A Promise for Christmas

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “We live on five acres ten minutes from town. We don’t have close neighbors.”

  She cleared her throat. “Speaking of undressing…I’m in only me bloomers and chemise. What happened to me dress?”

  Color blushed her cheeks. With the washcloth and soap in hand, he turned, pleased when her eyes widened a bit more. “You removed it, and I hung it in the armoire.”

  “Nay, I did not.”

  He’d known she’d acted sleepy, but did she really not remember? “And you untied your corset enough to push it off. Probably still on the floor under that window.” He rubbed the cloth over the soap.

  She levered onto an elbow and looked over the far edge of the mattress. “Aye, ‘tis there.”

  “Now, do you remember undressing yourself?” As he stroked the cloth on his arm, he watched her face to register recognition of the previous night.

  “Mayhap.” Her gaze followed his motions.

  Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, he turned back to the basin and finished his ablutions. “Do you know you—”

  “Excuse me, Anson.”

  “Yes?” He turned toward the bed, holding his shaving mug.

  “I’m desperate for the…” She jerked her head toward the commode then looked back to him. “And a wee bit of privacy.”

  At the sight of her cheeks flaming even brighter, he jerked. “Of course.” Anson gathered his clothes, shoes, and mug, and, at the last moment, unhooked the mirror from the wall. From his bureau, he pulled out the last clean undershirt. Damn. Shivering through the cool house, he stomped into the kitchen, dumped everything on the table, and immediately stoked the fires in the parlor and kitchen stoves. First day of marriage, and his bride kicked him out of his own room. What other parts of his routine were to be disrupted?

  Chapter Six

  The moment Anson moved out of sight, Fiona threw back the covers and dashed for the chamber pot. Once her discomfort was relieved, she looked around the room, putting together the last details she could remember from yesterday. The warm bath Vika helped her prepare before the family left for home solved her need to be clean. Putting on fresh undergarments was such a treat, and she’d dressed in a different, although wrinkled, simple day gown.

  The supplies in the icebox and pantry were plentiful enough to make a simple meal. With the supper prepared, she had intended just to lie down for a few minutes to rest before Anson was due. Had she really slept through his arrival home? She must have, because fuzzy memories of following his directions about undressing now flitted through her mind.

  The washcloth slung over the edge of the basin enticed her to endure a quick, cold wipe down before dressing. She didn’t shun the corset, but she didn’t tighten it like she would have done a week ago. Without a mirror, she couldn’t see the mess her hair must be. Not weaving the long tresses into a braid before she slept meant she’d have to fight tangles on a morning she wished to appear at her best before her groom left for the day. She hurried to the armoire but didn’t see her boots. Instead, she jammed on a pair of heels she normally wore to fancy events. Braiding her hair as she walked to the kitchen, she glanced around for where Anson might be.

  The shaving mug and mirror sat on the counter near the sink. She lifted on tiptoes in front of the window just in time to see him disappear into the barn. Did she want to meet the animals, or did she want to control her hair? Vanity won, and she returned to the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she emerged, tangle free with the length arranged in a twist. She found her everyday boots under the bed and switched shoes.

  Humming as she worked, she boiled water for porridge and opened a can of peaches. The tin of tea she bought before leaving Chicago sat in the middle of the table with Ma’s teapot. The set, decorated with pink roses and edged in shiny gilt, had been Ma’s prize possession. Over the years, some of the gilt wore away and a chip or two marred a saucer’s edge. Nevertheless, Fiona loved the set and was proud to contribute it to her new household.

  How odd to have a kitchen table with a bench set into the wall for one side’s seating. To brighten the setting, she balanced the petals of her golden columbine on the edge of an empty glass. Linen napkins she’d embroidered with petals running along the hems held the silverware at the side of thick plates. As she stirred the cooking oats, a verse came to her, and she went into the bedroom to grab her stationery and pen. On the top of the bureau, she wrote out the lines then returned to the kitchen.

  The back door opened, and heavy footsteps scraped the floor.

