A Heart Set Free

by Janet S. Grunst

  Mary’s lips were tightly closed. She shook her head. “You made the chickens nervous. They can tell when you are scared of them.” The child’s self-satisfied remark and sneer tried her patience.

  “Let me put the eggs inside, and we can go to the pond.”

  The pond was indeed lovely, and the children’s laughter cheered her. As soon as they started scattering pieces of bread, ducks and geese came from the water and under low-lying shrubs along the bank, where they had either been sleeping or nesting.

  “I will sit up here on the bank while you feed them.” She sat below a large tree. “I have had enough pecking and feathers for one day.”

  When they headed back to the cottage, she gathered the dry laundry from where it was draped on the boxwood and put it into a basket. No matter where one lived, one would never be free from chores.

  Later, as Heather folded the clean clothes by the hearth, she thought back ten years to when she was but a girl of eighteen. That day, her resentment had gotten the better of her. She had spent the morning cleaning the house. It was Eileen’s chore, but she was nowhere to be found. Eileen was never around when there were chores to do. When her father chastised Heather for not helping in the shop, she had barked at him and left the house, slamming the door.

  She ran to a slope overlooking the Firth of Tay. This spot, high on a bank that overlooked the estuary, was her haven when the pressure became unbearable. Her mother had understood her children’s differing natures, yet she had extracted from Heather a promise and laid on her duties that sometimes seemed like a prison sentence.

  She was responsible for overseeing the house, caring for her father, and maintaining some control over Eileen. Now she was also being called on to help in the shop. There was no end to her obligations. It was not fair. Ross was free. He had taken off to sea that month. He had walked away from the shop and the family, with Father’s blessing. What would she do if she were free? As she gazed at the steady waves, her irritation subsided. As always, when the anger departed, the guilt intensified. She should be back at the shop, figuring the inventory, or upstairs, taking care of the house or preparing dinner.

  There were fences to mend after losing her temper with Father. Remorse filled her as she rolled over onto her back and gazed at the cloudy sky. She must go home to make amends with Father and speak with Eileen about being more reliable. Eileen was twelve now and should very well take over some of the duties.

  She must not put off going home and preparing the mutton and barley stew any longer. Those folks were always hungry and ready to eat.

  Her reminiscences were interrupted by a masculine voice. “Is dinner ready?”

  Heather looked up. The sight of Matthew Stewart brought her back to the present.

  She stood and faced him. “Nay, sir. I was folding clothes and I, ah ... was daydreaming. I will ... the dinner will be on the table in a quarter hour.” Was the flush on her face noticeable?

  He stood there for a moment, eyeing her from head to foot. “Fine. The children are out front. We will wash and be back in a few minutes.” A smile slowly formed on his face before he walked out the door.

  Why did his gaze make her heart race?

  CHAPTER 7

  Heather quickly set about putting something together for dinner. She sliced some ham and bread while she listened to the children questioning their father about friends they had not seen in awhile. Once seated, Mr. Stewart prayed before they started eating. She glanced up from her plate and noticed the man studying her like a hawk eyeing a chick. Was it because she had forgotten to prepare dinner? The children, immersed in their own conversation, did not appear to have noticed. When the meal was over, she rose and cleared the dishes. Another brief glance his way caught his eye, and his gaze held hers too long. The heat rose from her neck to her face before she turned away.

  “I see you found the tub.”

  “Aye, sir, clean at last. Thank you again for the soap.”

  Mark giggled. “You smell better, Heather.”

  The youngster’s coy remark made her laugh. “I daresay, lad.”

  She glanced at Mr. Stewart. His lips were pressed tight together as if trying to stifle a laugh.

  When Mr. Stewart returned to the field, she suggested to the children that they go for a walk. Mark was delighted to be out in the warm sunshine. Mary, however, seemed hesitant.

  “Would you show me around, Mary? I have never lived on a farm before.”

  Mary glared as she picked up her bonnet and led them out the door.

  The first place they surveyed was the barn. But, as it was a warm day, the foul smell and flies drove them out quite quickly. Continuing along the path from the cottage, Heather spotted their father working in the field to their right. He had the field more than half plowed, and as he guided the plow behind Honey, shirtless, she noticed he was a fine-looking man. He was a bit thin, but she would work on that. As Mary led them on, there was a small gully to their left that ran along the path, a natural barrier to the field and wooded area beyond. Cattle grazed on the grassy slope. Pines towered over trees now coming into leaf or blossom. It was not unpleasant here in the Virginia countryside.

  Her thoughts turned to Mary. How might she engage the girl? “Mary, what sorts of things do you like to do?”

  Silence. The girl seemed intent on the trail that stretched before them.

  “I will need your help, Mary. I am unfamiliar with country living. In Scotland, I lived in town.”

  Mark pulled at her skirt. “Do you have any children?”

  Startled by Mark’s question, she sat on a nearby rock and seated Mark next to her. “Nay. Though I did help to raise a child.”

