A Place in His Heart

by Rebecca DeMarino

  “Aye, her gravestone. He carved it himself.”

  He set the baskets down and studied the fire. Ladies from all over the village would be at his door soon. He picked up the fire iron and poked at the logs. Ann appeared in his thoughts. Why could he not keep his mind on work? He forced himself to shift to the matters of the day as he ladled steaming porridge into the bowls. “Boys, come and sit.”

  They took their usual seats at the worn oak table. Benjamin sat too close to his brother, who immediately rolled his eyes and tried to push him away. Barnabas sent him a stern look, and Joseph, age five, and two years older than little Benjamin, obediently bowed his head and listened as his father led them in prayer and Scripture.

  The three ate in silence.

  Barnabas gave each boy a bit of bread to wipe their bowls and spoons clean. They popped the bread into their mouths, put their dishes on the shelf, and wiped the crumbs away with a kitchen rag.

  “Before the ladies bring in their bread, we need to go to the shop for a loaf of sugar.” He banked the fire and swept soot from the hearth. Pulling on his vest, he nodded to his youngest. “Come here, Benjamin, let me help you with your boots.” He scooted the boys out the door, then stepped back inside to fetch a black handkerchief and tied it above his elbow.

  They marched down the village green, a small hand clasped in each of his. Warm days and crisp, cold nights had dressed the line of old oaks in a splendor of yellow, orange, and red, but their glory was a blur as trickles of sweat wound their way down across his cheeks. Certainly, it was only sweat.

  At the shop, he allowed the boys to amuse themselves with various balls of string from the display and went in search of his supplies. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked about for the proprietor, Mr. Webb. A young woman stood by the counter. Ah, yes. The new shopgirl.

  “Good day, miss. If you please, I am not finding the sugar . . .”

  She turned. Her wide hazel eyes reflected the green of her dress as she regarded him.

  Fudge. He knew her but could not quite place her. The silk dress with the elegant lace was definitely not one of a shopgirl. She certainly looked pretty.

  “Mr. Horton. ’Tis me . . . Mary Langton.” A sweet smile spread across her lips. She quickly cast her look downward, a faint tinge of pink appearing on her cheeks.

  “Miss Mary Langton? It cannot be. Why, Miss Langton, you were just a wee bit of a girl. Now, look at you—a—a young woman.” His mouth felt full of gauze and he diverted his gaze.

  “I know ’tis been a long time since you have seen me, perhaps not since my mother died? I remember coming to the bakeshop with her, and you would give me a ginger cake. She always enjoyed your stories. You know my sister, Lizzie—I mean Elizabeth—of course.”

  “Aye. Your mother was one of my favorite customers and certainly your sister still is.”

  “She makes all of the bread dough for Papa and me. Cook would rather make it, but Papa insists that Lizzie do it.”

  “Aye, I see. Our boys are the same age.”

  “Really? She never told me that. She has two girls as well. Rachel and Ruth.”

  He studied her closely. “I know.” He tried a smile, but his face cracked. “How fortunate to see you today. It has obviously been too long.”

  A second blush of color sprang across her cheeks. “Forgive me, Mr. Horton, but I fear I prattle on. Pray give your wife my regards.”

  Long moments passed as he attempted to keep his grief in the private places of his heart. His throat tightened and he struggled to clear it. “My wife—”

  “Give that back, Joseph!” Benjamin’s forlorn wails filled all corners of the shop.

  Barnabas winced and drew a deep breath. “I do believe that is my son. I hope we shall meet again. Now, I must go and see what the crying is about. Since their mother died, they seem to argue and fight constantly. Good day, Miss Langton.” He bowed, turned, and hurried to the boys just in time to see Joseph seize Benjamin.

  “Mother was right, Benjamin. You will always be the baby. A big baby.”

  “Stop this now, Joseph. What on this earth is happening here?” Barnabas viewed the string littered across the floor in a tangle of disarray.

  “He was making a mess. I was just straightening it out. I told him he shouldn’t be doing that, but he doesn’t listen to me.”

