A Place in His Heart (3 page)

“Of course. His father owns the mill.”

“What did Mother think of him?”

“She said he made her laugh. She liked him very much, but it is my impression all of the ladies do.” His blue eyes twinkled as he ran fingers through his silvery hair.

“Papa, I have given a lot of thought to what I told you and Lizzie in London.”

“What is that, my girl?”

“I need to apply myself to learning the skills every good wife should have.”

“Such as?”

“Why, any of the domestic arts.”

Her father returned to the list of numbers, then rubbed his eyes. “You will do well to learn from your sister, to be sure. Your mother taught her well. But know that Robert will take you as you are. He worships you, my girl.”

Her heart wrenched. Why could he not see that Robert didn't worship her? That he was more a rascal than an admirer. “I think I shall wander now in the garden, Papa.” She slipped out the door.

She followed the winding path where spent vines of clingy honeysuckle and sweet jasmine formed an arch. The gardener had been at work preparing to do an autumn planting of sweet peas. She knelt to the plucky herbs and haphazardly picked some thyme and the lemon balm that took over every bare inch. She needed to speak to her sister. And soon.

The sun sank from the sky, the last glint of light casting a golden glow across the wheat field. In a moment it would be gone and all would disappear in darkness. Ann's life had been like that—her golden countenance touched everyone she met. Barnabas clenched his hands. He'd been so blessed, but too soon the darkness descended and in an instant she was gone.

The air turned crisp and he walked back into the timber-framed home he built for her years ago. A big house with plenty of room for the many children they dreamt of having. For a moment, Mary slipped into his daydreams. How sweet. And so grown up. She was most likely around twenty, which put him ten years older. A sigh escaped. Or had he just moaned his beloved's name, Ann? He wasn't certain, but thoughts of her brought his attention back to his boys and the bedtime regimen awaiting him.

He wandered into the kitchen, picked up the two mugs he'd left to warm on the hearth beside the fire, and dipped a finger into each. Satisfied, he carried them to the bedroom. “Come, boys, sit and drink your milk.”

His sons looked up from their play with hand-carved horses,
treasures from Grandfather Horton. Joseph took his brother's horse and put it next to his on the small table, his face sullen. “I don't want to go to bed, Father. I hate going to bed.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. How he needed Ann at moments like this.

He let out his breath in slow increments, at the same time reaching for his son. Joseph's wide eyes softened his heart. “Please, I know these times are hard for you. Mayhap we should put your brother to bed, and then you and I go out to the fire and read our Bible. Drink your milk. You too, Benjamin, and I will ready the washbowl for you.”

The boys washed their faces and rinsed their teeth. Barnabas tucked Benjamin into bed and looked down at his small son, so much like Ann. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“Say your prayers, Benjamin.” How strange his own low, ravaged voice sounded. The soft words of his youngest drew him back.

“God bless Father, God bless Joseph, and God bless Mother, who is in heaven.” Benjamin recited his prayer earnestly, and then as if he could feel the sadness and turmoil in his father, he added, “And God help us all.”

Barnabas bent and kissed his son's forehead, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “Thank you.” He tenderly tucked the quilt about Benjamin's shoulders. He closed his eyes and a vision of Ann flitted into his thoughts, bent over the quilt, carefully placing her stitches.

Joseph rolled his eyes and with a set jaw marched out to the front hall.

Barnabas followed from the bedroom and found him already settled in one of the two chairs, his head buried in his arms. The fire burned low. He picked up the iron poker and began to nudge the great charred logs. “Are you all right?”

His son looked up, eyes red and brimmed with tears. “No.” His voice sounded so small, so sad. “Why did she die? I had the pox. Benjamin, too. It's not fair. I want her to come back.”

“Aye, I do too. Joseph, I understand.”

“No, no. She was my mother.”

