by Delia Parr
Shaken, she moistened her lips. She snatched the closest bottle of honey wine and shut the pantry door. When she turned around, she gasped and clapped both hands to her chest. The bottle of wine crashed to the floor. Splinters of dark green glass flew hither and yon. Amber wine puddled at her feet—which was just about where her heart had fallen—and stained the hem of her cape.
She blinked several times, but the startling apparition remained, standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. Her mind toyed with what her eyes beheld. Common sense rejected one explanation after another. Until the ghost held up both hands.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice was familiar, but age had bowed the man’s frame, claimed nearly all of his hair, and whitened the scraggly beard he still wore. Spectacles did not shutter the dark blue eyes behind them, but age had dulled their luster. Dressed in a flannel shirt and denim overalls, he looked like he had just come in from working at his hives.
It may have been thirty years, but Martha still recognized this man and realized she was looking straight into the face of another miracle.
She let out a sigh of relief and struggled to find her voice. “Welcome home, Mr. Seymour.”
He smiled and rubbed the top of his left arm. “Is that you, Rena? Rena Fleming? I thought for sure you’d passed on before I left.”
Martha returned his smile. “She did. I’m Martha. Rena’s daughter.”
“Little Martha? Landsakes, you’re the spittin’ image of your mama. Sorry, gal. Didn’t mean to frighten the freckles off your face.” He shivered. “I got here right before dawn, waitin’ to surprise my Hilda. Didn’t even want to start a fire. It’d ruin the surprise. I’ve been samplin’ some of her honey wine to keep warm. Still the best I ever tasted. I can’t believe she’s still keepin’ the hives. Thought you mighta been her. Didn’t hear ya come in. Just heard somebody rattlin’ about in the kitchen.”
“I . . . called out when I came in. I just stopped to check on the cottage and to get a bottle of honey wine for a friend,” she said, trying to explain her presence here when Aunt Hilda was not at home.
“I don’t expect Aunt Hilda to be back for a couple of weeks,” she informed him. “She’s at the Goodman farm helping Miriam with her fine new baby boy. You might remember Sean, her husband. He was Frederick Goodman’s youngest boy.”
He nodded, but his smile had drooped into a frown. “I do. But a couple weeks? I don’t think I’d survive waitin’ that long. Not without a fire, and I don’t want her findin’ out I was back from anyone but me.” He paused, and his expression filled with anxiety. “You wouldn’t know . . . I mean, I wouldn’t blame Hilda if she’d had a headstone put up with my name on it so she could stop every Sunday after meeting to yell at me for leavin’ her here alone for so long . . . anyway, if you’ve got any notion how she’ll react when she sees me, I’d be beholden—”
“She’ll be thrilled. Utterly thrilled,” Martha assured him. “She never once doubted you’d come home to Trinity.”
He straightened his shoulders. His gaze became wistful. “I surely wish I could take back all those years and live them over with Hilda, but I can’t. I’d settle for spendin’ the few years I have left with her, though. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could get her home sooner than a couple weeks?”
She chuckled. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Don’t spoil my surprise though. Just in case . . .”
She cocked a brow.
He swallowed a lump in his throat that was large enough to make his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Just in case she decides not to let me stay.”
His gaze grew troubled, but she did not encourage him to explain further. Any and all explanations he had about where he had been and why he had been gone for so long belonged to Aunt Hilda, and Martha prayed her aunt-by-affection would be able to forgive whatever transgressions her husband thought might be reason for her to send him away.
Martha pointed to the mess on the floor. “I’ll have to clean this up first and get another bottle of honey wine, then I’ll see what I can do about securing a replacement for Aunt Hilda. Actually, I have several people in mind, but I have another errand to tend to first. It’ll be a few hours, I’m afraid, before Aunt Hilda could come home.”
His frown immediately disappeared. “After thirty years, a few hours is like the blinkin’ of an eye.”
