Chapter 6

Caroline studied her reflection in the mirror. She had been at the vicarage for over a fortnight, and already, there were signs that Nora's nutritious meals and mothering were making a difference. Her face was less gaunt, her eyes less haunted, and her curls less droopy. She fingered a ringlet, a pensive smile on her face. Giles was right. Her hair had once been the same butter-yellow color as Meg's, but over the years, it had turned a light brown.

She touched her scarred skin. It no longer hurt or itched, but the red pockmarks remained. They would likely be with her forever. She could only hope that just as her hair had darkened over time, the discoloration might fade.

"Are you ready, Caroline?" Her father's voice reached her from the bottom of the stairs, and with a start, Caroline realized that her time of contemplation had made her late.

"Coming!" Donning her bonnet, she tied the ribbons firmly beneath her chin, put on her gloves, and hurried out of her bedchamber.

Her father stood in the hall near the front door, a basket containing a loaf of Nora's bread and a pat of butter beside him.

"Forgive me, Father," she said. "I did not mean to keep you waiting."

"There's no hurry. Mrs. Trilby does not even know we are coming." He reached for her hand and drew her close enough to gently kiss her cheek. "I am simply grateful that you feel well enough to accompany me."

"I do feel stronger than I did when I first arrived," Caroline acknowledged.

"You seem less weary."

"How could I not be?" she said. "You and Nora have been so good to me. And to Meg."

"It's lovely to have you back. And truth be told, it's been rather refreshing to have Nora fussing over whether or not you and Meg finish your dinners. It means she pays less attention to what I'm eating."

Caroline laughed. "Nora has been marvelous, and it's very good of her to watch Meg for me this afternoon."

"I think she rather enjoys it," her father said.

Nora and her late husband, Tom, had never had children, which was probably why she'd so readily taken on a mothering role with Caroline all those years ago. Even though Nora was now considerably older, having Meg in the house was another opportunity to assume that responsibility.

"I'm most grateful to her," Caroline said.

"As am I." Her father picked up the basket. "Now we'd best be on our way before Meg realizes we are going out in the trap without her."

Caroline smiled and opened the front door. With every passing day since they'd arrived in Leyfield, Meg's fascination with animals had grown. First, it had been Lord Benning's calves and then the vicarage cat and the rabbits that populated the nearby field. The rabbits occasionally made forays into the garden, which thrilled Meg and frustrated Nora to no end. When no wild creatures were about, Meg gave her attention to her grandfather's horse, Daisy. Daisy was old and did little more than pull the trap a few times each week, but the slow-moving mare had fully won over the little girl.

Meg regularly asked about going to see Lord Benning's horse, but up until now, Caroline had resisted her pleas. Despite his kind offer, Caroline had no desire to pester the nobleman, so Meg had to make do with visiting Daisy in the field. If Meg were aware that Daisy was hitched and waiting outside the house, she would undoubtedly be there right away.

"I told her that I am joining you to make some visits," Caroline said. "Any sadness she may have felt over being left behind was quickly assuaged when Nora suggested that Meg make ginger biscuits with her."

Her father chuckled and followed Caroline to the horse and trap. "I surmised something of the sort was going on when I heard Nora in the kitchen a few moments ago." He placed the basket in the back and helped Caroline onto the bench before walking around the rustic conveyance and reclaiming the reins from the gate post. "We may be back home before Meg realizes we were gone."

They started down the lane, driving away from the village. A blackbird took off in a flurry of feathers, and a gentle breeze tugged at the ribbons beneath Caroline's chin. The sun shone brightly, and she turned her face upward, soaking in the light and warmth.

"It's a beautiful day," her father said.

"It's a beautiful place," Caroline added, gazing out at the rolling pastures, distant woodland, hedgerows, and meandering stone walls. "Truly, Father. As much as I loved being near the sea and watching its changing moods at Portsmouth, it cannot compare with the tranquility of Gloucestershire's rolling hills."

He smiled. "It has been my observation that those who find beauty and joy in their current circumstances will find it anywhere they may go; whereas those who always yen to be somewhere else will find those same feelings resurfacing no matter where they find themselves."

