Page 8 of The Preacher's Wife
“Mrs. Holstead won’t mind that I’m in her home?”
Although not naturally suspicious, the idea of someone entering her home without her knowledge bothered Prudence. She wondered why Mrs. Holstead was so trusting.
“Not at all. We have a key to keep the house while she is away. If we hadn’t provided you with a safe place for respite, she would have been even more offended.” The woman started lighting the potbelly stove in the corner, and Prudence noticed there was a stack of wood nearby as well. She could keep the stove going for the evening, as well as the fire in the main room. As they walked past, she noticed there had been a settee in front of the fireplace. After a bath, Prudence thought resting there sounded divine.
“I believe you’re all set.” Mrs. Fitzgerald clapped, bringing Prudence’s tired brain back to the present. “The kettle is warming. I would suggest a bowl bath for tonight, and I’ll have Herbert help bring in the tub tomorrow for you. There should also be enough extra water for you to make some oats. Do you need anything else?”
“Herbert?”Hubert? He couldn’t be in town if his mother had just mentioned his being in Colorado.Prudence’s shoulders slumped with confusion and exhaustion.
“Oh, Herbert is my husband. Hubert is my son.”
“Oh.” Prudence’s brain couldn’t form words of gratitude or think of what she needed to do next. Finally, she shook the cobwebs away. “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” she whispered. “I think I have it from here.”
“Just call me Althea or Mama. Whatever suits you best. The bedroom is right down here.” Althea pointed to a closed door at the end of the hallway as Prudence nodded. “I put fresh sheets on the bed, and there is a towel on the washstand. Now, get cleaned up, and I’ll come by and see you in the morning after breakfast. We’ll lock the door on the way out.”
Giving Prudence’s arms a light squeeze, Althea made her way back down the hallway. Prudence heard her talk to the Reverend, and then the front door opened and closed. The latch clicked into place.
With heavy arms, Prudence moved back to the front door and picked up her bag, carrying it to the bedroom. The satchel showed signs of wear, with soft and wrinkled leather from years of use. A delicate floral design in petti-point adorned the side, carefully stitched by hand with love and care. She treasured the possession that her mother had passed down.
She opened the bag and placed her few items on the bed.
There had been little time to pack anything before she left her father’s house and never looked back. She’d taken two chicken sandwiches, which she ate on the stage. Her winter undergarments, one day dress, her nicest dress to get married in, along with a pair of shoes, her nightclothes, and her Bible, which also belonged to her mother.
She had stitched a small amount of money into the bag’s lining, but it was only a meager sum. Her father had strict rules about any money she earned from mending clothes, forcing her to hand over everything she earned. She took on extra tasks thathe wasn’t aware of and carefully stashed away the money in a loose floorboard beneath her bed.
Maybe she could only buy a few things, but she held onto the hope that she could replace some belongings she had left behind once she was married. During the entire trip, she prayed her belongings would be enough if her husband couldn’t afford anything else.
She had written her father multiple letters, with no intention of ever mailing them. She prayed for his forgiveness, even though she was unsure if he would ever truly forgive her for leaving. Prudence had found solace with the Lord and knew that He had forgiven her for the way she had left. Perhaps she needed to seek wise counsel in the future to fully come to terms with everything that had transpired.
But for tonight, she would rest.
Taking the basin and bath sheet from the washstand, she walked back to the kitchen to see if the water had boiled. The kettle was steaming happily on the stove. Placing the basin on the table, she filled it with the hot water and refilled the kettle before setting it back on the stove.
Slowly and painfully, she began undoing the buttons and strings that kept her trapped in what once had been her favorite traveling outfit. A deep blue winter cloak with a matching traveling skirt, then her blouse and underlayers, fell to the floor.
The water was hot, but that didn’t stop her from reaching for the lye soap nearby and the cloth that Mrs. Fitzgerald had left on the counter. She scrubbed from top to bottom, wistfully considering trying to wash her long brown hair, but after reaching up to release the pins that held it, decided tomorrow would be soon enough. Mrs. Fitzgerald said that the Reverend would be by with a bathtub in the morning, and she could wash it then.
She tossed the dirty water out the kitchen window and returned to pour half of the next kettle into the basin, rinsing herself and feeling relieved to see that the water was no longer a grayish-brown color.
Using the bath sheet nearby, she tiptoed back to the bedroom and pulled the nightgown over her head before returning to the kitchen to make dinner. Locating the oats that her future mother-in-law pointed out, Prudence measured a small amount in a bowl and poured more boiling water over it, stirring until it resembled a thin porridge. Then she spotted a small honeycomb in a nearby jar.
Giving a happy squeal, she reached for the jar. It was as if these people knew her!
Once her belly was full, Prudence made her way to the front room, added another log to the fire, and grabbed a nearby blanket before curling up on the settee.
I’m glad I didn’t wash my hair, was her last thought as her eyes closed and sleep overcame her.
Hubert stepped off the stage in Omaha, feeling a sense of familiarity and comfort wash over him. This was where he grew up, where his parents still lived in the same house on the same street. He took a moment to adjust his wide-brimmed hat, pulling it down low over his eyes, and straightened the collar of his jacket. He could have headed towards the church and his parents, but he went in the opposite direction towards the Holstead’s house. The advice from his friends echoed in hismind: arrive clean and composed, project confidence, remember his manners, and start as he meant to continue.
He walked onto the porch of the house he considered his second home. Growing up, he’d spent as much time at the Holstead’s house as he did at his own home.
He inserted the key into the lock and entered the house. He froze mid-step, drawn in by the sound of a heavenly voice floating from the kitchen.
Taking off his hat and coat out of habit, he hung them by the door, then toed off his boots. He couldn’t resist the urge to investigate and quietly followed the music, his footsteps barely making a sound on the tiled floor.
He recognized the song about gathering at the river. It was one of Mrs. Masters’ favorites, and she hummed it all the time. Peeking around the kitchen doorway, he found a slender woman of moderate height working on something at the counter in front of the kitchen windows.
She’d tied her dark hair back into a single ponytail, and her body swayed to the rhythm of the song she sang.
