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Authors: Lawana Blackwell
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the biblical ant, storing for the lean times,” Mrs. Kingston was saying. “Some things never change, do they? I find that very reassuring.”
“I ain’t gonter send the boys to thet school,” Mercy’s papa finally glowered.
“No?”
“No!” He jabbed in the direction of the ladder with his hammer. “So’s you may as well go away.”
Mrs. Kingston merely shrugged her regal shoulders. “Very well then, Mr. Sanders. I can see it’s useless to attempt to change your mind.” Turning back to Mercy, she said, “Would you mind helping me with those top rungs, dear?”
As her father expressed his contempt with a resumed barrage of hammering on the patched floor, Mercy lowered herself by four rungs and then held out both hands toward Mrs. Kingston. The elderly woman leaned down as if she would take them but then straightened again.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Sanders.”
Mercy’s father held the hammer poised above his repair work. He directed a grunt toward Mrs. Kingston, but mercifully it did not sound like any recognizable profanity.
“Would you happen to know of anyone in the market for a cow?”
“What?” he growled.
“Silly woman that I am, I happened to come into possession of a fine heifer from Mr. Fletcher of Arnold Lane this morning, and I don’t quite know what to do with her. You see, I reside at the Larkspur and—”
Sitting back on his heels, he said in a disbelieving voice, “Mr. Fletcher sold you one of his cows?”
“Actually, we made a trade. You see, my morning rambles take me down almost every lane in Gresham. On Thursdays I pass their farm and have had the privilege of making the acquaintance of Mr. Fletcher and his lovely wife. I’m not surprised you’ve heard of them. Their herd—”
“The finest milk producers in Shropshire!” Mercy’s father interrupted again. “But Fletcher won’t sell to nobody, the stingy—”
“As I made mention, it was a trade.” Mrs. Kingston picked another bit of straw from her sleeve.
Mercy could read her father’s thoughts as he studied the woman standing at his hayloft ladder. To have such an animal among his herd would result in some outstanding calves one day, thereby increasing milk production considerably in just a few years.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willin’ to sell her to me, would you?” It was a statement, not a question, for clearly he was beginning to understand that she had some other motive in mind.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Sanders.”
His green eyes formed slits. “What do you want, Mrs. …”
“Kingston,” she supplied. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”
“Thet school,” he said resignedly.
She smiled. “A little education never hurt anyone, Mr. Sanders.”
It was with a sense of great awe that Mercy accompanied the woman back through the barnyard. Finally when the gate was behind them, she sent out a long breath. “You knew you could make him change his mind, didn’t you?”
“Why, of course not, Miss Sanders,” Mrs. Kingston replied. “I’m not a prophet. I’m just as surprised as you are.” But the look in her blue eyes said otherwise.
Mercy smiled. She had seen something remarkable this morning—an elderly woman had accomplished what four men couldn’t.
She beckoned to Oram, who came trotting over right away and gladly accepted the responsibility of driving the visitor back to town. Handling the team and wagon was more enjoyable than scrubbing milk pails any day. “My papa doesn’t believe women should drive,” Mercy explained after Oram had hitched up Dan and Bob, the two speckled drays, to the wagon. “Or I would take you back myself.”
“That’s quite all right, dear.” Mrs. Kingston allowed Oram to help her up into the seat beside him, then she patted his shoulder. “I do appreciate this young man saving me from that long walk.”
“Yes’m,” Oram mumbled. But before he could pick up the reins, Mercy stepped toward the wagon again.
“May I ask what
“I ain’t gonter send the boys to thet school,” Mercy’s papa finally glowered.
“No?”
“No!” He jabbed in the direction of the ladder with his hammer. “So’s you may as well go away.”
Mrs. Kingston merely shrugged her regal shoulders. “Very well then, Mr. Sanders. I can see it’s useless to attempt to change your mind.” Turning back to Mercy, she said, “Would you mind helping me with those top rungs, dear?”
As her father expressed his contempt with a resumed barrage of hammering on the patched floor, Mercy lowered herself by four rungs and then held out both hands toward Mrs. Kingston. The elderly woman leaned down as if she would take them but then straightened again.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Sanders.”
Mercy’s father held the hammer poised above his repair work. He directed a grunt toward Mrs. Kingston, but mercifully it did not sound like any recognizable profanity.
“Would you happen to know of anyone in the market for a cow?”
“What?” he growled.
“Silly woman that I am, I happened to come into possession of a fine heifer from Mr. Fletcher of Arnold Lane this morning, and I don’t quite know what to do with her. You see, I reside at the Larkspur and—”
Sitting back on his heels, he said in a disbelieving voice, “Mr. Fletcher sold you one of his cows?”
“Actually, we made a trade. You see, my morning rambles take me down almost every lane in Gresham. On Thursdays I pass their farm and have had the privilege of making the acquaintance of Mr. Fletcher and his lovely wife. I’m not surprised you’ve heard of them. Their herd—”
“The finest milk producers in Shropshire!” Mercy’s father interrupted again. “But Fletcher won’t sell to nobody, the stingy—”
“As I made mention, it was a trade.” Mrs. Kingston picked another bit of straw from her sleeve.
Mercy could read her father’s thoughts as he studied the woman standing at his hayloft ladder. To have such an animal among his herd would result in some outstanding calves one day, thereby increasing milk production considerably in just a few years.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willin’ to sell her to me, would you?” It was a statement, not a question, for clearly he was beginning to understand that she had some other motive in mind.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Sanders.”
His green eyes formed slits. “What do you want, Mrs. …”
“Kingston,” she supplied. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”
“Thet school,” he said resignedly.
She smiled. “A little education never hurt anyone, Mr. Sanders.”
It was with a sense of great awe that Mercy accompanied the woman back through the barnyard. Finally when the gate was behind them, she sent out a long breath. “You knew you could make him change his mind, didn’t you?”
“Why, of course not, Miss Sanders,” Mrs. Kingston replied. “I’m not a prophet. I’m just as surprised as you are.” But the look in her blue eyes said otherwise.
Mercy smiled. She had seen something remarkable this morning—an elderly woman had accomplished what four men couldn’t.
She beckoned to Oram, who came trotting over right away and gladly accepted the responsibility of driving the visitor back to town. Handling the team and wagon was more enjoyable than scrubbing milk pails any day. “My papa doesn’t believe women should drive,” Mercy explained after Oram had hitched up Dan and Bob, the two speckled drays, to the wagon. “Or I would take you back myself.”
“That’s quite all right, dear.” Mrs. Kingston allowed Oram to help her up into the seat beside him, then she patted his shoulder. “I do appreciate this young man saving me from that long walk.”
“Yes’m,” Oram mumbled. But before he could pick up the reins, Mercy stepped toward the wagon again.
“May I ask what
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