Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  In the end, they’d shaken hands, and Beauchamp had actually thanked Sam for talking some sense into him. He’d told him he would visit Mercy mid-afternoon to announce his change of heart, so Sam had kept an eye out for the fellow driving past his shop, then planned his arrival right around Harold’s delivery of the bad news. He could only hope his plan wouldn’t backfire.

  Unfortunately, it appeared to be doing just that, even as he tried to make her see things his way.

  10

  Gladys Froeling, her father’s oldest sibling and only sister, had always been Mercy’s favorite relative. She admired her lively spirit, her youthful demeanor, her dynamic personality, and her love for the Lord. Add to that her refusal to involve herself in the Evans-Connors feud, and Gladys had Mercy’s deepest respect. Despite her rather unsophisticated, if not primitive, air and appearance, the woman didn’t lack for wisdom, and Mercy often sought her out for advice on everything from the art of baking bread to stitching a quilt, from important financial decisions to the meaning of a Scripture passage. Today, however, she came to her for an altogether different reason. She’d spent the past two days praying good and hard over Sam Connors’ marriage proposal, and now it boiled down to one thing: seek out Aunt Gladys’s no-nonsense advice and follow it. It almost seemed as if her very future lay in the old woman’s hands.

  Mercy veered the buckboard to the far right side of the road to allow an oncoming carriage to pass on the narrow dirt track. She feared the front wheel might drop into the gully, but with careful manipulating of her horse, Sally, they managed fine. The drive up Thoroughfare 69 and then west on the winding Jones Bend Road had never been a short, easy jaunt, but today’s perfect temperatures and gentle breezes made the drive to the farm pleasant, especially with the company of two youngsters sitting on either side of her on the buckboard, eager for conversation.

  Overall, the boys had adjusted to their loss and all the changes it had brought far better than Mercy had expected. Of course, they had the resilience of youth on their side. If only her heart had the same durability. Not a day had passed since losing her best friends that Mercy hadn’t shed a wheelbarrow’s worth of tears—not in the boys’ presence, of course, but certainly into her pillow. She always ended her crying sprees by giving thanks to God that the children had survived, and then opening her Bible and reading its words of comfort, always seeking strength, guidance, and wisdom from its feathery pages. In her mind, she always reached the same conclusion. God didn’t cause tragic circumstances, but He did allow them—and for reasons she would probably never fully grasp. What she did grasp, though, was His absolute love and care for her and the boys. She also recognized her desperate need for His grace, and so she pressed on in her quest to honor and obey Him, even when she couldn’t understand His purposes and plans.

  The Froeling farm sprawled across a huge parcel of land, most of which had been left untended since the death of Mercy’s uncle Chester some ten years prior. Plenty of people had offered to buy the property, but Aunt Gladys, sturdy, stubborn, and strong, refused to sell. “This here’s my home, and ain’t no amount of money on earth goin’ to make me give it up,” she’d say. Even her own children couldn’t talk her into buying something smaller and closer to town.

  Mercy didn’t blame her for wanting to hold on to the farm. Though seventy-five, she still had all of her mental faculties and could work circles around most people half her age. Who was she to try to convince her aunt to leave the old homestead when it was all she’d known for the past fifty years or so, ever since her husband had inherited it, shortly after their wedding?

  “Who lives here?” asked John Roy, pointing at the three-story house at the end of the long drive, nestled amid the vast, rolling hills of blue green.

  “This is the home of my aunt. Her name is Gladys, but I like to call her Gladdie.”

  “We been here before,” Joseph chimed in. “We comed with Mama and you one time.”

  “Yes, you did. I’m impressed you remember that. It was in the springtime, strawberry-picking season. We went home that day with a few buckets full of luscious fruit, and your mama and I cooked up a mess of strawberry jam in my kitchen. I still have several jars in my pantry.” The recollection stirred a semi-sweet tangle of emotions in her chest. “I bet you’ll remember my aunt, as well. She’ll step out on her porch almost any second to see who’s coming up her drive.”

