Father John’s eyes clouded. “My dear, what in your life has ever come close to fair? That’s not how this life works.” He leaned forward and stretched his hands out across the desk. “I’m sorry, Sam. If I could protect you from any more pain, I would. But I can only pray and do the very best God calls me to do. If I’m wrong about this, I hope that someday you will forgive me.”
“‘My temper would perhaps be called resentful.—My good opinion once lost is lost forever.’” When Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t come through, one can always count on Mr. Darcy to provide the right response. I shook my head and, quoting no one, said, “I won’t forgive you, Father John. I don’t forgive.” And I walked out.
I don’t care if that was ungenerous, Mr. Knightley. He overstepped, and he’s wrong. So now I’m asking you: Will you let me decide?
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
April 25
Dear Ms. Moore,
Please forgive me for violating our agreement already, but I felt your question warranted a personal reply.
I understand your anger. It is hard when others hold power over you. Rest assured, your situation is not unique. There is very little any of us chooses in isolation.
Through my foundation, Father John has helped five young adults from Grace House. One attended junior college; another, trade school; one graduated from cosmetology school; and two successfully completed residential treatment programs. Each individual has grown closer to whole.
Father John not only fulfilled all the grant requirements for your application, but wrote me an additional five pages outlining your writing abilities, your gifts, and your determination. His decision to recommend journalism school was not made lightly, as you well know. Remember that, and remember what he has meant in your life. Don’t throw away friends and mentors carelessly. They are rare.
I trust Father John’s prayerful counsel and judgment, and stand with his original recommendation. My foundation will only award the grant for Medill’s master’s program.
The choice to accept it or not is yours, Ms. Moore.
Sincerely,
G. Knightley
May 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I didn’t withdraw my application. I made my choice and now I sit, waiting for Medill to accept or reject me.
In the meantime I’ve settled into my old ways and my old jobs: I resumed tutoring at Buckhorn Cottage (Grace House’s cottage for 8-to 13-year-old boys) and I picked up a few shifts at the public library. I’ve been working at that library for a decade now, even before I moved to Grace House for the first time.
I was about fifteen when I first arrived at Grace House. Father John took me to his office and invited me to sit. No one had ever done that—invited me to do anything. He chatted for a few minutes, then handed me an Anne Perry novel.
“Detective Huber got your file for me, Sam, and it’s full of references to Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Oliver Twist, and other great classics. I think you must like to read. So until I get some of your favorites, would you like to read one of mine?”
The thick hardback had a picture of a Victorian house on the cover. I slowly turned the pages, hoping if I feigned interest in his book, he’d take me to wherever I’d be staying and leave me alone.
He didn’t. “This is one of the first mysteries I ever read. Now I’m hooked. I’ve got about a hundred titles over there.” Father John pointed to his bookcase and waited.
I looked up.
“Come to my office anytime you want a new one. I picked that for you because it takes place in England in the nineteenth century, about the same time as your favorites.”
I put the book down, never breaking eye contact. A show of strength, I thought.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Your choice. I’m sure I can get some classics this week. Or you can go to the public library; it’s on the corner of State and Van Buren.”
I wanted to say I knew exactly where the library was, but that would require speaking to him, so I simply slid the book into my lap. I wasn’t going to admit, even to myself, that I liked the man—and still do. In spite of how angry I am with him at the moment, I know that Father John has always been on my side.
He welcomed me at fifteen and again at eighteen, after I tried to move out. And now at twenty-three, despite my heated words, he’s opened Grace House’s door once more. So while I’m here, I will listen to his lectures and I will try to do what he asks. I owe him that much.
I’ll even try to play nice with Morgan, my new roommate in Independence Cottage . . .
“She’s had a rough time, Sam. She turned eighteen a couple days ago and her foster family ended the placement.”
“She can go on her own. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not without her GED. You know how important that is. She’s testing next month, then joining the army.” Father John stared right through me.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m asking you to be kind. Morgan’s defense mechanisms are different from yours, and it may be rough going. Please don’t make waves.”
“I make waves?”
“Like the ocean, kiddo. Then you retreat before they hit the sand.”
Ouch.
So I’m being kind, but Morgan isn’t making it easy. We were cleaning the kitchen the other day and I told her about your grant. I was trying to be friendly. She was not.
“You’re selling yourself for school? I can’t believe you’d give it up for tuition. At least get some money or clothes from the deal.”
“Morgan, shut up. You’re disgusting. It isn’t like that. I write letters to an address in New York and I get my tuition paid to graduate school.”
“I bet a lot of girls start out that way.” Morgan stopped washing her dishes and stared at me. She smiled slowly, almost cruelly. “Letters will be worse for you anyway. Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean ‘worse for me’? I can write a few letters, Morgan. That’s what I do. I write.”
“Honesty will kill you. You’re a coward, and you’ll lie. That makes the whole deal a lie.” She put her plate down and walked away.
She’s not right. I’m not a coward, and I will be honest in these letters. Simply because I don’t blab my business to the world like Mrs. Bennet doesn’t mean I’m a coward. I’m prudent when dealing with people. That’s smart. Wouldn’t you agree?
But Morgan brings up a good point—her only one so far. Have you read Jane Eyre? There’s a part when Mr. Rochester meets Jane and asks if she expects a present. Adele, his ward, believes everyone should receive presents, daily. Jane isn’t so sure. She replies, “They are generally thought pleasant things . . . a present has many faces to it, has it not? And one should consider all before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.”
You’ve led me to believe your gift has one face, Mr. Knightley.
I’ll leave it at that.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
P.S. Okay, I can’t leave it . . .
If you are truly a “Mr. Knightley,” I can do this. I can write these letters. I trust you chose that name as a reflection of your own character. George Knightley is a good and honorable man—even better than Fitzwilliam Darcy, and few women put anyone above Mr. Darcy.