Page 5

D aniel covered his nose with a large starched handkerchief and blew.

Drat! What timing. His first day meeting the families of Harrodsburg, Kentucky and his nose was cherry-ripe.

Mr. George would knock on his door at any moment.

He’d offered to trot along with him as he made the rounds—and, most likely take notes.

He blew again, then sneezed. “Merciful heaven, God within it, hear my sneeze? Want me humbled, do You? Of course, You do.” Daniel adjusted the plain, white collar and buttoned his black coat. Donned an equally plain but new black hat, a low affair. No need to add to his height.

But ach! His red nose would cause giggles from the children who played near the hearth while they stumbled through the verses their mother would make them recite.

He blinked. And sneezed again. He threw off his hat and ducked his entire head into a washbasin full of water, bubbling till he could stand it no longer. Might not help, but what could it hurt? Jerking a towel from the rack, he roughly dried his face.

“God be praised, I will not sneeze again.” He stood still and took a deep breath.

The expected knock sounded. His chaperone had arrived.

“Ah. Right.” He shoved his hat back on and ran downstairs to the foyer. The cook had already answered the door.

Mr. George pointed a crooked finger and swirled it at him. “What are you forgetting, my boy? ”

Daniel checked for his jacket, hat—shoes still on his feet. “Ah...oh yes. I am quite stupid today,” he grinned. He ran upstairs and retrieved his Bible.

Mr. George pointed next door. “First off, I reckon you’d like to see our church.”

He’d only glanced at the structure when Mr. George opened the parsonage for him the night before. Too tired to care or notice. The gothic revival building stood a decent size as churches go. Well-constructed, windows aplenty. Its spire above the bell tower ever pointing skyward.

“Churchwomen donated the silver to make th’ bell. Got a right pretty ring to ‘t.”

Daniel peered up and down Chiles Street soaking in the sight. A busy place for certain, but nowhere near New York.

Everyone seemed busy within and around the scant town buildings. A few streets away from the parsonage, Mr. George knocked at a cabin door.

They were met with a stout, dark haired woman whose thin smile bore the only pleasure she had at seeing them.

“Ethel, this be the new preacher.”

She dipped her head as though she meant to curtsy, “She be waitin’ long for a parson.”

The darkness of the place was only interrupted by two small windows that flanked the table near the hearth. A sour scent mixed with roasted coffee filled his senses. Often, he’d been led directly to the sick. How many nights had he sat by their bedsides providing respite for the family?

“Bridge,” grunted Mr. George. “Mrs. Bridge.”

“Mrs. Bridge, I am glad to make your acquaintance. He waited for an answer. Only silence. The woman tucked beneath the quilts seemed to stare off into another world. What did she see above those dark rafters ?

Her chin shook within the ruffled layers of her day cap. “Why should I not like the Psalms?”

“I imagine you should like the Psalms.” He glanced at Mr. George.

The old gentleman cleared his throat. “I daresay a readin’ is in order.”

Of course. “Have you a favorite or will Psalm 91 do?”

She nodded.

Thankfully, he’d been reminded to bring the Good Book.

He slipped his finger about center into the well-worn pages and propped it on his knee.

“Ah...” how had he done it? This was not his Bible but a book fresh from the shop.

He lowered the volume to his lap the spine hidden. Mr. George must never find out.

“Yes, of course Psalm 23 is very nice as well,” He said. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...”

Daniel gracefully stumbled through the day—taken to so many bedsides, he wondered if the entire town was ailing. He’d never quoted Psalm 23 so often in his life.

The following day, a dozen of Harrodsburg’s finest families were broadly complimented while the children were admonished for fidgeting.

Their stiff parlors made his collar itch. Especially at the McPherson’s. Their well-laid plans for his entertainment, even more so. Often he’d been forced to sit through such unfortunate attempts at “art.” This was not what he signed up for when he went into the ministry.

As if the presence of a minister made a dance somehow purer.

He had not thought tiny Harrodsburg culturally adept enough to have a ball.

But this town offered more than he realized.

Graham Springs Hotel rose a stately presence near town and offered miracle spring water to ward off diseases, bowling, and—dancing.

He had already been coerced into one by that Mrs. McPherson. Promises, however, were promises.

Even Mr. George had thought it quite a successful invitation. Daniel chafed at being obligated by his role into such duties. Thank God, it wasn’t for a month yet. Truth be told, McPherson’s daughter seemed as vain as those he’d left behind. But that wasn’t very noble or charitable of him.

