“I’m sure you are too hard on yourself.”
“I’m a minister. I’m supposed to be hard on myself.”
They approached a brick building.
“The mercantile.” His steps slowed. “Did you have a chance to meet the Cobbs at the ice cream social last night?”
Delia thought through the blur of faces and names. “No, I didn’t.”
He hesitated, seemed about to say something, then shook his head slightly.
“What?”
“I was going to warn you about the Cobbs, then decided by doing so, I was being uncharitable toward them. Especially since there’s no reason for them to be anything but polite to you.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes, knowing the right course of action is hard, even for something so small.”
Delia smiled up at him. “Well, I’ll consider myself warned, and you didn’t even have to say anything about them.”
“Dilemma solved.”
As they reached the mercantile, he held open the door.
She stepped inside and was greeted by the vinegar scent of pickles from a nearby tub. With a prick of sadness, she wondered if they were as good as the ones her grandmother on her mother’s side used to make. She’d died when Delia was twelve, taking the secret of her special pickles to the grave.
She walked past the barrel and toward the counter. A baker’s shelf on the left wall held loaves of bread, some plates of cookies, and one pie; she couldn’t tell what kind.
A balding, red-nosed man behind the counter looked up, his eyes widening when he saw them.
His gaze lingered on Delia, making her feel uncomfortable.
“Mr. Cobb, I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Bellaire.”
“No, I haven’t.” The words were practically a drawl. He gave her a slow up and down perusal, his gaze lingering on her face.
Delia felt Joshua stiffen, but when she glanced up at him, his expression showed only polite friendliness.
“Is Mrs. Cobb here?” he asked. “I wanted to introduce Miss Bellaire to her, as well.”
The shopkeeper shrugged, using his shoulder to point to an inner door. “She’s busy in the house.”
Delia fluttered a hand toward the shelves. “I thought I’d browse a bit.”
Mr. Cobb’s gaze focused on her gold knot earrings, on the gold crucifix around her neck—both recent presents from her father. “Doubt you’ll find anything here to interest a lady like you.”
“You never know.” Her smile was tight, disliking his dismissive tone. She walked over to a shelf of toiletries, picked up a homemade bar of soap, and sniffed. Some kind of sweet flower. She briefly closed her eyes and took another whiff. She couldn’t identify what. Perhaps, I’ll buy some.
“You certainly have a lot more goods than before,” Joshua interjected.
Mr. Cobb nodded at the minister in response. His gaze returned to Delia’s face. He studied her. “I’ve heard about women in New Orleans. . .a lot of them have nigger blood.”
Delia gasped, her heart almost thumping out of her chest. Can Mr. Cobb see the truth? Will my heritage be obvious to Joshua now? She set down the bar of soap. Her knees began to shake. “How dare you say such a thing!” Her voice sounded shaky to her ears.
Beside her, Joshua stiffened. “Mr. Cobb.” His voice was quiet but resonated with authority. “That’s not a topic to bring up in front of a lady and a guest of our town.”
Mr. Cobb’s attention switched to Joshua. “Fine suit you’re wearing there, Reverend Norton. Different one from last night. You’ve come up in the world.”
Delia restrained a second gasp at the man’s disrespect toward a man of the cloth. She glanced covertly at Joshua’s face.
The minister lifted one eyebrow, his expression sardonic. Ignoring the shopkeeper, he gestured toward the back of the store. “The dresses used to be over there, Miss Bellaire.”
Mr. Cobb seemed to realize he might have gone too far. “Still are, Miss.” His tone turned obsequious. “We have a fine selection for Sweetwater Springs.”
Neither responded.
Delia turned down the aisle of standing shelves, relieved to escape eye contact with the man. Once out of sight, she took as deep a breath as her corset would allow, surprised by her shakiness. I should be used to Mr. Cobb’s type of reaction to me. But somehow in Sweetwater Springs, she’d let down her guard. Delia sent a cursory glance at the goods, not really seeing them. “I’m ready to go now,” she announced, in a quiet voice.
