Chapter Fourteen #2
She wanted to be irritated by his behavior, but all she could do was feign annoyance.
No other man had ever gone to such trouble to pursue her yet remained respectful despite her obvious rebuffs.
Of course, that could change the longer she made him give chase, but she’d enjoy the attention for now.
He’d give up eventually. And she had no plans of marriage.
Not now that she suspected she was losing her mind.
Mr. Beaumont released her hand and continued speaking with a more serious tone. “Detective Hall made a convicting point about church attendance that I could not dismiss; therefore, I accepted his invitation to attend here today.”
“I’m glad you came, but I told you not to allow Nora’s presence to be your motivation.” Abraham’s stern look must have been perfected on the criminals he brought in.
“Can’t I have dual intentions? Fellowship with believers and an opportunity to prove to Miss Davis I’m deserving of a chance if she will give it?”
“Deserving is a strong word, Mr. Beaumont.” Begging was more apt, but her answer only encouraged his pleasure. Maybe the best way to cope with him would be to sit alone in the back pew and sneak out during the dismissal prayer.
Dr. Pelton ushered Madelyn, his younger daughter, to slide into the pew next to Mrs. Pelton. “May I suggest we take our seats and prepare our hearts and minds for service? You can discuss Mr. Beaumont’s suitability afterward.”
Properly chastised, Nora and Mr. Beaumont silently followed Abraham and Lydia around the front to enter the family pew from the other end.
Although Nora encouraged Mr. Beaumont to take the inner seat—as she intended to escape to the back pew—he refused to behave as anything but a gentleman and insisted she precede him.
Now she was trapped between Lydia and the charmer.
So much for an enjoyable, carefree service. She’d never focus with him next to her.
As if to prove her point, when the music minister gave instructions on where to turn in their hymnals, Mr. Beaumont leaned toward her. “I look forward to hearing you sing something other than scales.”
Nora concentrated on finding the right page.
“Do you mind if we share? I’m afraid there aren’t enough hymnals for each person, and I’m not familiar with ‘For the Lord’s Day Morning.’”
She wasn’t either, so she had no choice but to angle the book so they could both see the words.
No musical notations accompanied the song, so Nora studied how the words fit into what the organist played and anticipated the next notes as she sang.
It distracted her enough that when Mr. Beaumont’s deep bass joined her mezzo-soprano on the second verse, she dropped the hymnal.
He caught it, cast her one of those charming smiles, and then held it for them both without missing one word of the song.
The little liar knew the hymn well enough to not need the book, and Nora would call him to account as soon as service was over.
She returned her attention to the music and words, relishing the chance to see how well she could sing a piece without any preparation.
Perhaps it was prideful, but part of her delighted in offering God the best of herself.
When they shifted to a hymn she knew by heart, she closed her eyes and stopped singing for a few measures so she could hear the earthly choir of voices.
Keys and pitches were as varied as the instruments of a full piece orchestra, and some sang off rhythm, but it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.
Was this how they would sound in heaven?
When Mr. Beaumont stopped singing to inquire if she were unwell, she began again, and he followed suit.
She hated how harmonious they sounded together because it encouraged her to enjoy his presence far more than she should.
They perfectly complemented each other, and it wasn’t hard to imagine a future with a man who loved singing as much as she.
All too soon, Pastor Evans took to the podium and led everyone in prayer.
He continued his exposition on the book of Matthew, and halfway through the sermon, Nora again felt that persistent sensation of someone watching her.
She ignored it, but not knowing destroyed her focus.
Under the pretense of readjusting her position, she checked over her shoulder.
Winston nodded at her.
She whipped her attention forward. He couldn’t be there. He wasn’t real. Unless he was and he’d hidden when Lydia drew her attention away. The uncertainty of her own mind churned her stomach. Was she going mad, or was she in real danger?
Mr. Beaumont leaned close and whispered, “Is everything all right?”
She peeked again. Winston still sat there.
“Miss Davis?” Mr. Beaumont pressed.
When she looked, his expression was a perfect match to the concern in his voice.
Should she say something? But what if it was all imagined?
