“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.…”
Grace winced. Her mother was quoting scripture again, probably boring their guest to death.
“You are a very inspiring lady,” Jonathan was saying.
Grace quirked an eyebrow. He didn’t sound bored; there was even a pleasant note in his voice.
Curiosity tingled through her, as titillating as the fresh breeze from a light east wind. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
“Hello, dear.”
Grace turned to study her mother. Her hazel eyes were glowing, and a smile slipped easily over her lips. The look of happiness on her mother’s face warmed Grace’s heart.
“Good morning,” she said, glancing at her father’s Bible, which lay open in her mother’s lap. She imagined her mother probably sat up half the night, reading the Bible her father had sent back with Jonathan.
“Good morning.” Jonathan rose to his feet as she approached.
“Good morning,” she said, meeting Jonathan’s friendly smile.
He had changed into a fresh white shirt, and his hair was neatly combed. He seemed taller, even more masculine, she thought, as she passed by him on her way to the rocker.
“Jonathan is a Christian, Grace. He was telling me how, as a boy, he sat at his mother’s feet while she read scripture.”
Grace looked from her delighted mother to Jonathan. A nagging suspicion rose in Grace’s mind as her eyes lingered on Jonathan. He was not at all embarrassed by her mother’s reference to him being a Christian. Grace knew that Freddy would never want anyone going on about that, even though he had been baptized in Caney Creek years ago at the age of eleven.
She tilted her head and looked at Jonathan more closely, trying to figure him out. He merely smiled and turned back to her mother, who was absolutely doting on him.
Elizabeth was as excited as a little girl at a tea party. “I favor the Psalms,” she was saying. “Grace, do you remember how your father and I loved to read those passages?” She glanced at Grace.
“Oh yes,” Grace replied, still watching Jonathan, although she had not managed to make him uncomfortable. Since he didn’t seem perturbed by her staring, she decided to take a good long look in the bright sunlight of morning.
He had broad cheeks with prominent cheekbones and a smooth straight nose. She had a fleeting desire, a rather crazy one, to show him off to Rose Marie, who had spent most of her teenage years doting on the male population. Then as Jonathan made a comment to her mother, she heard his voice and realized that Rose Marie would have something ugly to say about his being a Yankee. She sighed and turned her attention back to her mother.
Elizabeth was looking out across the lawn, and for a moment it seemed that she was watching something that no one else could see.
“Grace, do you recall how you and Freddy would play on that swing for hours at a time?”
Grace followed her mother’s eyes to the huge oak in the corner of the yard. From the lowest branch, the rope swing hung, lonely and unused through the years. She blinked, as the vision of a little girl giggling while her older brother pushed the swing filled her mind.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, feeling the first threat of sadness. The day had started so perfectly. Why did her mother have to go and ruin it? But then she was merely recalling a fond memory, and that should not ruin a day. But a happy memory merely emphasized how unhappy so much of her life had become.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “How old was Freddy when he joined the army?”
Grace dragged her memory back through the years. She looked at Jonathan, and a sad little smile touched her lips as she recalled her headstrong brother. “Freddy had just turned seventeen when he and the neighbor boys got all worked up about being soldiers. Father pleaded with him to wait another year. There were crops in the field and dozens of chores left undone. But Freddy was strong willed.”
“Our little boy turned into a soldier overnight,” Elizabeth mused, still staring at the swing.
Grace nodded. “He couldn’t wait to tell us good-bye and meet up with the Walkers and the three Estes brothers. They were all so eager to gallop off to war.” Her voice was mocking as she spoke. She felt the bitterness welling up inside her.
She looked back at Jonathan. “Like Freddy, the Estes brothers never returned.”
“Are you going to make coffee?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
When Grace looked at her, it seemed her mother had not heard the sad words she had just spoken. Sometimes she longed to be like her mother for a short while, to blot out all the bad memories and cling to the good. She supposed it made it easier to hang on to her faith.
It was not until he stood that she realized she had made Jonathan feel uncomfortable. “I’ll get busy on the gate.”
“And I’ll make coffee,” she said, thinking that they would all go on about their business now. Yet it was a relief to have something simple to do, anything to occupy her mind and her hands. She headed toward the door, glancing again at her mother, who was staring out across the lawn, deep in thought. She did not appear troubled or even unhappy. She was simply lost in her own world.
Grace hurried toward the kitchen. Strong coffee was exactly what she needed to jolt some sense back into her befuddled brain. Maybe Jonathan Parker was the most handsome man she had ever seen and maybe even the nicest, if she didn’t count her father. But he was a Yankee, she reminded herself as she poured water from the teakettle into the iron pot and placed it over the low fire in the hearth. Despite her silly notion about flirting with him and having something to remember later, she realized that she had to be practical. She couldn’t lounge about the porch daydreaming like her mother. Someone here had better face reality.
