Aaron picked up the reins and drove toward the road. “Is this meeting at the Freewill Church?”
“Yes,” Lydia answered.
“What is a moral society anyway?”
“A weekly gathering where we discuss the needs of our community and how to meet them,” Lydia continued. “We do fundraising, put together food drives, give quilts to the needy, and anything else we can think of to help the less fortunate.”
Mercy was thankful Lydia seemed happy to carry the conversation with Aaron. A few minutes passed while the two of them chatted about mundane things, but once they entered into traffic, they quieted. Aaron seemed lost in thought, and Lydia’s eyes closed. Hopefully she wouldn’t fall asleep sitting up, though with how tightly she was wedged between Mercy and Aaron, she certainly wouldn’t fall over.
The silence grew longer, covered by the clip-clop of the pony’s hooves and the sounds of the crowd. The steady rise and fall of Lydia’s chest confirmed she had indeed fallen asleep. Babies sure seemed to drain a woman’s vivacity.
Mercy glanced at Aaron, but he kept his eyes on the road. Should she apologize for being rude earlier?
He’d asked her to be impartial as she considered whether or not he’d be good for Owen, but maybe she couldn’t be objective. How could she separate her memories of how he once was and how he now seemed? If his name wasn’t George Aaron Firebrook, she’d have been happy enough to let him adopt Owen if the five-year-old warmed up to him.
Not once since Aaron started working at the mansion had he lost his temper around the children. Even when they were belligerent, he never exchanged insults with them. And he seemed to care more for them than her brother ever had.
A half block from the church, Aaron looked to Mercy. “Which door?”
She pointed to the large wooden ones at the front of the church. “You can drop us off at the main entrance.” She took hold of Lydia’s arm and rubbed it to wake her.
He didn’t pull up to the sidewalk, like Mr. Parker did, but drove to the side of the church and hopped down.
She stifled the desire to scoff at how gallantly he was behaving, because truly, she’d expect this behavior of a gentleman.
How long would her past with Aaron color how she felt about every little thing he did?
Not wanting him to hold her short arm, she got halfway down before he reached her.
And for some reason the brush of his hand against her back, the smell of his cologne mixed with fresh-cut grass, and the heat coming off him as he helped her down the rest of the way made her stop breathing.
She turned, but he didn’t move and she had to look up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. And he truly did look sorry. Only a pallbearer could have looked more somber.
Being so close, she had to crane her neck to see him. His height and shoulder span had made it easy to overpower everyone as a child, but she no longer feared that. “Sorry for what?”
He ducked his head and quieted his voice. “Everything I’ve ever done.”
She hung her head. How many times was he going to apologize?
And how many times was she going to refuse to forgive him?
He wanted something he couldn’t just take, giving her a power over him she’d never had. Perhaps she’d let that go to her head.
Unforgiveness only kept their ugly past smoldering when she could let it turn to ash and blow away. Why was she holding on to the misery?
She let her shoulders relax with a long exhale and looked up. “I forgive you.”
He straightened and his eyes widened.
Her chest inflated with a freeing breath, but she couldn’t quite pull her gaze from his.
The wagon creaked behind them. “Thank you for driving us, Mr. Firebrook.”
Lydia.
Mercy stepped away from Aaron so he could help their boss’s wife down and turned so Lydia couldn’t see the heat creeping into her cheeks.
Once Lydia was on the ground, Aaron hastened up the stairs to hold the door open for them. Mercy couldn’t look at him as they passed, afraid he’d look . . . Well, what was she afraid she’d see?
Aaron stepped inside behind them.
She stopped and turned, her heart beating hard again. “No need to worry about us. We can see ourselves down.”
“If it’s no trouble, I’ll make sure you get there. Besides, I’d like to get familiar with the church. It’s quite the confusing maze of hallways and doors.”
She gave him a slight nod and followed Lydia down the side hallway toward the basement stairwell. She couldn’t very well tell him he wasn’t allowed in the church.
