Her Captain's Heart (10 page)

By setting his barn afire, someone had commenced the next battle for freedom. Matt was going to make it clear to Fiddlers Grove that he and Verity would win this battle. The Freedman's School would be built here.

The old men sitting outside on the store's bench rose, and followed Matt inside. The store was full of people and they instantly fell silent at Matt's entrance—again. Of course, the burning of his barn had been the topic of discussion this time. The town gathered at the general store. That's why Matt had chosen it as the place to announce his declaration of war.

He halted in the middle of the crowded store. And as one, they all drew back from him. He looked around, fixing his glare on each and every one in turn. “You all know about yesterday's fire. You probably know who set it. Now I have something else you all need to know. I'm going to telegraph the Yankee commander in Richmond today and ask for Union soldiers be sent to Fiddlers Grove
if
there is any more violent opposition to the Freedman's School. Your town will be occupied like Richmond.”
You've messed with the wrong person. I'm not getting run out of town a second time.

“You've got nerve telling us Negroes got to have a school,” one old codger barked.

Another joined in, “Telling us that Negroes are going to vote. Hogs'll fly in Virginia first. You think you can tell us what to do—”

“I
can
tell you what will be done here. I've been authorized by the War Department to do just that.” Matt felt the words fly from his mouth. Anger surged inside him as if it were a living thing.

“We're not going to ratify the amendments they're pushing through Congress. We got rights,” the first codger objected, nearly dropping his pipe. “We're going to stand up for those rights in the Constitution.”

“Did you care about my parents' rights when you forced them out of town?” Matt demanded, his frustration sparking inside him like a thunderbolt. “You lost the war and you're going to lose this battle, too. The South will change or suffer another war. Or worse. Mrs. Hardy and I are federal employees. Messing with us could send you to federal prison. Think about it.”

Shocked silence was his only answer. He stalked out to his horse and mounted, galloping toward the next town and the telegraph office. In his mind, he saw Verity's frightened, smoke-smudged face. The image prompted him to dig his heels in and ride faster.

 

On the cloudy Second Day morning, the day after the horrible fire, Verity set out on her errand. She had meant to discuss what she planned to do today with Matthew, but he had ridden away just as she was about to start out. So she'd left on her business, praying for courage all the way. Yesterday's fire showed her that she must do something radical to reach out to the people of Fiddlers Grove. She had to take action, to stop the cycle of violence. She must turn the other cheek.

Now she walked resolutely up to the Ransford door and knocked, using the tarnished brass knocker twice. She glanced around, trying to calm her quivering stomach.

The door opened and an obviously shocked Elijah stared at her.

“Good day, Elijah. Are the Ransfords at home to guests?” Speaking these words sent another cascade of tremors through her. Did she have the nerve to do this?

Elijah's Adam's apple bobbed a few times as if he were having trouble speaking. Finally he said, “I will inquire. Won't you step inside, ma'am?”

She smiled and stepped over the threshold. Elijah left her and she stared around the entry hall, noting that cobwebs hung from the candle lamp high above her. And dust collected in the corners of the room. Evidently the lady of this house did not dust.

“Why have you come here?”

Verity looked at Lirit Ransford, who was coming down the ornate curved staircase like a haughty princess in a fairy tale. “I bid thee good morning.”

The pretty woman paused on the third step from the bottom. “I asked you why have you come here.”

Verity refused to be daunted. After all, the worst that could happen was that Lirit Ransford would refuse the invitation.

 

When Matt arrived at the Barnesworth house, a sharp jab of hunger made him realize that he'd missed the noon meal. After unsaddling his horse, he bounded up the steps into the kitchen that had begun to feel like home, hoping Barney hadn't been given all the leftovers.

He found Verity sitting at the table, writing. He was immediately captivated by her small hand holding a pen. He recalled how tiny her hand had felt in his. Hannah stood by the stove, frowning. He stopped and waited for them to acknowledge him.

