Moonlight on the Millpond, Page 2

  “Well, Jace,” Cathy greeted him. “What brings you into town?”

  “A file. Woody seems to have misplaced the one he likes and wants a new one.”

  Doyle would have normally handled such a request, but Cathy knew where the tools were stored.

  “We have one or two, I think,” she said, leading the way to the back. She dug in a drawer and put two long tools on the wooden countertop. The front door opened and closed, telling Cathy that someone else had come in, but she called that she’d be right out and stayed with Jace.

  “So how are you?” she asked. Jace had come to be a regular at the store and in their home, visiting them whenever time allowed. Both Doyle and Cathy liked and enjoyed him tremendously.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “We’re awfully busy,” he said, sounding tired. “I wonder how it will all get done before we have to be in the fields.”

  “Woody’ll show you.” Cathy spoke with supreme confidence. “He’s a master.”

  Jace nodded and looked down at the tools in front of him. He wished Woody would have come on his own. He wasn’t exactly sure which one to take. He knew he could return one to Cathy if he took both and let his uncle decide, but he didn’t want to have anything else on his mind.

  “I’ll check on you in a bit,” Cathy promised, and seeing he was going to need some time, she moved back to the front of the store.

  Jace barely heard her. One of the doors that led into the office was right in front of him, so he decided to slip in and ask Doyle.

  “Doyle, do you think Woody would have a preference between these two?”

  “Let’s see,” Doyle said. His voice was weary, but Jace was too distracted to notice. “I like the one with the curve, myself,” Doyle told him. “But it all depends on what Woody’s going to do with it.”

  Jace nodded.

  “Take both, let him decide, and bring the other one back.”

  “I think I’ll do that. Thanks, Doyle.”

  The older man waved him on his way, and Jace exited to discuss it with Cathy. Not five minutes later he was back in the wagon, the day’s post and files in hand, and headed back to the mill. He felt he’d taken entirely too long, but he was wrong. Woody thought he was back in record time, and with a slight sense of relief, Jace continued the afternoon’s work without further delay.

  Doyle Shephard closed up shop come evening, wondering when a day had been so long. He was tired, much more than his 48 years should betray, and all he wanted was to lie on the floor and sleep. Even making the effort to leave the store and go to his home some 30 yards away seemed more effort than it was worth.

  “Are you hungry, Doyle?” Cathy asked from behind him. He hadn’t even heard her and thought she had already gone home.

  “Not very,” he answered, not wanting to tell her how he really felt.

  “Please let me get Doc MacKay, Doyle,” she pleaded softly. “He’s not too quick to bleed a person. I’ll just slip over when the town center grows quiet.”

  Doyle wanted to argue. He wanted to fight this, but there was no fight left in him. Like an old beast working to carry his last load, Doyle nodded and made his way to the rear door. Once at the house, he completely skipped the parlor, where Cathy had laid out their tea and evening snack, and went straight to the stairway that led to their bedroom. Cathy was behind him the whole way. He lay down on the bed, not bothering with his clothing. So weary was he that he didn’t move, not even when he heard Cathy leave or when he heard the door again and realized she was returning with old Doc MacKay.

  Jace and Woody worked until sundown, but the walk home still afforded plenty of light. When they arrived, Jace knew that Clara would be gone to her own small home on a corner of the farm, but things would be laid for their evening meal: leftovers from dinner, tea, and something sweet to be enjoyed, perhaps the remainder of the pie.

  Tired and a bit labored in his breathing, Woody went directly into the house, but Jace lingered outside. The lowered sun cast a glow over the farm and farmhouse that Jace found irresistible. Not in his wildest dreams had he ever pictured himself living out of the city and in such a beautiful setting. Woody’s death could be pushed far from his mind at times like this. Jace was only glad to be here and not back in the stifling heat of the glass factory in Pine River.

  That he would someday be living here alone, without his uncle’s guidance and company, was not something he chose to dwell on, even as he realized that an opportunity such as this came along rarely. At times he tried to tell Woody how he felt. Twice he tried to thank him, but Woody would have none of it.

  “You’ll work hard or it won’t last,” Woody had said. “And I’m not as generous as you might think. I want to die in peace, and I can’t do that if I don’t know I have someone who wants to make this work, someone who is here to carry on.”

  Well, Jace thought to himself, I’m certainly that someone. Almost from the moment he’d seen Woody’s farm, he’d fallen in love. He hadn’t been as keen about the work at the sawmill, but that was before he’d tried it. Soon he found himself intoxicated by the smell of freshly sawed wood, and the satisfaction of filling orders and stacking boards he’d cut himself was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. His pride grew with each passing week, and before long he understood why Mr. Vargas, the owner of the glass factory, had come through on a regular basis. He cared in a special way. His was the pride and caring of ownership.

  “Jace?” Woody called from the house.

  “Coming.” Jace turned that way, but he didn’t hurry. The evening air was cool, and the sights and aromas were too tempting. Still looking around as though he’d just moved into town, Jace walked slowly up the front steps, the town of Pine River and the boardinghouse he grew up in a distant memory.

  “I hope you know,” Alison told Douglas as they readied for bed, “that I did some worrying today.”

