Wishful Seeing (4 page)

“I'm not sure what good that will do,” Thaddeus said. “This money came from my congregation. I can hardly go through the collection box and reject what they've offered. It would be as good as calling them thieves.”

Another almost inaudible response from the bank clerk, and then Thaddeus strode toward her, obviously exasperated.

Martha waited until they were outside before she asked what the problem was.

“Three of the banknotes were counterfeit,” he said. “The bank wouldn't honour them. The clerk said there's quite a lot of bad money around. Somebody's been shoving. The constables know all about it, apparently, but there isn't much anyone can do unless they catch someone in the act.”

“It was the notes? The Canadian notes that were no good?” Martha asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“It's just that sometimes we'd get bad money at the hotel, but usually it would be American coins. You really had to watch the nickels.”

“Oh well, I'm not out too much. They weren't big notes, just changemakers. The clerk showed me what was wrong with them, but honestly, I can't stand and peer at the money people give. And what am I supposed to do if it's no good? Hand it back and demand better?”

“No, I suppose not,” Martha said.

“Still, maybe we'd better forget about chicken for this week anyway. I don't want to leave you short.”

“We can use the money you gave me, if you like. I don't need anything right now.”

Thaddeus shook his head. “No. That's yours. To get what you want. That's the rule. It always was.” He smiled. “But thank you.”

They went to the farmer's market, where the stalls were heaped with late summer produce — potatoes, carrots, pears, a few early apples, and in several of the stalls, baskets of blueberries.

“Can you make a pie?” Thaddeus asked.

Martha looked at him with mock scorn. “Of course I can make a pie. Mine is almost as good as Sophie's.”

“A blueberry pie would go a long way toward making up for the lack of chicken.”

“Then blueberry pie was just put on the menu.”

Together they sifted through the baskets until they had a pound of the most succulent-looking berries.

Thaddeus fished in his pocket and handed over a note in payment.

The farmer looked at it closely before he took it. “Sorry to be so suspicious,” he said, “but there's been some odd money float through in the last little while. You can't be too careful.”

“So I've discovered,” Thaddeus said.

“That's what you need to do,” Martha pointed out. “Have a look at it first.”

The farmer tucked the note in his pocket and made change with coins. “No offence, sir.”

“None taken. I quite understand.”

They moved from stall to stall. Martha added potatoes, beans, and half a dozen plums to their basket. She was looking over some beets when raised voices at the next stall caught her attention.

“I won't accept this,” a man with a long grey beard said to the woman who was tending the stall. “This is bad money. I should know, I work at a bank.”

The woman was red-faced. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know there was anything wrong with it.”

“A likely story,” the man huffed, and when the woman offered him coins instead, he grabbed them and stuffed them in his pocket. “Should call a constable,” he muttered as he marched away.

Thaddeus walked over to the stall. “We ended up with some forged notes as well,” he said. “The bank says there's a lot of it around.”

“Just what we need when nobody knows what's happening with our money anyway,” the woman said, and then she looked at Thaddeus a little more closely. “You're the preacher! From the camp meeting. The one who's going head to head with the Baptist tomorrow.”

“Yes, that's correct,” Thaddeus said. “Will we see you there?”

Martha could see that he was pleased.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” the woman said. “I'm leaving the market early today just to make sure I get home in plenty of time to get gussied up before we head for Cold Springs. I'm looking forward to it. The whole neighbourhood's going, you know — even the ones who aren't Methodist or Baptist.”

“You never know,” Thaddeus said, “maybe they will be by the time the meeting is over.”

This was met with a deep chuckle. “Well, now I know who I'm putting my money on.”

The exchange seemed to put Thaddeus in a good mood for the rest of the day, helped not a little, Martha hoped, by the success of her blueberry pie.

The next day dawned warm and fair, a promising forecast for a full attendance at the Great Baptism Debate, as Thaddeus had come to think of it. The entire Small family, not unexpectedly, was eager to attend the meeting, even though it was a six-mile drive to the hall at Cold Springs.

“I know James is only assisting,” Mr. Small said, “but we'd all like to hear him. I'll hitch up the wagon so we can take all of us. Do you think young Martha would like to come along as well?”

Thaddeus appreciated the offer. He knew Martha would love to “come along,” as Mr. Small put it, but better yet, the Smalls could also bring her home again, leaving Thaddeus free to travel west after the meeting.

When Mr. Small pulled the wagon up in front of the manse, Thaddeus was surprised to see that James had tethered his horse to the back of the wagon, and when he had handed Martha in, he clambered up to claim a place beside her on one of the hay bales Mr. Small had laid out for seats. Thaddeus could see that Martha was less than pleased with this arrangement. She kept inching away from Small, and initiating conversation with one or another of his brothers.

It was still very early when they left Cobourg, but the sun wasn't far up in the sky before its effects were felt, and the women removed their shawls and wraps. As Thaddeus trotted alongside the lumbering hay wagon, he reflected that his choice of Cold Springs as the site for the debate had been a wise one. Their route was far west of the route the railway was taking and they were unlikely to experience any delays from the construction. Not that anyone would be working on a Sunday, of course, but any of the roads in the vicinity of the railway were rough and chewed up from the constant heavy traffic. They would still hit a number of bumpy sections on the way to Cold Springs, but the weather had been so hot and dry that the road had compacted into a surface as hard as granite. They should make good time.