From the pantry, she removed the small tin canister of coffee, so precious during the war that she and her mother rationed themselves miserably. She had derived great satisfaction from bartering an old saddle from the stable in exchange for some much-needed staples. When she’d accompanied her closest neighbors, the Douglas family, to Tuscaloosa, she had enjoyed herself tremendously. Like her father, she loved to trade, and now she made a mental note to gather up anything she could find in the barn and outbuildings. She would plan another day of trading, and that thought helped to lift her spirits.
She walked back to the pot and poured out a small portion of the freshly ground coffee. Maybe she’d check with Eva Nell Douglas to see when they would be returning to town. It would be something to look forward to after Jonathan left.
The heavy tread of boots in the hall reminded her that the man in question had not left and was, in fact, headed toward the kitchen.
“Where might I find some tools?” he asked politely.
She walked to the kitchen window and pointed out the small building huddled near the barn. “The few tools we have left will be there. To be honest, I haven’t even been in to look around lately. For a while, I checked every day to be sure no one was hiding there.”
He stared at her in dismay. “Do you have a gun, Grace?”
She smiled, pleased that he had called her by her first name. “I have my father’s rifle, and I’m a very good shot, if I say so myself.”
He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that you and your mother live here all alone, with no help and no men to protect you.”
She shrugged. “Our men were sacrificed for the war,” she replied, then hated herself for the remark when she saw his eyes darken. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Her words hung heavily in the air. Grace knew she was behaving badly, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“I’ll go out and have a look.”
“I hope you can find what you need,” she called pleasantly, hoping to offset her bitter words.
He turned, and their gazes locked for a moment before he nodded and walked out.
Grace stared after him, touched again by his kindness. Something mean in her spirit prompted her to keep making snide little rema
rks. At first she had even tried to dislike him, but he made that difficult by not taking offense to the bitter words that kept popping out of her mouth. He was a true gentleman who seemed intent on helping them any way he could.
She moved about the kitchen, automatically assembling what she needed to make biscuits. All the while, she stared into space, seeing nothing but Jonathan Parker in her mind’s eye. She had never met anyone like him. The local boys had never appealed to her. They had always seemed to be badly in need of learning the basics of etiquette. This was the South, where everyone cut their teeth on being a lady or a gentleman. Before the war, the young men thought of nothing but racing horses, playing pranks, and trying to hold their liquor, and not doing a very good job at any of it, in her opinion.
She rolled out the dough and turned a cup over to cut out biscuits.
A movement beyond the kitchen window caught her eye. Jonathan Parker was carrying a few tools that looked as rusty as she had feared. Yet there was a lilt to his step and a pleasant expression on his face.
Grace stared at him, unable to resist watching his every move when he was unaware of her. He walked with a long purposeful stride, as though he always knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing.
As he disappeared around the side of the house, Grace thought about how eagerly he had spoken of his farm in Kentucky and his desire to restock cattle and horses.
She swallowed hard, not wanting to hope or dream, but she couldn’t help herself. She was only nineteen years old, yet she felt at least the age of Agnes, the spinster neighbor, who was thirty-one and had had no offers of marriage.
Grace bit her lip as the frustration of her endless conflict gripped her again. No matter how many times she reminded herself that it did no good to wail about life not being fair, at times like this she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs about how cheated and disheartened she felt.
Why did she have to live out her life at Riverwood with a mother whom she loved dearly but who seemed determined to live in the past?
She grabbed up the bread pan, dipped into her lard bowl, and swabbed the pan generously. Then she began to place each biscuit onto the greased pan.
A fierce ache squeezed her throat, and she swallowed hard against it. She would not cry over something as silly as a lost dream. A dream was an elusive thing. People were flesh and blood and a part of her soul. She had lost a father and a brother, and now her mother just sat on the front porch and waited for “her Fred” to come home. Grace was left to worry about the neglected farmland that needed to produce crops to pay their taxes and put food on their table. It had taken the kindness of a total stranger to make even the most basic repair: the front gate. Yet that same kindness had strangely twisted her heart, flirting with her, reminding her of how lonely she had been throughout the past years.
She’d be better off not to know that there were men like Jonathan Parker walking the face of the earth, returning to a wonderful life he would share with…well, she was sure he had his pick of lovely Kentucky women.
“But I’m not going to think about that,” she said aloud. She no longer worried about talking to herself. She had grown to like her own company.
Chapter 4
How far is the nearest hardware store?” Jonathan asked as they sat at the table, eating breakfast.
“About three miles down the road at Whites Creek.” He looked from Grace to Elizabeth, who was seated at the head of the table, sipping her coffee, watching Jonathan appreciatively.
“Then I’d like to ride into Whites Creek and pick up a new hammer and some nails. I want you to have a sturdy gate. And you do need some new tools,” he added gently.
“How nice of you,” Elizabeth smiled.
Grace stared at him. “You don’t have to go to that much trouble.”
“I insist. If you don’t mind, that is.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t mind. In fact, I need to make a trip in to pick up some more seeds for my garden. I’ll saddle up Molly and tag along.”