Caroline pondered that thought. Growing up, she had been happy in Leyfield. And even though she'd had many lonely days in Portsmouth, walking beside the sea and caring for Meg had brought her great joy. Although her return to Leyfield and her future plans were fraught with uncertainty, she already felt a new measure of peace. And that alone was reason for gladness.

"Thank you, Father," she said, grateful for his gentle counsel. "I will try to remember that."

He inclined his head. "I believe it is a principle you have already taken to heart, my dear. Your natural disposition is to look for the good, and it has always served you well."

Caroline raised a hand to her face. She had found happiness in a city filled with strangers and in a marriage that was little more than an occasional visit from the man she'd married, but did she have the courage to be happy with a permanently disfigured body? At this moment, the concept seemed overwhelming.

As though he sensed her inner turmoil, her father reached out his hand and patted hers. "It will be well, Caroline. God has not forgotten you. He loves you even more than I do—which, I confess, is something I struggle to comprehend."

Knowing that tears would start if she attempted to speak, Caroline set her other hand atop her father's and held it tight. She knew he understood, and it was enough.

The rolling of the cart's wheels and the lowing of cattle on the other side of the hedgerow were the only sounds that broke the silence until they rounded the corner and a small cottage came into view.

"Before we arrive at the house, tell me how Mrs. Trilby is faring." Caroline had not seen the woman at church, and placing her focus on another would be the best way for Caroline to move past her own raw emotions.

"Things have been very hard since her husband passed," Caroline's father said.

"How did he die?"

"It was an accident with a horse," he said. "If you remember, Will was the village blacksmith. I gather he was shoeing a skittish thoroughbred belonging to a gentleman down Tewkesbury way. A breeze caught a door, and it slammed closed. The horse reared, broke loose of its tether, and kicked Will in the head." Her father shook his head sadly. "He never woke up."

Fred had been seriously ill for almost a fortnight. As desperately as she'd desired a different outcome, Caroline had at least been offered a few days' forewarning of what might happen. An accident so wholly unexpected must have been a terrible shock.

"How awful for Mrs. Trilby," she said.

"It was. Nora tells me that she's been taking in washing and mending, but I fear those small things will be insufficient to make up for the loss of her husband's income. Not with four young mouths to feed beside her own." He pulled up in front of the cottage, a concerned expression on his face. "That is one reason why I asked you to join me. As her minister, I need to ascertain her needs, but sometimes it is easier for a woman to confide such things in another woman."

"Mother used to accompany you on such visits," Caroline said.

"Yes." For a fleeting moment, sadness touched his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by acceptance. "Like you, she had a way of seeking out the positive in a situation. It was a great boon when members of my flock were in need of encouragement."

Caroline was not sure that she was up to that task; she was barely surfacing from her own difficulties. But she could hardly retreat now, especially as one of the Trilby children was solemnly watching their arrival from the front doorstep.

Her father descended from the bench, and by the time Caroline had alighted, two more children had joined the first. Caroline's father lifted the basket and started toward the door with Caroline beside him.

"Good day, James," he said.

The tallest of the children inclined his head. "Good day, Reverend Moore."

"I wonder if your mother might be available?"

James nudged the little girl at his right. "Sally, go tell Mother that th' minister an' another lady's 'ere."

With a final wide-eyed look at their visitors, Sally disappeared into the house. The child's voice calling for her mother reached them through the open door. James shifted his feet awkwardly. His younger brother popped his thumb into his mouth. James swatted it out.

"What is your name?" Caroline asked, dropping into a crouch so that she could face the young boy before his tears began.

"S-Sammy," he said.

"And how old are you, Sammy?"

He raised three fingers.

"Good gracious. Did you know that is one of my favorite ages?"

Sammy's eyes had not left her, although Caroline doubted he could see much beyond her veil. "You like three?"

"Why, yes, don't you?"

