Brigit!” Peter tore into the barn, startling Fulton, who reared up slightly in protest. “Oh, sorry there, Fulton. Brigit, guess what! You’ll never guess! Just guess!”
She leaned against the stable door and studied the man she loved. “Why don’t we spare us all the pain of my trying to guess something I’ll never guess, and you just tell me?”
“Oh, right. Let me take a deep breath. Is he going to be all right?” Peter shot a concerned glance at Fulton, who was watching the minister warily.
“He’s fine. What’s the news?”
“Reverend Armstrong, the regional presiding elder of the church, is coming right here to Archer Falls!” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, which he waved in front of her. “That’s what the telegram was about!”
Why this was such exciting news was beyond Brigit, and she said so, with polite modifications.
“He’s coming here for a visit, Brigit, to see us!”
“To see you and me? Why?”
“No, to see all of us. To see the church and how it’s doing. How I’m doing. He was my mentor when I was in seminary.”
“You’re not worried, are you?” she asked him.
“I suppose I am a bit,” he confessed, “but mainly I’m excited to have him meet the congregation and to see how blessed I am.”
He grew serious. “I’ve learned so much from all of you, and I’m eager to share you with him.”
She studied his eyes for signs of tension and saw none. If she were in the same spot, she’d be a nervous wreck. Maybe he was simply hiding his feelings well.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered.
His face lit up. “Interesting that you should ask that. There is. Reverend Armstrong’s wife would like to meet the ladies of Archer Falls.”
Her smile froze. She couldn’t meet someone as important to Peter’s career as the presiding elder or his wife. She was only a farm woman.
“I’m thinking a tea would be good.” He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “I don’t know how much trouble something like this would be—I’m not exactly sure of what one would even have to do to have a reception of this sort. So tell me if I’m asking too much. Could you put together a tea for her?”
Could she put together a tea for the presiding elder’s wife? Could she flap her arms and fly to Minneapolis? Of course she couldn’t.
Her brain knew that, but her heart knew something else, and her mouth apparently had a mind of its own. “Of course I can.”
Was she out of her mind? Frantically she sought a way to take back the words. “I mean, I can’t … I don’t … I …”
But the expression on his face stopped her. What she saw there wasn’t just gratitude; it was also relief. And then it struck her: he wanted her to do it.
That alone was enough to stem her objections.
She, Brigit Streeter, was putting on a tea.
“Mary Rose, what do you know about teas?”
Brigit’s friend turned her nearsighted gaze at her as they sat in the yard of Brigit’s house. “I like strong black tea the best. One and a half spoonfuls of sugar or a quick slurp of honey to sweeten it. No cream. Why?”
“No, not that kind of tea.” Brigit shook her head. “I’m supposed to put on a tea for Mrs. Armstrong, the presiding elder’s wife, and I have no idea how to start.”
“A tea? You, hosting a tea?” Mary Rose laughed uproariously. “How did that happen?”
Brigit picked a clover blossom and shredded it. “I’m not really sure. I certainly meant to say no, but somehow I said yes.”
Mary Rose nodded knowingly. “Ah. I understand. When is this tea?”
“In two weeks.”
Her friend frowned. “I can’t help you then. I’m going to St. Paul with my mother to pick out the material for my wedding gown. Did you see the pattern we found? It looks a bit like Queen Victoria’s …”
Brigit paid only minor attention as Mary Rose launched into the details of her wedding preparations. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. On the contrary, Mary Rose was her best friend ever. But things like patterns and dresses ranked quite low with her.
Right down there with hosting teas.
“And Reverend Collins said he would,” Mary Rose finished with a triumphant beam.
Brigit had no idea what Mary Rose was talking about, but her mention of Peter brought her back to the conversation. “Peter said he would do what? I’m sorry, but I got lost in my own world there for a minute.”
Mary Rose laughed. “I do tend to go on and on when I get to talking about my wedding. I was just saying that Reverend Collins agreed to officiate at the wedding in September, depending on how the harvest is going. I want my honeymoon to be far away in Minneapolis, in a big fancy hotel, not in a wheat field here in Archer Falls.”
Suddenly the import of what Mary Rose had been saying these past three months since her engagement to Gregory struck Brigit. Mary Rose would be going away to live with her new husband.
What a day this had been!
Some days crept by, thought Brigit, and others simply tore past. It had been fourteen days since Peter had spoken to her about the tea, but she had managed to put off even thinking about it.
