Heart of Glass Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY DIANE NOBLE

  At Play in the Promised Land

  The Blossom and the Nettle

  When the Far Hills Bloom

  The Veil

  Distant Bells

  Tangled Vines

  (WRITTEN AS AMANDA MACLEAN)

  Westward

  Stonehaven

  Everlasting

  Promise Me the Dawn

  Kingdom Come

  NOVELLAS

  Come, My Little Angel

  “Gift of Love” in A Christmas Joy

  “Legacy of Love” in A Mother’s Love

  “Birds of a Feather” in Unlikely Angels

  NONFICTION FOR WOMEN

  Letters from God for Women

  It’s Time! Discover Your Gifts and Pursue Your Dreams

  HEART OF GLASS

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the King James Version. Scripture quotations marked (NKJV) are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78601-2

  Copyright © 2002 by Diane Noble

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  v3.1

  To Father Tom and Susan Johnson,

  and our beloved church family at

  Saint Hugh of Lincoln Episcopal Church

  in Idyllwild, California.

  I thank my God upon every remembrance of you,

  Always in every prayer of mine making request for you all with joy,

  For your fellowship in the gospel from the first day until now.

  —Philippians 1:3-5, NKJV

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter - One

  Chapter - Two

  Chapter - Three

  Chapter - Four

  Chapter - Five

  Chapter - Six

  Chapter - Seven

  Chapter - Eight

  Chapter - Nine

  Chapter - Ten

  Chapter - Eleven

  Chapter - Twelve

  Chapter - Thirteen

  Chapter - Fourteen

  Chapter - Fifteen

  Chapter - Sixteen

  Chapter - Seventeen

  Chapter - Eighteen

  Chapter - Nineteen

  Chapter - Twenty

  Chapter - Twenty-One

  Chapter - Twenty-Two

  Chapter - Twenty-Three

  Chapter - Twenty-Four

  Chapter - Twenty-Five

  Chapter - Twenty-Six

  Chapter - Twenty-Seven

  Chapter - Twenty-Eight

  Chapter - Twenty-Nine

  Chapter - Thirty

  Chapter - Thirty-One

  Chapter - Thirty-Two

  Chapter - Thirty-Three

  Chapter - Thirty-Four

  Letter by the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgment

  Heartfelt thanks to my editors at WaterBrook Press: Erin Healy, Lisa Bergren, Traci DePree, and Paul Hawley for their remarkable work. To my literary agent, Sara Fortenberry, for her advice, expertise, and support. And special thanks, as always, to Liz Curtis Higgs for her prayers and encouragement as this project took shape. Thank you especially, Lizzie, for providing the CDs of glorious mountain dulcimer music to listen to as I traveled with Fairwyn March on her heart journey!

  To my brother Dennis and sister-in-law Kathi for providing a wealth of information on Salisbury, North Carolina, the fictional setting for Oak Hill, and especially for providing the blueprint for the Deforest estate and gardens with their own lovely home.

  To Tom, my husband, for his historical expertise, his patience, and his loving support through my long months of work on Heart of Glass. I couldn’t do it without you!

  I also want to mention the following works, all instrumental in my research of the Mission at San Juan Capistrano and the folklore and folk songs of the Great Smoky Mountains, and listed here for those readers who might want to take a peek into the fascinating threads of history covered in Heart of Glass:

  Smoky Mountain Voices: A Lexicon of Southern Appalachian Speech, Harold F. Farwell Jr. and J. Karl Nicholas, Editors.

  Our Southern Highlanders: A Narrative of Adventure in theSouthern Appalachians and a Study of Life Among the Mountaineers, Horace Kephart.

  American Folk Tales and Songs, compiled by Richard Chase.

  The Mountain Dulcimer: How to Make It and Play It, by Howard W. Mitchell.

  Musicmaker’s Kits, Inc.: Complete Plans for Making the Hourglass Mountain Dulcimer, P.O. Box 2117, Stillwater, MN 55082-3117.

  A Guide to Historical San Juan Capistrano: A Comprehensive Guide for Architecture, Heritage, History, and Preservation, by Mary Ellen Tryon.

  Little Chapters About San Juan Capistrano, St. John O’Sullivan, first published in 1912.

  One

  Great Smoky Mountains

  Summer 18 and 82

  Dearly Forbes arrived at the top of the trace, his red head poking up first, barely showing above the tall meadow grasses at the top of the treeless mountain. The boy’s hair stuck to his face, and his eyes seemed bright as a bird’s even from the distance between us. His scrawny shoulders were bare and browned by the summer sun, and wide galluses held up trousers big enough to be his pa’s.

  When he saw me standing on the porch of my chinked-log cabin, he made his way across the meadow, grinning all the way. “Fairwyn March! Thar’s a body acomin’ through the piny woods to see ye!”

  I couldn’t help smiling back, so contagious was his pleasure at being the one to bear the news. “Well now, Dearly,” I said, “that’s not such an unusual event, in my thinking. Might it be Selah with some eggs? Perchance she’s bringing a fresh-shot razorback ready for smoking?” Selah Jones was a good aim, known to all in these parts, and such a prize wouldn’t surprise me.