“I think Joseph will be able to bag us a wild turkey,” Verity was saying. “And I brought pumpkins from Pennsylvania, so we'll have pumpkin pie.” She looked up and welcomed Matt with a smile.

He'd never seen a smile more welcoming than Verity's. “Hello. I'm sorry I missed lunch,” he began.

“Don't you worry yourself,” Hannah said, reaching into the pie safe. “I kept something for you.” She handed him a plate covered with a spotless kitchen cloth. “Wait till you hear the news.”

He sat down, momentarily distracted by the sight of the plate heaped with ham, cornbread and jellied apple slices.

“I got dustin' to do if y'all excuse me.” Hannah said, sounding disgruntled. She left them abruptly.

Matt looked to Verity. “Anything wrong?”

“Hannah doesn't approve of what I've done.” Verity didn't give him any time to respond. “Where was thee off to this morning?”

Hunger and thirst came first. “Is that coffee?” He pointed to the pot on the stove.

“Yes.” She made to rise.

“I'll get it.” He went to the stove. “I'm used to waiting on myself.”

“Thee is an unusual man, Matthew Ritter.” She grinned.

Glad he'd made her smile for a change, Matt shrugged and sat down. “I sent a telegram to the commander in Richmond, telling him about the fire and alerting him that we might need troops if any more violent opposition occurs here.”

Verity drew in breath, looking shocked. “Does thee think there will be more violent opposition?”

He paused to swallow the salty ham. “Yes, I think there's a good chance, especially since we're going to rebuild. I went to the general store before I left and warned everyone there what I was doing. The former slaves and their children are going to have a place to learn to read and write.” His words bolstered his feeling of strength. “I didn't fight four long years—”
watch good men die
“—for my cousin to keep everything as it was before the war.”

Verity looked worried. He chewed more slowly, trying to figure out what was going on. He recalled that Hannah had been upset with Verity. “Now, what did you do that Hannah doesn't like?” he asked, almost grinning.
How bad could it be?

“This Thursday is Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving? His family hadn't really celebrated this holiday. President Lincoln had it made a national observance in, what—'63? He nodded. “What about it?”

“Now that it's a national day devoted to giving thanks to God for the many blessings, I thought—”

Hannah walked into the room and asked in a huffy tone, “You tell him about that Thanksgiving dinner you planning?”

“Yes,” Verity said, “I am.”

“Did you tell Mr. Matt what you done this morning?” Hannah opened the oven and peered inside.

Hannah's words snatched away Matt's appetite. “What did you do?”

Verity looked him straight in the eye. “I invited thy cousin and his wife to share Thanksgiving dinner with us.”

He felt his jaw drop. His fork clattered to the plate.

“And they accepted,” Hannah pronounced, shaking her head with eyes heavenward.

Matt stared at Verity. Was the woman out of her mind?

 

Twilight was coming earlier now. Matthew had avoided Verity all day and had spoken to her in one-syllable words since her announcement. She walked toward his cabin, her soft shawl snug around her. They must discuss Thanksgiving. She must make him understand why she was doing this. But when she knocked on the closed cabin door, there was no answer. “Matthew, may I speak with thee?”

No reply.

She pulled her shawl even tighter around herself. The night would be a chilly one. She looked up and saw a trail of smoke coming out the chimney. “Matthew?” she tried once more.

No reply.

She stood there a few more moments and then walked back to the house.
I intended to discuss the invitation with thee, Matthew.

Couldn't a family disagree on an issue yet remain friends? She'd married outside her parents' faith. Though they would have been happier if she'd wed another Friend, they had accepted Roger as a good man, as her choice of husband.

What had happened between the cousins? She sensed it must have something to do with the issue of slavery. Matthew's family had left when he was twelve. Samuel had run away at fifteen. What deep past wound had she opened up with this invitation?

The wind tugged her shawl, her hair. Pulling her shawl tighter, she bent her head into the wind and prayed for wisdom, blessing, love and healing to come to this town.

