The Promise of Morning (12 page)

Matthew followed Ellie up the stairs, admiring the way light from the candle she carried accented the curves of her body. At twenty-eight, the promise of beauty she’d had when he married her had ripened into a lush, appealing softness.

He’d been patient for weeks, hoping Ellie would show some sign that she’d welcome his advances. Tuesday evening, when she claimed exhaustion yet again, he’d lost his temper with her and lashed out, accusing her of not being a proper wife to him. She huffed that if he was a better husband, he’d understand, then turned toward the wall and pulled the covers tight around her neck. Matthew shook his head at the memory.

Once in the bedroom, he stripped off his trousers and shirt and waited beneath the chilly linen sheets. Ellie stood with her back to him, dawdling with the buttons on her dress. At last she pulled the garment off and dropped her nightgown over her shift. Hands clasped behind his head, Matthew savored the vision of his wife’s long blonde hair rippling across her shoulders. With practiced skill, she wove it into a long braid, then slid beneath the covers. His pulse quickened.

Rolling away from him onto her side of the bed, she emitted a deep sigh. “It’s been a long day.” The pillow muffled her voice.

“All we did was go to town.” Matthew pressed near her, warming from the heat of her body. He turned toward her back and rested his hand on the roundness of her hip, waiting to see how she would react.

Ellie neither moved toward him nor away. Emboldened, he caressed her side gently from waist to knee. This time she tensed and resettled herself at the extreme edge of the bed tick. Drawing a deep breath, he moved closer. The feathers inside the tick ballooned up between them.

Pushing them flat with his arm, he again placed his hand on her hip, curving his fingers against her pelvic bone. “Ellie, dearest, it’s been long enough.”

She put her hand over his, squeezed his fingers, then slapped his hand down on the sheet. “Please. Stop it.” She sprang up and faced him, her white gown illuminated by the moon glow that fanned across the room. “Can’t we just share a bed, without . . . ?” He heard tears in her voice.

“How can you ask that of me? Of us?” He pushed himself upright, resting his back against the headboard. “It’s not just me, Ellie. Be honest with yourself. Could you really be happy if we no longer shared physical love?”

“What else can we do?” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m afraid if we have another baby, it will die too.”

“Aren’t you putting yourself in God’s place? Whether we’re blessed with more children or not is in his hands.”

Her head jerked up. “Don’t preach at me. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

He looked at her, ethereal in the moonlight. His mind captured memories of their wedding night; his surprise at her willingness to become one with him. Matthew recalled a stolen time down by the creek shortly after Maria had been born, Ellie laughing as he pulled her down into the grass, her soft hair falling across his face. Pain twisted inside like a curved blade. He must have moaned aloud, because Ellie came to him and took his hand.

“If having me in the same bed is too difficult, I can share Maria’s room,” she whispered.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no need for you to leave. I promise not to approach you again.”

During the night, moonlight surrendered to an oncoming storm. Heavy raindrops burst against the windows. Wind rattled the panes, trying to force its way into the house. Matthew sighed and rolled onto his left side, glancing at Ellie, who lay on the edge of the bed with her back to him. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing. It didn’t sound like she slept, either. Flopping onto his back, he laced his fingers together behind his head and stared at the ceiling, wondering how much longer it would be until daybreak.

When he opened his eyes again, Ellie was no longer beside him. Her voice came from across the hall. “Stop fidgeting, Harrison. Let me fold your collar over your roundabout.”

Despite his weariness, Matthew had to smile at the weekly struggle she had getting their youngest son buttoned into his short jacket and tidied for the Sabbath.

As he opened the bedroom door, Ellie moved past with her hand resting on Maria’s shoulder. She gave her husband an impersonal smile. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“I’ll be right there.” He watched her descend the stairs, thinking that to an outsider’s eyes they would appear to be a normal family. Matthew sighed. If only they were.

The journey to church would have been quiet under any circumstances. Ellie and the children crowded together on the rear seat of the covered buggy in an effort to stay dry. Attempts at conversation blew away in gusting wind. Bundled in an oilcloth greatcoat, hat pulled low on his head, Matthew kept a tight hold on the reins as the horse splashed through muddy ruts in the road. He cast worried glances at his neighbors’ plowed fields, trying to see whether the storm might be carrying off newly planted seeds. So far, the ground seemed to be absorbing most of the rainfall.

Although still stunned by his wife’s decision, now a segment of his mind worried over the possibility that he might lose a good part of his spring planting.
Lord, your Word tells us not to be surprised
by trials that come. You promise to lift us up again. Please
let it be soon.
Rain drummed steadily on the top of the buggy, drowning out his prayer.

Pale light seeped through the narrow windows of the church. The room smelled of wet wool and leather, mixed with tallow smoke from candle sconces along the walls. Surveying the assembled townspeople, Matthew noted an unusual number of empty spaces on the benches. While he pondered whether to wait for latecomers, the door opened and Marcus Beldon ushered his wife inside, removed her cloak, and hung it on a peg in the vestibule.

Glad he’d delayed the extra moment, Matthew stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible, then noticed five strangers had entered behind the Beldons. They were dressed far too elegantly to be locals. The man nearest to Beldon wore a suit the color of a raven’s wing over a pearl gray waistcoat. A plum and gray cravat wrapped his shirt collar and ended in a bow tied under his chin.