This was exactly how Mum had progressed.
If she asked Mr. Beaumont, he could confirm her suspicions about Winston.
If she were wrong, her strange behavior might serve to scare him off before he grew too attached.
“Do you see the man behind us? In the back row? Your Mr. Adler, I think.”
Mr. Beaumont frowned and peered over his shoulder, but his searching gaze indicated he didn’t see Winston.
Nora turned again to better point, but his spot was empty.
She shifted from side to side to see between the heads of those behind her—earning her quite a few chastising glares—but he wasn’t there.
Her gaze shot to the sanctuary’s doors. None moved as if being quietly closed, and Nora had sneaked through them enough to know if not eased shut, the slam echoed and announced an early departure.
He must not have been there to begin with.
Pressure built behind her eyes. She’d rather be in real danger than imagined.
How was she to fight against her own mind?
“Forgive me. It was nothing.” She faced forward and swallowed hard.
Mind your face, Nora. No one can know you are losing yourself.
At best they will think less of you, pity you, and treat you differently.
At worst you’ll be feared, rejected, and maybe even put in the asylum.
You have to hold it together. You cannot let anyone know what is going on. You and God can get through this.
Oh, God, please get me through this.
It didn’t matter what she said to herself or how she prayed.
Her heart raced, and the edges of her vision blurred.
She needed her knitting needles, but she had nothing to knit.
Her yarn was in her bag beneath Mr. Beaumont’s seat, and she couldn’t retrieve it without making more of a scene.
The pastor was already giving her reprimanding glares.
Even if she could reach her yarn, it wasn’t likely he’d look favorably upon her taking up a knitting project while he expounded upon the Beatitudes.
But oh, how she needed that motion to soothe her.
Instead, she clutched the skirts of her dress. She knew what to do and to say to herself, but she couldn’t gather her wits enough to do it.
Please, God. Save me from myself. Don’t let me become Mum.
A hand covered hers, and she startled.
When she looked, Mr. Beaumont’s larger hand rested, strong and reassuring, atop hers.
The timbre of his voice was low and quiet, but fiercely protective. “It wasn’t nothing. You’re trembling.”
Though she wished to deny it, she couldn’t. Her insides trilled. “I’ll be fine.”
His expression declared his disbelief, but he nodded and faced the pastor. Quietly, almost as if embarrassed to say it, he whispered, “You don’t have to be fine. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t remove his hand, and she, oddly enough, didn’t want him to.
The feel of his skin against hers rooted her to the moment, to reality.
It cleared her mind enough to focus on the truths around her and snuff out the flaming arrows that attacked her with ceaseless fury.
Truths like Mr. Beaumont’s hand was warm but work-roughened, and he smelled of soap, cologne, and a hint of .
. . fish? She almost lifted his hand to her nose so she could determine if that was where the distinct smell came from.
He must have fed Tristan before coming. The thought of that ridiculous cat worked to loosen some of the tightness in her chest. Would it be strange of her to ask Mr. Beaumont if she could see Tristan?
Right now she wanted nothing more than to feel his hefty weight and soft fur.
By the time Pastor Evans announced the benediction song, Nora felt more herself.
Although could she claim to be fully herself when she still hadn’t removed Mr. Beaumont’s hand from hers?
When they rose to sing, Mr. Beaumont released her hand, leaving behind a warmth that the winter morning sought to steal.
How could she miss the touch of a charmer?
Had her defenses fallen so completely? They must have, for her to turn into a puddle at the mere sound of his mesmerizing singing voice.
When the service was over, he exited the aisle and held out an arm. “May I escort you?”
Instinctively, Nora’s gaze sought out where Winston had been sitting.
He wasn’t there, which was to be expected, but her heart still jumped at the possibility he lingered somewhere nearby, watching her.
She could stand on her own two feet and march out the door unaided, or she could accept the protection the illusion of a beau might provide to deter anyone following her.
Which would be scarier? Accepting the attentions of a charmer who might reject her once he realized she walked Mum’s path to insanity?
Or facing alone the man who might or might not be real?