Secrets of My Heart

by Tracie Peterson

  “Mrs. Pritchard. It’s such a nice day that I thought I would stop by and see how you’re doing.” He pulled off his hat and gave a little bow.

  Nancy didn’t move away from the door. “I’m quite well. Thank you. I have a full house of boarders now, all very nice ladies.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I suppose it keeps you very busy.”

  “It does.” She wondered what he really wanted. “What can I do for you?”

  “Might I come in? There are some things I’d like to discuss. It has to do with business arrangements I made with Albert. I’ve put it off as long as I felt I could.”

  Nancy smiled. “You needn’t have. John Lincoln is managing everything, along with Seth Carpenter. I’m sure you could set up an appointment with them and manage whatever problems you have.”

  He frowned. “I would rather work with you, Nancy. My arrangements with Albert were more handshake agreements than paper transactions. Lawyers tend to want to deal only in those things that can be proven.”

  “And your dealings with Albert would have no proof?”

  “I doubt it. As I said, we agreed with a handshake and occasionally very informal notes. But you know me well enough. You know you can trust me to be forthright with the terms. I would never try to deceive you.”

  “Of course not, but the fact of the matter is that if it has to do with business, then Mr. Lincoln probably knows more about it than I do.”

  The expression on Gerome’s face made his frustration clear, but Nancy couldn’t do anything about it. Not only that, but she had no interest to try. She wanted nothing more than to resolve Albert’s affairs and be done with them.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my duties.” She started to close the door, but Gerome put a hand out to stop her.

  “Nancy, you do know that I care very much about you. I’ve been doing my best to refrain from making you uncomfortable, but I’ve always cared deeply for you. I want to help you in any way possible.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Thank you. I’m touched by your concern. Good day.”

  With that, Nancy returned to the kitchen, knowing that Gerome was probably still standing on her porch, staring at the closed door. She knew he hoped to stir her feelings for him to a deeper friendship that might lead to courtship.

  “That will never happen,” she murmured, shaking her head. She would remarry one day, of that she was certain, but it wouldn’t be to Mr. Gerome Berkshire. Of that she was even more certain.

  Chapter 6

  Good morning, ladies,” Nancy declared, placing a platter of hot cakes on the table. “I trust you slept well.”

  Bedelia Clifton took her seat. “Cornelia and I passed the night quite well, although we suffered minor indigestion earlier in the evening. I fear the chicken and dumplings you served were too rich for our constitution.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Nancy said with a smile. After several weeks with the women in residence, she could always count on something being too rich or sweet for the Clifton sisters. Nevertheless, she also recalled that Bedelia had taken seconds.

  “I suffered no such problem,” Clementine said as she took her place opposite Bedelia. “I thought them wonderful. I could have eaten them again for breakfast.”

  Nancy might have chuckled but for Bedelia’s gasp of disapproval. “One should never eat chicken before the noon hour.”

  “You eat eggs, and those come from chickens and might have even grown to be chickens but for our intervention.” Clementine unfolded her napkin. “I think folks have created a lot of silly rules that have little to do with reality.”

  “Wisdom is often lost on youth,” Bedelia replied. The mousy Cornelia nodded in support.

  Mimi entered the room. “Sorry for my tardiness. I couldn’t find my buttonhook.”

  “That is why I have a specific place for every article I own,” Bedelia said, looking to her sister. Cornelia nodded again and opened her mouth as if she might comment, but Bedelia continued. “Everything is in its place. That way, one always knows where any particular item may be found.”

  “Wise counsel, to be sure.” Nancy took her seat. To placate the Clifton sisters, she had agreed to a collective grace being spoken at the table. “Shall we pray? I believe it’s Clementine’s turn.”

  They all bowed their heads, and Clementine offered a brief prayer of thanks. Amens were murmured, and then the women began passing platters and bowls, syrup and butter. It was several moments of controlled chaos.

  “Did Mrs. Weaver get her tray?” Clementine asked Nancy. “If not, I could run it upstairs for you.”

