Читать книгу Her Captain's Heart - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 10

In the dazzling light of First Day, Verity gazed at St. John’s Church, which sat on a gentle rise in the midst of an oak grove at the edge of town. It was small but impressive with its tall steeple and golden marigolds along its cobblestone path. Her father-in-law and Beth walked beside her, through the red door and into the sudden dimness of the church foyer. Matthew brought up the rear. A very grim and reluctant Matthew.

She hoped that three visits to three churches would remind the people of Fiddlers Grove that they shared a common faith in Christ. Still, her spine had become a tightly wound spring she couldn’t relax. She feared that this would be worse than visiting the store. Quakers never called attention to themselves—never. And worst of all, the fear Matthew had sparked within her lingered.

Inside St. John’s, a pipe organ began playing. Beth did a little jump. “Music.”

Verity smiled, though her lips felt stiff. Beth shared her late father’s love of music. Verity waited until the congregation had finished the first verse, then she nodded at Joseph and Matthew. Joseph led them down the center aisle to seats in an empty pew near the back of the church. Matthew removed his hat and stood beside Verity, taking the aisle space. He hadn’t brought his rifle, of course, but he looked as forbidding as if he had. It was almost as if he expected someone to attack them.

As expected, many heads swiveled to watch them enter. Verity smiled, her lips wooden. Then Beth began to sing along, as did Joseph. Their voices—the high wispy soprano and the low bass—blended in with the singing. “‘Lord, as to Thy dear cross we flee, and plead to be forgiven.’” She hoped the people singing were listening to the words coming from their mouths. “‘Kept peaceful in the midst of strife, forgiving and forgiven, O may we lead the pilgrim’s life, and follow Thee to heaven.’”

Quaker meetings were composed of silence, praying and speaking, not singing. Though Verity didn’t feel comfortable singing, she enjoyed the music, which calmed her wary heart and lifted her spirit. Still, Matthew stood beside her as stiff and silent as a sentinel. Waves of infectious tension wafted from him. But his formidable presence also managed to reassure her. No one would antagonize Matthew Ritter without good reason.

Verity looked up over her shoulder and saw what must have been a slaves’ balcony. It was empty now, showing that—after emancipation—the black population must not want to come to the white man’s church.

The hymn ended. There was a general rustling around the church as books were put back into their holders and ladies gathered their skirts to sit down. Verity concentrated on the vicar, who in his clerical collar and vestments looked about the same age as her father-in-law. Then she noted that one man, who looked to be about Matthew’s age, kept glancing back at her and Matthew.

Throughout the rest of the service, Verity tried to ignore the surreptitious glances from the people of Fiddlers Grove. It was no surprise that people would be curious about them; still, it made her uneasy. Who was the one man who looked at Matthew over and over?

After the final hymn was sung, the congregation rose and made its way into the aisle. Verity, Joseph, Beth and Matthew made their way toward the clergyman, standing at the doorway and shaking hands with everyone as they left.

She was very aware of the same man who’d kept glancing at Matthew. Was he planning on making trouble? Matthew, on the other hand, pointedly ignored the man.

When it was finally her turn to offer her hand to the vicar, it felt as if the whole congregation on the steps and in the foyer paused and fell silent, listening. Verity swallowed and tried to smile.

“Good morning,” the vicar said. “I am Pastor Savage.”

“That’s a scary name,” Beth said.

Verity touched her daughter’s shoulder. Beth hung her head and then curtsied. “I beg your pardon.”

“Mine is an unusual name, especially for a clergyman.” Pastor Savage smiled. “You are new to Fiddlers Grove.”

“Yes,” Joseph responded, and shook the pastor’s hand.

“Everyone has been wondering why you have come to our little town. Many believe you are one of those meddling Yankee schoolmarms we’ve heard of.” His tone was friendly but uncertain.

“It is hard to be a stranger in a small town,” Verity said without giving him an answer. She liked the pastor’s eyes. They were good eyes. But very sad ones, too.

“Maybe our new family moved to Fiddlers Grove for their health,” a pretty woman in a once stylish but now faded dress suggested in a sly tone. She stood beside the man who’d been watching Matthew.