The sound of women talking and laughing made its way up the stairwell, and Mercy picked up her pace.
Once they stepped inside the large basement room, Aaron quickly moved to help the women drag the quilting frame into the middle of the floor.
“Why, thank you.” Mrs. Naples, the eldest of their members, tucked back the loose tendrils of gray hair that had fallen into her eyes. “And you are?”
Aaron pulled off his floppy gardening hat. “Aaron Firebrook.”
“A relation of Matilda Firebrook’s?”
He coughed as if the question made him uncomfortable. “I believe so, ma’am, a distant one.”
“Believe so? You young’uns should keep up relations with your kinfolk, no matter how distant or old they are.” She frowned at the quilt frame. “Matilda’s not joining us today though.”
“In that case—” Aaron cleared his throat—“might I work in her stead?”
The room turned as quiet as the stones in the wall.
He wanted to help? Whatever for? Couldn’t he see this was a group of ladies?
He turned to look at her with wide, pleading eyes.
He wanted her to insist they let him stay? Evidently forgiveness hadn’t been all he’d wanted from her.
Could she ever get comfortable with him invading so much of her life?
12
Silence hung heavy in the basement, making Aaron squirm. Asking the ladies to join in with their quilting had to be unusual, yes, but hadn’t Lydia said they met to talk about how to help people in the community?
Though with the way the women all stood there blinking at him, maybe he should pretend he hadn’t said a thing and leave.
He glanced at Mercy, but she looked like all the rest—as if he’d lost his mind.
And maybe he had, but wouldn’t that be a good thing? The thoughts and actions his brain had produced a decade ago were not the kind she’d champion today.
He took a deep breath. Might as well plunge on. “I can darn socks and do my own mending, so surely I could help.” It wasn’t as if men couldn’t sew—there were plenty of male tailors around. And if he could learn to tend to roses, why not just plummet all the way to the bottom of his manhood and do some fancy quilting too? Hopefully they were doing a pattern in the shape of manly log cabins instead of something like turtledoves.
“Why, that’s better than what I can do, and they let me in.” A familiar rough voice from the corner relaxed him a little. Charlie Gray winked at him the moment he caught sight of her. At least someone in this room hadn’t been shocked into silence. Though this was the last place he figured he’d find her. The few days he’d stayed with the Grays, she’d seemed more at ease lassoing calves than playing homemaker.
Mercy frowned. “I’ve never heard of a man joining a quilting circle.”
He forced himself not to mangle his hat beyond recognition. “I wasn’t really wanting to join a quilting circle. I thought you talked about the needs of the town at this meeting. If you don’t want me ruining your quilt, I could sit against the wall, but I can sew better than some. It’s what a man does if he isn’t married and can’t afford a tailor.”
If a one-handed woman could sew quilts, surely he could too.
He looked up from where he’d taken a glance at Mercy’s arm and was met with a withering glare—seemed she’d realized where his thoughts had gone
.
He’d never make fun of her missing hand again—had even told her not to define herself by it—but surely being aware she had limitations wasn’t rude, just logical.
“If they let me in, they can’t have any objections to you. I doubt there’s anyone less talented with a needle than me.” Charlie grabbed the bassinet on the chair beside her, put her sleeping baby on the floor by her feet, and patted the empty chair. “You can sit by me since Mother’s not here.”
He ran his tongue around his dry mouth. If the others were this uncomfortable, should he stay? But he’d been wondering about what he could’ve done to help Iris Baymont get out of the district if he’d arrived before she died. He’d once frequented such places for the card playing and knew a bit about how things worked there, like how the women were more prisoner than employee. But back then he’d not . . . cared. It hadn’t felt so personal.
He gave Charlie a nod and walked over. His ideas weren’t exactly the most appropriate of subjects to discuss between the sexes, but it affected them whether they talked about it or not.
He sat on the chair, fearing it would collapse beneath him, but it held. The other women shuffled to their places in a hush.
Charlie handed him a spool of thread. “You good at threading needles? It takes me forever.”