That was, until Peter mentioned it from the pulpit in church. “Reverend Armstrong will be visiting us this week. He and his wife are, in fact, arriving around noon today, and I’m looking forward to introducing all of you to them through some very special occasions. I’d like to remind you again that there will be a ladies’ tea this afternoon to honor Mrs. Armstrong.”
He smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the turmoil that churned in her stomach.
They were arriving today? She hadn’t done anything about the tea. What on earth should she do? Why hadn’t she given this any thought? Why did she always put things off until the last minute?
These were excellent questions, she realized, but they didn’t help her at all. She was still stuck, completely and totally stuck, in a dire predicament.
“Where shall they meet, Brigit?” Peter had spoken from the front of the church and was looking at her expectantly.
She had no idea where they could have this thing called a tea. She ran through the options. The church? Not with the pews. Her house? There were only two chairs. Peter’s house? If he’d wanted that, he would have offered.
She wanted to put her head down and cry. Peter would think—rightly so—that she was terribly inept. Again, the differences between them were brought vividly to light. In the same situation, he would have known what to do and, furthermore, done it right away.
Brigit did the only thing she could. She smiled brightly and said, “Let’s meet at the front of the church, and we can walk.”
Peter’s sermon was undoubtedly superb, but her thoughts flew around in her head like unsettled sparrows. She had to find a solution.
The worst part of it all was that it wasn’t only about her. This was about Peter and his career in the ministry. If she in any way made his situation perilous with the presiding elder, it could change his life’s work—and the countless souls he might yet touch with the Lord’s Word.
There was only one thing to do. Pray.
God, I am really in a pickle here. I don’t know what I can do, but I know I have to do something. Please help me out, God. Please!
Somehow she got through the service and was trying to slide out the side door when Peter caught her. “The plans for the tea must be going extremely well,” he said. “I haven’t heard of any problems at all with it. I suppose you decided on having it at the school. There really isn’t any other place …”
He chattered on happily while Brigit breathed a quick prayer of thanksgiving. How a tea held in a school could be elegant was beyond her, but she’d have to make it do.
She began to relax. Perhaps this tea was not going to be all that difficult.
As soon as she could gracefully slip away, she darted outside and ran across the square to the schoolhouse. She pulled on the handle. It was locked.
“Well,” she said to herself, “when a door is locked, you must find a key.” It was one of her father’s sayings, and she’d heard it often enough when growing up to have it ingrained in her brain.
A key. She needed a key. Who had the key? Her thoughts tumbled around each other like baby puppies, impossible to settle down.
“Brigit!” Her father called to her from the wagon. “Are you coming?”
She ran to him. “Papa, I need to get into the school. I have to set up the tea in there.”
“You’re having the tea in the school?” From the expression on his face, she knew it wasn’t her best choice. Sadly, it was her only choice.
“Yes, I am, and I haven’t got a lot of time to set it up.”
He studied her face solemnly for a moment and then asked, “Have you prepared at all for this, Brigit?”
She shook her head. “No, Papa, I haven’t.” Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “And to make it worse, I can’t even get into the schoolhouse. Peter will think I’m dreadfully disorganized because … because … because I am!”
Wordlessly, he leaped from the wagon and walked to the school and unlocked the door and returned to her. “You’re a fortunate young lady, Brigit. The only reason I could let you in is that I mended the window sashes in there yesterday and neglected to return the key.”
She dropped a kiss on his weathered cheek. “Thanks, Papa. You are a dear.” She dashed to the schoolhouse and in the front door.
The room itself was quite tidy but horribly inappropriate for a tea—at least what she knew of such functions. The first order of business was to move the desks out of their orderly rows.
She pushed. She shoved. She pulled. She tugged. The desks would not move. They were nailed to the floor.
She sank to the nearest chair and put her face in her hands. This was terrible. Just terrible. What was she going to do?
A sound outside reminded her that the guests would be soon arriving, and her chaotic thoughts scattered even more. What could she do to make the room more presentable?
The teacher’s desk was clear. Maybe a centerpiece would make it seem less … desk-like? Was there any way to salvage this?
The presiding elder and his wife wouldn’t see the beauty of the prairie, she thought sadly as she looked around the room. If only she could show them—
That was it! She knew what she could use as a centerpiece. She leaped out of the chair and ran outside, nearly running into a cluster of women who were standing by the steps of the school. “Oh, I’m sorry. Last-minute details, you know. Be ready in a minute!” she caroled to them as she tore past.
She knew exactly where to go. Behind the church, there was a stretch of even land where she and her father had often picnicked. Right now that area was flush with wildflowers. She scooped up as many daisies as her hands could hold, and she raced back to the school. This would have to do.
