“Oh, oh. And I shall be Penelope Rothsbottom,” said Molly, taking up the idea, matching her posture to Anora’s.
“So happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Rothsbottom,” Anora said, extending two fingers for a limp handshake. In return, Molly curtsied, just a slight dip, accompanied by a sour, pursed-lip smile. “Likewise, I’m sure,” she said.
“What’s my name? What’s my name? I want to be somebody snooty too,” Isabell insisted, stomping her foot in the dust.
“Hmm, let me think. Stop jumping around, please,” Anora said, trying not to giggle. Searching her brain for another nom-de-plume, she said aloud, testing the sound of it, “Hortense Hucklestone?”
Isabell’s happy smile disappeared…her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to be Hortense Hucklestone. Ooooh, what kind of name is Hortense?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s pretend, Izzy,” said Molly, her character’s decorous manner pushed monetarily aside.
“No, no, now,” Anora said, to put a halt to any friction. “Would you rather be Unella Smedly-Smithe?” she asked, bending down more at eye level with the little girl.
“Yes, oh please, yes. Unella is a pretty name.”
“Delighted you could come today, Miss Smedly-Smithe, delighted,” said Anora, giving Isabell’s hand a gentle, ladylike shake.
“I shall be Hortense Hucklestone, of the Boston Hucklestones, we were among the first to arrive in this God-forsaken wilderness, you know. I can trace my ancestors to the Mayflower.”
Waving her hand above her head, she said, “Ladies, let us not dawdle about in this intolerable heat another moment, so disastrous to our complexions, you know. Come in, come in and be seated, our tea awaits in the front parlor.”
Noses in the air the girls followed Anora into the rickety shack, taking extra care of their skirts, and took up their places on the benches along the walls that faced the cold fire pit.
Anora took down from the small shelf by the door her finest china—consisting of two tin cups and a small, chipped, tin bowl—and set them down on a cedar shake beside her on the bench. She ceremoniously poured tea—actually water out of the canvas water bag hanging on the wall, which had a tendency to sweat and drip—into each cup, making a production of passing the cups to her guests.
“Do you care for lemon or honey? The honey is from my own bees, you know. A hobby of mine,” Miss Hucklestone said, batting her eyelashes.
“How very brave of you, Miss Hucklestone. I should be quite afraid of being stung,” said Miss Rothsbottom.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Miss Hucklestone. “I am very careful to instruct the maid not to excite the bees while gathering the honey. No, no, one must be very careful. So tiresome to have to wait until the bumps are healed. It took the silly chit a frightfully long time to get the hang of the operation. But with my prayers and guidance, she’s able to manage the task now. One must be patient. Work, prayers, and practice, I find, brings about results. I do so love honey. I find beekeeping a very worthwhile hobby.”
Molly broke out of character a moment to giggle, but quickly returned to the part.
“This is a lovely pattern on your china,” said Miss Smedly/-Smithe, puffing herself, holding the cup up before her nose to inspect the object in question.
“I was noticing that too,” said Miss Rothsbottom.
“My great uncle’s mother’s, brother’s, sister’s, niece’s grandmother, brought this lovely tea service all the way from the Orient. She was only four months old at the time,” said Miss Hucklestone wistfully, looking up through her eyebrows at her guests, waiting to see if they could hold their characters.
“Quite young to have such refined tastes,” said Miss Rothsbottom, lips twitching. “But then, blood will tell.” Pressing her cup to her lips, Molly stifled her giggle.
Miss Smedly-Smithe added, with a marvelously sober and pensive expression on her pixie face, “I s’pose a baby of four months might like to crunch her teeffs on the handles,” she observed conversationally, inspecting said handle of her cup.
A spray of water gushed from Molly’s lips, and she burst into paroxysms of laughter, which set Isabell off, and soon Anora joined in.
“We’ll need more practice,” said Anora, wiping the dribble from her chin. “I guess we’re hopeless.”
»»•««
Hank came down the hill around the barn. Mick raced up the hill to give him escort. He ordered the dog to hush, and stopped to listen for a moment, thinking the girls might be in the barn, milking the goats. The sun sat low over the Coast Range, and hearing nothing but the chickens, he moved on. He’d come down to see Molly across the river. She needed get going if she wanted to catch her ride home.