  “Worrying about what?”

  “The donation. Will the church family keep it in perspective? Will the elders agree about what to do?”

  She would have gone on, but Douglas’ laughter stopped her.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” Alison told him, her dress half off. “At one point, I was in a terrible state. I wrote Mother a letter, and that helped, but I was worried off and on all day.”

  “I couldn’t tell when I looked at you over tea this evening.”

  “By then I was doing better.”

  Sitting on the edge of their bed, Douglas didn’t comment for a moment, thinking he’d done some fretting of his own. It had not been of the same variety as Alison’s, but along the lines that some sort of mistake had been made at the bank. They didn’t know who had given the money, so he had no real reason to doubt, but Douglas’ thoughts had moved to the person who gave. He prayed for this person and tried not to worry that it was too much for him or her, or figure out why the money was given, or why it was done anonymously.

  The funding is not important, Father; not really. It would be helpful to be able to give to our families who struggle to get by and maybe some day build a modest meetinghouse, but You know our hearts. You know the best time for this.

  “Are you all right?” Alison asked. “Did I say something to discourage you?”

  “Not at all.” He reached for her hand. “I had my own worries today, and I was still discussing those with the Lord.”

  Alison sat next to him, her hand still in his. They were quiet for a time, but both were prayerful—not for themselves—but for each other and, as always, for the folks of Tucker Mills who needed the good news that Douglas and Alison believed in with all their hearts.

  “It’s your heart, Doyle,” Doc MacKay told him quietly, not because the situation was dire but because he was a soft-spoken, kind man.

  “My heart is fine,” Doyle tried to tell him, but MacKay was patient and heard him out. “My back has been troubling me and I’m not sleeping as well. It’s probably just that.”

  “I
didn’t say you were dying, Doyle,” MacKay replied, cutting to the point. He was humble but certain of his estimation as to what was ailing this man. “It might be your back and the fatigue from that, but I think it’s your heart, and sooner or later, you’ll know yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” Cathy questioned him anxiously from the other side of the bed, picturing Doyle dropping dead without warning.

  “Just that he’ll have to rest more or he won’t be able to carry on. Your store serves the whole community. Doyle lifts and totes all day, carries heavy loads, runs the stairs, and climbs ladders. His heart is telling him he has to slow down a bit. The beats of his heart are irregular. I don’t think his heart is suddenly going to fail him, but it’s not the heart of a 25-year-old any longer.”

  Doc MacKay sat still after this little speech, waiting for further protestations or questions. They took a while to come.

  “Cathy knows the store, but she can’t do it alone,” Doyle pointed out quietly.

  “She doesn’t have to do it alone, but you’ve got to slow down. You might have to get someone in to do the hard work your body can’t do any longer. And Doyle,” the doctor added, “I’ve seen more than one case of rest that put a man back on his feet. Most doctors would bleed you, but that’s not my style. If you’ll take it easy for a time and let your heart rest up a bit, you might find you’re back to your old self again.”

  Doyle and Cathy looked at each other, and MacKay knew it was time to take his leave. He put his bag back together, and Cathy walked him to the front door, thanking him several times. She watched him walk down the path and then onto the street before going back upstairs to her spouse. Again they looked at each other.

  “Things will have to change,” Cathy said, not caring if Doyle fought her, not focusing on anything but keeping him well and alive. “We’ll do what we have to do to see to it that your heart gets better.”

  “And just what do you have in mind, Cathleen Shephard?” Doyle asked, having heard the tone in her voice and knowing she was ready to do battle.

  Battle worthy or not, Cathy was not immediately ready for this question. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she found her voice. Her chin rising, she told Doyle in no uncertain terms, “I’ll send for Maddie.”

  Two

  Boston

  Madalyn Shephard stopped her descent of the stairway, trying to decide if Mrs. Nunley had been calling for her. Hearing nothing else, she finished the steps, turned at the bottom, and headed toward the kitchen. She passed Mr. Nunley on the way, gaining a smile from him because he’d been caught coming from that room.

  It was their secret. Mrs. Nunley was firmly of the belief that the master and mistress of the house had no business in the servants’ areas, and that included the kitchen. Mr. Nunley, however, was not above sneaking into that room and sampling Sherry’s baked goods, all of which were mouthwatering. His waistline never gave evidence of this fact, so his wife was none the wiser.

  “Sherry,” Maddie said as soon as she entered. “The missus wants cinnamon in her tea this morning. Has she asked for that before? She said you would know.”

  “I’ve worked here for six years,” Sherry declared, hands flying into the air. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

  Maddie shrugged, her look just as confused but not letting the incident upset her. If she’d learned anything by living in someone else’s home for almost ten years, it was not to take things too seriously. She had seen the Nunleys leave for an extended trip with a few hour’s notice, and she had watched the same people become completely distraught over a slightly overcooked pork roast. Well, in all fairness, Mrs. Nunley was the only one who ever became upset over what was served. Mr. Nunley was happy to eat anything that was placed in front of him.

  He had told Maddie one time that he’d not been born into wealth and well remembered the days when he had nothing at all.

