“Not prideful at all.” Goliah placed his hand on his chest. “If your heart’s clean.”
Mrs. Trilloe blushed and turned to grab a loaf, leaving Goliah Ashe to raise a conspiratorial brow. Shadrach looked through the shop windows to the twinkle of the sea and chuckled.
Undeterred, the woman kept talking. “I’ve just been telling our new preacher here about Molly, and in particular dear Miss Mayfield.”
Shadrach snapped his head back. Neither one is your concern.
“About her terrible loss, and how frustrating her days must be out on a farm when she should be serving beside a preacher. As her father intended.”
He tapped his thigh with the rim of his hat and kept his attention on the way she wrapped a length of brown paper around the bread. She handed it to Goliah with a sugary smile.
“A welcome gift. For your first meal here.”
“I’m most grateful, Mrs. Trilloe. Batching’s not my gifting you know, so any help from a wonderful cook is always appreciated.”
“It’s a pleasure. I’m sure you’ll find the women of the island eager to add to that bread as the days go by. Won’t he, Shadrach?” She didn’t stop for a response. “Will Mrs. Lawson be working for you, Mr. Ashe? She was our last preacher’s housekeeper.”
Goliah frowned. “I had a housekeeper, once. On my first placement. Vowed to never find myself at the mercy of a controlling woman again. Know what I mean, Shadrach?”
Shadrach couldn’t stop a grin from sneaking onto his face.
“I do.”
The preacher tapped his bread. “Mrs. Trilloe, many thanks for the bread.” He turned to Shadrach. “I guess I’ll see you and your sister, and the famous Miss Mayfield, on Sunday.”
He hurried away, leaving a path Shad longed to follow. To catch up to him and tap the good man on the shoulder and tell him not to look forward to anything more than preaching the Word and keeping his eyes to himself.
“Quite the handsome one, isn’t he?” Mrs. Trilloe busied herself with rearranging the remaining loaves. “Old enough to command the respect of any congregation, but still young enough to make the perfect catch for any refined young woman, wouldn’t you say?”
Shadrach examined the shelf behind her. What would he say? Nothing she poked him for, that’s what.
“I’ll have a seed cake and a bread loaf, please.” He hoped his teeth didn’t crumble into his gums with each forced word.
Mrs. Trilloe’s eyes remained cold. “Indeed you will.” She wrapped the loaf and cake into a bundle and set them aside. “And if you care to give me your list, I’ll fill it for you while Mr. Trilloe gives you a letter.”
He fished in his pocket. “A letter came for me?”
She held out her hand and lost no time flattening the list against the counter. “No.”
She ran a finger down the paper, and when she made it to the end slapped her palm against the counter and looked up.
“A letter has arrived for Miss Mayfield.” She mouthed the words to him as if he were deaf. “From her Aunt Sarah.”
He was sure that was none of her business. She turned to reach high on a shelf for a tin of raspberry jam. She’d probably read the letter right through. Steamed the envelope open and sat by the lantern all night to memorize every line and now waited to deliver something he didn’t want to know.
She set the tin on the counter with a thud. “Are you going to shadow me, or go get that letter? Unless you want us to speak about Molly working here. Summer’s coming and we’re bound to get busier with all the guesthouse holiday trade.”
He stepped away. “Not talking about Molly with you,” he muttered into his collar. How had the day turned grim, after such a sunny start? Goliah Ashe hadn’t yet stepped into the pulpit and the storekeeper was plotting to match him with Finella. Plotting a way for Molly to be in need, and him to not meet that need.
He reached the other end of the counter where Jack Trilloe sorted mail.
“She sent ya over, didn’t she?” Mr. Trilloe’s chin wobbled against his neck in thick folds. “Been bustin’ a gut to get ya here, for this.” He slapped an envelope into Shadrach’s hand. Mr. Trilloe didn’t bother with a greeting. He just did as his wife instructed. Shadrach stuffed the letter into the pit of his pocket, wishing he could do the same with Aunt Sarah, meddling storekeepers, and handsome new preachers. He tried to remember only a few short months ago when all he had to think about was his crops and animals and how much rain he might get the next day.
