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What Christian Authors Are Saying
about Grace Livingston Hill:
Grace Livingston Hill, often referred to as the “Queen of Christian Romance,” has given millions of readers timeless Christian novels, offering inspiration, romance, and adventure. The simple message in each of her books reminds us that God has the answer to all our questions.
—Wanda E. Brunstetter, New York Times bestselling author
I’ve long been a fan of Grace Livingston Hill. Her romance and attention to detail has always captivated me—even as a young girl. I’m excited to see these books will continue to be available to new generations and highly recommend them to readers who haven’t yet tried them. And for those of you like me who have read the books, I hope you’ll revisit the stories and fall in love with them all over again.
—Tracie Peterson, award-winning, bestselling author of
the Song of Alaska and Striking a Match series
Grace Livingston Hill’s books are a treasured part of my young adult years. There was such bedrock faith to them along with the fun. Her heroines were intrepid yet vulnerable. Her heroes were pure of heart and noble (unless they needed to be reformed of course). And the books were often adventures. Just writing this makes me want to hunt down and read again a few of my favorites.
—Mary Connealy, Carol Award-winning author of
Cowboy Christmas and the Lassoed in Texas series
Grace Livingston Hill books were a big part of my life, from the time I was a teenager and onward. My mother loved her books and shared them with me and my sisters. We always knew we could find an engaging, uplifting story between the covers. And her stories are still enjoyable and encouraging. It’s hard to pick a favorite, but The Girl from Montana and Marcia Schuyler are two of my favorites. Terrific stories!
—Susan Page Davis, author of Maine Brides and
The Ladies’ Shooting Club series
The hero in Grace Livingston Hill’s timeless romantic novels is always a hero. The heroine is always a strong woman who stands up for her beliefs. He is always handsome; she is always beautiful. And an inviting message of faith is woven throughout each story without preaching. These enduring stories will continue to delight a new generation of readers—just as they did for our great-grandmothers.
—Suzanne Woods Fisher, bestselling author of
the Lancaster County Secret series
As a young reader just beginning to know what romance was all about, I was introduced to Grace Livingston Hill’s books. She created great characters with interesting backgrounds and then plopped them down into fascinating settings where they managed to get into romantic pickles that kept me reading until the love-conquers-all endings. Her romance-filled stories showed this young aspiring writer that yes, love can make the fictional world go round.
—Ann H. Gabhart, award-winning author
My grandmother was an avid reader, and Grace Livingston Hill’s books lined her shelves for the years of my childhood and adolescence. Once I dipped into one of them, I was hooked. Years of reading Hill’s stories, without a doubt, influenced my own desire to become a storyteller, and it’s with great fondness that I remember many of her titles.
—Tracy L. Higley, author of Garden of Madness
If you’ve enjoyed the classic works of writers like Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, it is way past time for you to discover the inspirational stories of Grace Livingston Hill!
—Anna Schmidt, award-winning author of
the Women of Pinecraft series
Ah, Grace Livingston Hill! Can any other writer compare? Her lyrical, majestic tone, her vivid descriptions … they melt the heart of readers from every generation. Some of my fondest memories from years gone by involve curling up in my mother’s chair and reading her Grace Livington Hill romances. They swept me away to places unknown and reminded me that writers—especially writers of faith—could truly impact their world.
—Janice Hanna Thompson, author of
the Weddings by Bella series
Grace Livingston Hill’s stories are like taking a stroll through a garden in the spring: refreshing, fragrant, and delightful—a place you’ll never want to leave.
—MaryLu Tyndall, Christy nominee and author of
the Surrender to Destiny series
Enduring stories of hope, triumph over adversity, and true sacrificial love await every time you pick up a Grace Livingston Hill romance.
—Erica Vetsch, author of
A Bride’s Portrait of Dodge City, Kansas
© 2013 by Grace Livingston Hill
Print ISBN 978-1-62029-139-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-694-3
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-693-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Preview Chapters
Chapter 1
New York City, 1920s
Carol Berkley was still at work in the inner office when the men arrived.
Her fingers flew along the keys of her typewriter with the maximum of speed. She did not even hesitate nor glance at her watch as she heard the office boy seating the two visitors in the outer office and telling them that Mr. Fawcett was expected any minute now, that he never stayed out later than half past two for lunch.
She had been working at top speed since nine o’clock that morning. Her head swam and little black dots danced before her eyes. For Carol had been up late the night before finishing a dress to take away with her on her vacation, and she had risen at five o’clock that morning to put the last things in her trunk and lock it before she went to the office. She was planning to leave on the Bar Harbor Express that night.
