A Heart Set Free

by Janet S. Grunst

  All eyes turned to him, but Mary was the first to respond. “The church has not been rebuilt yet?”

  “No.” Matthew glanced at Heather, who seemed to be waiting for an explanation. “Our church burned down in February, so we have been meeting at two different neighbors’ homes every other week since then. Folks decided to wait until after the harvest to rebuild.”

  Mary tugged on her father’s sleeve. “Will we stay for dinner afterward?”

  “We usually do.” He noticed a frown on Heather’s face. “Neighbors each bring something to share, whether it is bread, soup, stew, or a dessert. Perhaps we could take something simple.”

  Heather took a deep breath. “I could make some bread or soup for you to take. Am I to go with you?”

  “Certainly. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet some neighbors.” Why was she so resistant? He glanced out the window to the early morning light. “Well, I need to get a start on the day. I usually do not hire on this early, but I am getting behind. If I cut out the midday meal, I would have another good hour of daylight.”

  Mary, amber eyes flashing, got up from the table with a start. “No, Papa. We do not see you very much now. We are left here all day with her. I miss the Duncans. We had other children to play with there.”

  He turned to his daughter. “Now, Mary, even if it is only for a short time each day, you see more of me now than you have in almost a year. There is a great deal of work to be done around here, especially at this time of year. It is natural that you miss Maggie and the children. But, Mary, I will not have you showing so little respect for Heather. Honestly, you have no reason to dislike her.”

  “Well, she is very strange, and she is not at all like Maggie. She makes me do too many chores. She is forever washing and wanting everything clean.”

  Matthew studied his daughter and stifled a grin, but said nothing.

  “Papa, she is too tall and skinny. And have you noticed all the freckles on her face? Yesterday she was down by the pond, crying. We do not need a servant, Papa. Send her back, or make her work in the fields so you can be here with us.” Mary pointed to her. “She is not like Maggie or Mama.” Out of breath, she appeared to be finished with her evaluation.

  He shook his head. Mary’s remarks were hurtful. “Do not be so critical of Heather. Of course, she is different from Maggie or your mother. She comes from Scotland and life here is new to her.”

  Heather’s face revealed her embarrassment, and Mark’s eyes were wide as saucers.

  Be patient, man. “And since when have you not liked freckles? I never knew you to find Donald Duncan’s thin frame or freckles offensive. As to helping with the chores, Mary, a farm involves much more attention and work than living in the city, and you are old enough to do your share around here.”

  Mary crossed her arms, her lips pressed together.

  “Come here, child.” He took his daughter’s hands in his as he drew her closer. “Finding fault with Heather’s desire for cleanliness is silly. I, for one, have appreciated having clean clothes to wear. Perhaps it was your treatment of her that brought her to tears.”

  Heather averted her eyes.

  “And about this servant business, I never told you she was a servant. Where did you hear that?”

  “Donald Duncan said that you bought her off the dock and that she is our bondservant.” Mary pulled her hands from her father’s and placed them on her hips.

  “Mary, she ... Heather is my wife.” Matthew looked at his daughter intently. “I needed someone to take care of you and Mark and to help with the house. That is why she is here. We must learn to live peacefully together. Did you ever stop to think that she might be lonely also? You have Mark, but Heather has no family here.”

  “Yes, she does. She has you.”

  Matthew glanced at Heather to gauge how she had taken the child’s careless remarks. The woman looked embarrassed. Her eyes were downcast as she got up and began clearing the table. How mistaken Mary was if she believed that they shared anything more than this small cottage. “We need to bring some sense of peace back to this situation. Mary, do you remember the Whitcomb family, over the hill?”

  “The Whitcombs? Tobias, Martha, Timothy, and Teddy?”

  “Yes. We may see them tomorrow, although they often forgo services. I know you miss Maggie, but she does not need us around right now, being so close to having the babe. You have friends here.”

  Mary’s lips were pursed, but her hands were no longer on her hips. “Mark, do you want to go outside? May we, Papa?”

  “Yes, but do not wander off.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Mark jumped up from his seat and joined his sister. The children nodded to him before going through the doorway.

  He turned to Heather, who was holding a rag in one hand and grasping the back of one of the chairs with the other. “I am sorry about Mary’s rude behavior. I think she needs some time to get used to ... the changes.”

  “I understand.”

  How long would it take for Mary to accept Heather? At least the woman did not respond in anger. She must have had some experience with youngsters. He got up from the table and prepared to go out again.

  “Mr. Stewart.”

  He stopped, turned toward her, and leaned against the hutch. “Yes?”

  “You should not have to be going without a meal. I can bundle up some food and bring the wee ones out to wherever you are working. That way you would not have to come all the way back here, and you and the children would still have some time with each other.”

  He studied her face while she spoke. She was considerate, but with her fair coloring, more hours of sun every day meant more freckles, much to Mary’s woe.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Of course not.” He laughed.

  “Then why do you keep staring at me?”

  “Well, for one thing, I was imagining how many more freckles you would have if you worked in the fields, as Mary suggested. About the offer to bring a meal out to me, are you sure it is not too much trouble?”

