by Ron Carter
Brigitte swallowed but did not raise her eyes. “I’ve thought of all that.”
“And you still invited him to break bread with us at our table?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do that without telling him we’re sworn enemies—about Father and me—that one day we may face each other in mortal combat. That would be utter hypocrisy!”
Matthew stood and paced for a moment. Then he turned and looked at Brigitte, and he felt the shock and anger dwindle. He sat down and gently took her hand in both of his. “Brigitte, look at me.”
She raised tortured eyes and started at the deep compassion she saw in Matthew’s face.
“If you think anything of this man, break this off now. It has only pain and heartbreak for both of you.”
Brigitte’s chin trembled for a moment, and her voice was strained. “I can’t.”
He tenderly touched the soft cheek and he stared into the pain in the blue eyes, and his voice was pleading. “I understand. Kathleen—gone—I understand the pain. But all the understanding doesn’t change the truth. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“I can’t help it.”
For long moments they stared deep into each other’s hearts. Then Matthew stood, and he raised her from her chair and pulled her to himself and held her. Her arms circled him tightly, and she sobbed. He gently stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead and waited until the trembling stopped.
“Tuesday? What’ve you planned for supper? Mother’s custard? We’ll have to polish up a few things around here.”
Brigitte stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms about his neck, and she kissed his cheek and a sob caught in her throat. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“He’s coming! He’s coming!” Adam ran from the front window to the kitchen, shouting.
“Oh!” exclaimed Brigitte from the kitchen. “I look awful!” Her hands flew to tuck hair wisps, then to untie her apron, and she bolted from the room while Margaret chuckled and opened the oven door to thrust a fork into the baked ham, then watch the small trickle of steaming juices work their way down the side and disappear.
Matthew waited for the knock, then rose from his chair and opened the door, and for a moment the two men stood silent, Richard Buchanan surprised at the appearance of a tall young man at the door, and Matthew startled that Richard was dressed in a simple dark suit with starched white shirt and black tie at his throat, devoid of any indication of his military status or rank. He held a package loosely in his left hand.
“I’m Richard Buchanan. I’m looking for the residence of Miss Brigitte Dunson. Do I have the correct place?”
“You do. I’m Matthew Dunson, her brother.” He thrust out his hand and felt the strong, sure grip. “Please come in. Brigitte will be out in a moment.”
Richard stepped inside, into the rich aroma of roasting ham and the spicy taint of custard and hot maple sauce. His eyes swept the room, and he was aware of the quality of the furniture and the orderliness and the fine linens and place settings at the table. Matthew closed the door, and for an awkward moment they stood facing each other, unsure what should be said.
“Brigitte was helping in the kitchen,” Matthew started. “She went to her room for a moment.”
Richard nodded.
“Be seated,” Matthew continued. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
Richard began to sit in the nearest chair, when Margaret walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Richard straightened and waited.
Matthew spoke. “Mr. Buchanan, I would like to present my mother, Margaret Dunson. Mother, this is Richard Buchanan.”
Margaret finished wiping her hands as she walked, and shook hands with him. “Welcome. We’re delighted you could come. Forgive me for appearing in my apron, and don’t let the children overpower you.”
He bowed. “I am honored, Mrs. Dunson.” He raised the package. “Please accept this.”
Margaret started. “For me?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Matthew, then back at Richard. “Thank you. How nice. This is totally unexpected.”
“Something for the house.”
Margaret accepted the package. “I’ll be a minute getting my apron off, and we will serve dinner shortly. Why don’t you two sit down.”
She started for the archway as Adam and Prissy came careening around the corner and stopped short, staring.
“Is this him?” Adam blurted.
Prissy gave her brother a dark look.
“Yes,” Matthew answered, and smiled. “This is him. Mr. Buchanan, this is Priscilla and Adam, our twins. Children, this is Richard Buchanan.”
Priscilla curtsied. “Pleased to meet you.”
Adam took two steps forward, thrust out his hand, gave two perfunctory yanks on Richard’s hand, and stepped back. “I am happy to meet you.”
“I’m happy to meet both of you, too,” Richard said.
Caleb appeared in the archway.
“And this is Caleb,” Matthew concluded. “Caleb, this is Richard Buchanan.”
Caleb stood eye to eye with Richard. “I am pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, and thrust out his hand.
“I’m happy to meet you too,” Richard answered as Caleb stepped back.
A door closed in the hallway, and Matthew listened to the rapid steps, and then Brigitte appeared in the archway. She wore a simple white ankle-length dress with a sash, and lace at her throat. Her hair was brushed and held back with a white ribbon, and her face was radiant. Richard felt his breath come short as she moved into the room, and Margaret saw the guarded admiration.
“How nice of you to come,” Brigitte said, and offered her hand, and Richard grasped it and shook it.
“It’s a privilege. I was unaware you have such a family.”
Brigitte smiled. “I hope they haven’t frightened you.”
He looked at the children, and Matthew caught the slightest hint of a sadness, and a longing.
“Not at all. It has been my pleasure.”