It was to be the first real vacation she had had in five years, the dream of her life coming true. Two whole weeks to lie in the sand and watch the rocks and the sea, a fine hotel in which to stay, and two friends to go with her. She was keyed up to the point of intensity with the thought of it all.
But these letters must be finished before she left, vacation or no vacation. And there were so many of them! It was like Mr. Fawcett to give her a lot of extra work on her last afternoon, as if he would force a whole two weeks’ work into a single morning’s dictation.
Mr. Fawcett, too, was going away, and was of course anxious to get these important letters off before he left.
He was a hard master. Carol felt almost a tangible dislike for him as she drove her weary fingers on. He had been unbearable for the last three weeks. The old grouch! Of course he was worried abou
t his business, for things were in a critical condition, but he didn’t have to be such a bear. It wasn’t her fault that he had gotten himself tied up in a contract that he wasn’t going to be able to pull off.
These thoughts hung around her like an atmosphere, depressing her.
There were still several pages of notes to be transcribed into the neat, accurate letters for which she had earned a reputation. Her fingers ached and her head whirled, but she made no mistakes as page after page was reeled off and laid in its immaculate mahogany box ready for Mr. Fawcett’s signature. She was giving her entire attention to her work, for she was deeply conscientious and she realized that these letters contained the crux of all the financial difficulties which the Fawcett Construction Company was now facing. Within a few weeks the issue, which was being discussed in some of these letters, would have to be fought out to a finish, and it would mean a finish to the Fawcett Construction Company if things did not turn their way.
Not that she would care personally.
It would mean that she would lose her job of course, and her unusually good salary; but there were others as good. It might be a wise thing to go to a new place. She was dreadfully tired of the little inner office and Caleb Fawcett’s daily grouches. She longed inexpressibly for cheerful surroundings.
She was just beginning a letter to Philip Duskin, the young construction engineer of a large office building they were putting up in a western state.
The building was contracted for a certain date, and there would be a tremendous amount of money forfeited if it was not done on time. Carol knew that this money would make all the difference between a pleasant margin and absolute insolvency for the Fawcett Construction Company, and she felt that the vitriolic sentences which Caleb Fawcett had framed that morning out of the bitterness of his anxiety were none too keen for the young man who seemed, as far as she could judge by the correspondence, to be allowing himself in the most inane and idiotic ways to be held up at every turn. And by such trifles! Rivets and paint and the like! Why hadn’t he ordered his rivets in time? Why had he put the paint where it could be stolen? Stolen! The idea of a lot of cans of paint being stolen when they had been carefully locked into a room the night before! And even if they were, why didn’t he get more paint, when so much was at stake, instead of writing a whining letter two weeks after it happened complaining of his bad luck? And still persisting in that futile reiteration that in spite of it all they would have the building done in time.
And then that notion that he kept insinuating, that there must be an enemy somewhere working against them! Stuff and nonsense! He must be a reader of dime novels or a fan of the movies! Things like that didn’t happen in these sane, modern times. Why would the Fawcett Construction Company have an enemy? They were an old, respectable firm. The man must be a fool to try to put over such a silly idea on his employer. She had no patience with him anyway. As if a full-grown man couldn’t look after a little paint and get rivets elsewhere even if the first lot ordered had gone astray in delivery.
There was another thing, too. Why did his men continually leave him? That surely showed he was not a good boss. There must be something radically wrong about him. If Mr. Fawcett would ask her, she would suggest that they fire him and get a new construction engineer, one they could trust. No wonder Fawcett looked so worried. It was plain to be seen that this Duskin was utterly inadequate. Surely there must be other men whom they had tried out who could take his place at an hour’s notice and save the day, even late as it was.
But perhaps that was what Fawcett was going to do when he got out there. He was not a man who talked much, behind those shaggy eyebrows and those close-compressed, hard lips. Perhaps he had reason to think that this Duskin himself was the enemy he talked about. Perhaps it was Duskin who had stolen the paint and lost the rivets on purpose. Or very likely he had loafed on the job and knew it wasn’t going to get done on time, and so was preparing excuses for himself beforehand.
She bit the words out on the typewriter with sharp clicks of her fingers, as if by punching the letter keys harder she could give more force to the unpleasant sentences of which she felt no doubt the young man was fully deserving. Why, here he was not only holding up the building for the people who were in a hurry for it and engendering disaster for the Fawcett Construction Company, as well as hurting his own future career by his careless and criminal inefficiency, but he was causing numberless other smaller troubles. Here was even herself being held up from her long-anticipated holiday to write this letter.