He wordlessly took what she handed him and threaded her needle while the other women murmured among themselves.
Charlie gestured to the woman across from them who’d chastised him for not visiting Matilda, a cousin to his great aunt, if he remembered correctly. “This is Mrs. Naples. She’s in charge of the quilting. Beside her is Mrs. Wisely, our secretary. Then there’s Mercy and Lydia, whom you know. Then Miss Sorenson and her mother . . .” With only ten women in attendance, hopefully he’d remember a few names. He handed the needle back to Charlie after she finished introductions.
“Oh, that needle was for you. But since you did it so fast, can you do mine too?” Charlie plucked another from her pincushion. “How good are you at shooting? I would’ve thought being a good shot would’ve made it easy to get thread through a bull’s-eye, but I fail more times than not.”
“I don’t know about this.” The young blonde across from him, Miss Sorenson, gave him a quick glance. She was about his age and quite wealthy, by the look of her dress and baubles. “This is a ladies’ meeting.”
Charlie huffed. “I’m not exactly a proper lady, and you let me in. And I can’t even sew.”
Miss Sorenson shook her head a little. “You’re still female.”
“It’s not as if we have rules saying men aren’t welcome.” Mrs. Wisely, the woman with the white hair tied in a bun at the base of her neck, smiled at him. “We used to let my husband come in when he was pastor. He listened to our needs, helped fix the sewing machines, and so on.”
“But he didn’t sew with us.”
He really should’ve left the moment they’d turned mute. He scooted back in his chair, but Charlie grabbed him by the arm. “I say he stays.”
No one else spoke up, not even Mercy. She kept her head down and busily quilted, though no one else was.
Seemed her forgiveness hadn’t wiped away all her negative emotions toward him—but he shouldn’t expect it to. Hurt feelings took time to heal, but hopefully the ointment of forgiveness would help.
Mrs. Wisely smiled. “So what problems in Teaville motivated you to join us?”
So much for figuring out a way to bring the subject up delicately. “Well . . .” He pulled on his collar. “There was this classmate of mine I tried to locate upon my return. But her sister told me she worked in the red-light district.”
Miss Sorenson’s sigh sounded rather exasperated.
As pretty as she was, she wasn’t making it very easy to like her. He put down his needle and crossed his arms. “Then she told me her sister passed on, murdered by a . . . client.”
Mercy cringed and stopped quilting for a second. She might be purposely ignoring him, but at least she was listening.
He took a deep breath and plowed on. “There has to be a way to keep stuff like that from happening. I thought I could talk to the men who frequent such places, try to get them to see that a woman, no matter her choices, is someone’s sister, daughter, or mother, and that treating her as anything less than a person worthy of care and consideration is wrong. But one man at a time will take forever. I was wondering if something could be done for the women in the meantime.”
Miss Sorenson sighed again. “Mrs. Wisely’s daughter tried helping those women last year, but nothing came of it, and we’ve determined it’s not worth pursuing.”
“No, we didn’t determine it’s not worth pursuing.” Mrs. Wisely gave Miss Sorenson a scolding glance. “We’ve just not found anyone passionate about taking over where Evelyn left off.” She turned back to him. “We’ve decided that those of us who feel called to a particular need should be in charge of coordinating efforts in that area.”
“But that’s just it. I’m pretty sure, since I’m a man, those women wouldn’t trust me.” He shook his head. Mercy barely trusted him, if she did at all. “Or at least I wouldn’t be very effective. That’s why I was hoping you all might help.” Evidently he’d forced his way in here and made them uncomfortable for nothing. “Seems the idea isn’t new though.”
Mrs. Wisely frowned. “You’re right—the idea isn’t new, and it comes with plenty of problems.”
He stared at the needle he was rolling between his fingers and turned to see what Charlie was sewing so he could follow her lead, but she was doing nothing but picking at a knot.