With no rain since the end of June, he’d been busy today trying to get water to his trees. Before he got to the cabin, he heard Isabell squealing and giggling, so he prodded his horse on over to the shack beside Roscoe and Pete’s crib.
“Miss Rothsbottom, one does not squirt tea from one’s nostrils,” he heard Anora say.
“If you must squirt your tea, try it between your teeffs,” said Isabell, squealing, water dribbling down the front of her dress.
“What the devil’s going on in here?” asked Hank, entering the shack uninvited, finding Anora and the girls doubled over, cast away in whoops of laughter, the fronts of their dresses soaked in water.
Anora clapped her hand over her mouth.
Isabell, next to acknowledge his presence, jumped up into his arms and started talking very fast, very happy, very excited and damp.
“We’re pretending, Papa. My name is Unella, isn’t that a pretty name? Unella Smedly-Smithe,” she said, her lips pursed in her best ladylike facade, which would’ve had a better effect if she hadn’t been astraddle her papa’s hip, her dress up around her thighs, rumpled and grimy from a day at play.
“Molly is Penelope Rothsbottom, and Anora is Hortense Hucklestone. We’re having a tea party.”
“Hmm, tea, you say?” he said doubtfully, picking up his daughter’s cup, sniffing suspiciously its contents.
Anora grinned at him and tipped her head. “Yes, sir, tea, sir.”
“The sun’s going down, Molly. We have to get you over to Takenah.”
“Oh, my goodness. We lost track of the time,” said Anora, hustling Molly down the hill to the ferry.
Reaching the other side, Molly barely waited for the ferry to crunch into shore before leaping off and tearing off up the track toward town.
“I thought I’d try frying chicken tonight,” Hank said, cranking up the tongue. “With your guidance, of course.”
He took the rudder from her. He did that a lot these days. At first, Anora had protested, because she didn’t want word to get back to Paxton. But Hank assured her if Paxton tried to take the ferry from her, he’d have to do it over his dead body.
»»•««
However, one point Anora insisted upon—he and Isabel and Molly would cross the river for free. Hank agreed, if she’d allow him to share food and supplies with her in exchange. Anora suspected she had the better deal. But she didn’t argue, having Hank and Isabell, and yes, Molly dropping in on her, being with her, sharing their lives with her helped to heal the scars, the wounds in her soul. On a daily basis, at least once a day, she cautioned herself, she could only have Hank as a friend. But her lectures went in one ear and out the other.
The long nights alone had become the hardest to bear, the quiet, every little noise sparked her imagination, inspiring her to think up scenarios of terror and torture at Ruben’s hands. “I’ll slice some of those peaches you gave me,” she said. “I’ll show you how to make a cobbler.”
“Sold,” Hank said, and Isabell clapped her hands. “I want to ask you something,” Hank said, looking off in the distance, his lips pressed together.
Isabell giggled and put her hand over her mouth. Suspicious, Anora asked, “What?”
Hank shook his head. “No, I’ll wait until we’re at the table,” he said,
scowling at his daughter, who instantly looked away, turning her head to scan the water upstream.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The door open, allowing the cool breeze to filter into the cabin, they could keep an eye on Isabell who had gone outside with Mick, the two sat on the porch, Isabell playing with Charity, and Mick gnawing on a ham bone. At the table, looking into her empty cup, Anora said, “All right, now might be a good time to ask me whatever it is you want to ask.”
“Nice evening, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very nice. But it’s time you stopped being evasive. We’ve talked about the heat, mosquitoes, the drought, to which I agree, August promises to be even hotter and drier, and if we don’t get some rain our gardens are going to go to dust. And the mosquitoes are hungry and huge. You asked for more bread, seconds on the chicken, honey for your biscuits, which I gave you. Give over, Mr. Reason, state your case. So far, I’m agreeable.”
Grinning, he leaned forward, reached out taking her hand. She flinched, then relaxed and nodded in surrender and smiled. “In a few days, the church will be finished. Paxton says Reverend Archer is due to arrive on the Willa Jane this week.”
