Chapter 3 #3
"I would indeed." Mercy found these personal stories fascinating and considered it both a privilege and a duty to record them, even if it was only for the family's benefit.
Clara smiled at her husband, then began recounting the first time she saw Nathan riding up the lane after the war, and Mercy went to work taking notes once more.
As Clara described spotting Nathan in the distance and realizing at last he was truly coming home, Mercy found herself wondering unexpectedly what Mr. Porter’s own homecoming had been like—and whether anyone had been waiting to welcome him at all.
She cast a quick glance his way, but found him still focused on the leather strap in his hands. Even so, something in his expression made her wonder if he was listening more closely than he appeared.
Giving herself a small mental shake, Mercy returned her attention to Clara.
During the story, Miz Scruggs slipped away from the table without explanation and disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she was carrying a shallow wooden box. She took her seat, placing the box in her lap and sat quietly until Clara finished her story.
Then she lifted the box onto the table and placed her hand on the lid almost reverently. “Since we're telling family stories, I thought you might want to see this. My grandfather made this box for my grandmother when they were first married."
The box had clearly seen years of use. One hinge hung crooked, and a crack split the lid near one corner. But for all that, there were carvings on the lid and sides that showed the skill of the craftsman who had made it.
“It looks well loved,” Mercy said.
Miz Scruggs smiled and lifted the lid. Inside, Mercy could see several carefully preserved keepsakes.
The older woman lifted each out individually and explained their significance.
First, she pulled out a length of silk ribbon embroidered in muted blue and red threads.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” she explained.
“She embroidered it herself and it was part of her wedding dress.” She gave a reminiscent smile as she handed it to Mercy.
"My mother made it part of her wedding dress and I used it on my own wedding dress as well. "
Clara sighed. "When the time came for my wedding, it seemed too fragile to be stitched again so I settled for using it in my bouquet."
Mercy gently held the ribbon. The fabric had thinned badly over the years and was quite fragile.
But even though the colors had faded over time, the embroidery work was still beautiful.
“Your grandmother was a very skilled seamstress.” How many family moments had survived only because a woman decided a fragile scrap of cloth was worth saving?
Miz Scruggs nodded, but she was already lifting out the next item—a folded piece of parchment paper.
She unfolded it to reveal a violet, carefully pressed and preserved.
“My Edgar gave this to me the day he proposed.” Her face took on a faraway look and her entire demeanor softened for a moment.
"He said he'd heard somewhere that violets symbolized everlasting love. "
The flower was paper-thin but still looked vibrant. This was precisely why Mercy found such satisfaction in the work. A simple pressed flower might seem meaningless to outsiders, yet entire stories of love and family rested quietly behind it.
And judging by the way the Miller children were listening so intently, those stories still mattered to the generations coming after.
Mercy found herself wondering whether the stories touched Mr. Porter at all—or whether his tendency to hold himself apart kept such accounts from reaching him too deeply.
She couldn't resist casting a quick glance his way and noticed the leather strap had gone still in his hands.
As though sensing her attention, Mr. Porter looked up.
Their gazes met only briefly before Mercy turned back toward the table again, oddly conscious of having been caught observing something private.
While Miz Scruggs was speaking, Ellie had returned carrying the fresh coffee pot, the rich scent drifting ahead of her as she refilled cups around the table without interrupting her grandmother’s story.
Miz Scruggs set the flower carefully on the table before reaching for a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. “My father wrote these letters to my mother when he was courting her. I never considered my father a romantic person until I read these.”
She placed the letter next to the flower and ribbon and pulled out a silver backed comb. “When I retired from teaching some of the townsfolk—former pupils and parents—got together and gave me this as an appreciation gift.”
“It’s truly lovely.” Mercy understood all too well the quiet fulfillment that came from knowing one’s work in the schoolroom had mattered long after lessons were forgotten. And judging by that gift and who it had come from, Miz Scruggs had clearly achieved that.
A few smaller keepsakes followed after that—each with its own story attached, before the former schoolteacher finally settled the remaining items carefully back into the box.
Then she leaned back and glanced at Mercy. "I don't know if any of those stories help you, but thank you for indulging me,"
"Your stories were wonderful. Thank you so much for sharing them with me.