  “How do ye like yer tea, Anson? Dark or with milk?”

  He walked to the sink and set down a pail and a basket on the counter. “I like coffee.”

  “Oh.” Another detail they didn’t know about each other. She glanced at the table and then toward him. “Where’s the coffee? I suppose I could make some.” She gave the porridge a last stir and set on the lid. “But, breakfast is ready now. Ye wash up, and I’ll take care of the milk later.”

  Turning, he planted his hands on his hips. “How can breakfast be ready? I don’t smell sausage and don’t see eggs frying.”

  She’d seen those items in the icebox, but she always preferred leaving heavy sausage for supper. Unless it was blood sausage—her recipe was perfect as a breakfast food. “Because yer meal today is porridge and peaches.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You opened the peaches? I was saving those.”

  “What for?” Her habit was to have fruit every morning, no matter the time of year. If the peaches were so special, shouldn’t he have said something? How was she supposed to know? After lifting the pot with a folded towel, she carried it to the table. Barely containing her frustration, she plopped ladlefuls into the bowls

  “I don’t know, but I just was.”

  “Mayhap, in the future, ye need to put a sign on the can.” She returned the pan to the stove and picked up the steaming kettle to fill the teapot. After giving the table a final inspection, she turned to Anson. “It’s ready. Do ye have a preferred place to sit?”

  Without a word, he dropped into the closest chair. Frowning, he ran a finger along the edge of the napkin before tucking it into his collar. He scooped up a spoonful of porridge and lifted it to sniff. His nose wrinkled before he slipped the spoon into his mouth.

  Fiona slid onto the bench seat. “I didn’t find any brown sugar or molasses in the cupboards.”

  “Don’t have any.” He reached for the sugar bowl and piled on several spoonfuls.

  She poured the tea and added a dollop of cream to the fragrant liquid then tilted the small pitcher to splash a generous amount of cream over her porridge. What happened to the talkative man she encountered yesterday? A memory surfaced of him speaking at length last night in the bedroom. “I’ll start a list.”

  “I shopped yesterday and won’t go again until next week.”

  “Aye.” As she mulled over what he said, she ate several bites of porridge. The amount of food in the icebox looked like enough for two- or three days’ worth of meals. Mayhap he bought what he usually did for a bachelor, but he hadn’t calculated the extra needed for two people. No matter, she had her wages, and more would arrive once she submitted her next set of verses. Although she hadn’t planned on using the funds until she learned if the house lacked something essential—like a sewing machine.

  Anson served himself several peach halves then leaned to one side then the other, glancing around the tabletop.

  “Looking for something?”

  “I usually have ground cinnamon on my peaches.” He shrugged and shoveled one into his mouth.

  And I hoped this meal would be perfect. She popped to her feet. “I can collect it.”

  “No time.” He finished the last half and reached for his teacup. After trying to push his pointer finger into the handle, he turned the cup and picked it up by the rim. “The animals are loose in the near pasture. You can watch them from the corral fence but don’t go into the pasture when I’m not home.”

  She sat again and served a peach
half on top of her porridge. “My, yer making them sound downright dangerous.”

  “Not dangerous, just unpredictable.” He set down his cup and glanced up. Then he looked down and cleared his throat before staring across the table. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

  Nay. She hadn’t done that since she was a wee girl. “Do I?”

  His brows crashed together. “I heard you last night. And you kick and steal the quilt.”

  “I’m sorry.” Heat rose along her neck. “But I can hardly be held accountable for what I do while sleeping.”

  “True. But I need to say what I wanted to last night.” Again, he cleared his throat.

  He must be nervous. That behavior was one detail she’d learned about her husband. Wishing to ease his discomfort, she smiled.

  “I understand, in these types of marriages, that intimate relationships are often delayed.”

  “Oh.” Just hearing the words made her pulse pound faster. She sat straighter and lifted her teacup to put something between them. Even if the small cup made for a poor shield. “All right.”