  Tears streamed down Benjamin’s cheeks. His blond curls and blue eyes reminded Barnabas constantly of Ann. His heart melted as he stooped down. “Benjamin, let us see who can make the biggest ball. And, Joseph, you must come and tell me when you cannot control him. Do not fight with your brother. There are things that God expects us to fight for, true. But string is not one of them. Do you understand?”

  Joseph stared sullenly at the string.

  “Yes, or no, Joseph?”

  “Yes, Father, but he was—”

  “Do not argue. Listen to me.” The agitation and tone of his voice gave him pause.

  Miss Langton appeared with a sugar loaf. “Mr. Webb said he would add it to your account.” Her smile was warm and sympathetic.

  “Gracious. Thank you. No doubt I would have forgotten it.” His eyes crinkled with a small smile of gratitude as she knelt near Joseph.

  “I fear your father is in need of help here,” she said. “Shall we pick up string too?”

  She handed a strand to Joseph. The four worked at sorting and winding string, and with the last ball returned to the shelf, Barnabas took Joseph’s hand. “Thank you, Miss Langton. It truly was a pleasure to meet you once again.” He glanced at the scuff on his boots. “I do apologize for thinking you to be tending the shop.” He studied her once more. Was she offended by his presumption or was that pity he saw in those lovely eyes?

  Miss Langton curtseyed and looked him full in the face, her brow wrinkled, but a gentle look in her eyes. “I am so saddened to hear of your wife’s death. You have fine boys, Mr. Horton. I must ask Lizzie if she might have them over to play with Joshua and the girls.”

  The sincerity in her voice struck him. His own words were not forthcoming—a rare predicament.

  Joseph tugged at his hand.

  “Thank you, again. You are most kind. I must take the boys home, it will be a busy day at the bakeshop.” He bowed. “Good morrow, Miss Langton.” Reaching for Benjamin’s hand, he tightened his grip and led them out.

  As they walked up the flagstone to their home and bakeshop, Barnabas paused. A wooden shutter hung askew. How long had it been like that?

  Once inside, he pulled the door shut and sank into his chair. If only he could hide away from the world and allow his grief to consume him. Instead, he brought his sons into his arms and clung to them.

  “Joseph.” His words were jagged in his throat. “You are so much like me that I fear at times I am too strict with you. I look at your face, and it is like peering into a mirror. I expect much of myself and therefore I expect much of you. I know that is difficult for you to understand.” He rested his chin on Joseph’s head.

  His gaze roamed the room as he took in every detail. The musket leaned against the wall. Ann liked to call it his quart pot, ever since he blew the end off of it. The tallow candle on the wooden beam high above the fireplace was squat and needed to be replaced soon. She never would have let the candle burn so low. Beside it lay the kitchen tongs. The memory of their wedding day, when she’d been presented with the tongs by his mother, caused his throat to constrict. Her pleasure at becoming keeper of the tongs—mistress of their hearth and home—he held close in his heart.

  He pulled back and looked into Joseph’s large, sad eyes. “Your mother thought I was too harsh with you. If that be true, I am sorry. I love you and Benjamin. You are all I have left of her. I will try to be a better father. I promised your mother I would always keep you safe and I will.”

  He sat for a while, his sons resting in his arms. Ann did so many things to make their home comfortable and happy. She could reprimand with a gentle smile. A woman’s touch, no doubt. H
e could never replace her, but did he not owe it to their boys to find a woman to raise them? Ann would want that.

  The meeting with Miss Langton came to mind. Her father owned land a few miles north of Mowsley, on the road to Saddington, and did business in wool and felt. Her sister, Elizabeth, he knew to be an accomplished woman, skilled in all of the domestic arts. Mayhap Miss Langton shared some of her sister’s domestic acumen. She was certainly lovely to look at.

  Mary dawdled as she walked home. Why did her sister not tell her of the death of the baker’s wife? Surely everyone in the hamlet knew. Her cheeks grew hot. The black scarf tied around his arm—she hadn’t noticed it at first, but she should have. That Lizzie. Ever since their mother died, she always tried to protect her. Always thinking she knew better.