She started picking up the broken shards of glass. He got a broom to help and asked one question after another, catching up on the thirty years of progress he had missed in Trinity. She had no trouble supplying any of the information, except when he asked about the four children he and Hilda had had together.
None were still living, and when she finally left him alone in the cottage, she almost wished she believed in ghosts, if only to have four of them come to comfort the man who had been their father. Perhaps their spirits could get a temporary pass from eternity to do that, an image that better matched her faith.
As she made her way to secure a replacement for Aunt Hilda, a sudden burst of inspiration lightened her steps. She had not drawn any connection between some of the events of the past few months, but recounting them to Richard Seymour had given her a new perspective—one that restored hope for the future.
With Victoria running away, returning, and now planning to leave Trinity again and Thomas’s departure only this morning, a sense of loss and confusion had swirled around Martha like a gray mist, preventing her from seeing things clearly, preventing her from believing they would both return one day.
But Burton Andrews had come home, even though most folks had wagered against it. And now Richard Seymour had come home, once again proving folks wrong. If these two men could come back to Trinity, then Victoria and Thomas surely would.
Her heart filled with gratitude. Perhaps the greatest blessing this day had been saved for her.
On her very first call, Martha had found a replacement for Aunt Hilda. Lucy Palmer, the oldest of five children, was inexperienced, but she showed great promise. Even though Lucy had never served as an afternurse before, she was steady and reliable, with enough good common sense to know if Martha should be fetched. Since Miriam Goodman had already borne three children without complication, Martha was quite satisfied Lucy could handle the role.
Riding double on Grace, they arrived at the Goodman farm by midafternoon. While Lucy made herself useful by watching the other children, Martha went to the bedchamber to check on Miriam and her newborn son. She found them in bed, with young Robert nursing at his mother’s breast. Aunt Hilda sat knitting by the window.
“You’re all looking well,” Martha offered.
Miriam’s eyes widened. “Martha! I didn’t expect you back.”
Aunt Hilda set her knitting aside and rose to meet her. “What brings you all this way?”
Martha swallowed hard. Lying, even for a good purpose, did not come easily. “Good news. Victoria is home! She’s healthy and happy and very anxious to see you, which is why I’m here.”
Aunt Hilda cocked her head. “I’d love to see her, too, but I’ll be here with Miriam for another week or two—”
“Actually, I brought Lucy Palmer with me. She’s offered to stay with Miriam so you can come home. The girl’s so anxious to prove herself, I thought this might be a good opportunity for her.” She glanced at Miriam. “Assuming you’d agree, of course. If you’d rather, I’m sure Lucy wouldn’t mind if it was only for a day or two, just so Aunt Hilda and Victoria can get reacquainted.”
Cuddling her son, Miriam smiled. “Let Lucy stay for a week or so. Unless Mrs. Seymour would rather not—”
“Let the girl stay. I don’t want to discourage her, especially since she seems so interested.”
Twenty minutes later, reassured that Miriam was indeed recovering well, Martha left her patient and went into the parlor, where she found Miriam’s husband, Sean, and Aunt Hilda engaged in a war of words.
At
first glance, the battle appeared to be a huge mismatch. Sean Goodman topped six feet and had thick muscles on his sturdy frame. Aunt Hilda was a full foot shorter, yet with her hair wrapped in a braided white crown atop her head, she looked positively regal. As the undisputed town matriarch, she could intimidate anyone, especially when an occasion called for it.
Like right now.
Aunt Hilda put hands to hips and glared up at him. “Lucy rode out here with Martha, and there’s no good reason why I can’t ride home with her. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
He puffed out his chest. “There’s no way I’m going to let a woman of your age ride double on horseback. I’m hitching up the wagon and taking you home.”
“Balderdash! I didn’t help Sarah Poore bring you into this world over forty years ago to have you order me about.” She poked his chest and he took a step back. “I shouldn’t have to remind you to show your elders a little respect. I have a good mind to stop in to see your mama on the way home and tell her what a self-righteous bully you’ve become.”
He looked over to Martha, his gaze pleading for help.