" She hesitated a moment, then pressed on.
"I know this box and the items inside have special meaning for you and your family.
But would you consider loaning them to us for display with the other artifacts for the Centennial Celebration? "
Miz Scruggs's eyes widened. "You want this for your display?"
"Yes ma'am. You were Hawthorn's very first schoolteacher and this is part of your story, the part that is more than just words.
“I’m afraid the box itself isn’t in very good shape,” Miz Scruggs said doubtfully.
Mr. Porter reached across the table, fingering the damaged lid and hinge. “The split could be braced underneath,” he said after a moment. “Hinge reset too.”
It seemed he'd paid attention to at least part of their discussion.
Miz Scruggs eyed him hopefully. “You think it’d hold?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of his response nearly made Mercy laugh.
Not pride or false modesty. Merely practicality—as though useful work required no announcement at all.
By this time most of the morning had slipped away and the two of them took their leave shortly after.
Clara insisted on sending biscuits and preserves home with them despite Mercy’s protests.
Outside, Caleb lingered near the buggy while Mr. Porter secured the traces.
“Pa’s taking eggs into town Saturday,” the boy announced hopefully. “Could I come by the livery and see Rosy then?”
Mr. Porter tightened one last strap. “If your pa says it’s all right.”
Caleb brightened instantly. “He will.”
Nathan snorted from the porch behind them. “Don’t go volunteering my answer.”
Caleb grinned unabashedly.
Mercy hid a smile as she settled into the buggy seat. A moment later Mr. Porter climbed up beside her once more.
Mercy rested one hand protectively atop the shawl-wrapped box Miz Scruggs had agreed to loan the committee. Once they were underway, she glanced toward Mr. Porter. “It was very kind of you to offer to repair this box for Miz Scruggs.”
He kept his attention on the road ahead. “Won’t take much.”
“Even so, I think it meant a great deal to her.”
One shoulder lifted slightly as though he didn’t quite know what to do with that observation.
This time he was the one who broke the silence. “All your visits go like that?”
Mercy glanced toward him. “Like what?”
“Folks telling all kinds of personal stories and hauling out half their lives from boxes and trunks.”
So, he had been paying attention.
It was her turn to shrug. “Not always. Some families need more coaxing than others. Some don't think they have a story worth telling. But they all end up having something to say.”
His gaze remained on the road ahead. “The Millers seemed glad to talk.”
“They were.” Mercy sat up straighter. “Most people are relieved to know someone appreciates their stories and think they're worth not only sharing but preserving.”
Another brief silence settled between them before he asked, “How many things have folks turned over for the Centennial display?”
“Quite a few, actually. More than I expected.”
“And you’re keeping them all at the schoolhouse?”
“In the archive room for now.” She gave a small laugh. “Though I’m beginning to think we really underestimated how many items people would contribute. But that’s a blessing, so I’m not complaining.”
To her surprise, the corner of his mouth shifted slightly. Not quite a smile. But close enough that she noticed.
“I want to do justice to the items that have been entrusted to me. Some of the older pieces need cleaning or repair before they can even be displayed,” she added. "It's a bit overwhelming." Then she mentally cringed. She hadn't meant to say that out loud.
He was silent a moment.
Then he gave her a quick sideways look. “I could take a look at those needing repairs, if you want.”
Mercy turned toward him. “You would?”
A slight shrug. “If something’s worth keeping, it’s worth fixing proper.”
The words settled unexpectedly deep. Not because of what he offered but because of how naturally he said it.
Simply the quiet assumption that things worth preserving ought to be cared for.
Mercy studied him a moment as the buggy rolled steadily onward beneath the brightening Texas sky.
And for the first time since meeting Wilson Porter, she found herself wondering not what he was hiding—but what sort of man spent his life repairing what other people valued while believing himself unworthy of the same care.
Earlier that morning she had fully intended to confront him again about his refusal to participate in the parade and recognition ceremony.
Now she realized the matter was far more complicated than stubbornness alone. She'd have to rethink her approach if she hoped to get past his guard and uncover the truth behind his refusal.