  “Nay, it is no trouble, and the fresh air and walk will do us all good.” She began twisting the rag in her hand. “There is something else, Mr. Stewart.”

  “What is it?” Something had the woman on edge. She was an enigma, but she seemed to have a kind nature.

  “Well ... well ...”

  “Well, what, Heather?”

  “I wondered if you would like me to be reading to the children. Yesterday, when I was reading my Bible, Mary asked if I might read it to her. I can teach her to read and write if you wish.”

  “I would like that, but I wanted you to get used to all of us—and this place—first. I appreciate your willingness to work with the children. Perhaps that might encourage a more cooperative attitude in Mary.”

  “I can read to them from the Bible, or something else if you prefer.”

  “You received an education in Scotland?”

  “Aye, sir. The Scots place great value on such things.”

  “Remind me to pick up a primer the next time we go into Alexandria. I believe Mary may have left hers at the Duncan home, and with their brood, they are welcome to keep it.” He put his hat back on his head and turned to go outside.

  “Aye, there was one other thing.”

  He stopped at the door and faced her. She did not strike him as a timid person, so why was she so apprehensive? “Yes, Heather?” He watched her wring her hands together.

  “I, well, perhaps you would want your room back.”

  It took all his effort not to grin. Do not read too much into this. She is all business. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I would be quite satisfied with the pallet in the loft, sir.”

  “I think we will keep the sleeping arrangements the way they are. For now.”

  CHAPTER 9

  After completing chores on Sunday morning, they set out in the wagon for the Turner farm a few miles away. Riding beside Matthew, Heather held a basket
with the two round loaves of bread she had made. A knot formed in her stomach. Would the neighbors welcome her? Or would they question Matthew Stewart’s marriage to an indentured servant?

  Mary and Mark chattered in back as they bounced on the rutted road. The silence in front of the wagon only put her more on edge. Was this as awkward for him as it was for her?

  He glanced her way. “They are good people, Heather. You need not worry about how you will be received.”

  Their eyes met. How had he read her thoughts? Was she that transparent? “We shall see.”

  When they arrived, Matthew introduced her to Aaron and Amelia Turner, a clergyman, and two other couples, as well as ten children of varying ages.

  Amelia Turner took the basket. “I am delighted to meet you, Heather. We had no idea Matthew had remarried.” The woman had a warm smile and seemed sincere.

  “Thank you.” Heather glanced about the room. Would more people arrive soon?

  “Those are our children over there.” Amelia pointed to two boys around Mary’s age and two small girls who were obviously twins. “Cole and Logan are eleven and ten, and Emily and Ellen are three.”

  “You have a fine family, and your children are not far in age from Mary and Mark.” Heather smiled, watching the twins pursue Mark as he attempted to avoid them.

  Amelia motioned for her to be seated. “It is wonderful for Matthew to have his family home again.”

  Aaron Turner spoke up. “We may as well get started. Pastor Jones will lead us today.”

  Matthew and the children sat with Heather as the service proceeded. It was less formal than what she was used to at home, but it was not unpleasant.

  Afterward, she joined the women serving the dinner in the kitchen.

  Betsy Edwards, the oldest woman, approached her. “A pity not many folks came today. It would have been nice for you to meet more of the neighbors. Sometimes we have as many as ten adults and two dozen children.”

  Heather silently sliced the bread and listened to the conversation, answering the women’s questions when necessary.

  Patience Morgan ladled the stew into bowls. “You do not sound like you are a native Virginian, Heather.”

  “Nay. I have recently come from Scotland.” No more questions, please.

  Patience grinned. “It must have been Matthew’s Alexandria friends, the Duncans, who brought the two of you together. I think their families came over from Scotland a generation past.”

  “Aye, they were our witnesses when we married.” Heather shot a nervous glance at Matthew, but he was in the midst of a conversation with Aaron Turner.

  Amelia handed her a trencher for the bread. “I thought that might be the case. I imagine you have met your closest neighbors, the Whitcombs.”

  “Nay, not yet.” Heather did not miss the knowing look the ladies gave one another.

  The next hour passed quickly as the families ate and visited. When they parted, well wishes were given with the promise of seeing each other again soon.

  As they rode home, Heather sighed. It had been easier than she had anticipated.

  “I told you it would go well.” Matthew’s countenance confirmed her thoughts.

  “So you did.”

  Matthew joined Heather and the children for breakfast the next morning. “Children, I have neglected your religious education and your reading and writing too long. I have no time right now to devote to it, so I have asked Heather to spend some time each day reading with you.” He looked around. There was no resistance—good. “This will be an excellent opportunity for you to gain the skills and knowledge you need.” He got up from the table, gave Mary a squeeze on her shoulder, and tousled Mark’s hair.

  “Heather, if you have no other plans, I think we might have chicken for dinner. That old lame one will be getting tough if we do not eat her soon. The axe is hanging on the wall inside the barn door.”

  “Chicken sounds good.” Mark’s eyes lit up.

