Exhausted, he leaned his head back. His hand dangled and a warm, fuzzy ball of fur soon rubbed against his fingers. He reached down and drew the small gray cat to his lap. “There, there, Miss Tilly, we will be all right.” She looked at him with curious blue eyes.
He stroked her as she gently kneaded his leg with the pads of her paws. With great effort he rose and held her close as he banked the fire, drawing ashes over the few remaining embers. He needed to rise early and start the fires once again.
“Let me put you to bed, little cat.” He tucked her between the sleeping boys, then tiptoed to his own bed. He paused and looked to the heavens. His voice was but a whisper. “Good night, Ann.” Crawling under the quilt, he sought solace in sleep, but his eyes would not stay shut. I cannot go on alone. Please, Lord, be with me.
Mary spread a thick layer of butter over her crusty bread and savored a bite.
Her father walked across the elegant winter parlor to the long, polished table. “You look happy today, my girl. Perhaps only that the green of your dress brings out the emerald of your eyes, but I daresay it’s been a long time since you looked this content. Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother? I always knew how she felt, just by her eyes.”
“Yes, Papa, a thousand times.” She grinned at him as she set her bread on the plate and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin she kept close by. “But you can tell me a thousand times more and I shan’t tire. Sometimes I fear I shall forget her.”
“Nay, only look in the silver looking glass she left you.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled back.
She brushed the crumbs from her skirt, then rose to fetch her hat. She looked at her new felt but chose the simple muslin coif. “I’m going to visit Lizzie, Papa. I shall be home for supper.” She stepped close to peck his cheek.
“Very well, my girl. I shall tell Cook. Tell Elizabeth I send my love and to honor us with a visit sometime.” He squeezed her hand.
Mary hurried down the lane but turned back to see Papa at the window, waving. She knew he would be. She gave a little wave and blew him a kiss.
Mostly she liked to linger on her walk to the village, but this morning she kept a brisk pace, with barely a glance at the fall color painting the landscape. Twenty minutes later she turned onto the main road into Mowsley.
To her left, the village smithy paused as she bustled by. “Good morrow to you, Miss Langton,”
“Why, good morrow to you.” She eyed the nails he tapered with his mallet on a broad anvil. “Four penny nails, Mister Long, or ten?”
He nodded approval. “They be the ten, Miss Langton.”
A minute later she was in front of the Fannings’ door. She tapped gently and Lizzie appeared, floured from head to toe. They embraced and the familiar scent of yeasty dough emanated from her sister.
“Mary, I didn’t expect you. Come in. London was such fun, was it not?”
“Really, Lizzie? I think not.”
“Cheer up and fetch a chair. I started my bread dough late last night. Usually, I’d have this to Mr. Horton by now, but of course it needs time and warmth.”
Mary watched as Lizzie punched the dough down and worked to shape the mass into fat mounds. Her sister crisscrossed the tops with a sharp knife. “Why do you do that?”
“If you cut a little slit across the dough, the yeast will give one last burst in the hot oven.”
“I know you have tried before, but would you teach me to cook? To embroider? I shall be miserable if Papa makes me marry Robert. Please, please, help me.” She begged with her eyes as much as her words.
“Why, little sister, of course I will. But do not think for a minute it shall change Father’s mind.” She placed the loaves in a basket and covered them with a cloth. “Now, would you like to come with me to the bakeshop? Perhaps Mr. Horton would give you a ginger cake like he did when you were a child.”
She smiled quickly at Lizzie. “Yes, by all means, I want to go. By the by, Lizzie, you failed to tell me Mr. Horton’s wife died. Is that not odd that you would not tell me?”
“Nay, not that odd. You were so crushed over Nathan you would not even leave your room. I went to her funeral, but Father did not. He stayed home to be close to you. We were both truly frightened for you. To add to your grief would be of no use. Nay, it was much better at the time not to tell you.” She handed her the basket. “Now, shall we go? I am late and Mr. Horton will be in a state of ill humor.”
The sisters walked arm in arm down the village green, passed the great elm, and turned to the shops. Mary dangled the basket from her arm.
