Mary sat up on her pallet and wiped her eyes, all the while watching and listening.
“God understands our sadness when we lose someone we love. Think of the pain He experienced when His Son Jesus went to the cross. Life is filled with hardships. As we learn to live with—or in spite of—our difficulties and disappointments, we can grow stronger, Mary. Enduring trials also equips us to aid and encourage one another.”
“I want my mama back. Seeing you always reminds me that she is gone.”
“Of course, you miss her. I am truly sorry.” She sat on the pallet and rubbed the girl’s back. Lord, please comfort this unhappy child. A few minutes later, she hugged Mary and returned to work at the table, choking back her own tears. Poor Matthew. How horrible that he believed himself responsible for his wife’s death. Surely he had done everything within his power to save his wife and babe.
They picnicked in the shade of a large oak tree, but Mark was the only one who seemed to be enjoying it. Heather hoped to break the gloomy spell.
“Did that chap who came by this morning find you, a Mr. Whit ... Whit—?”
“Whitcomb.” A grin replaced Matthew’s pensive expression. “George Whitcomb. Yes, he commented on meeting you.”
“Aye.” She laughed. “No doubt he had plenty to say about the sight he saw.”
“He may have mentioned you were fully committed to the task at hand. The Whitcombs have invited us all for dinner tomorrow, a way of welcoming you and celebrating the return of the children. Hannah is no doubt anxious to make sure everything is fine over here.” One of his eyebrows rose, giving him a cynical appearance.
She could not make out his mood. He did not seem at all pleased by the invitation. Was he embarrassed that she was included?
“It will be good for Mary and Mark.” His gaze followed the children. “They have missed the Duncan children, and they do need other youngsters to mix with occasionally. The Whitcombs have four children.”
She gathered the remnants of the meal. The children had long since gone off to gather wildflowers.
He turned to her, still looking serious. “You should not have come out here without your bonnet this time of day. You have nothing to shade your arms and face. You are likely to take a bad burn.”
“I realized too late that I had forgotten it.” Surely it wasn’t her sensitivity to the sun that troubled him. “Mr. Stewart, while it is good for the wee ones to mix with other children, perhaps I should stay at the house tomorrow while all of you go to the Whitcombs’.”
Matthew stood up, brushing the grass from his breeches. Towering over her, he put his cap back on his thick, dark hair, the set of his mouth suggesting he was provoked. “You will go with us to the Whitcombs’ tomorrow. I have no desire to go myself, but they are our neighbors, and they have made a friendly gesture.”
Why should he be irritated with her? She picked up the basket. “Aye, sir, you are the master, and I but the bondservant.”
His brow furrowed, and he looked like he might respond, but he only walked away.
Heather spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning and scrubbing the cottage. It was the only way to work out her tension and anger at being forced to go to the Whitcombs’. Throughout the afternoon, chills and her burned skin plagued her. The butter she rubbed on her face, neck, and arms offered little relief. He was right. She should have remembered her bonnet.
Mary’s superior attitude was equally chafing. What a relief when the children finally went to bed. She was enjoying a cup of tea when a sound at the door made her jump. The master had returned.
“We may be getting rain before too long.” He poured water from the pitcher. “Is there any supper left?”
“Aye. I kept it warm for you.”
Without another word, she placed a bowl of stew on the table. The glance that passed between them was anything but warm.
“Perhaps I need to explain about the Whitcombs.”
“There is no need, Mr. Stewart. Tell me when we are to be ready.” She held her head erect but avoided facing him.
“I will work until about noon. We can head over there as soon as I clean up.”
“Fine. Good night.” With that, she left him sitting at the table.
The next morning, she and the children were scurrying around trying to get the necessary chores done before it was time to leave for the Whitcombs’. Matthew had gone out earlier than usual that morning, even missing breakfast. He said he wanted to work as long as possible.
Now she was having an impossible time corralling the children to dress for the day’s outing. Mary was obstinate, and Heather’s patience with the child was dwindling.
She noticed the tub containing the flour was tipped over. “Mark, you just got your bath. What have you done?” Any flour not on the floor was on the boy.
She wiped him off with a damp rag and began to clean the floor. “Mary, please put your apron on and stop teasing Mark. We must finish the pie before your father returns and is ready to go.”
Mary’s glare was chilling. “You finish the pie.”
She flinched at the rebuff and wiped the perspiration from her tender, sunburned forehead. Biting her lip, she completed the pie and cleaned the kitchen. Not willing to confront Mary’s impertinence, she threw the rag on the table, walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed. How had everything deteriorated in the course of a day? Mark’s chaotic behavior that morning was understandable. He was excited about seeing other children. But how was she to cope with Mary’s haughty attitude? She fell back on the bed and gazed out the window. It was no help their father was absent. Oh, that invitation.
Exhausted from the confrontation with Mary, she rolled onto her side on the edge of the bed, and tears filled her eyes. Last night was miserable, with little sleep from the sunburn and all the friction in the household. After tossing and turning for hours, when sleep finally came, the nightmares returned. Anything but rested in the morning, she found herself dreading the day ahead. She wanted no part of the Stewarts, much less the Whitcombs. Instead, she craved to be alone, free from their surly attitudes, pressing demands, and glaring eyes. But she had a job to do. She needed to get ready and make sure the wee ones were also, as Mr. Stewart would want to go soon.