  A glance at Mary confirmed the girl’s interest was piqued. Heather would open the door to her past, but only a bit.

  “I was a wee lass when my mother died, and I had a sister who was about your age, Mary.” She had caught the girl’s attention, so she continued her story. “Her name was Eileen, and she was a bonny lass like you.”

  The girl sat on another rock and furrowed her brows.

  “I understand how difficult it is to lose the mother you love.”

  The children seemed to digest what she was saying.

  Mary’s eyes widened. “Did your father marry again?”

  “Nay. He did not marry again, but I believe I would have been pleased if he had taken a wife. I would have had someone to share the work with, and he would not have been so lonely.”

  “What happened to Eileen?” Mary’s inquiry was encouraging.

  “She married when she was still quite young.”

  Mary moved to a closer rock. “Why did you not marry?”

  “My father took ill, so I remained at home to care for him.” She cleared her throat. No need to address this particular matter with the children. “Now, I think it is time we returned to the house. I still have chores to do.”

  These children had suffered tragedy much as she had experienced. Perhaps God did have a purpose in her being here—to help them heal. She needed to be patient, more so than she had been with Eileen.

  The children waved to their father and raced back toward the cottage. Following at a distance, she reveled again in all the beauty around her. There was an appealingly fresh smell to the air despite the warmth—such an improvement from the sweltering, stale, odiferous confines of the ship. At least she had survived that miserable experience.

  Lord, may I never forget what it was like to do without, to live in fear. May I appreciate every day of relative peace You give me. She bent over to pick a weed with a blossom not unlike the thistles of her native land. Why must people experience the devastation and terror life holds before they genuinely appreciate its blessings?

  The remainder of the afternoon flew by quickly. The children played quietly in front of the cottage. She found a sewing basket, and she brought the family’s mending, as well as her own, to the porch so she might watch the young ones. Her eyes on occasion wandered to where the children�
��s father was planting—so much work for one man to do alone. How lonely it must have been for him out here all those months without his family. No wonder he was desperate enough to buy a wife so he could regain his children.

  “Mary.” She got up. “It is time to go in and start supper. Would you help me, please?”

  The little girl stared at her awhile as if assessing her options. With some hesitation, she got up and followed her inside.

  Heather prepared a pastry filled with meat, onions, and the pickled vegetables Maggie had sent. What was left of Maggie’s bread had been eaten earlier. She would make more after the dishes were cleared away.

  Working in a kitchen again satisfied her after being gone from one so long. With patience and effort, she might get used to this new life. Perhaps, in time, she would reconcile herself to the loss of her family, and even find the peace she sought. But she would have to be careful to not allow her daydreams to interfere with her work again.

  After supper, Heather settled into a chair in front of the hearth. The day’s chores were behind her, and Mary and Mark were finally in bed. Refreshing breezes changed the warm day to a cool but pleasant evening. At last, she would have a chance to relax and reflect on the first full day in her new home.

  Matthew Stewart opened the door and came inside. She stiffened and moved her feet off the footstool to the floor. Perhaps he would go out again. When he reached the hearth, he took his pipe and tobacco down from the mantle. Her hopes were dashed. It was evident he was there to stay.

  The flickering light from the lanterns highlighted the profile of his face, now focused on a painting over the mantle. “Strange, to share this home again after so long.” His arm leaned against the mantle. He stood silently.

  She wanted to escape to the solitude the bedroom promised, but he might think her rude since he had only now returned to the cottage. Nay, I had best stay for a short time, perhaps even offer him back his room and suggest that I would prefer the loft. Then again, this might not be the best time to address that subject.

  The only sound was of an owl nearby.

  Still, she felt she should say something to fill the void. But what?

  More silence.

  She shifted her gaze between him and other objects in the room. “I hope you do not mind my taking the wee ones down to the pond today. They wanted to go. I insisted that I be with them, although I believe Mary would have preferred that I not go along.”

  His focus drifted from the painting to her now, yet his mind seemed elsewhere.

  She shifted in the chair. “I am sorry I was late having your meal ready.”

  Silence.

  Perhaps he had not heard her. She leaned forward. “Mr. Stewart?”

  He sat down in the chair next to hers, his expression confusing. He briefly rubbed his hands together before leaning back. “You were wise to go down to the pond with them. Not long after the children’s mother died, Mark fell in that pond, and we nearly lost him, too.” His voice cracked with emotion. “The accident made me realize I dare not try to care for the children while managing the farm. They were too young and needed constant watching. Maggie and Adam very generously offered to help with them. As difficult as it was to give them up for a time, I feared what would happen if they stayed here without someone to see to their needs.”

  His candor touched her. “It must have been so painful to part with your wee ones, and so soon after losing your wife.”

  “Maggie and Adam offered them more than I was able to.” His earlier reserve returned and his vulnerability, exposed like a fleeting breeze, was once again hidden. “I am thankful to have them home. Having you here makes that possible.” His eyes fixed on hers.