She shook her head and held up her hands, reluctant to intervene on his behalf when she agreed with Aunt Hilda.
He let out a deep sigh. “Suit yourself. Ride home with Widow Cade. Just don’t blame me if you fall off.”
Aunt Hilda turned to face Martha wearing a triumphant smile. “I’m all set to go. Lucy already took my bag out and strapped it to Grace.”
Moments later, Martha knew better than to argue when Aunt Hilda refused to ride sidesaddle in front of her. She set off for town with Aunt Hilda seated behind her. While they rode, Martha answered all of Aunt Hilda’s questions about Victoria and discussed the girl’s plans to return to New York City. They were just outside of town when Aunt Hilda squeezed Martha’s waist. “Slow down for a moment. I’ve got to shift again. I don’t want anyone to see me half falling off this horse.”
Martha caught a smile and tugged Grace to a halt.
Panting, Aunt Hilda nudged herself around a bit, and Martha felt her nearly totter off as she tried to rearrange her cape and skirts. “Mercy, this is a big horse! I feel like last fall’s turkey wishbone ready to be split in half. My ankles are frozen solid, which means I’ll be hobbling around like an old woman for days. I don’t know how you do it,” she grumbled.
“I told you to ride sidesaddle in front of me,” Martha gently reminded her. “I do perfectly fine with Grace, especially since I wear split skirts.”
“Harrumph! Get along. We haven’t far to go now. And if you mention one word of my grumbling and whining to anyone, especially Sean Goodman, I’ll never make you another cherry pie for the rest of your life, Miss I-love-my-sweets.”
Martha chuckled and clicked the reins. For all her good qualities, Aunt Hilda made terrible desserts, but Martha would never hurt her feelings and tell her. Besides, how bad could anything really taste when it was topped with gobs of honey? “I won’t breathe a word,” she promised.
Aunt Hilda leaned forward and laid her head against Martha’s back. “I know you wouldn’t. That’s one of the reasons I love you like my own. You’re a good woman. You haven’t had it easy, have you? I know it’s been hard for you with Victoria, but I’m so proud of you. You’re making the right decision, Martha. A hard one, but right,” she murmured.
Martha’s heart swelled. She had valued Thomas’s opinion, but it was Aunt Hilda’s approval that meant even more.
“Now, you bring that girl over and let me have a good talk with her. That Mrs. Morgan, too. It won’t hurt to let them both know you’re not alone being concerned.”
“I will. Sometime tomorrow. After you’ve had a chance to . . . to thaw out and get a good night’s sleep in your own bed,” Martha suggested as they approached Aunt Hilda’s cottage. She pulled up, turned in her seat, and helped Aunt Hilda to get down. She held on to the elderly woman until she was steady on her feet before dismounting herself.
“Come inside. We’ll get a good fire going—”
“I have an errand I have to tend to, but I’ll be back with Victoria tomorrow,” Martha promised, determined that the reunion between Aunt Hilda and her husband would be conducted in private, even if Martha had to stretch the truth a little to make that happen.
She waited until Aunt Hilda had entered the cottage and closed the door before taking Grace back to her stall and feeding her an extra portion of oats for being so good about carrying extra weight today. She proceeded directly to Samuel’s cabin on foot, carrying her gifts with her in a basket.
With a little luck, she would be back home just in time for supper, and she looked forward to spending a quiet evening at home with Victoria. Lord knew there were precious few of those left to her.
Martha tried knocking on Samuel’s cabin door a third time and paid extra attention to the signal knock she used to let Samuel know who was at the door.
Still no answer.
She glanced at the windows on either side of the door, but didn’t bother with them. The shutters were latched closed. She muttered under her breath. She had slipped on ice and fallen twice, landing on her bottom in thick banks of snow. She had dropped her basket both times. How the bottle of honey wine had survived intact was a mystery, but Will’s socks looked like four sorry snowballs. The cinnamon rolls were smashed and looked fit for hogs.
She could barely feel her toes. Her fingers were practically numb. Drat!