He shook his head. "I's too little t' climb trees an' too big t' sit on Mama's lap." He sniffled. "Peggy's littler 'n me. She can't walk yet, so she alwus sits on Mama's lap."

Caroline's heart ached for the child. And for his mother. There had been many times when Caroline had wished that Meg had had a father at home so that she might be cradled in his arms, but Meg had never had to share Caroline's lap with another child.

"Reverend Moore!"

At the sound of a woman's voice, Caroline rose to her feet. Sarah Trilby was only three or four years older than Caroline, but during their youth, the age discrepancy had been enough that they'd not known each other well. Her dark hair was falling loose from a disheveled plait, and a large apron covered her pale-blue blouse and brown skirt. On her hip, she carried an infant. Peggy, Caroline assumed.

"Good day, Mrs. Trilby," her father said. "I hope that we are not interrupting something important."

"I'm doin' some washin', is all," she said. "Come in, please." She hiked Peggy a little farther up on her hip and backed into the small house. "It's nothin' that can't wait fer a bit."

They walked into a small parlor that contained two faded armchairs, a wooden rocking chair, and a small table. The wood floor was bare, except for a small rug up against the empty fireplace. The grate had been cleaned, but no fresh wood or coal had been laid, and given the chill in the room, Caroline wondered if it had been some time since a fire had burned there.

Sarah Trilby gestured toward the two armchairs, and for the first time, Caroline noticed the woman's hands. They were red and raw. Mrs. Trilby had obviously been washing clothes for some time.

"Please, sit down," Mrs. Trilby said.

"Thank you." Caroline's father set his hand on her back and guided her toward the nearest chair. "You remember my daughter, Caroline Granger?"

"I do." Mrs. Trilby eyed Caroline curiously. "What brings ya back t' Leyfield, Mrs. Granger?"

"My husband passed a couple of months ago." It was a franker response than Caroline had offered anyone else who'd asked, but it seemed important that Sarah Trilby know her situation.

Immediately, the other woman's expression softened. "I'm very sorry."

"I was sorry to hear about your husband too."

Mrs. Trilby lowered herself slowly onto the rocking chair. "Everyone says th' loss gets easier t' bear with time." She settled Peggy on her knee and smoothed her work-worn hand over the child's fair hair. "It's been four months fer me, an' I've yet t' feel any easin' in the pain."

A whisper of guilt echoed through Caroline's heart. Why was it that her loss no longer stung? "What has been most difficult for you?"

"I miss 'is voice, 'is laugh, 'is company." She sniffed. "'E were the best of men, Mrs. Granger. The young 'uns couldn't wait fer 'im t' get 'ome. No matter 'ow 'ard 'e'd worked at th' smithy, at th' end o' th' day, 'e alwus 'ad time fer 'em."

Caroline's gaze moved to the three children who'd now clustered at the parlor door, their faces somber. As much as she wished that Meg had shared a close bond with Fred, it was obvious that the loss of their father had taken a greater toll on these children than her daughter's loss had taken on her. Meg had only ever known an absent father. Fred's infrequent time at home had never lasted longer than two or three weeks—the kind of visit you would expect from a distant family member or friend.

Sammy's thumb was back in his mouth, and he inched closer to his mother.

"I'm sure the children miss him sorely," Caroline said.

"They do."

Mrs. Trilby reached a hand out to Sammy. He moved toward it. Peggy whimpered, the pout on her little face a sure indication that she was about to cry.

Acting on instinct, Caroline rose and extended her arms toward the infant. "May I hold your little one?" she asked. "It has been a long time since my daughter was this young."

A look of surprise crossed Mrs. Trilby's face. "O' course. I fear she's a mite 'ungry, so ya might find 'er a bit fractious."

"Hunger will do that." Caroline lifted the child off Mrs. Trilby's knee, pleased to see Sammy slip into the spot Peggy had vacated. Caroline turned Peggy away from the sight and offered the infant one of her bonnet ribbons. Peggy seized it with tiny, thin fingers, and Caroline took a moment to study the other children. Each one of them was slightly built, and their lean faces hinted that it was not only the baby who needed more to eat.

