Presbyterian, and it’s thirteen miles from here,” Delia said. “Such a long trip just now would not be good for the little one.”
Olivia refrained from reminding Delia that she had traveled in a wagon all the way from Blue Gap to Sweetbriar Creek. It wouldn’t do to offend her closest neighbor and the wife of Luke’s employer. And it was true that the prospect of a thirteen-mile journey over a rutted road exhausted her. “I will speak to Luke about it.”
“Samuel already has. Luke wants to come. But not without his wife, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I know our way of quiet contemplation must seem strange,” Delia said, “but peace is found in the silences. It’s in the moments when everything is still that I feel closest to our Lord. As if I’m in the same room with him.”
Olivia nodded. But the last thing she wanted was to be in the same room with the Almighty, who was no doubt displeased with her beyond all redemption. She got to her feet. “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Would you like some tea, Delia? The stove’s still hot. It won’t take but a minute.”
“Not today. I should be getting home. I left Charlotte to start the ironing, and I must go lend her a hand.” At the door, Delia paused, her calm, gray eyes taking in the wrinkles and stains on Olivia’s brown skirt. “I will have Samuel bring the washtub over here this evening. If that rain up on the mountain makes it down to the valley tonight, the tub should be full by morning.”
Delia ducked out the door and hurried across the wooden bridge spanning the creek. A few minutes later Luke arrived, the chickens flapping and fussing in his wake.
“What’s for supper?”
“Delia brought chicken and dumplings.”
“Sounds good.” He filled the tin washbowl from the bucket in the kitchen and washed his face and hands. He took a stained towel from its hook, then tossed it aside. “Is there a clean one somewhere, Olivia?”
“I haven’t done the washing yet.”
“So I noticed.”
“Don’t criticize me. I’m doing the best I can.” She went to the kitchen, took down two bowls, and dished up the dumplings. They smelled good, but she was in no mood to enjoy anything.
Luke seated himself at the table. He mumbled a hurried blessing and tucked into the dumplings. “Did Delia talk to you about going to meeting with them this Sunday?”
“Yes, but I got the impression that asking me was merely a formality. She said Samuel invited you and that you are eager to go.” She took a bite, but the food stuck in her throat. It seemed that even the smallest details of her life—when to do the wash, where to go to church—were decided by somebody else. She no longer remembered who she was, what she wanted out of life. She was invisible, as inconsequential as the air. She set down her fork and pushed her plate away.
“I thought it was something we could do together.” Luke helped himself to more dumplings. “We barely see each other these days.”
“I’m not the one who hides out in the barn all night.”
His spoon clattered against his plate. “You’ve hardly made me feel welcome in here.”
Her face went hot. “I told you from the first moment you proposed marriage that I wouldn’t . . . that I didn’t want us to—”
“Yes. You made that very clear.” Something flashed in his dark eyes, and she realized nothing else she might do could pierce his heart as deeply as this rejection of all he longed to give her.
He stood and started for the door. “It’s starting to rain. I need to help Samuel finish the milking. Don’t wait up.”
Chapter Eight
S eated between Charlotte and Delia on the hard wooden bench, Olivia folded her hands in her lap and tried not to weep. For more than an hour, the profound silence of the Friends meeting—broken only by the occasional cough or the rustling of pages when a desultory wind wafted through the open windows—had pressed on her fragile nerves.
Across the aisle,
Olivia refrained from reminding Delia that she had traveled in a wagon all the way from Blue Gap to Sweetbriar Creek. It wouldn’t do to offend her closest neighbor and the wife of Luke’s employer. And it was true that the prospect of a thirteen-mile journey over a rutted road exhausted her. “I will speak to Luke about it.”
“Samuel already has. Luke wants to come. But not without his wife, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I know our way of quiet contemplation must seem strange,” Delia said, “but peace is found in the silences. It’s in the moments when everything is still that I feel closest to our Lord. As if I’m in the same room with him.”
Olivia nodded. But the last thing she wanted was to be in the same room with the Almighty, who was no doubt displeased with her beyond all redemption. She got to her feet. “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Would you like some tea, Delia? The stove’s still hot. It won’t take but a minute.”
“Not today. I should be getting home. I left Charlotte to start the ironing, and I must go lend her a hand.” At the door, Delia paused, her calm, gray eyes taking in the wrinkles and stains on Olivia’s brown skirt. “I will have Samuel bring the washtub over here this evening. If that rain up on the mountain makes it down to the valley tonight, the tub should be full by morning.”
Delia ducked out the door and hurried across the wooden bridge spanning the creek. A few minutes later Luke arrived, the chickens flapping and fussing in his wake.
“What’s for supper?”
“Delia brought chicken and dumplings.”
“Sounds good.” He filled the tin washbowl from the bucket in the kitchen and washed his face and hands. He took a stained towel from its hook, then tossed it aside. “Is there a clean one somewhere, Olivia?”
“I haven’t done the washing yet.”
“So I noticed.”
“Don’t criticize me. I’m doing the best I can.” She went to the kitchen, took down two bowls, and dished up the dumplings. They smelled good, but she was in no mood to enjoy anything.
Luke seated himself at the table. He mumbled a hurried blessing and tucked into the dumplings. “Did Delia talk to you about going to meeting with them this Sunday?”
“Yes, but I got the impression that asking me was merely a formality. She said Samuel invited you and that you are eager to go.” She took a bite, but the food stuck in her throat. It seemed that even the smallest details of her life—when to do the wash, where to go to church—were decided by somebody else. She no longer remembered who she was, what she wanted out of life. She was invisible, as inconsequential as the air. She set down her fork and pushed her plate away.
“I thought it was something we could do together.” Luke helped himself to more dumplings. “We barely see each other these days.”
“I’m not the one who hides out in the barn all night.”
His spoon clattered against his plate. “You’ve hardly made me feel welcome in here.”
Her face went hot. “I told you from the first moment you proposed marriage that I wouldn’t . . . that I didn’t want us to—”
“Yes. You made that very clear.” Something flashed in his dark eyes, and she realized nothing else she might do could pierce his heart as deeply as this rejection of all he longed to give her.
He stood and started for the door. “It’s starting to rain. I need to help Samuel finish the milking. Don’t wait up.”
Chapter Eight
S eated between Charlotte and Delia on the hard wooden bench, Olivia folded her hands in her lap and tried not to weep. For more than an hour, the profound silence of the Friends meeting—broken only by the occasional cough or the rustling of pages when a desultory wind wafted through the open windows—had pressed on her fragile nerves.
Across the aisle,
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