Chapter Nine
At midnight Lydia crawled into bed, weary from a long day. Raindrops hit the window with an arrhythmic tink tink tink that made her wish it would either commit to downpour or stop altogether. Instead of putting out her lamp, she slid it close to the edge of her bedside table and opened her mother’s journal. So far, the sadness of her mother’s predicament had only reinforced her own. Still, she yearned to read another page of the story.
Mrs. Colburn handed me a beige apron that had a pink rose embroidered on the collar. She said it was mine to keep and insisted I call her Violet when the men weren’t around. She was always busy in the house or the garden or the kitchen and kept me with her from chore to chore.
I liked the work. She had a tip or trick to make everything easier or better. At first I thought she was inventing projects to keep me occupied so that I’d forget about my troubles, but she wasn’t. She did everything out of genuine love for her family and her home.
Two days before Christmas, she started preparing the food. She said she made the same feast every year, even when it would be only Mr. Colburn, John, and Mr. Colburn’s blind sister, Isabella, and herself at the dinner table. It seemed extravagant to spend two days cooking for four people, but she said as the overseer’s wife, she never knew who else might join them and she wanted to be prepared. Some Christmases travelers needed hospitality, and some Christmases people were alone and she invited them over. Since I fit into both of those categories, I smiled and continued pitting cherries for the salad recipe she was teaching me.
Isabella sat at the table, snapping green beans. She had a funny way of being so quiet for so long, I’d forget she was around, and then she’d interject some comment proving she listened to every word spoken in the Colburn house.
As I worked on the cherries, Violet made the sauce at the cook stove. “Beat two eggs in your saucepan with a wooden spoon like so, and then add one cup of sugar and one cup of heavy whipping cream.” She scraped every drip of cream out of the cup. “The trick is to keep stirring the sauce on medium heat for about fifteen minutes. For the perfect cherry salad, you’ll want the sauce thick, but be careful not to burn it.”
My fingers were tired by the time I’d finished pitting thirty ounces of cherries, but the smell of the warm sweet sauce assured me the work would be worth it. I carried the bowl of cherries to Violet. “When do we mix these into the sauce?”
She wagged a finger at me and moved the saucepan from the cook stove to a potholder on the countertop. “Oh, not for hours. We have to let the sauce and the cherries chill before we mix them together. And we’ll mix in a cup of crushed walnuts then too. Now, keep those cherries in their juices and cover the bowl. I want you to take it down to the cellar to chill in the icebox. Then come back for this sauce. I’ll have it in a covered dish by then.”
I held the bowl of cherries with both hands as I stepped out the back door and descended the sunny steps to the dark cellar. As I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stared into the blackness inside, I was overcome with grief. I’d spent the day cooking with Violet in her warm sunlit kitchen and had enjoyed it so very much that I’d forgotten the dark loneliness that awaited me.
I leaned against the open door without a ray of light touching me and closed my eyes. My tears fell silently at first, but were swiftly followed by forceful weeping. Bereft, I forgot all about the cherries and cried.
I don’t know if I heard him coming, but when I think back, I know I felt him there. At once, the bowl was taken from me and a hand was on my shoulder. I wiped away the tears that blurred my vision. John Colburn was standing there, holding the bowl and looking down at me. His steel blue eyes were full of concern. I hid my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry you saw me like this. Please go.”
I heard movement and peeked between my fingers, hoping he’d left the cellar. Instead, he set the bowl in the icebox and lit a lantern. He blew out the match and turned back to me. “You need light.”
“Thank you.” Ashamed he could now clearly see my face, I tried to blink back my tears. “I didn’t come down here to cry.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that your mother is so kind and your house is so peaceful and until I came down here I’d forgotten I have to leave in a few days and not just leave this house but the village. My home. This village is my home. I am a grown woman and my parents said I had to go with them to Northpoint or go to my cousin’s in Riverside, but I don’t want to. I want to stay here in Good Springs, but my brother’s wife didn’t want me to live with them. My father said I’m still his responsibility since I’m unmarried, but the best he could come up with was to send me away. But I don’t want to leave Good Springs.”
