by Lorin Grace
Gideon set his cup down and stared at the man.
“Surprised you, didn’t I? I suspect you knew my wife, whom we buried last spring, was not my first, since everyone still called her Widow Black, though we had been married for more than ten years.”
Gideon nodded. He’d heard tell of two other wives who’d preceded the widow.
The old man sipped his tea. “Most folks around here know of her and two of my other wives. Mostly because all my living children are theirs. Few people know about Hannah or my Ruthie.” Mr. Whittaker paused and drank his tea, then refilled his cup.
“I lost everything when I lost my Ruthie coming over nearly sixty years ago. I wandered the streets of Boston wishing I were dead, and half felt it. Of course, I never worked a day in my life until we left England. Raised to be an earl, I went to the best schools, but I knew nothing about life or death. And precious little about love, though I fancied I did.”
Gideon clamped his jaw as to not spew the soup in his mouth. Old Mr. Whittaker an earl? Of all the outlandish rumors he’d heard in his position, this wasn’t one of them.
“Appreciate you keeping that information to yourself. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m a loyalist. Not even my grandchildren know. Martha, my third wife, my granddaughter’s namesake, figured no one need know about my past as I became a new man who found God. Never did tell my Sally or Widow Black. Too many years passed, and some unlucky fool now holds the title in my stead. Here’s to that poor man.” He raised his teacup in salute.
They both ate in silence for the next few minutes.
“Didn’t call you over here to tell you of my aristocratic lines. When I saw you destroying your son’s cradle, the same one you built with such love last spring, I thought I needed to tell you the story of my Ruthie and Hannah. Because, Preacher, it would be a shame if you made the same mistakes this old man did. I think you are bright enough to learn from them. How old are you—thirty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
Mr. Whittaker shook his head. “Twenty-six and you act like you are older than I am, waiting for the good Lord to take you home.” He pushed back his chair. “Dust yourself off and come to the parlor. The chairs are more comfortable. Martha can deal with a spot o’ dust.”
Two stuffed chairs, both worn smooth from frequent use, flanked the fireplace. The older gentleman took the chair farthest from the window and indicated for Gideon to take the other. Gideon settled into the seat and noticed that Mr. Whittaker held something in his hands.
“Here, son, these will help you as I tell my story.” Gideon leaned forward and took the three miniatures from Mr. Whittaker. One, obviously more worn and aged, stood out from the others.
“The one you are looking at is my Ruthie, painted from memory. The dark-haired woman would be Hannah, and the fair one is my Martha. I didn’t paint the others.”
Gideon nodded. The young woman in his congregation did resemble the older Martha in the last frame.
“My Ruthie was the most beautiful creature I ever saw. I was smitten. But I was an earl’s son, and she a mere tenant’s daughter.” He paused as if searching for the correct words. “Well, it wasn’t done.” Mr. Whittaker gazed into the fire, a smile on his lips. “I pled with my father to allow me to marry her, but my father laughed at me. Told me to bed her if I must but to find a girl of my own rank. I regret to say I took part of his advice. Tearfully, Ruthie told me of our child and begged me to help her. My father yelled at me for hours, and I yelled back. We came to blows. I left the house, never to return.
“Two days later we sailed for Boston. As I had little money, our accommodations were far from grand. Though we hadn’t wed before sailing, we registered as husband and wife in the ship’s manifest due to her condition. I was convinced that once we landed in Boston, we would solemnize our vows.” Mr. Whittaker pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his eyes.
“The trip was terrible—stale food, constant storms. My poor Ruthie contracted a horrendous illness. All I could do was hold her close. Two days before we made port, my Ruthie awoke.” Mr. Whittaker paused and loudly blew his nose. “So much blood. That night I wrapped the baby and Ruthie in a bit of sail and slid them overboard.”
“I sent word to Ruthie’s parents of her death. Eventually my father learned of it and sent me missive after missive, begging me to return to England to take my rightful place. I never responded. If only he’d let me marry her, she would have lived—or so I told myself. “
The old man paused and lifted his face heavenward. “We don’t control death, or much else, son.”
Though I wish we could. It hurts so much! Gideon kept his thoughts private, knowing the conversation still had a ways to go before it wound to its conclusion.
“I wandered about Boston, finally running out of money. Hannah’s father ran a shipping company and hired me as a clerk. A kind man, he often sent meals by way of a houseboy or some other servant and allowed me a cot in his warehouse.
“On a few occasions, I ate at his home with his wife and children. His oldest daughter, Hannah, would smile shyly at me while her younger sisters giggled. Soon Hannah took to delivering my meals. She recognized my despondency and in her innocence tried to console me.” Suddenly, Mr. Whittaker brought his fist down on the arm of his chair, causing Gideon to jump.
“I prayed for God to forgive me, but being a stupid, self-absorbed man, I took all the consolation she offered and more. Her father found us. We wed soon after.