Verity smiled, though a frisson of fear went through her. Had there been a veiled threat in that statement? Would it be “unhealthy” here for them? There was a pregnant pause while everyone waited for Verity to reply.

When she did not, the man beside the woman said, “May I make myself known to you? This is my wife, Lirit, and I’m Dacian Ransford. I wish to welcome you to our town.”

Mr. Ransford must have served in the Confederate Army. He had that “starved and marched too long” look she’d seen so often in ’63. “I am pleased to meet thee,” she murmured, for once not really sure she meant her proper words. It was obvious in the way Dacian dressed that he was a prominent member of society here. Hadn’t Hannah said that her husband was the Ransford butler?

Joseph accepted Dacian Ransford’s hand and Beth curtsied. Then before Joseph could introduce the fourth member of their party, the man faced Matthew. “Hello, Matt.”

“Dace.” Matthew nodded, no emotion visible on his face.

“I didn’t expect to see you in Fiddlers Grove again.” Neither Dacian Ransford’s tone nor his expression gave any clue as to whether he thought it good or bad to see Matthew here now. Yet neither offered a hand to the other.

Verity tried to behave as if she were unaware of the heightened tension that ran through the milling congregation. Matthew’s expression became stony.

“Oh?” Matt replied. No emotion. No inflection.

Perhaps war did this to men; perhaps it “closed” them. Suddenly she wondered why Matthew’s family had left Fiddlers Grove.

As Verity studied the two men, a forceful wind moved her skirts. Overhead, large white clouds glided across the blue sky.

“How is my aunt Samantha?” Dacian asked Matthew.

“My mother died of cholera in ’62. She had been widowed for a year then. And my aunt Sarah Rose?” Matthew asked.

“My mother passed just after Lincoln was elected. A fever. My father survived her by two years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said, sounding sincere.

“And I’m sorry also about your parents passing.” The two men were silent for a moment, and then Dacian nodded and took his wife’s elbow, steering her down the church steps.

Verity tried to make sense of this exchange between first cousins, as well as the shocking news she’d gathered—the fact that Matthew hadn’t mentioned Dacian. Why hadn’t Matthew just told them he had relatives in town?

Later that day, Matthew trailed after Verity and her family, heading toward the singing coming from a maple-and-oak grove on the Ransford plantation. Why had the Quaker insisted they attend three church services today? She’d only smiled when he’d asked her. He was tempted to stay behind, but he hadn’t wanted her going without him. And of course, he’d come face-to-face with Dace this morning. His emotions from that meeting continued to bubble up inside him. He crammed them down. Forget it. Forget all of it.

The singing drew them closer and he began to recognize many of the black faces as people from his childhood. He tightened his defenses against all this remembering. Yet he still searched for Samuel’s face. From him, he might get a genuine welcome.

Before emancipation, slaves had been required to attend church with their masters. Now they were holding their own service and singing a popular freedom song he’d heard in the streets of Richmond and Washington D.C.

,!

Mammy, don’t yo’ cook and sew no mo’.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

Rooster, don’t you crow no mo’.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

Old hen, don’t yo’ lay no mo’ eggs.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

At sight of them, the whole congregation broke off in the middle of a note and fell silent. Abashed, the widow’s little girl hung back, hiding within the folds of her mother’s skirt. The boisterous wind that had come up this morning was now picking up more speed. The black ribbons of the Quaker’s bonnet flared in the wind. Verity smiled, looking untroubled and genuine. But was anyone that cool? What would stir this woman enough to pierce her outward calm? Or did it go straight through to her very core?

Matt had eaten the cold midday meal with them, but hadn’t offered any explanation about his past in Fiddlers Grove. Why couldn’t he just tell her why his family had left and why he’d come back? Somehow, explanations remained impossible.

He recognized Hannah in the shade of a twisted old oak and felt a pang. Samuel’s mother had survived. She hurried to him and hugged him. “Mr. Matt, welcome home.”

“Mr. Matt!” Hannah’s husband, Elijah, grasped both Matt’s hands. “I heard that you had come back to town. As I live and breathe, sir. As I live and breathe.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Elijah.” Matt swallowed down all the memories that were forcing their way up from deep inside him. He wanted so much to ask about Samuel, but he found he couldn’t say the name.