  He climbed the porch stairs, huffing and puffing. “This one’s a furriner,” he said between noisy gulps of air, “a furriner like as ye’ve never seen afore.”

  With this, I indeed perked up. “I’ll bring ye some water, son, if ye care to sit a spell.” I nodded to one of the two stick rockers near me.

  “Yes ma’am, that’d be right fine.”

  I returned from the kitchen a few minutes later with a cup of water. He gulped it sprawled in the rocker next to where I sat. I resisted the urge to ruffle his hair. He smelled like a warm puppy that had been playing too long in the sun. This beanpole boy had long ago twisted himself around my heart.

  “Now then,” I said. “Tell me about this furriner on his way for a visit.”

  Dearly leaned forward and gave me a nod. “Well ma’am,” he said, rolling his eyes with importance. “He calls himself a professor. Says he hails from North Carolina. Rode right up to Caudill’s General Store, slid off’n his horse, and announced he’d come to study our folk tales. Says he’s awr
itin’ a book on us.” Dearly reached down to his ankle and gave it a scratching.

  “Then why’s he coming to see me?”

  “Everbody knows ye’re the bestest song scribe round these parts. And the bestest storyteller to boot.” He rested his back against the slats of the rocking chair, pushing it to and fro with his bare feet, taking pleasure in the rhythmic creak on the weathered boards of the porch. He shook his head slowly. “I like to never seen anybody dressed like the professor. All done up with a highfalutin hat and fancy trousers. Carrying a walkin’ stick with a silvery knob.” He grinned again, shaking his head. “And ye should see his poke. Made o’ shiny leather with brass letters on hit.”

  Few outsiders came to Sycamore Creek. I could count on one hand the numbers who’d made their way to where I lived with my granddaddy Poppy. “When you expect this professor to land at my front door then?”

  “He’s marchin’ up the trace right now. Huffin’ worse’n me.”

  “So you passed him on your way?”

  “Yes indeedy.” He let his gaze drift from my eyes.

  “Dearly Forbes,” I scolded, causing him to look back, “did this professor ask you to show him the way?”

  Dearly stared hard at his feet, then reached down to pick at one grimy toe. “Well now, I reckon.”

  “But you ran off without him?”

  “I jes’ moved up the trace faster’n him.”

  “Dearly, ye need to go back and fetch him. Right this minute. The poor man may already be lost.”

  The boy stood, scratched his head, and hiked up one of the galluses that had slipped off his shoulder. “Well, if ’n ye say so.” He slumped off the porch, looking put out. He halted at the bottom step and gazed back with a grin. “Can I stay then, listen to ye tellin’ the man yer stories?”

  “If that’s what he’s come for, then yes, lad. Ye can stay.”

  He skipped off through the meadow, bare feet flying, the afternoon sun gleaming on his orange hair.

  I shelled beans from the back garden as I rocked in my rocker and waited for Dearly to pop up again from the trace. I’d just finished the second bushel and was starting on the third when, sure enough, Dearly skipped from the hilltop to the edge of the meadow. His grin was wider than before, and he shouted a big hello.

  For just an eye bat I thought he was alone, but before I could let out a disappointed sigh, up from the trace rose another figure.

  The professor stood there, shading his eyes and gazing my direction. His head back, shoulders erect and proud, he stayed in that one spot while I stood, ready to walk out to him. He looked magnificent and golden in the slant of the sun. Then with Dearly Forbes at his side, he began striding through the grasses toward me, scaring up a joree-bird into a flutter, whilst all around him swallowtails flitted and bees worked the mountain daisies and purple pennyroyals.

  Minutes later he was on my porch, tapping his walking stick against a loose board as if such motion might nail it in place. He gave me a smile that flushed my cheeks, and I stared dumbfounded into his eyes.

  Poppy and Me had a stack of books that I’d read so often I could scarce make out the gold-stamped words on their worn leather spines. At the top lay Great Expectations by Mr. Dickens, and on page six of that book there was a man that long ago had captured my spinster heart: Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with eyes of such an undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites.

  How I dreamed of such a one coming to my door. This man, with his flaxen curls and pale blue eyes, so resembled my imaginings that immediately—even before he spoke—I figured him to be good natured and sweet tempered, the same as Mister Dickens’s man on page six.

  The professor’s lips tilted upwards again, which truly set my heart aflutter. “Miss Fairwyn March?”

  I nodded slowly, thinking I could not bear to keep my eyes locked onto his pale eyes a heartbeat longer. So I studied my lace-up brogans. No one had ever called me “Miss” before. Just plain Fairwyn. It was a fitting name, Poppy used to say when I was young, because of my delicate look and my way of moving quiet-like along the trace. Like unto floating, he said. Though I knew as well as he did that “delicate” was not a consideration that did me proud in these parts. It didn’t help that I was known for my dulcimer playing instead of my sweet-egg pie.

  “My name is Zebulon Deforest,” he said, drawing my eyes to his once more.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said.

  “And I, yours.” He was still smiling.

  Dearly spoke up from behind me. “This here’s the furriner who’s come to hear yer music, ma’am.”

