But there were times she would have liked to know more about her biological father, although the wordfatherseemed like the wrong word entirely. She knew he had been hanged after a trial in Oregon City. She’d later read in the archives of the newspaper that the trial hadn’t really been fair. The government had chosen the Indians to stand trial based on the assuranceof some of the women who’d been at the mission. Most felt the men chosen were guilty—after all, they were Indians and in the area at the time of the attack. Some were less convinced. Nevertheless, they were found guilty and hanged. After this event, however, nothing more was mentioned about the guilty, and Faith had no way to learn anything about her history. At first she was frustrated by this, but as time went on, she found God had given her a sense of peace. Isaac Browning had been a blessing in her life. And the only father who really mattered was the one who had taken her in as his own, and Lance Kenner was a wonderful man.
Faith smiled as the trolley neared her stop. Lance had always encouraged her, even in her endeavor to become a certified doctor and surgeon. There had never been the slightest bit of condemnation in his demeanor that she wasn’t seeking a more feminine path. He knew what she was up against with the laws and her heritage, but Faith knew that if she sought to become a wife and mother, her father and family would support those efforts as well. They would always encourage her, no matter the path, as long as it was one that honored God first.
As Captain Gratton’s smile flashed through her mind yet again, she reminded herself that the love and support of her parents was all the family she needed.
CHAPTER5
Mrs. Weaver joined the boardinghouse residents for breakfast the next morning. It was Faith’s first real opportunity to meet the older woman, and she found her quite charming. Virginia Weaver’s appearance suggested frailty and shyness, but once she joined the conversation, Faith quickly saw that she was neither frail nor shy.
“I do love your fried potatoes and gravy,” the older woman declared in her Southern drawl. “It reminds me of home. Mother loved fried potatoes.”
“I thought Southerners were more given to grits and hominy,” Clementine said, scooping out a portion of sausage gravy.
“Oh, there is a love for those foods as well,” Mrs. Weaver said, smiling. “As a small child, I used to sneak out to the slave quarters to sample grits and gravy. They were a favorite of mine, but my mother refused to serve them, declaring grits to be slave food.”
“How sad.” Faith thought of her own upbringing, which encouraged sampling all types of foods. “I mean, if something is good to eat, should it matter where it’s from or who has suggested it?”
“I’ve dealt with people like that as well,” Nancy joined in.“We once had a summer picnic at church. Quite a few wealthy people attend our church, and when I revealed that I had brought corn bread, you would have thought I’d committed a crime.”
“Corn bread is a staple for most homes,” Mimi said, shaking her head. “Why be offended?”
“It’s my experience that the wealthy, more snobbish folk are always offended by something. My corn bread was a success, however, and I had no reason to hold their thoughts against them. If they wanted only white bread, then that just left more corn bread for those who preferred it.”
Clementine laughed. “Those people only deny themselves. I’ve seen such behavior in their children as well, but I’ve always tried to broaden their experiences. We’ve studied various cultures this year. Nancy got me thinking about it when we went to the Fourth of July celebration last summer. I now keep track of my children’s cultural backgrounds, and we have a special unit on each one. Their mothers often make food for us or even bring in traditional clothing.”
“Good for you.” Faith speared another piece of sausage. “Education is the way to lessen prejudice. Let folks see that just because we have differences doesn’t mean we are bad or unacceptable. The sooner people put aside prejudices, the sooner we’ll have peace in our country.”
“It makes me sad to suggest that will never come,” Mrs. Weaver murmured.
“It is hard to imagine the possibility,” Nancy agreed, “but it must surely be what we strive for in our daily living. If we ignore the problem, it’s not going to diminish.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Clementine agreed. “It’s amazing to me how much the small children in my classes hate some races or even genders. I have heard young boys deny thevalue of their female counterparts until I suggest that without them, humankind would be incomplete.”
Faith shook her head. “I imagine that was not what those children wanted to hear.”
“No,” Clementine continued, “but it is easy, as a teacher, to quickly discern what parents believe by what comes out of their children’s mouths.” She glanced up at the clock. “Oh goodness, look at the time. We’re going to be late, Mimi, if we don’t hurry.”
That declaration sped up the meal for everyone, even though Nancy, Faith, and Mrs. Weaver had nowhere in particular to be. Faith’s first class wasn’t until ten o’clock, so she eased back in her seat and sipped her coffee in leisure.
“I understand you’re attending college to become a doctor,” Mrs. Weaver said as Mimi and Clementine bid them good-bye.
Faith gave the ladies a wave, then turned her full attention to Mrs. Weaver. “I am. I’ve considered myself a physician since I was twenty, but this way I’ll have the paperwork behind me to back my claim.”
“I cannot imagine enjoying such ... intimate work.”
Faith nodded. “It certainly isn’t for everyone. The very thought of doing what a physician must do is overwhelming to most. But it’s my calling. I felt from a young age that God wanted me to work one-on-one with people. I had no idea what that would entail, but as I grew older, I found myself fascinated by the healing arts. It’s so fulfilling to comfort and care for someone who is injured or ill. It also allows me to share my faith, which is always a privilege.”
Mrs. Weaver nodded. “It is, isn’t it? Telling someone about God’s goodness and what He has done to benefit and protect us should always be considered a privilege, yet it so seldom is.” The old woman slipped several biscuits into her pocket as ifshe were doing nothing more unusual than placing her napkin on the table.
Faith had watched Mrs. Weaver throughout their meal. She was always slipping something into her pocket. At first Faith had thought she was taking the silver, but it soon became evident that the old woman was only interested in food. At one point she had wrapped several sausage links in a well-worn napkin before putting that in her apron pocket. What was she up to? Surely Nancy allowed her the freedom to come for food throughout the day should she need it.
Later, after Mrs. Weaver had retired to her room with a fresh pitcher of water, Faith asked Nancy about the situation.
“I used to think she had a hidden pet—that perhaps she had slipped a cat or dog in among her crates. I thought that was also the reason she refused to use the community facilities and instead insisted on a chamber pot. You know, in order to manage the waste. But I’ve never heard anything that would suggest an animal is on the premises. Surely we would have heard barking or mewing.”
“Perhaps because she lived through the War Between the States, she suffered from hunger. The South was very hard hit and deprived in order to force it back into compliance with the North. I’ve read that many people starved to death—especially in prisoner of war camps.”
“Seth suggested the same thing. For me, it really doesn’t matter. She has never been difficult to manage, so I refuse to interfere. The few times I have gone into her room, I never find it in disarray. In fact, she keeps better house than I do.”