“True, Joseph, and she was my life.” Air seeped out of his lungs. He eased himself into the chair and picked up the family Bible. He thumbed through the tattered pages. “Grandfather Horton gave me this Bible when I married your mother. He told me the best advice he could ever give me is all in this book. We need God's constant help and blessings. Both are in the pages of the Bible. Your grandfather and I never have agreed about the church, but on God's care we do.”

He leafed through the book, searching for the help he needed now. He came to a verse Ann particularly loved, marked by her frayed, blue hair ribbon. He fingered the ribbon for a moment. “Joseph, listen. Philippians, chapter four, beginning with the sixth verse, ‘Be nothing careful, but in all things let your requests be showed unto God in prayer and supplication with giving of thanks. And the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall preserve your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.'”

He carefully returned the blue ribbon to the page as he closed the Bible and looked up at his son. “Do you understand what that means, Joseph? It means do not worry, but tell God your concerns. He will take care of you. He will take care of us. I know it is a very sad time, and I would want your mother back, if God be willing. But even though God has called her home, He has not forgotten us. He watches over us.” He saw the intense loss and abandonment in his young son's eyes.

“Father, do you think Mother can see us? If she is in heaven with God, is she an angel too?”

He swallowed hard before he answered. He knew what the Bible said about angels, the heavenly hosts, but he also knew the Bible taught of giving milk to those who were not ready for meat. He regarded his young son. There would be time for him to grow in the Lord and the teachings of the Bible. He would give him the milk for now.

“Son, the Bible tells us that God has angels, beautiful angels. I believe your mother was an angel while she was here on earth. I see no reason why God would not want her to be an angel with Him in heaven. She is probably looking down right now and wondering why I am not putting you to bed.”

For the first time in a long time, Joseph giggled. He stood up and turned toward the bedroom. “Good night, Father.” He looked up and whispered, “Good night, Mother.”

Barnabas breathed a sigh. “Good night, Joseph, now go to bed.” He rose and touched his son's shoulder, thankful that God gave him the opportunity to offer hope. “Let me carry the candle. It's burning low.”

They carefully walked to the foot of the bed the boys shared and the flame flickered until it extinguished. Joseph grabbed for his father.

“Stay calm. There are more in the kitchen. Here now, son, let me tuck you in. Close your eyes and say your prayers.”

He listened as Joseph began his prayers, then bumped his way to the front room. In the glow of the remaining embers he searched for the tallow candles. None. “Fudge! Is there no end? I cannot keep up with everything. Lord, why did You take her?” How many times would he ask that of God?

Whimpers from the bedroom brought him out of his sorrow and to the task at hand. He stumbled back through the dark and tried to soothe his boy. “I am so sorry. Look, son, out the
window. Do you see the starry night? We are not in the dark. Do not be afraid. I am here and God has given us all of those twinkling lights.”

He sat by the bed until slumber came to Joseph and then wandered back to the hearth, sank into his chair, and stared at the empty one. The enormity of his loss enveloped him again and smothered the hope he'd shared with his son. Silent wails erupted within his chest, causing it to heave with each wretched gasp.

He searched the depth of his soul. Was there anything he could have done to save her? Guilt engulfed him. Should he have been the caregiver when the boys first took ill? Why had he not called the doctor sooner? If he'd only known.

Exhausted, he leaned his head back. His hand dangled and a warm, fuzzy ball of fur soon rubbed against his fingers. He reached down and drew the small gray cat to his lap. “There, there, Miss Tilly, we will be all right.” She looked at him with curious blue eyes.

He stroked her as she gently kneaded his leg with the pads of her paws. With great effort he rose and held her close as he banked the fire, drawing ashes over the few remaining embers. He needed to rise early and start the fires once again.

“Let me put you to bed, little cat.” He tucked her between the sleeping boys, then tiptoed to his own bed. He paused and looked to the heavens. His voice was but a whisper. “Good night, Ann.” Crawling under the quilt, he sought solace in sleep, but his eyes would not stay shut.
I cannot
go on alone. Please, Lord, be with me.

