Chapter 11 #2
As he reached for his hammer his gaze drifted toward Mercy. She still stood beside the saddle, one hand resting lightly on the leather, as though seeing it differently now.
And as he watched her, a few things began making sense.
Mercy pushing to build this exhibit even when others questioned whether it was worth the effort. Her refusing to leave out families whose contributions seemed small to others. The way she'd agonized over how to arrange the displays fairly. Her unshakable conviction that every story mattered.
The quiet determination with which she'd refused to let him disappear from the Roll of Honor.
One memory after another settled into place. She hadn't simply been preserving history. She'd been quietly answering the hurt she'd carried since childhood.
Wilson rested both hands on the workbench and let out a slow breath.
This was why it all mattered so much to her.
As Mercy stepped out of the church on Sunday, her gaze scanned the clusters of people in the churchyard for Wilson.
She spotted him standing a little apart from the others.
He seemed perfectly content simply to wait.
They exchanged a quick smile across the distance then she stepped down beside her mother to join the people milling about.
The two of them moved slowly through the churchyard, exchanging greetings with friends and neighbors. As they finally turned toward home, Wilson fell into step beside them, tipping his head in greeting.
Margaret soon drew Wilson into conversation over Reverend Fields's sermon, asking what he thought of one particular point.
Mercy smiled to herself as he answered with more than the brief reply he might once have offered.
Before long, the conversation wandered to other topics and Mercy was content to let the two of them carry the conversation.
As they walked through the neighborhood, Mercy couldn't help noticing signs of the approaching Centennial.
Here and there, bunting hung from porch railings.
But there were subtler signs as well. Flower beds appeared newly weeded and edged.
Fresh whitewash brightened weathered fences.
The whole town seemed to be quietly preparing for the celebration in its own way.
By the time they reached their house, the conversation had settled into the comfortable sort that wandered wherever it pleased.
The meal that followed was every bit as pleasant as the one before it, only this time no notebooks appeared, no family artifacts found their way onto the table, and no one thought to conduct an interview.
It was simply Sunday dinner.
Monday morning's committee meeting moved quickly. For the first time since planning had begun, there were few questions left to answer or issues to debate. Instead, members reported on work already completed.
Samples of patriotic bunting and fitted cloth covers for the display stands made their way around the room for inspection.
The fireworks were scheduled to arrive on June thirtieth, veterans had settled whether they would ride horseback, travel by wagon, or walk in the parade, and the children's patriotic program was nearly ready.
Everywhere Mercy looked, plans were steadily becoming accomplishments.
When her turn came, Mercy offered only one update.
"I've decided how to organize Colonel Briggs's collection.
" She glanced toward him before continuing.
"Rather than focusing on the war itself, I'd like the display to tell the story of what came afterward—how the men returned home, rebuilt their lives, and continued building their lives after the war.
I think 'After They Came Home' says it best."
Colonel Briggs nodded thoughtfully. "I believe the men would approve."
Mayor Caldwell closed the meeting on an encouraging note.
"Fifteen days from now this whole town will be celebrating important milestones for both our country and our own community.
Our friends and neighbors are counting on us to make it a celebration they'll remember for years to come.
Judging by what we've heard here this morning, I'd say we're set to deliver just that.
Keep up the good work, folks. It'll all be worth it. "
With the committee meeting behind her, Mercy settled into a familiar routine. Each morning began with a stop at the post office in hopes the War Department had replied to her inquiry, then she and Wilson spent the late morning at the annex before turning to their separate tasks.
Mercy devoted herself to working with Colonel Briggs's collection while Wilson quietly attended to the countless small adjustments the exhibit still required, crafting a stand here, adding a support there, and helping make the best use of the limited space available to them.
She began with the letters, carefully extracting the details that belonged in the exhibit while setting aside those too personal to share.
Some correspondents had written often enough for her to trace the broad outlines of lives built far from Hawthorn.