“Is Molly up to the trip? I noticed she has a limp.”
“Oh yes. She’s had a limp ever since I’ve known her. Mr. Douglas loaned her to us because she could no longer pull a wagon or work in the field. But Molly is just fine to ride. As a matter of fact, we get along very well. Next to Mother, Molly is about my best friend,” she said with a grin.
He chuckled softly, and Grace’s grin deepened into a smile. She liked the sound of his laughter. It was full and deep and exactly the way a person should sound when amused. She had never liked the shallow little laughs of Farrel Watson, down in Whites Creek, who was always trying to flirt with her but never quite figured out how.
“Well, I’m glad you and Molly understand one another. I was a little concerned when I fed her this morning.”
“Thanks for feeding her.” Grace spoke quickly, pleased to have someone to help her. “Then we’ll go into Whites Creek. Mother, you need to make a list for me.”
Grace watched her mother carefully, wondering if she would object to Grace riding into town with this man whom they scarcely knew.
“All right.” Her mother smiled. Grace realized everything had changed. The old rules no longer applied, or at least Grace didn’t think so.
Later, dressed in the wrinkled riding habit she had retrieved from the trunk, she met Jonathan in the drive. He had found her old harness and saddle and thoughtfully saddled Molly up, and now they were ready to ride. She watched as he swung onto the big stallion with ease.
“Are you okay?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder as they started off down the drive.
“I’m fine,” she called back, silently admiring General, the big stallion, as he pranced down the drive. Feeling disloyal to Molly, she leaned over and stroked her mane.
It was a beautiful spring day. After the storm, the air was lighter and sweeter. The honeysuckle blossoms were in bloom, flavoring the air with their special fragrance.
As they reached the end of the drive, Grace took another look at the pitiful old gate and felt embarrassed. It half hung from the hinges, but there was nothing she could do about it. She would be grateful to Jonathan Parker for repairing it. She looked across at him, ready to express her appreciation, but he was already speaking.
“You’re very kind to your mother,” he said. “I’m sure these have been difficult years for her. And for you.”
“The years have been difficult, not just for us, but for everyone. All anyone thinks about anymore is trying to survive. It’s the way of war, I suppose.” She glanced at Jonathan. “You must be anxious to see your family.”
“Yes, I am. And yet—”
“What is it?”
He was silent for a few moments. Then he looked at her and shrugged. “I guess I’m dreading to see the condition of the farm. I know its been badly neglected, and with everyone gone, I’m not sure it will feel like home anymore.”
Grace frowned. This idea was something new to her. She had never left Riverwood except for visits to relatives in other parts of the state when she was small. She cast her gaze out across the oak woods, watching a red-winged blackbird sail to a lower branch. The sound of birdsong filled the air, along with the scent of wildflowers. This was home to her. She tried to imagine how it would be for Jonathan, having been away for so long, then returning to an abandoned home. She lifted her eyes toward the blue skies, admiring the soft puffy clouds skimming about.
She made a promise to herself that she was going to quit complaining so much. In fact, she had begun to feel so good that she now regretted wishing that Jonathan had never come to their door. She was so happy to have a friend and to actually be going someplace, if only to Whites Creek.
She looked up at the man whose horse was a few paces ahead of her. He was a good rider, swaying easily with the horse’s gait.
“You ride as though you’ve spent lots of time in the saddle,” she called to him.
“I was in the cavalry. And before the war, we rode horses o
n the farm.”
Her eyes swept up his back, clad in a dark coat, then lingered on the wave of dark hair that brushed his collar.
“I can see this is the heart of cotton country,” he said, turning his head to look out across the fields.
“Yes.” She followed his gaze to the land bordering the road, land as level as a table, stretching as far as the eye could see.
“This was the Abernathy place,” she said.
Just ahead, only a blackened chimney remained of the grand home, a sordid reminder of the war and what it had done to families. There was no point in saying more; it was obvious the big house had been burned to the ground. She noticed that Jonathan was looking at the ugly pile of rubbish that marred the tranquil landscape.
“How did you manage to save your place?” he asked.
She took a deep breath, feeling a deep relief when she thought about what had happened. “We were fortunate. Only a few soldiers came to search our place. Of course, the soldiers had already taken our horses and cattle and the wagon. On their last foray, they realized there was little of value for them, and our farm is smaller than those around us. The officer in charge was a kind, older gentleman who took mercy on Mother and me. They left us alone.”
“Thank God,” Jonathan said, breathing a deep sigh.
“Yes, Mother thanked God every night after that. And for a while, I did, too. I guess I forget to be grateful.”
Beyond the next field, tumbled shanties that had been slave quarters were now rotting wood with birds nesting in the rafters.
“I’m glad the slaves were freed,” she said, staring at the dismal reminder of their lives before the war. “I always got into arguments about people owning slaves. Father always hired Irishmen to do our work, once he managed to buy enough land to raise cotton. And Ardella and William were like family. They stayed with us until they both died.”
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