Elijah visibly pulled himself together. “Yes, welcome home, Mr. Matt.” The man’s genuine warmth had been so unexpected that Matt glanced skyward, hiding his reaction.

It struck him that Elijah wasn’t quite as tall as Matt remembered him. Perhaps because Matt had been a child the last time he’d seen Elijah. Elijah looked gaunt, and his closely cropped hair and bushy eyebrows were threaded with silver. He was dressed in a good-quality but worn suit and spoke with a cultured cadence. After all, he was the Ransfords’ butler.

Again Matt felt the urge to ask where Samuel was. But what if Samuel had died? He couldn’t bring himself to stir those waters.

“Y’all come just like you said you would.” Hannah approached Verity and offered her a work-worn hand. “I told everybody about how you wrote that letter for me.”

What letter? To whom? Matt’s heart started throbbing in his chest. What was the woman up to now?

Verity shook Hannah’s hand. “It was a pleasure to help thee. Hannah, thee remembers my daughter, Beth. And this is my father-in-law, Joseph Hardy.”

Hannah introduced Verity and her family to Elijah. “Sister Verity, we’re glad to have you and your family. Welcome,” he said.

“I ain’t glad,” declared a large woman wearing a patterned indigo kerchief over her hair. “Do the Ransfords know this Ritter boy back in town? And what a white woman and her folks doin’ comin’ here? I want to know if she with the Freedman’s Bureau. And when we going to get our land? That’s the only reason I stayed in this place—to get what’s due me.”

“I told you they was Quakers and abolitionists afore the war.” Hannah propped her hands on her ample hips. “And why shouldn’t the Ritter boy come home?”

Come home. Matt was undone. Blinking away tears, he stared up into the gray clouds flying in from the northeast.

The woman with the indigo kerchief demanded, “Are they are our side or master side?”

“We are on God’s side, I hope,” Verity said. “I wish thee will all go on with thy singing, Elijah.”

Matt glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Thank you. Hannah urged the widow and her family to take seats on the large downed log in the shade. Matt hung back, leaning against an elm. The brim of the widow’s bonnet flapped in the wind, giving him glimpses of her long, golden-brown lashes against her fair cheek.

Soon, the congregation was singing and clapping to “O Mary.”

,!

“O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn

O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn,

Pharaoh’s army got drowned.”

Matt wondered if, in their minds, Pharaoh’s army was the Army of the Confederacy. It had gone down in defeat like Pharaoh’s army. But it hadn’t been an easy defeat. Why was it that he could stand here in the sun listening to beautiful singing and yet still be on the battlefield, with cannons blasting him to deafness? Why wouldn’t his mind just let go of the war?

,!

“O Mary, don’t you weep

Some of these mornings bright and fair

Take my wings and cleave the air

Pharaoh’s army got drowned.

O Mary, don’t you weep.

When I get to heaven goin’ to sing and shout

Nobody there for to turn me out.”

The little girl was singing and clapping with the gathering. Her mother sat quiet and ladylike, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her serenity soothed something in Matt. He tried not to stare, but drew his gaze away with difficulty.

He repeated the words of the song in his mind. Some of these mornings bright and fair, Take my wings and cleave the air.

Though his heavy burden of memories tried to drag him down, he fought to focus on the present. The work his parents had begun must be completed. The laws of the land must be the same for white and black. He must not lose sight of that.

The widow glanced over her shoulder at him. How long could he hold back from telling her the story of his family and Fiddlers Grove? The simple answer was that he could not ignore Dace—not just because Dace was his only cousin, but also because Dace had the power to sway others. The Ransfords had run this town for over a hundred years. Matt came to a decision. He’d have to talk to Dace. There was always an outside chance that Dace wouldn’t be hostile to the school, wasn’t there?

After the evening meal, Matt trudged through the wild wind into the white frame church with Verity and her family. The church sat at the end of the town’s main street. It was surrounded by oaks, elms and maples and was much larger than St. John’s. The wind tugged at Matt’s hat. A storm was certain. Matt looked forward to it, hoping for relief from the stifling, un-seasonal heat of the past few days.

On the other hand, Matt dreaded walking into this church. Most of its members had been vocal enemies of his parents. And Matt wondered which of them had been responsible for that final night that had sent his family north. His gut clenched. He reminded himself that that was all past and his side had won the war. Not theirs.