  “So can you take care of it?” Maddie finally asked, coming back to the task at hand.

  “Yes,” Sherry answered, but her tone said there was no pleasure in the task.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes to get the tray.”

  Maddie made her usual morning rounds, checking to see that curtains were open and that the early spring flowers were fresh in the vases. In the process of doing this, she ran into Paige, the Nunleys’ teenage daughter, the only one of their children young enough to still be living at home. She was standing in front of the large living room window.

  “Are you watching for someone, Paige?” Maddie asked.

  “How do we know,” Paige replied, turning without warning, “that the iceman doesn’t have a dead body in the back of that wagon?”

  “Paige,” Maddie began, as patient as she’d always been with the youngest Nunley’s over-active mind, “you really should be writing these stories down. You could be quite famous.”

  “Mother would never approve.”

  “She’d be scandalized at first, and then secretly pleased.”

  Paige shrugged good-naturedly, a half smile on her pretty mouth. “I can’t ever stay with one plot long enough. My mind rushes on to something else.”

  Maddie smiled at her understandingly and realized she was late getting the tray. She returned to the kitchen and then bore the beautifully laid tray upstairs, smiling in genuine fondness at Mrs. Nunley when she reached her bedside.

  “Did Sherry manage the cinnamon?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’ll have to tell me how you like it. I might want to try it myself.”

  “Have a sip of mine,” Mrs. Nunley offered, completely out of character for this staid pillar of society, but Maddie knew something that most people did not: Maddie was Mrs. Nunley’s weakness.

  Maddie had come to them when she was barely 17 to act as a companion and nanny to their young children. What no one had anticipated was how much Maddie herself would be embraced. Mrs. Nunley loved her as a daughter, and it wasn’t long before she was being shown preferential treatment. Maddie knew she was a servant in this home, but a treasured one to be certain.

  “That’s very good,” Maddie said, having taken a sip. “I think she might have surprised you with those little muffins you like too,” she added, lifting the lid from a small silver chafing dish.

  “They smell heavenly. Did you bring the paper?”

  “Yes. Where would you like me to start, the front page or somewhere inside?”

  Over the years Maddie’s job had changed. As the children began to grow and move on, Maddie became more and more a companion and confidant to Mrs. Nunley. They had several routines they followed, but Mrs. Nunley was not so set in her ways that she couldn’t do without Maddie.

  Afternoons were always for Paige. Paige was as close to Maddie as her mother, and the two seemed content to share her. Maddie had Sundays and a half day on Tuesday afternoons to herself. Some weeks seemed to be without end, but for the most part, Maddie was quite content with her lot.

  At the moment she was content indeed. She read to Mrs. Nunley for an hour, but then Mr. Nunley wanted his wife to accompany him on business downtown. Maddie saw them out the door, delighted to find herself free until after lunch. Taking a warm wrap and a letter that the missus wanted posted, she took herself off for a walk.

  Tucker Mills

  It was after Shephard Store hours, so when Jace arrived in town, he made a beeline for the Shephards’ house. He’d not seen the couple for a few days and had finally had the energy to venture out at the end of the workday. He knocked softly on the front door, anxious to know how they were doing. Cathy opened the door for him, delighted to see his face.

  “Come to the sitting room,” she welcomed. “Doyle, it’s Jace.”

  “Good,” Doyle proclaimed, glad to set the newspaper aside. “I’m sick of my own company.”

  “You look good,” Jace told him, having shaken the older man’s hand and taken a seat. “I think the rest has been good for you.”

  “Don’t let Cathy hear you say that,” he g
ave in a false whisper. “She’s so certain I’m going to rest for a full six months.”

  “I heard that,” Cathy called from the other room, and Jace smiled. It was one of the many things he liked about this couple. They enjoyed each other. They frowned at each other and even argued some, but they clearly delighted in one another’s company.

  “How are things working with Mic?” Jace asked, referring to their temporary help.

  “Don’t get him started,” Cathy cautioned, coming to the door with a dishtowel and a plate in her hand.

  “Let’s just say,” Doyle put in, “that we’re most eager to have Maddie join us.”

  “What day does she come?”

  “We assume she’ll come as soon as she gets Cathy’s letter. She might be on her way.”

  Jace nodded, but secretly he wasn’t pleased. He wished there was a way for the Shepherds’ niece to be there right now. She was needed now. At the same time, Jace asked himself what Maddie Shephard was truly like. Was she a hard worker? He hoped for the Shephards’ sake that they weren’t blinded by their feelings for her and that she truly would be a help to them when she arrived.

  “So tell me about the mill,” Doyle ordered eagerly. “Are you about done?”

  “We’re very close. I never thought I’d say this, but once our work moves to the farm fields, I’m going to miss the mill.”

  “Well, it comes again in the fall for a bit, and then a full gallop by the end of next winter.”

  “You should be thankful,” Cathy added to Doyle’s words. “If our millpond wasn’t fed by a river as powerful as the Hastings, you’d be operating only in the spring, no matter what.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Jace admitted.

  “I remember when my brother and I worked on the Hastings River,” Doyle chimed in, beginning to reminisce. “It was back in ’09.”