When had it come to this? That his thoughts were for a girl in dark plaits he would always fight for, and a young woman whose lips he wanted to taste again.
So help him God in heaven, he would do what it took to keep them both.
“Jon Tripp’s unloaded a market order from Melbourne, yesterday. Steamer’s brought in something of yours, too.” Mr. Trilloe pointed to a printed sign on the counter. “Oh, and the Egging’s coming up. You planning on beating your record from last year?”
Shadrach stared at the paper. The Egging? He’d won the annual egging contest two years in a row, but hadn’t given it much thought these last few weeks. Or the order he’d placed with an orchardist in Melbourne.
“That time already?”
Jack laughed. “Every year, my lad. Last week of November. One more week and those bird burrows will be gold mines, waiting for the long arm of anyone game enough to hunt for eggs. I thought you of all people would be dusting off your gear.”
Shadrach mulled over his chores. He hadn’t forgotten the Egging. He just hadn’t realized how fast the month of November raced by. Soon enough it would be Christmas.
“Thanks, Jack. Glad you reminded me. I got lost with my farm work there.”
A roar of laughter rocked the room. “Who are ya fooling, Shad? It’s not farm work that’s got ya all lost. It’s ya bleeding heart.” Jack slumped onto a chair behind the counter and his thickset frame gave way to waves of laughter and a phlegmy cough.
Shadrach let him chuckle. Let them all snicker and plot. He had plans of his own to make.
“Mrs. Trilloe?” He turned back to her counter. “I need to add to that list.
21
“No more glue.” Molly held her hands up and spread each finger wide. “All gone.”
Finella tasted the gravy in the stew pot and reached for the saltcellar. “Don’t tell me you’ve already used it up?” She wiped her hands on her apron and looked over the girl’s shoulder.
“Molly. This is exquisite.” A tingle crept along her arms. On the back of an old postcard, Molly had pieced a delicate flower of tiny shell fragments.
“You have a rare gift, Molly Jones. That is God’s honest truth, my girl.” She kissed her on the head.
Molly beamed and rubbed at a blob of glue on her chin. “Will Shadrach like it?”
“Like it?” Finella returned to the fire. “He’ll swing you round ’til your head spins and insist you make one just like it for him. Because this one,” she pointed with her wooden spoon, “stays in here with us.”
“But I’ll need more paste.”
“Indeed, you will. And how might you get some while I keep my eye on our stew?”
The girl shook her head. No answer came from her lips, and Finella guessed one did not enter her head, either. She would have to prod a little harder.
“Why don’t you put another cup of flour into the glue pan while I stir the stew? Unless you want to cook while I make the glue.”
Molly frowned at such nonsense, and Finella pressed her lips together to smother a smile.
The girl eyed the cup. It sat in the flour sack, its handle angled within her reach. She crooked her finger and scooped out a cup full.
“And now?”
Finella hovered over the well-stirred stew pot.
“Now, add a third of a cup of sugar to the pan.”
Molly filled the cup and showed her.
“Less. Take out a spoon full. Now pour water from that jug into the cup until you reach ha
lf way.”
Molly poked her tongue out and did just that.
“Mix it with the flour. It will be lumpy but your spoon should take care of that.”
Molly worked at the lumps until Finella saw the paste form.
“Now, add another full cup of water, all the way to the top. And then one spoon of vinegar and another good stirring.”
Molly fetched the vinegar bottle from the shelf. Dribbles landed on the table and her wrist, but she kept her eyes on the task.
“Done.”
“Good. Now bring the saucepan to the fire.”
Molly dropped her spoon into the pot and backed away. She shook her head. “You do that.”
“I can’t.” Finella turned her giggle to the fire. “I’ll help, but you must bring it to me.” She peeked over her shoulder.