Again they entered during the opening hymn. They elicited glances, some surreptitious and some blatant. Toward the front, Mary and her son, Alec, sat with her father, Jed McKay, who looked like an Old Testament prophet. Orrin was nowhere in sight—an unexpected blessing.

When the hymn ended, the preacher looked straight at them and demanded, “What are you people here for?”

For once, the widow looked startled. “I beg thy pardon?”

“We don’t want Yankees coming down here and telling us what to do with our people. If you’re here to do that, you might as well leave in the morning. We won’t tolerate any Yankee meddling.”

Matt waited to see what the Quaker would say before he entered the fray.

“Friend, I am not a meddler. But anyone who thinks nothing here is going to change after secession, four years of bloodshed, Lee’s surrender and emancipation is deluding themselves.”

Matt’s eyes widened. The widow’s tone was civil but her words broadsided the congregation. He felt the angry response slap back at them. Whoa. The woman had nerve, that was for certain.

Jed McKay leaped to his feet and pointed a finger at her. “We’re not going to let a bunch of Yankees tell us how to run things in Fiddlers Grove.”

“What things are thee talking about, Friend?” the widow asked, as if only politely interested.

Matt’s respect for her was rising. A grin tugged at a corner of his mouth.

Jed swallowed a couple of times and then came back with, “We won’t have our darkies learning how to read and such. And they’ll never vote in Virginia. Never. Blacks voting is just as far-fetched and outlandish as letting women vote. Won’t happen. No, sir.”

“Does thee not read the papers?” the widow countered in a courteous voice. “The Congress is waiting for the amendment for Negro suffrage to be passed by the states, and when it is, Negroes will vote in Virginia.”

“Over my dead body!” Jed roared.

“I believe, Friend,” the widow replied in a tranquil tone, “that there has been enough bloodshed. And I hope many will agree with me.”

Matt drew in a deep breath at her audacity. Whoa.

Her words left Jed with nothing coherent to say. He grumbled mutinously and then looked at Matt. “Ritter, you should never have come back here. That’s all I got to say to you.” With this, Jed sat down.

“I think it would be best if you all leave our service,” the preacher said. “Now.”

“Mother, can he make us leave church? I thought anybody could go to church,” Beth said in a stage whisper, tugging at her mother’s sleeve.

Matt looked to Verity, leaving it to her whether they stayed or left. After all, this had been her idea. But he’d take on the whole congregation if she wanted him to. In fact, his hands were already balled into fists.

“I bid thee good evening, then,” Verity said, taking Beth’s hand and walking into the aisle like the lady she was. Matt followed her to the door of the church. Then he turned back and gave the congregation a look that declared, Everything the lady said is true. We’ll leave now. I don’t listen to a preacher who speaks hate. This isn’t over.

The wind hurried them all home, billowing the widow’s skirt and making Joseph and Matt hold on to their hats. At their back door he paused for a moment, thinking yet again that he should say something about Fiddlers Grove and his family, but he could come up with nothing he wished to say. So he bid them good-night and headed for the cabin. Behind him, he heard Verity and her father-in-law closing and latching the windows against the coming storm.

Just before Matt closed the cabin door, he gazed up at the storm-darkened sky. Jed McKay’s words came back: “Ritter, you should never have come back here.” Opposition was a funny thing. Initially, he’d felt the same way as McKay—that he shouldn’t have come back. But now that he’d been run out of one church, rebellion tightened in his gut. No one’s running me out of town. Not again.

The thunder awakened Verity. And Beth’s scream. Verity leaped out of bed. Lightning flashed, flickering like noonday sunshine, illuminating the room. Beth ran into the room and threw her arms around her mother. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Verity recognized the hysteria in her daughter’s voice. Thunder always brought back their shared fear of loud noises that had begun with the cannon at Gettysburg and the terror of war. Verity knew from experience that words would not help Beth. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, hugging her fiercely. That was the only thing that ever helped. Verity’s own heart pounded in tune with the relentless thunder.

Then the house shook. And exploded.

Or that was what it sounded like. Felt like.

Joseph charged into her room, trousers over his nightshirt. “I think we’ve been hit by lightning,” he shouted over the continuing din. “I’m going outside to see if anything caught fire.”

