A/N: The myth of Hestia, retold in 1930s Harlan County, Kentucky, in honor of Day 16 (Fireplace) of the 25 Days of Fic Challenge. Same universe with my earlier Harlan County myth, "Cast Down But Not Destroyed."
1
Washed of coal dust, the striking miners' faces were recognizable mostly by the anger in their eyes and the set of their jaws.
"You need to keep your strength up," Hester DeWitt said as she hung the tin kettle of soup over the fire. This cabin on the edge of Evarts was ramshackle even by Harlan County standards. The stone chimney of the fireplace was likely all that was stopping it from collapsing in a heap of weathered shingles.
2
"How long are you intending to play ministering angel?" Sheriff J.H. Blair asked when he passed Hester in the main street of Cumberland.
"Until the devil's driven out of Harlan County."
3
The devil wasn't going as long as he had coal to keep his fires lit.
4
Hester DeWitt of the Philadelphia DeWitts had whirled through her debut in beaded silk and feathers. Of course she attracted suitors. That's what the dances and dinners were for.
Samuel Waters was a hatchet-faced Bostonian with a fortune in shipping and a preference for whist over waltzing. Miles Harkins had golden curls, deft feet, a fine turn with a phrase, and a papa with steel mills.
What they had in common—other than bills at the florist as they pursued the DeWitt connections with corsages and nosegays—was coal.
One spring morning, Hester DeWitt—who'd read too many newspapers and learned to bite her tongue on her opinions—sold her beaded frocks and jewels, packed a spare gray dress in her carpet bag, and bought a train ticket for Kentucky.
The note she left was the talk of Philadelphia society for six entire weeks in 1929.
5
"Hold still," Hester said to the man sprawled on her kitchen table. The poultice in her hands probably wasn't worth much—a day or two of hope, before the wound turned septic and she had to take the leg off.
Hope was something, though.
The first time she'd slaughtered a pig, she'd cried.
6
When the miners' fire in their cabin was steady and hot, and she was sure they had enough fallen branches to feed it, Hester shook the men's calloused hands and set out for Evarts.
Through a gap in the branches, she could see light in the sky: too late for sunset, too early for dawn, too close to Evarts.
It wasn't necessary to hurry along the path, old soles sore on the pebbles, scaring the bright-eyed raccoons with her urgency. She did it anyway because the rush in her feet and the catch in her breath were a form of hope.
The people who'd mustered a bucket brigade for her tidy cottage worked under the grim, unhelpful eye of a line of sheriff's deputies. "Ain't nothing savable, Miz Dew-it," the youngest one said, not even hiding a grin.
"You'd be surprised what can be saved if a person tries hard enough," Hester DeWitt told him.
J.H. Blair would learn: you don't destroy Hester with fire.
A/N: Hester DeWitt would be the grandniece of the Alice DeWitt in my Dr. Watson/Mary Morstan fic, "The Adventure of the Letters in the Frost." The DeWitts are not Quakers, but in Philadelphia, they would have been aware of Quakers. Hester had a modicum of college education before her debut, which was not uncommon for women of her generation.