The wind pushed through the bell-cote, raising a gentle peal, and caught their attention. The church, built in the shape of a cross and adorned with beautiful arched windows, was an ancient landmark in their tiny hamlet. The walls were made to endure for centuries with large pebbles and a limestone dressing.
They walked past the chandler and cobbler shops, admiring displays propped in open doorways to lure patrons in. The aroma of freshly baked bread drifted toward them. The bakeshop sat back from the road, just before the turn. Mary raised her nose and sniffed. “I smell ginger. Ginger cakes, do you think?”
“Mmm, yes. Would it not be lovely if I could bake in my own oven and fill the house with such a heavenly scent? ’Twould cover the stuffy smell of smoke.”
Mary filled her lungs with the mouth-watering aroma. Yes, she would love that too, but not with Robert. Oh no, it could not be with Robert.
Barnabas opened the oven door. The black ash had turned to white, but still he pushed his hand in to test the heat. Yes, it was hot enough. He wondered for a moment about Mistress Fanning. She was late this morning, but no matter—he had plenty of dough waiting to bake. He’d best get busy. The boys would be back from their outing with Goody Wentworth and then he’d have his hands full. He placed a fat loaf on the oven bottom. His thoughts drifted to Mistress Fanning’s sweet sister, Miss Mary Langton. She had been so good with Joseph and Benjamin.
He knew the stories of her broken engagement—the gossip the ladies liked to share when they came to his shop seemed endless—but no matter. He had deeper concerns to deal with. His Ann was gone. Now Joseph and Benjamin needed to come first. He’d certainly discovered he was lost taking care of himself, and even more lost taking care of his sons. Miss Langton obviously noticed that as well, and stepped right in.
Why did he keep returning to Miss Langton? He had realized the night before, as he lay in his bed ready to give up, he needed to do something or he simply could not, would not go on. Thomas told him the solution was to marry again. Easy for his brother to say, though, with his own sweet-natured wife and darling little girl. Still, Miss Langton . . .
What would Ann think? He knew she would want him to do the right thing for their sons. She would always be the love of his life. He could never love again. Still, Miss Langton had been on his mind almost every moment since they met at the shop and could only be suppressed when he thought of Ann. Of course, the reverse was true. Ann was ever on his mind, unless he was thinking of Miss Mary Langton. What confusion.
The aroma from the oven reminded him how long he had been lost in reverie. He opened the oven door and hot air flushed his face. Carefully, he lifted the browned loaf with his long-handled peel. He gently set it on the table and stepped back to admire his work. As he took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrance of the loaf, the door swooshed open. He looked up and felt his cheeks flush anew. Before him was the object of his thoughts.
Miss Langton looked so pretty in her silk gown, her eyes greener than he remembered. Her white muslin cap did nothing to contain her auburn curls. He watched her walk toward him and as they came face-to-face, neither spoke.
Mistress Fanning took the basket from her sister and held it toward Barnabas. “Mr. Horton, I am sorry to be late today. You remember my sister, of course?”
Miss Langton did a slight curtsey. “’Tis so nice to see you again, Mr. Horton. How are Joseph and Benjamin?”
“It is my pleasure to meet you once again. The boys do well. They are with Goody Wentworth today.”
She stepped toward him, so close she seemed. “Her boys must enjoy playing with Joseph and Benjamin. How nice of her to watch them for you.”
“Thank you.” Why had he said thank you? She must think him a dolt. “Miss Langton, would you like a ginger cake?”
A blush crept across her cheeks as she nodded.
Mistress Fanning smiled. “’Tis warm in your kitchen, Mr. Horton.”
He turned to her and bowed. “Forgive me. My manners have been appalling of late. Aye, the fire keeps it very warm in here, but I am used to it. The rest of the rooms stay quite pleasant. May I offer you a sip of refreshment?”
“Oh, no thank you. We have sipped quite enough while we labored over this dough.” She regarded her sister.
“Oh no, Lizzie, truly I barely touched mine. I feel a bit parched.”
