Woman of Grace by Kathleen Morgan Page B

ever would be—a crazy, mixed-up dream.
    “No,” Hannah repeated softly, “he won’t change his mind. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I won’t let it matter.”

    Martha Ashley was an impressive woman. Tall, bigboned, and possessing a very ample bosom, the fierycheeked, ebony-haired woman swept into Devlin’s house with all the authority and might of a conquering army. She soon marshaled Mary and Devlin Jr. into their bedrooms in submissive, overawed silence, ensconced her own six-month-old son, Harold, in a crib in the kitchen, then immediately set about rearranging the kitchenware into what she described as a “more efficient system.” She didn’t, however, stop there.
    Clucking her tongue as she went, Mrs. Ashley swept and scrubbed the floor, washed down the cabinets and table, and cleaned and oiled the cookstove. “I know your poor wife, God rest her soul, was in no condition to maintain this kitchen,” she explained as she worked, “but that last girl you had—what was her name? Anna?—was really a most disappointing housekeeper.”
    “Her name’s Hannah,” Devlin patiently corrected her. “And considering the state of things at the time, she managed well enough. None of us went hungry or had to wear torn or dirty clothes.”
    Even as he uttered the words, Devlin couldn’t quite believe he was defending Hannah. But then, he also had no idea the Widow Ashley was such a dynamo. In the space of but an hour he was already beginning to recall Hannah’s presence as a soothing balm. Soothing at least, he thought wryly, in comparison to this other woman’s frenetic manner.
    Mrs. Ashley shot him a dubious look from beneath a pair of finely arched black brows. “I’m sure you’re being far too kind in your assessment of the situation. Most men are. But never you mind. I’m here now. Things will be run in a proper, orderly manner.”
    Glancing about the already pristinely clean, efficiently organized kitchen, Devlin had no doubt that they would. In the end, it didn’t matter to him one way or another, just as long as his children were well cared for and there were decent meals on the table. That was about all he could deal with at any rate, he admitted as a freshened wave of grief washed over him. Ella was gone, and the only things left in life that mattered to him were his children.
    “I’d appreciate some calm and order, Mrs. Ashley,” he mumbled, wanting nothing more at the moment than to retire to a darkened room and the solitude of his thoughts. “I’ll be in my bedroom for a while. I’m tired and think I’ll lay down.”
    “Please, call me Martha. And yes, you do that, Mr. MacKay,” the woman cooed, fluttering her hands at him in a strangely incongruous shooing motion. “Take all the time you need. I’m sure I can find everything just fine.”
    “I’m sure you can … Martha.” He began to walk away.
    “Oh, one thing more, Mr. MacKay.”
    Wearily, Devlin halted and turned. “Yes? What is it?”
    “Before you lie down, could you bring the baby and her cradle out here to stand beside Harold’s? That way whenever it’s time to nurse her, I won’t have to disturb you. It will work out far more efficiently.”
    Somehow, the thought of leaving Bonnie out here, in the midst of all the noise and activity he was certain Martha Ashley would create, didn’t set well with Devlin. The woman, however, seemed to put a premium on getting everything done in an expedient manner.
    Still, what other choice was there? Perhaps, in time, the Widow Ashley would relax and slow down. Maybe she was just trying overly hard right now to impress him. Yes, surely everything would soon settle back into some semblance of the way it used to be.
    Except that Ella was gone forever, Devlin recalled, the memory stabbing through him with a fierce, freshened agony. Because of that, surely nothing could or would ever be the same again.

5
Thou shalt not harden thine heart, nor shut thine hand from thy poor