Page 19

D aniel woke the next morning stiff from the cold and with a bad taste in his mouth. “Sunday.” He blinked his eyes in the gray light, the sun not yet risen.

As he lay still, he thought of the previous evening. Of Miss Gray and how he’d stared after her. He hoped no one noticed his interest. Sometimes a simple glance gave way to gossip. Perhaps wagging tongues were unavoidable. As Francine had been so good to remind him in her last letter.

Then that ridiculous punch spill down Miss Stanton’s gown, and his further foolish attempt to cheer her. Obviously, she couldn’t wait to be rid of him last night. Somehow, he’d gotten tangled up in doing a good deed for a girl who didn’t care for his company.

Well, like it or not, he happened to enjoy Mrs. Ramshaw’s and her food, so she would just have to put up with him.

He would by no means fail to read to her.

He smiled. He was good at reading and she might learn to enjoy it.

Perhaps the nut would not be so hard to crack, and her soul may prove to be open to kindness—and Christ himself.

He swiped a hand across his eyes. Pride, how well he knew its presence. “Get it out of me, Lord. Help me to stop glorying in my prospective success.”

Cat mewed outside his door.

Daniel put his feet onto the icy, cold floor and fairly ran to stoke the coals in the kitchen hearth.

CLARA HATED HERSELF the next morning. Mrs. Ramshaw likely thought her mentally ill.

She mustn’t show any weakness, if she wanted independence.

More breakdowns could lead her to a stint in an insane asylum.

Her straight white teeth pulled out and her arms forced into horrible jackets that tie only in the back.

Poor lady must have cried from having to bend down so far. Yes. That was the cause.

It was Sunday, and Mrs. Ramshaw had already tapped on her door reminding her of the ten o’clock service. Being seen by society again hardly mattered. Not many would attend church after such a late night. In fact, she and Mrs. Ramshaw along with a few older people might be the only ones seen.

Only sit and endure another of Reverend Merrick’s sermons.

She rose and put on her most comfortable dress. Since she had grown thinner, she found that it fit perfectly with a rather loose corset. She needed help with this.

A knock pounded from downstairs.

“Who comes at such an hour? Before church, no less.”

“Miz Ramshaw? The missus sent me to help you with Miz Clara. She says to tell you I can cook for you and do all the washin’. I got my gran girl, she can help keep me an’ stay outta trouble. The missus say if you are agreeable, she can stay.”

“I declare.”

Clara had never heard Mrs. Ramshaw come even close to swearing before. The fact that Jenny was here lifted her heart. A piece of home...

Bottles rattled together as though being set down. “Here be some of dat healin’ spring water for Miz Clara.”

“I do not keep slaves, I do not hold to that way of life.”

“Ever’ body’s got their ways.”

“Return to Mrs. Stanton and tell her you should remain home. ”

Jenny’s voice dropped to a whisper. Clara could not hear what she was saying. But the next thing she knew, the trio was climbing the stairs.

“Good thing I have another spare room. The window leaks a little, but I daresay shan’t do you any harm. We like to keep warm in this house, so feel free to make a fire as often as you wish.”

“I seen your wood pile. Me and Morrie, we keep each other warm.”

“Nonsense, I’ll send to the Stanton farm for extra wood. They won’t deny me.”

Clara opened her door wide. “Jenny?”

“Miz Clara, I gots you some cookies. Had to hide ‘em from Lewis. Poor man won’t know what to do without my cookin’.”

“Come here, Jenny. Come here.” She reached outward to feel her familiar hands. Arms drew Clara close to her small form and patted her back.

“What’s this? You only been gone from me a week.”

Mrs. Ramshaw spoke. “Moriah, do you know how to read?”

“No ma’am.”

“Then you shall be taught. Go ahead, settle in. Clara and I are off to church. When we return, the reverend will come with us.”

“I’ll have dinner on th’ table.”

“No, Jenny, I shall have dinner on the table. You shall do nothing at the moment but settle in and wait for our return.”

Clara piped up, “Jenny is an excellent cook, Mrs. Ramshaw.”

“I do not doubt it.”

The day seemed brighter with Jenny and her granddaughter come to stay. Almost as if she had not been completely abandoned—though they were slaves and not the least blood-related.