Anora, head down, looking at his hand on hers said, “I imagine Paxton will be happy when the church is complete. He hasn’t been able to do much work on his hotel while getting the church up and ready for the reverend.”
Hank had started to rub his thumb back and forth on the underside of her palm, the motion sending pleasant sensations throughout her entire body.
“Hmm,” he said, his head tilted to the side, his gaze following the movement of his thumb. “The church became a priority, I think, once he married Melinda. She’s a strong, guiding force in Paxton’s house these days. Which, so I’ve been told, is an interesting topic of conversation at the Takenah saloon.”
Interested, brows raised, Anora said, “Good to know me and my ferry are no longer the only topic of interest.”
Shaking his head, he said, “The thing is, the townspeople plan on having a celebration to welcome the reverend and celebrate our new church and school. It’s a big step toward having a real town. There’s going to be music and dancing, a sack race, log sawing competition, ax throwing…it’s going to be a big day, with food…potluck, the works.”
She removed the hand he’d been playing with to her lap. “I still haven’t heard the question, have I? Did I miss it? All I hear, it’s going to be a busy day for me. I should do a good business. I think the Willa Jane will be here Wednesday, today’s Sunday.”
Leaning toward her, taking her folded hands in his, and bringing them up close to his lips, he said, “What I’m trying to say is, you’re a big part of this community, whether you want to be or not.”
She tried to recapture her hands, but he tightened his hold. “I know…I know you don’t want to go into town, and I really do understand, but you belong at this celebration. Will you come with Isabell and me? We want you to come.”
Tugging her hand away, she pushed her chair back and started to pick up the cups and plates, taking them to the dishpan on the counter behind her. Turning around, she said, “I can’t leave the ferry. Paxton’s waiting for me to make a mistake.”
“I knew you were going to say that. I talked to Paxton about this. He never meant for you to be shackled to the ferry day in and day out, with no relief. We can find someone to run the ferry for a few hours, for one day.”
Anora shook her head. “I don’t think so. Everyone will want to be at the celebration. Since…I…don’t wish to be at the celebration, it makes perfect sense to me—if not to you and Paxton—that I stay here to run it.”
Agitated, she slammed the tin plates into her dishpan. “You don’t know how infuriating it is to know you and Paxton, everyone, talks about me, discusses the details of my life. It all comes back to the very circumstances that landed me in this predicament in the first place. I don’t want to expose myself to more talk, more censure, more speculation.”
“Whoa now, I can see you’re all set to cut your nose off to spite your face. What I want to do is take you to a dance. I’m a man and I want to take a pretty lady to a dance.” His voice softened, his breath warm on her cheek. “I want to dance with you, Anora. I want to see you smile, take a bit of a breather, have some fun. You’ll be with me and Isabell the whole time.”
He pulled back and waved his arms above his head. “I don’t give a damn about the ferry, Paxton, the whole God Blessed town, or the people in it.” Leaning toward her, voice low and seductive, he said, “I only care about you. I want to be with you. I’d hoped you’d want to be with me too.”
Anora closed her eyes and took a deep shuddering breath. Telltale tears seeped out the corners of her eyes. She nodded “I do love to dance. It’s been a very long time. The thought of music, food, dancing, games, is enticing, I admit. Working every day, all day, is a grind. I’m starved for entertainment, laughter. I want to go with you, I really do,” she said her hand on his arm, “but I can’t. I have to stay and stick to business. Besides, no one wants me there. I’d be opening myself up for insult, don’t you see that?”
He shook his head at her. “I’ve been thinking about this, and it occurs to me, this thing is going to last all day and into the night. The Willa Jane won’t get in until noon or after. Most folks will come in before noon and camp over. The music and dancing probably won’t start until almost sundown. There wouldn’t be much traffic late in the afternoon. We could go over just before supper. There might not be any need to worry about the ferry at all.”
She shook her head in protest. “You’re grasping. It won’t work.”