“Not yet sixteen, Hannah possessed wisdom beyond her years. She always knew I loved another, yet she gave and gave and gave of her love. In time, I came to respect and admire her for her tenacity. With each son she bore, my wounds healed a bit more. Then the oldest caught measles, and by the end of the week my entire little family lay underground in the churchyard. Too late I realized I loved Hannah. She never knew.
“I spent many hours head in hands in the churchyard, until the curate dragged me to his home. He taught me truths from the Bible I never heard preached in my youth.
“Not long after, I met Martha as she was spinning flax into linen at a competition in Boston where she and her feisty friend Mina bantered back and forth and laughed frequently. I wanted laughter in my life. Martha and I went for walks on the Common. Soon I convinced her to marry me. I told her everything, and she forgave all. We were together more than twenty years when she passed.” Mr. Whittaker stood and poked at the fire, his words settling with the flames.
“I am sure you’ve heard of Sally, the spinster I married out of mutual need, as Martha left me several young children. Poor Sally—neither of us figured at her age she would ever carry my child. She actually carried two, but she did not live to hold her second.”
Gideon shifted uncomfortably. Gideon was intrigued by the story, but he didn’t want Mr. Whittaker to regret being candid with him. “You did not need to confess—”
Mr. Whittaker waved Gideon off. “I know you loved your Ruth and that losing her and the child feels as if God has torn away a bit of your soul. But don’t make the same mistakes I made with Hannah. You are not yet thirty. You will marry again, have children again. It’s what a man and woman are made for—to be parents. You will again long for a wife and for fatherhood. You must let your Ruth go and allow yourself to find love again. I’ve loved five, the memory of one never diminishing another. Trust that your wife and son are with God, as you’ve preached, and find a new path for your life, son.”
They sat watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Mr. Whittaker took a deep breath. “I know they are sending you back to the seminary. I offer you another option. Martha’s friend Mina is now widowed. She needs help keeping her little farm running. I could recommend you to her employ.”
Farming? Gideon knew the basics. His father had only owned two acres—just enough to support a milk cow and supplement his shoe-m
aking business.
Mr. Whittaker crossed to a writing desk and wrote something on a scrap of paper. “I don’t know what your seminary will do with you, but now you have another option.”
Stuffing the paper into Gideon’s hand, Mr. Whittaker ushered him out the back door.
As Gideon crossed the yard, he realized he hadn’t uttered ten words the entire conversation. In the moonlight, he saw the slivered remains of the cradle. Perhaps he shouldn’t have destroyed it. He reached down and picked up a piece about the size of his palm. The double hearts and flowers he’d carved for the head of the cradle to represent his love and family remained intact. Since he owned no miniature of his Ruth, he would clean up the edges and keep it as a token of remembrance.
He entered the little house, set the wood on the table, and looked at the paper Mr. Whittaker had given him.
Mina Richards, East Stoughton
Where was East Stoughton?
Four
Gideon sat in the straight-backed chair, the only seating available in the austere office. The gray light filtering through the lone window did little to brighten the bare walls, and the massive desk in front of him lay devoid of anything but a single stack of papers. The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound. In the fifteen minutes since the clerk had ushered him into the office, the sounds of the clock had grown louder and the seat harder. Waiting became a new type of penance.
Just as the clock hands reached their uppermost position, the door opened and a portly man dressed in black entered the room.
Gideon stood. “Reverend Ingram.”
“Sit, sit,” Clive Ingram said as he shuffled around the desk and sat in the chair. He picked up the top paper from the stack and perused it for a moment.
“Well.” He lifted another sheet.
“Well, well.” He read a third. Only one remained on the desk. “Well, well, well.”
The distinct impression that things were far from well flooded Gideon. Reverend Ingram picked up the last paper and scanned it before setting the entire stack back on his desk and straightening them on the top and right side.
“Well, you quite thoroughly angered the little flock we gave you out in—” the reverend picked up the top paper—“Greenwich. Only one of the selection board members wrote in your defense. The rest feel that although you were most promising a year ago, since the death of your wife you’ve ceased to nurture your congregation. What say you?”
Gideon bowed his head, unable to look up as he answered. “There is little to say other than what they wrote. I am a failure.”
“Do you want to be?”
Gideon’s head shot up. “Pardon?”
“Do you want to be a failure?”
“No.” To his own ears, the answer sounded uncertain. Would leaving the church make him a failure, or did it mean another path lay ahead?
Reverend Ingram raised his brow. “Maybe I should ask the question this way: Do you want to be a minister?”
Gideon gave the smallest of shrugs. “I have not been able to feel my calling or the Holy Spirit as I once did since—” The silence finished what he could not. “Doubts emerge as I search the sect’s doctrines and the Bible. They don’t always match.”
“No, they don’t. I would say you were not preaching material at all if you did not see the inconsistencies. Any preacher worth his salt studies and understands the problems. No denomination is perfect; all fail in some way or another. We must preach God’s word the best we can and ignore the parts man cannot discern. Doubting has ruined more than one man.”
“But—”
“Not all things can be answered by an appeal to the Bible. Scholars spend their entire lives studying and answering questions. You may rely on their writings when you are lost.”
