Read Online Ghosts of Graveyards Past by Laura Briggs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Briggs
Tags: Christian fiction
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beliefs, though Arthur’s staunchly devout family would surely approve less of this practice than of the medical one she ran from the Darrow’s parlor.
But they continued to plan for a future that was uncertain in more ways than one. With Arthur’s improved health came also his chance to enlist. Six weeks after his first visit to the doctor, he came to see her wearing the coat and trousers his mother had dyed a dark gray with the help of walnut oil. He left with his hat in his hands, eyes full of regret as they met with Nell’s ahead on the path.
She had been to the neighboring wood and carried back with her a handful of violets. Her fingers crushed the stems when she saw his uniform, heart aching with the knowledge of where he went.
“I will tell Henry how you get on,” he promised, taking her hand in farewell. “Pray for me Nell—that I will do my duty as the others have and come through it to see you all again.”
“I will,” she said, reluctant to let him go as he moved further down the path. Before he reached the gate, she caught up with him. “Wait. Take one of these. For remembering home.” With a shy smile as she tucked a blossom through his jacket’s buttonhole.
The violet face peeked back at her with a friendlier gaze than that of somber, wistful Arthur when he looked back one last time.
8
November 1, 1862
Dearest Henry,
The rowdy doings of Mischief Night have left their mark on our town once again. Maple syrup was smeared on door handles, and Mr. Cray’s gate was taken off its hinges so that all his cattle escaped. Our house was among those spared, with Granny setting out the broken buckets from the garden to let the children take for burning.
Amidst all the trouble, the Hinkle’s youngest boy, Charley, received a painful wound to his leg. He bears it bravely and says it must be nothing compared with the danger a soldier faces.
“Nell? Are you there, dear?”
The girl stopped writing at the sound of her grandmother calling. The rattle of saucers and spoons told her the older woman was preparing tea for the doctor’s guests. Hastily, she laid her pen on the desk, her plain skirt rustling as she moved towards the family’s kitchen.
Pine planks creaked beneath her boots, the knots in the wood creating a pattern that was almost ornamental. The Darrow farmhouse was a rustic one, fashioned by her grandfather when the family migrated from Scotland years before. His craftsmanship—though not exquisite by any means—was all that Nell could associate with the man, since he died while she was still in the cradle.
“You should have called for me earlier,” Nell scolded the figure that was stooped over the table. “I thought Mama was with you,” she added, wondering what new task had called Mrs. Darrow away.
“She went with your papa into town,” her grandmother explained, shaky hands arranging a pot and tea cups on a metal tray.
Though nearly blind, Clare Darrow was sharp in every other sense. Her memory of the house’s layout was enough to aid her in this daily task as she insisted on brewing tea from the well water Nell fetched each morning. She preferred it even to water fresh from the spring, and the rest of the family had grown used to drinking it.
“Be a good girl and carry this tray in for the Hinkles,” she said, patting Nell’s hand. “I may be fit to stew it, but I dare not trust myself with the serving.” This was said with a wink. Her voice was still infused with the native accent of her birthplace in the Scottish Highlands. A strange thing, considering Sylvan Spring had been her home for almost thirty years now. Strands of white hair were knotted at the back of her neck, hands gnarled with age and a life of labor on the Darrow’s homestead.
At times, Nell fancied something of her grandmother’s quiet strength in her features—though none of the woman’s famous girlhood beauty had carried over if the reflection in her mirror was
But they continued to plan for a future that was uncertain in more ways than one. With Arthur’s improved health came also his chance to enlist. Six weeks after his first visit to the doctor, he came to see her wearing the coat and trousers his mother had dyed a dark gray with the help of walnut oil. He left with his hat in his hands, eyes full of regret as they met with Nell’s ahead on the path.
She had been to the neighboring wood and carried back with her a handful of violets. Her fingers crushed the stems when she saw his uniform, heart aching with the knowledge of where he went.
“I will tell Henry how you get on,” he promised, taking her hand in farewell. “Pray for me Nell—that I will do my duty as the others have and come through it to see you all again.”
“I will,” she said, reluctant to let him go as he moved further down the path. Before he reached the gate, she caught up with him. “Wait. Take one of these. For remembering home.” With a shy smile as she tucked a blossom through his jacket’s buttonhole.
The violet face peeked back at her with a friendlier gaze than that of somber, wistful Arthur when he looked back one last time.
8
November 1, 1862
Dearest Henry,
The rowdy doings of Mischief Night have left their mark on our town once again. Maple syrup was smeared on door handles, and Mr. Cray’s gate was taken off its hinges so that all his cattle escaped. Our house was among those spared, with Granny setting out the broken buckets from the garden to let the children take for burning.
Amidst all the trouble, the Hinkle’s youngest boy, Charley, received a painful wound to his leg. He bears it bravely and says it must be nothing compared with the danger a soldier faces.
“Nell? Are you there, dear?”
The girl stopped writing at the sound of her grandmother calling. The rattle of saucers and spoons told her the older woman was preparing tea for the doctor’s guests. Hastily, she laid her pen on the desk, her plain skirt rustling as she moved towards the family’s kitchen.
Pine planks creaked beneath her boots, the knots in the wood creating a pattern that was almost ornamental. The Darrow farmhouse was a rustic one, fashioned by her grandfather when the family migrated from Scotland years before. His craftsmanship—though not exquisite by any means—was all that Nell could associate with the man, since he died while she was still in the cradle.
“You should have called for me earlier,” Nell scolded the figure that was stooped over the table. “I thought Mama was with you,” she added, wondering what new task had called Mrs. Darrow away.
“She went with your papa into town,” her grandmother explained, shaky hands arranging a pot and tea cups on a metal tray.
Though nearly blind, Clare Darrow was sharp in every other sense. Her memory of the house’s layout was enough to aid her in this daily task as she insisted on brewing tea from the well water Nell fetched each morning. She preferred it even to water fresh from the spring, and the rest of the family had grown used to drinking it.
“Be a good girl and carry this tray in for the Hinkles,” she said, patting Nell’s hand. “I may be fit to stew it, but I dare not trust myself with the serving.” This was said with a wink. Her voice was still infused with the native accent of her birthplace in the Scottish Highlands. A strange thing, considering Sylvan Spring had been her home for almost thirty years now. Strands of white hair were knotted at the back of her neck, hands gnarled with age and a life of labor on the Darrow’s homestead.
At times, Nell fancied something of her grandmother’s quiet strength in her features—though none of the woman’s famous girlhood beauty had carried over if the reflection in her mirror was
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