Free Love's Pursuit by Siri Mitchell

more in His grace, knowing how truly wretched I am. Do you not believe in grace? Is that why you must work so hard?”
    “Aye. Nay. Of course I believe in God’s grace. But we must none of us rely upon it.”
    “Why? Because God is not trustworthy?”
    “You twist my words to make them mean things I did not say!”
    “I make them mean exactly what you say. You seem as if you know the right answers, but I ask you, Susannah Phillips: Do you know the right questions?” His eyes softened, changing from purple to periwinkle. “Do you not think that my time here and your time now is being put to good use?”
    He seemed to almost pity me. I had liked it better when he had professed an interest in me. He wanted my own words? Well then, he would have them! “I cannot think how it could be, seeing that we do nothing but engage in idle chatter.”
    “There is no finer moment in life than one spent speaking to a beautiful girl on a beautiful night. You cannot tell me that even here, right now, God does not instruct me on the goodness of His grace and His benefits. ’Tis here, at this moment, that I know He truly cares for me.”
    “And how do you know it?”
    His teeth flashed in the gloaming. “If He did not care for me,
    He would not have sent me here. And, I daresay, did He not care for you—”
    “No matter what you think of our customs, Captain, you still do not know how many days you have left on this earth. I should think you would care more for tending to your soul than coaxing a smile from me.”
    “But who is to say that coaxing a smile from you would not be the chiefest end and greatest glory of all my days?”
    “You will not have it this night.”
    “Pity. Then I suppose that I shall have to live one day more.”
    I turned from him, marched toward home, and picked out my firewood. But just before entering the house, I turned my face toward the sunset and savored its last lingering traces.
    The next morning, in a change from our normal tasks, Mother set Mary to the making of our biscuits.
    “But why cannot Susannah—”
    “Because Susannah knows very well how to do this. And if I read the signs correctly, she may soon be leaving us.”
    I blushed.
    Mary frowned.
    “So tell me, if you please, what is the first consideration?”
    Mary and I grimaced at each other and answered in unison. “Always set aside some of the mother dough for future use.”
    Mother beamed. “Such good girls, I have.”
    Mary measured out a portion of the mother dough and put it back into its crock. Mother and I watched as she added flour and water to the dough that remained on the board in front of her. Kneading it with awkward movements, she pushed at it, folded it in upon itself, and then turned it.
    Mother intervened, showed her how to do it more ably. “One and push. Two and fold. Three and turn. ’Tis a dance of your hands with the dough. And if you do not lead out, the dough knows not what to do.”
    As Mary worked, Mother watched her with ill-concealed apprehension. “ ’Tis my pride and joy, that mother dough. From my own family back as far as can be remembered. From my mother and my mother’s mother. And her mother before her. And her mother before her. To think that I join my hands with theirs whenever I make biscuits. . . .” She turned to me, her eyes both bright and sad. “When you are married, I will give some of it to you, joining your own hands to mine . . . and then you shall pass it to your own daughter.” She shook her head as she swiped at the corner of her eye with the edge of her apron. “A sentimental fool is what I am.”
    “And you’ve the best biscuits in town.” Mary’s dough was growing glossy, and she pushed her words out to the rhythm of her kneading.
    “The best we’ve ever tasted.” I could match Mary’s pride with my own.
    Mother smiled and let go of her apron. If the sin of vanity could ever be found in her, it would be linked to the pride she took in her biscuits.
    Later, as I