  As Mercy guided Sally toward the watering trough, both boys scooted forward on the seat to watch for the first peek at her aunt. True to Mercy’s word, the screen door pushed open with a whine to reveal a short, round, white-haired woman, apron tied around her waist, hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She waved excitedly, then hefted her skirts above her chubby ankles and bustled down the steps like someone twenty years her junior.

  “I remember her,” Joseph said. “She gots a great big red cookie jar settin’ on her counter, and she lets us have as many as we want.”

  Mercy laughed. That very cookie jar was a fond memory from her own childhood. “Indeed she does, but don’t go thinking you can eat your fill. Two apiece should suffice.”

  No sooner had she set the brake on her rig than both boys leaped to the ground.

  “Well, lookie here, would y’? Two handsome boys come t’ pay me a visit. What on earth did I do t’ deserve sech a fine surprise?” Gladys opened her arms and welcomed the boys into a big embrace, then raised her round face to Mercy, who smiled down from her perch.

  “Hi, honey! You come on down and tell me what brings you clear out here.”

  Mercy set the reins over the brake handle, swiveled her body, and stepped down with as much decorum as she could manage. She had yet to figure out a ladylike system for climbing off a buckboard in ankle-length skirts. On the ground, she huffed a breath and dusted herself off. “Do I really need a reason to visit my favorite aunt?”

  “Pshaw! Don’t let Gertie or Aggie hear of my bein’ y’r favorite, or they’ll come at me with a broom handle.” The boys stepped aside, and Gladys wrapped Mercy in a tight hug that nearly stole her breath. Then, quick as lightning, she set her back for a good looking over. “My mama’s corset, you’ve been in the sun. Them cheeks are brown as oak leaves. Where’s your hat, missy?”

  Most women wore wide-brimmed bonnets to ward off the effects of the scorching Tennessee sun, but there was just no hope for Mercy. Somehow, the rays always managed to find their way to her olive skin, deepening its tint the more. Besides, some days, she set off in such a hurry, she forgot altogether about snatching up a bonnet from the hooks by the door.

  She waved off her aunt’s scolds and looped her other hand around the woman’s arm. “The boys and I thought we’d drop in to find out what flavor cookies you’re offering today.”

  Gladys clasped her hands at her waist and looked from one lad to the other, their eyes shining with hopeful glints. The woman chortled and hustled them all toward the steps leading up to the grand wraparound porch. “We best go lift the lid off that jar then and find out. Who’s goin’ to do the honors?”

  “Me!” both children cried in unison.

  Up the steps they raced, then waited at the door for permission to enter. Such little gentlemen, Mercy thought. Why would Harold Beauchamp turn tail and run from the privileged opportunity to raise them?

  Moreover, what possible reason could she come up with now for turning down Samuel Connors’ hand in marriage? Perhaps Aunt Gladys would have one for her.

  It took a good hour before Mercy drummed up the courage to broach the subject, and, of course, she had to wait till John Roy and Joseph had scuttled outside to the tree swings in the backyard, where, even now, their voices carried over the breeze with gleeful shouts as Aunt Gladys’s hired hand, Harley Gleason, pushed them to the heights.

  The women watched through the open window over the sink, Gladys rinsing off the platter on which she’d set ham sandwiches, carrot sticks, and chocolate mound cookies, and Mercy clutching a cold glass of water in both hands, at
one point pressing it against her sweaty forehead for a moment of relief.

  “’Twas a mighty nice surprise, you comin’ out to see me, dear.”

  “Yes, but….” She had to search for the right words.

  “But somethin’ else besides my bein’ your favorite kin brought you here, right? Don’t go thinkin’ you can fool the likes o’ me. You been fidgetin’ ever since you climbed off that rig. You gettin’ cold feet about marryin’ Mr. Beauchamp?”

  Mercy drank the rest of her water, then set the empty glass in the sink. “I never could put one over on you, Aunt Gladdie. Can we go sit in the living room?”

  “I’ve a better idea—let’s go perch ar hineys on the porch swing.”