“It might be full of problems,” Charlie said as she pulled at the tangled thread, “but that doesn’t mean we should keep ignoring the need. Wasn’t it just last week Mercy read us that terrible opinion column in the Teaville Journal vilifying the women without even mentioning the men? We all wish more people cared.” She yanked on her needle, but her thread was still a rat’s nest. “Seems as if we have someone who cares now.”
“I . . .” Mercy was somehow sewing with more success than Charlie, and without lifting her head, she continued. “I did say I wish there were more people concerned, especially about the children.”
He stared at the mesmerizing way she was sewing one-handed.
“I’m mostly concerned about those living with us.” Mercy cleared her throat. “I know the moral society doesn’t give much support to the orphanage since the Lowes take care of their needs, but with the fire and the extra people they’re caring for, I figured they could use help, specifically in regard to Max and Robert Milligan, our two oldest orphans.”
“Are those the boys who work at the factory?” Mrs. Albert, a slightly frazzled-looking woman, looked up from across the quilt.
“Yes, they work a few hours after school.”
“My husband says they’re good workers.”
“Glad to hear that.” Mercy smiled a motherly sort of smile. Robert had mentioned how she cared for them, and it sure showed.
He looked down. He’d not be jealous of the love she gave those boys—they deserved it.
“I don’t know how well your husband knows them, Mrs. Albert, but the older one is exceptional at math, and come fall, he plans to attend a university in Boston to become a fancy mathematician. Mr. Firebrook can attest to his brilliance.”
He looked up from the quilt, surprised to be invited into the conversation. “Uh, yes. I tutor him, or rather attempt to. He’s more my peer in mathematics than anything else.” He glanced at Lydia, forcing himself not to cringe over basically telling his boss’s wife he was being paid for nothing. “I’m trying my hardest to challenge him though.”
Mercy smiled at him for some reason. “The brothers are very attached to one another, so Robert will be going with Max to Boston, despite having two years left of school. Because of this, Max can’t take advantage of the rooms provided by the university. I know the Lowes intend to finance them, but in light of their recent setbacks, I’d hoped we could
provide them with a community scholarship of sorts.”
Lydia nodded. “Nicholas and I promised to help, and we will, but we’d agreed to the expense of Boston before the fire. We’ve been in a dither this week discussing whether or not to encourage Max to go to Kansas City instead. He could board for free with Mrs. Wisely’s daughter and son-in-law. Unfortunately, we’ll have to make a decision before we know exactly how much this fire has affected us.”
“Are the math programs in Kansas City as good as the ones in Boston?” Mrs. Wisely asked.
“The school in Boston is known for its prestigious math credentials.” Aaron hoped he wouldn’t get glared at for inserting himself. “Max needs that sort of academic stimulus.”
“We’ll do a bake sale. Simple enough.” Mrs. Sorenson, a woman who was an older version of her attractive daughter with a spritz of gray hair, gave a quick regal nod, as if they’d decided. But unless she baked world-famous pies, bread, or pastries, they wouldn’t sell enough to get the boys more than train tickets.
“I was hoping to raise more money than that.” Mercy’s voice was more diplomatic than his would’ve been. “I was thinking about an auction.”
“That’s a good idea.” Lydia’s expression brightened, the opposite reaction of Mrs. Sorenson’s.
“But how will we get enough to sell in so short a time?” One of the older women whose name he couldn’t remember looked up from the quilt.
Mercy shook her head. “I—”
“My father passed away two weeks ago and left plenty I could donate,” Mrs. Sorenson interrupted. Her voice held no warble, her stitching unaffected, as if she talked about the weather instead of death. This woman was a haughty piece of work.
He shook his head at himself. He’d only observed her for a few minutes. What if her father had been like his? What if she was hurting now? Maybe she had a good reason to act pompous.
“I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard.” Mercy tried to give Mrs. Sorenson a sympathetic look, but the older woman wasn’t looking at her.
“That’s all right, dear. We weren’t close.” She straightened in her seat. “And their house is filled with junk I don’t intend to keep.”
A Chance at Forever Page 10