Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