Others offered only scattered glimpses—a marriage here, a new business there, the birth of a child, a move farther west. Some letters, however, contained little she felt should be shared publicly.
As her notes accumulated, another pattern emerged, one she should have anticipated.
The letters revealed much about the men who had settled elsewhere after the war, but precious little about those who had remained in Hawthorn.
After all, the men who still called Hawthorn home had no need to write to Colonel Briggs.
If they wanted to speak to him, they could do so face to face.
By Wednesday evening, Mercy had drafted preliminary summaries for the veterans whose stories the letters could tell. The newspaper clippings and pamphlets would help fill in the stories of the men who had stayed—and, she suspected, round out many of the others as well.
Thursday morning began like the several before it, with a stop at the post office on her way to the schoolhouse. Perhaps today would bring the reply she'd been hoping for from the War Department.
The postmaster, Mr. Farley, looked up as she stepped inside and smiled. "Morning, Miss Owens. That letter you've been waiting on finally came."
Her pulse quickened. Would the War Department be able to provide the information she was looking for? After eleven years, was Griffin Fletcher even still in the army?
Mr. Farley reached into one of the pigeonholes behind the counter and handed her a single envelope.
She thanked him, accepting it with thoughts of the letter she would write to the Fletchers if this contained the hoped-for information. But as she glanced down at the feminine hand and the return address penned neatly across the back, she stopped short.
Mrs. Griffin Fletcher.
Fort Reno, Indian Territory.
For a long moment she simply stared.
Her letter had found Kate after all.
A smile spread slowly across her face as a dozen questions tumbled over one another in her mind.
Most of all, she wanted to know whose hands the locket had ultimately been meant to rest in.
Had Kate been sending it to a family member?
A dear friend? Who had she entrusted to carry Martha Washington's legacy into another generation?
Mercy slipped the letter carefully into her satchel. She was eager to read every word, but not standing in the middle of the post office. There would be time enough for that once she reached the quiet of the schoolhouse.
The newspaper clippings from Colonel Briggs's collection could wait a little longer.
Mercy let herself into the schoolhouse and closed the door behind her. The familiar quiet barely registered this morning. Her thoughts were already on the letter tucked safely inside her satchel.
Crossing to her desk, she set the satchel beside the neatly stacked newspaper clippings from Colonel Briggs's collection. She reached inside the leather bag, withdrew the envelope, and settled into her chair. Once again, her eyes found the name on the back.
Mrs. Griffin Fletcher.
At last.
All the questions that had surrounded the locket from the day Wilson carried it into the schoolhouse seemed to gather themselves into those few folded pages.
Would Kate finally reveal the last missing piece of its story?
Had the chain of stewardship ended with her, or had someone else carried the locket after she'd signed the parchment?
At the very least she would know where the trail led next.
Unable to wait another moment, Mercy slipped a finger beneath the flap, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter.
Mercy unfolded the pages and began to read.
Dear Miss Owens,
Your letter was a most unexpected surprise. I cannot tell you how glad I was to learn at last what became of the silver locket.
Eleven years ago, I entrusted it to the post with instructions that it be delivered to a dear friend.
When it never arrived, I feared it had been lost forever.
Never could I have imagined the remarkable path the Lord had prepared for it instead.
Time has since carried us all in different directions, and I am happy to say that my friend is now comfortably settled in a life of her own, blessed with a loving husband and family.
A smile touched Mercy's lips.
Whatever unanswered questions remained about the locket, at least this much had turned out as she'd hoped. The friend Kate had intended to pass the locket to had gone on to build the very sort of life Martha Washington's charge had envisioned.
She read on.
After reading your account of how the locket came into Mr. Porter's keeping, and of the great care he and his dear mother bestowed upon it all these years, I have come to believe it was preserved exactly as the Lord intended.
Our plans are not always His plans. Though I once believed I knew where the locket belonged, I now believe He has guided it into the hands of the person He intends to carry its story forward.