Читать книгу Her Captain's Heart - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 9

In the dingy and unfamiliar kitchen, Verity sat at the battered wood table. Her elbows on the bare wood, she gnawed off a chunk of tasteless hardtack. Trying not to gag, she sipped hot black coffee, hoping the liquid would soften the rock in her mouth. Her daughter was too well-behaved to pout about the pitiful breakfast, but her downcast face said it all. Their first breakfast in Fiddlers Grove pretty much expressed their state of affairs—and Verity’s feelings about it.

She leaned her forehead against the back of her hand. The house had looked more inviting in moonlight. Gloom crawled up her nape like winding, choking vines. And yet she couldn’t keep her disobedient mind from calling up images from the night before—a strong tanned hand gripping a rifle, a broad shoulder sculpted by moonlight.

She gnawed more hardtack. Why had Matthew Ritter behaved as if he’d expected someone to attack them? The war is over. The people here might not like the school, but there is no reason for guns. Her throat rebelled at swallowing more of the gummy slurry. She gagged, trying to hide it from Beth.

Joseph came in the back door. “Ritter isn’t in the cabin out back.” He sat down and made a face at the hardtack on the plate and the cup of black coffee. Joseph liked bacon, eggs and buttered toast for breakfast, and a lot of cream in his coffee. “Slim pickings, I see.”

She sipped more hot coffee and choked down the last of the hardtack. “Yes, I’m going to have to find a farmer and get milk and egg delivery set up. Or perhaps that store in town stocks perishables.”

“Do you think we’re going to be here long enough to merit that?” Joseph asked. “I’m pretty sure Ritter has gone to the next town to send that telegram.”

At the mention of Matthew Ritter, Verity’s heart lurched. She looked away, smoothing back the stray hair around her face. Last night when Matthew had opened the door, shirtless and toting a rifle, she hadn’t known which shocked her more: his lack of proper dress or the rifle. Of course, they had surprised him after he’d turned in for the night. But he hadn’t excused himself and gone to don a shirt or comb his dark hair.

Men often shed their shirts while working in the fields, but he’d sat with them in the parlor shirtless and barefoot. And she couldn’t help but notice that Matthew was a fine-looking man. She blocked her mind from bringing up his likeness again. Her deep loneliness, the loneliness she admitted only to the Lord, no doubt prompted this reaction.

As if Joseph had read a bit of her thoughts, he said, “Ritter is probably more comfortable in the company of men. You know, after four long years of army life.”

No doubt. She willed away the memory of Matthew Ritter in dishabille. “He might be sending the telegram, but we don’t know what the answer will be. Or when it might come.” She tried to also dismiss just how completely unwelcoming Matthew Ritter had been. And how blunt. “And we need food because, after all, we’re here.” And we can’t go back.

Joseph grunted in agreement. “Well, I’m going to do some work in the barn. This place must have sat empty for quite some time. The paddock fence needs repairs before I dare let the horses out.”

Verity rose, forcing herself to face going into a town of strangers. After Matthew’s dark forebodings last night, all her own misgivings had flocked to the surface, pecking and squawking like startled chickens. If we’re on the same side, he shouldn’t be discouraging me. How will we accomplish anything if we remain at cross-purposes?

“Joseph, I’m going to walk to the store and see about buying some food. We’ll eat our main meal at midday as usual. I’m sure I’ll be able to get what I need to put something simple on the table.” I can do that. This is a state of the Union again. No matter what Matthew said, I will not be afraid of Fiddlers Grove.

With a nod, Joseph rose. “Little Beth, you going with me or your mom?”

“I want to help in the barn,” Beth said, popping up from the table. “May I, Mother?”

“Certainly,” Verity said. Better you should stay here, my sweet girl. I don’t want you hurt or frightened. Again. Last night Matthew’s harsh words had caused Beth to run to her. She shivered.

I will not be afraid. Not until I have good reason to be.

With her oak basket over one arm, Verity marched down the dusty road into town. Fiddlers Grove boasted only a group of peeling houses with sagging roofs, two churches and a general store. With the general store looming dead ahead, her feet slowed, growing heavier, clumsier, as if she were treading ankle-deep through thick mud. This town was going to be her home for at least a year. Starting today. Lord, help me make a good first impression.