  Outside, the birds and squirrels created quite a racket, whether in harmony or dissonance, only the most dedicated nature lover would have the ability to distinguish. The ladies plunked themselves into the aged swing, and for the hundredth time, Mercy marveled at its strength. It seemed destined to break one of these days. She gazed at the rusted chains suspended from corroded bolts, and wondered how they’d held for so many years with nary a complaint, save for the familiar screech at every back-and-forth sway. It surely had served its generations well, rocking many an elder and baby into peaceful slumber. She settled back and allowed her aunt to shove off, joining her efforts as they kept the swing in motion.

  “Okay, girlie. Spill it. What’s on y’r mind?”

  “More than my little head can hold. Mr. Beauchamp changed his mind about marrying me.”

  Aunt Gladys let out a low whistle. “I had a feelin’ he wasn’t quite cut out for that job. But, boy, he won’t have another opportunity as good as what you offered. Don’t think you would’ve been happy with ’im, anyways, honey. Plus, he’s too old for you. But I’ll go give ’im a good-sized piece o’ my mind, if you want me to.”

  “Auntie!” Mercy put a hand to her stomach to hold back her chuckles. “You are the berries, I tell you. I appreciate your concern, but no, it won’t be necessary to give him any of your mind. At your age, you need every bit of it.”

  Gladys stepped right over her attempt at humor. “So, what are you goin’ t’ do? You got less’n a week to find yourself a husband. Might be you’re goin’ to have to go up in them hills and fetch that toothless feller. What was his name again? Fester?”

  “Close, but not quite. Festus. Festus Morton. And I wouldn’t marry him if my daddy raised himself out of the grave and ordered it.”

  At that, Aunt Gladys’s face contorted with shock but quickly converted to amusement. She gave Mercy a friendly bump in the side. “Good gracious, girlie, the things you say!”

  “Well, it’s true, Aunt Gladdie. You didn’t clap eyes on that—that malodorous critter.”

  “And I’m thankful I didn’t. You explained him right good to me the followin’ Sunday in the churchyard.” Gladys gave the swing another push with her foot. “Well, what’s y’r next move?”

  Mercy gulped a big swallow of air before proceeding. “Someone else has stepped forward, but I don’t know what you’ll say to it.”

  Gladys brought the swing to a halt. “He ain’t older than the postmaster, I hope.”

  “No. I think he’s right around thirty, so not that much older than I.”

  “Well, what’s the big secret? Who is it?”

  She pursed her lips so tightly, they stung, but then she blurted out, “Sam Connors! I know, it’s probably the most bizarre thing you’ve ever heard. Imagine—one of our family’s archenemies, proposing marriage. I’ve already turned him down, repeatedly, but he did save the boys’ lives, and he seems determined to help take care of them. I don’t know what to think of it all, but I’m beginning to grow a little desperate. I know it would probably create an awful stink in the family if….”

  Aunt Gladys put a hand to Mercy’s knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “Well, if you’d shush your gabber for just a second or two, I might be able to get a word in edgewise.”

  “Oh.” She clamped her lips shut, folded her hands in her lap, and stared down.

  “Well, I got my reservations, o’ course,” she ventured. “You’re right about your relatives, and his, for that matter—they’d have a regular conniption. It could go either of two ways: make things worse than ever or calm the waters. I guess only time is goin’ to predict the outcome. My main concern is where Mr. Connors stands with the Lord.”

  “He’s a Christian, I’ve no doubt about that. But he’s a weak one, and he’ll admit it.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ weak. Lord knows we all come out of the womb frail and needy. Can’t spend ar lives drinkin’ milk, though. Gotta get into the Word of God, our true meat source, and let it feed and nurture us, so’s we can grow and mature. I wouldn’t want you marryin’ someone that’s gonna drag you down in the spiritual sense.”

  “He’s been reading his Bible and praying, more or less to appease me.”

  “That’s a step in the right direction. And now, for my next question: What’s in this arrangement for Mr. Connors? Why exactly would he want to stir up a bees’ nest by marryin’ into the Evans clan?”

  “I wondered the same. At first, I thought he was plumb loco—still do, to a point—but he made the comment that maybe our marrying would bring our families closer together, make them see how futile it is to continue this feud. Neither of us has ever fully understood it.”

