A Place in His Heart (2 page)

Barnabas Horton's eyelids fluttered, but the crusted salt of tears held them shut. For a moment he forgot the pain and willed himself to remain in that blissful state between sleep and full consciousness. That place before reality sets in. But the first rays of morning sun made it impossible. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and rolled to an elbow. His fingers gently touched the empty space beside him in the bed. His throat tightened, but he rose and pulled on his long white shirt and breeches. He trudged to the kitchen.

A shiver ran through him. He stirred the embers in the massive fireplace and arranged logs and dried moss in the center. The large cauldron of water in the corner of the hearth would simmer soon. He pressed at his eyes. It should be Ann ladling hot water from the pot. Ann preparing their porridge. Ann. The oppressive air, still thick with the smell of smoke from yesterday's fire, hung like a shroud.
Lord, be my strength.

A breeze, warmed by the morning sun, drifted through the open casement window. He turned. For a moment he expected to see his dear wife, she felt so near. Clearing his thoughts, he scooped hot water and oats into a small iron pot and hung it from the trammel. Flames sprung up and licked at its blackened bottom. He knew to concentrate on each task, one by one. Get through the morning, then the day. But what to do about the long nights remained troublesome.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “One moment, if you will.” He stumbled over the butter churn as he moved to pull the heavy door open.

Plump Lydia Cunningham, basket in hand, stood on the flagstone walk. Susan Howell, small and birdlike, hid behind her. He looked from one to the other. Neither spoke.

He forced a smile, but his face felt like day-old bread. “Good morrow to you. I've yet to open. Pray, might you come back later?”

“Mr. Horton, our apologies for bothering you so early. We are traveling today and wanted to leave our dough with you.” Goody Cunningham held out her basket.

“How are your boys, Mr. Horton?” Goody Howell moved forward with her basket but stared at her feet.

“They do well.” His shoulders sagged as he took the dough. “The shop closes at five o'clock.”

“Aye, we shall be back early to pick up our bread. If it be helpful, we can stay and watch over your sons for you. Late afternoon is a busy time of day.”

“It is. Pray thee, know that I do appreciate your offer. The ladies of the village have been most kind. But no. Thank you, but no.” He shoved the door shut. The women's voices drifted through the window and he paused.

“He does not look well.”

“Nay, he is not himself. I miss his cheerful smile. 'Tis only been three months, Susan. Not a wonder he still grieves, poor man.”

“I visited Ann's grave yesterday. The blue slate is beautiful.”

“The blue slate?”

“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. He 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?”