“Won’t you sit down,” Brigitte said, and gestured, and they all sat down just as Margaret walked back into the room. She carried two silver candlesticks, one in each hand, each handworked by a master silversmith. She set them gleaming on the mantel and turned to Richard.
“They are absolutely beautiful. Thank you.”
Richard cast his eyes downward for a moment, and Margaret saw the flicker of pleasure in his face. “I’m happy if you like them,” he murmured.
“Is your home and family in England?” Margaret asked.
“It was. Lichfield. A small coal mining town.”
“Was?”
“Yes. My parents are gone. So is the home. I have no brothers or sisters.”
“Oh.” Margaret’s eyes dropped for a moment. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry about your parents—family.”
“It’s all right. It’s been some time ago.” He smiled his assurance.
An awkwardness touched them for a moment while their minds groped for something appropriate to say. The war, his wounds, his work, the loss of John, the politics between the colonies and England were all too divisive, too delicate.
Brigitte spoke. “I do hope you enjoy ham and potatoes. Mother does them so well.”
“Brigitte did the ham,” Margaret said bluntly.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Richard replied.
“We got custard for after,” Adam blurted. “Mama makes it good.”
Prissy gave him another dark look and they all laughed.
Richard turned to him. “With hot sauce?”
Adam nodded vigorously.
“That’s the best there is,” Richard said.
Margaret stood. “If any of you want to wash, Brigitte and I will get dinner on the table. Matthew, you show Richard where to wash.”
With the roast ham and bowls of vegetables steaming on the table, they gathered and sat down, Matthew at the head, Margaret facing him, Richard and Brigitte seated opposite each other, with
Adam and Priscilla on either side of Richard and Caleb beside Brigitte. Matthew spoke.
“Richard, we usually kneel to return thanks. Would you like to join us?”
Richard went to his knees beside his chair and bowed his head before clasped hands.
“Almighty God, we are thankful for the bounties of life before us and ask thy blessings upon them. Bless us with wisdom to use the good therefrom in righteousness. We are grateful for the guest in our home and ask thy blessings to be upon him. Amen.”
Richard said his amen with the others, and for one instant he hesitated on his knees, and in that moment Margaret saw the longing, the need in him as he glanced at the others before rising.
Matthew cut smoking slices of ham while Brigitte started the bowls of potatoes and yams and squash around the table, then the sliced bread, and the mustard pickles to garnish the ham. Talk and laughter flowed uninhibited. Margaret covertly studied Richard. He took his portion as the platters and bowls passed and spoke when spoken to, but his eyes never stopped moving. He watched the children and Matthew and Margaret, and glanced at Brigitte, and he listened to the unending undercurrent of talk, and in his face Margaret saw the hunger that had built for years. He did not want to speak or interfere, only to quietly sit with them and feel his soul swell with the warmth of family and love.
He asked for second helpings and filled his plate, and he ate it slowly, savoring it all, while Margaret watched and smiled.
When his plate was clean, Adam grasped his spoon. “When do we get custard?”
“Adam, where are your manners?” Margaret scolded. “We’ll have the custard later.” She stood. “Give Brigitte and me a few minutes to clear the table,” she said. “Why don’t you men talk.”
The shadows were long in the chill of a clear early evening. Matthew gestured. “Let me show you the yard.” Richard followed him out the back door, to the circular bench that girdled the great oak, and they both sat.
For a long moment Matthew studied his hands on his knees, then spoke. “I sat at the head of the table because Father is gone. He was killed in the Concord battle.”
He raised his eyes to Richard, who returned his steady gaze, and Matthew continued. “I was in the battle. So was Tom Sievers and Billy Weems. Friends. Billy was nearly killed—still partly crippled. We all killed British soldiers. Officers.”
He paused.
“I’ve spent the last several months as navigator on a ship that has taken twelve British men-of-war, to get gunpowder and supplies for Washington’s army. There were ten actions in which a lot of British sailors died, and some of ours.”
He waited for Richard to respond, but he said nothing, and Matthew finished. “I’ll continue the war against England until it’s over. I thought you should know these things.”
He stopped and waited.
For a long time Richard sat in the growing twilight and stared at the ground before he exhaled and his shoulders settled and he raised his eyes to Matthew’s. “I didn’t know about your father. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. So sorry.” He shook his head and looked away for a moment. “I lost my parents years ago, and my home too. The army is my home, my family.” He paused, trying to find a continuity to his thoughts. “I took serious wounds at Menotomy in the Concord fight, but I’m nearly recovered. When it was bad, Brigitte wrote and later sent food. She’s the only person who did that, because I have no one else. She’ll never know how much it meant.”
He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’ll be a British soldier the rest of my life—I won’t dishonor the oath I took as an officer.”
He slowly rose. “My being here has been an awful burden on you. If I had known, I wouldn’t have come, wouldn’t have done this to you, or your mother and the children. I feel bad about it.”
“Brigitte arranged this, not you.”
“I know, but I should have asked, found out somehow. I’ve never sat at a table like today, and shared with a family like yours. And now I know it brought you all pain. I wish I had known before.”
“Don’t feel that way. We don’t. You were welcome here, still are. In most ways it’s been a blessing to us all.”
