Betsy's Return (6 page)

“I'm glad you were able to come over for supper tonight,” Clara Andrews said as William entered her modest but pleasant home. “But I'm sorry that your housekeeper isn't with you.”

William nodded, wishing he didn't have to offer an explanation. “Mrs. Bevens sends her greetings, but she's been fighting a headache all day and didn't think she would be good company this evening.” While it was true that Mrs. Bevens had told William she had a headache, he was pretty sure the real reason she hadn't come with him tonight was because she didn't want to socialize with anyone from his congregation. She thought she was better than them and had tried to convince William that most of the people he'd come to pastor in Walnutport were uneducated and lacked all the social graces she felt were so important.

“My daughter, Hortence, is in the sitting room,” Clara said, gesturing to the room on her right. “Please, make yourself comfortable, and the two of you can visit while I get supper on the table.”

William scanned the hallway, then he glanced into the sitting room. Seeing no sign of Clara's husband, Frank, he asked, “Where's Mr. Andrews?”

“Frank's out in the barn, feeding the animals. He should be done soon, I expect.”

“Maybe I should go out and keep him company or see if I can help in any way.”

“No no, that's not necessary. My husband prefers to do his chores alone.” Clara grabbed hold of William's arm and practically shoved him toward the sitting room.

William felt like a bug trapped in a spider's web as he entered the room and took a seat in the chair closest to the door. Hortence, who sat on the sofa across from him, looked up from the needlepoint lying in her lap and smiled.

William nodded and forced a smile in return.

“You two have a nice visit.” Clara ducked quickly out of the room before William had a chance to respond.

He shifted uncomfortably on the straight-backed chair as Hortence stared at him, the ends of her thin lips turning up, and her lashes blinking rapidly against her faded blue eyes. While the young woman wasn't what William would refer to as homely, she was certainly no beauty, either. Hortence's pale skin made him wonder if she ever spent any time outdoors, and her mousy brown hair, parted straight down the middle and pulled back into a tight bun, looked dry and brittle.

Say something,
he admonished himself.
Anything to break the silence.
He cleared his throat a couple of times. “What's that you're working on, Hortence?”

Her smile widened as she lifted the piece of material and held it at arm's length. “It's going to be a pillow top—for my hope chest.”

“I see.” He loosened the knot on his tie a bit and squinted at the colorful needlepoint. “Is that a cluster of red roses?”

She nodded. “I hope to carry a bouquet of roses like this when I get married. Of course, I have to find a husband first,” she added with an unladylike snicker.

William cringed. He hoped she wasn't hinting that he might be a candidate as her future husband. “I'm ... uh ... sure when the right man comes along, you'll make a lovely bride,” he mumbled.

Hortence's eyes brightened, and she sat a little straighter, lifting her chin. “You really think so, Pastor William?”

“Of course. I've never seen a bride who wasn't lovely.” An uninvited vision of Beatrice popped into his mind. William had never seen his fiancée in her wedding gown, but he was sure she would have been a beautiful bride. Even though it had happened several months ago, the thought of her leaving him at the altar still hurt like a festering sliver. Hardly a day went by that he didn't relive that discomforting moment, and he wondered once more if he would ever get over the humiliation of being rejected by the woman to whom he had pledged his undying love.

William clenched and unclenched his fingers around the arm of the chair. If he needed to remind himself a hundred times a day, he would never allow that to happen again.

“Mother says that because of my planning and organizational skills I would make a good preacher's wife,” Hortence said, pulling his thoughts aside.

Unsure of how best to reply to the woman's bold comment, William stood and moved quickly to the unlit fireplace. He peered at the clock on the mantel. “I wonder what's keeping your father,” he said when the clock bonged six times. “I thought he would have joined us by now.”

Hortence sighed, and William turned to face her again. “Daddy always goes out to feed the animals just before supper, and he usually takes his time doing it. I would never say this to Mother, but I think he dawdles on purpose, just to get under her skin.”

William glanced toward the adjoining room, which he assumed was the kitchen. He wondered if the Andrews couple might be having some kind of marital discord and, if so, whether they would feel comfortable talking to him about it.

He shifted his weight and glanced at the clock again. When he'd accepted the call to Walnutport, he hadn't given much thought to all the details that went with a minister's job. During his time at seminary, he'd concentrated on Bible studies, theology, church history, and learning how to deliver a sermon properly. He knew that counseling and being available to the people in his flock during illness and bereavement were an important part of his ministry, but until he'd taken a church, he hadn't realized how unprepared he was for it all.

He glanced over at Hortence again, who kept staring at him in such a peculiar way, and wondered if he might have a spot of dirt on his suit coat. He opened his mouth, prepared to ask, when she blurted out, “I'm wondering why such a handsome man as yourself isn't married yet, Pastor.”

Heat flooded William's face, and he drew in a quick breath, hoping to diffuse the blush he knew must be covering his cheeks. “I'm ... uh ... that is....”