Thanksgiving morning

A
ll morning Verity had helped Hannah in the kitchen with the Thanksgiving meal. She had just come up and changed into her best black dress before her guests arrived. Her guests, or her enemies?

Matthew had come in for breakfast before the rest of them and then vanished. Why, she wondered as she sat in front of the trifold mirror. She sighed at the wan reflection of her worried eyes. In the house that she'd grown up in, there had been no mirrors. As a child, the only time she had seen what her face looked like was when she glimpsed her reflection in the local creek on a sunny day.

This vanity had been her wedding gift from her husband. When she had objected that it was vanity indeed to look at oneself in a mirror, he had laughed and said that he wanted her to see how beautiful she was. And what a fortunate man he was.

She had been scandalized. It had taken a year before she could look into the mirror as she undid her hair every night and brushed it before braiding it again. She gazed at the daguerreotype of Roger on the vanity and pressed her fingers to his image. The sight of him gave her the confidence to face the situation she'd created. She knew a part of her would always love Roger, the father of her dear daughter.
But thee is gone, Roger. I will not see thee again till I see thee in eternity.

She lifted the blue velvet box from one of the drawers. Opening it, she drew out and fastened the silver locket her husband had given her on their first anniversary. Maybe his giving her silver for the first anniversary had been an omen that they would never reach their silver anniversary.
No, I don't believe in omens. That's just foolish superstition.

She needed armor today. The locket and the love it symbolized would protect her heart.
I must be bold like the apostle Paul. The Lord has not given me a spirit of fear.

Fingering the cool oval locket, she heard the approach of a carriage. Would the Ransfords come in a carriage instead of walking? Recalling the haughty manner Lirit Ransford had displayed three days ago when Verity had invited her, she wouldn't be surprised.

The rag-doll feeling came over her again. It was as if she were being moved by outside forces. Was this because being a confronter was not what she wanted to be? Sighing, Verity rose and walked to the top of the stairs. The scents of sage, nutmeg and cinnamon hung tantalizingly in the air. Verity wished her appetite would come back and banish the panic roiling in her stomach. Beth stood next to her on tiptoe, looking over the railing on the landing. Verity offered Beth her hand. “Let's go welcome our guests.”

Her daughter gave her a quizzical look. Verity took Beth's small hand and led her down. The girl had picked up on the undercurrent of tension that had run steadily in this house the past two days. As they walked hand in hand down the stairs, Verity wondered if Matthew would come or stay in his cabin. She and Beth stepped down into the entrance hall just as Hannah opened the door. An icy wave of apprehension washed through Verity.

She put on her brightest smile. “Good day! Welcome to our home.”

Hannah said nothing as she stalked away toward the kitchen. Her stiff back announced to all her attitude toward this “nonsense.” Beth hid behind Verity's skirt. Verity stroked her fine dark hair, trying to reassure her. “Dacian and Lirit, I'm so happy thee have come to share our Thanksgiving meal.”

Dacian closed the door against the stiff breeze, took off his hat and hung it on the hall tree. “Good day, Mrs. Hardy.” He bowed. “And I'm happy to meet your pretty little daughter.”

“Yes, Beth, this is Dacian Ransford and his wife, Lirit.” Verity offered him her trembling hand. Beth curtsied.

“I don't know why you think you may address me by my given name,” Lirit Ransford snapped.

“I beg thy pardon,” Verity said, controlling the quaver just beneath her words. “I was raised a Friend and we never use titles. Of course, if thee prefers, I will call thee Mrs. Ransford. I don't wish to cause—”

“You may do that, then,” Lirit cut in. “And I shall call you—” the woman paused, giving her a taunting look “—Mrs. Foolhardy.”

“Lirit,” Dacian cautioned her in a low voice.

Mrs. Ransford lifted her chin, unrepentant.

Oddly the unmasking of the woman's hostility steadied Verity. “Thee may call me Verity or Mrs. Hardy or whatever thee thinks best, Mrs. Ransford,” Verity said with dignity. “Won't thee please come into the parlor?”