Lizzie graciously accepted and Mary noted his pleasure at having their company. He poured three small glasses at the great table, set a platter of thin, crisp ginger cakes down, and invited the ladies to sit.
Mary looked about the kitchen, her eyes growing wider. “I have never seen a kitchen such as this, Mr. Horton. Did you build this yourself?”
“Aye. Ann’s father was a baker in London. He had a fine kitchen, a fine oven. When I was betrothed to Ann, I decided to apprentice with him and learn the trade. My own father had been a bit annoyed with me. I stood to inherit a large amount of land and the mill, but we had a bit of a falling out when I married. Not because I married Ann, but because Ann and I shared strong feelings about the church.
“Ah, but that is more than you asked, I am sure. Suffice it to say, after Joseph and Benjamin were born, we repaired our differences. But I do love baking—mixing the flour together with barm and water and watching it rise into a beautiful manchet. Or adding sugar and spices to make a tasty cake. Do you see the large fireplace? I can manage three fires all at once.” His smile told her he sensed her awe, and she looked away quickly lest he laugh.
She looked at the red brick and various pots, kettles, and red ware. “What a fine meal that could be prepared with a hearth such as this. Do you cook your dinner here as well?”
“Aye, indeed. Some of my customers bring me a fat goose or turkey to roast, but I have plenty of room and can always manage a pot here or there for our own meals.” He studied her for a moment. “Do you cook, then?”
A warmth blossomed on her cheeks. She chose her words carefully. “Papa has a cook, and she is very possessive of her kitchen. Indeed, she is miffed that Lizzie does all of our bread. But Papa wouldn’t have it any other way. To answer your question, I do not have much opportunity.”
Lizzie smiled. “When I was growing up Mother insisted Cook allow us in the kitchen. Mother wanted us to be accomplished in the womanly arts, all of them. Cook was very territorial in her kitchen, so when Mother died ’tis not surprising Mary’s lessons did too.” She reached out and patted Mary’s hand. “You were still so young and I was married. I wanted to take you in, to teach you as Mother would have, but Father needed you.” Her violet eyes puddled.
Mary squeezed her sister’s hand as her throat tightened. A small fluff of soft gray fur rubbed against her skirt. Grateful to change the subject, she lifted the dainty cat to her lap. “Ah, and who is this little miss?”
“Tilly. Every baker needs a Miss Tilly.” His smile was as warm as the room. He turned to her sister. “Mistress Fanning, would you like to take some ginger cakes to your children?” He stood up to find a sack to put them in.
“Why yes, they would like that very much. Ruth asked about them today.”
“I will give you a dozen.” He counted out twelve, then looked at Mary again and grinned as he added one more. “We shall make that a baker’s dozen.” He sent them on their way, insisting they were a gift, no payment necessary.
3
As the two sisters walked toward home, Lizzie was the first to break the silence. “Mr. Horton surprised me, to say the least.”
“Why so?”
“He has been so somber, so much in grief. I wondered if he would ever recover. I have not heard him speak two words to anybody since his wife died. But look, I thought we would have to beg for a ginger cake and he gave us a sackful.”
“I am so glad he feels better, then. I meant to give him my condolences, but truly, I did not want to see the sadness in his eyes.”
“I think that best. At this juncture, if he may be happy for a moment or two, ’tis a good thing for him.” She glanced quickly at Mary and looked away. “I have worried that you could never find a suitor in Mowsley, and look at you! You managed to catch the eye of the most eligible man here. I think most people assumed Mr. Horton might not be looking so quickly.”
Mary darted a glance at her sister, her face warm. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Do not tell me you did not notice he could not take his eyes off of you.”
“Nay, sister, I did not notice. Truly.”
“If that be so, ’tis only because you could not take your eyes off of his kitchen.” A giggle escaped. “To be sure, he noticed you, little sister.”
Mary’s heart did a timid flutter. Could that be true? Would it be possible that Mr. Horton might fall in love with her? Might want her in marriage? But what if he knew she was completely inept? “I am sure you read too much into that, Lizzie.”