They did, and not just because of the reasonable condition of the road. At each steep incline, the Small boys jumped out of the wagon and pushed, relieving Mr. Small's rather sad old mare of the necessity of hauling the full load. Martha and Mrs. Small cheered them on each time, and Thaddeus had to admit that it certainly sped up the entire process, and probably kept the horse from keeling over.

Between these heroic and rather comical episodes, Thaddeus reflected on the coming debate. He needed to make a good showing in order to keep people's enthusiasm at a high pitch, but he found that he was not particularly worried by this challenge. In fact, he felt energized by it. He had no need for special preparation. He already knew which verses he would cite to refute whatever the Baptist might say, and his logic skills were well honed after the spiralling and spirited discussions that had taken place at Dr. Christie's dinner table over the past two years. And after the dry struggle on Yonge Street, he welcomed the opportunity to address a receptive audience. Only once or twice during the ride did he caution himself against the sin of pride. Even though the Lord had blessed him with an excellent memory and a commanding voice, and he was only using it to further His cause, he should try not to be too confident. The Baptist might have some unanticipated argument to throw in his direction, and he would need to be sharp-witted in order to recognize and counter it, lest it trip up his argument.

As they drew closer to Cold Springs, they began to encounter streams of people — some riding, some in carts, some on foot — joining the main road from the byways and side roads they passed. They stared when they saw Thaddeus and whispered to one another.

“You're famous, Grandpa,” Martha called from her perch in the wagon.

“Go on,” he said. “They know I'm a preacher, but they're only guessing that I'm one of the speakers today. And I expect they're not even sure which one.”

He was pleased, though. His efforts to publicize the debate had obviously drawn good numbers. Now the rest would be up to him.

When they reached Cold Springs, Mr. Small had trouble finding a place to leave the wagon. There were carts and buggies everywhere, and a large crowd of people milling about in the yard. The hall was a small building, capable of holding perhaps forty or fifty people, if they all stood and didn't mind a close proximity with their neighbours. It would be completely inadequate for the numbers of people who had turned up.

James Small climbed down from the wagon and looked around the yard, then pointed speculatively to a huge tree near the fence line of the property. The towering oak cast a welcome shade over a large part of the yard.

“What do you think about setting up over there?” he said. “We'll never get everyone into the hall.”

“I think there will be a riot if we don't,” Thaddeus replied. It was a good suggestion. The small building would be uncomfortably hot, even if they were able to cram everyone into it. “I wonder if your father could move his wagon over there? It would make a pretty good speaking platform.”

“I don't know where else he can put it anyway,” Small replied.

Thaddeus left his assistant to organize the wagon while he moved through the crowd, letting everyone know about the change of plans. He spotted Leland Gordon helping his ancient mother down the rough path, and went over to welcome them. The old woman beamed when she saw Thaddeus.

“Looking forward to today,” she said. “There's nothing like a good preacher fight.”

“I can only hope it remains a war of words.”

“I've seen the fists come out on occasion,” she said. “I seem to recall that it was most entertaining.” She toddled off, cackling a little as she went.

“We're going to move into the yard,” he said to Gordon. “Under the tree over there. You might want to steer your mother to a good spot.”

“Thanks,” Gordon said. “She'll never forgive me if I don't find her a seat in the front row.”

“You'd better get moving then. She's left you behind.”

Thaddeus joined Small and his brothers, who were chivvying people out of the way so that Mr. Small could drive the hay wagon to the edge of the yard.

“It's a good thing we all came, then, isn't it?” Mr. Small called. “My wagon will make you a grand platform.”

Thaddeus waved, and just as he was turning to walk down the path to the hall, he saw the Howell woman walk through the gate, a girl of twelve or so walking sullenly a few steps behind her. Again, it was the blue dress that caught his attention — that, and the fact that, although it was by now quite hot, Mrs. Howell had wrapped a shawl firmly around herself.

“Good day,” he said, walking over to her.

She smiled at him.

She had the most pleasant face, Thaddeus thought. The smile started on her lips but quickly reached her eyes. They sparkled with it, and curved upward to form nearly perfect almonds. It made him feel as though he was the one person in the entire world she had been hoping to meet at that exact moment. He felt a little weak in the dazzle of it.

He found himself utterly speechless for a moment, then managed to recover and tip his hat. “Thank you so much for coming. You may want to make your way over to the tree. We're moving the service into the yard. There are far too many people for inside.”

She looked around. “I suspect that would be wise. You seem to have drawn quite a crowd. No one wants to miss the debate.” Her voice was deep, and she had a decidedly English accent. Thaddeus found the low timbre extremely pleasing to his ear.

“I can only hope that it reaches a satisfactory conclusion,” he said.

“For which one of you?”

Thaddeus grinned. “Why, for myself, of course!” and he was rewarded when she laughed, a sound that was every bit as charming as her voice. “I'm Thaddeus Lewis, by the way. Representing the sprinklers.”