They walked to church in comfortable silence. She heard very few people milling about—all the better. Less stares and whispers to endure .

Mrs. Ramshaw clucked her tongue. “Only three carriages by the church. Shame, shame, shame.”

If Clara had been dancing until past two in the morning, as she had in the past, she would most certainly still be abed. With aching feet and light heart and breakfast brought up on a tray past noon. “Is it better to fall asleep in church or stay home where sleeping in is acceptable?”

“Posh. One should remember the Sabbath and not just on the Sabbath.”

The organ played a low tune as they stepped over the threshold. Would her family be in attendance?

Mrs. Ramshaw whispered, “It’s practically empty in here. Pay close attention to Daniel’s sermon so that we might discuss it at luncheon.”

Clara slowly nodded. Of course, Mrs. Ramshaw would do all the talking. She need only nod and agree with whatever they said.

DANIEL’S HEART HADN’T slowed down yet. He had preached with more fervor than usual today and it left him in a sweat.

Passion always seemed to come easier with fewer people in the sanctuary.

It was exhilarating, it was disappointing.

Why didn’t this happen every Sunday? The passion—not the poor turnout.

He changed out of his vestments and stood at the pump at the back of the church and pushed the heavy handle to let cold water gush over his handkerchief.

He wiped his face, grabbed his pile of books and started up the hill to Mrs. Ramshaw’s house.

Time to sacrifice a good portion of his own day of rest. Not that he minded.

Miss Stanton sat rocking on the porch, a shawl draped across her small shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, one of her father’s slaves sat on the ground next to her, mending a sock. Strange sight.

“Hello, Miss Stanton. ”

She bowed her head in reply. Formal thing, that one.

“What shall it be today? Fairy tales? A revisit to Shakespeare?”

She bent her head in thought. “I know not.”

CLARA SAT ALONE IN the front parlor, among a much-pillowed bench, so deep in proportions that she recalled avoiding the wide seat on previous calls. It made her legs stick out like a wooden doll. Frightfully unladylike.

Reverend Merrick cleared his throat more than once. And sniffled, and sniffled again.

“Are you warm enough, Miss Stanton?”

“I am not an invalid.”

“Does that mean you are warm, and would rather not be bothered by my query?”

“If I am a little cold, I can’t become more blind than I am. I am not bothered bodily, other than by my blindness.”

“My nose is cold and I wish I had an extra coat just now. Perhaps Mrs. Ramshaw can spare us a cup of tea?”

Clara readjusted a pillow. “Alright then...perhaps I am rather chilled. I am just so tired of people thinking I am completely ill.”

“Our fellow man can be strange with his thoughts, I daresay I’ve had my share of gossip and whatnot. We all have, Miss Stanton. You may have escaped it until now, but vicious words would have come to hurt you sooner or later, blindness or not.”

“A fact of life, is it?” More tragic words.

Daniel’s voice lowered a notch. “A fact for which gives me another reason to do what I do.”

Clara readjusted another pillow. It hadn’t struck her before. Clearly, being a minister was more than an occupation for this man. Maybe he fancied that it granted him a certain nobility. Or perhaps he was like the impassioned, emotional preachers that came blazing through town sometimes.

Her parents had laughed at them. As had she and her sisters.

Daniel cleared his throat again. “Ah, Mrs. Ramshaw comes. I daresay she read our minds from the other room.”

A tea tray rattled close and was placed within distance. Mrs. Ramshaw clipped her words, “I am not a spiritist , Reverend. I trust you saw our company?”

“Ah, yes.”

“They are from Clara’s household, loaned to be my slaves. ”

“Extra help may be a blessing,” Daniel said.

Mrs. Ramshaw laughed low. “I needed no help, yet, I am glad they are here. See how Clara has brightened by their presence? I’m going to teach the young one to read.”

Clara stiffened. Teach Morrie to read? Was that lawful? Why should she bother about it? Or care?

Reverend Merrick voiced her question. “Will Mr. Stanton approve?”

She herself had a ready answer. “Father isn’t here, so his opinion hardly matters.” How strange, that words now locked to her would be opened to a slave... How could she begrudge Morrie’s mind being freed?

