Chapter 3 #2
The front door opened and Clara Miller hurried onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. “Miss Owens, Mr. Porter! What a nice surprise. We don’t get many visitors out this way.”
Mercy offered her warmest smile. “I hope we’re not intruding.”
“Not a bit of it. Come in before the heat settles proper. I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”
Mercy followed her inside, leaving Mr. Porter near the buggy with Caleb still chattering away about horses.
She was immediately greeted by the scent of coffee and something baking in the oven—blackberry pie, if she wasn’t mistaken.
The house carried the comfortable disorder of active family life.
An older woman sat in a rocking chair near the unlit hearth, a basket of mending beside her. A pair of spectacles was perched low on her nose, giving her a look that suggested she missed very little despite her age.
Mercy had lived long enough to recognize the particular authority some women carried without ever raising their voices. And Miz Scruggs had once kept order over an entire schoolroom.
Mercy smiled warmly. “Morning, Miz Scruggs.”
“Well now.” The older woman’s lined face softened as she set her mending aside. “Nice to have a bit of company this morning.”
“It’s always good to visit with you,” Mercy replied.
A moment later the screen door creaked again and Mr. Porter stepped inside accompanied by Caleb, who was still talking enthusiastically about horses.
"Mother, why don't you join me and our guests at the table for a cup of coffee and a visit?" Clara was already busy gathering coffee cups from the sideboard.
Ellie and Dora sat at the long dining table shelling peas into a bowl while their little sister pushed a wooden toy noisily across the floor nearby.
As Mercy crossed to the table, their older brother Brian came in through the back door, wiping his hands on a rag, clearly curious about the unexpected company. He nodded respectfully to Mercy, then visibly straightened when he noticed Mr. Porter behind her.
“Good morning, Brian,” Mercy said, pretending not to notice the shift.
“Mornin’, Miss Owens.” Brian glanced past her. “Mr. Porter.”
“Morning.”
Apparently, Caleb wasn't the only one of the Miller children who looked up to Mr. Porter. Not that the man seemed to be going out of his way to earn their admiration.
Clara set several cups on the table. “Caleb, stop pestering Mr. Porter and go let your pa know we've got company. Girls, scoot yourselves down a bit to make room for our guests.” Then, taking her children's obedience as a given, Clara moved to the kitchen.
The girls gathered up their bowls and shifted to the far end of the table while Caleb darted out the front door.
Mercy smiled toward the pair as she pulled out a chair. “Hello girls. I hope the two of you are enjoying being free of lessons for a spell.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Porter hold out a chair for Miz Scruggs as she made her way to the table. He remained standing afterward, one hand resting lightly on the back of another chair while the household settled itself around him.
Dora grinned immediately. “Yes ma’am.”
Ellie looked far less eager to admit it.
Before Mercy could say anything else, one of the wheels on the toddler's toy suddenly wobbled loose, sending it sideways with a clatter. The little girl’s lower lip began to tremble and Mercy could tell tears were imminent.
But before that could happen, with the patient air of an older brother accustomed to such interruptions, Brian crouched beside her with soothing words. Then he picked up the toy and wheel and went to work.
Mercy turned back to Ellie with a smile. "How are you doing with the book of poems I loaned you?"
The girl brightened immediately. "I've finished it. I even read parts of it twice."
From the corner of her eye Mercy noticed Mr. Porter stooping down beside Brian and the toddler to help with the broken toy. But Ellie’s eager expression quickly reclaimed her attention.
"In that case," Mercy reached into her satchel, "I brought you something else to read." She pulled out her copy of Little Women, then moved around the table to hand it to her.
A faint flush crept into Ellie’s cheeks as she clasped the book to her chest. "Thank you, Miss Owens. I promise to take real good care of it."
Mercy smiled. "I'm not at all worried," she said as she took a seat. "But you must be prepared to discuss it with me when you're finished."
"Yes, ma'am." Ellie hugged the book a moment longer before reluctantly setting it aside and returning to her work.
From the kitchen came the soft clink of crockery. Then Clara made two quick trips carrying out first the coffee pot then a tray containing a pitcher of fresh cream, a sugar bowl, a jar of jam and a plate of biscuits.
By the time she finished arranging everything on the table, Nathan Miller entered through the back door, broad-shouldered and sun-browned from years in the fields. Caleb slipped in right behind him.
