Chapter 2 #3
Inside, the air held the familiar scents of woodsmoke and something savory. A pot sat on the stove, sending up a steady curl of steam, and a pan of biscuits rested on the counter. Her mother stood at the worktable, sleeves rolled, slicing a wedge of cheese into even portions.
“Mercy,” she said, glancing up with a brief smile. “You’re back. I was beginning to wonder if I'd need to hold lunch for you.” She set the knife aside and straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “How did the meeting go?”
“Much as I expected.” Mercy grimaced. “The celebration is less than four weeks away now and there’s so much work left to be done.” She moved to the basin to wash her hands. “And it doesn’t help that there are still issues that are being endlessly debated.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Her mother crossed to the stove and gave the pot a slow stir. “None of the members are what one would call biddable.”
Mercy grinned at her mother’s dry tone as she moved to the cupboard, taking down plates. “There are some very strong opinions being expressed and no one is ready to compromise yet.”
She set out the two plates, one across from the other. Her gaze flicked—as it often did—to the chair at the head of the table.
Her father had been gone nearly four years now, yet neither she nor her mother had ever thought to take that place at the table. It wasn’t spoken of. It didn’t need to be.
A familiar ache stirred—pride and something sharper beneath it—and she turned back to her task, setting the spoons in place with deliberate care.
Her mother leaned in slightly to check the pot, then moved it away from the hottest part of the stove. “Anyone giving you particular trouble?”
She brought her thoughts back to the present and shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Only the usual disagreements.”
Her mother gave her a long, measuring look. “Then what is it that’s put that unsettled look on your face?”
Mercy paused as she reached for the lemonade. Her mother had always been able to tell when something was bothering her.
“It’s nothing of consequence,” she said, and knew at once the answer wouldn’t serve.
“Mm.” Her mother’s tone held no censure, only quiet patience.
Mercy let out a small breath. “I stopped at the livery after the meeting to arrange for a conveyance. That’s what delayed me.”
“And?”
Might as well give her the full story. “Colonel Briggs reported that someone declined to participate in the Roll of Honor ceremony. Turned out it was Mr. Porter. Thing was, he hadn’t given a reason." She gestured dismissively. "Just refused. So, I wanted to speak to Mr. Porter about it myself.”
Her mother raised a brow. “Naturally. I take it the discussion didn't go as you hoped.”
Mercy gave a small shake of her head. “No. He was quite firm—and no more inclined to explain himself to me than he had been to Colonel Briggs.”
“That must have been frustrating.”
Her mother's tone was mild, but it sparked a flicker of defensiveness.
“It was… unproductive,” Mercy said, choosing the word with care. She adjusted the placement of a cup. “And it leaves the record incomplete.”
Her mother studied her a moment. “And you mean to find out why.”
Mercy lifted her chin. “I mean to understand it.”
“Some matters don’t give up their secrets so readily.”
“Perhaps not,” Mercy said. “But that doesn’t mean they should be left unexamined.”
Her mother gave a small, thoughtful nod and returned her attention to the stove. “I'm sure you know your role best.”
She poured up the lemonade, the pale liquid catching the light as it filled each glass. Then she stepped back to take in the table. Everything in its place. As it ought to be. Her gaze shifted once more, briefly, to the head of the table before she drew a slow breath and turned away.
She reached for the platter of biscuits. “I’ll be heading out early in the morning,” she said, setting the platter on the table. “I need to visit the outlying families to collect information on possible additions to the Roll of Honor and gather histories and artifacts."
"It sounds like just the kind of project you enjoy."
Mercy smiled. "It is. I mean to begin with the Miller place and work outward from there.”
Her mother glanced over. “You’ll be gone most of the day, then.”
“Likely so.” Mercy lifted one of the glasses and set it more squarely in place. “Some of the families are a fair distance out and it's hard to estimate how long each visit will take.”
"At least you won't be out on the road alone."
Mercy made a noncommittal response as she smoothed a hand lightly over the edge of the table, then let it fall.
There was more than one reason to be glad of the company. The time together in the buggy would give her opportunity. Opportunity to observe without interruption. Opportunity to ask the questions that needed to be asked—even if he’d already made it clear he wouldn’t welcome them.
If there was a reason behind his refusal, she would find it.
And if he chose not to offer it freely… she would have to be patient enough to recognize whatever clues he let slip.
She pulled out a chair, her mind already turning ahead to the morning’s work.
Tomorrow she would begin her search for answers in earnest. And this time, she wouldn't be so easily turned aside.