Read Online Susannah Morrow by Megan Chance - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Megan Chance
Tags: Historical
Ads: Link
center as well.
It had been many years since the meetinghouse was something to be proud of. The heavy shutters hung at loose angles now, and
at least two of the windows were broken out, covered over with boards. It was on the edge of swampland, so throughout the
summer, mosquitoes swarmed both inside and out. Now the swamp was still and cold; the few brown leaves remaining on the trees
spun to the ground, whipped by a fierce late-autumn wind. Tattered pieces of paper—announcements of wedding banns and sales,
new laws and births—fluttered from the nail-pocked wall beside the meetinghouse door. The latest announcement, of Mama’s death,
was ruffled from melting frost, but not torn, not yet. My father’s handwriting was still distinct and dark as ever, the iron
gall ink unfaded.
My father led us to the door. Behind him went my aunt, who carried two foot warmers, the coals inside glowing meekly through
the holes punched into the hardwood. Goody Penney stood just outside, holding baby Faith wrapped tightly in blankets and clasped
close to her chest. When my father greeted her, she held the baby out to him, saying something I could not hear. He shook
his head and backed away, and so she held the babe to my aunt instead.
Susannah put the foot warmers on the ground and reached for the child. “Ah, how precious she is,” she murmured. She cuddled
Faith so closely I could not see the baby’s face, nothing but the peek of a little gray wool-clad foot. Susannah looked up
at Goody Penney, and her face was alight again, as if some sun somewhere resided inside of her, but I knew it now for what
it was. I watched her carefully and bitterly. “How does she do, Hannah? Is she a good child?”
“Oh, there’s none better,” Goody Penney replied. “She’s a good eater, that one is. Better than my own babe.”
I did not like the way my aunt held her. I did not like how easily she’d taken the child. The Devil was crafty, and Faith
was so vulnerable now. I glanced at my father, not believing he could be deceived by her, but his face was carefully expressionless,
and I knew she had fooled him.
Susannah handed the babe back to Goody Penney as if she were loath to let go of her, and I saw her eyes lingering on Faith
as the goodwife tucked the blanket back around and made little clucking noises to quiet her.
“We’d best go inside,” Father said. “The service will be starting.” Then he left us, moving through the crowd to his place
on the west side, where the men sat.
Anxiously I hurried after, drawing Jude with me and leaving Susannah to follow. Here was a place where God was sure to heed
my prayers.
The shadows of the meetinghouse were barely eased by the weak light coming through the windows and the single candle burning
in the sconce next to the pulpit. Heavy ceiling beams were indistinct in the gloom, the unmatched clapboards of the walls
aging badly and irregularly, so that one looked cast in darkness while another seemed touched with light. Beneath the galleries
on either side, the room was so dim ’twas hard to see the faces of the people sitting there.
Some time ago, I had graduated from the back of the gallery where the children sat, and Jude was so quiet and well-behaved
that Mama had always kept her with us. Now I did the same. Our family was not rich, but Father had served on the Village Committee
many times, and Mama had worked often with the minister for Charitable Causes, so we’d been seated only a few pews from the
pulpit. We were in the center, so we did not have the high sides on each end to lean on—though it did not much matter; the
tithing-man would not be slow to jab any leaners with his long pole, and he was diligent in his walk up and down the aisles.
From where we sat, I could see almost everything in the meetinghouse except the back, where people sat in darkness.
Susannah put the foot warmers on the floor at our feet, but it was so cold
It had been many years since the meetinghouse was something to be proud of. The heavy shutters hung at loose angles now, and
at least two of the windows were broken out, covered over with boards. It was on the edge of swampland, so throughout the
summer, mosquitoes swarmed both inside and out. Now the swamp was still and cold; the few brown leaves remaining on the trees
spun to the ground, whipped by a fierce late-autumn wind. Tattered pieces of paper—announcements of wedding banns and sales,
new laws and births—fluttered from the nail-pocked wall beside the meetinghouse door. The latest announcement, of Mama’s death,
was ruffled from melting frost, but not torn, not yet. My father’s handwriting was still distinct and dark as ever, the iron
gall ink unfaded.
My father led us to the door. Behind him went my aunt, who carried two foot warmers, the coals inside glowing meekly through
the holes punched into the hardwood. Goody Penney stood just outside, holding baby Faith wrapped tightly in blankets and clasped
close to her chest. When my father greeted her, she held the baby out to him, saying something I could not hear. He shook
his head and backed away, and so she held the babe to my aunt instead.
Susannah put the foot warmers on the ground and reached for the child. “Ah, how precious she is,” she murmured. She cuddled
Faith so closely I could not see the baby’s face, nothing but the peek of a little gray wool-clad foot. Susannah looked up
at Goody Penney, and her face was alight again, as if some sun somewhere resided inside of her, but I knew it now for what
it was. I watched her carefully and bitterly. “How does she do, Hannah? Is she a good child?”
“Oh, there’s none better,” Goody Penney replied. “She’s a good eater, that one is. Better than my own babe.”
I did not like the way my aunt held her. I did not like how easily she’d taken the child. The Devil was crafty, and Faith
was so vulnerable now. I glanced at my father, not believing he could be deceived by her, but his face was carefully expressionless,
and I knew she had fooled him.
Susannah handed the babe back to Goody Penney as if she were loath to let go of her, and I saw her eyes lingering on Faith
as the goodwife tucked the blanket back around and made little clucking noises to quiet her.
“We’d best go inside,” Father said. “The service will be starting.” Then he left us, moving through the crowd to his place
on the west side, where the men sat.
Anxiously I hurried after, drawing Jude with me and leaving Susannah to follow. Here was a place where God was sure to heed
my prayers.
The shadows of the meetinghouse were barely eased by the weak light coming through the windows and the single candle burning
in the sconce next to the pulpit. Heavy ceiling beams were indistinct in the gloom, the unmatched clapboards of the walls
aging badly and irregularly, so that one looked cast in darkness while another seemed touched with light. Beneath the galleries
on either side, the room was so dim ’twas hard to see the faces of the people sitting there.
Some time ago, I had graduated from the back of the gallery where the children sat, and Jude was so quiet and well-behaved
that Mama had always kept her with us. Now I did the same. Our family was not rich, but Father had served on the Village Committee
many times, and Mama had worked often with the minister for Charitable Causes, so we’d been seated only a few pews from the
pulpit. We were in the center, so we did not have the high sides on each end to lean on—though it did not much matter; the
tithing-man would not be slow to jab any leaners with his long pole, and he was diligent in his walk up and down the aisles.
From where we sat, I could see almost everything in the meetinghouse except the back, where people sat in darkness.
Susannah put the foot warmers on the floor at our feet, but it was so cold
Similar Books