“Ladies,” Dacian said, and motioned for them to precede him. Soon they were all seated in the parlor—the Ransfords on the sagging sofa and Verity with Beth on the worn love seat across from them. The Barnesworth parlor was a mix of tattered upholstered furniture, Chippendale and primitive pieces obviously crafted by a local woodworker. A stiff silence settled over them. Beth didn't even fidget.

Help me, Lord.
Verity cleared her throat. “Today may be a holiday new to thee.”

“Yes, it is, ma'am,” Dacian said.

“We've never celebrated Yankee holidays,” Mrs. Ransford said, her low opinion of such things evident in her arrogant tone. She sneered when she looked around at the dilapidated parlor. The wallpaper was faded and peeling in places.

Verity had itched to do some upkeep on it, but she was here to teach and begin God's work of healing, not to strip wallpaper and paint walls.
Please, Matthew, come help me. Thee knows these people. I don't.
Verity tried again, saying, “We are one nation again and so Virginians can celebrate Thanksgiving also.”

Mrs. Ransford sniffed.

“I believe that we can all agree that having the war ended at last is something to celebrate,” Verity ventured, her misgivings over issuing this invitation expanding moment by moment.

“Yes, ma'am. I take it that you are a widow,” Dacian said, obviously trying to make conversation.

Her throat convulsed, but she forced out, “Yes, my husband fell at the Second Battle of Bull Run.”

“I believe we called that the Second Battle at Manassas,” Dacian said.

Mrs. Ransford's face flushed. “I lost my only brother in that battle.” She glared at Verity. “Maybe your husband killed Geoffrey.”

The woman's bald words snapped Verity's composure, her hand itching to slap Lirit's sneering face.

“Who can tell who shot whom in the midst of a battle,” Dacian said solemnly. “I try not to think of all the men I killed.”

His grave words sluiced over Verity like a bucket of icy water. Pain spiraled through her, bringing tears. The four years of the war had been the worst of her life. She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “The war was horrible. That's why I invited thee here today. The war must end. Healing must begin.”

“Yes,” the man agreed.

Beth looked back and forth between the two women. “Who did my papa kill? Who's Geoffrey?”

Not looking at Lirit, Verity wiped her eyes and patted Beth's hand. “Thee must not take all we say at face value. No one knows how or why Mrs. Ransford's brother fell in battle but God.”

Mrs. Ransford had conscience enough to look abashed. “I didn't mean anything bad about your father, little girl.”

Verity took advantage of the shift in this proud woman's tone. “I've been wanting to get to know the women of this town. Are there any ladies' sewing groups or mission societies here?”

Mrs. Ransford's face lifted in an unhappy mix of smugness and derision. “I'm hosting the next meeting of the Daughters of the Confederacy Monday next at three in the afternoon. I'm sure you would be welcomed with open arms.” Thick sarcasm oozed from every word, her face smug and condescending.

Verity swallowed a hasty retort, holding on to her patience. She knew this wouldn't be easy. But love always triumphed over evil if one held on. Christ had won the victory over sin and death by holding on in the face of cruel mocking, torture and the cross.

The memory of the fire just days ago had finally convinced Verity that some in Fiddlers Grove would not hesitate to hurt her if they could get away with it. Still, she must do what she thought God had called her to do. It was possible that Lirit Ransford could help her with her personal mission—the meeting she was hosting could prove the perfect opportunity, as strange as that might seem. “Thank you, Mrs. Ransford, for the kind invitation.”

The woman opened her mouth, but Matthew appeared in the entrance to the parlor, sparing Verity from further insult. Both Ransfords stared at him. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes and looked very handsome. Joy and uncertainty clashed within Verity as she rose to greet him.

“Matthew, I'm so glad thee has come.”

“I wouldn't miss dinner.” Matthew strode into the room and halted in front of his cousin. “I see you came to celebrate Thanksgiving with us.” Matthew's wry tone nearly matched Mrs. Ransford's mocking words.