  “No, I took it to her first thing. She should be content.”

  “It is quite strange that she never joins us for meals,” Cornelia finally spoke.

  Nancy handed Bedelia a platter of sausages. “She is a very private person, and there’s nothing wrong with that. These new surroundings and so many people living under one roof are probably difficult for her after living alone.”

  “She’s from the South, you know,” Bedelia stated, as if that explained everything.

  “Yes,” Mimi replied. “Is that important?”

  Bedelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I would not have mentioned it if it weren’t. The Southern rebels lost the war. She no doubt still bears the shame and humiliation of that even these long years later. And frankly, I’m of a mind that they should. It was an evil war.” She lowered her voice. “Not only that, but I believe it left Mrs. Weaver a bit tetched. She talks to herself and . . .” Bedelia paused for effect, then lowered her voice even more. “She sings.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with singing,” Clementine countered. “I like a good melody myself. Perhaps you have heard me singing and thought it to be her. After all, your room is between ours.”

  “No, it was her.” Again, Cornelia bobbed her head.

  “Well, singing certainly doesn’t imply insanity.” Nancy decided a change of subject was needed. “Say, did you see in the paper that there’s to be a creditor’s sale at the store of Mrs. Ach? Black and colored grenadines will be twelve and a half cents a yard, and French lawn in a variety of colors will be twenty cents a yard. There is a small sewing room just beyond the staircase. You are all welcome to use it anytime you like.”

  Clementine nodded. “I nearly forgot to tell you that I went past Marshall & Co. and they are offering ten pounds of sugar for a dollar and five pounds of coffee for the same.”

  Nancy nodded. “That’s good to know. I’ll see what else they might have on sale. I’ll leave David a note to come see me when he’s done caring for the horse so he can drive me into town.”

  “I could come with you,” Clementine added. “I could certainly benefit if you’re going to look at the fabrics. And it sounds like a pleasant way to spend a Saturday.”

  “The buggy is hardly big enough.” Nancy thought for a moment. “Perhaps I could drive, and we could go together and not take David. I suppose that might work.”

  The rest of the meal passed much the same, with light conversation about the week to come. Once they concluded, Nancy went upstairs and knocked on Mrs. Weaver’s door.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Weaver. I’ve come for your tray.”

  She heard the old woman shuffle across the floor and draw back the bolt on the door. It was humorous to Nancy that the old lady insisted on keeping the bolt set even during the day.

  Mrs. Weaver opened the door a few inches to make certain it was really Nancy. “I will try to start bringing it down myself,” she said, pulling the door back farther.

  “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Weaver. You pay for the service, and there’s no reason I cannot accommodate you.”

  The tray sat on a table just inside the room. Nancy entered and picked it up with a quick glance around the room. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to do your cleaning? I hate to think of you tiring yourself out.”

  “No. No. I’m perfectly capable.” The
old woman wore a lacy cap that hadn’t been popular since the war. “I don’t wish to be a burden.”

  “You aren’t a burden but a boarder. I simply want you to have the best. You always stay shut up here in your room, and you are more than entitled to use the house and enjoy the amenities we offer. Like the bathroom. It’s completely modern with running water.”

  Nancy didn’t wish to embarrass Mrs. Weaver, but her insistence that she have a chamber pot rather than use the shared facilities only added additional duties to the poor woman’s day.

  “I don’t mind staying in my room,” Mrs. Weaver said in a hushed voice. “I prefer to live my final days in solitude and quiet.”

  Nancy smiled. “Very well, then. So long as you have what you need. I will continue, however, to hope that you might one day join us for our meals and evening chats. The other ladies are quite interested to know you.” She headed for the door, tray in hand. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  Mrs. Weaver said nothing more, and once Nancy was outside the room, she heard the bolt slide back into place. The poor woman was clearly insecure about her surroundings. Nancy shook her head and started for the first floor. Hopefully in time Mrs. Weaver would learn that she could trust Nancy and the others.