“Don't you think it would make your ministry stronger if you had a helpmate?”

A trickle of sweat rolled down his face and dribbled under his shirt collar. “The biblical account of the apostle Paul leaves us with the impression that he wasn't married, yet he had a very successful ministry,” he said in defense.

“That may be true, but—”

“Don't you usually help your mother with supper, Hortence?”

Hortence's mouth dropped open like a broken hinge. “Of course, but Mother said I should entertain you and that she would manage without my help this evening.”

“I see.” William sank into the chair, resigned to the fact that this was going to be a long evening. He hoped not all his supper invitations would turn out like this, and he prayed that God would help him remember to be friendly and sociable with everyone in the congregation, even the outspoken members like Hortence Andrews.

Betsy picked up the small, oval-shaped looking glass from her dressing table and peered at her reflection. Not wishing to appear too stiff and formal, she'd decided to wear her hair down today, secured at the back of her neck with a green ribbon that matched the high-necked, full-skirted cotton dress she had chosen.

“I hope I was right to agree to teach a Sunday school class,” she murmured as she set the mirror down and moved across the room to fetch her shawl and the satchel full of teaching supplies.

For most of the week, Betsy had wrestled with the idea of whether it would be good for her to teach the girls' class. Not until Papa said he thought she should do it and had assured her that he would be fine at home on the days he felt too tired to go to church had Betsy finally decided to give it a try. She knew she could either call on a substitute to teach the class or ask one of the ladies from church to come to their house and sit with Papa should it become necessary.

On Friday afternoon Betsy had gone to the parsonage and given the pastor her answer. He'd seemed pleased and said that if Betsy felt ready, she could begin teaching this Sunday.

“I'm ready,” she murmured, gathering her hand puppets and slipping them into the satchel. She moved back to the dresser and, with one last look in the mirror, hurried out of the room.

She hoped Papa might feel up to going to Sunday school with her this morning, but when she stepped into the living room and found him asleep in his favorite chair, she felt a keen sense of disappointment. How different things were now than when she was a young girl. Back then, Papa had risen early every Sunday morning and had never missed teaching the men's Sunday school class or preaching to the congregation he cared so much about.

I'd best let him sleep,
she decided.
Maybe he will feel up to coming to church if he rests awhile.

Betsy tiptoed out of the room and opened the front door, feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension about teaching a group of girls she barely knew. Would the children be eager to learn the Bible story she planned to tell them? Would they welcome her as their new teacher?

“I guess there's only one way to find out,” Betsy said with a lift of her chin; then she stepped out the door.

“If you won't let me take you to see the doctor, then I'm going to ask him to come over here and examine you,” Betsy told her father Monday morning as they sat at the breakfast table.

“I'll be fine. I'm just a little more tired than usual, that's all.”

“A little more tired?” Betsy pointed to the bowl of oatmeal sitting before him, untouched. “You stayed home from church yesterday because you felt tired; you ate very little supper last night; and you've been sitting at the table for half an hour without touching your tea, oatmeal, or your favorite cinnamon muffins.”

“I'm not hungry.” Papa's face looked paler than normal, and dark circles had formed beneath his eyes. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his forehead against the palms of his hands.

“Are you in pain?”

“Just some pressure in my chest, and I'm having a hard time getting my breath.”

Betsy jumped up from the table. “That doesn't sound good to me, Papa. You need to see the doctor today!”

Betsy paced in front of her father's bedroom door as she waited in the hallway for Dr. McGrath to finish examining him. She was glad the doctor had been available to make a house call, because Papa had been feeling so poorly that Betsy didn't think he was up to riding to the doctor's office in their buckboard.

Oh Lord,
she silently prayed,
please help Dr. McGrath think of something that might help Papa's heart grow stronger. I've only been home a few weeks, and I can't stand the thought of losing him.
She stopped in front of his bedroom door, tempted to poke her head inside and see what was taking so long.

Loud barking from outside drew Betsy's attention, and she moved over to the window at the end of the hall to look into the backyard. She spotted Bristle Face running back and forth, pulling on his rope, and yapping at two young boys who were walking by the house.

“I still need to see if someone will build us a fence. If something's not done, that dog will keep breaking free and running back to the parsonage.” She shook her head. “That sure wouldn't set well with William's housekeeper.”

The door to Papa's bedroom opened just then, and Betsy whirled around. “Dr. McGrath, how's my father doing?”

The doctor joined her at the window. “I'm afraid his heart has become weaker.”

“Is ... is he going to die?” Betsy hated to ask the question, but it had been on her mind ever since she'd returned to Walnutport.

“Short of a miracle, I'm afraid his heart won't hold out much longer.” The doctor pursed his lips. “What Hiram needs is a new heart, but since that's not possible, the best we can do is make him comfortable and see that he gets plenty of rest.”

Betsy drew in a shuddering breath. She thought she had prepared herself for this, but hearing the truth hurt worse than she could have imagined. “It doesn't seem right to give up hope,” she said in a quavering voice.