On the bench by the general store’s door lounged some older men with unshaven, dried-apple faces. Matthew’s warning that some here would welcome her death made her quiver, but she inhaled and then smiled at them.

Grime coated the storefront windows with a fine film and the door stood propped open. Flies buzzed in and out. Her pulse hopping and skipping, Verity nodded at the older men who’d risen respectfully as she passed them. She crossed the threshold.

A marked hush fell over the store. Every eye turned to her. Drawing in as much air as she could, Verity walked like a stick figure toward the counter. The townspeople fell back, leaving her alone in the center of the sad and bare-looking store. She halted, unable to go forward.

She began silently reciting the twenty-third psalm, an old habit in the midst of stress. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

Near the counter, a slight woman in a frayed bonnet and patched dress edged away from Verity, joining the surrounding gawkers. Verity tried to act naturally, letting everyone stare at her as if she hadn’t fastened her buttons correctly.

She forced her legs to carry her forward. “Good morning,” she greeted the proprietor. Her voice trembled, giving her away.

The thin, graying man behind the counter straightened. “Good day, ma’am. I’m Phil Hanley, the storekeeper. What may I do for you?”

She acknowledged his introduction with a wobbly nod, intense gazes still pressing in on her from all sides. Her smile felt tight and false, like the grin stitched on a rag doll’s face.

“Phil Hanley, I’m Verity Hardy and I need some of those eggs.” She indicated a box of brown eggs on the counter. “And, if thee have any, some bacon. And I need to ask thee who sells milk in town. I require at least two quarts a day. And I’m out of bread. I’ll need to set up my kitchen before I begin baking bread again.” Her words had spilled out in a rapid stream, faster than usual.

In the total silence that followed, the man stared at her as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. People who weren’t used to Plain Speech often did this, she told herself. They would soon grow accustomed—if she and her family stayed here longer than Matthew hoped.

She waited, perspiring. As the silence continued, Verity blotted her upper lip with a handkerchief from her apron pocket. More of the twenty-third psalm played in her mind. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

“Ma’am.” A slight, pinched-looking woman edged nearer and offered in a hesitant voice, “I just baked this mornin’. I have a spare pan of cornbread.”

With a giddy rush of gratitude, Verity turned toward the woman. “Thank thee. I’m Verity Hardy. And thee is?”

“Mary. I mean, Mrs. Orrin Dyke, ma’am.” Mary curtsied.

“I’m pleased to meet thee.” Verity offered her hand like a man instead of curtsying like a woman, knowing this would also brand her as an oddity. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Mary Dyke shook her hand tentatively.

“Mary Dyke, I’m living at the Barnesworth house. Could thee drop by with that cornbread later this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” Mary said with a shy blush, curtsying again.

Verity reached into her pocket and then held out a coin. “Here. I’ll pay thee in advance.”

“No.” Mary backed away, one ungloved hand up. “You just give the money to Mr. Hanley to put on my account. I’ll bring the bread over right away. ’Sides, that’s way too much for a pan of bread. I couldn’t take more than a nickel.”

Sensing a stiffening in the people surrounding her, Verity wondered how she’d given offense. Still, she held out the dime, her mind racing as she tried to come up with a way to make her offer acceptable. “But I’ll owe thee for delivery, too.”

“No, no, ma’am, I can’t take anything for bringing it. Or in advance.” Mary scurried from the store.

Verity appeared to have offended the woman by offering to pay too much and in advance. But what could she do to amend that here and now? Nothing. Her mind went back to the psalm. He restoreth my soul. Yes, please, Lord, she thought. She took a deep breath and said through dry lips that were trying to stick together, “Two dozen of those fine brown eggs, please, Phil Hanley?”

“Of course.” He set the offered oak basket on the counter and carefully wrapped the eggs in newspaper, nestling them into it. His movements provided the only sound in the store other than Verity’s audible rapid breathing. She fought the urge to fidget.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“Well, now that I’m going to have cornbread—” she smiled “—I’ll need butter. And the bacon, if thee has some. Two pounds, please?”

