Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote
Читать онлайн книгу.
to move into my husband’s house. I was wondering if thee…and is this thy son?”
“Yes, ma’am.” A momentary smile lit the woman’s drawn face. Mrs. Dyke patted her son’s shoulder. He was taller than his mother already and very thin, with a sensitive-looking face. “This is my son, Alec. Son, make your bow.”
The boy obeyed his mother and then Verity felt a tug at her own skirt and looked down. Evidently Beth had been drawn by the lure of another child. “This is my daughter. Beth, this is Mary Dyke and her son, Alec.” Her seven-year-old daughter with long dark braids and a serious face made a curtsy, and stole a quick glance at the boy.
“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