  “So, you agree we should wait until we’re both comfortable with one another?”

  What could she say? That she’d spent years imagining what her wedding night might be like and that he should fulfill that obligation? “I do. When the time is right, we’ll know.”

  “Good.” He stood and dropped his napkin on the table. “I’ll get my vest and jacket from the bedroom and be off to work.”

  Before she could answer, she was alone in the room. Should she have prepared a lunch for him to take? Since she’d failed so horribly with breakfast, should she ask what he wanted for supper?

  As he rode abreast of the house at the end of the day, Anson heard the back door open and glanced to the side. Fiona stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her middle, and lit from behind. Seeing his wife in his house sped his pulse.

  “Hi, Anson, may I join ye? I wish to observe the chores.”

  He grinned at her eager voice. “Okay. Make sure to wear your oldest shoes. And bring a lantern so you don’t trip on the uneven ground.” He steered Brownie toward the barn and dismounted outside the double doors. Inside, he tied off Brownie’s reins then walked the length of the structure to open the back doors so the animals could wander in for the evening meal. Several waited only a few feet away and trotted into the warmer space. Seeing no chickens outside, he latched the gate to the fence around the coop. Soon, he’d ask Fiona to do these chores before the sun went down.

  In the midst of grooming the horse, he spotted bouncing light reflected off the stall gates, catching his attention. Pausing, he turned to watch her approach and hang the lantern on a protruding nail. This easy way they acted with one another filled that hole in his heart he never truly admitted was there. Now, if Renke would just stay away until spring, Anson would have plenty of time to warn her about his cousin. “Since I don’t know your experience of being on a farm, I don’t know how much to explain. Ask me questions.”

  Fiona walked close. “Many years have passed since we left the farm in Ireland. But I remember how to collect eggs. I’ve done a bit of milking, though that chore usually belonged to an older brother. Da used oxen to pull the plows.” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck. “But what purpose do Whitey, Bright Eyes, Long Tail, and Speckles serve?”

  “You named the mules?” He stopped the brush in the middle of Brownie’s back.

  “Just until I could ask ye what their real names are.”

  “They don’t have names. They were bred to sell.”

  She shrugged then gestured toward a nearby stall. “Well, what about the cow? Yer not selling her any time soon, are ye?”

  “I call her Kuh.” At her crinkled brow, he waved the brush at the cow. “It means cow in German.”

  “Not very imaginative.” Fiona walked to the gate and scratched the cow’s nose. “What about Aurnia? It means golden lady.”

  She could treat the animals like pets… just as long as she didn’t oppose selling one off when the time came. “Call her what you want. Not that a name matters much. She responds to the rattle of grain in her trough or the offer of fresh hay.”

  After cleaning Brownie’s hooves, Anson set him loose in his designated stall. Then he did the feeding and answered every question about the type of feed and how much went into each trough and the chicken feed hopper on the outside of the coop. “All that’s left is the milking. Go on ahead, and I’ll be inside in ten minutes or so.”

  Her humming started before she left the barn.

  On the walk toward the house, Anson noted the light falling on the yard and saw her walking past the kitchen window. His house looked so different than it had just two days ago. He couldn’t keep a smile from spreading. Then he opened the back door, letting out the tantalizing scent of cooked food. A deep sniff of the air broadened his lips into a grin. Why hadn’t he listened to Chad the first time he suggested a mail-order bride?

  Hanging from the porch shelves were his drawers and undershirts. She did the laundry? At the sink, he pulled a jug from a lower cupboard, topped it with a square of cheesecloth, and poured in the milk. New gingham curtains hung at the window, tacked up with a nail. “You’ve been busy, Fiona.”

  “I unpacked the rest of me trunk. Ye’ll see lots of additions.” Leaning over, she pulled a pan from the oven and carried it to the table.

  Walking through the savory scent in the air set his mouth watering. Anson lowered the sealed jug onto the top porch step. Tomorrow, he’d need to allow extra time to drop off the excess milk at Stein’s Mercantile. After washing his hands, he sat in his chair and looked at his the circular object on his plate. “We’re having pie for supper?”

