Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote
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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.”
“Yes, my whole family was very active in the abolitionist movement,” Verity replied. Where was this leading?
Hannah nodded. “I figured so. What’re y’all doing here in Fiddlers Grove, then?”
Only God knows the full answer to that. “I came to teach school.”
“What school?”
“The school Matthew Ritter is here to build.”
Hannah stared at her. “I heard the Ritter boy come back.”
“Yes, he has.” So Matthew was generally known here. Verity tried to discern what Hannah’s attitude was toward the man’s return, but Hannah’s reaction was not apparent.
“What you two living here together for? Are you married?”
Verity sighed silently and tried to quell the trembling that wouldn’t leave her. The close living arrangement with Matthew would be a topic of gossip and speculation, so she might as well tell this woman. She explained the mistake about her coming too soon and Matthew moving to the cabin. Hoping to sidestep the queries and pick up some information, Verity continued, “May I ask thee a question?”
Hannah nodded.
“Soon it will be First Day. And I see that thee has but two churches in town—”
“First day, what that?” Hannah looked puzzled.
“Quakers use Plain Speech, meaning we try to speak simply and truthfully. We do not use the same names for the days of the week as other Christians do because each one of them is named after a pagan god.”
“I never knew that.”
Beth piped up, “Wednesday is from Woden. He was a Nordic god.”
“Do tell,” Hannah replied with a grin.
Verity chuckled, but pressed on, “I was inquiring about the churches—”
“We got St. John’s and Fiddlers Grove Community,” Hannah said.
“Which church does thee worship at?” Verity asked, setting down her cup carefully so as not to let it rattle on the saucer.
“Neither. I attend Brother Elijah’s preaching on the Ransford place on Sunday afternoons. Elijah is the Ransford butler and my husband.”
Verity nodded. “I see. Does either town church have an evening service?”
“Fiddlers Grove Community has 6:30 p.m. service. But St. John’s only meet at 9:00 a.m. sharp. They got a bell. Y’all hear it, all right.”
“Thank you, Hannah.” Verity waited, sensing the woman was finally about to reveal her reason for coming.
Hannah