  She sat very still, watching his eyes take in all of her. The fire’s low light added to the intimacy of the room and keeping her mind on the conversation took considerable effort. Heat rose to her face. Could she excuse herself without his taking offense? “Anyone can see you care deeply for your children, Mr. Stewart. I am sure you are meant to be together.” She arose. “And, now, I will be—”

  “Heather, I have been reluctant to question you about your background, but I find it odd a woman of your apparent breeding chose to indenture herself.” His scrutiny arrested her and demanded a response.

  She kept silent.

  “I would have guessed you to be a tradesman’s or merchant’s wife, possibly a landholder’s. But never a bondservant.”

  She turned, not wanting to gaze into those dark, probing eyes. This conversation needed to end now.

  “Why did you choose to leave your homeland?”

  She turned her head and forced her eyes to meet his. “I desired to come to the Colonies, Mr. Stewart, so I indentured. I am a bondservant—nothing more. And now, may I be excused? I am still very tired.” Not waiting for his reply, she retreated to the safety of the bedroom and closed the door.

  Once inside, she began to shake. She paced back and forth in the room. The door to the past was closed, and she certainly did not want him or anyone else knocking on it.

  A few minutes later, she sat on the edge of the bed, unfastening her hair. Would she ever be at peace living in this house with him, or less ill at ease in his presence? Her fingers unwound her hair with practiced precision. Hopefully, once routines were established and they were more comfortable around each other, perhaps the silences would seem less awkward, and the tension would dissipate. The man has spent too much time alone in this place.

  She combed her hair with ferocity. My past is none of his business. The fragrance of the violet soap still lingered. His expression when he gave her the soap came to mind, and she softened. He was not really a bad sort. He obviously loved his children, and he had been generous to her. Was it his voiced observations of her that had made her bristle? She would need to be more on her guard and keep her distance.

  She heard him in the other room as she removed her dress and shoes. She could not make out what he was doing from the muffled sounds. Soon, he would go out to see to the animals before returning for the night. When the door closed, she padded to the window and pulled back the curtain a couple of inches. Between the moonlight and the lantern he carried, she could observe his comings and goings. Matthew Stewart was a handsome chap. And he certainly seemed a likable one, no denying that. When he looked at her, she knew he genuinely wanted to know what was on her mind and in her heart. He was serious, yet he could also see the humor in situations. Oh, Heather. Do not be so quick to trust him. People are not always what they seem.

  She saw him leave the barn and head toward the house, so she darted for the bed. Have I sunk to spying on the man? Her job was caring for his children, not snooping on his whereabouts and activities. So why did he continually creep into her mind?

  As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts were no longer on Matthew Stewart. It was questions about his wife that raced through her mind and piqued her interest. What had Elizabeth been like? Did Mary resemble her in any way? Would Elizabeth approve of her being here, caring for her family and sleeping in her bed?

  CHAPTER 8

  Heather walked through the garden, pulling weeds, pruning, and assessing what work was still required to make the overgrown kitchen garden useful again. For now, it needed water. She surveyed the area, but the children were not in view.

  “Mary, Mark, where are you? I need your help to water the garden.” Where had they gone? She walked around to the front of the cottage, peering in every direction. How was she to watch over them and accomplish the many tasks demanded on a farm? She spotted the boy coming around the side of the barn. “There you are. Where is your sister?”

  “In the apple tree.”

  “What is she doing in the apple tree?”

  “Trying to hide from me.”

  She smiled as she took his hand and retraced his steps to the far side of the barn.

  “Mary, how did you get up there, and how are you going to get down without tearing your petticoat or gown?”

  �
��I stood on that crate and used the branch to pull myself up. I think I have already stained my skirt.” She grinned sheepishly.

  “When you and Mark wander off on some new adventure, I do not know where you are or what you are doing. That makes it very difficult for me to complete my tasks because I must search for you. I need the two of you to help me water the garden.”

  The girl hesitated and looked as if she was weighing her choices. “Would you help me down, please?”

  Heather gingerly climbed onto the crate and extended her arms to aid in Mary’s descent, which ended with them both falling to the ground. They brushed the soil off their skirts and burst into laughter.

  “Mary, young ladies should not be climbing trees. Now, help me get the buckets and water the garden.”

  After pouring water onto some reseeded herbs and new plantings, Mary caught her eye. “I forgot how much of the day Papa spent caring for the animals and working in the fields.”

  “Spring is a busy time of year for farmers. He does return to the cottage for dinner, Mary, even though it often means working later into the evening.”

  Over the next several days, the operations of the farm and household began to take on a normal pattern. The attitude and behavior of its members, however, were still anything but warm and harmonious. Matthew observed Mary’s icy stares and condescending manner toward Heather more than once. Mark’s genial nature was in complete contrast. And there was Heather herself. Why did the woman bristle so when he questioned her about her background? Was she hiding something?

  One early morning, nearly a week into their coexistence, they sat around the table, sharing the breakfast Heather had prepared. Matthew studied Heather’s and Mary’s pensive expressions. “Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and we will be going to service at the Turners’ home.”