“Miss Owens.” The farmer shook her hand politely before nodding toward her companion. “Porter.”
“Morning.”
For a few moments the conversation stayed comfortably general while Clara poured coffee and urged biscuits on the adults around the table.
Miz Scruggs lamented how quickly children grew once they were old enough to work full days in the fields while Clara pressed a second biscuit on Mercy despite her polite refusals.
Only after the first round of conversation settled did Mercy bring up the purpose of her visit.
“I suppose I ought to explain why I’ve intruded on your morning.
” Mercy folded her hands on the table in front of her.
“The Centennial Committee is trying to gather family histories, records, artifacts, and family stories in preparation for the upcoming celebration,” she said.
“Not just names and dates, mind you, but the events and stories families remember that never get written down.”
She glanced from Nathan to Clara to Miz Scruggs.
Too many families failed to realize how precious such histories truly were until they were already slipping away.
“Some of the items folks loan us will be displayed during the Centennial celebration itself. Others I’m recording for the town archives so future generations will know something about the families who helped build Hawthorn and the contributions and sacrifices they made along the way.
The new room we added onto the schoolhouse will give us a permanent place to keep records and donated artifacts so folks can continue learning from them long after the celebration is over. ”
Mercy noticed the Miller children were paying attention as well. This was exactly why she had volunteered for the work in the first place. Not speeches. Not parades. Not even the official records.
Moments like this—families gathered around worn tables, stories carried in memory instead of ink, pieces of lives that might disappear entirely if no one thought to preserve them.
Nathan leaned back slightly, stroking his chin. “Reckon there’s enough old stories around here to keep you busy awhile.”
Surely he didn’t think that would discourage her. “I’m available for however long you and your family want to chat.”
Clara glanced toward Miz Scruggs, then back toward Mercy. “I believe I know just where we ought to start.” With that she disappeared down the hall.
While they waited for her to return, Mercy loosened the strings of her satchel and pulled out her notebook.
“Colonel Briggs noted that you served with the Texas cavalry and agreed to ride in the veterans’ portion of the parade,” she said, glancing toward Nathan. “I wanted to verify I had that correct.”
Nathan nodded once. “That’s right.”
Mercy made a quick note.
The brief exchange only sharpened her awareness of Mr. Porter’s silence. But before the moment could grow uncomfortable, Clara returned carrying a worn Bible in both hands.
“This belonged to Nathan’s family,” Clara explained as she carefully set it in front of Mercy. “There are entries in it for births and marriages clear back to 1801.”
She straightened and took a step back. “We weren’t sure whether any of this would matter much to the committee.”
“It all matters,” Mercy said without hesitation.
Clara smiled faintly, perhaps surprised by the certainty in her voice.
Soon names and dates gave way to stories.
An ancestor who had arrived in Boston shortly after the Revolution before eventually settling farther west. A daughter lost during a fever winter. The year drought nearly took the farm altogether.
Mercy wrote steadily while occasionally asking questions to clarify names or years, though increasingly she found herself listening more than recording. This was the part she loved best. Not merely facts.
Lives.
At one point Clara rose to start a fresh pot of coffee while Nathan paused in his storytelling. Mercy took the opportunity to set her pencil down and rest her cramped fingers.
She glanced over toward Mr. Porter who had remained silent throughout the discussion.
Caleb stood next to his chair, watching intently while the livery owner examined a leather strap of some sort with calm concentration, his fingers working with efficient ease.
Had he been paying any attention at all to the conversation at the table?
“You fix everything?” Caleb asked.
“No.”
“I seen you fix Mr. Talley’s harness at the livery.”
“That’s my job.”
“And Davey said you repaired that freight wagon wheel too.”
“After somebody cracked it driving reckless.”
Caleb grinned. “Probably Eli Turner.”
“Probably.”
Mercy bit back a smile at the boyish admiration on the boy's face. And it was good to see that she wasn’t the only one he gave such terse answers to.
A few minutes later Clara returned to the table, wiping her hands on her apron as she resumed her seat beside Nathan.
“Ellie, keep an eye on that coffee for me, would you?”
“Yes ma’am.” The girl rose and slipped quietly into the kitchen.
Clara turned to Mercy with a tentative smile. "Would you like to hear about the day Nathan returned home from the war?"