your life.” Frieda and her husband and kids had moved back to Paris just a few months ago, after spending five years in East Tennessee. In that time, she’d picked up a stronger accent, and Mercy suspected it came from living up in the hills.
She knew she had a southern drawl, herself—who in Tennessee didn’t?—but her mother had been a real stickler for proper English, so she’d spent a good share of her life reading grammar books and working on polished speech.
“Indeed!” Wilburta agreed. “You might hitch up with some half-wit, and then where would you be, Cousin?”
Had Mercy’s conscience not pricked her ahead of time, she might have told her cousins that their husbands were nothing to brag about. Land of Lincoln, Wilburta’s husband, Ellis, had Festus Morton beat in looks and smarts by only a hair or two.
“I’m lookin’ for someone with some brains,” she said, hoping to earn a smile from them. “And it wouldn’t hurt if he were halfway decent to look at.”
Both remained solemn-faced while they all sat around the table sipping on sweet tea. Frieda plunked down her glass and stared off. “Cain’t say I could name a single eligible bachelor in all of Paris that fits them traits.…unless y’r talkin’ the likes o’ Samuel Connors.”
Mercy’s spine stiffened. “Which I am not.”
“I should say not, Frieda Yeager. He’s a Connors, anyway. No Evans would ever consider hookin’ up with a Connors. Why, it’d be downright sinful.”
Mercy would’ve liked to ask Wilburta how she’d come to that conclusion, but since she had no interest in Samuel Connors, she kept the question tucked away.
“Still, it don’t hurt t’ ask what he’s like,” said Frieda, her green eyes flashing with interest and a speck of mischief. “He is right fine-lookin’. Don’t know why nobody’s ever snatched him up. Did he have much to say to you whilst you helped Doc take care o’ him?”
Mercy recalled how he’d tried his darnedest to make conversation with her, even attempting to flirt, and how she’d kept her words to a minimum. She’d probably come across as just short of boorish, but she preferred to think she’d acted professionally. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We were civil with each other.”
Frieda’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I s’pose it’s f’r the best. He might be good-lookin’, but he comes from devil’s stock.”
At that, Mercy bristled from the top of her head clear down to her toes. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“Mercy Evans, you need to ask?” Wilburta’s voice rose to a pitch that rivaled the highest piano key. “His father killed your pa!”
“That doesn’t make Samuel Connors responsible. Have you forgotten he walked into a burning house, with no thought for his own well-being, to save the lives of John Roy and Joseph?”
Wilburta, the more garish of the two, turned her mouth down and sniffed. “O’ course, I hain’t forgot that, but that don’t erase the fact he’s a Connors. Everybody knows the Connors clan is bad.”
“Not everybody, Burtie. To my knowledge, it’s only Evans folk who feel that way.”
“Well, no matter. Evans and Connors blood don’t mix.”
Rather than argue, Mercy changed the subject to something safer, inquiring after her cousins’ latest quilting and sewing projects. When the boys came bounding down the stairs, asking what she planned to fix for supper, the two ladies gathered up their things and said good-bye—and none too soon for Mercy.
When she’d finished washing the supper dishes, Mercy reined in her thoughts and gazed out the kitchen window at her neglected garden, where the boys climbed an old apple tree in need of a good pruning. At least they’d found something to while away their minutes before bedtime.
“Mercy Beauchamp.” She tested the name on her lips. Wrinkling her nose, she stepped away from the window, passed through the dining room, and entered the front parlor. “Good evening,
She knew she had a southern drawl, herself—who in Tennessee didn’t?—but her mother had been a real stickler for proper English, so she’d spent a good share of her life reading grammar books and working on polished speech.
“Indeed!” Wilburta agreed. “You might hitch up with some half-wit, and then where would you be, Cousin?”
Had Mercy’s conscience not pricked her ahead of time, she might have told her cousins that their husbands were nothing to brag about. Land of Lincoln, Wilburta’s husband, Ellis, had Festus Morton beat in looks and smarts by only a hair or two.
“I’m lookin’ for someone with some brains,” she said, hoping to earn a smile from them. “And it wouldn’t hurt if he were halfway decent to look at.”
Both remained solemn-faced while they all sat around the table sipping on sweet tea. Frieda plunked down her glass and stared off. “Cain’t say I could name a single eligible bachelor in all of Paris that fits them traits.…unless y’r talkin’ the likes o’ Samuel Connors.”
Mercy’s spine stiffened. “Which I am not.”
“I should say not, Frieda Yeager. He’s a Connors, anyway. No Evans would ever consider hookin’ up with a Connors. Why, it’d be downright sinful.”
Mercy would’ve liked to ask Wilburta how she’d come to that conclusion, but since she had no interest in Samuel Connors, she kept the question tucked away.
“Still, it don’t hurt t’ ask what he’s like,” said Frieda, her green eyes flashing with interest and a speck of mischief. “He is right fine-lookin’. Don’t know why nobody’s ever snatched him up. Did he have much to say to you whilst you helped Doc take care o’ him?”
Mercy recalled how he’d tried his darnedest to make conversation with her, even attempting to flirt, and how she’d kept her words to a minimum. She’d probably come across as just short of boorish, but she preferred to think she’d acted professionally. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We were civil with each other.”
Frieda’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I s’pose it’s f’r the best. He might be good-lookin’, but he comes from devil’s stock.”
At that, Mercy bristled from the top of her head clear down to her toes. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“Mercy Evans, you need to ask?” Wilburta’s voice rose to a pitch that rivaled the highest piano key. “His father killed your pa!”
“That doesn’t make Samuel Connors responsible. Have you forgotten he walked into a burning house, with no thought for his own well-being, to save the lives of John Roy and Joseph?”
Wilburta, the more garish of the two, turned her mouth down and sniffed. “O’ course, I hain’t forgot that, but that don’t erase the fact he’s a Connors. Everybody knows the Connors clan is bad.”
“Not everybody, Burtie. To my knowledge, it’s only Evans folk who feel that way.”
“Well, no matter. Evans and Connors blood don’t mix.”
Rather than argue, Mercy changed the subject to something safer, inquiring after her cousins’ latest quilting and sewing projects. When the boys came bounding down the stairs, asking what she planned to fix for supper, the two ladies gathered up their things and said good-bye—and none too soon for Mercy.
When she’d finished washing the supper dishes, Mercy reined in her thoughts and gazed out the kitchen window at her neglected garden, where the boys climbed an old apple tree in need of a good pruning. At least they’d found something to while away their minutes before bedtime.
“Mercy Beauchamp.” She tested the name on her lips. Wrinkling her nose, she stepped away from the window, passed through the dining room, and entered the front parlor. “Good evening,
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