Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (23 page)

"Reverend excused everyone early to tend their fields. The rain is getting pretty bad. There weren't many people there in the first place." Looking at the closed book in Catherine's hands, Jonathan asked sharply, glaring at Derek, "Have you finished?"

"Yeah," Derek said shortly. "We're finished."
If God loves Jonathan, ego, temper, and all, then He can't possibly fit me in there anywhere
, he thought sourly, walking out the door.

"Why are you so mean to him? It isn't like you to be spiteful."

Derek stopped. It wasn't polite to eavesdrop, but he wanted to hear this. What was Saint Jonathan going to tell his delusional, little wife about this blatant misbehavior?

Instead of Jonathan, Catherine spoke next, concern in her voice. "Darling?"

There was a pause.

"Darling, shh. It's all right. Shh."

Curious, Derek peeked through the door. Jonathan was kneeling on the floor beside Catherine's bed, his head resting on her chest. She was holding him, her arms around his shaking shoulders, her slender fingers stroking his blond hair

No. Derek did
not
want to see Jonathan cry. He didn't want to let himself even think that Jonathan was
capable
of tears. Walking down the hall as quickly as he could without tripping, he did everything he could to erase that scene from his memory.

Let him cry,
he thought viciously, throwing the stairway door open carelessly.
Let him cry for every selfish, cruel thing he's done in his life. There aren't enough tears in the world for him to do that.

With nowhere else to go, Derek went back to the kitchen. Beth was pouring water from the large, black kettle into the basin, humming to herself. "There's a bowl of peas that need to be shelled right over there."

Taking out a clean bowl, Derek sat at the table with the peas and began his work in silence. It was a full minute before he could make himself speak. "Beth, do you think God loves everyone?"

Looking up from her dishes, the woman looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose He must. Why?"

Popping the peapod he was holding open and digging the peas out, Derek said, "I don't know. Just something Catherine said. I mean, if God really loved everyone, why would He make them suffer? And how can He love people who hurt other people?"

"I'm a simple woman. Don't ask me to figure out how God thinks. Important people like Him have different ways of thinking than people like you and me."

He dropped the peas into the bowl on the table. "All right. But then how does Catherine know things like that? I mean, anyone can write stuff in a book. How is she so sure it's true?"

"You'd have to ask her that."

"Do you believe it?"

Stopping, Beth thought for a few moments. "My mother raised me to know that there is a God and that He does care for His people. That's as much as I can tell you."

Going back to shelling the basket of peas to go with dinner, Derek sighed. Beth wasn't helping him at all.

After dinner, Derek left the house, looking forward to going to sleep. The break in the heat brought on by the rains had long-since faded and now the warm air was making him sleepy. All he wanted to do was lie down.

As he walked around the front of the house, Mrs. Worthington called to him from the porch. She and Mrs. Smithfield were on the bench, chatting. "Derek, come up here."

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He still had Jonathan on his mind and he had to remind himself that getting an attitude with her wouldn't make him feel any better. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Over this week we'll be getting ready for a little gathering on Saturday. I want you to make extra sure everything is perfect. Clip the hedges and the lawn. Repaint the fences. The porch and the carriage house could use a fresh going-over as well. I want it done by Friday morning. Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And be quick about it when you get to the steps. I don't need to be tripping over you all week every time I try to step out my front door."

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated, continuing on his path to the stables. The sooner he was by himself, the better he'd feel, as far as he was concerned.

Humming to himself, his thoughts turning absently towards the sound of the rushing river, Derek wiped the last of the dust off the end table with his rag then shoved it back in his pocket.
It was only Wednesday, and he'd barely touched the list of chores he had to do. Aside from feeding the horses and taking care of tidying the grounds for the party, he'd been put back in the kitchen by an official order from Mrs. Worthington herself. Combining that with the time he spent tripping over Abigail and Bartholomew, he had precious few private moments.

"Derek, can we go swimming?"

"No, Abigail."

"Gabriel says there's a river that he goes swimming in."

"That's nice for him."

"Will you take me to it?"

"I can't. I'm working."

"Why?"

He sighed. Derek couldn't remember that distant time when he'd thought she was cute. Over the past few days, she'd followed him around, asking him questions and trying to get him to play with her. A couple times Mr. or Mrs. Smithfield had happened by at just the right time to scoop her up and whisk her away. Whenever Jonathan was his would-be savior, all he got was a smirk and an, "I told you so," glance.

An hour later, Abigail was still close behind him. "What are you doing now?"

"I have to paint the fences."

"Can I watch?"