I stepped toward John and he wrapped me in his arms, reflexively, which was fitting because he was training to be the overseer and I would not be the last sobbing person he would have to console. He didn’t say a word. He let me bury my face against him and cry. I was so absorbed in my self-pity I didn’t think anything of his kindness until I had cried all I could. And then I pulled away.
He towered over me and smelled like sunshine and the gray leaf trees. I had always thought of him as older and dignified, in an unapproachable scholarly sort of way. But he wasn’t. He didn’t stop me as I backed away and he wouldn’t have stopped me if I had dropped into his arms and wept again. His unmovable compassion stunned me.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, nor did I see it coming, but that was the moment I fell in love with John Colburn.
Chapter Ten
Late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, I helped Violet set the table. She had a place for every dish on the buffet and a purpose for every decoration. Even the wreath on the outside of the kitchen door was to let passersby know they were welcome to come and share the feast.
Once the roast was carved, I hung my apron beside hers on the pantry door and hoped I would remember to pack it later. I tried not to think about having to leave the next day as I watched the family gather in the spacious kitchen.
Isabella tapped her cane as she walked in from the parlor. She felt for her seat at the end of the table and opened her napkin with a snap. Mr. Colburn pulled out Violet’s chair for her, and then he moved to the head of the table. John sat at Mr. Colburn’s left, across from Violet. There was an empty seat beside him and also one on the opposite side next to Violet.
I stayed by the pantry door and dithered a moment, unsure about where to sit. My heart longed to be near John, but it was foolish since I had to leave town the next day. I watched Violet for my cue, but she didn’t look back at me. I smoothed my lavender calico dress and straightened Mother’s silver turtle-shaped brooch over my top button. Mr. Colburn noticed me and cleared his throat. John stood and pulled the chair out beside him. “I am sorry, Hannah. Please, sit here.”
Surrounded by a caring family, with the stone hearth behind me and a bountiful feast covering the table before me, my heart swelled with love. Their abundant hospitality bandaged my wounded soul. Even if I never saw the Colburn family again, I would cherish that feeling in my heart and draw upon its warmth for the rest of my life.
Mr. Colburn bowed his head to say the blessing. I closed my eyes and folded my hands like we did at church, but John took my hand in his. I flinched and opened my eyes. They had all joined hands. Violet gave me a wink and Isabella felt along the table for my other hand.
Mr. Colburn thanked God for sending His Son into the world and asked God to keep the purpose of Christmas at the center of the village families’ celebrations. I tried to focus on Mr. Colburn’s words as he prayed, but all I could think about was John’s hand holding mine. It was silly to think he meant any more by taking my hand than Isabella did, but his hand enveloped mine with a dominant firmness. When Mr. Colburn said ‘Amen,’ John didn’t immediately let go.
Later that evening, I shook out the apron Violet had given me and took it to the guestroom to pack in the musty trunk from my parents’ house. I sat on the edge of the
bed and traced my fingers along the seams of its soft quilt. I didn’t want to move to Riverside, but there were no other options. I sighed and stood to pack, but my trunk wasn’t in the room.
It must have stunk too much for Violet to keep in her house. She’d mentioned setting it out in the sun the day I arrived, but I’d forgotten all about it. I left the guestroom to go search for it outside.
As I passed Isabella’s bedroom, I peeked in. She was sitting in the dark in a rocking chair by the draped window, knitting. “John has it in the barn,” she called out to me.
“Pardon?”
“If you’re looking for your trunk, John has it in the barn.”
“Why?”
Isabella’s knitting needles clicked rhythmically. “I can’t speak for him, child. Go out there and ask him yourself.”