  The church ladies’ sewing circle met at Nancy’s on the first Thursday in June. She had forgotten all about agreeing to host the group until Mrs. Taylor had mentioned it at church the previous Sunday. Nancy had considered canceling but decided against it. Perhaps it would be good for her boarders to meet her church ladies. All of the women were God-fearing, even if they didn’t attend the same churches, and would surely enjoy one another’s company. And if not, the boarders were always able to seek solace in their rooms.

  “Nancy, these shortbread cookies are delicious. Would you share the recipe?” Mrs. Taylor asked.

  Mrs. Taylor was one of the best cooks in the church, and Nancy had no doubt that she could make equally tasty shortbread. She smiled. “It’s a simple recipe that my mother taught me. Just three ingredients. Two cups of flour, one cup of butter, and half a cup of sugar.”

  “Well, they are marvelous. I must try it for myself,” the older woman said, taking her third cookie.

  “They are delicious, Nancy. I’ve always enjoyed your baking,” one of the other ladies declared.

  “Her meals here are nicely done,” Bedelia Clifton said, surprising Nancy with her praise as she came into the dining room where they were gathered. “One always fears when boarding that the food might suffer, but in our situation, we are quite blessed.”

  “Oh, I am not surprised by that,” Mrs. Taylor said, smiling at Nancy. “I’ve sampled Nancy’s cooking for years at church potluck suppers.”

  “Miss Clifton and her sister sometimes offer to help me prepare our meals,” Nancy said, thinking it only right that she return the compliment. “I am blessed with good boarders.”

  Bedelia smiled and gave a nod. “One must always be willing to help where needed. The Lord expects no less of us. Which is why I’ve come to see if I might lend a hand in the sewing. I’m quite good with a needle. Cornelia is as well, but she’s under the weather. A summer cold, don’t you know.”

  “Oh, that is too bad,” one of the church ladies declared.

  “I, for one, would be happy to have you join us, Miss Clifton,” Mrs. Taylor said. “We are making blankets and quilts for the poor. Today we are hemming edges. Do join us. You may borrow a needle from me.”

  Bedelia pulled a needle case from her pocket. “I have my own, but thank you.” She took the chair by Mrs. Taylor and opened the case. “I find it valuable to always have a needle and thread readily available.”

  “Indeed,” one of the other women replied.

  They sewed around the table for nearly an hour, sharing conversation about the city and what was happening to assist the poor. Nancy learned that several churches in the area were working together to fund a poorhouse. They wanted to build something for those who had no shelter during the winter months.

  Nancy thought of her more-than-ample house. There were still rooms she hardly used. Perhaps she could turn them into bedrooms as well. After all, she’d had no trouble filling the upstairs rooms, and in each situation the women were operating on very limited funds. But for the grace of God they might also be among those in need of the poorhouse. Women really were up against all odds when they had no family to care for them. Especially the elderly women, who could rarely earn a living.

  The door knocker sounded, and Nancy excused herself to see who it was. To her surprise, Mrs. Mortenson bounded in without waiting for Nancy to greet her.

  “Oh, my dear, you look so pale,” the old woman said, her lips tightening into a straight line. “I’ve been quite worried, and when I heard at church that you were hosting the sewing circle today, I was gravely concerned. Do you think it wise for your health?”

  “I’m feeling perfectly fine, Mrs. Mortenson. Won’t you come in and join us in the dining room?”

  “For a short time, but alas, I cannot sew. My eyes, don’t you know. They’re weak, and the doctor has demanded I rest from tedious chores.”

  “Of course.”

  “Agnes, we didn’t expect you today,” Mrs. Taylor said, rising to greet her friend as she came into the room. “So glad you could come.”

  “Well, I won’t be able to sew, as I was telling Nancy, poor girl. The doctor has simply forbidden it. My eyes are too weak.”

  “Never mind that,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Join us anyway. We were just discussing the new poorhouse.”