Whether she liked it or not, it would have to be the mended green dress, for it was suitable for paying calls and in slightly better condition than the calico one. She slipped the dress on, fastened it, tied back her clean hair in a braided bun, and put the white linen cap over it. She took the silver plate down from the hutch in the main room and examined her reflection. She shook her head in dismay and laughed. Aye, there was plenty of color back in her cheeks, even if they were still a bit thin. After placing the plate back on the shelf, she found more butter to rub on her sore, reddened skin.
Glancing out the window, she spied Matthew approaching the cottage.
When he entered, they were all sitting quietly at the table. “Good, you are all ready to go.” He went to the loft for a clean shirt.
Heather sat with her hands folded in her lap. Why should she fret about going to a neighbor’s home? Something had gotten Matthew out of sorts, but it should not affect her. She rose from the table, put on her bonnet, and picked up the basket with the pie.
It was about a fifteen-minute walk to the Whitcombs’ home. As they neared the place, Matthew’s brow furrowed. “I think you will like George. He is a decent fellow.”
She waited for him to make additional comments, but he remained silent, his jaw tense, no doubt still cross with her. She hoped the time with the neighbors would pass quickly.
The Whitcombs’ home was not unlike their cottage, a frame and clapboard dwelling, with a chimney of brick.
Mr. Whitcomb met them at the door. “Good day, Stewarts.” He ushered them all inside.
From the moment she entered, she was struck by all the activity in the house. Children ran in and out of various rooms. The Whitcombs’ home was larger than the Stewart c
ottage and not well kept. Clutter was everywhere.
Matthew greeted a plainly dressed woman about his own age.
“Good day, Hannah. It is good of you to have us over.” His friendly words came across affected.
Mrs. Whitcomb, in turn, nodded and eyed Heather with a dubious expression.
“Hannah, this is Heather.” Matthew cleared his throat. “My wife.” He sounded as if expecting a rebuttal.
“I see.” Hannah nodded, her manner reserved.
George Whitcomb filled the awkward silence with a grin. “Yes, we met yesterday.” He chuckled. “Over a few feathers.”
Heather managed a smile, wishing she were in the company of the chickens today. “I brought a pie.”
Hannah took it. “Thank you. It smells mighty fine. Elizabeth, God rest her soul, was a wonderful cook.”
Heather stared at the woman. Had anyone else caught her graceless words? Apparently not.
The Whitcomb children ran through the house before disappearing outside, the Stewart children in tow.
After a few tense, silent moments, Matthew came away from the window, where he had been observing the children play. “I think we might be in for a storm, George. Those clouds are moving this way.”
“We need the rain. I hope it will be a nice, gentle one, as I have planted seed and do not need it washed away.” George lit his pipe and walked with Matthew back to the window.
“What are your plans, George? I will need to hire on earlier this year.” He seemed at ease with his friend.
Heather lost track of the men’s conversation when Hannah drew her into the kitchen and into their own discourse.
“George tells me you are from Scotland.”
“Aye.”
“We were so surprised to hear Matthew had married, but I suppose he had to in order to bring his children home.”
Heather stood speechless, certain the woman had more to say.
“I knew he would marry someday, of course. But we were certain he would marry someone from these parts, or perhaps Alexandria. A woman, well, like Elizabeth.”
Hannah put the goose on the platter and surrounded it with potatoes.
Heather shuddered. Does the woman not realize her words are insensitive and might be hurtful?
“Elizabeth was such a lady, city bred. I never figured why she chose to live out here on the farm. Her people were from Boston, of means and position. They must have been brokenhearted that she chose to leave Boston and move into these conditions when she could have lived more comfortably.” Hannah leaned in her direction, eyes widening. “I heard tell they blame Matthew for her and the babe’s death.”
Heather’s neck stiffened and a lump formed in her throat as she turned and walked over to where the kitchen joined the main room. The woman was obtuse. Was this why Matthew was reluctant to bring her here today? Had the men caught Hannah’s words? Perhaps not. They were outside now. Relieved, she once again turned to the woman preparing their meal.
“Is there something I might do to help, Mrs. Whitcomb? Shall I call the children?”
“Pride. That is Matthew Stewart’s problem. He would have had much more if he had been willing to accept help or a position from Elizabeth’s people. They were offering it too, I heard.” Hannah shook a spoon at her, splattering drippings on the table. “If my George or I had kin like that, well, we would have left here and gone to the city without ever a glance back.”
The woman was a gossip and completely devoid of tact, not to mention disrespectful of Matthew. How could she respond to Hannah yet avoid a confrontation that would provoke an embarrassing scene for all of them?
“Perhaps the Stewarts were happy on their farm, Mrs. Whitcomb. Do you think we should call everyone for dinner now? It smells delicious and seems to be ready to eat.”
