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 people of Fiddlers Grove that they shared a common faith in Christ. Still, her spine had become a tightly wound spring she couldn’t relax. She feared that this would be worse than visiting the store. Quakers never called attention to themselves—never. And worst of all, the fear Matthew had sparked within her lingered.
Inside St. John’s, a pipe organ began playing. Beth did a little jump. “Music.”
Verity smiled, though her lips felt stiff. Beth shared her late father’s love of music. Verity waited until the congregation had finished the first verse, then she nodded at Joseph and Matthew. Joseph led them down the center aisle to seats in an empty pew near the back of the church. Matthew removed his hat and stood beside Verity, taking the aisle space. He hadn’t brought his rifle, of course, but he looked as forbidding as if he had. It was almost as if he expected someone to attack them.
As expected, many heads swiveled to watch them enter. Verity smiled, her lips wooden. Then Beth began to sing along, as did Joseph. Their voices—the high wispy soprano and the low bass—blended in with the singing. “‘Lord, as to Thy dear cross we flee, and plead to be forgiven.’” She hoped the people singing were listening to the words coming from their mouths. “‘Kept peaceful in the midst of strife, forgiving and forgiven, O may we lead the pilgrim’s life, and follow Thee to heaven.’”
Quaker meetings were composed of silence, praying and speaking, not singing. Though Verity didn’t feel comfortable singing, she enjoyed the music, which calmed her wary heart and lifted her spirit. Still, Matthew stood beside her as stiff and silent as a sentinel. Waves of infectious tension wafted from him. But his formidable presence also managed to reassure her. No one would antagonize Matthew Ritter without good reason.
Verity looked up over her shoulder and saw what must have been a slaves’ balcony. It was empty now, showing that—after emancipation—the black population must not want to come to the white man’s church.
The hymn ended. There was a general rustling around the church as books were put back into their holders and ladies gathered their skirts to sit down. Verity concentrated on the vicar, who in his clerical collar and vestments looked about the same age as her father-in-law. Then she noted that one man, who looked to be about Matthew’s age, kept glancing back at her and Matthew.
Throughout the rest of the service, Verity tried to ignore the surreptitious glances from the people of Fiddlers Grove. It was no surprise that people would be curious about them; still, it made her uneasy. Who was the one man who looked at Matthew over and over?
After the final hymn was sung, the congregation rose and made its way into the aisle. Verity, Joseph, Beth and Matthew made their way toward the clergyman, standing at the doorway and shaking hands with everyone as they left.
She was very aware of the same man who’d kept glancing at Matthew. Was he planning on making trouble? Matthew, on the other hand, pointedly ignored the man.
When it was finally her turn to offer her hand to the vicar, it felt as if the whole congregation on the steps and in the foyer paused and fell silent, listening. Verity swallowed and tried to smile.
“Good morning,” the vicar said. “I am Pastor Savage.”
“That’s a scary name,” Beth said.
Verity touched her daughter’s shoulder. Beth hung her head and then curtsied. “I beg your pardon.”
“Mine is an unusual name, especially for a clergyman.” Pastor Savage smiled. “You are new to Fiddlers Grove.”
“Yes,” Joseph responded, and shook the pastor’s hand.
“Everyone has been wondering why you have come to our little town. Many believe you are one of those meddling Yankee schoolmarms we’ve heard of.” His tone was friendly but uncertain.
“It is hard to be a stranger in a small town,” Verity said without giving him an answer. She liked the pastor’s eyes. They were good eyes. But very sad ones, too.
“Maybe our new family moved to Fiddlers Grove for their health,” a pretty woman in a once stylish but now faded dress suggested in a sly tone. She stood beside the man who’d been watching Matthew.
Verity smiled, though a frisson of fear went through her. Had there been a veiled threat in that statement? Would it be “unhealthy” here for them? There was a pregnant pause while everyone waited for Verity to reply.
When she did not, the man beside the woman said, “May I make myself known to you? This is my wife, Lirit, and I’m Dacian Ransford. I wish to welcome you to our town.”
Mr. Ransford must have served in the Confederate Army. He had that “starved and marched too long” look she’d seen so often in ’63. “I am pleased to meet thee,” she murmured, for once not really sure she meant her proper words. It was obvious in the way Dacian dressed that he was a prominent member of society here. Hadn’t Hannah said that her husband was the Ransford butler?
Joseph accepted Dacian Ransford’s hand and Beth curtsied. Then before Joseph could introduce the fourth member of their party, the man faced Matthew. “Hello, Matt.”
“Dace.” Matthew nodded, no emotion visible on his face.
“I didn’t expect to see you in Fiddlers Grove again.” Neither Dacian Ransford’s tone nor his expression gave any clue as to whether he thought it good or bad to see Matthew here now. Yet neither offered a hand to the other.
Verity tried to behave as if she were unaware of the heightened tension that ran through the milling congregation. Matthew’s expression became stony.
“Oh?” Matt replied. No emotion. No inflection.
Perhaps war did this to men; perhaps it “closed” them. Suddenly she wondered why Matthew’s family had left Fiddlers Grove.
As Verity studied the two men, a forceful wind moved her skirts. Overhead, large white clouds glided across the blue sky.
“How is my aunt Samantha?” Dacian asked Matthew.
“My mother died of cholera in ’62. She had been widowed for a year then. And my aunt Sarah Rose?” Matthew asked.
“My mother passed just after Lincoln was elected. A fever. My father survived her by two years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said, sounding sincere.
“And I’m sorry also about your parents passing.” The two men were silent for a moment, and then Dacian nodded and took his wife’s