“So am I.”
They said good-bye to Mr. Cobb, who only nodded in answer.
Once out on the street, Delia exhaled. “I’m glad you warned me.”
“I must apologize for that unpleasantness, Miss Bellaire. That insinuation. . .” his voice hardened.
Delia knew she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want to outright lie to Joshua. . . . Or at least, not more than I already have by providing a false name. Deciding to skim over the whole subject, she looked at him, brows raised. “It’s not your place to apologize for someone else’s behavior. You did nothing to cause Mr. Cobb’s impoliteness.” Her gaze fell on his waistcoat. “Except wear a nice suit.”
“The minister is rebuked by the pretty lady,” he said in a light tone, at odds with the look of concern in his blue eyes.
The compliment set loose butterflies in her stomach.
“And you’re right,” Joshua said more seriously. “I just wish you hadn’t experienced any unpleasantness at all.”
“I didn’t know what to say to him.”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately, I’ve learned sometimes the best response is no response.”
Did he learn that from his wife? “Well, that seemed to work with Mr. Cobb. He became more polite.”
“My father calls the Cobbs his crosses to bear.”
“At least, they aren’t part of your family.” Thinking about her mother, Delia let out the words with more bitterness than she’d intended. Before he could ask the question she saw in his eyes, she rushed out a question of her own. “Is Mr. Cobb always that unpleasant?”
“As I remember, it’s Mrs. Cobb who’s the worst of the two. Mr. Cobb was rather taciturn. I don’t know if my memory is poor, or if he’s changed. However, the disrespect to a lady. . .” Joshua shook his head. “That’s worse than I remembered.”
More likely, Mr. Cobb picked up on my sensual energy. When, oh when, will I banish that part of me? To escape the thought, she started to walk down the street, to return to the Livingston’s, and find a safe haven at her father’s side.
Joshua took a long step to catch up and then kept pace. “I’ll speak with Mr. Cobb about such behavior.”
“No!” Delia put a hand on his arm, wishing to stop him.
He gazed at her, a solemn look on his face. “Miss Bellaire, I don’t wish to disturb you. However, Mr. Cobb’s behavior isn’t right. This is not just about you but how he treats all women.”
“Please don’t say anything to him.”
Mouth drawn into a tight line, Joshua hesitated. “Very well. But if I witness or hear about any other incidents, I will speak up.”
She didn’t like his decision, but knew it was right.
“Next time I go to the mercantile, I’ll wear my oldest clothes,” Joshua teased, obviously trying to make her smile. “Too bad, my mother-in-law went through my wardrobe and dumped almost everything we’d brought from Africa into the poor box. I had a ten-year-old suit, almost without any wear on it. That garment probably would have received Mr. Cobb’s approval as something appropriate for the minister’s son. Preachers are supposed to be poor, you know.”
She glanced at the fine material and cut of his suit. “I don’t know that it’s anyone’s business what you are.”
“Well, one of the weaknesses of the human character is that most people make judging others thei
r business. And I’ve traveled enough to know it’s the same in Uganda as in Cambridge or in Sweetwater Springs. The world would be a much better place if we followed the admonition in the Gospel of Luke about not judging God’s people. I’m not saying I’m immune from this. I, too, struggle with critical thoughts and need to remind myself to look at others in a more charitable light.”
Would he judge me if he knew my secret? Or would he try to understand?
With a feeling of despair, Delia realized that how Joshua would react didn’t really matter. She couldn’t possibly let him find out the truth.
CHAPTER TEN
On Sunday, Joshua sat in the first pew of the church, Micah on his right and his mother on his son’s other side, listening to his father’s sermon. This is my true homecoming. While he followed along with the words, a part of him remained caught up with a deep feeling of gratitude and appreciation for being in a familiar setting, singing his favorite hymns in English—surely picked by his father for that very reason—and listening to the piano, instead of the organ at the church in Cambridge or the a capella voices of the natives in his Uganda church.