This answer may have comforted Gideon three years ago when he’d studied here, but after his loss, it left him feeling highly dissatisfied. Some of these scholarly ideas were at odds with what he believed about God’s permanence.
The reverend continued. “Most of us have moments of doubt and weakness. A few, like you, let their doubts fester until those doubts steal their peace. Some questioning the ministry return and stay for months, attending classes to find answers. Others choose to be assistants to our established clergy, ministering to the flocks without the need to preach for a time. Does either of these options fit your needs?”
Gideon contemplated, not sure if either suited him.
“There is always leaving the clergy.” Reverend Ingram delivered this with such disdain, Gideon hesitated.
“May I take the night to contemplate my decision?”
“Of course. I know you need time to pray for guidance.” Gideon felt the correction in the reverend’s answer. “The dormitory is almost empty as most of the students are visiting family until mid-January. Ask Norton to show you an unoccupied cell. You are welcome to stay there for now. If you choose to remain, we will arrange for other accommodations.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a paper.
“This is a list of the clergymen who’ve requested assistance. It may aid you in your choice. Until tomorrow, then.” Reverend Ingram opened another drawer and began searching its contents, effectively dismissing Gideon.
Old Mr. Norton was as old as the drafty building housing the seminary. Gideon followed his stooped form up the stairway. A couple of lights shone from the three-walled cells lining either side of the central hallway. A few privacy curtains were pulled shut, while others stood open. Old Norton hobbled along, the lantern bobbing in hand, checking each of the little cells as he passed. He halted at the fifth.
“This one seems empty enough. Not even a blanket. Do you have one in your trunk?”
Gideon slid his trunk off his shoulder. Ruth’s wedding quilt lay at the bottom. He did not want to use it here—too many private memories stirred at the sight of her handiwork. “Only my wife’s wedding quilt.”
Old Norton studied him. “I’m sure your quilt is too fine to use in these dusty dorms. You will find some old woolen blankets on the shelves in the lower hall. I trust you remember your way around?”
Gideon nodded in response.
Old Norton set the lantern on the little table next to the outside wall. “Rules and schedules are still the same. The reverend is forgoing night service this week. Prayers at six o’clock sharp each morning in the chapel. Best wear an extra pair of socks—only four others are here besides Reverend Ingram and us this week, so the chapel is colder than normal, if that’s possible.”
Not likely. As a student, Gideon had joined in the competitions to freeze water on the stone floor in the time it took Reverend Ingram to finish his morning service.
Old Norton turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and meals are served in the kitchen this week. Check in the morning, and I’ll give you a duty. No point in running a full roster with everyone on holiday.”
Gideon listened to Old Norton’s uneven steps retreat down the hallway. He glanced to the other end where light spilled from the cells. Doubtless the occupants had heard every word. They would pass this way soon enough; no reason to go introduce himself. They’d probably already learned of the preacher who’d been fired after his Christmas sermon and would want to satisfy their curiosity.
He shivered. The dorms were almost as cold as the chapel. Some of the students joked, saying Reverend Ingram had gotten his denominations confused when he’d opened the seminary in the abandoned school and mistaken students for monks under a vow of poverty. The buildings certainly supported this idea. Gideon would need a blanket around his shoulders even to sit at the desk.
He stepped into the hall only to step immediately back into his cubical. As he knew it would, the water pitcher stood empty. A film of ice would cover the water’s surface in the morning, but he would need to wash and shave before the morning de
votional. He’d best fetch water now.
Returning, he found two men leaning against the wall posts next to his room. Gideon nodded as he passed them and entered his cell. After setting down his burdens, he turned and extended his hand. “Gideon Frost.”
The taller man shook his hand. “Ethan Dover.”
The other one stepped forward. “Mark Fletcher. Is it true? Were you terminated on Christmas?”
Ethan glared at the shorter man.
Gideon let out a sharp laugh. “Never let it be said that only the women in our congregations carry tales. No, the day after. But yes, my Christmas Eve sermon was the last feather on the horse’s back.”
Mark opened his mouth to speak, but Ethan silenced him with a glare. “Do you need anything?”
Gideon shook his head, hoping they would leave.
“Mrs. Norton has been leaving pies and puddings in the kitchen for us over the break. We were going down to see what we can find. Do you want to come?”
Gideon made a show of inspecting his cell. “Not tonight. I need to arrange things.” The excuse was lame as they all knew it would take only a few minutes to make the bed and pull out a fresh shirt for tomorrow. But both men took the hint and moved to the stairway. Old Norton had indicated four students in residence—two more to meet. Gideon ran his hand through his hair, wondering how little he could get away with unpacking. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the paper the reverend had handed him in the office. The third item down caught his eye.
East Stoughton.
Gideon stared at the paper. A coincidence? His answer couldn’t come that easily.
He unpacked his Bible and a change of clothing. As he moved about, his eye kept going back to the paper on the desk.
Why did East Stoughton keep tugging at him?