Heartsore, God help her, she loved him. She loved the sound of his deep, resonating voice, his strong nose, the warm way his brown eyes twinkled when he looked at her. And his mouth, she liked to watch his lips move as he talked. She looked at his tan, rough, work-worn hands, his long fingers lacing together and unlacing. He did that a lot when formulating plans. He’d done so when he’d talked to her about Isabell going over to Melinda’s twice a week. And when he couldn’t decide what to do, if anything, about the unexpected blossoms on his new trees. She thought it a miracle to have him there to talk to.
Isabell had come to the opened door. She stood with her dolly clutched to her chest, the fingers on one hand crossed, held to her lips. “You gotta come with us, Anora. Papa wants to dance with you.”
Hank, his voice low, almost a whisper, spoke to her eyes and said, “Repeat after me, ‘A dance? Why, Mr. Reason, that sounds like fun. I’d be honored to come with you to the celebration.’”
Shaking her head at him, Anora laughed, a blush creeping all the way up to her ears. Inhaling, holding her breath, she gave him a nod, exhaled, and said, “A dance? Why, Mr. Reason, Hank, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come with you and Isabell to the celebration.”
∙•∙
Encouraged she’d replaced like for love and included Isabell in her vow, Hank grinned at her and gave her a buss on the cheek. “Good girl.”
He had plans and high hopes. He took her acceptance as a positive step in the right direction, a sign she had feelings for him. He thought he knew, but then, Anora could be exasperatingly stubborn, a born martyr—no, not born to martyrdom, trained by an expert—Ruben.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hauling the celebration seekers over three wagons at a time, Anora grew weary of hearing the same phrases over and over. “Gonna have a full moon. Yup, gonna be a real wing ding.”
“Hey,” shouted someone in the crowd, “She’s here. The Willa Jane, she’s comin’.”
Paxton and Melinda had arrived at the river an hour ago. In fascination and disgust, Anora observed the crowd of townspeople part, give way for the fancy buggy to pull up closer to the dock. Melinda, holding a lacy, yellow sunshade above her head, nodded to her subjects.
Refusing to stare at the woman, Anora didn’t give herself time to take in the details of Melinda’s yellow dress. But she couldn’t miss the wom
an’s over-sized, chip-straw hat with the big orange, black-eyed-Susan tucked into the hat band.
Anora didn’t doubt for a minute Melinda knew very well she had the envy of every woman there. Not one of the ladies present could ever hope to own, let alone have the daring to wear, anything so dashing.
In Anora’s opinion—and she’d kept her opinion under her hat, not that anyone would gave a tinker’s damn what she thought—but it would’ve been better had Paxton’s new bride tried to blend in, keep her fancy gowns, bonnets, and neat little parasols for trips to Oregon City or entertaining in her own home.
Suppressing the urge to spit over the rail as the bitter burst of jealousy bubbled up into her throat, she looked away and down river. From what she could observe, the other ladies in town—far from being put off by Mrs. Hayes’s insensitive display of finery—hustled forward, more determined than ever to get in the young woman’s good graces. Anora chalked up their behavior to ambition rather than a genuine fondness for Paxton’s bride.
The Willa Jane churned around the bend, skirting the gravel bar, fighting the current to stay in the deeper main channel. The water level in the river had dropped considerably in the last couple of weeks. The Willa Jane would go no farther than Takenah for the rest of the summer. The Molalla, a slightly bigger side wheeler, had made one trip upriver to Takenah, but sat upstream, out of the way, awaiting the fall rains and high water to resume regular runs.
Paxton caught her eye before she cast off and tipped his hat to her, and she returned the salute with a nod.
Melinda, who’d been chatting with Mrs. Gregson, Mrs. Ambrose, and Mrs. Price, caught her husband’s acknowledgment. Shading her eyes with a white laced, gloved hand, she waggled her fingers at her.
Standing a little aside of Paxton and his wife, Mrs. Pooley, Maybel, and her excited brood, all waved to her. Today, the big-boned, broad-of-beam woman had dressed in her finest, wearing a crisp, clean dress of light blue cotton, a simple red bandanna tied at her throat, and a straw hat on her head of light brown hair. The big smile on Maybel’s plain face took years off her appearance. Anora liked Maybel’s straightforward manner very much.
The Widow's Ferry Page 29