By now, heads were craning toward the rear of the church. Making a conspicuous stir, Marcus Beldon ushered his guests to an empty bench. While they seated themselves, he crossed the aisle and found two vacant spots for himself and his wife. Curious whispers filled the room. From his seat, Beldon smiled and acknowledged glances sent his way with a royal nod.

Matthew cleared his throat, trying to direct the attention of the room to the morning’s service. Gradually, people turned forward and an expectant silence filled the church.

“My text today is taken from the first chapter of Joshua. ‘Be strong and of a good courage . . .’” Matthew’s voice faltered. How could he exhort these people when he felt anything but strong and courageous? He glanced toward the rear benches. Beldon had his hand cupped over his mouth and was whispering something to his wife.

Swallowing, Matthew tried again. “‘. . . for unto this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the land, which I swore unto their fathers to give them.’” His voice grew stronger. “To the south of us, in the new state of Texas, we have brave citizens lining up to fight for land the Lord has already given into our hands.” As he listed the similarities between the fight with Mexico and the Israelites’ struggles to gain the land of Canaan, he felt lifted onto the Old Testament battlefields. Mothers in those days must have wept too, he told them, but their husbands and sons were fighting the Lord’s battles.

Looking over the congregation as he spoke, Matthew saw Karl take Molly’s hand. His gaze again drifted toward the strangers seated in the back.

Quickly, so he wouldn’t be caught staring, Matthew returned his attention to the notes he’d placed next to his Bible. “The thing I want you to remember from this portion of scripture is that God gives the success. We don’t do it on our own.” He quoted other verses in Joshua to strengthen his point, expounding on how each one fit the country’s current situation. The minutes slipped by. Then, pushing his notes aside, he said, “Locally, we are also involved in a battle. Not for territory, but for the moral purity of our citizens.”

The group at the back sat up straighter, giving him their full attention. Beldon’s chin jutted into the air and he folded his arms across his chest.

Matthew faltered at the hostility in the man’s eyes. He hadn’t planned to add these comments to today’s sermon. Somehow, they were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He put both hands on the sides of the pulpit and leaned toward the congregation. “You have less than a week to make up your minds about this . . . performance that’s going to take place at the hotel.” He invested the word “performance” with as much scorn as he could. “Will you go the way of the flesh, or will you resist the devil?” He flipped to another verse in Joshua and concluded, “‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.’” Closing the Bible, he slapped the cover for emphasis. When Matthew knelt to deliver the closing prayer, he heard feet shifting and throats clearing at the back of the sanctuary.

Ruby was the first person to reach him after the service. “Matthew! How could you ride roughshod over those folks? They’re visitors, for pity’s sake.”

He stared at her. “What do they have to do with anything?”

Instead of answering, she took his arm and tugged him toward the back of the church. A group had already formed around Marcus Beldon, seeming to hang on his every utterance. The five men who had entered with him stood to one side.

Ruby marched over to the dark-suited one Matthew had noticed from the pulpit. “Reverend Craig is my niece’s husband.” She sounded apologetic. “Matthew, this is Sorrel Forsythe. He and these other gentlemen are here to present
Macbeth
to our community.”

Matthew had already put out his hand when she began her introduction. It hung in the air between himself and Sorrel Forsythe a moment too long.

“A distinct pleasure.” Forsythe took Matthew’s hand and gave it a limp shake. “We’ve heard much about you from Marcus, and now we finally meet.” His hand felt soft, like a child’s.

Glancing up, Matthew saw that Beldon and the other four actors had gathered behind Mr. Forsythe. Beldon watched him with a smirk on his face.

As he cast around in his mind for an appropriate response, Mrs. Beldon joined the group. To his surprise, her brown eyes conveyed sympathy.

“Thank you for giving us such a thought-provoking look at the conflict with Mexico.” Her voice rang out clearly enough to be heard beyond their small gathering. “I can tell you’ve given it much consideration.”

Her husband’s face was a study in confusion. “Mexico? I thought he preached on the evils of Shakespeare.”

She tapped his arm with a crooked forefinger. “You hear what you want to hear, Marcus.”

Matthew took her hand. “Thank you for the kind words, Mrs. Beldon. Mexico is a subject that has come close to our family these past weeks.” He nodded at the coterie surrounding her husband. “Gentlemen. So glad you came to hear God’s word.”

As he walked toward his wife and children, Matthew heard Beldon snort, “Craig’s word is more like it.”

Trembling with suppressed anger, Matthew joined his family gathered next to the woodstove. His sermon sounded hollow to him now.
Trust in God and he will give the victory? I’m trusting.
Where’s the victory?
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw several members of the church listening to Beldon. Some darted quick looks in his direction, and as quickly looked away. Normally he enjoyed lingering after the morning’s service to visit with townsfolk, but today he wished they’d all hurry home so he could leave.

Ruby appeared at Ellie’s side. “Come with me for a moment, child. I want you to meet Mr. Forsythe.”

Ellie raised her eyebrows questioningly at Matthew.

He folded his arms over his chest. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

Arthur stood behind Jimmy and Johnny, warming his backside at the stove. A frown creased his normally placid expression.