Well, she still had at least an hour. Even as she formed the thought, she knew it wasn’t good. Having a tea wasn’t the same as having tea. Why hadn’t she asked for help earlier?
An hour, an hour. It had to be enough time.
She came around the corner of the church and found herself facing Peter and an older couple.
“Brigit, this is Reverend Armstrong and his wife, Mrs. Armstrong,” he announced proudly.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, not knowing if she should curtsy or bow or shake their hands. They were early!
Mrs. Armstrong smiled graciously at her and said, “Oh, my, those are lovely flowers. Are they for me?”
Brigit stared, horrified, at her erstwhile centerpiece, and said the only thing she could. “Of course.”
Mrs. Armstrong took the flowers and smiled. “Daisies are my favorite. I have no idea how you knew this, but thank you so much. Dear, we have a few minutes before the tea. Would you mind showing me around the town a bit? I’d like to stretch my legs after that long train ride.”
There went any shred of a chance Brigit had to remedy the tea. I’m sorry, Peter, she said silently to him. I’m really very sorry.
Mrs. Armstrong was very kind as she and Brigit strolled through the small town, so much so that Brigit felt comfortable confiding as they returned to the school, “This tea isn’t going to be nearly as grand as what you’re used to. I do hope you won’t think badly of us when you—”
Her words froze in her throat as they entered the school. The ladies of the church were all gathered there. The desks were still in their utilitarian rows, but they were all graced by spring-hued napkins. Marie Farnsworth was setting out a bowl of grated sugar. Sarah Bigelow was arranging the last teaspoon. Mary Rose Groves winked at her from behind the tea urn, and Brigit realized what she had totally forgotten—tea! Yet somehow the tea was brewed, and there were even assorted cookies on a tray.
“Why, this is lovely,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Absolutely lovely!”
Brigit introduced Mrs. Armstrong to the church women and pulled Mary Rose aside. “How did …? Who did …? I mean, what …?”
Mary Rose smiled. “You can thank your father and the very organized ladies of the church. He just sent out the word, and they showed up, ready to help. All they were waiting for was someone to ask them.”
Brigit nodded, too overcome to speak. But when the time came to introduce Mrs. Armstrong, she thanked the members of the church for all their work. What would she ever do without them?
And so she—and Peter—had been saved again.
That evening, Peter and Brigit walked through the dusty streets of Archer Falls. “This town feels like home,” he said to her. “I’m very comfortable here, and I really do want to stay.”
He turned to her and asked suddenly, “Have you ever wanted to live somewhere else?”
“Do you mean like Chicago or Rome or London?” She looked at the line of houses all built so close together that they almost seemed to be standing shoulder to shoulder against the prairie wind. “Maybe only for a moment. In my heart of hearts, I think I always want to live in Archer Falls. Why?”
He turned to her and took her hand. “This isn’t exactly the way I’d intended to do this, Brigit. Well, the truth is that I didn’t have anything planned. I couldn’t decide how to—”
“How to what?” She’d never seen him at such a loss for words.
“Do you remember when we were out walking, and you were talking to me about daisies and kittens’ noses, and I kissed you?”
Her breath stopped in her throat. How could she ever forget that? She nodded, and he continued.
“And Mr. Farnsworth interrupted us? And do you remember what I said to you then?”
“That if you wanted to kiss me …” Her voice trembled.
“I’d have to marry you.”
“Yes.” It was just a whisper.
“Will you, Brigit? Will you marry me? I can’t offer you much, just all of my love, which, to be honest, is quite a lot.”
“Peter—”
“I know what I want. I want to live here in Archer Falls with you and raise a family.” He took her hands and said earnestly, “I think God brought me to this place to meet you. Until I met you, I was incomplete. You are the other half of my soul. Of my heart. Of my mind. Will you marry me and be a minister’s wife?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
There was never, she thought, a more inappropriate match. And yet there was never a more perfect match.
“Yes.”
Brigit’s father smiled happily at her as she waltzed into the small house. “You look as if someone has crowned you queen of the summer!”
She plopped down beside him. “I think someone has. Papa, Peter asked me to marry him.”
“And you said yes, I hope.”
“My darling father, of course I did.” She ran her hand over his work-worn fingers. “But there is something I must ask you. What will you do about the farm? Can you do it without me?”
“You worry too much.” He leaned back and frowned slightly. “Has this been worrying you?”
She nodded, unexpected tears gathering in her eyes. “I love Peter, but I want to farm here with you, too.”
“The land is in your blood, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It is.”
“Ah.” He leaned back and shut his eyes. The conversation was abruptly over, but he was smiling.