Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote

Not until I have good reason to be.

      With her oak basket over one arm, Verity marched down the dusty road into town. Fiddlers Grove boasted only a group of peeling houses with sagging roofs, two churches and a general store. With the general store looming dead ahead, her feet slowed, growing heavier, clumsier, as if she were treading ankle-deep through thick mud. This town was going to be her home for at least a year. Starting today. Lord, help me make a good first impression.

      On the bench by the general store’s door lounged some older men with unshaven, dried-apple faces. Matthew’s warning that some here would welcome her death made her quiver, but she inhaled and then smiled at them.

      Grime coated the storefront windows with a fine film and the door stood propped open. Flies buzzed in and out. Her pulse hopping and skipping, Verity nodded at the older men who’d risen respectfully as she passed them. She crossed the threshold.

      A marked hush fell over the store. Every eye turned to her. Drawing in as much air as she could, Verity walked like a stick figure toward the counter. The townspeople fell back, leaving her alone in the center of the sad and bare-looking store. She halted, unable to go forward.

      She began silently reciting the twenty-third psalm, an old habit in the midst of stress. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

      Near the counter, a slight woman in a frayed bonnet and patched dress edged away from Verity, joining the surrounding gawkers. Verity tried to act naturally, letting everyone stare at her as if she hadn’t fastened her buttons correctly.

      She forced her legs to carry her forward. “Good morning,” she greeted the proprietor. Her voice trembled, giving her away.

      The thin, graying man behind the counter straightened. “Good day, ma’am. I’m Phil Hanley, the storekeeper. What may I do for you?”

      She acknowledged his introduction with a wobbly nod, intense gazes still pressing in on her from all sides. Her smile felt tight and false, like the grin stitched on a rag doll’s face.

      “Phil Hanley, I’m Verity Hardy and I need some of those eggs.” She indicated a box of brown eggs on the counter. “And, if thee have any, some bacon. And I need to ask thee who sells milk in town. I require at least two quarts a day. And I’m out of bread. I’ll need to set up my kitchen before I begin baking bread again.” Her words had spilled out in a rapid stream, faster than usual.

      In the total silence that followed, the man stared at her as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. People who weren’t used to Plain Speech often did this, she told herself. They would soon grow accustomed—if she and her family stayed here longer than Matthew hoped.

      She waited, perspiring. As the silence continued, Verity blotted her upper lip with a handkerchief from her apron pocket. More of the twenty-third psalm played in her mind. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

      “Ma’am.” A slight, pinched-looking woman edged nearer and offered in a hesitant voice, “I just baked this mornin’. I have a spare pan of cornbread.”

      With a giddy rush of gratitude, Verity turned toward the woman. “Thank thee. I’m Verity Hardy. And thee is?”

      “Mary. I mean, Mrs. Orrin Dyke, ma’am.” Mary curtsied.

      “I’m pleased to meet thee.” Verity offered her hand like a man instead of curtsying like a woman, knowing this would also brand her as an oddity. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

      Mary Dyke shook her hand tentatively.

      “Mary Dyke, I’m living at the Barnesworth house. Could thee drop by with that cornbread later this morning?”

      “Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” Mary said with a shy blush, curtsying again.

      Verity reached into her pocket and then held out a coin. “Here. I’ll pay thee in advance.”

      “No.” Mary backed away, one ungloved hand up. “You just give the money to Mr. Hanley to put on my account. I’ll bring the bread over right away. ’Sides, that’s way too much for a pan of bread. I couldn’t take more than a nickel.”

      Sensing a stiffening in the people surrounding her, Verity wondered how she’d given offense. Still, she held out the dime, her mind racing as she tried to come up with a way to make her offer acceptable. “But I’ll owe thee for delivery, too.”

      “No, no, ma’am, I can’t take anything for bringing it. Or in advance.” Mary scurried from the store.

      Verity appeared to have offended the woman by offering to pay too much and in advance. But what could she do to amend that here and now? Nothing. Her mind went back to the psalm. He restoreth my soul. Yes, please, Lord, she thought. She took a deep breath and said through dry lips that were trying to stick together, “Two dozen of those fine brown eggs, please, Phil Hanley?”

      “Of course.” He set the offered oak basket on the counter and carefully wrapped the eggs in newspaper, nestling them into it. His movements provided the only sound in the store other than Verity’s audible rapid breathing. She fought the urge to fidget.

      “Anything else, ma’am?”

      “Well, now that I’m going to have cornbread—” she smiled “—I’ll need butter. And the bacon, if thee has some. Two pounds, please?”

      “Just a moment.” He stepped out the back door, leaving Verity on display. While she gazed at the nearly empty shelves, the crowd surrounding her gawked in stolid suspicion. The feeling that she was on a stage and had just forgotten her lines washed through her, cold then hot. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

      In the persistent silence, the storeowner reentered and wrapped the butter and slab of bacon with the rustling of more newspaper. He tucked them into her basket. “Anything else, ma’am?”

      “Not right now. How much do I owe thee?” The thought that her ordeal was almost over made her fingers fumble. But finally, out of her dangling reticule, she pulled a leather purse. She struggled with the catch, and then opened it. The taut silence flared and she sensed their disapproval distinctly. She glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at the U.S. greenbacks folded neatly in her purse.

      She pressed her dry lips together. A show of wealth was always distasteful, especially in the presence of such lean, ragged people. She tasted bitter regret. At every turn, she appeared unable to stop offending these people. Lord, help me. I’m doing everything wrong.

      The proprietor spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “After Mary’s nickel for the bread, that’s just two bits then, ma’am.”

      She gave him the coins. “I’ll bid thee good day then, Phil Hanley.” She offered him her gloved hand.

      He shook it and nodded farewell. Still smiling her rag-doll smile, she walked out into the bright sunlight.

      Cool relief began to trickle through her. She’d gotten food for the midday meal and let Fiddlers Grove know she’d arrived. It said much about the suffering of Virginia that she, who’d always lived a simple life, should suddenly have to be concerned about flaunting wealth. Wounding Southern pride wouldn’t help her in her work here. She’d have to be more careful. I’d never had been this jumpy if Matthew Ritter hadn’t tried to scare me off. It won’t happen again, Lord, with Thy help.

      Later that warm, bright morning, Verity stood at the door of her new home, her pulse suddenly galloping. “Won’t thee come in, Mary Dyke?” Lord, help me say the right things.

      “No, ma’am. Here’s your pan of bread, as promised.” The small woman’s eyes flitted around as if she were afraid. She handed Verity the circle of cornbread, wrapped within a ragged but spotless kitchen cloth. A sandy-haired boy who looked to be about eleven had accompanied Mary Dyke.

      Verity needed information about the sad-looking town and its people to get a sense