“You fill the tankards while I call everyone.” When she returned, Hannah continued her tale. “I hear the Moores, Elizabeth’s parents, wanted the children when she died. But no, Matthew did not want them so far away. So he goes and leaves them with those folks in Alexandria, not even family. It was his pride again, not letting the grandparents have them. Those two would have been so much better off in Boston.”
As the men and children appeared, the comments in the kitchen continued. “With his pride, it must have taken a heap of swallowing for Matthew to marry up with an indentured servant.”
Hot tears filled her eyes, more from anger than hurt. After all, what was this woman to her? Her hands on her hips, she faced Hannah. “Our marriage is of no concern to you.”
Hannah responded with a blank stare.
If only the woman would stop. She sat down and tried to quell the tightness in her chest. It did not appear the men had heard Hannah’s insensitive diatribe. Matthew was distracted by the children, and George was laughing.
The families gathered around the table, and George Whitcomb offered the blessing. “Well, ladies, have you been getting acquainted? What have you been chattering about?”
She prayed Hannah would not answer his question. How many of Hannah’s remarks, if any, had Matthew heard?
As they ate, Heather hoped no one noticed that she only picked at her food. Matthew was distracted and often glanced at the window. It was not long before he walked to it and scanned the sky.
“George, those are ominous clouds. I want to get everyone home before this storm hits.”
They hurried through the remainder of the meal and parted at the door. The walk home was silent. A day that had begun so poorly had only grown worse with the visit to the Whitcombs.
Matthew stopped upon reaching their property. “I am going to get Honey and the other animals settled. Take the children inside.” He walked toward the pasture.
Large drops of rain began falling shortly after Heather and the children entered the cabin.
Mary was agitated. “Why did we have to leave so soon? We were hardly there any time at all.”
It had seemed an eternity to Heather. She checked to make sure the windows were closed.
Mary continued to whine until Matthew returned from the barn.
The fussy child wore her patience thin. When Mary asked again why they had to return home so soon, she said, “We had to get home before the storm, Mary, but we can have the Whitcomb children over here for a visit soon, dear.”
Matthew laughed as he closed the shutters. “Should we invite the children, or would you also like to have Hannah over to keep you company?”
“I fear we do not have much in common, Mr. Stewart.” Did he know how badly the visit had gone? No doubt he was well acquainted with Hannah’s indelicate remarks. He was difficult to read. Too often, she was unable to tell from his behavior and comments precisely what he wanted from this arrangement—a wife or a servant, as the Whitcomb woman had suggested.
“You will find friends among some of the other planters’ wives. There will be opportunities to meet them soon.”
She caught his eye. “That is an encouraging prospect.”
The remainder of the day was spent inside, away from the pelting rain. On occasion, Matthew ventured outside to discern if there had been any damage from the downpour. As the day progressed, the inside of the cottage grew more and more sultry. Reading to the children helped for a while, but the sweltering atmosphere was too distracting for anyone’s concentration.
The warm rain subsided that night about the time the children settled into bed. Since the air was becoming slightly cooler, Matthew opened the shutters and windows to let in the refreshing breeze. It provided welcome relief.
“I fear this is not the end of it tonight.” He glanced toward the windows. “The chickens and other animals are still edgy, and that is as good a gauge as any.” He sat across from her at the table, his dark, expressive eyes focused on her. “I am sorry if Hannah said anything to upset you. She sometimes says things that can pique a person.” He reached across the table, placing his hand on hers. His eyes searched hers. “Are you troubled?”
Slowly, sh
e turned her hand over, returning his clasp. “I am well.” She smiled. There was nothing to be gained sharing Hannah’s unkind comments. His other hand reached over and caressed the top of her hand still in his. Could he hear her heart pounding? She could.
“You have been such a help here, Heather. It has made—”
The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. “Papa, I am hungry.” Mark had not been in bed long. He pulled at his father’s arm and scrambled up into his lap, ending their personal exchange.
“I can get you a bite to eat.” She rose and returned Matthew’s smile before she walked to the sideboard to retrieve some of the biscuits. “If Mary is still awake, ask her if she wants something to eat also.”
Mary, still sulking, declined any food. Within a half hour, Matthew took Mark back to their pallet for the night, leaving Heather to seek the shelter of her room. Once inside, Heather leaned her back against the door. What was that all about at the table? Why, when they were together, did she grow short of breath and act so self-conscious? How confusing. She got out of her stays and clothes—what a relief. She poured water into the bowl to wash. The oppressive heat and the difficult day had left her exhausted. Splashing her face and neck with the tepid water brought only momentary relief. Would she ever get used to this heat and these people? She was too tired to think about the day anymore. It would all be easier tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER 10
Heather woke up, startled by the sound of the rain blowing into her room. She got up and ran to the window to close it. It was stuck and would not budge. She looked down at her shift, now drenched. The crack of thunder sent a shiver up her spine as she fought with the window. Light filled the room, and strong, powerful hands drew her away from it.
The sound of the howling wind and rain was deafening. “I cannot close it!”
Matthew reached out and pulled in each of the shutters, fastening them carefully before securing the rest of the window. The only light in the room was from the lantern he had set on the chest of drawers.
A Heart Set Free Page 9