He’d sat through many more beautiful services than this one, more moving or eloquent sermons, but none gave Joshua this sense of peace, of rightness.
Joshua hadn’t realized how much he missed these simple services—how relaxing it was to listen to someone else preach. Even when in Cambridge, when listening to Abner’s sermon, he’d have to stay alert, absorb all the points, to prepare for Sunday afternoon discussions that took place at the Maynards’ dinner table.
Perhaps, even better, he didn’t have to compose and preach the sermon—in a foreign language.
How wonderful to understand every word. To not have to struggle to convey meaning in a language not my own.
For the first few years in Africa, just listening to people was exhausting: mentally translating the words into English, having to think through everything twice. At the same time, he’d struggled to understand all the customs and taboos—many downright bizarre to him, and some even dangerous if broken. He had to distill his teaching into simple truths that he could convey.
Once he’d told the natives before he started preaching that he had the vocabulary of a seven- or eight-year-old and, thus, to please bear with him. That comment had infuriated Esther, who had more facility with the language and thought he shouldn’t admit any weakness. The white man must always be superior, he thought with bitterness.
So many times over the years, he’d been helpless to communicate in the manner he’d needed, had known that if he’d had a better command of his parishioners’ Swahili dialect, he would have made more of a difference. Instead, there’d been opportunities lost and souls forsaken because of not having the right words.
Old guilt rose in him, and Joshua forced it aside, reminding himself, as he had so many times before, that he’d done the best he could. If he and Esther hadn’t been serving in Uganda, the situation would have been worse for the natives. So despite his language handicap, he’d done some good.
He brought his attention back to the service, studying the interior of the church. Nothing had changed since he’d been gone. I could close my eyes and listen, and pretend I’d never left. But when he opened his eyes, Joshua saw the gray of his father’s hair and beard, the lines on his face, and knew those years had gone by.
The altar was covered by a white cloth and held so many vases of flowers that the cross in the middle was almost hidden. The breeze through the partially opened windows on the side of the church wafted the heavy fragrances his way. Many of the ladies must have stripped their gardens of the best blooms for today. He hadn’t remembered more than one vase on the altar before, and wondered when the custom had changed, or if this was about his homecoming.
The only other difference was in the pianist. Instead of his mother, Elizabeth Sanders had begun the service with a Bach cantata and then played each of the hymns in a far more lyrical and competent manner than his mother could manage.
He wondered what Delia, sitting with the Livingstons, thought of the service. I hope she feels comfortable in a Protestant church. He didn’t allow himself to think why that might matter.
He slid his gaze to his son, and then to the empty space on Joshua’s other side. For a moment, with an ache of loss, he missed Esther. Then he realized, if she were here, he wouldn’t be relaxed and enjoying the simple service. He’d worry that she’d criticize the sermon—perhaps his father hadn’t used enough quotations from Greek or Latin or Hebrew, or he hadn’t come down hard enough on sinners. Maybe afterwards, they’d argue about his father’s interpretation of the Bible verses he used today.
Joshua let out a slow breath. No, he didn’t miss any of that, which in itself was sad, but he did feel regret for what could have been if the relationship between them had been different.
My Grandfather Norton preaches a better sermon than my Grandfather Maynard. Micah paused to consider that opinion. Two grandfathers and a father who are ministers, not to mention the greats and the great-greats on each side of the family. He didn’t know any other boy so unlucky.
His mother hadn’t seen their lineage that way. Just thinking of her gave him a twinge of sadness and guilt. His mother seemed to think having so many ministers in the family was special and meant Micah had to try harder than anyone else to be good. Or so she often said whenever he got into trouble.
Several bees and some wasps had flown through the open windows and were buzzing around the flowers. One flew near his grandfather, preaching from the pulpit, and Micah wondered what would happen if it flew into his mouth. Would he choke? Be stung? What would happen with the sermon? Would the insect stop the service?
