The Pattern of Her Heart (4 page)

“Yes, of course. But let’s not assume the worst.”

Jasmine grasped his hands tightly. “Nolan, he says he will be arriving in a few days with news from The Willows! If the news were good, Father would have written or telegraphed himself. Something has happened to Father.”

“Your brother David and his wife are with your father. If he had taken ill, they would have immediately notified you.”

She clutched the bodice of her dress, her eyes frantic. “Nolan, I can’t explain it, but I can’t help but fear that something is terribly wrong. Please . . . go and tell McKinley that we must talk with him.”

J
USTIN
C
HAMBERLAIN
seated himself and smoothed a sheet of paper in front of him. Sunday was quickly approaching, but he’d not yet prepared his sermon. If nothing else, he wanted to begin his ministry by challenging his parishioners to use their imaginations and reach out to others. Not that Lowell wasn’t one of the most forward-thinking communities in the nation—but even Lowell could do better. He was testing the waters with his new congregation and evaluating their response. He dipped the nib of his pen into the glass bottle of ink and had barely touched pen to paper when Reggie raced through the front door and slammed it with a mighty thrust.

Startled, Justin jerked his arm and grimaced as a blob of ink dropped from the tip of his pen and spattered upon the pristine sheet of paper. “Regina! Why are you running, and why did you bang the front door as though Satan himself were on your heels?” he called out before turning in her direction.

“Maybe not Satan, but close enough!” she panted while hurrying to his side.

Her hair was a shambles, with the braid that had been so neat that morning now flying wildly in every direction. A smudge of dirt covered her right cheek, and she was wearing a pair of trousers! He’d learned long ago that he ought not be surprised by his daughter’s behavior, but
trousers
. He’d not overlook this particular offense.

“What are you doing in that unspeakable attire?” Thoughts for his Sunday sermon were evaporating as quickly as the ink on the nib of his pen.

“They’re coming!” she said, pointing frantically at the front door. “Hide—unless you want to consume your afternoon entertaining them.”

“Explain yourself, Regina. Who are
they
?”

“Church ladies—
hundreds
of them,” she hissed through her teeth while still pointing at the door.

“Hundreds? I don’t think we have that many church members. Even if every member were a woman, we wouldn’t number in the hundreds.”

“This is no time to discuss the number of church members, Father. They’re coming down the street with cakes and pies and wearing their fancy feathered hats. I’m going upstairs to hide, and you should do the same. There will be no ridding them from the house once they get inside,” she cautioned, running out of the parlor and upstairs to the attic bedroom, which she had claimed as her own the day they moved into the house.

Justin knew Reggie was correct. He’d not be successful in holding a large number of intrepid women at arm’s length. Since the day of their arrival in Lowell, the good ladies of St. Paul’s had been anxious to ingrain themselves into every aspect of his home life. Thus far, he’d been partially successful in holding them at bay, yet he doubted whether he could mollify a large group. He walked to the large front window and stood to one side before carefully moving the drape with one finger—just far enough to see the front street. Five women were marching toward the house with an undisputable determination.

“There aren’t hundreds—only five,” he called up the stairway.

“Five will seem like hundreds once they get inside the house!” she shouted. “Don’t open the door!”

A sharp rap brought an immediate halt to their conversation, and Justin heard the creak of rusty hinges as Reggie closed the door of her attic bedroom. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he contemplated his decision. He needed to work on his sermon, yet he couldn’t ignore the kindness these women were attempting to bestow upon his household. Perhaps if he explained his plight, they would understand and hasten off to help some soul truly in need of their assistance.

Another sharp knock brought him to action. He hastened to the hallway and opened the front door—but only wide enough to accommodate his slim body. “Good day, ladies.”

“Good day, Pastor Chamberlain,” Martha Emory greeted. “We’ve come bearing gifts,” she said, motioning toward two other women carrying desserts.

“And daughters,” he said under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Emory said.

“And how very kind you are to do so,” Justin said with a feeble smile. “I’ll take them to the kitchen.”

“No need. We can do that.” Mrs. Emory gave the door a hefty shove that nearly landed Justin on his backside.

In the blink of an eye, they were inside, soaring about the house like a swarm of bees to honey.

“What have I done?” he muttered. Of course, no one heard or answered his question. The women were much too busy hurrying from room to room, taking inventory of his household. He stood transfixed as the women surveyed the rooms, discussing his lack of furnishings and how best to arrange what little had been left in the house.

“Ladies, please!” he said, raising his voice to be heard above their chatter. “I do not want any assistance. I have household goods I’ll be bringing at a later date, and there’s certainly no need to worry about the few items that are here. Besides, I must attend to my sermon. So if you’ll excuse me,” he said while walking toward the hallway. He earnestly hoped they would follow so that he could escort them out the front door without further discussion.

“You go along and write your sermon, Pastor. The others can unpack, and Caroline and I will rearrange the furniture in the parlor. You
have
met my daughter, Caroline, haven’t you?” Mrs. Emory inquired, pulling her daughter forward.

“Yes, of course. We met on Sunday.”

“And
my
daughters, Rachel and Sarah,” Mrs. Sanders said, clutching her daughters to her side. “Rachel has a vast knowledge of the Scriptures, and Sarah is an excellent cook. Just wait until you taste the cake she baked for you.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said, giving the gangly girl a forced smile.