Then suddenly she was startled by hearing the name she had just written at the head of her letter, pronounced in furtive syllables in the next room!
“Philip Duskin—”
Her fingers paused for an instant and she looked up, her attention drawn to the blurred shadow of the two men in the outer office thrown across the ground glass partition. One was tall and thin with a hawk nose and very little chin, giving his profile at certain angles as he turned his head to talk with his companion something of the outline of a fox’s face. The other was short and fat, with full lips and baggy eyes, and sneered as he talked.
“That Phil Duskin has got his price, you know! I’ve pretty neatly proved that!” insinuated the voice of the short, fat man.
The typewriter Carol was using was one of the so-called “noiseless” type, and the partition of the inner office was only head-high, a mahogany and ground glass affair, which did little else but screen off one corner of the room. It was quite possible to hear everything that went on in the outer office, even when the keys of her typewriter were clicking at full speed.
For an instant, however, her hands paused, poised above the keyboard, a look of startled question on her face, and then as the importance of the words and the furtiveness of the tone impressed her as something that needed investigation, she suddenly slid back into rhythm and began to write again, easily keeping up with the somewhat detached conversation on the other side of the partition.
As the minutes went by and the clock on the outer desk showed half past two, and then quarter to three, and still the president of the Fawcett Construction Company had not arrived, the visitors hitched their chairs closer together and, it happened, a few inches nearer to the partition, and became more confidential.
Carol forgot that there were still letters to be finished before her employer returned, forgot that her trunk was locked and waiting and that she yet had a few purchases to make at the stores, forgot that the rocks and the sand and the excellent hotel awaited her, forgot everything except that she must take down every word that these two men on the other side of the partition were saying. It might and it might not have any bearing on the case of Philip Duskin, but her conscience would not let her leave the words unwitnessed. When Mr. Fawcett came in she would show them to him, and then he could rave at her if he liked for not having completed the most important letter of all. At least raving was the most he could do and a few minutes more would finish the notes. There were only two more brief letters besides this one and her day’s work was done.
The men were mentioning other names now and chuckling quietly over things that had happened. Carol Berkley wondered whether after all the Fawcett Construction Company did have an enemy, as the young construction engineer suggested. But what could possibly be their object? Duskin’s name figured largely in their talk.
“We could afford to divvy up again,” they murmured. And they mentioned sums in hundreds of thousands that filled the girl with awe. These must be crooks on a grand scale and Duskin in with them, or else she had mightily misinterpreted what they were saying. Her fingers flew faster, and she was not missing anything they said. Under cover of the steady click of the “silent” little rhythm they grew bold and talked more freely.
“Well, it’ll be all over but the shoutin’ in another month or so,” declared one of the men, shoving his chair back with a grinding noise. “Say, when is that bird comin’? You don’t suppose he’s holdin’ us up on purpose, do you? I got a
date to play pool with a friend at half past. Better step out and scout around. Mebbe the old bird is out there somewhere!”
Both chairs scraped on the floor now as if the two men had risen. Carol could only see the shadow of the two, a tall, gaunt one with a hawk nose and a short, thick one with a bald spot on his head. One lock stuck up grotesquely as he turned his profile toward the glass for an instant and pouted out a baggy pair of lips above a baggy pair of chins.
Carol paused, quickly drew the sheet of paper from the machine, and dropped it into a drawer beside her. Suppose they should open her door to see if Mr. Fawcett was in there and see Philip Duskin’s name at the top of her letter!
She slipped a new sheet of paper into the roller and adjusted it, trying to summon her senses to a keener alertness.
Quickly she turned to the next letter and began to write. But before she had finished the date she was startled by someone in the outer office calling her name excitedly.
“Miss Berkley, Miss Berkley, where are you? Come quick! There’s been an accident. Mr. Fawcett’s hurt. They’re bringing him up here. They want you to phone for the doctor!”
She was on her feet in an instant, but even as she opened the door her eye took in the two men and identified them. The short, stout one with the bagging eyes and lips had been the one who said that Philip Duskin had his price!
She sprang to Mr. Fawcett’s telephone and called up a doctor, found out where he was at the hospital, capably called the hospital, and arranged to have him come at once. Then she turned to the big leather divan and cleared it. Among other things was an open traveling bag showing a bundle of papers and a checkbook on the top. How careless Mr. Fawcett was sometimes! She snapped the bag shut and swept all the other things into a corner of the room. She plumped up the leather pillows and then turned on the two visitors who were watching her with significant looks at each other and an appearance of waiting to be in on whatever was about to happen.