Another one buzzed over to the opposite side of the church. Micah leaned forward so he could watch the insect’s travels. The bee landed on a woman’s hat, probably attracted to the red flowers there. He watched, fascinated, to see it crawl over the petals.
His grandmother set her hand on his knee in a gentle reminder for him to pay attention to the sermon. With an inward sigh, Micah settled back against the pew, figuring he’d better pay attention to at least some of the sermon for the inevitable test that came later. His father usually just asked him what the gospel text was, and he only needed to recite the verse, or as much of the verse as he could remember. His mother, though, had been the one who’d required more proof that he was paying attention. If Micah did well in reciting the text and parts of the sermon, he was allowed dessert, which was usually fruit, such as a banana.
Micah perked up at the thought of dessert. Grandmother had made a berry pie with sweet beaten cream for the topping. Following supper, he sure hoped he’d get a piece.
A bee flew near him. Micah took the hymnal he’d shared with his grandmother and swung, connected. The insect bounced away, buzzed, and headed back.
Uh oh. He swatted it with his free hand.
His father made a grab for his arm. “No,” he said in a low voice.
The bee zoomed toward Micah’s face, and he couldn’t help the “ag” sound that escaped him. He pushed his head back and tracked the insect’s progress.
The bee landed on his nose.
“Don’t move,” his father ordered in a low voice.
Holding his body rigid, Micah stared cross-eyed at the bee. The legs tickled his nose, and a sneeze built up. Help, he silently yelled, locking his jaw so the word wouldn’t escape.
His grandmother looked at him with anxious eyes.
His father patted Micah’s arm in a silent gesture to remain still. “Lean back, Mother,” he whispered. “I’m flicking away the bee, and it might go your direction.” With his finger, in a swift motion, his father flicked the bee.
It gave an angry buzz and flew away, heading out the window.
Micah let out a sigh of relief and sat up. He glanced across at the neighboring pew and saw the same wo
man who’d scowled at him the night of the ice cream social for allowing Fred to escape his pocket. Today, she glared in such disapproval, the red flowers on her hat shook.
Too bad, the bee hadn’t stung her while it had a chance, Micah thought in resentment. Then it would have died and not bothered me. For a moment, he entertained himself with the bee landing on that woman’s nose and stinging her. He imagined her squawking, jumping up, and dancing around, while the congregation gawked at her in disapproval. He glanced at the other bees and wasps flying among the flowers and willed one to attack the woman.
Belatedly, Micah realized he was wishing harm to another, which was definitely a sin, and he reluctantly let go of the fantasy. He stifled a sigh, wondering how much longer the service would last. Not that finishing church made a difference to boring Sundays.
Micah crossed his arms in front of him, stared out the window, and mimicked the woman’s scowl. He couldn’t even look forward to escaping and playing with his friends, if he had them, or even by himself. On the Lord’s Day, he was only allowed to sit in the parlor and read Bible stories or study his catechism. Although when his mother had gotten so sick, he used to slip away from the house to play hunters with Kimu. His father seldom noticed. Or if he did, he only gave Micah a tired rebuke.
But Sundays at the Maynards had been pure torture—everyone, even his younger aunts and uncles, quizzing him on the text and the sermon. His Uncle Albert made him recite the catechism, and then criticized him for every mistake. At least, his father rescued him, saying that with everything that had gone on, he hadn’t been supervising Micah’s studies like he should have.
That brought his grandmother’s wrath down on his father’s head, which made Micah feel bad. He wondered what his Norton grandparents would expect from him today and hoped he didn’t have more scoldings in store, or even worse, get his father in trouble.
Sometimes, I hate Sundays.
Delia sat between Mr. Livingston and Edith in a middle row of the church. The plain wooden walls were unadorned, without stone or wooden carvings, statues in niches, and pictures of the stations of the cross or other scenes of saints and martyrs. The crucifix was empty, lacking the figure of Jesus’s tortured body. But she didn’t miss any of the trappings of her faith.
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