Both impatient and irritable, she pursed her lips, formed a fist, banged hard, and then again. “Samuel? Will? I know you’re in there! Let me in, or . . . I’m going to get the sheriff and have him break down the door.”
No response.
She kicked the door, letting out a shrill scream as pain shot from her toes to her knee and back again. She looked down at her foot to make sure she had not actually kicked her toes right off. “Temper! When are you going to learn to control your temper?” she grumbled.
She closed her eyes and waited for her foot to stop throbbing before making one last attempt to see the troublesome pair inside. Surely they had to be here. Where could Samuel go now? He was blind, and Will would not have any reason to set out by himself.
She knocked the signal one last time.
Silence.
She had no other recourse but to leave. She was simply too cold to wait them both out, but she was also confused. They had never refused to see her before, which did not bode well for her plans. There was simply no way Samuel and Will could stay here now, and refusing to see her would not prevent the inevitable.
“They must know that,” she murmured. She set the basket down in front of the door.
Samuel was too old and stubborn and Will was too young and ornery to admit it. That’s all. The bond between the crusty recluse and the streetwise orphan was as amazing as it was strong, and Martha had no one to blame but herself for pairing the two. She had given divine inspiration all the credit at the time, but nothing short of divine intervention would be able to resolve the crisis that would now force the two apart.
Resigned the battle would have to be postponed for another day, she turned to leave. Straight ahead, emerging from the woods, the life images of stubborn and ornery appeared. Relief flooded through her veins. A smile tickled the corner of her lips.
As they drew closer, however, she realized they had carried trouble home with them.
12
Unfortunately, trouble often came in pairs, but Providence could not have picked a better time to guide both Samuel and Will back home.
Martha glanced at both of them, turned sideways, and pointed to the cabin. “Don’t stop to explain. Just get inside. Both of you,” she ordered.
She could not tell which one looked worse. Both were a ghastly shade of blue with their cheeks stained crimson. Their clothes were frozen stiff. She did not dare go ahead of them for fear they might fall and she would not be able to drag either one of them very far.
Will tugged on Samuel
’s hand. “C-come on. C-coupla more steps. C-cabin’s just ahead. Hold ’er steady on c-course,” he barked, with all the authority of a ship’s captain triple his own size and age.
“Y-you g-got no b-b-business here,” Samuel bellowed to Martha.
She forgave his rude welcome. She even managed to ignore it, followed them inside the cabin, and set her basket to the side. “Don’t get comfortable, Samuel. You, either, young man,” she warned as Will steered them toward the chairs in front of the Franklin stove in the middle of the room. She removed her cape and gloves and set them aside.
“D-don’t go m-meddlin’, w-woman,” Samuel countered. His teeth were chattering so hard she half expected to see them crack and drop out of his mouth like yellow kernels of corn. He bristled with indignation.
She glared at him, and she felt better, even though she knew he could not see her expression. But Will could, and he squared his thin shoulders. “W-we d-don’t n-need no help.”
“I can see that. You’re both the picture of health and good sense.” She shut and bolted the door behind her. “I’ll be sure to tell folks that when they’re staring at your corpses wondering how on earth a grown man and a boy could both be so half-witted as to go swimming in the pond at this time of year.”
Her flippant guess hit closer to the truth than she might have expected.
“We d-didn’t go s-swimmin’ on purpose,” Will snapped. “We was . . . we was ice fishin’, and the d-dumb ice just c-cracked open. D-dumped us both in. G-good thing we was c-close to shore.”
“You’re lucky you both didn’t drown,” Martha snapped, too shocked by what had happened to say much more. Only last fall, both Will and Thomas had wound up in that same pond after he tried to rescue the boy from an ill-fated attempt to build a raft upstream, only to have the raft break apart when he guided it over the falls. She just might have to fence the pond off to protect Will from himself, then realized he would just scale the fence anyway, the stubborn scamp. “Now strip, both of you, down to the skin while I find some blankets.”