RELAX in Troubled Times. Only minutes to learn, and just ten minutes of practice a day. This therapeutic method is now recommended to treat patients suffering from stress and many other physical and psychological ailments.
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Rose Greenwood turned and looked at the café the outspoken, blonde woman had entered. She steadied herself and took courage from the other ladies in arms. At heart, Rose was no outspoken leader like Mrs. Taylor, but she had determination. She did her duty, calling men to fight. Rose thought of the man she loved. She wanted to make sure he had plenty of help so he would come home to her.
She had heard about the white feather campaign one day from a friend and found an article in the paper about it. She had gained more information and got up the courage to ask matron for several weeks off from the hospital to take part in the campaign and travel around the ports to encourage Canadian men to rally to the cause. Matron had been grim and stern, but she’d conceded . . .
Weeks prior Victoria General Hospital, Halifax
“Heavens! Speak up, Greenwood. No one likes a mumbler.”
Margaret Hastings, the duty matron at Victoria General, looked tired. She stood next to Rose while she acquired bedding in the laundry room. “Come, it is late, and I wish for nothing better than a warm sweater, a hot cup of tea, a good book, and a cozy fire by which to read it.”
Rose heard the matron’s words come out longingly but with distinct impatience. She gulped and laid the stack of fresh sheets back down on her pile. She tried not to be waylaid by the matron’s tone.
“I . . . would like to request some . . . time off, Matron.”
“Time off? You just started, my girl.” Matron narrowed her eyes and pinched her lips into a stern expression.
“I know, but it’s for the war effort.” Rose held her hands cupped around her middle. Her fingers toyed with a stray thread on her white apron.
Matron sighed. “And what exactly does this war effort entail?” She paused and eyed Rose with what looked like a tinge of compassion. “I suppose there are plenty of staff with the new graduates, and I could . . . rework the schedule a bit to account for your absence.”
Rose turned full, hopeful eyes towards her overseer. “Have you heard of the white feather campaign, mum?”
“Can’t say as I have.” Matron checked the watch hanging at the junction of her white apron and uniform.
“Well, I’ve read about it in the papers and all. Admiral Charles Fitzgerald from England and a lady author, Mrs. Humphrey, have charged young ladies with the handing out of white feathers to encourage men to sign up to do their duty.” Rose worked to inform the matron without displaying a warble in her tone.
“That is there, not here in Canada,” Margaret pointed out.
Rose was not deterred. “A local chapter has started here. I read about it, and I went to a meeting. A local suffragette leads the effort—Amelia Stowe.” She gained more strength in her voice the more she spoke. “I think it important for women to do their part in the war effort.”
“Yes, well, working here at Victoria General will be ‘your part,’ but . . . I suppose I can hold your spot for you. Just a few weeks is all, you hear?” Matron shook her finger in Rose’s face.
“Thank you, Matron, this means so much to me.” Rose lit up with a smile. Her green eyes sparkled.
“Yes, well. Just mind what I said. When does this campaign begin?”
“Next week.”
“Very well. Go about your duties and finish up your shift; it is almost done.”
Rose lessened the intensity of her smile, nodded demurely to the matron, and headed out with the fresh sheets to finish up changing a few of the patient’s linens. She was excited to be doing something so worthwhile.
Rose had met the other ladies at the docks the next week in Halifax and sailed on down the water systems, stopping and transferring vessels as need be. Webaashi Bay had been the most outlying port and their most westward stop. After this, it would be homeward bound. It gladdened her heart. She longed to be home and, to be truthful, to be done with this job. Her expectations had differed from the end results. She’d taken the light out of one too many sets of eyes.
She now dreaded the look on the men’s faces when she pinned a feather to their coat. A vision of the man by the dock this morning, who had been drawing with artist’s coal, came to her. His blue eyes had flashed kind, sad, and so . . . hurt. Her conscience bit at the fact that she used shame as a motivation, but she set it aside. The thought of Henry motivated her, and she would not let him die alone on the battlefield.
Available on Amazon
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Available on Amazon
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Charlotte Hubbard is a beloved writer of Amish inspirational romance. Today you can have a look inside her newest book, Morning Star, which is the first in a new series. Be sure to follow the tour for even more excerpts and reviews! And then enter the great giveaway at the end.
Regina entered her bedroom, stepped onto her large wooden trunk, and then opened the short, narrow door in the wall so she could climb the wooden stairs to the attic.
What if nobody wants my paintings, or worse yet, ridicules them? And what if folks figure out that I’m the artist—and that I’ve been living a lie for years? Best to nip this in the bud before I have to tell any more whoppers and get caught in them.
And yet, as Regina stood in the center of her secret studio, something deep inside her longed to display the work that so satisfied her soul. Nearly every evening, after a day of staining furniture, she spent a few hours in her hideaway, painting nature scenes.
Regina needed to paint the way most folks needed to eat and breathe. Her schoolteacher had complimented her artwork when she’d been young—and her parents had allowed her to take a short watercolor class at Koenig’s Krafts when she’d entered rumspringa. Dat’s brother Clarence was a preacher, however, so he’d been adamant about Regina joining the church at an early age. She’d secured her salvation at seventeen by being baptized, but she’d forfeited her innermost soul: in the Morning Star district, members were forbidden to create art for art’s sake because it was considered worldly and it called attention to the artist.
Regina had obediently tucked her paints and brushes into her wooden trunk, but she’d felt the loss of her art acutely. After her parents had died when a train collided with the bus they were all riding home from a wedding, Regina had kept herself sane by taking up her paints again, setting up her easel in the attic—out of sight when anyone came to visit. At twenty-two, she’d been rather young to live alone on her family’s small acreage but moving in with Uncle Clarence, Aunt Clara, and their young daughters would’ve killed her spirit forever.
Bishop Jeremiah had taken her side and had dropped in on her often until she’d gotten a little older. Martin Flaud had hired her because her father had been one of his finest craftsmen—and because Regina had proven herself to be more meticulous at staining and finishing than any of his male employees. She’d survived the rough, lonely times by working hard at the factory, and by surrounding herself with the quilts and curtains Mamm had made and the furniture Dat had built for their cozy home.
And so the last ten years had passed . . .
Regina had willingly given up any chance for marriage—because she couldn’t reveal her sinful pastime to a husband.
Gazing at the nature paintings that surrounded her on that Sunday afternoon, Regina felt torn. Why had God given her a keen eye and the talent to render woodland scenes, flowers, and wild creatures on paper if He wouldn’t allow her to paint pictures of His creation openly and without guilt?
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