Molly pincer-gripped the saucepan and extended her arm until the base of the pan neared the flame.
Finella made room. “Set it here. It shouldn’t take long. You’ll need to stir it or your paste will burn.”
Molly scowled, and stirred like a restless boy aiding his mother to wind wool.
Finella took pity on her and rescued both glue and stirrer, and poured the mixture into a basin. She’d secured a precious victory, but some triumphs were best left to glow without too much pressure on the warrior.
“What splendid cooks we are. My stew can sit on a trivet now and your glue needs to cool. Fancy a walk along the road?”
Molly had the door open before Finella could say more.
“Where shall we go?”
“I saw a wild rose for my Everlasting near one of Shadrach’s fence posts. Let’s go that way.”
“Why do you press flowers?” They walked into the sunshine.
“Well, my aunt thought it would be good to look for the beautiful things God grows and take a few petals for my book. It’s called an Everlasting because when the flowers dry, we can still look at them in the pages, even years later when the ones in the meadows have long gone.”
“Is that because you’re going to leave?” Sadness framed Molly’s face as sure as it did Finella’s heart.
“Shadrach and I agreed I would stay until Christmas. Remember, that day on the beach?”
“Where will you go? Does another girl need you?”
No one else needed her.
Of all the people in the world, she could only name one person who truly needed her. No, two. Tears filled her eyes and Finella pushed the thought away.
With each step along Shadrach’s red boundary, Finella counted all the reasons her aunt’s ship might arrive later than expected. But she would arrive someday, and bring with her every reason Finella could not stay with Shadrach and Molly. Reasons she knew by heart.
She’d been raised to be a preacher’s wife.
Matched to a man chosen for her. For a life in service to a congregation, like her mother, whose role had been cut short.
What would Father say if he knew she wrestled with affections for the son of a convict? If only he knew she’d let their search for her mother’s assailant dim a little, in the sunlit world she shared with Molly and Shadrach. Finella didn’t need to wonder. Soon enough, Aunt Sarah would deliver exactly what her dear Father and Mother would say if they saw the life she contemplated.
They reached the rose, growing wild up a post and through the wire fencing. Tiny pink buds opened to the sun and their fragrance hit Finella with memories of home. Long lost vows she’d made to Father, to help him find the name of the man who robbed him of a wife. To honor her mother’s deathbed request.
“Aunt Sarah makes the best rosehip syrup for cordial in late summer.” Finella dragged her thoughts from one faded past to another.
“Can we?” Molly pleaded. “Can we make it, too?”
“After watching you cook up that glue, I think you could make anything you put your mind to. It will be a while before there are any rosehips, but we could brew a rose petal tea.”
Finella braved the thorns and showed Molly how to twist the roses from where they belonged.
And perhaps, one day, her sweet girl would return to gather rosehips for cordial. When summer had ended…
*
Shadrach hooked his elbow over the back of the chair. You’d think a fellow could bring a girl a trinket without the kick of two and a half dozen grasshoppers in his stomach. Chatter hummed in the yard, then a crunching of shoes on the shell pathways. And then their voices carried into the house.
“Brother, you’re home already?” Molly pouted.
“What kind of a welcome is that?” He frowned back.
“We wanted to make rose tea before you came back.”
Finella followed, with the fragrance of summer in her basket and Shadrach guessed in her hair and probably every fold of her dress. “Why don’t you show Shadrach what you made today?”
Molly scrambled for the hearth.
“I made a flower. And I made a pan of flour paste. On the fire.” She beamed and handed him a card.
Shadrach stood and tilted the rosette of tiny pink shells.
“You made this?” His heart swelled.
“And this.” She grabbed a basin from the table. “On the fire.” Her eyes twinkled, and she waved it under his nose. Vinegar wafted from the mix.
He sought Finella. The fire?
“It’s true. She stirred that pan right over the flames. Measured all the ingredients herself.” Finella winked and his gut double fish-flipped.
