tied at the front of her head.
“May I help thee?”
“I’m Hannah. I’ve come to meet y’all Yankees.”
The woman’s directness made Verity smile, and some of the tightness inside her eased. “Please come in, Hannah. I’m Verity Hardy.”
“Are you a Miss or Mrs.?” The woman looked at her pointedly.
“I’m a widow, but I’m a Quaker and prefer to be called by name.” Verity opened the door and gestured the woman in. Please, Lord, help me do better with this new neighbor.
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman entered the kitchen.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and Beth ran into the kitchen. She halted at the sight of Hannah.
“Hello.” Beth curtsied. “I’m Beth.”
“You can call me Aunt Hannah, you sweet child.” The woman’s face and voice softened.
Beth looked to her mother for direction. Verity nodded. “If the woman wishes to be called Aunt Hannah, Beth, thee may address her in that way.” Then she turned Hannah. “Won’t thee sit down? I have coffee on the stove.”
Hannah stared at her and then at the table. “This Virginia. Whites and blacks don’t never sit down together.”
Verity did not know what to say to this. It made her stomach flutter.
“But we’re not from Virginia,” Beth explained earnestly.
Hannah laughed. “You sure ain’t, honey. I know that. Tell you what, I go back outside and set on the top step and you can bring me that cup of coffee. And y’all can sit on chairs on the back porch. And that would look all right. How’s that?”
Verity nodded in agreement. Why had Hannah come? Was she bringing more bad news? Very soon, the three of them were seated in Hannah’s suggested manner on the small back porch. Verity waited for Hannah to speak. She hated this awkwardness, this unfamiliarity—hated being the stranger. Odd tremors had coursed through her on and off ever since her trip to town. Now they started up again, making her feel off balance.
After several sips of coffee, Hannah began, “I hear you folks come from the North and you talk like Quakers. And I figure if you be a Quaker, then I think afore the war you was abolitionist, too.”
“Yes, my whole family was very active in the abolitionist movement,” Verity replied. Where was this leading?
Hannah nodded. “I figured so. What’re y’all doing here in Fiddlers Grove, then?”
Only God knows the full answer to that. “I came to teach school.”
“What school?”
“The school Matthew Ritter is here to build.”
Hannah stared at her. “I heard the Ritter boy come back.”
“Yes, he has.” So Matthew was generally known here. Verity tried to discern what Hannah’s attitude was toward the man’s return, but Hannah’s reaction was not apparent.
“What you two living here together for? Are you married?”
Verity sighed silently and tried to quell the trembling that wouldn’t leave her. The close living arrangement with Matthew would be a topic of gossip and speculation, so she might as well tell this woman. She explained the mistake about her coming too soon and Matthew moving to the cabin. Hoping to sidestep the queries and pick up some information, Verity continued, “May I ask thee a question?”
Hannah nodded.
“Soon it will be First Day. And I see that thee has but two churches in town—”
“First day, what that?” Hannah looked puzzled.
“Quakers use Plain Speech, meaning we try to speak simply and truthfully. We do not use the same names for the days of the week as other Christians do because each one of them is named after a pagan god.”
“I never knew that.”
Beth piped up, “Wednesday is from Woden. He was a Nordic god.”
“Do tell,” Hannah replied with a grin.
Verity chuckled, but pressed on, “I was inquiring about the churches—”
“We got St. John’s and Fiddlers Grove Community,” Hannah said.
“Which church does thee worship at?” Verity asked, setting down her cup carefully so as not to let it rattle on the saucer.
“Neither. I attend Brother Elijah’s preaching on the Ransford place on Sunday afternoons. Elijah is the Ransford butler and my husband.”
Verity nodded. “I see. Does either town church have an evening service?”
“Fiddlers Grove Community has 6:30 p.m. service. But St. John’s only meet at 9:00 a.m. sharp. They got a bell. Y’all hear it, all right.”
“Thank you, Hannah.” Verity waited, sensing the woman was finally about to reveal her reason for coming.
Hannah put her empty cup down on the step. She bowed her head for a moment and then looked up at Verity. “I can’t read or write. Can you write me a letter? I know the name and a place to send it. I can pay.”
The request pricked Verity’s heart. How awful not to be able to read and write. Lord, help me get this school started here or wherever Thee wishes. “I have time to write a letter. And I would take it as a kindness if thee would let me do it for thee without pay. I don’t think it’s right to charge a neighbor.”
Hannah grinned. “I thank you. Will you write that letter for me now?”
“Certainly.” Verity rose and dragged her chair back inside, leading the way for her daughter and Hannah to follow. “Who am I writing to?”
“The name’s Isaiah Watson and he live in Buffalo, New York.”
“Is this a matter of business?” Verity asked.
“Don’t know if you’d call this business or not. There be someone I want to find. And I think Mr. Isaiah Watson might know where that person be.”
“Aunt Hannah,” Beth asked, “who is the person that you want to find?”
“Miss Beth, I want to find my boy.”
Chapter Three
In the dazzling light of First Day, Verity gazed at St. John’s Church, which sat on a gentle rise in the midst of an oak grove at the edge of town. It was small but impressive with its tall steeple and golden marigolds along its cobblestone path. Her father-in-law and Beth walked beside her, through the red door and into the sudden dimness of the church foyer. Matthew brought up the rear. A very grim and reluctant Matthew.
She hoped that three visits to three churches would remind the