  Her mind wandered to young Joseph. You certainly could tell they were father and son. Their hair—a mane, really—glossy and dark brown. And those green, penetrating eyes. She found herself smiling, a first since she’d returned from London. He certainly had his hands full with those two boys. Joseph wanted to be the big brother and take care of Benjamin. He tried to look tough when Mr. Horton reprimanded him.

  She breathed in the fresh fall air as she passed a large manor on her right and fields of sheep on her left. Her sister liked living on the village green, but Mary enjoyed the short jaunt to and from the hamlet. As she turned up the lane to her house, she quickened her pace. She pushed open the heavy door and walked through the hall to the parlor. Her father sat next to the gateleg table, reviewing the figures she had given him earlier that morning. She listlessly sat and ran her hand over the green damask of the chair.

  “Mary, I see you have returned.”

  “Papa, yes—yes, I’m back.”

  “And?” He lifted his eyes toward her expectantly.

  “And what, Papa?”

  “Did you not go to the shop? I thought you needed your . . . what was it? Soap?”

  “Yes, Papa, I did go. I seem to be a bit light-minded today. I forgot my soap. Papa, do you know Mr. Horton, the baker?”

  “Of course. His father owns the mill.”

  “What did Mother think of him?”

  “She said he made her laugh. She liked him very much, but it is my impression all of the ladies do.” His blue eyes twinkled as he ran fingers through his silvery hair.

  “Papa, I have given a lot of thought to what I told you and Lizzie in London.”

  “What is that, my girl?”

  “I need to apply myself to learning the skills every good wife should have.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why, any of the domestic arts.”

  Her father returned to the list of numbers, then rubbed his eyes. “You will do well to learn from your sister, to be sure. Your mother taught her well. But know that Robert will take you as you are. He worships you, my girl.”

  Her heart wrenched. Why could he not see that Robert didn’t worship her? That he was more a rascal than an admirer. “I think I shall wander now in the garden, Papa.” She slipped out the door.

  She followed the winding path where spent vines of clingy honeysuckle and sweet jasmine formed an arch. The gardener had been at work preparing to do an autumn planting of sweet peas. She knelt to the plucky herbs and haphazardly picked some thyme and the lemon balm that took over every bare inch. She needed to speak to her sister. And soon.

  2

  The sun sank from the sky, the last glint of light casting a golden glow across the wheat field. In a moment it would be gone and all would disappear in darkness. Ann’s life had been like that—her golden countenance touched everyone she met. Barnabas clenched his hands. He’d been so blessed, but too soon the darkness descended and in an instant she was gone.

  The air turned crisp and he walked back into the timber-framed home he built for her years ago. A big house with plenty of room for the many children they dreamt of having. For a moment, Mary slipped into his daydreams. How sweet. And so grown up. She was most likely around twenty, which put him ten years older. A sigh escaped. Or had he just moaned his beloved’s name, Ann? He wasn’t certain, but thoughts of her brought his attention back to his boys and the bedtime regimen awaiting him.

  He wandered into the kitchen, picked up the two mugs he’d left to warm on the hearth beside the fire, and dipped a finger into each. Satisfied, he carried them to the bedroom. “Come, boys, sit and drink your milk.”

  His sons looked up from their play with hand-carved horses, treasures from Grandfather Horton. Joseph took his brother’s horse and put it next to his on the small table, his face sullen. “I don’t want to go to bed, Father. I hate going to bed.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. How he needed Ann at moments like this.

  He let out his breath in slow increments, at the same time reaching for his son. Joseph’s wide eyes softened his heart. “Please, I know these times are hard for you. Mayhap we should put your brother to bed, and then you and I go out to the fire and read our Bible. Drink your milk. You too, Benjamin, and I will ready the washbowl for you.”

  The boys washed their faces and rinsed their teeth. Barnabas tucked Benjamin into bed and looked down at his small son, so much like Ann. His heart squeezed in his chest.

  “Say your prayers, Benjamin.” How strange his own low, ravaged voice sounded. The soft words of his youngest drew him back.

  “God bless Father, God bless Joseph, and God bless Mother, who is in heaven.” Benjamin recited his prayer earnestly, and then as if he could feel the sadness and turmoil in his father, he added, “And God help us all.”