“Then you most certainly deserve your reward.” He pointed to his packages on the bed.
Molly wasted no time and peeled at a paper parcel to reveal two black shoes. She held them up to the light and touched every loop and line of stitching. “For me?” She asked, and he grinned at her delight. But it was Finella’s reaction he longed to see.
“New shoes for church and old ones for everyday.” That’s a start, right, Dandelion?
But Finella wouldn’t look at him. She gathered Molly’s discarded paper, her eyes no longer bright. What happened to the winks they’d just shared?
“I know how well you look after your shoes, Finella. I figured you’d like something… different. Go on. Open it.” His fingers itched to nudge her closer. Instead, he tapped his knuckles together until Finella unwrapped the pieces of her gift.
“So pretty.” Molly peered at the four glasses and jug.
“It’s a lemonade set.” But the frosted grape vine detail didn’t thrill him as it had in the store. Not with Finella setting the glasses down on the table as if they belonged to someone else. “I know we make do just fine with our tin cups, but I saw them and…” He shrugged, confused as to why he’d bought it in the first place, now. Did he really think he would win Finella over with trinkets, the way he did with Molly?
Still, he’d wanted to bring her something beautiful. Give her more than what he’d offered so far, which wasn’t much and not likely to be more than trinkets and saplings for a while to come.
“We’re going to make rosehip cordial. To drink, after the flowers are gone. Can we drink it from these glasses?” Molly pretended to sip.
Finella traced the pattern on the jug. Her fingers trembled and she set it down.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”
She pushed away from the table and pressed her hands to her stomach.
“I like it very much.” She whispered. “Perhaps that’s what’s wrong.”
“It is?” What did that mean? He tried to reach for her but she waved him away.
“Don’t you see?” Her voice teetered on something raw. Wounded and breathless. “Everywhere I look, something’s muddled. It’s warmer when it should be cooling down. The stars are in the wrong place. And roses, that should be dead by now, are budding in disregard to everything God intended.”
She sidestepped Molly. “And now you’re bringing gifts you would normally despise, right into your home like treasures. What am I supposed to think when you turn everything upside down?”
&
nbsp; 22
Finella raced along the familiar track to the beach. Through reeds and seas bushes, she gulped in air like someone who’d held their breath too long.
The sea lapped at the shore, lazy and still, and she pressed her fists to her side. Nothing ever happened the way she needed it to anymore. Even the water was not churned up today. Where were the frothing waves, the roaring crashes to match her mood?
She dug her nails into her palms. She would not see the rosehips dry. She would not show Molly how to turn them into syrup. She would not pour their drink into beautiful etched glasses which now sat out of place on a scratched and dented table.
Didn’t Shadrach see how foolish a lemonade set looked in his mud hut? What place did it have against crude beaten furniture and sapling doors?
Finella quickened her pace until the sweat trickled down her back. Until her sprint lost steam and her legs outran the dismay of not knowing where she belonged.
She sat on a rocky mound exposed by the distant tide. The cry of a gull hovering nearby pierced the air. It too, searched for something but flew away at the sound of voices from the beach track. Shadrach emerged first, with Molly just behind. She plopped onto the sand, but he continued on.
Dread rolled around her chest. Shadrach deserved a proper explanation. But she hardly understood the tricks being played on her heart.
In a few long strides he perched on her rock. Close enough to press the warmth of his arm to hers. Grass and roses mingled with the smell of the sea.
He didn’t say a word. Just watched the same patch of sand where Molly played. At their feet a pile of black rocks slumbered in a silent bath. So clear, it would have been easy to think the water was not there at all. Shadrach dipped his hand in and pulled one out, shaking seawater off his fist. He held the rock in the palm of his hand.
“Forget the lemonade set. Let’s pretend I never bought it.”
“You want to give me a rock, instead?”
“Not any rock. A piece of volcano. Been here for thousands of years but it didn’t start off like this.”
Carry Me Home Page 16
