Vows we made shall bind me,
the girl I left behind me.
“Ye’re getting all weepy. Go back toThe Jolly Coachmen,” one wag called. “Aye!” and the crowd began, and Zach obliged.
Here’s the man who drinks dark ale and goes to bed quite mellow…
“Better yet, Newell. Time for bed,” the major said, and Zach saw the sense of it though his eyes had gone blurry. They left the tavern with arms around each other’s shoulders singing,
For tonight we merr-I be. Tomorrow we'll be sober.
CHAPTER6
The storm raged into Sunday morning, inclining the inn’s guests to keep to their beds. Patience, bedraggled and determined after a restless night haunted by visions of a tall man in uniform who alternately hid from her and sheltered her under his coat, ducked under an overhang and then darted across the stableyard.
She roused the boys from their sleep in the stall below the stairs with orders to join her at their meeting place in the carriage house, and bring Peter with them. Walter clambered up the stairs to convey the day’s orders to the older boy who’d been invited to the grooms’ loft. Sergeant Newell, he reported, still snored on his cot.
Carriages and wagons now occupied every available space, forcing Patience and the boys who straggled after to weave and wander through the maze to reach the corner allotted to the Academy denizens, a luxury really, considering they also took up a stall for sleeping. The space appeared smaller, as if the boxes marking it had been moved in a bit on the two open sides, and perhaps they had. Millie’s little family had been moved into their corner, and a rather muddy gig had been pulled forward as far as the wall and now stood right next to them.
Of Zachary Newell, Patience saw no sign; the intensity of her disappointment made her wonder if one dinner had sent her common sense to the Antipodes. She had no reason to believe he had interest in her beyond dinner, and ought to remember the only men ever to show serious interest had been after her uncle’s favor, not hers.
Then again, even the grooms were just waking up and seeing to the horses in their stalls around the stableyard. Perhaps he’d appear later.
The boys wandered in, sleepy eyed and quiet, to sit at her feet. “I know things feel strange, lads,” she told them, “but today is Sunday. What does that mean?”
“Pudding at dinner,” Stump said to general laughter.
She gave him a glance meant as reprimand. “Anyone else?”
“It’s the Lord’s Day,” Walter said, wiggling a bit to get comfortable on the cobbled floor.
“No work,” Stump added, leaning back on his elbows and sighing dramatically to more laughter.
Panic shot through her.If I can’t think of work for them, what will they get into? I should have the boys clean that gig, Lord’s Day or not.
“Normally, yes. We’ll see what this day brings. But first, we give thanks for our blessings.”
Heads bowed automatically. Patience began the familiar spontaneous litany, “We thank you for the Brewsters who have been kind and generous.”
“Thanks we’re out of the rain,” Walter said
“And the roof didn’t smash us,” Peter said.
“We didn’t fall into the sea either—thank God for that,” Stump added with relish.
“I’m grateful for Sergeant Newell. He has good stories,” Froggy said, with conviction.
“Now petitions. Who needs our prayers?”
“Hercules is lost and scared. God keep Herc safe,” Norb prayed fervently.
“Who else needs safety from the storm?” Patience asked. Boys called out names of neighbors, family members and friends.
“Folks at sea,” Walter added, causing a ripple of unease to shudder through Patience. She’d watched the churning waves from the upper story windows the previous day. This morning it appeared as bad.
“Sergeant Newell feels poorly. He needs blessings,” Walter blurted out.
Patience blinked.