“Yes, I know. I heard you at the camp meeting. I'm Mrs. George Howell. And this is my daughter, Miss Caroline Howell.”

“How do you do, Miss Howell?” he said.

Thaddeus could see that the girl was at that awkward age when children suddenly grow too quickly. Her wrists stuck out a little too far from her sleeves and her skirt had become too short, falling only a few inches below her knees. She ignored his greeting and slid a half-step behind her mother, so that he could no longer see her face.

Mrs. Howell appeared not to notice her daughter's rudeness. “My husband is looking for somewhere to leave our cart. He may have had to go quite a long way down the road.”

“We have a few minutes before we're due to start. I'm sure he'll be here in time.” Thaddeus hesitated. He wanted to continue this conversation, but could think of no topic that would be natural. Finally he said, “We're going to set up a pulpit of sorts under the tree. Why don't you go and find a good place to sit? He'll find you easily enough.”

“Most kind of you. I'll do that.” She was about to walk away when a sudden gust of wind caught one end of her shawl and blew it aside to expose her forearm. It was a mass of deep purple bruises, ugly mottled marks a few days old and starting to yellow at the edges. She gasped and quickly pulled the shawl over her arm again, then glanced at Thaddeus to see if he had noticed.

Thaddeus looked at her questioningly.

“I'm a foolish and vain woman,” she said with a laugh. “Our old cow kicked when I was milking her yesterday. I hoped the wrap would cover it enough that no one would see.”

The bruise didn't look anything like a hoofmark, though, and it was in an odd place to have been reached by the kick of a twitchy cow. Thaddeus was appalled. He had seen odd bruises on women too many times before. It was always a difficult issue to deal with.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, “There are things that can be done about cows that kick. If you need help with it, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” she said, reddening a little. “I'm sure it will be fine. Good luck in the debate.”

She moved quickly away, her daughter in tow. Thaddeus watched her as she walked toward the hay wagon, the slight hitch in her gait more noticeable on the rough ground. By this time, the crowd realized that their entertainment had been moved and everyone was jostling to find the best places to stand or sit, bunching toward the front and spilling along the fenceline. Mrs. Howell was quickly lost in the mob of people milling about.

Thaddeus resumed his course for the hall. As a matter of courtesy, he supposed he should consult with the Baptist preacher about the change in arrangements, although he had no intention of doing anything differently should the man object.

There was a crowd of people in the building, as well, jammed together onto the benches and standing up against the walls, fanning themselves furiously against the clammy heat that had built up as a result of so many bodies in such a small space. The Baptist was standing at the far end of the room, where there was a raised section of floor. He drew himself up as he saw Thaddeus coming toward him.

“Good day, sir,” he said, civilly enough. “I'm Phineas Brown, by the way.” He was sweating heavily.

“Good day. We have quite an audience,” Thaddeus replied. “More than will ever fit in here, I'm afraid. I think we should move the whole thing outside.”

He almost expected instant disagreement with this plan, but Brown nodded his head. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I'm pleased so many will hear the truth.”

Thaddeus let the statement slide by. This was not the place to make his arguments.

“I thought we'd set ourselves up under the big tree. We've commandeered a wagon to serve as a platform, so everyone can see. My assistant will lead the prayer and a hymn and then you can speak.”

A small frown. This man would like to have spoken last, Thaddeus knew, but after all, it was essentially a Methodist meeting and Brown was present only as an invited speaker. He could scarcely quibble about the order of service.

“If you're in agreement, then I suggest we wait another five minutes or so before we begin. I'll see you outside.”

Thaddeus waited by the oak tree until Brown finally joined him, then they climbed up onto the bed of the wagon where James Small was already standing. The crowd hushed and settled as soon as they saw the preachers. Thaddeus spotted Mrs. Howell off to the right of him, near the fence. She was standing with four other women who had managed to group themselves slightly apart from the rest of the assembly, as if there were an invisible line across which no one dared step. There was no sign of her husband.

Thaddeus didn't know why he was so distracted by Mrs. Howell's presence. He tried to shake all thoughts of her out of his mind. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

Small cleared his throat and waited for a moment until he was sure all conversation had died down. “Welcome to today's meeting,” he began, when he had gained everyone's attention. “It is exceedingly pleasant to see so many of you here today. Mr. Lewis and I decided that it would be appropriate to hold the service here in the yard, as otherwise not all of you could be accommodated.”

There was a murmur of approval at this, and as Thaddeus scanned the front rows he recognized several ministers who had apparently deserted their own services to attend this one. He smiled to himself a little. He stood every chance of luring away their flocks if he was on his game today.

Again, his eye caught the flash of blue to his right. He wrested his attention away, and tried to focus on Small's opening exhortation and prayer, but as he joined in the hymn that followed, his eyes wandered back to the fence again. He could not afford this. He looked for Martha instead, and found her over at the other side of the wagon, where she was sitting with one of the Small boys and two young men whom he didn't recognize. He would keep his eyes fixed on her until it was time for him to speak.

After the closing notes of the hymn had echoed across the yard, the crowd settled themselves with a great air of expectation. Brown stood to one side as Small outlined the parameters of the day's discussion.