Mary spread a thick layer of butter over her crusty bread and savored a bite.

Her father walked across the elegant winter parlor to the long, polished table. “You look happy today, my girl. Perhaps only that the green of your dress brings out the emerald of your eyes, but I daresay it's been a long time since you looked this content. Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother? I always knew how she felt, just by her eyes.”

“Yes, Papa, a thousand times.” She grinned at him as she set her bread on the plate and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin she kept close by. “But you can tell me a thousand times more and I shan't tire. Sometimes I fear I shall forget her.”

“Nay, only look in the silver looking glass she left you.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled back.

She brushed the crumbs from her skirt, then rose to fetch her hat. She looked at her new felt but chose the simple muslin coif. “I'm going to visit Lizzie, Papa. I shall be home for supper.” She stepped close to peck his cheek.

“Very well, my girl. I shall tell Cook. Tell Elizabeth I send my love and to honor us with a visit sometime.” He squeezed her hand.

Mary hurried down the lane but turned back to see Papa at the window, waving. She knew he would be. She gave a little wave and blew him a kiss.

Mostly she liked to linger on her walk to the village, but this morning she kept a brisk pace, with barely a glance at the fall color painting the landscape. Twenty minutes later she turned onto the main road into Mowsley.

To her left, the village smithy paused as she bustled by. “Good morrow to you, Miss Langton,”

“Why, good morrow to you.” She eyed the nails he tapered with his mallet on a broad anvil. “Four penny nails, Mister Long, or ten?”

He nodded approval. “They be the ten, Miss Langton.”

A minute later she was in front of the Fannings' door. She tapped gently and Lizzie appeared, floured from head to toe. They embraced and the familiar scent of yeasty dough emanated from her sister.

“Mary, I didn't expect you. Come in. London was such fun, was it not?”

“Really, Lizzie? I think not.”

“Cheer up and fetch a chair. I started my bread dough late last night. Usually, I'd have this to Mr. Horton by now, but of course it needs time and warmth.”

Mary watched as Lizzie punched the dough down and worked to shape the mass into fat mounds. Her sister crisscrossed the tops with a sharp knife. “Why do you do that?”

“If you cut a little slit across the dough, the yeast will give one last burst in the hot oven.”

“I know you have tried before, but would you teach me to cook? To embroider? I shall be miserable if Papa makes me marry Robert. Please, please, help me.” She begged with her eyes as much as her words.

“Why, little sister, of course I will. But do not think for a minute it shall change Father's mind.” She placed the loaves in a basket and covered them with a cloth. “Now, would you like to come with me to the bakeshop? Perhaps Mr. Horton would give you a ginger cake like he did when you were a child.”

She smiled quickly at Lizzie. “Yes, by all means, I want to go. By the by, Lizzie, you failed to tell me Mr. Horton's wife died. Is that not odd that you would not tell me?”

“Nay, not that odd. You were so crushed over Nathan you would not even leave your room. I went to her funeral, but Father did not. He stayed home to be close to you. We were both
truly frightened for you. To add to your grief would be of no use. Nay, it was much better at the time not to tell you.” She handed her the basket. “Now, shall we go? I am late and Mr. Horton will be in a state of ill humor.”

The sisters walked arm in arm down the village green, passed the great elm, and turned to the shops. Mary dangled the basket from her arm.

The wind pushed through the bell-cote, raising a gentle peal, and caught their attention. The church, built in the shape of a cross and adorned with beautiful arched windows, was an ancient landmark in their tiny hamlet. The walls were made to endure for centuries with large pebbles and a limestone dressing.

They walked past the chandler and cobbler shops, admiring displays propped in open doorways to lure patrons in. The aroma of freshly baked bread drifted toward them. The bakeshop sat back from the road, just before the turn. Mary raised her nose and sniffed. “I smell ginger. Ginger cakes, do you think?”