  “Pork pie, to be exact.” Nodding, she dipped out a heaping spoonful of pale vegetables from another dish. “And this is colcannon.” She plopped it on her plate and then switched their plates.

  “But I’m used to simple meat and potatoes.” He scooted aside his fork and knife and settled his napkin into his unbuttoned shirt collar. A few squares of bacon were recognizable laying on top of the white mound.

  Her hand encircled their plates. “The pie is filled with sausage in a cream gravy, and the potatoes are cooked with onions and cabbage.”

  The cabbage he’d bought to make sauerkraut but hadn’t gotten around to it. A warm hand rested on his.

  “I’ll not be trying to poison ye, Anson.” She tilted her head and smiled. “Trust me, I used the food from yer icebox and pantry to prepare these dishes.”

  His first bite of the meat pie convinced him not to doubt her cooking ability. Hours later, as he lay in bed, listening to her quiet breathing, he couldn’t remember a more pleasant evening. The settee in the parlor now held a pillow proclaiming Home Sweet Home in colorful stitches. A painting of a seascape in a storm sat propped on the mantel. They needed to decide which wall would show it off to its best advantage. Hardware for hanging it and curtain rods for the bedroom and kitchen were on his list to bring home the next night.

  The only thing that nagged at his mind was why Fiona hadn’t presented him with the love note he found in the bedroom that morning.

  On Saturday morning, Fiona sat on Brownie’s rump and clutched her arms around Anson’s middle. She hummed a tune while the horse walked to town.

  Instead of straddling Brownie behind the saddle, she opted to sit sideways. Anson kept a hand gripped on her arm just in case she struggled with balance. In the few days she’d been his bride, he noticed she hummed when she was happy. Often, he used the melodious sound to locate her in the house. “Remember what I said about the lag times when no customers are in the store.”

  “I brought along me knitting to keep me hands busy. I just want to see what ye do each day.”

  Such a simple statement shouldn’t make him sit taller and swell his chest. But it did.

  Behind the store, he pulled his right leg over the saddle horn and slipped to the ground then reached up to grasp her wai
st and helped her hop down. The corset under his fingers seemed looser than before. He led Brownie into the lean-to and removed the saddle before checking the feed trough and water bucket weren’t empty.

  “So ye have a wee place for the horse. That’s nice.”

  Didn’t everyone know this fact? “Wouldn’t do to have him standing in the elements all day.” Anson guided her to the back door and unlocked it. He busied himself with the chores related to opening—building up the fire, unlocking the till from the small safe under the counter, and removing tarps from his more expensive items.

  Fiona circled the store, moving the feather duster over the shelves.

  When did she grab it from the storeroom?

  “Anson?”

  “Yes.” He looked up from the ledger where he jotted a few items onto the Supplies Needed list.

  “Why are the baking pans stored on that high shelf?” She pointed the duster toward the tallest shelf in the far corner.

  “Because they don’t sell well. Not many men are looking for them.”

  Turning to peer over her shoulder, she raised her hand, which was a foot or so short of the shelf. “If I’m a customer, I can’t see them to know if I want to buy. I know I’m short, but most women are.” She pulled a stepladder from the corner and climbed three steps.

  Heart in his throat, he jogged across the room. “You should wait, and I would have helped you.”

  Fiona reached down the items and sneezed at the dust that rose. “Oh, my. These need a good washing.”

  He accepted the pans and grimaced at the accumulated dirt. “Why am I holding them?”

  “Because I’m adding the bakeware to the window display.” She lifted the pans from his hands and headed toward the storeroom.

  He glanced toward the window. The display he’d created was a perfect sampling of what stock was sold inside and had served him well for years. “Fiona, this is a hardware store. People go to the mercantile for these items.” He followed her to the sink and watched the dust flow down the drain. Maybe he needed to climb up and check other items on that shelf.