The Captain of Her Heart by Anita Stansfield
* * * * *
Within a couple of days, Kyrah was grateful to be able to get around enough to care for herself, in spite of the intolerable pain that accompanied her every movement. But the bread, cheese, and apples that she’d found in the kitchen were quickly used up. The only other food she found was a generous supply of flour, yeast, and some basic baking supplies. Was that what Peter considered “plenty” for her to eat? The means for her to make bread? If she couldn’t go into public until her face healed, she had little choice. The bit of money she had left hidden in her satchel would do her little good if she was confined to the house. And even making bread would be a challenge with the weakness and pain that plagued her.
Through the following days, Kyrah relied on prayer more than she ever had in her life. She found strength she could never explain as she managed to care for herself. And somewhere deep inside she found the hope that she could one day get beyond this and find some measure of happiness. She clung to that hope and encouraged it to grow. Her present circumstances were a blatant reminder of what could happen when hope became replaced by fear.
A week after Peter had left, Kyrah was surprised to hear a knock at the door. She set her sewing aside and peered carefully through a curtain in the parlor to see who it might be. A pleasant-looking blonde woman stood on the little porch with a basket over one arm. Her hair was pulled back tightly and plaited. She wore a starched apron over a skirt and bodice that reminded her of the maids who worked at the inns and taverns.
Kyrah feared that the bruises on her face might frighten the woman away, but she felt compelled to open the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob and realized that her experience with Peter had made it difficult for her to trust other people. Uttering a quick prayer for discernment and guidance, she opened the door just a bit and tried to ignore the woman’s astonishment. Through the brief silence that followed, Kyrah guessed this woman to be near her own age, perhaps a little older.
“May I help you?” Kyrah asked as the woman glanced away, seeming embarrassed.
“My name is Daisy,” she said brightly, turning again to look at her as if nothing in the world was out of the ordinary. “I’m your neighbor. I’d heard that the man living here had brought home a bride, but I’d not seen anyone coming or going. With the lights on at night and all . . . well, I wondered if everything was all right.” While Kyrah was attempting to come up with a suitable answer, she narrowed her eyes and added, “But it’s not, is it.”
Kyrah glanced down. “You must forgive my appearance. I was afraid I might frighten you off, but . . .”
“Don’t be worrying about that,” Daisy said. “Is there something I might do to help you out? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but . . . well, do you need anything in town I might get for you? It would be no trouble.”
Kyrah felt such immense relief from the offer that she was tempted to accuse Daisy of being an angel sent from heaven. She simply said, “That would be wonderful. I have some money, but my supplies are depleted and I don’t want to go out looking this way.”
“I’d be happy to do it,” Daisy said. “What do you need? Fruit, vegetables, meat, milk?”
“A little of everything would be good, I suppose,” Kyrah said. “But there’s only me, so I don’t need much.”
“I’ve got to get along to work now,” Daisy said, turning to leave, “but I’ll stop back on my way home.”
“Wait,” Kyrah called, “let me get the money for you.”
“Ah, fie,” she said, pushing her hand through the air. “You can pay me when I bring it back, then I’ll know how much.”
“Thank you,” Kyrah said and watched through the curtain as Daisy walked away. She sighed and closed her eyes, grateful for this tangible evidence that God was looking out for her.
Daisy returned later as promised, with her basket full of supplies and a lot of friendly chatter. They sat together in the kitchen to visit, and Kyrah realized just how hungry she was for company. Following some friendly small talk, Daisy said, “You’ll find I’m not the type to waste time on formalities. If we’re going to be neighbors we need to start acting like it. But first I need to know your name.”
“Kyrah,” she replied, deciding to forego the rest. She doubted she could even bring herself to say her new legal name aloud.
“Are you alone here?” she asked.
“My . . . husband is gone for now.”
“Was he the one who gave you those souvenirs on your face?”
Kyrah looked away quickly and Daisy went on, “I’m sorry if I said something out of line. That’s none of my business. I’ve been accused of intruding where I’m not invited, but you look like you could use a friend, and maybe it would do you good to talk about it.”
“But I don’t even know you,” Kyrah said.
“Sure you do,” Daisy said with a gentle smirk. “We’re neighbors. You know my name. Let me tell you about myself. I came from England, where I was raised by my snippet of an aunt. I left as soon as I had a chance. It was miserable! I live in the cottage down the lane—all by myself. I work in town serving meals and drinks. I was married for nearly two years, but he was killed in the war. I’ve been on my own for going on three years now. So you see, you know all about me. Now it’s your turn.”
For a long moment Kyrah searched her feelings. Instinctively she trusted Daisy, and she ached to have someone share her grief. Perhaps it was Daisy’s genuine candor that made it easy to say what she’d wanted to be able to tell someone for months now. “I too came from England,” she began, and the story unfolded with more detail than Kyrah had intended to give. Daisy’s amazement and compassion felt somehow healing to Kyrah. She shed a few stray tears, and she was astounded to see Daisy’s eyes fill with mist more than once. Was her story so tragic? Yes, she had to admit, it was.
“Oh, you poor dear,” Daisy said when Kyrah finally finished. She took Kyrah’s hand across the table and added firmly, “Well, you’re not alone anymore. If you need anything at all, I’m only a few steps away. I get lonely for female companionship myself.”
Daisy ended up staying to chat while Kyrah prepared some of the food she’d purchased. Together they washed and cut vegetables to add to a simmering broth. It was well past dark when they sat to share their meal of soup, along with some bread that Kyrah had made the day before. The soup tasted so good to Kyrah that she ate three bowls. And Daisy’s company was equally satisfying.
Daisy finally went home when they could both hardly stay awake, but she returned the following day on her way to work, just to make certain Kyrah was all right. Her visits quickly became a daily habit that Kyrah greatly looked forward to. Daisy’s friendship lent some diversion to her long days, and helped her deal with some of the horrors she had been through.
Through their long conversations, Daisy made Kyrah realize that she had to keep trying to get passage back to England. “Things like that don’t just pop out of the blue,” she said. “You’ve got to keep trying.”
Despite her admission that she’d be lonely without her, Daisy insisted that Kyrah belonged with her mother at home, and she offered to do all she could to help find an England-bound ship that would take a lady passenger. “I know those kind of people,” Daisy said. “I see them every day. I’ll start working on it.”
While Kyrah often wondered what she would do without Daisy and her continual optimism and listening ear, Daisy often expressed appreciation for Kyrah’s friendship in turn. It was apparent that her husband’s death had been difficult, and even though she didn’t have much spare time on her hands, her loneliness was evident, although she admitted to having more than one “friend,” as she called them. And she was occasionally off to spend time with one male suitor or another—although she didn’t seem to take any of them too seriously. They were sailors who came and went from port with long intervals in between. After the love she’d shared with her husband, she wasn’t certain if she could ever find happiness again. Ky