Dusk darkened the yard, and crickets sang into the cool evening breeze. I ambled through the grass toward the barn, wishing I could make my time with the Colburns last longer. One barn door was propped open, and a faint swishy-scratching sound came from inside.
“Hello?” I called from the doorway. A lantern’s soft glow filled the open space in the center of the barn. John was kneeling in front of my trunk, holding a sanding block.
“In here,” he answered. “Mother had your trunk sitting in the sun all week, but it was still musty, so I am sanding the inside of it.”
“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”
“I wanted to have it done before you were finished helping her with the dishes. I am sorry it is taking so long.”
He might have meant for me to go back to the house, but I didn’t want to. I glanced around the barn. A dark horse with a white blaze was peering over one of the stall gates. “Do you mind if I wait here?”
John shook his head. He tossed the sanding block onto a workbench and pulled a rag from his back pocket. As he cleaned the dust out of the freshly sanded trunk, I walked toward the horse.
The smell of fresh hay hung in the air and reminded me of my brother. “Charles always works in the barn in the evenings. He’s probably out working in our barn right now. Only it’s not our barn anymore—it’s his.” I glanced back at John. “And his wife’s. She hates me. That’s why I couldn’t stay at home. She doesn’t like anyone and wanted the house to herself as soon as they were married.”
“Hannah, do not give bitterness a chance to take root.” His hands stopped their work and he gave me a look of compassion mixed with authority. “This situation is difficult for you, but God is not surprised by your circumstances.”
I moved away from the stalls and stepped toward the lantern on his workbench. “You’re right, of course. It all happened so quickly. I’m done crying for my loss, but now I’m dreading the journey ahead. I’ve never traveled far. Have you been to Riverside?”
John nodded. “Once.”
“Was it nice?”
He nodded again and continued cleaning the trunk. I would have offered to help him, but I wanted it to take as long as possible so we could keep talking. He was disinclined to make conversation, but I was determined to hear his voice. “How many days was your journey with the traders when you went to Riverside?”
“I did not ride with a trader.”
“Did you take your parents’ wagon?”
“No. I traveled by horseback.”
“How long did it take?”
He shook the dust from his rag and resumed wiping the trunk. “It is a three-day journey, but it took me longer because I did not go directly to Riverside.”
“Why not?”
“It was during my overseer training, so I had to stop at other villages too.”
“Was that the trip where you were supposed to find a wife?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I remembered people in the village talking about your visiting all of the other villages in the Land. People thought you would come back married. I’m sorry.”
“It is all right, Hannah.” A faint smile curved his lips. “When a man is training to be overseer, he must visit the overseers in each village. And yes, if he is unwed, it is often when he finds a wife.”
I hadn’t thought of it before, but it was possible he could be courting someone or engaged. “Did you… find someone?”
“No. It was not in God’s timing.”
I was relieved to hear it even though I was to leave the village in a matter of hours. “My parents are hoping I will make a match in Riverside.”
“Is that what you want?”
I shrugged. “I want to get married someday, but I always imagined it would be here. I guess it’s like you said: God is not surprised by my circumstances.” I tried to think of something positive about what I might face. “Maybe God has planned all along for me to move there and take care of my cousin’s children. I always hoped He would entrust me with a child’s heart and Cousin Virginia has nine kids, so there will be plenty of little hearts for me to love. That’s all I really want.”
John stopped working and gazed at me for a long moment. I wasn’t sure if I had said something he didn’t like or something he did. He kept his thoughts to himself and his eyes on me. Finally he gave the trunk one last wipe. Then he dropped the rag and brushed his hands together. “Would you like to see if this is better?”
“If what is better?”
He grinned and pointed at the trunk. “The trunk.”
“Oh,” I laughed. “I’m sure it’s fine. Thank you, again. You didn’t have to do it for me.”
“I wanted to do something for you. You are a lovely woman. I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you to our home, but I have enjoyed your company.”