Clara felt Mrs. Ramshaw’s knotty fingers lift her own hands to balance a saucer and cup. “Made from spring water, mind you. I’ve filled your cup half-way so you won’t spill down your dress. I’m sure Reverend Merrick won’t mind pouring more for you?”

“No, ma’am. Not at all.”

Clara gave an understanding nod. A backwards party. Where the man had to pour and entertain. Mother would find this ridiculous and require Jenny to serve.

“I’ll be in the kitchen with the other ladies. The doors are wide open should you need anything. ”

Ladies? Didn’t she mean the slaves? No one ever called a slave a lady.

How odd. Clara set the saucer aside and fit her hand around her cup while Reverend Merrick warmed his hands and sipped his tea for a moment.

What did he look like? Was he handsome? Probably not.

It didn’t matter anyway. Christian might still come to his senses.

Besides, girls like her didn’t marry boring preachers.

But he wasn’t altogether boring, was he?

She sipped her tea for another moment and her thoughts about his looks continued. She remembered how the doctor showed her how to see with the tips of her fingers. Never would she take such liberties. Such a thing was much too intimate. She might never know.

Maybe he had a large hooked nose and bulging eyes. A regular beast. A smile tipped the corners of her mouth.

“What is so funny?” Humor tinged his voice. “I don’t recall saying anything amusing.”

“My thoughts rather ran away from me.”

“A dreamer, are you?”

“I...yes.”

“Joseph was a dreamer too. Well now, let’s begin. I’ll question you on my sermon. Ready?”

A great big hooked nose. And crooked teeth too. Absolutely.

“I jest, Miss Stanton. I came here to entertain you with words, not bore you into oblivion. Unless you don’t find the Bible boring, we can go with that instead.”

Clara forced a smile this time. “I find neither Dickens nor the Bible uninteresting.”

“Dickens it is.”

She heard him snatch a book from somewhere and leaf through the first pages.

“Oh, Miss Stanton, you are out of tea.” His hand came beneath her two that held the cup. A slow, gentle pouring and fresh steam joined with her breath .

“Thank you.” She looked toward his voice.

“And now, without delay, I shall begin our literary journey. By the way, I haven’t read this yet so we will both be entertained.”

Clara sat back among the pillows and forced herself to be calm, and maybe even enjoy this moment. The last time she’d heard or read a story had been before the accident. Months ago. No one had bothered since.

His voice did not take on authority like it did in the pulpit. Instead, the flow of words waved like a calm ocean. Even, interested, careful. By the end of an hour’s reading, his voice began to get rusty. Yet he continued.

She moved slowly forward to reach for his arm, only to touch it lightly. She reached outward, and into her hand came his.

“Miss Stanton?”

“Your voice is tired. I think perhaps you might want some more tea yourself.”

“I confess, I am so interested in the story, I’d go on till I croak.”

“I want to pour.”

“Ah... are you sure?”

“Of course.” Her smile expanded. Why wait on others to do what she was still capable of?

She felt for the tea table. Found his cup.

Found the handle of the tea pot. She’d done this hundreds of times.

She poured only a moment before lifting the spout and lifting his teacup, handed it to him.

“See? Easy as pie.” There. She wasn’t completely deficient like everyone thought.

“Well done. Now tell me, what do you think of the story thus far?” He listened to her thoughts like he had all the time in the world.

DANIEL HASTENED FROM evening service, to which even fewer people had ventured. His vocal passion wasn’t quite as stirring. After the dead silence of the pews, he needed to experience some vibrant life.

His horse had no problems, no ailments, no long history of human frailties. Only energy and a life in the fresh air.

He met the stableman at the door of his cottage. His hair stuck out in the back and one suspender hung limp by his leg. Apparently, he’d interrupted a nap.

“Saddle her up, will you.”

“Will do, Reverend.”

He smiled back and inwardly sighed. If the whole town laughed at his riding, what did it matter? Ah, but it always did, as his personal history warned.

Minutes later, he rode slowly towards the Stanton farm quite unintentionally. He remembered the few tips the stableman had been kind enough to spare.

Perhaps the horse wanted to go home, back to the open pasture.

He patted her neck and she began to trot a bit quicker than he liked.

His balance wavered. If he was going to make a bigger impact in the life of his parish, he and this horse needed to get along.

At least he didn’t have to worry about Miss Stanton seeing how foolish he looked.