  Heather glanced up from cleaning the iron skillet. “The axe? Kill the fowl? I, ah, I never—”

  “You have never killed a chicken?” Clearly, this was all new to her. “Would you prefer that I kill it this time?”

  “Oh, would you, Mr. Stewart? I will be happy to cook it and bring it out to you this afternoon for dinner.”

  He grinned and headed to the barn for the axe. The woman must never have lived on a farm before.

  Heather was still putting dishes away when he returned with the dead chicken, minus its head. “Here.” He laid it in the basin.

  “But ... the feathers.” Heather peered down at the bird, and then searched his face.

  “That is the way they come, Heather, with feathers. You can dip it in a bucket of very hot water to make plucking easier.” He pulled a few feathers to demonstrate how best to accomplish the task. “It is best to pluck it and gut it outside—less messy that way.”

  “Gut it?”

  “Cut the rest of the neck off. Open it up here.” He pointed to various areas of the fowl’s body. “Then you need to remove all the innards. I bet you are a quick learner. Think of it as part of your education—an opportunity for you to gain the skills and knowledge you need.”

  Heather sat on the porch, concentrating on plucking the chicken, which entertained the children. By the time the job was done, she was covered with the plumes. She stepped off the porch and walked a distance from the cottage. There, she shook her entire body and flapped her petticoat, hoping to be free of the feathers clinging to her skin and garment. In her wild dance, she did not hear the horse and rider come from around the side of the barn. When she glanced at the children, Mary and Mark stared beyond her. She turned to find the object of their attention and cringed. A rider surveyed her while fighting back laughter.

  “George Whitcomb. I have the farm over there beyond the trees.” He twisted his torso in the saddle and pointed past the barn. “I came over for Matthew. Is he around?” He got down from his mount and extended his hand.

  “I am Heather.” She wiped her hand on her petticoat before extending it. “I believe you will find Mr. Stewart in the south field.”

  The portly man spotted the children and grinned. “Mary, how fine it is to see you back home. You too, Mark.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitcomb.” Mary grinned and curtsied.

  “A pleasure meeting you, Heather. I will go find Matthew.” He lifted his cap, remounted his horse, and was off.

  She turned and retrieved the chicken. “Come on. We had best get you gutted and cooked.” She stalked back to the cottage porch and took a breath before picking up the knife to practice the next new skill. “Wretched critter.” The churning in her stomach removed any appetite for chicken. All she wanted to do was wash up to her elbows.

  Once the chicken was roasting on the spit, they began reading. She had only read the first few verses of Proverbs when Mary looked up at her, bewildered. “I do not understand a lot of it. What does it mean?”

  “Aye, it can be difficult to comprehend the meaning, even for a grown person. But like so many things, the more you read or hear it and think about it, the more you will understand what is meant. These proverbs speak to us of the importance of seeking wisdom from God. They instruct us much the way a father or teacher would, telling us that we have choices. We can choose to follow God’s ways or our own ways. Listen to the seventh verse: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction.”

  A twinge rose in her throat. How was she to instruct the children on the Scriptures and the wisdom of being under authority when she had resented being under her own father’s authority? She closed the Bible. “It may be difficult to comprehend now, but I am sure that as we read more, we will gain greater understanding.”

  Mark grinned from ear to ear. “I like your reading, Heather.”

  “Your papa said that he would get a primer in town so that we can read from that also. Now, Mary, we need to tend to the biscuits, and I must check that chicken.”


  “Yes, ma’am.” While Mary’s voice sounded hesitant, she did follow Heather to the kitchen, where the two of them prepared the meal.

  “Your father has done a good job of keeping this place tidy, Mary, but I think it needs a thorough cleaning. It needs dusting and sweeping out, and the rugs need a beating. The windows also should be washed. Will you help me?”

  “I suppose I might do the dusting.” Mary bit her lip.

  “Thank you. That would be a big help.” Why the melancholy look on the girl’s face? “What is it, Mary? You seem troubled.”

  “Why did God let my mama die?”

  Heather took a breath and wiped her hands on a towel nearby. How might she communicate what the child needed to hear? It was important not to minimize the girl’s heartfelt concern.

  “Everyone kept saying it was God’s will.” Mary’s voice grew increasingly agitated. “Except Papa. I heard Papa tell Maggie it was his fault that she and the baby died, but I do not believe that is true. Papa loved Mama. Why did Papa say that, and why would God let her die?” The child’s voice was filled with emotion as she turned and fled the room to her pallet.

  Heather pressed her hand against her stomach to relieve the uncomfortable sensation. She stared as the curtain that shielded the children’s sleeping alcove swayed. Still stunned by Mary’s painful outburst, tears formed in her own eyes as her throat tightened. Poor child. What can I say to comfort her? She walked to the alcove, pulled the curtain back, and sat down beside Mary.

  “I am sure your father did everything possible for your mother. I cannot tell you why she died.” She smoothed back Mary’s hair from her damp face. “Each day of life we have is a gift. None of us understands how many days we will enjoy that gift. We just need to live each day that God gives us in a way that honors Him and those we love. Think about all that you learned from your mother and loved about her. That was what comforted me most when I lost mine.”