“Thank you.” Hot tears welled up, but I refused to let them fall. No one had ever spoken to me so sweetly. He was kind and thoughtful and wanted better for me than a smelly trunk and a wagon ride to another village. But I was certain I would never see him again, so I excused myself and ran back to the house.
Chapter Eleven
The day after Christmas, I thanked Mr. and Mrs. Colburn for their hospitality. I had never experienced anything like it and told them so. I glanced around their warm kitchen, wishing I could stay there. The aroma of all the Christmas cooking still hung in the air. I took a deep breath of it, but as soon as I stepped outside, I could only smell the nearby ocean.
While John loaded my trunk onto the back of their wagon, Mr. Colburn put his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me. I expected him to ask God to keep me safe as I traveled or something along that line, but instead he prayed that I would delight myself in the Lord and God would give me the desires of my heart. When he was finished, Mrs. Colburn hugged me as if I were her child, and for a moment I felt like I was.
John didn’t speak as he drove me to the chapel where I was to wait for the trader. It didn’t bother me, though, because I had grown fond of sitting in silence with him. His presence alone was comforting. He was a man of few words. When he chose to speak, he made sure his words mattered. He had my complete respect.
A low fog had settled across the village during the night, and the morning sunlight had yet to burn it off. I gave each house and building we passed a long stare, trying to commit them all to memory—the stone library, the sandy lot where the market was held each week, Doctor Ashton’s house, and the beautiful white chapel with its high steeple, stone steps, and black iron railing. I wanted to go inside each building one last time, only I didn’t want it to be my last time. I wanted to stay in Good Springs, and all at once I knew that I should. I just didn’t know why or how.
John pulled the wagon to the side of the road in front of the chapel. He offered his hand as I stepped down. I took it, thinking he was only being polite, but when I reached the ground he didn’t let go. He left my trunk in the wagon and—without a word—walked me to the chapel’s stone steps.
When he finally released my hand, he looked down at me. His eyes were filled with kindness. “Surely there is someone in Good Springs.”<
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“Someone?”
“Someone you could live with for a while. A friend perhaps?”
“I don’t know of anyone with a spare bed. I went to say goodbye to my friend Roseanna on Tuesday and almost asked her parents if I could stay there, but they already have a house full.”
John cast his gaze around the village. There wasn’t a soul in sight. He blew out a breath. “If you tell my father how badly you want to stay here, he will send word to your cousin in Riverside.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“We can find a livelihood for you here. Surely someone needs help with children, or maybe you could assist the teacher at the primary school.”
“My father told me to go to Riverside.”
“I do not want you to leave.”
My breath caught. I’m not sure when I let it out or if I ever did. His eyes widened as if he had shocked himself as much as he had shocked me. He took my fingertips in his hands and fixed his gaze on me for one exquisite moment. “Hannah, I have never met a woman like you, nor am I likely to again.”
Hoofbeats clip-clopped on the cobblestone street as the trader’s wagon rolled into the village, but we both ignored it. The fog began to lift.
John glanced at my hand in his. “I am in love with you. Please do not leave. By tradition, I cannot propose marriage without speaking to your father first, but if you are at all willing to consider me, stay here. I will follow your parents to Northpoint at once and speak to your father. I believe God has brought you into my life. If you feel the same, please stay.”
I have been Mrs. John Colburn for over five years now. John and I just had our third child—a little girl we named Lydia. That was Violet’s middle name. I’ve missed her and Mr. Colburn very much since they passed away. It was Violet’s hospitality that changed my life and opened my heart on my first Christmas with the Colburns.
I’ve continued her tradition of preparing a feast on Christmas Day for my family and also for anyone who might need the hospitality. John and I now have three daughters, so I don’t know if the next overseer of Good Springs will be a Colburn, but whoever it is, I pray he too will stay prepared to extend hospitality, especially at Christmastime.
Christmas With The Colburns (The Uncharted Series Book 4) Page 5