Her Captain's Heart (3 page)

“What is it you are wondering about, ma'am?” Mary Dyke asked, sounding wary.

“I could use some help opening boxes and putting away my kitchen things.” Verity gestured toward the chaotic room behind her. “Would thee have time to help me unpack boxes? I'm sure company would make the work go faster.”
Please, Lord, help me make a friend here.

The woman appeared uneasy, but then bit her lip and said, “I can stay a mite longer.”

“Excellent. And perhaps thy son would like to help my father-in-law with the horses in the barn?” All children loved horses—and Joseph.

“Yes, ma'am.” Alec bowed again and started toward the barn at the back of the property. Beth slipped from her mother's side and followed the boy, keeping a safe distance from him.

Verity smiled and ushered Mary into her disordered kitchen. Wooden boxes with straw and crumpled newspaper packing covered the floor. “Thee sees what I mean?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Soon Verity and Mary were working side by side. Unwrapping jars of preserves swathed in newsprint, Verity was cheered by Mary Dyke's companionship. She already missed her six sisters back in Pennsylvania and her kind neighbors. If she were to be able to accomplish both her public and private reasons for coming here, she needed to begin to learn about the people here. And she couldn't forget that she'd come with a personal mission, too.

Then Verity asked a question that had occurred to her on the way home. “Where is the school? I didn't see it in town. I want to get Beth enrolled.” Verity paused to blot the perspiration on her forehead with a white handkerchief from her apron pocket.

Mary didn't glance up. “Ma'am, we don't have a school in town.”

“No school?” Verity couldn't keep the dismayed surprise out of her tone.

“I've heard that there are free schools in the North,” Mary commented in a flat tone, not meeting Verity's eyes.

Verity realized she'd just insulted the town again. She racked her brain, trying to think of some way to open up this timid woman—not to gossip but merely to provide Verity with helpful information.

Perhaps honesty would suffice. “I'm afraid that I offended many at the store this morning. I didn't mean to, but perhaps I should have been less forward with my offer of payment. I hope I didn't offend thee by offering to pay thee to deliver the bread.”

When no reply came, Verity's face warmed with embarrassment. “It's just that I don't know anyone here yet and I didn't want to…I don't know exactly how to say what I mean. I just didn't want thee to think thee owed me anything. If we were back in Pennsylvania, I would probably have known thee all my life…”
Why can't I stop babbling?
“Oh, I'm doing a terrible job of explaining.”

Mary finally glanced her way. “No, ma'am, I think I understand and I wasn't offended—or maybe I should say not much. You're a Yankee, and I know Yankees don't have Southern manners.” Then the woman colored red. “I mean—”

Verity chuckled. “Now thee knows how I feel. And thee hasn't offended me.”

The back door swung open and Matthew Ritter stepped inside. “Mary!” he exclaimed.

In the midst of lifting a jar of peaches to the shelf, Mary dropped it. The glass shattered, the yellow fruit and syrups splattering the floor, wall and Mary's skirts. “Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry!”

 

Matthew stood apart, saying nothing. Seeing Mary prompted scenes from childhood to flood his mind—playing hide and seek among the ancient oaks around Mary's house, fishing at the creek, running in the fields with Dace and Samuel. Why did the widow have to be here as witness to the first time he encountered an old friend who was now probably an enemy?

When the mess had been cleaned up, he took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry I startled you, Mary.” He wondered for a moment if she would try to act as if she didn't know him.

Mary turned toward him, but looked at the floor. “That's all right, Matt. I just didn't expect to see you here. Someone said they thought they'd seen you, but…”

A strained silence stretched between them. A string of odd reactions hit him—his throat was thick, his eyes smarted, he felt hot and then cold. To break the unbearable silence, he nodded toward her simple gold wedding band. “You're married, I see.”

She still wouldn't meet his gaze. “Yes, I married Orrin Dyke. We have one son, Alec.”

Orrin Dyke? Sweet Mary McKay had married that shiftless oaf, Matt hoped his low opinion of her husband didn't show on his face. He forced words through his dry throat, “I'm happy to hear that.”

Mary looked up then. “Are you…Have you come home for good?”

Home for good? The thought sliced like a bayonet. He grimaced. “Probably not. I doubt I'll be welcome here.” He made himself go on and tell the truth, the whole truth. “I'm working for the Freedman's Bureau. I'm here to help former slaves adjust to freedom and prepare them to vote.”

Mary simply stared at him.

He'd expected his job to be offensive to his old friends, but he was who he was.

The Quaker widow watched them in silence. Her copper hair and air of confidence contrasted sharply with Mary's meek and shabby appearance. Meeting Mary after all these years was hard enough without the widow taking in every word, every expression. His face and neck warmed—he hated betraying his strong reaction to the situation.

“Your parents?” Mary asked.

He swallowed down the gorge that had risen in his throat. “My parents died during the war.”

“I'm sorry.” And Mary did sound sorry.

“Your parents?” he asked, wishing the widow would excuse herself and leave them. But of course, it would be almost improper for her to do so.

“My mother died, but Pa's still alive. It's good to see you again, Matt, safe and sound after the war.”

He imagined all the prickly thoughts that might be coursing through Mary's mind about his fighting on the Union side and the reason his family had left town in 1852. Just thinking of leaving Fiddlers Grove brought back the same sinking feeling it had that day in 1852—as if the floor had opened and was swallowing him inch by inch.

Mary turned to the widow. “Ma'am, I must be leaving.”

“Of course, Mary Dyke, I thank thee for thy help.” The widow shook Mary's hand as if she were a man.