  Zebulon Deforest laughed, a sound that warmed my heart. “I’ve heard you’re the best song scribe in these parts.” His rushing words reminded me of the swift-moving waters of Sycamore Creek in the spring. “I’m told you sing and play a dulcimer.” He frowned, obviously puzzled. “A fairy dulcimer.”

  I laughed softly, enjoying the admiration I saw in a place deep behind his eyes. “Years ago such a tale was begun,” I said. “I suppose on account of the way I play.” I gave him a half-smile and shrugged. “I’m prone to hold my face heavenward whilst strumming. And I have a certain way of telling tales and singing at the same time. Story songs, fairy tales, some about my kinfolk from years past. I suppose folks in these parts have mistaken me for the fairies in the stories I tell.”

  He leaned forward, furrowing his brow. “Your language,” he said, “it’s not the same as the others I’ve met. Are you from here? Originally, I mean. Are you from the Great Smokies?”

  “From Blackberry Mountain itself,” I said. The door was open, and I gestured toward the bookshelf beside the fireplace. “The language in my books isn’t like that of my mountain kin. I suppose I speak both ways, depending on who it is I’m speaking to.”

  “May I have a look?” His eyes met mine with a spark of curiosity, and I nodded. He strode to the bookshelf, Dearly trailing at his heel. I stood by the doorway, watching as the professor leaned forward, squinting in the dim light, running his fingers over the spines. “Great Expectations …”

  “Yes.” I smiled at the back of his flaxen head.

  “Works by Tennyson, Robert Browning, Lewis Carroll, Hans Christian Andersen … Melville … Charlotte Brontë.”

  He glanced back to me in amazement, then returned to making his way through the stack, reading each title aloud. “The Old Curiosity Shop, The Deerslayer … Thoreau’s Life in the Woods.”

  “One of my favorites,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

  He grinned. “Fitting.” His face sobered. “You’ve read these all?”

  “Many times.”

  “Are ye gwine to tell yer tales?” Dearly said. “When are ye, ma’am?”

  The professor chuckled at the boy’s impatience, then looked to me once more, raising a well-formed brow. “Would you be so kind?”

  “ ’Tis no trouble,” I said and nodded to the porch.

  He passed through the doorway trailed by Dearly, and I reached for my dulcimer that was propped in the corner of the cabin. When again I joined them, Dearly was sitting on the top step, and the professor was in the rocker nearest the end of the porch floor. Laying my dulcimer across my lap, I settled into the rocker nearest my bushel baskets of fresh-shelled beans.

  The professor leaned forward, his gaze on my instrument. “Did you make it yourself?”

  I strummed a few chords. “Most do in these parts, but I’ve never learned the art. My granddaddy—Poppy—made this one for me. ’Tis from his own recipe, as he calls it. Won’t tell anyone his secrets.”

  Zebulon Deforest studied me as if taking note of every word I said. “Whom did he learn from?”

  “He’s never said.” I shook my head. “Poppy’s one to keep things to himself. ’Tis my prayer that someday he’ll pass along his dulcimer-making secrets to me.” I stroked the smooth soundboard, relishing its warmth beneath my f
ingers. “Making something of such beauty would be a wonder.”

  “But are ye gwine to sing fer the furriner?” Dearly said, scooting closer. “Whyn’t ye sing the one about ‘Yonder Mountain’?”

  With a wink and a nod toward Dearly, I lifted the dulcimer closer and strummed a few chords in the key of G. Tapping my foot, I began a lively rendition, lifting my voice in song.

  At the foot of yonder mountain there runs a clear stream,

  At the foot of yonder mountain there lives a fair queen.

  She’s handsome, she’s proper, and her ways are complete.

  I ask no better pastime than to be with my sweet.

  Dearly clapped his hands and joined with me on the next verse.

  But why she won’t have me I well understand;

  She wants a freeholder and I have no land.

  I cannot maintain her on silver and gold,

  And all the other fine things that my love’s house should hold.

  I glanced at the professor, who seemed better pleased than a chap chasing butterflies.

  “Reminiscent of Cornish lore. Pre-Saxon, I think,” he murmured, biting his lip. “Pre-Christian perhaps.”

  I laughed, shaking my head slowly. “I’m not sure of your meaning, but I’ve heard tell our kinfolk brought it from Virginia.”

  “These are the threads I’m searching for, Miss March,” he said.

  “You can call me Fairwyn.”

  “An unusual name.” He gave me another smile and nodded.

  “Hain’t atall,” Dearly piped up from the stairs. “Everbody round these parts knows Fairwyn March.”

  “It means light,” I said to Zebulon Deforest. “Fairlight would be another way of saying it.” I could not help sounding proud. It had been a family name as far back as anyone could remember.

  He studied me, his eyes crinkling at the outer corners as he puzzled. “There is a place by that name, your name—Fairlight—in England. And Wyn …” He paused with a frown. “That’s Welsh, is it not?” He leaned forward with interest. “Do you know anything more about your ancestry?”

  “My family’s been in the Appalachians at least a hundred years,” I said. “Tales are told of how they came …”