For long moments Richard stared into Matthew’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
In lengthening shadows Matthew led the way back to the house, and Brigitte and Margaret were waiting at the dining table in the light of half a dozen lamps.
“Take your seats for custard,” Brigitte said.
Richard took his first taste and stopped and turned to Margaret. “That’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Margaret smiled, embarrassed, and shrugged. “Thank you. Eat your fill.”
They cleared away the dishes and sat in the overstuffed chairs and on the sofa while Adam and Priscilla sat at the dining table with paper and pen, making crude drawings of animals. Adam held up his pad proudly. “Can you draw a dog?” he asked Richard.
“Not as good as that. But I can make one on the wall.”
Adam’s mouth dropped open. “On the wall?”
Richard gestured to a lamp and Matthew nodded, and Richard set it on the edge of the table, then knelt next to the wall. He positioned his hand, and the shadow cast on the wall was the head of a dog.
Adam and Priscilla were ecstatic. “A dog! He made a dog!”
Adam spoke, excited. “Can you make anything else?”
Again Richard shaped his hands, and the head of a rabbit appeared, with long ears that moved.
“A rabbit!” Priscilla exclaimed.
“I’ll show you how,” Richard said. He helped Adam shape his hands, and magically the head of the dog reappeared.
Adam nearly exploded. “I did it! A dog!” He did it again and again.
Richard helped Priscilla and the rabbit appeared, and Prissy squealed with delight.
Richard returned to his seat and watched for a moment while the children worked with their hands and began inventing their own shadow images. Then he turned and spoke to Matthew and Margaret. “With your permission I would like to talk with Brigitte for a few minutes, outside.”
Seated on the oak bench in dark shadows of deep dusk, he spoke quietly. “Since I was hurt—your letters, the food—there are no words I know to tell you how they helped, lifted me. I will always be grateful.”
“I’m so glad.”
He took a deep breath. “Matthew told me about your father and himself and Billy Weems. I wish I had known earlier.”
“You wouldn’t have come, and I wanted you to come.”
“I brought pain to this house.”
“You brought healing.”
“Seeing how you are—all of you—I don’t belong here.”
Impulsively she grasped his arm. “You do!”
He sat silently for a time, working with his thoughts, and Brigitte did not interfere. “The army is my life. I’ve sworn the oath of a British officer.”
“I know. But the war will end sometime. It won’t go on forever.”
“The shooting will stop, but the differences will go on.”
“They’ll fade away.”
He cleared his throat and moved his feet, and drew a small package from inside his coat. “Would you please accept this? It’s nothing—just a little remembrance. I would like to know you have it.”
Brigitte’s hand flew to cover her mouth for a moment before she reached to accept it. “May I open it now?”
“If you wish.”
Gently she worked the wrapping open, and in the fast-fading light she unfolded a handkerchief made of the finest linen trimmed with intricate lace. In one corner, in flawless royal blue needlepoint, were the initials “B. D.” in beautiful scroll.
Brigitte held it in her hands for a moment, then laid it in her lap and tenderly touched it and smoothed it. “It’s beautiful. So beautiful.” Her eyes filled and she looked at him and once again she grasped his arm. “Thank you.”
“It’s little enough for what you’ve done. I’m please
d if you like it.”
“It’s a treasure.”
He stood. “Let me take you inside.”
She stood and faced him, and suddenly, impulsively, she stepped close to him and her arms circled his neck and she brushed a kiss on his cheek. He stiffened for a moment in surprise, and then he wrapped her inside his arms, and for a moment they stood in their embrace, and then he gently pulled back. “Shall we go inside?”
He took her hand and led her back to the house. Inside he looked at the mantel clock. “I was given leave until nine o’clock. I must be getting back to the base.”
Matthew nodded, and Richard turned to Margaret.
“Mrs. Dunson, I don’t know the words to tell you what all this has meant to me. It was the finest dinner I have ever had, and I will never forget the hours here with your family.”
“It has been wonderful having you here. You must come again.”
He turned to Matthew, and they shook hands warmly. “Thank you for everything.”
“It was my privilege.”
Finally he turned to Brigitte. “I am grateful you allowed me to come here to thank you and to meet your family. Thank you.”
“Please, don’t thank me. It was my pleasure.”
He glanced once more at the clock. “I must be going.” He opened the door and stopped to look at all of them. “It was wonderful being here. Good night.”
No one spoke or moved for several seconds, and then Margaret sighed and turned towards the kitchen and Brigitte followed her.
“Mama, he gave me this.” She handed her the handkerchief, and Margaret spread it in her hands.
“It’s beautiful.”
Before bed, they gathered and Margaret offered their evening prayer, then rose. “Off to bed, you three. School tomorrow.”
Caleb grumbled, but Adam and Priscilla danced to their room and made shadow pictures on the wall until Margaret tucked them in and kissed them good night. Matthew was seated in the large overstuffed chair in deep thought when she returned to the parlor.
“Brigitte,” Margaret called, and she came from her bedroom. “Sit down.” She waited until Brigitte was seated, attentive, hardly breathing. “I think he’s a fine boy,” Margaret said. “Matthew?”