As though he had read her mind, Caroline's father lifted the basket he'd carried in. "I almost forgot," he said. "I brought you one of Nora's freshly made loaves."

Peggy's attention was consumed by Caroline's ribbon, but the gaze of every other member of the Trilby family fell upon the basket in her father's hand.

"You 'ave bread in there?" James asked in wonder.

"I do," her father said. "And some butter to go with it."

The boy swallowed and turned anxious eyes on his mother. "Can we 'ave it fer supper, Mother?"

"I think that would be grand," Mrs. Trilby said. "Thank you, Reverend. It's... it's been far too long since I made bread."

Caroline's father frowned. "May I be so bold as to ask if that is because you lack the time or the resources?"

She sighed. "Both, I fear."

"If the church can help—"

Mrs. Trilby shook her head. "We 'ave a roof over our 'eads, and we 'ave each other. That's what's important. It's good o' ya t' offer, Reverend, but we'll manage. There's others in th' parish with less."

The lines on her father's forehead deepened. "I would appreciate knowing if there are those amongst us who are in dire need. There is surely something that can be done to help our neighbors."

"I reckon times are 'ard fer most people these days. What with th' 'igh price of wheat an' all." Mrs. Trilby shrugged slightly. "'Course, that's if there's any wheat flour in th' shop t' begin with."

"Is it still bad here?" Caroline asked. "It was all but impossible to find wheat flour in Portsmouth last summer, but things were improving when I left."

"Aye. Last year were terrible. But truth be told, it ain't much better now." Worry filled her brown eyes. "I did 'ear that Lord Bennin' is growin' more wheat than 'e 'as afore. I'm just 'opin' that when it comes time t' 'arvest, 'e'll keep the wheat local. 'Eaven knows th' people of Leyfield need it."

"We must all pray for a good harvest," Caroline's father said.

"Yes," Caroline said, watching the children's expectant faces. "And the means to survive until then."

"Amen," Mrs. Trilby responded softly.

"May we do anything for you?" Caroline asked.

Mrs. Trilby shook her head. "Yer kind t' ask, but we'll manage."

Caroline was less sure. She recognized hunger when she saw it. Having experienced it herself after Fred's death made her even more keenly aware of it. She glanced at her father. His concerned expression had yet to fade.

"Please do not hesitate to reach out, Mrs. Trilby," he said.

"Thank you, Reverend."

He handed the basket to James, who took it reverentially.

Sally moved closer so she could peer inside. "Now, Mama?" she asked, looking back at her mother. "Can we have it now?"

"We have guests, Sally." Mrs. Trilby's voice held a hint of reproval.

The little girl's face fell, and Caroline knew that it was time for them to leave and for the children to eat. Untangling Peggy's fingers from her bonnet ribbons, she gently set the infant on the floor at Mrs. Trilby's feet.

"We shall go now," she said. "But if I may, I should like to stop by again at a later date."

"Yer welcome," Mrs. Trilby said, shifting Sammy off her knee so she could stand. "Please tell Nora we're most grateful fer th' bread an' butter."

"We shall." Caroline's father guided her toward the door. "There's no need to walk us out. You see to the children."

Mrs. Trilby paused in the center of the small parlor. "Thank you, Reverend. An' you, Mrs. Granger."

"Caroline," Caroline said. "Please call me Caroline."

The woman nodded and offered a tired smile. "An' I'm Sarah."

* * *

Caroline waited until her father drove the cart away from the Trilbys' cottage before speaking. "They need food, Father."

"That was my impression also." Her father's expression was grim. "But she will not take kindly to charity."

"Her children will starve if she does not."

Her father released a tense breath. "I will speak to Abel Wallace at the shop. It may be that he'd be willing to put a little extra in Mrs. Trilby's orders if the church pays the difference."

The idea had merit, but Caroline had a feeling that with Sarah Trilby's limited resources, her visits to the shop were few and far between. It might be several days before Abel was able to act upon her father's request.

"Are you willing to forego a few helpings of bread and milk at suppertime?" she asked.