“Nay, and something tells me you are attracted to him. Remember, Father expects you to do as he bids. Do not get any silly ideas in your head, little sister. Besides, it would not work.”
“What, Lizzie? What would not work?”
“You marrying the baker.” She grabbed her sister’s hand. “Now, I do not mean that in an unkind way.”
“I know what you mean. His wife was perfect, you told me that.”
“’Tis more than that, little sister. You heard what he said about Ann and their beliefs. He meant they are reformers. Father would have a fit. Besides, you want love, do you not?”
Mary continued in silence. Better not to say anything about the tug in her heart. Was it love? Could love cast its arrow and hit your heart that quickly? It certainly felt like that was so.
She knew there were those who wanted to reform the church. They didn’t really want to leave the church, just get rid of all that pomp. Still, it was a dangerous point of view, and Lizzie might be right. Papa would have a fit.
But the bigger question was, could she perfect the womanly arts? That was an obstacle not so easily overcome. But she must strive for it, for she would not marry Robert. That was all there was to it.
They walked up the path to Lizzie’s door, pink cottage roses crowding about on each side, fragrant with perfume. Ruth ran to relieve her mother of the delectable sack and Rachel jumped into her auntie’s arms. Mary squeezed her and covered her cheek with kisses.
As she said her goodbyes, with promises of returning on the morrow, Zeke, with Josh close behind, returned from chopping wood.
She gave her brother-in-law a quick hug and her nephew a shower of kisses. “My, you smell of moss. I can tell you have been out tramping about in the woods.” She laughed as her nephew wiped the kisses away.
She bid them all goodbye and followed the lane back home toward Saddington, admiring the bold orange and gold leaves of the magnificent oaks. Lizzie kept a perfect home. And Zeke and the children surrounded her with love and adoration. That made Lizzie the perfect teacher, did it not? Lizzie’s comment about Mr. Horton popped into mind. She would work very hard. If her sister and Ann could be so capable, she would apply herself until she was too.
Lizzie was generous with her time and suggested the lessons begin with stitch work. Mary moped as they laid out a length of linen and cut out the rectangles and squares that would become a smock for Rachel.
She listened as her sister instructed her to choose a fine needle and equally fine linen thread, but her mind was on Mr. Horton. She tried to
keep her promise and center herself on the task. At last Lizzie suggested that in addition to sewing lessons, Mary might benefit from accompanying her to the bakeshop.
With that, Mary’s enthusiasm for all things domestic flourished. Daily the children delighted in their aunt’s attention and sampled the goodies that she and their mother brought from the bakeshop, courtesy of Mr. Horton. Rachel romped about in her new smock as Mary worked on a new one for Ruth.
With each day that passed, she came to know more of Mr. Horton and his sons. Lizzie was right. He did seem to regard her in a special way. She thought of him at odd times of the day. His high forehead and prominent cheekbones, set off by a ruddy complexion, were attractive, and his beard rather dashing. She knew she had fallen in love with him, but could he feel the same? Perhaps it did not matter. He needed a mother for those boys, and she needed to escape the impending engagement Papa planned to Robert.
As they walked home one day, arms full with breads of different grains and a sack of ginger cakes, she finally admitted her passion to Lizzie. “I find myself thinking about his eyes. Have you noticed they are green, like moss? And it seems when I look into them, they are a very window to his soul. I think he is a kind, honorable man.”
“Mary, listen to you. You speak like you are falling in love. Can that be so?”
She felt warm blood flood her cheeks. “I do feel enflamed with love, Lizzie, but I know he is in love with his wife. He shan’t love again. He needs a mother for his children. But still, I need a family. Sometimes I find myself sitting in the garden and dreaming about Mr. Horton and what it would be like to be married to him. I think it could be very good for me.”
They approached the door and it swung open. Zeke offered to take their baskets.
“I’ve warned you what Father will do if you persist in this, but I know you too well. You are strong-minded, just like him. My best advice is to give Mr. Horton time to heal. Mother would tell you that too. He’s like dough. It looks sturdy, and yes, it can take much pummeling. But it needs time and warmth. Give him time and warmth.”
A Place in His Heart Page 3