“Just a moment.” He stepped out the back door, leaving Verity on display. While she gazed at the nearly empty shelves, the crowd surrounding her gawked in stolid suspicion. The feeling that she was on a stage and had just forgotten her lines washed through her, cold then hot. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

In the persistent silence, the storeowner reentered and wrapped the butter and slab of bacon with the rustling of more newspaper. He tucked them into her basket. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“Not right now. How much do I owe thee?” The thought that her ordeal was almost over made her fingers fumble. But finally, out of her dangling reticule, she pulled a leather purse. She struggled with the catch, and then opened it. The taut silence flared and she sensed their disapproval distinctly. She glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at the U.S. greenbacks folded neatly in her purse.

She pressed her dry lips together. A show of wealth was always distasteful, especially in the presence of such lean, ragged people. She tasted bitter regret. At every turn, she appeared unable to stop offending these people. Lord, help me. I’m doing everything wrong.

The proprietor spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “After Mary’s nickel for the bread, that’s just two bits then, ma’am.”

She gave him the coins. “I’ll bid thee good day then, Phil Hanley.” She offered him her gloved hand.

He shook it and nodded farewell. Still smiling her rag-doll smile, she walked out into the bright sunlight.

Cool relief began to trickle through her. She’d gotten food for the midday meal and let Fiddlers Grove know she’d arrived. It said much about the suffering of Virginia that she, who’d always lived a simple life, should suddenly have to be concerned about flaunting wealth. Wounding Southern pride wouldn’t help her in her work here. She’d have to be more careful. I’d never had been this jumpy if Matthew Ritter hadn’t tried to scare me off. It won’t happen again, Lord, with Thy help.

Later that warm, bright morning, Verity stood at the door of her new home, her pulse suddenly galloping. “Won’t thee come in, Mary Dyke?” Lord, help me say the right things.

“No, ma’am. Here’s your pan of bread, as promised.” The small woman’s eyes flitted around as if she were afraid. She handed Verity the circle of cornbread, wrapped within a ragged but spotless kitchen cloth. A sandy-haired boy who looked to be about eleven had accompanied Mary Dyke.

Verity needed information about the sad-looking town and its people to get a sense of how the community would really react to the new school. In spite of Matthew’s warning, Verity refused to assume the possibility of community cooperation was impossible.

Verity smiled. “Mary, I’ve never moved before—at least, not since I married and left home 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 went to the stove and lifted the coffeepot there. “Would thee like a cup?”

He wanted to refuse and leave, but he was thirsty and they needed to talk. He hoped she didn’t make good coffee. He didn’t want to like anything about this woman. He forced out a gruff “Please.”

She motioned him to sit at the table and served him the coffee. Then she sat down facing him. “I take it that thee went to send the telegram about our situation?”

He’d braced himself for her expected interrogation. “Yes, I did, and I bought some chickens for the yard and a cow for milk.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m surprised that thee made these purchases. Thee sounded last night as if thee didn’t think my family and I would be here long enough to merit the purchase of any stock.”

He sipped the hot coffee. It was irritatingly good. “I’ll be here long enough to do what I signed on to do.” That much he’d decided on his ride to send the telegram. “And whether you’re here or not, I’ll need eggs and milk. We need to hire a housekeeper. Would you do that? Hire her?”

The 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 put her empty cup down on the step. She bowed her head for a moment and then looked up at Verity. “I can’t read or write. Can you write me a letter? I know the name and a place to send it. I can pay.”

The request pricked Verity’s heart. How awful not to be able to read and write. Lord, help me get this school started here or wherever Thee wishes. “I have time to write a letter. And I would take it as a kindness if thee would let me do it for thee without pay. I don’t think it’s right to charge a neighbor.”

Hannah grinned. “I thank you. Will you write that letter for me now?”

“Certainly.” Verity rose and dragged her chair back inside, leading the way for her daughter and Hannah to follow. “Who am I writing to?”

“The name’s Isaiah Watson and he live in Buffalo, New York.”

“Is this a matter of business?” Verity asked.

“Don’t know if you’d call this business or not. There be someone I want to find. And I think Mr. Isaiah Watson might know where that person be.”

“Aunt Hannah,” Beth asked, “who is the person that you want to find?”

“Miss Beth, I want to find my boy.”