“Perhaps we should go into the sitting room,” Dr. McGrath said. “I'd like to discuss something with you.”

Betsy nodded and led the way down the hall. When they entered the sitting room, the doctor placed his leather bag on the table by Papa's chair and took a seat. Betsy seated herself on the sofa across from him. “What is it you wish to talk to me about?” she asked.

“I recently read an article that was published in the
New York Medical Journal
,” Dr. McGrath replied. “It's about an extract made from hawthorn berries, and it's used to treat various heart conditions.”

Betsy leaned forward as a feeling of hope welled in her soul. “Has there been some success with this extract?”

“Some. Of course, it's still in the experimental stages, and all the tests are not conclusive.”

“Even so, it offers a ray of hope, doesn't it?”

He nodded. “The article said the berry juice is not a cure-all for every heart condition, but in weak hearts with capillary congestion, it's been proven to have great benefit.”

“Will you try some of this extract on my father?”

“As soon as I get back to my office, I'll see about getting some hawthorn berries. Then I'll ask my nurse to pulverize them and make a tea.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I hope this is the miracle I've been praying for.”

As William came up the walk in front of the Nelsons' place, he could hear Bristle Face barking in the backyard. He was tempted to go around and greet the dog but figured he'd better make his call on Betsy's father first. Hiram hadn't been in church yesterday, and when Betsy said she'd left her father asleep in his chair, William had become concerned and decided to visit.

Just as he walked up the porch steps, the front door opened and Dr. McGrath stepped out. “Good afternoon, Reverend. I'm sorry I missed church yesterday, but I had a baby to deliver.”

“One of the women at church told me that Mae Gates had gone into labor. Did the delivery go well?”

“Mae had a healthy baby boy. Her husband, Andy, said he thought his son might make a good preacher someday because he's got such a good set of lungs.” The doctor chuckled. “Andy said he could hear the lad squalling all through the house.”

William smiled, then motioned toward the house. “How's Hiram doing? I assume you were making a call on him.”

“Yes, and I'm sorry to say that he's not doing well. His heart seems weaker today than it has on any of my previous visits.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I plan to try a new remedy, but a good dose of prayer wouldn't hurt either.”

William nodded. “That's what I've come for. That and to offer some encouraging words to Hiram and his daughter.”

“They'll appreciate that, I'm sure.” Dr. McGrath lifted his hand in a wave and stepped off the porch.

William rapped on the front door, and moments later Betsy opened it. “I came to see your father. Is he up to some company?”

She opened the door wider, bidding him to enter. “He's very tired, but I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you.”

William followed her inside. “Dr. McGrath mentioned something about a new medication he hopes to try on your father.”

She nodded. “It's a tea made with hawthorn berries. The doctor read about it in a medical journal.” Betsy's smile appeared hopeful. “Papa still needs a lot of prayer though.”

“I've been praying for him and will continue to do so.” William touched Betsy's shoulder. “I'll try to come by more often, and if you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask.”

She paused outside her father's bedroom door and leaned against the wall. “Actually, there is something I've been meaning to ask you.”

“What's that?”

“I was wondering if you might speak to some of the men from church about the possibility of putting a fence around our yard so I won't have to keep tying Bristle Face to a tree.” Betsy grimaced. “That animal seems determined to break free and run over to the parsonage, and I'm sure it's become quite a nuisance for you.”

William thought about the last time the dog had shown up at his door. Mrs. Bevens had threatened to chase him away with a broom. “I'm sure some of the men would be willing to build a fence,” he said to Betsy. “I'll be happy to help out, too.”

“Thank you.” Betsy released a sigh. “I have one more favor to ask.”

“What's that?”

“It's about my Sunday school class.”

“I heard that it went quite well on Sunday. The McDougal girls told me they liked your puppets.”

Betsy nodded. “I enjoyed teaching them, but with Papa taking a turn for the worse, I'm not sure I'll be able to continue teaching. I was hoping you might find someone else to take the class and maybe play the organ, too.”

“I'm sure some of the women from church would be glad to sit with your father while you're teaching.”

Betsy nibbled on her lower lip as she stared at the floor.

“Your help is much appreciated, and everyone at church benefits from your musical talents.” He took a step forward. “I don't think it would be good for you to stay cooped up in the house all the time, and I'm sure your father would agree with me on that.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “I ... I guess maybe I should take one week at a time and see how it goes.”

William nodded. “Is there anything else you wish to discuss before I see your father?”

“That was all.”

He turned toward her father's room and grasped the doorknob.

“Wait. There is one more thing.”

He pivoted back around. “What is it, Betsy?”

“Please don't say anything to Papa about the hawthorn berry tea Dr. McGrath wants to try. I don't want to get his hopes up.”

William shook his head. “Of course not. I'll merely offer some words of encouragement and pray with him.”

“Thank you, Pastor William.”