“Have you been to the Stanton farm? Refined Mrs. McPherson raised gold rimmed pince nez to her eyes, her inspection incomplete. Did she hope to find answers on his lapel? The cut of his coat?

“I have not yet had the pleasure of that acquaintance.”

“A fine brick house with fields behind it. But two miles away. I daresay you must hasten there.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Darkest tragedy. Of course, their eldest daughter always had a wild streak. She’s blind now. Her wildness is tamed now, that’s all there is to it.”

Daniel took in a breath of fresh air, thankful to be out of that particular parlor.

How people enjoyed sharing sordid details, but only in the most spiritual tones.

Wild streaks often accompanied tragic consequences.

Hadn’t those moral lessons been present in all of his children’s books?

Daniel’s stomach sloshed an ocean of tea as he strolled beside Mr. George.

If it hadn’t been his first visitation, he would have been able to decline so much tea.

And He’d have another day like it ahead of him tomorrow.

“The eldest Stanton girl—is she as Mrs. MacPherson says? Wild?”

Mr. George’s overgrown eyebrows lifted. “Don’t rightly know about all that. Horse threw her. At’s all there is to it.” He smiled. “Here, now. The McPherson’s hold lavish parties. You’ll get to see what kind of catch lives in our pond, eh?”

Oh no. “I’m not sure...”

“Mhmm.” The old man wouldn’t stop grinning. “Caught my lady at such a party.” He jabbed a big thumb into his chest .

Daniel cast his eyes to the clouds for help. “Fishers of men, you know.”

“But when the fisherman casts his baited hook, he cannot guess who’ll bite. Have you got your sermon ready?”

“I wrote it two weeks ago.”

“Mrs. Ramshaw grows a bit of mint by her front gate,” he pointed towards a hill, behind the parsonage.

“That yellow clapboard up past Fort Hill to the right. See there? Up a’hind them old fort buildings.

Pinch you some mint—what’s left of it. Helps the stomach and clears a body’s head. ” He tapped his temple.

“I’m not nervous.” He’d preached hundreds of times.

“No?” He tapped the book weighing down his pocket. “Just make sure it’s the Holy Bible you’re a-preachin’ from come Sunday.”

Not a subtle man, Mr. George. Daniel smirked as he pulled his small golden watch from his vest. Already four o’clock?

The brick parsonage stood at the edge of the street, though not as large as he was accustomed.

At least it had enough windows. He pushed open the iron gate and let it clang behind him.

He stepped into the front room—his shirts and stockings hung on racks out in the open for all to see. Delightful. What business had cook getting into his trunk? He had certainly not hired a maid.

“Mrs. Kilgore?” He stepped quickly to the kitchen. She wasn’t there. Chopped onion covered the cutting board, a carrot awaited the same fate.

Laughter floated downstairs. Someone else was with her. He raced up the stairs and flung open his bedroom door.

“Excuse me.” His face flushed.

Mrs. Kilgore and a much younger dressed-in-pink female stood over his trunk. The young one held a photograph. His.

“If you insist on doing my laundry madam, I insist it be dried in the privacy of the kitchen. As for rifling through my things... ”

“Sir, we weren’t rifling.” The old woman wrung her hands. “We was just givin’ you a hand, ain’t we, Susanna?”

The one called Susanna held out her hand, her chin jutted forward. “Welcome to Harrodsburg, Reverend Merrick.” Her southern accent sweetened the scene, guilting him with her proper manners. But a woman shouldn’t be in his bed chamber. No matter what. He’d paid too high a price already.

“Thank you,” fell limp from his lips. He took the photograph from her hands. “I appreciate your efforts, I assure you I can take care of this on my own.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“Indeed, I have never found her compare.” Was it wrong to mislead her? It was true. His dear sister held a dear place in his heart. And it was true. He hadn’t met anyone with such freshness of spirit that wasn’t already married.

Susanna’s smile wilted. “I have trespassed too long, I see.” She lowered into a curtsy. He responded with a bow.

“Miss...”

“Gray.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

Mrs. Kilgore worried her handkerchief between her hands. “I am s’ sorry, you must pardon Susanna and me. We’re used to doing everything for the old minister.” She backed herself through the doorway.

He doubted the story. “Well, I ah, thank you for your trouble...” In pink dress clothes? Hardly. Snooping, more like.

“You’re the master of this parsonage now, sir. I’ll be tendin’ to supper.”