A Woman Named Damaris Read Free Page A

precious coffee? What if he discovered that an expensive-looking brooch had been hidden away from him for many years? What if he learned of the watch?
    Damaris again slipped a hand under the pillow to feel the items. For a moment she felt a flash of anger toward her mama. Why had she given her these dangerous possessions? Was she too old and weary to continue hiding them herself?
    Her mama had seemed so—so different tonight. Oh, she was still pale, still weary, but for just a moment she had let down her guard and shown the woman who used to be.
    Damaris puzzled again over her mother’s words. Many girls of seventeen are on their own. You could pass for seventeen. The strange message played and replayed through the young girl’s mind. But she could make no sense of it.
    There are choices we can make, the voice went on.
    Choices? What choices. Not the color of one’s eyes. Mama had made that clear enough. Then what choices?
    Damaris had never had choices. If she could have chosen, she would be attending school like all of the other children in the neighborhood. But she couldn’t choose. Her pa had done that for her when she reached the age of twelve.
    “Yer ma needs ya,” he had growled. “Ain’t right fer you to be fritterin’ away yer day when yer ma is home doin’ all the chores. Girl big as you should be able to earn her keep.”
    So Damaris had been taken from school and put to work with the household and farm chores. It wasn’t that she minded the work. She was big for her age and surprisingly strong, but she did hate to miss the classes. Now she had no access to books. Books and the adventure of learning. She missed school.
    Damaris had never gone to the little church in town, but she longed to go. She envied the laughing, happy children dressed in their pretty frills and hair bows.
    “Why don’t we ever go to church?” she asked once.
    Her mother shook her head sadly and looked down at the faded apron covering her worn dress with its many patches.
    “Can’t go to church like this,” she responded.
    Damaris knew that was so. She closed her mouth on further coaxing and pushed the thoughts from her mind for a time, but later in the day she couldn’t resist pressing just a bit. She was hungry for information.
    “Did you ever go to church?” she asked.
    “Oh my, yes,” her mother answered quickly, then cast a glance around to see if they were being heard. When sure they were alone, she continued. “I always went to church when I was a girl. Papa and Mama always took us. Every Sunday.”
    “Then you know about it. What is the black book they carry?”
    “The black book? Why, that’s the Bible, child.”
    “A Bible. Does it—does it have stories?”
    For a moment her mother’s eyes shadowed; then she said, “Child, it’s a shame, it is, that you even have to ask. The—the Bible tells us about God. The stories are all about Him—and others. Many others. Some brave. Some kind. Some daring. Some—sinful. My pa used to read from the Bible every morning before I was allowed to leave the table.”
    Damaris felt envious. To be read a story every morning seemed almost too good to be true.
    “Your name came from the Bible,” her mama shocked her by saying.
    “My name? It did?” Damaris felt her breath catch in her throat. Her name came from the black book.
    “What does it—what does it say about me?” she asked in a whisper.
    Her mama shook out another worn dishtowel and pegged it to the line. “I don’t rightly remember,” she said. “It was a long time ago thet I read the words. Just the name stayed with me.”
    Damaris found it hard to contain her excitement. “I wish we had a Bible,” she sighed before she could check the words.
    “I did—at one time,” said her mother through tight lips.
    “When?” Damaris asked. “What happened to it?”
    “When I was a girl. I even had it when I got married, but a few years later yer pa needed—” She checked her words and shook out one of