Oh, dear. What have I done?
Verity realized her fingernails were digging into her own flesh.

Dacian met Matthew's gaze but gave no indication of sentiment for or against his cousin.

Hannah stomped down the hall to the parlor entrance. “Dinner's ready.”

Verity wished Hannah wouldn't make her negative opinion quite so evident. Completely devoid of appetite, she rose. “Won't thee please come to the dining room?”

Joseph appeared in the hall, carrying the platter with the golden-brown roast turkey. “Hello, hello,” he greeted the guests, nodding them into the dining room across the hall. Joseph set the platter in the middle of the table, laid with the Barnesworth chipped china and a centerpiece of fall leaves and acorns that Beth had gathered. Then Joseph shook hands with Dacian and bowed to his wife.

Soon Joseph had everyone seated and he offered grace. Verity could only be grateful for Joseph's imperturbable cheerfulness. The delicious aromas seemed to affect everyone. Mrs. Ransford almost smiled while Joseph carved. The dishes passed from hand to hand while Joseph entertained them with the story of the merry chase the flock of wild turkeys had led him on.

As she listened to the story, Verity kept one eye on Matthew. He said not a word but twice looked at his pocket watch. Why? She took her first mouthful of creamy mashed potatoes. And then a knock came at the door.

Matthew rose. “I'll get it, Hannah!” he called, and went to the door.

Verity froze, her fork in midair, as she recognized the voice of the person Matthew had just ushered inside.
Oh, no.

Then Matthew returned. “Since you invited guests to join us for Thanksgiving dinner, Mrs. Hardy, I felt free to do so, as well.” He stepped aside and there was Samuel, standing in her dining room.

The reaction was instant. Mrs. Ransford leaped to her feet. “I won't tolerate an insult like this. I'm leaving.” She threw down her linen napkin. “Dacian, take me home.”

Dacian remained motionless. A raw, dangerous silence hovered over the holiday table. Verity's heart pounded. Then Dacian said to Verity, “Ma'am, did you do this to insult us?”

Verity didn't like his equating sitting with Samuel, a good man, with an insult. Maybe she had been foolish. What good could one meal do in face of such prejudice? She looked Dacian Ransford directly in the eye. “I invited thee because after our barn was burned, I felt I had to do something positive to end the violence. I was hoping that somehow at this meal I could start to reach out to this community, to soften not harden hearts. We've already discussed frankly why I came here, Dacian.”

The ugly silence in the room continued. Then Matthew broke it and said, sounding disgusted, “She's an idealist, Dace. She can't help herself—”

His voice was drowned out by Barney's frantic barking just outside the dining-room window. Verity stiffened. What now?

Beth leaped up. “That's Barney! Maybe those bad men who burned our barn came back!” The little girl raced from the room. “They might hurt Barney!”

“Beth! Wait!” Shock and caution pulsing through her veins, Verity jumped up, racing after her daughter. “Beth!”

Outside the back door, Verity paused. Ahead still barking wildly, Barney was now running with Beth toward the cabin. Verity chased after Beth, aware that Matthew was right behind her, followed by Samuel and Dacian.

The cabin door was open. Verity burst inside to see Barney panting and whining near the bed. Beth stood beside him. “Mama, somebody hurt that boy Alec.” Beth's voice was high and thin. “Mama, he's bleeding.”

Verity's hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Alec lay halfway on Matthew's narrow bed. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor and both his eyes were swollen nearly shut.

“Mama, is the boy going to die?” Beth's voice was shrill. “Mama?”

Verity went to her and pulled her close, her pulse leaping and stuttering.
Dear Father, this poor boy.
“No, we will make him better.” She turned to Matthew standing in the doorway. “Please, will you carry him to the house?” She could not hide the strain in her voice. She sounded as if she were tightening a stubborn screw. She felt like it.
Oh, Lord, this cruelty is so hard to witness. What can I do to stop this suffering?