39. Jacob
Jacob
The land flew by outside my window, blurring and changing. In all my daydreams, I’d never expected to travel in such a fine train compartment. I appreciated the first-class passage to Chicago, but my thoughts were in such a tangle I could hardly enjoy it.
The curious boy in me made a brief appearance in the dining car.
I chatted with other travelers, including a young soldier on furlough from his assignment in Yellowstone.
But I spent most of the trip with my head pressed to the cool window, staring out but not seeing a thing, lost in thought.
The train hurtled toward Chicago, and the moment when I would have to make a decision drew near.
I was of two minds. On the one hand, it would be honorable to offer for Viola after kissing her. Repeatedly. I was starting to suspect a sizable part of me longed for this exact outcome. I spent far too much of the trip wandering around in that tantalizing fantasy.
But, on the other hand, Viola’s father might be trying to force her into marriage.
After all, he had made that exact demand before she ran away.
What type of father forces marriage on an unwilling daughter?
Would standing up to her father and protecting her interests and desires be the more principled choice?
I wouldn’t force her to compromise her vows against love and marriage.
I would hurt myself before I hurt her.
Though a future without her would shear me clean through.
When the train pulled into Chicago, I decided on a third option. I would speak with Viola frankly and openly before making a decision. We would figure it out together. Do I love her? Does she love me? Does love matter between an heiress and a farmer?
George met me at the station with a friendly thump on the back. More people than I’d ever seen in one place elbowed their way past me. Utter chaos. But the screeching brakes and coal-smoke were soon left behind.
We made our way to the VanMartin home. It was one of a stately row of enormous mansions along the shore of Lake Michigan.
I alternated between gawking at the castle-like houses and the vastness of the lake.
I kept forcing my mouth closed. The expanse of water extended to the horizon, sparkling in the midday sun.
I stood shoulder to shoulder with George on the front step for several minutes and stared out over the dark blue waves.
“Sometimes,” George said, “I take the view for granted.”
I had the same awestruck reaction when I turned to the VanMartin home. Viola lived in this mansion. Ten farmhouses would easily fit inside. More.
Was Viola inside? I peered around every corner, hoping to glimpse her auburn hair.
George showed me to my guest room, mentioning Viola wouldn’t return to town until tomorrow. Where could she be?
“Let’s get you settled, then take a stroll. Get some fresh air. We’ll discuss the proposal with Father after dinner, and tomorrow, I’ll take you downtown to show you the paper.”
He crossed to the large closet and threw open the doors.
Inside hung several garments. “There will be a little dinner party on your third night here. I’ll have my man alter a set of my evening clothes for you.
” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “If that’s acceptable.
I wouldn’t expect you to have a set along, but I don’t want you to feel underdressed.
In the meantime, I had him put a selection of jackets in here for you to try.
He’ll come to help you dress for dinner tonight. We’re near enough in size.”
“Good to have you here.” He clapped me on the shoulder.
The sincerity of his words confounded me.
“Meet me downstairs in the library when you’re ready for that walk. Turn right at the bottom of the stairs. The library is at the end of the hall.”
I thanked George and nodded. I’d hardly uttered two words.
George’s warm welcome had not been expected.
I was unable to find my footing. He’d been exceedingly agreeable and didn’t seem a brother bent on protecting his sister’s honor by forcing a proposal from the man who had taken too many liberties.
After unpacking and splashing water on my face, I went down to the library. I stopped to gaze at the portrait of a woman several years older than Viola, who must be her mother.
“She was beautiful, our mother,” George said. “Everyone says Viola looks exactly like her.”
“Beautiful, yes.” I studied the image. “But Viola’s eyes are not as widely set, and she has more of a heart-shaped face. Their coloring is very similar, though.”
George chortled. “Jacob, I believe you are the first person ever to say Viola is not the mirror image of our mother.” He studied me. “Viola would like that, I think.”
The thought warmed me through.
I would see her tomorrow.