Honey's Grace Page 3

  “No, stay where you are. I could do to stand and move around a little. I feel like I’ve been sitting in that chair all morning.”

  Honey always enjoyed Saturday mornings. She never worked in her daddy’s warehouse on a Saturday as he always did it. Goodman’s Merchant Warehouse was only open until midday on a Saturday and closed all day Sunday, as almost everywhere was.

  Honey loved the warehouse. By the time she was twelve, she knew every part of the business, much to her father’s delight. Not only that, but she loved it there. Honey liked the comfort of knowing her job inside out and upside down, not to mention the fact that she was a very sociable young woman who liked to chatter to every customer for as long as they cared to after their business was concluded. She knew she was blessed to have her means of making a living already there for her, just a stone’s throw from the house, and even more blessed to enjoy that living so much.

  But she worked hard and looked forward to Saturday morning in a healthy way; she didn’t spend all week longing for it, she just appreciated it when it rolled around again. It was nice to spend a morning with her mother as the bright sunshine streamed in through the windows of the large, square kitchen. Saturday was always filled with wonderful aromas; stewing fruit, freshly baked pastry, all the things Honey liked best.

  “Mama, do you like Marshall Thornhill?” Honey asked idly as she sat at the table watching her mother set about making them some tea.

  “Well, I can’t say I know him well enough, but he sure did seem like a nice and polite young man last week. And brave too. If he hadn’t come to your aid, I don’t care to think about what might have happened to you.”

  “I just wonder if he can be a nice man when his own daddy isn’t even close.”

  “We’re all our own person at the end of the day. We all have a responsibility to be ourselves. There’s no reason why Marshall wouldn’t be a nice man even if his daddy isn’t.”

  “I feel real bad about him getting hurt.”

  “I’m sure you do, but it wasn’t your fault. Those cowboys made a choice to be violent, not you.”

  “You know, I never did get along with Marshall Thornhill at school.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t get along now. Kids fight, but they get over it. We all grow up, Honey.”

  “Yes, but I reckon I just never gave him a chance back then.”

  “Why?” With the pan of water set on the stove, Trinity Goodman sat down again and smiled at her daughter.

  “I suppose I thought I couldn’t be nice to him.” Honey looked down and felt rather silly. “I knew his daddy wasn’t nice to my daddy, so I guess, I thought I would be disloyal if I was his friend, you know?”

  “Oh, Honey.” Trinity looked sad. “I’m not surprised; Kirby Thornhill sure had a bee in his bonnet about your father ever since we arrived in Oregon and I guess you heard a little more about it than you should have. I wish it hadn’t been obvious to you, though. I wish you hadn’t felt it your responsibility to be loyal to your daddy and me by missing out on a potential friend.” Trinity looked truly apologetic.

  “You couldn’t have known, Mama.”

  “I should have made it my business to know.”

  “Don’t go feeling bad about it because Marshall could give as good as he got back then. In fact, I reckon he was as dead set against me as I was against him.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not right. The feuds of fathers shouldn’t go trickling down the generations, or they’ll never come to an end.” Trinity was still beautiful and always, always wise—Honey loved her mama so much.

  “Maybe it comes to an end now? I mean, what with Marshall saving me and all and daddy giving him a ride home.” Honey felt hopeful.

  She didn’t know why it mattered to her so much, but it did.

  “I doubt Kirby Thornhill sees it that way. He was pretty ungracious when your daddy helped Marshall into the house.”

  “Was he?” Honey said and sighed.

  Dillon Goodman had driven Marshall home that night after the barn dance, but he hadn’t mentioned any conversation with Kirby Thornhill to her.

  “He fell to blaming you for the whole thing immediately, even before your father could give him the full facts of the situation. But young Marshall tried to fill in the gaps, so your daddy says. Still, Kirby Thornhill was never a man built for listening to any voice but his own.” Trinity shrugged.

  “I want to thank Marshall properly, Mama, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to with his daddy standing in the way like that. I wish there was something I could do. After all, if one of the cowboys hadn’t recognized him, he might have been killed.” She shuddered as she remembered the vicious kicks aimed at Marshall as he lay on the ground.

  “You’ll find a way to thank him, Honey.” Trinity rose and peered briefly into the pan before taking her seat again.

  “That’s just the thing which has kept me quiet all morning. I thought about thanking him at the barn dance when he next goes, but I reckon he might not. If that had happened to me, I would stay well away from it. Not to mention, I never saw Marshall at the barn dance before. I don’t think it’s a place he would normally go.”

  “Then you could go somewhere he would normally go.”

  “But I don’t know where that might be. Really, I know almost nothing about him, Mama.”

  “Then you could try going up to the house,” Trinity said slowly and cautiously. “If you’re really serious about thanking him.”

  “Do you think Kirby Thornhill would make me welcome?”

  “No, I doubt that very much. But at least you will have made the effort to show your gratitude for what Marshall did for you. In the end, that’s the important thing. Just be prepared for a few nasty words from his father, that’s all.” Trinity shrugged again. “It’s just a suggestion, Honey, you don’t have to take it on board. What you do in the end is your choice, not mine.”