  Barnabas bent and kissed his son’s forehead, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “Thank you.” He tenderly tucked the quilt about Benjamin’s shoulders. He closed his eyes and a vision of Ann flitted into his thoughts, bent over the quilt, carefully placing her stitches.

  Joseph rolled his eyes and with a set jaw marched out to the front hall.

  Barnabas followed from the bedroom and found him already settled in one of the two chairs, his head buried in his arms. The fire burned low. He picked up the iron poker and began to nudge the great charred logs. “Are you all right?”

  His son looked up, eyes red and brimmed with tears. “No.” His voice sounded so small, so sad. “Why did she die? I had the pox. Benjamin, too. It’s not fair. I want her to come back.”

  “Aye, I do too. Joseph, I understand.”

  “No, no. She was my mother.”

  “True, Joseph, and she was my life.” Air seeped out of his lungs. He eased himself into the chair and picked up the family Bible. He thumbed through the tattered pages. “Grandfather Horton gave me this Bible when I married your mother. He told me the best advice he could ever give me is all in this book. We need God’s constant help and blessings. Both are in the pages of the Bible. Your grandfather and I never have agreed about the church, but on God’s care we do.”

  He leafed through the book, searching for the help he needed now. He came to a verse Ann particularly loved, marked by her frayed, blue hair ribbon. He fingered the ribbon for a moment. “Joseph, listen. Philippians, chapter four, beginning with the sixth verse, ‘Be nothing careful, but in all things let your requests be showed unto God in prayer and supplication with giving of thanks. And the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall preserve your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.’”

  He carefully returned the blue ribbon to the page as he closed the Bible and looked up at his son. “Do you understand what that means, Joseph? It means do not worry, but tell God your concerns. He will take care of you. He will take care of us. I know it is a very sad time, and I would want your mother back, if God be willing. But even though God has called her home, He has not forgotten us. He watches over us.” He saw the intense loss and abandonment in his young son’s eyes.

  “Father, do you think Mother can see us? If she is in heaven with God, is she an angel too?”

  He swallowed hard before he answered. He knew what the Bible said about angels, the
heavenly hosts, but he also knew the Bible taught of giving milk to those who were not ready for meat. He regarded his young son. There would be time for him to grow in the Lord and the teachings of the Bible. He would give him the milk for now.

  “Son, the Bible tells us that God has angels, beautiful angels. I believe your mother was an angel while she was here on earth. I see no reason why God would not want her to be an angel with Him in heaven. She is probably looking down right now and wondering why I am not putting you to bed.”

  For the first time in a long time, Joseph giggled. He stood up and turned toward the bedroom. “Good night, Father.” He looked up and whispered, “Good night, Mother.”

  Barnabas breathed a sigh. “Good night, Joseph, now go to bed.” He rose and touched his son’s shoulder, thankful that God gave him the opportunity to offer hope. “Let me carry the candle. It’s burning low.”

  They carefully walked to the foot of the bed the boys shared and the flame flickered until it extinguished. Joseph grabbed for his father.

  “Stay calm. There are more in the kitchen. Here now, son, let me tuck you in. Close your eyes and say your prayers.”

  He listened as Joseph began his prayers, then bumped his way to the front room. In the glow of the remaining embers he searched for the tallow candles. None. “Fudge! Is there no end? I cannot keep up with everything. Lord, why did You take her?” How many times would he ask that of God?

  Whimpers from the bedroom brought him out of his sorrow and to the task at hand. He stumbled back through the dark and tried to soothe his boy. “I am so sorry. Look, son, out the window. Do you see the starry night? We are not in the dark. Do not be afraid. I am here and God has given us all of those twinkling lights.”

  He sat by the bed until slumber came to Joseph and then wandered back to the hearth, sank into his chair, and stared at the empty one. The enormity of his loss enveloped him again and smothered the hope he’d shared with his son. Silent wails erupted within his chest, causing it to heave with each wretched gasp.

  He searched the depth of his soul. Was there anything he could have done to save her? Guilt engulfed him. Should he have been the caregiver when the boys first took ill? Why had he not called the doctor sooner? If he’d only known.