  “And it makes no matter if you do. What’s important is bringin’ it to a screechin’ halt. Your Mr. Connors may have a point.”

  “Aunt Gladdie, he’s not ‘my’ Mr. Connors. Glory! We hardly even know each other, beyond saying hello and good-bye.”

  “And, thanks to Judge Corbett, you won’t have the luxury of gettin’ acquainted till after the weddin’.”

  Mercy gulped. “After the wedding? You mean…you think we should go through with it?”

  “Humph.” Aunt Gladys folded her arms across her ample bosom and scanned the side yard, where the clothesline was strung, several of her skirts, blouses, and undergarments billowing in the breeze. “I barely knew my Chester when we got married, and our union wound up bein’ the best part of my life. Y’ shouldn’t put limits on what God can do when you fully trust His plans for you. It says in Jeremiah, ‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward—’”

  “I know just what that verse says. Sam Connors recited it to me just the other day.”

  “Well, well. Right there’s your sign that it’s meant to be.”

  “What?” Could it be that marrying Mr. Connors wasn’t as harebrained a notion as she’d once thought? She had asked the Lord to give her some sort of sign. Still…. “Oh, Auntie, I don’t even love him.”

  The woman grinned. “I can’t say I loved my Chester in the beginnin’, either. I’ll be dad-burned if I even liked him much.”

  At that, Mercy laughed. It was the first spurt of outright laughter she’d experienced since the fire—and it felt good.

  “What’s funny?” John Roy asked, running around the corner of the house, Joseph chasing after, both of them red in the face from exertion. Harley Gleason appeared, as well, shovel in hand. He dipped his head at Mercy. “Miss Evans. Good seein’ y’ again.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gleason. Thanks for taking time out of your busy day to push the boys on the swings. It warmed my heart to hear them laughing.”

  The man removed his hat and wiped his bald head with his sleeve. “’Tweren’t nothin’. Them swings don’t get near the use they once did. I been thinkin’ ’bout takin’ ’em down, but after hearin’ your youngsters’ happy squeals, I guess I’ll leave ’em be.”

  Mercy’s heart leaped at his referring to the boys as “her” youngsters.

  “O’ course you’ll leave them swings be, Harley Gleason,” Aunt Gladys said. “I got grandchildren, you know, and another one on the way. Besides, y’ never can tell when I might get the hankerin’ to go out there myself and swing to the treetops. I ain’t too old for swingin’.”

&n
bsp; Harley gave a full-out grin, his teeth white as pearls against his cocoa skin. “No, ma’am, you ain’t. Yo’ jest seasoned.”

  The porch swing shook with Aunt Gladys’s cackles. “If I’m seasoned, then you’re well-done!” The two laughed heartily in unison. They’d been friends since Harley’s first day at the Froeling farm, long before Mercy was born. She remembered him from her childhood, always hardworking and full of joy.

  Harley returned to his work, and the boys bounded down the steps, then commenced spinning in circles in the front yard. Gladys pressed her hands to her knees and pushed up, then turned and offered a hand to Mercy, as if she were the one in need of assistance. Mercy took her wrinkled hand, finding the grip firm yet warm. “You best be on your way, child. I believe you have to pay a call on your betrothed.”

  Mercy’s heart pounded with unprecedented panic. “Oh, Auntie, I don’t know about this.”

  Still clenching her hand, Gladys pressed her other palm on top and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’ll work out fine, dear. As for the family, don’t pay them no mind. Gotta think of them boys first. My only request is this: Let me come and witness y’r vows. I want to put my blessin’ on them.”

  Her blessing on their nuptials? It was more than she could have ever dreamed. Even if the earth beneath the graves of Oscar Evans and Ernest Connors would quake and rumble in protest.

  11

  You’re going to what? Samuel David Connors, you can’t possibly be serious. Marrying that woman would bring utter disgrace on our family! I demand you tell her to look elsewhere for a husband. I don’t care if you did save those boys from that house fire; they are not your charges. You will drop this ridiculous plan immediately!”

  Sam shrugged. “Sorry, Mother. We’ve already made arrangements with the reverend.”

  “Then you will unmake your arrangements.”