  “But what would daddy say about that?” Honey raised her eyebrows; could she really walk up to the big house and ask to see him?

  “He would say that he’s proud of you for trying to do what’s right.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” Honey said as if accepting a life-threatening challenge of some kind.

  She reached out and took the small fruit knife from the table and began to peel an apple. Once she had finished it, she set it aside away from the ones her mother had peeled.

  “What are you doing?” Trinity asked with a bemused look.

  “I’m making a pie for Marshall, Mama,” Honey said as she began to peel the next apple.

  “Just use the apples I’ve peeled already.” Trinity seemed amused.

  “No, I’m supposed to be making the pie. If I don’t peel the apples myself, then I won’t have made the pie myself.”

  “So, you’re going to make the pastry too, huh?” Her mother was now holding back laughter.

  “Yes, I am.” Already Honey was wondering if this was such a good idea; she rarely did any baking at all and only ever with a great deal of input from her mother.

  “This should be interesting,” Trinity went on.

  “Mama! I know how to make pastry. I can make a real good pie for Marshall— you just wait and see.” Even Honey had begun to laugh now.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing Marshall Thornhill was kicked in the knee and not the stomach, otherwise your pie might be a bit of a challenge for him.” Trinity gave in to raucous laughter.

  “Mama!” Honey complained but laughed heartily.

  Chapter 6

  As she walked through the beautiful grounds of the Thornhill place, Honey could feel her mouth going dry. She felt a little off-center and hoped that she would be able to at least get the pie to the door without dropping it—that would be something at least.

  Continuing along the shrub-lined pathway, Honey distracted herself with the immaculate lawns and foliage. It seemed to her that not a thing was out of place. Even the flowers were set neatly into beds by order of colors and shades and sh
e couldn’t quite make up her mind if she liked it or not. Probably not, for nothing seemed quite real. It was like a dream of a garden—something that could only exist in the imagination. She tried to imagine a much younger version of Marshall Thornhill running about the lawns, making a den, or even climbing one of the many trees, and found she couldn’t quite see it. Not that she suspected Marshall of being a quiet child, she had firsthand, if dated, evidence to the contrary. Honey just couldn’t imagine a boy being allowed to play in such a space as this. A man who demanded his garden to be so impressive likely disallowed anything which would render it less than perfect. To Honey, that seemed like a terrible shame—an awful waste.

  When she finally reached the front door of the largest house for miles, she looked up. It was as pristine as the gardens, the walls painted a bright white, every window, and there were many of them, absolutely spotless. No doubt the servants worked tirelessly to keep everything just as their master demanded it should be.

  With a shudder, she remembered that her mama and grandma had worked there when they first arrived in Oregon. She remembered, too, that Kirby Thornhill, a young man then, had tried to bully his mother into being his girl. She wondered if it was that, more than the competition of business, which had made Kirby Thornhill hate her daddy so. She reached up and pulled a large bell on a chain, realizing that now was not the time to be thinking about such things.

  “Good afternoon,” a young maid said, smiling as she opened the door to her. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please,” Honey said with equal warmth. “Is Mr. Marshall Thornhill at home today?”

  “I shall just go and check if he is accepting visitors, ma’am. Please step in and take a seat right here.” The maid’s manners were lovely, but the servile nature of her job made Honey feel uncomfortable; she couldn’t bear the idea of one person being in service to another, it wasn’t right as far as she was concerned.

  “Thank you.” Honey sat down on the pretty floral pattern seat and clutched the apple pie.

  “Who may I say is calling?” the maid went on.

  “Honey Goodman.”

  Immediately, the maid’s expression changed. Only a little, but enough for Honey to see it. Although the young woman quickly recovered her former warmth, it was clear to Honey that the name of Goodman had been uttered often in that house, and not in a pleasing way. Still, she hadn’t expected this to be easy.

  “I’ll just be a moment, Miss Goodman.” The maid smiled and darted away.

  Honey sat alone for some minutes in the entrance hall of the house, so nervous that she couldn’t even distract herself by making a study of all that was around her. Instead, she sat staring down at the pie in her lap and began to wish that she hadn’t come at all.

  “Miss Goodman,” her name was bellowed in a deep voice from across the entrance hall, and she looked up to see none other than Kirby Thornhill marching towards her. “What can I do for you?” he said in a gruff and somewhat aggressive manner.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Thornhill,” Honey said and scrambled to her feet, gently inclining her head in respectful greeting. “I was hoping to have a few words with Marshall, sir. He was very kind to me the other evening, very brave, and I have baked him this little pie by way of saying thank you.”

  “I see,” Kirby Thornhill said slowly, his eyes lowering and falling disdainfully upon the pie.

  Feeling embarrassed, Honey held the pie out in front of her and Kirby Thornhill, clearly annoyed by her presence, clicked his tongue before turning to bellow for the maid to return.

  The same young woman who had let her into the house returned at speed, her eyes averted from Honey as if she owed her some apology that she could not possibly give in front of the master. Honey knew, of course, that the poor young woman could have done nothing else than go to her employer with the details of their guest, rather than his son. Honey did not blame her; it was likely more than the poor woman’s livelihood was worth to deliver her directly to Marshall.