Matt held on to his composure as he bowed, wishing Mary goodbye.

Mary curtsied and then she was out the back door, calling, “Alec!” Her son, Orrin's son.

That left him alone with the widow as they faced each other in the kitchen. Again, he was struck by her unruly copper curls, which didn't fit her serene yet concerned expression. He wanted to turn and leave. But of course, he had to deal with her. He took himself in hand.
I faced cannon so I can face this inquisitive woman and my hometown where I won't be welcome.

She went to the stove and lifted the coffeepot there. “Would thee like a cup?”

He wanted to refuse and leave, but he was thirsty and they needed to talk. He hoped she didn't make good coffee. He didn't want to like anything about this woman. He forced out a gruff “Please.”

She motioned him to sit at the table and served him the coffee. Then she sat down facing him. “I take it that thee went to send the telegram about our situation?”

He'd braced himself for her expected interrogation. “Yes, I did, and I bought some chickens for the yard and a cow for milk.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “I'm surprised that thee made these purchases. Thee sounded last night as if thee didn't think my family and I would be here long enough to merit the purchase of any stock.”

He sipped the hot coffee. It was irritatingly good. “I'll be here long enough to do what I signed on to do.” That much he'd decided on his ride to send the telegram. “And whether you're here or not, I'll need eggs and milk. We need to hire a housekeeper. Would you do that? Hire her?”

The woman considered him for a few moments. “I could do that. But perhaps I should just do the housekeeping until I start teaching.”

He shook his head. He didn't want this woman to become someone he'd come to depend on. With any luck, she'd be gone soon. “When you're busy teaching, it would be better to have household help.” It wasn't shading the truth, since the decision as to whether she would stay or go was not up to him. After all, he might end up stuck with this woman indefinitely. With her early arrival the Freedman's Bureau had demonstrated that it could make mistakes.

“Very well. I'll see about hiring a housekeeper.”

He sipped more of her good coffee, brooding over all he couldn't change in the situation. After four years of following orders, he'd wanted to be free, on his own. And then here she was. And then the question he dreaded came.

“Thee didn't tell me that thee had ever lived here before.”

Yes, I didn't, and I don't want to tell you now.
“I lived here with my parents until I was around twelve. Then we moved to New York State.”
And that's all you need to know.

“I see.”

Was she too polite to ask why? He waited. Evidently she was.
Good.
Feeling suddenly freer, he rose. “I'm going out to settle the stock. I see your father-in-law is already working on that fence that needed fixing.”

“Yes, Joseph is very handy to have around. When it's time for dinner, I'll ring the bell. I bought only bacon, eggs and cornbread, so the menu will be somewhat limited. But soon I'll have the kitchen completely stocked, and with a cow and some chickens, we'll only need to buy meat and greens from a local farmer.”

Matt nodded and walked outside into the hot sunshine. As he stood there, the muscles in his neck tightened. He remembered the look on Mary's face when she'd recognized him. Well, the fat would sizzle soon. Word that he was indeed back in town would whip through Fiddlers Grove like a tornado. It couldn't be avoided. But he'd given his word and he'd stand by it.

The concerned look the widow had given him poured acid on his already lacerated nerves. He wanted no sympathy—just to do his work and move on. Oh, he hoped that telegram would come soon. He wanted this disturbing Quaker widow anywhere but here.

 

Later that afternoon, Verity was putting the final touches on the freshly hemmed and pressed white kitchen curtains she'd had sense enough to bring. When someone knocked on her back door, she started. Scolding herself for lingering jitters, she went to open the door and found a tall, sturdily built black woman looking back at her.

Her visitor appeared to be in her middle years with the beginning of silver hair around the edges of a red kerchief tied at the front of her head.

“May I help thee?”

“I'm Hannah. I've come to meet y'all Yankees.”

The woman's directness made Verity smile, and some of the tightness inside her eased. “Please come in, Hannah. I'm Verity Hardy.”

“Are you a Miss or Mrs.?” The woman looked at her pointedly.

“I'm a widow, but I'm a Quaker and prefer to be called by name.” Verity opened the door and gestured the woman in.
Please, Lord, help me do better with this new neighbor.

“Yes, ma'am.” The woman entered the kitchen.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Beth ran into the kitchen. She halted at the sight of Hannah.

“Hello.” Beth curtsied. “I'm Beth.”

“You can call me Aunt Hannah, you sweet child.” The woman's face and voice softened.

Beth looked to her mother for direction. Verity nodded. “If the woman wishes to be called Aunt Hannah, Beth, thee may address her in that way.” Then she turned Hannah. “Won't thee sit down? I have coffee on the stove.”

Hannah stared at her and then at the table. “This Virginia. Whites and blacks don't never sit down together.”

Verity did not know what to say to this. It made her stomach flutter.

“But we're not from Virginia,” Beth explained earnestly.

Hannah laughed. “You sure ain't, honey. I know that. Tell you what, I go back outside and set on the top step and you can bring me that cup of coffee. And y'all can sit on chairs on the back porch. And that would look all right. How's that?”

Verity nodded in agreement. Why had Hannah come? Was she bringing more bad news? Very soon, the three of them were seated in Hannah's suggested manner on the small back porch. Verity waited for Hannah to speak. She hated this awkwardness, this unfamiliarity—hated being the stranger. Odd tremors had coursed through her on and off ever since her trip to town. Now they started up again, making her feel off balance.

After several sips of coffee, Hannah began, “I hear you folks come from the North and you talk like Quakers. And I figure if you be a Quaker, then I think afore the war you was abolitionist, too.”