Within an hour Linden was sitting at the Jenkinses’ kitchen table, warm and dry in a robe that had once belonged to Gwladys’s youngest daughter, while Timothy pressed buttons on the telephone at random and pretended to talk to their friends in Cardigan. By the time Linden had eaten her first slice of toast with blackberry jam, he had finished the call and started on his sandwich. But he still did not look happy.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered across the table to him when Gwladys padded off to make up their beds for the night. “This is wonderful!”
“Yes, well, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Timothy in acid tones. “You’re not the one trading on your parents’ reputation and making yourself a hypocrite.”
Linden flushed as she had when he challenged her on the street, but this time with anger. “Not as much of a hypocrite as you wanted to make of me!” she retorted. “I told Rob that taking things from people without paying for them was wrong, but if I’d listened to you-”
“Oh, don’t talk rubbish,” said Timothy. “It’s not the same thing. I wasn’t telling you to be selfish or lazy or take advantage of people just because you could. This was an emergency.”
“Well, it’s not an emergency anymore. So why can’t you be glad that we’ve got food and a place to stay, instead of sulking because it didn’t happen the way you wanted?”
Timothy did not answer, only took another savage bite of his sandwich. Linden watched him a moment, then tried again more gently:
“I don’t think you’re being a hypocrite. You never told them you believed the same things they do. And do you really think they’d be any less kind to you if they knew the truth?”
Timothy raised his head, his mouth a bitter line. “Actually, yes.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Linden firmly. “Or at least, I don’t see why they should. I think you’re just being miserable and assuming the worst about everybody.”
“And I think you’ve led a sheltered life and have no idea what you’re talking about,” Timothy snapped back.
Linden took a deep breath. He’s in pain, she reminded herself. He’s exhausted. And you’re tired, too. “Think whatever you like,” she said, pushing away her empty plate and brushing the crumbs from her lap. “I’m going to bed.”
On her way through the parlor she nearly bumped into Mr. Jenkins, who looked so grave that she feared he’d overheard. But all he said was, “Sleep well.”
“Oh,” she said, flustered, and then “Yes,” and ducked him a little curtsy before following the sound of Gwladys’s humming to a bedroom papered with red roses.
“There you are, my dear,” said the woman, turning down the sheets. “Here’s some towels for you, and the toilet’s the second door on your left. We’ll give you a good breakfast in the morning, and then Owen’ll run you into town and put you on your coach to Cardigan.”
Linden couldn’t bring herself to say “thank you” in the casual way that humans did, but she clasped Gwladys’s plump, wrinkled hands in her own and gave her an impulsive kiss on the cheek, which seemed to please the woman just as much.
“You’re a sweet child,” she said. “I didn’t think they made ’em like you anymore. Mind, I’d not seen clothes like yours for quite some years either. Hand sewn, and looks like handwoven cloth, too-did your mother make them?”
Linden nodded, embarrassed by the half-truth but not knowing how else to respond.
“Well, isn’t that something?” said Gwladys. She gave Linden a pat on the shoulder, added, “I’ll just finish up your laundry for tomorrow. Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” and waddled out.
Linden slipped out of her borrowed robe and climbed into the bed. The sheets felt deliciously smooth, and the blankets were a comforting weight against her skin. She was just closing her eyes when an unpleasant thought jolted her-the Blackwings! What if they caught up to her and Timothy in the night?
But no, it would surely take them longer than that to fly so far, and in any case, they couldn’t get into the house without an invitation. The knowledge comforted her, and she relaxed again. Though she had a nagging feeling that there was something else important she’d forgotten…but before she could remember what it was, Linden had fallen asleep.
Timothy was still in the kitchen finishing the last of his sandwich when Owen Jenkins shuffled in, all long limbs and stooped shoulders, and pulled out a chair at the other end of the table.
“Well then,” he said. “Everything all right?”
Timothy swallowed with an effort. “Yes, thanks.”
“Hm,” said Mr. Jenkins, and drummed his fingers on his knee. Then he said, “You’re a good deal like your father, by the look of you. Fine man, Neil Sinclair-enjoyed the talks we had together when he was here.”
Timothy gave a faint smile, but inside he was squirming. He could just guess what Owen Jenkins was like, because he’d met the type before: sincere and good-hearted, devoted to his faith, but with no real knowledge of the world outside his own tiny Brethren circle. He’d probably grown up in the church, spent most of his spare time reading the Bible, and never had a serious doubt in his whole life…
“Take a lot to make me forget him,” mused the man. “Gwlad invited him and your mum to our house for Sunday dinner, and we ended up having a fine discussion about genetics-your dad and I, that is, and a couple of my students from the university.”
Timothy choked. “You’re a professor?”
“Well, not now,” said Owen Jenkins. “I retired from the biology department some five years ago.”
“But…don’t you…I mean, wasn’t it hard to…” Timothy was flabbergasted. At last he cleared his throat and said weakly, “But you go to a Gospel Hall.”
“You think I shouldn’t? Not the right place for a scientific type? Best resign from the church eldership then.” And he gave a wheezing laugh.
Embarrassed, Timothy fell silent.
“Now, I won’t say there aren’t a lot of foolish and ignorant believers in the world,” said Owen Jenkins after a moment. “And I even know some fine godly Brethren who decided not to pursue higher learning, for fear it would make them proud. But I wanted to find out everything I could about God’s creation.”
“But what you learned…didn’t any of it bother you? I mean, some of the things I’ve heard scientists say about God and the Bible…”
“…sound convincing, no doubt,” agreed the older man. “But you’d be surprised how much of that talk isn’t really science at all. I won’t say that now and then I don’t come across some piece of data that doesn’t fit quite comfortably with what I believe. But then I’ve talked to atheists who’ve had the same problem. There’s not a belief in the world can save you from doubt.”
Timothy gave a reluctant nod. “I guess I just…some beliefs make more sense to me than others. I don’t want to ever hide from the truth, you know? I want to know how things really are.”
Owen Jenkins leaned forward earnestly. “Not a thing wrong with that,” he said. “To look at the world as it is, study it with the mind God’s given you, and believe: That’s faith. But to hide from hard facts, or hide them from others, because you’re afraid of where they might lead you…” He sat back again. “That’s just ignorance.”
“So if I’m questioning my beliefs…you think that’s actually good?”
Owen Jenkins peered at him from beneath his bushy brows. “Better than never questioning them? I’d say so. But you can’t go on questioning forever. Sometime you’re going to have to stake your reputation, maybe even your life, on what you believe. And when that moment comes…then you’ll know where you really stand.”
Timothy picked at the crumbs on his plate, unable to think of a reply. He was afraid that the other man would say I’ll be praying for you, or some equally condescending remark, but he didn’t. He only shuffled his chair back, said gently, “Have a good night, lad,” and left.
For a few more minutes Timothy sat at the table alone. Then he sighed and got up, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. Maybe he should dab some warm water and soap on it, try to clean it out before it got infected. He might be able to find some gauze and proper bandages if he hunted around a bit…
He was making his way through the sitting room when he caught sight of a bookshelf, and curiosity made him stop to look at it. A set of Matthew Henry’s commentaries on the Bible, some devotionals and missionary biographies, the complete works of James Herriot, and a few volumes of Dickens: No surprises there. Farther down, however, he found books on gardening, home remedies, and travel, including one entitled A Wayfarer’s Guide to
