’ll take the six dollars, sir. Along with a new piece of linen. And might I borrow a pair of scissors?”
His eyebrows shot up.
“That is the best I can do in return,” she explained.
And she would stitch and work her way into the future for her family.
One thread at a time. It wouldn’t be enough to help Pa save the farm, not in the near future, but it was one more way she could give it all she had.
“The scissors are so I can snip a few threads to keep and remember.”
“And a second piece of linen?”
“So that I can make another sampler for you and your shop. I can dye threads in all sorts of colors from the woods and garden. That might help them stand out to your customers. Help it be unique. If you’re agreed, I’ll gladly mail the next piece to your shop here. Three months’ time?”
It would be slow progress... but steady.
With a sigh, the shop owner opened a cashbox and withdrew the six dollars.
He slid the bills over. “Linen is in the cabinet in the far corner. You may select your piece and I’ll cut you a portion to size.
” With a fresh scrap of paper, he scribbled the shop’s address and gave it to her.
“I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but we have a deal. ”
Chest filling with air, Lizbeth pocketed the money. Another small step forward. “I’ll see it done. Thank you, sir.” She reached out a hand and he shook it.
“And here are those scissors.”
Carefully, she trimmed away two threads from the back and tucked them into her skirt pocket.
At the cabinet, Lizbeth chose the prettiest piece of linen she could find.
This one a square of dove gray. So pale and soft, she could nearly imagine more of Bennet Hollow stitched upon it.
Perhaps the roses that grew wild down by the river.
The cheery golds and reds of Ma’s chickens, or even the ebony plumes of smoke that lifted on the horizon—the same shade as when the Pemberley had journeyed into town. A sight she longed to see once more.
Heart both full and aching at once, Lizbeth turned for the door. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this more than I can say.”
“Did you sign the piece?”
She halted. “No, sir. I didn’t know if I should.”
The first smile. A small one. “Please do. That way if the first sells, I can alert the buyer that there will be more in the future. We’ll also need a name for it. I’ll create a small placard to hang beside the frame on the wall.”
Her chest lifted at the notion. “I didn’t bring a needle and thread.”
The man opened a wooden box. “Just here.”
With his help, Lizbeth selected a glinting needle and piece of bright white thread.
With Hattie and the Jorgensen’s needing her to return for their afternoon drive into the countryside, her fingers moved as fast as they could against the bottom right corner.
Finally, she finished and held the cherished cloth over.
Lizbeth Bennet, 1905. As was customary with samplers.
“And the name of the piece?”
She thought a moment, looking one last time at the swirling vines and flowers—all colors of home. “Mark it down as The Heart of Bennet Hollow , if you would.”
“Excellent. I’ll be seeing you again, Miss Bennet. A good day to you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lizbeth left the shop and as soon as she was on the front steps, she silently bid farewell to the sampler that felt a part of her all these months.
All these regrets and hopes and prayers.
It would soon belong to another, but this was the path she needed to walk and finally— finally —she could do it with a lighter heart.
She started down the road, aiming for the Coburns.
Within minutes, she found Hattie and the Jorgensens out in front of the cottage, loading a picnic basket and several blankets into the back of a carriage.
Mr. Coburn stood speaking to the driver, making sure that the man had a clear understanding of the day’s itinerary.
“Lizzy!” Hattie waved. “Just in time! It’s going to be chilly today, but we’ll be snug in the carriage, and I’ve packed us some supper and hot tea.”
“That sounds splendid. I’m sorry I’m late.” Lizbeth embraced her friend and kissed Hattie’s cheek. “Is there time for me to grab my things?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be quick!”
Lizbeth hurried up the stone walk and to her second-floor room where she grabbed her shawl.
William’s novel sat on the nightstand and she fetched that as well.
The perfect way to pass an afternoon on a peaceful drive and finish the final pages.
As she opened the book to ensure that her page was still marked, a sheet of paper tumbled free.
The single page hit the floor and fluttered open. Handwriting that she didn’t recognize caught the light. Lizbeth reached for it, just spotting the signature at the bottom. Her heart nearly stilled.
William Drake.
Horses nickered outside and as she stepped toward the door, she couldn’t look away from the letter. Hoping she had a few more moments to spare, Lizbeth skimmed back to the top and read.
Dear Lizbeth,
Please don’t be alarmed by the haste of this note, only know that I hope to get it into your hand sometime today.
I won’t repeat the sentiments which were so off-putting to you when we spoke at your father’s farm, and I believe we can both lay that meeting behind us.
From this day forward, please think of me only as a friend and advocate.
And now, I hope to explain to you the situation surrounding your father’s land and Mr. Westgard’s implications sometime while we’re together today, but just as importantly, and perhaps even more urgent, is addressing the sorrow that I believe has been suffered by both your sister Jayne and my friend Callum.
From our first coming to New River, it was obvious that they formed a connection, and yet, to what degree?
And to what outcome? As a friend, I attempted to guide Callum to be cautious, but in that, was mistaken.
I since have seen the error of my understanding of their hopes for one another.
For that I must apologize. If she were to write him, please give her the address written here.
I’ll ensure her letter’s delivery to Callum myself.
I understand that would take faith in my character, and for that, I can only pray to have provided the beginnings of such.
As for the future, I wish them both well and pray for a renewed acquaintance between them.
I add their happiness to the service I’m available to be called upon for.
Along with yours.
There’s more to say, but for now, I’m out of time. May God bless you.
William Drake
Hattie called out to her.
Folding the letter, Lizbeth retreated down the stairs as new waves of understanding broke free of the clouds.
In the months of William’s absence, she’d begun seeing that she’d been wrong about him.
As for sitting beside him in the alcove?
How peaceful she’d felt beside the quiet coal baron.
If she were honest... a sense of yearning had blossomed for his calming, steady presence.
His intelligent conversation and gentle ways.
The care he took with her, then and now.
Perhaps always, if he were to ask once more.
A request she would never expect of him.
Back outside, Lizbeth greeted her companions and climbed into the carriage.
Hattie tucked a blanket over their laps.
Reverend Coburn’s excited chatter blurred as Lizbeth safely hid William’s letter into the book again.
Despite the beauty of the day, she saw only him in her mind’s eye.
The way he’d stood in a church aisleway this Sunday past, his gaze earnest as he claimed the seat beside her.
Sitting beside her in an alcove near her room.
His soft smile as he’d spoken to her of life, of optimism.
The way he’d once reached for her hand. Asked for her.
Last of all was the memory of him standing in the field back home. His flatcap in his anxious grip as he explained the way he saw her. Cared for her. Sentiments she’d realized ran deeper than even his silence had since his coming to New River.
A pursuit from his heart to her own.
One he was asking her to forget all about. To lay behind them. That instead, they might be friends . He no doubt going his separate way and she going hers.
The horses clopped into motion and Lizbeth steadied herself with a hand to the side of the carriage. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the train depot where William mentioned he would depart today, wondering if she was moving farther from her future or toward it.