Читать книгу Down to the Potter’s House - Annette Valentine - Страница 11

Pumpkin-colored leaves, curled and crisp, rustled in flurries as the oncoming horse and buggy scattered them from the path in a gust of wind. I purposely kept myself turned away from my brother-in-law as he guided the horse through the wooded terrain. Emotions had run the gamut this visit and could have proved exhausting were it not for the spark of interest that had kindled for Simon Hagan. Talking to myself, I dabbed at the corners of my eyes with a gloved finger, trying to think more on him than the disaster taking place at Hillbound.

No doubt Jim has seen the emotion I’m trying to cover, I thought. My overreaction has to stop! Henry will surely pull through this sour period.

Jim Carver rode quietly beside me in the carriage that was taking us sixteen miles away from Sister’s house to Russellville, back to the schoolhouse where I would resume teaching tomorrow. Being a well-mannered man, Jim was not about to reveal he’d noticed the tears. He looked away as I regained my composure. He respectfully said nothing of Mr. Hagan, but Millicent had pressed through Sunday lunch with her questions regarding the man—ones that shouldn’t expect answers to come out of our brief meeting. She had been satisfied to surmise that I had not seen the last of Mr. Hagan, and such was her forecast to me as part of her farewell. Jim had loaded the carriage with my bag. He and I had departed after church with a hearty meal of pot roast, potatoes, and carrots, bound for Russellville.

Perhaps a day will come, another day, when Mr. Hagan will call on me. With that revelation, I shifted on the seat and sat straight as an arrow. “‘She’ll be coming ’round the mountain when she comes,’” I sang out, unable to stop myself from bursting into song as we met the winding road.

Jim turned toward me, trying to mask his astonishment, and we both laughed at my poor rendition. I couldn’t sing. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care if I could carry a tune or not. My song was meant to recharge me and chase away the tears. It seemed to have succeeded.

Through the trees, I caught sight of the church’s steeple, majestic and gloriously white, pointing out over the treetops as if suspended in midair. In the middle of autumn’s splendid offering, I reflected on my fifteen-year-old self—a girl who had left following a Christmas service within its walls, having experienced what brokenness felt like.

Inside the doll-like structure, hope had become real, rising as visibly as the spire above the unadorned chapel where I had found it so many years before.

The buggy bounced unpredictably as it rounded the downward slope of the hill. At the next bend in the road, the familiar clapboard building, sitting regally in the clearing, came into full view.

Russellville was several miles ahead, and in a matter of a few minutes, Jim would leave me there to start a new day, early in the morning, in the two-room schoolhouse with the children I loved.