“Caroline baked the apple pie,” Mrs. Emory hastened to add. “I doubt whether you’ll taste any better.”

“I don’t doubt your word,” Justin said. “Truly, ladies, I do not wish to have any assistance with the household, but I thank you very much for the pies and cakes. Right now what I need is peace and quiet in order to prepare my sermon.”

“We’ll be quiet as church mice,” Mrs. Emory said with a loud chortle, obviously finding her play on words humorous. The fact that no one else was laughing didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

Justin stood holding the doorknob of the open front door. “Ladies?” he encouraged, his eyes moving between the group of women and the door.

“I’ll not leave until I’ve accomplished what I set out to do, so you might as well get busy on your sermon, Pastor. I’m going to clean this house. I can’t imagine why it wasn’t completed before your arrival,” Martha Emory said, yanking a crocheted table runner off an old table and giving it a robust shake.

Reggie had been correct—it did seem as though a hundred women now inhabited their home. With a disgusted grunt, he gathered up his paper, pen, ink, and Bible and hurried off to retrieve a chair from the kitchen before heading to his bedroom. Once inside, he quickly arranged a makeshift desk by using one of the trunks for his writing area. There was little doubt he’d be suffering with an aching back come morning.

“I told you! You shouldn’t have let them in.”

“Reggie! How did you get in here?”

His daughter wriggled out from beneath his bed in the same unladylike attire she’d been wearing earlier. “There’s a hole in the floor of the upstairs closet. I tied a rope and dropped down through it—I found the opening the day we moved in,” she explained.

“An opening in the floor? And where did you land?”

“In the pantry. And I didn’t knock over any of the food or utensils,” she said smugly. “When the ladies weren’t looking, I tiptoed out of the pantry and into your room.”

“I think you would have been more satisfied upstairs. After all, there’s nothing for you to do here in my bedroom. I’m going to be writing my sermon, and you’ll need to sit and be quiet.”

“As soon as they’re all in the parlor, I’m going to sneak out the back door and go play. We’re taking Mrs. Brighton fishing today,” she added.

“Who is ‘we’?” Justin inquired.

Reggie heaved a sigh and furrowed her eyebrows. “Me, Spencer, and Moses. I told you after Alice Ann’s birthday party that we were going to teach Mrs. Brighton how to fish,” she explained.

She
had
told him, but he’d immediately dismissed the remark without giving it further thought. “And where do you plan to go fishing?”

“At the river. We found a nice spot, and Mrs. Brighton said she’d bring a picnic. It’s going to be great fun. Did you know Mrs. Brighton is from England? She grew up in Portsmouth and London. I think I’d like to visit London one day. Mrs. Brighton said some of the people speak with an odd accent, but she talks just fine, don’t you think?”

What would Louise think of their child, he contemplated. She’d likely be appalled at the girl’s behavior. Or perhaps she would find Reggie’s tomboyish antics acceptable. He wondered, yet he would never know.

How he had missed Louise throughout these past ten years as he’d struggled to rear Reggie. Managing a daughter had been more of a challenge than he’d ever imagined. Although Louise’s parents had offered to raise Reggie as their own, Justin had refused. Reggie deserved better than losing both of her parents at birth, and truth be told, he needed Regina. Having the child all these years had given him a purpose—and kept a little piece of Louise alive too.

Reggie jostled his arm. “Don’t you think, Father?”

“What? Oh, yes, I think Mrs. Brighton speaks quite eloquently.”

He tapped his index finger against his pursed lips and waited for a moment. “It’s very quiet out there,” he whispered. “Do you suppose they’ve gone?”

“Take a peek and see,” she suggested. “But open the door just a crack,” she cautioned.

He nodded his head and tiptoed to the door, carefully turning the knob in a clockwise direction before slowly opening the door. After listening for a moment, he whispered, “I don’t hear anything.”

Reggie removed her shoes and walked over to him, her bare feet silently gliding across the wooden floor until she reached his side. “You go first, just in case. I don’t want them to see me if they’re still somewhere in the house.”

Justin opened the door a bit farther, but still it remained silent. Careful to close the bedroom door after himself, he ventured onward, into the kitchen, his library, and then the parlor. With the exception of his bedroom, the sparse furnishings had been rearranged throughout the house, and the ladies had departed.

“They’re gone! They’ve left their pies and cakes and rearranged the few sticks of furniture, but at least I can complete my sermon.”

“And I can go fishing,” Reggie said with a delighted smile.

“So long as you’re home in time for supper.”

“We’re having a picnic, remember?”

He hesitated and gave it some thought. “I’m sorry—you
did
mention a picnic. Then please be home shortly thereafter. And, by all means, don’t forget your fishing pole.”

Elinor finished packing the picnic basket and then carefully tucked a checkered cloth atop the contents. “That should be enough food for
several
days,” she muttered as she lifted the container from the table.

Careful to watch her step while approaching the Merrimack River, she failed to see Reggie near the water’s edge until the child called out to her.

“Hello, Reggie. Have you been here long?”

The girl positioned her fishing pole on the grassy bank and came running toward Elinor. “No. I thought I would be the last one to arrive, but I’m first,” she said. “There’s a verse like that in the Bible, I think.” She furrowed her brows for a moment.