Her father gave her a questioning look. "Most certainly, if it is for a good cause."

"I wonder if Giles would be willing to drive a little farther to drop off a portion of our daily milk delivery at the Trilbys' cottage." She clasped her hands together. Was she asking too much of the busy cowman? "It would not be too far out of his way, and I'm sure the children would welcome fresh milk."

"That is a splendid idea." Her father flicked the leather straps to encourage Daisy to move a little faster. "I shall endeavor to speak with Giles at church tomorrow morning. All being well, Nora's bread will help sustain the family until then."

Caroline leaned back against the wooden seat. It was a start. Perhaps if she thought on the Trilbys' situation long enough, she would conceive of another way to assist them. She reflected on her time in the cottage, on their brief conversation, and on how close Sarah's emotions had been to the surface when she'd spoken of her husband. Caroline looked out across rolling pastures, the guilt she'd felt in Sarah's parlor returning in discomforting measure.

"Father." She paused. How did she voice her inner conflict when she'd scarcely acknowledged it until now? "Sometimes I fear that there is something wrong with my heart."

Her father looked at her in alarm. "Are you in pain, child?"

"No. At least, not in a physical sense." They passed a lichen-covered gate. The bird perched on the post took to the air, and Caroline experienced fresh longing for freedom from the weight she'd been carrying. "You saw how much Sarah is grieving for her husband. It's in her voice, her eyes, and the way she speaks of him." She swallowed. "Why do I not feel the same about Fred's passing? He was a good man, and I cared for him, but... but I have scarcely shed a tear since my smallpox fever abated and I have been well enough to comprehend that he is gone."

For a few moments, the only thing that interrupted the rhythmic clatter of the cart wheels rolling across the road was the distant lowing of a cow.

"How did you feel when Fred left you in Portsmouth for his first voyage after your wedding?" her father asked.

"Abandoned," she admitted. "I cried for a week."

"And the second time?" he asked.

She turned to him. "My tears lasted almost as long."

He nodded slowly. "It seems to me that you experienced a portion of the grief most women feel at losing their husband every time Fred's ship put out to sea. Indeed, that first year in Portsmouth, you were even more alone than Mrs. Trilby, for you were surrounded by strangers and had no children of your own."

It was true. Caroline had never known such emptiness as she'd felt during those months, far from all the people and places she knew and loved. Later, caring for Meg alone had been a challenge, but her daughter's arrival had removed the piercing loneliness she'd known during her first year of marriage.

"The Bible admonishes us to mourn with those who mourn," he continued. "Because of your own experiences, you are uniquely qualified to do that for young women such as Mrs. Trilby. Do not dismiss the feelings you had all those years ago. They have given you the strength to endure what you have now been called upon to bear." He sighed. "And I must ask your forgiveness for not offering you greater comfort when you were mourning Fred's loss each time he left."

"There is nothing to forgive. I married Fred knowing that he was an officer in the navy."

"But not fully realizing the sacrifice that would require of you," her father said.

She managed a small smile. "I was young and in love."

"I suppose that is true." Her father remained pensive. "It is remarkable how God works within the confines of the most trying circumstances to help us improve ourselves. I would not wish the hardships you have experienced upon you or anyone else, but I see the strength and wisdom you have developed because of them. Indeed, the compassion you showed to Mrs. Trilby and her children today only goes to prove it and evidences that there is nothing whatsoever wrong with your heart."

Hope, pure and sweet, filled Caroline. If her father's impression was correct, she was not completely unfeeling. She had been grieving the loss of her husband for years. This last separation was merely more final.

She slipped her arm beneath his. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"I cannot imagine," he teased.

She laughed, and it felt rather wonderful. "Thank you for so willingly welcoming Meg and me back home."

"I would not have you be anywhere else, and you must stay for as long as you wish."

Caroline did not know how long that would be. Her focus had been placed so fully on regaining her strength, she had given her future less consideration than she ought to have done. She would need to find a way to provide for herself and Meg, but perhaps there was a way she might do that and remain in Leyfield.