  Mrs. Mortenson looked around and noted the only empty chair. “I see this must have been Nancy’s place.”

  Nancy quickly brought another chair into the room. “Here you are. No need to worry.”

  Agnes Mortenson placed her ample frame upon the wooden chair and touched her hand to her feathered hat as if it had come loose. “You are all doing some lovely work. I’m certain the poor will appreciate your efforts. Goodness, but there seems to be so many more of them than there used to be. Mr. Mortenson said there were four older men sleeping near the docks by his manufacturing company. He took them wool blankets several months back, and they were most grateful.”

  “My husband said a dozen or so men were rounded up and run out of the park just two days ago,” one of the women added.

  Mrs. Mortenson shook her head and lowered her voice. “Some are criminal types. One can never be sure, but often you can tell by the eyes and the forehead.”

  Seeing the cookie platter had nearly emptied, Nancy excused herself to refill it and bring more tea while the women discussed the plight of the poor. She hadn’t been in the kitchen long, however, when she heard the focus of the conversation turn to Nancy herself.

  “The poor child is much too young to stay a widow. The Bible makes that clear. She needs a husband,” Mrs. Mortenson said in an authoritative tone. “It’s not good for her to be alone.”

  “She isn’t alone,” Bedelia Clifton chimed in. Nancy had to smile at the thought of Mrs. Mortenson receiving her comeuppance from the younger spinster. “She has all of us here at the house.”

  “Yes, yes, but you will come and go. You are but boarders paying for your room. Nancy needs someone who will remain—someone to love her and give her children. Although”—Mrs. Mortenson lowered her voice—“it remains to be seen if Nancy can bear children.”

  Nancy frowned and filled the teapot with hot water. She didn’t like that these women were discussing her condition.

  “The Lord gives children as a gift and will give to whom He desires. Many a woman is childless for the greater glory of the Lord,” Bedelia remarked with as great an authority as Mrs. Mortenson. “We can see that in the Good Book as well.”

  Mrs. Taylor came into the kitchen as Nancy was pouring water into the teapot. She had only to glance at Nancy to see her discomfort. “Pay them no mind, child.”

  “I try not to, but I must admit I question my circumstan
ces as much as they do. I feel such an emptiness in my life. I’ve long wanted to be a mother. I see others with their arms full—their homes full of children—and wonder why I might not have had just one. One child to satisfy my longing.”

  Mrs. Taylor smiled and put her hand on Nancy’s arm. “Perhaps a child is not the answer.”

  Nancy frowned. “Then what is?”

  “You once told me yours was a loveless marriage,” Mrs. Taylor said, lowering her voice. “Perhaps such love would have gone a long way to filling your empty places. However, I tend to believe that the true void comes from your anger with the Lord.”

  Nancy quickly turned away to replace the waterpot on the stove. “My mother would agree with you.” She had little desire to discuss this topic, but Mrs. Taylor was too dear a friend, and an older one at that. Nancy would do nothing to insult or demean her by arguing with her.

  “He is always there for you, child.”

  Nancy met the older woman’s gaze. Her skin was wrinkled and lined from years of care, but her eyes were sharp. “Do you truly suppose He would be there for me when I’ve avoided Him most of my life?”

  If her question shocked the old woman, Mrs. Taylor showed no sign of it. “I was once that way myself. I had little time or interest in God, but He changed my heart.”

  This topic rubbed on the open wound that was Nancy’s heart. “My mother always says that God is there for me—that He understands me and why I make the decisions I make.” She paused, remembering their last visit. “Which brings me to something equally discomforting. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind to Mother or Father when they were here last. I haven’t even bothered to write and apologize.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  Nancy focused on putting cookies on the platter. “I should, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. What if they won’t forgive me this time?”

  “Do you honestly believe your mother could refuse to forgive you? I’ve met her and spoken to her at church. She loves you. Just as God loves you. Neither would refuse forgiveness, Nancy. You should just write to your parents and explain your heart.”