  “Yes, sir?” the maid said, her cheeks reddening as she awaited her master’s instruction.

  “Please take this… pie… down to the kitchen,” he said, his disdain not letting up for a moment.

  “Yes, sir,” the maid gently took the pie from Honey, smiling at her shyly as she did so.

  “Thank you,” Honey said, not wanting the poor young woman to feel any worse than she clearly already did. “Mr. Thornhill, I wondered if I might have a quick word with Marshall? I really do want to thank him, you see.” She was determined not to leave without seeing him.

  Kirby Thornhill studied her for a moment, looking her up and down a little as if searching for something he recognized. But although Honey resembled her mother, her hair was so much brighter, and she was so much shorter, that they would not immediately be picked out as mother and daughter.

  “My son could have been killed, Miss Goodman,” he said in an accusatory tone.

  “I know, sir. As I said before, he was very brave.”

  “And perhaps a little stupid. I am of the mind that if a young woman chooses to set her sights on rough Cowboys, she rather gets what she deserves,” he sneered, and Honey was suddenly furious.

  “Mr. Thornhill, I did not set my sights on anybody. The reason the cowboys followed me was because I rejected their advances; I did not encourage them.”

  “Either way, not really my son’s fault, was it?”

  “No, not in the slightest, Mr. Thornhill. And that, sir, is why I am here to thank him. Most men, lesser men, would have left me to it,” she said and stared defiantly into his eyes, willing him to recognize himself in the description of the lesser man.

  “Honey?” Marshall’s voice, a little loud and very surprised, drew her attention sharply.

  He was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, looking for all the world as if he had simply been on his way from one place to another, and his mouth was a little open as if he could not quite work out why Honey was standing there talking to his father.

  “Marshall, I came to thank you,” she said, turning away from the father to engage fully with the son. “I baked you a pie, Marshall. I know it’s no real consolation for your injuries, but I wanted to be sure you knew just how grateful I am for what you did for me last week.”

  “Well, come on in, Honey,” he said and held out an arm as if to usher her deeper into the house. “Come and have a cup of tea with me, I’ve been housebound all week.”

  “Thank you,” she said uncertainly, casting a look at the furious face of Kirby Thornhill.

  She nodded at him respectfully before hurrying past him and joining Marshall who was already beginning to walk away, limping badly.

  “Goodness, that sure looks very painful still,” she said, her voice dripping with guilt.

  “I’m afraid it is.” He winced but smiled and swept an arm in front of him to guide her into a lavish and well laid out sitting room.

  He limped across the room to the fireplace and pulled a bell rope, presumably for tea. It all seemed so English, so Colonial, that Honey felt as if she were suddenly trapped in the pages of a novel. Her own family was certainly wealthy, but nothing like this. And yet there was an unreality to it all that Honey could not take to. Even if she had been raised in that house, one of the family, she was certain that she would never, ever be able to relax.

  “Take a seat, please,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Are you absolutely sure, Marshall? Your daddy sure did not look happy to see me and even less happy that you asked me to stay for tea.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have to join us, does he?” Marshall grinned. “I’ve been trapped in this house a week and I’m afraid it’s given me a reckless edge as far as my father is concerned.” He chuckled and Honey thought it a wonderful and pleasing sound.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “So, what type of pie did you bake for me?” He was still grinning, and she could just about discern the face of the schoolboy who had always been so an
noying to her.

  “Apple.” She shrugged and sat down. “And I openly admit now that I am not a competent baker. I’m afraid I tend to leave all that to my mama.” She grinned in return.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to it.” He hobbled back across the room and sat down in an armchair opposite her.

  There was an opulence to the room which made Honey panic. Could she manage to take tea here without spilling something on the beautiful Oriental rug, or dropping a crumb on the plush velvet covered couch?

  “I take it your knee is what’s kept you in the house, Marshall?”

  “Yes, I’m struggling to get up on horseback, so I can’t ride off anywhere. The stable lad, Jimmy, has offered to take me anywhere I care to go in the little wagon, but I don’t really have anywhere to go. Nobody to visit, I suppose.” He shrugged and Honey felt suddenly very sorry for him.

  Here he was, a young man who had every advantage and yet, if one scratched the surface, it seemed he had nothing.

  “You’ve been away to university, haven’t you?” Honey said brightly and he nodded. “Well, being away for a few years must make coming back seem very strange. Just give it a little time, Marshall, and you will soon pick up where you left off.”

  “I’m afraid I left here without very many friends, Honey.” He laughed. “I don’t mean to make you feel sorry for me, it’s just the truth. Once in a great while, I would find a friend that my father would approve of only to find that the friend’s family did not approve of me. Or my father, I suppose.”

  “Well, you are certainly approved of in our house, Marshall. I think my daddy will be grateful to you for the rest of his life. And I will too—I think I know exactly what would have happened to me if you hadn’t appeared when you did.”

  “It all worked out for the best though, didn’t it?” He chuckled. “Even if I did only get one good shove in.”

  “That one good shove was enough, Marshall. And after everything, I’m honestly surprised that you would agree to speak to me at all, never mind have me stay for tea.”