Chapter 7 #5
She smiled and ran her fingertips lightly over the worn cover.
"Wilson said his father treasured it." And from the way he'd handled it, she could tell he did as well.
"Wilson?"
Her mother's question brought Mercy abruptly back to the present.
Her fingers stilled on the edge of the journal.
It had come out so naturally she hadn't even noticed until her mother repeated it.
But she needed to explain before her mother seized on it as another excuse to play matchmaker again.
"We agreed to use first names while we're working alone. We’ve been working together so much this past week it just seemed easier.
I suppose I'm becoming overly accustomed to it. "
"I see."
Mercy wasn't altogether certain her mother saw it quite the way she did.
Be that as it may, Mercy resolved to be more careful. The agreement to use first names belonged to the times when she and Wilson worked together in private. Beyond that, he was Mr. Porter, and she'd simply have to make the effort to remember that.
She settled more comfortably and turned back to the journal. She intended to begin where she'd left off earlier and read every word. Perhaps more than once.
Instead, she found herself remembering the conversation at the schoolhouse.
The firm set of Wilson's jaw. The stubborn determination in his voice. The absolute finality with which he had refused any role in the Centennial ceremonies.
She read a paragraph. Then another.
A moment later she realized she hadn't absorbed a single word.
The problem wasn't just his refusal itself.
She understood that some people disliked public attention.
What troubled her was how deeply the subject seemed to matter to him.
He certainly didn't strike her as someone too shy to stand before a crowd of neighbors.
And he wasn't ashamed of his family, after all he'd willingly agreed to let the Porter family be recognized.
He'd entrusted her with the journal and given permission to use items from the trunk in the display.
So why draw the line at standing beside that story?
Mercy sighed and looked down at the open page.
"What is it?" her mother asked.
Mercy glanced up. "Nothing."
Her mother's raised eyebrow suggested she found that answer entirely unconvincing.
Mercy hesitated, then smiled ruefully. "Mr. Porter continues to be the most puzzling man I've ever met."
Her mother drew another stitch through the quilt. "Mmm."
Mercy wasn't fooled into thinking her mother was disinterested.
Determined to focus on the journal, she returned her attention to Eleanor's words.
The entries proved every bit as fascinating as she'd hoped. Eleanor wrote of managing the household while Charles was away, of crops that failed to cooperate, neighbors who stopped by unexpectedly, and the constant challenge of stretching supplies.
One entry detailed her frustration over a goat that repeatedly escaped its pen. Then, a few paragraphs later, she described recruiting two neighbors and a sack of apples before finally managing to return the animal to its enclosure.
"Something amusing?"
Mercy looked up, surprised. She hadn't realized she'd made any sound.
"It's something Eleanor wrote. She spent nearly a full page chronicling a battle with an escaped goat.
" And in the process revealed a lot about herself—stubborn, determined, capable.
Mercy felt like she could have been friends with this woman.
Her mother laughed. "And who won?"
"Judging by the amount of space devoted to the matter, I'd say the goat,"
Another entry mentioned receiving a long-awaited letter from Charles only to discover half the pages had been damaged by rain before it reached her.
Eleanor's disappointment was vivid enough that Mercy felt her own throat tighten.
The journal continued in much the same fashion, each entry revealing another small piece of Eleanor's world—her hopes, her worries, her quiet determination to keep the household together while Charles was away.
The deeper she read, the more Eleanor's world came alive around her.
There were worries over shortages, concerns about neighbors, accounts of letters received and letters sent.
There were entries where Eleanor tried to remain hopeful and others where fear crept through despite her best efforts.
Through it all ran an undercurrent of quiet determination.
The other thing that came through clearly was her deep and abiding love for Charles, her fear of what this war might be doing to him and he longing to see him again.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
The sounds of the house faded. The scratching of her mother's needle became distant. Mercy found herself completely absorbed in the life of a woman who had lived a century before.
At first the references were brief. Mentions of his service. Reports carried by travelers. News passed from neighbor to neighbor.
Then, near the back, she discovered something different. Mercy sat straighter as she read.
Eleanor had recorded this story shortly after learning of the incident.
She heard it from a neighbor who was married to one of Charles’s men.
Charles had remained behind to help ensure the escape of his men when danger threatened their position.
The details were sparse, but the outcome was clear.
His actions had saved lives at great personal cost.
Mercy read the passage twice.
Then a third time.
This wasn't a family story polished by decades of retelling. It wasn't a newspaper account written by someone who hadn't been there. These were the words of the woman who had lived through the uncertainty and aftermath herself.
No wonder the story had survived.
She continued reading. Near the back of the journal, the handwriting changed.
Mercy paused. The next entry bore a different signature as well as a different hand. Curious, she read on. A few pages later the handwriting changed again, accompanied by yet another Porter name.
The journal had not ended with Eleanor after all.
Instead, succeeding generations had continued writing in its pages.
Not daily accounts.
Reflections.
Remembrances.
Thoughts on family, duty, faith, and responsibility.
As Mercy continued, a pattern began to emerge.
One Porter son after another had added his own reflections before passing the journal along.
One wrote briefly of serving during the War of 1812.
Another, years later, mentioned his time in Mexico.
Neither account dwelled on battles or hardship.
Instead, each reflected on duty, faith, and the quiet satisfaction of doing what had been asked of him.
Then she reached the final entry.
It was signed by Orson Porter.
Mercy slowed, reading each line with care.
His message was brief but deeply heartfelt.
He wrote of living honorably, cherishing and protecting those entrusted to your care, and preserving the good name handed down by those who had gone before.
The words read like the quiet counsel of a loving father, offered in the hope that future generations would carry the Porter name with integrity and gratitude.
Mercy rested her fingertips lightly against the page. No wonder Wilson had spoken of his father with such affection.
She found herself thinking back over everything she'd learned about the Porter family that day.
Charles's courage during the Revolution.
Eleanor's steadfastness while her husband was away at war.
Generation after generation of men who had quietly served their country when duty called.
And finally, Orson, whose greatest concern seemed not that his descendants accomplish great things, but that they live honorable lives and faithfully care for those placed in their keeping.
Was that why Wilson struggled so fiercely against public recognition? Had he grown up believing he could never quite measure up?
It explained some things. But not everything.
She thought of the look on his face that afternoon when he'd refused to let his family's name appear on the recognition board.
There had been more than stubbornness in his eyes.
More than simple discomfort with public attention.
For just a moment she'd glimpsed something deeper—something that spoke of pain rather than pride.
Mercy closed the journal gently. Instead of answering her questions, the journal had somehow multiplied them.
She stared thoughtfully at the lamp flame.
Perhaps that was part of the problem. Generation after generation had left their mark upon the family story. Charles Porter especially cast a long shadow. Growing up surrounded by such examples couldn’t have been easy.
Perhaps Wilson looked at those men and saw accomplishments he could never match.
The explanation felt plausible. And yet something about it remained unsatisfying. As though she had found only part of the answer.
Or perhaps none of it at all.