Verity glanced out the window and shrieked, “The barn! The barn’s on fire!”

Joseph ran from the room. Verity settled Beth in her bed and pulled the blankets up over the child. “Stay here, Beth. I must help thy grandfather!”

Verity snatched up her robe, trying not to hear her daughter’s frightened cries as she ran. Outside, the storm shook the night. Lightning blazed. Thunder pounded. Barefoot on the coarse wet grass, Verity ran with her hands over her ears. It seemed impossible that anything could burn in the downpour, yet flames flashed inside the open barn loft.

Ahead, Joseph and Matthew were opening the stalls to get the horses out of the burning barn. Between thunderclaps, the shrieking of horses slashed the night. Verity raced over the soggy ground. Somehow she had to help put the fire out.

One of their horses bounded out of the barn. Galloping, it nearly ran her down. She leaped out of the way and fell hard. Another thunderbolt hit a tall elm nearby. Brilliant white light flashed, followed by a deafening thunderclap. She covered her eyes, as well as her ears. The ground beneath her shook.

When she could, she looked up. In the open barn doorway, Joseph was waving both arms, beckoning her. She dragged herself up from the ground. Slipping on the wet grass, she hurried toward him. With the lightning flashing, she didn’t need a lantern to see what had upset her father-in-law. Mary Dyke’s son lay on the dirt floor of their barn.

“What happened to him?” she called over the continuing thunder.

“I don’t know!” Joseph shouted back at her.

Matthew yelled, “I think he climbed the ladder in the hayloft and opened the door so the rain could douse the fire.”

Verity looked up and saw that the fire was out. “What’s he doing here? In our barn?”

“Don’t know,” Matthew said, “Joseph, help me get him into the house.”

Within minutes, Matthew laid the boy on the kitchen table. Verity asked Joseph to check on and reassure Beth so she could examine Alec. Verity listened to his heart and felt for a fever. No fever. But the boy had a black eye, bruises and a split lip. Had he been fighting? Why was he hiding in their barn? Sodden and chilled from her own wet clothing, she tried to rouse him but had no luck.

The thunder still boomed outside, but it was more distant now. “The boy worries me.” She looked toward Matthew and gasped. His hand was pressed against his forehead, blood flowing between his fingers. “Thee is hurt. What hurt thee?”

“Blasted horse knocked the stall door into me on his way out. Don’t worry about me.”

Wasn’t that just like a man? Blood pouring from his head, but don’t worry about him. Her exasperation moved her past her fear of the storm. She moved quickly to the pantry and collected her nursing equipment, a wash basin, a fresh towel and soap. “Sit.” She pointed to the chair.

Grumbling, Matthew sat. She lit an oil lamp on the table and leaned close to him, examining the gash.

“This will need a stitch or two. I’ve got some experience nursing. I’ll take care of it.”

“Just clean it and use some sticking plaster to close it.”

Ignoring him, she gently washed away the blood. It felt odd to be touching a man. His wet hair released the distinctive scent that was Matthew Ritter. She forced herself to focus on the gash on Matthew’s forehead. He sat very still, probably as uncomfortable with this nearness and touching as she was.

Finally she was able to turn away, drawing in a ragged breath. She’d nursed other men without this breathless reaction. Matthew should be no different. She emptied the basin out the back door and returned the medical supplies to the pantry.

The chair behind her scraped as Matthew rose. “What are we going to do about Mary’s boy?”

She looked out at the pouring rain. “This is not a night to go afield. We should get him out of his wet clothing and into a warm bed.”

Matthew swung the thin boy up into his arms and carried him upstairs. Hearing the creak of the rocker in her room and realizing Joseph was rocking Beth, she directed Matthew to lay the boy down on Beth’s empty white-canopied bed. Beth and Verity could share a bed as long as Alex needed to stay.

Verity gathered a clean nightshirt from Joseph’s room and brought it back to Matthew. “Here, put this on him. It will be too big, but it will be dry.” A pile of soaked clothes sat on the floor.

Matthew had lit the bedside candle and stood, looking down at the boy. His expression caught Verity’s attention. “What’s wrong?

Matt hesitated and then folded back the top edge of the blanket covering the boy. Verity gasped.