If I said no, you would anyway
, he thought with annoyance, picking up the wooden bucket of white paint and walking across the driveway to the low gate by the flower beds next to the porch. Kneeling down, Derek began to paint the little boards.

Sunday's storm did nothing to ease the humidity, which was carrying over into the week with a vengeance. Monday and Tuesday were almost unbearable. Or so Derek had thought until Wednesday started. Compared to Wednesday, the previous two days had been a winter frost.

Sitting under one of the rose bushes, getting as much into the shade as she could, Abigail watched him, her huge eyes peering out eerily from under her golden curls.

"Derek?"

Scowling, Derek stared over his shoulder at Gabriel, who was strolling around the side of the bushes. "I'm busy. If it could wait."

Abigail adopted Derek's glare, narrowing her eyes at the other boy. The only appealing attribute the girl had, in Derek's opinion, was the way she imitated his dislike and annoyance for Gabriel and Mrs. Worthington.

"I was wondering if you knew where Blueberry's bridle is. Mrs. Smithfield wants to go riding, but I can't find it."

"It's not on the shelf by his gate?"

"No."

He sighed. With his list of chores growing by the hour as Mrs. Worthington "remembered" things she'd meant to tell him to do, Derek did not feel he needed to follow Gabriel around, holding his hand through every mundane, unimportant task he felt he needed to undertake. Why the boy thought he was competent enough to even saddle Blueberry for a ride was far beyond what Derek could understand.

Deciding it would be much more productive to just get Gabriel the bridle than to try and explain where it was or, taking even more time, explain how stupid he was for not having the sense to look where all the spare equipment was
always
kept Derek just stood up and started to walk towards the hill. When he noticed Abigail wasn't following him, he looked over his shoulder.

The little girl was leaning over the bucket, her braids dangling only inches from the white paint's placid surface.

"Abigail, leave that alone," he ordered sternly.

She sat up quickly. "Leave what alone?"

With a final, warning look, Derek strode up the hill, Gabriel following behind him. He wanted to get back as quickly as possible. He had things to finish, and somehow he didn't trust Abigail alone with the paint.

"She's cute, isn't she?"

"As a rabid bat," he replied flatly.

"She seems to like you, at any rate."

Not answering, Derek pushed the stable door open sharply. Mrs. Smithfield was standing beside Blueberry, her hand on his nose. The horse looked peaceful and complacent, his eyes closed. As Derek walked by, his right ear twitched and one eye opened for a moment before falling shut again.

Making more noise than he probably had to, disturbing not only Blueberry, but Lady Sarah Mary Ruth, Derek took one of the extra bridles off the shelf in the last stall and walked back to Gabriel. "Need anything else?"

Looking a little taken aback at the attitude, the boy said, "No. Thank you."

"All the extra equipment is always in the last stall," he explained needlessly. "If you look there and still can't find something,
then
come and let me know."

"All right."

With the annoyance that was slowly growing in his chest, Derek felt an anger spark somewhere in the back of his brain. There was no reason for it that he could see, but it was there just the same. Pushing the door closed, he heard Gabriel apologizing to Mrs. Smithfield for him. That only fueled the dark rage that settled in his stomach.

As he stomped across the field and down the slope of the hill, Derek began to calm a little bit.
You're just angry because of Mrs. Worthington,
he told himself. He was frustrated at having his house duties restored to him. Though he'd missed seeing Beth every day, he did not miss the dusting, the mopping, and the scathing comments from Mrs. Worthington. Having spent the previous two days back in that deplorable woman's company, Derek could feel a near-physical pull on the last of his patience. There was also the fact that the list of chores she had for him in preparation for the party was much more than anyone could have possibly gotten done on their own.

When he'd expressed this thought to her she said, in her sugary voice, "Perhaps you'll just have to skip a meal or two to get them done then. However you feel you must work your schedule, you
will
finish your chores."

To add insult to injury, Mr. Smithfield and Jonathan had been standing right in the room while she was scolding him for suggestion that something in her perfect, little world just might not coincide with the logic attached to the "real world."

"She's batty," he muttered, walking around the side of the house. "She's batty, and I have to put up with her."

For a moment, Derek smiled to himself when he saw that Abigail wasn't there, hovering over his bucket of paint. The moment passed quickly, however, as he realized that there was no bucket of paint either…

"No." Looking around franticly, he called, "Abigail? Abigail, where are you?"

There was no answer, not even the demonic giggle he was use to hearing when the girl thought she was doing something sneaky.

"Abigail!"

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Smithfield was standing on the porch in his fine coat and trousers.

Startled, not having noticed the man, Derek shook his head quickly. "No, sir. I just couldn't find "