Red Bird (Prairie Winds Book 2)

by Whitson, Stephanie Grace

  When David finally let go he looked up at her, his eyes shining with unspilled tears. “You knew.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t. Not yet.”

  David stood up. He was not a tall man, and his eyes were nearly level with Sarah’s. “I have to go back to Philadelphia sometime this year—”

  Sarah didn’t let him finish. “You should go as soon as possible. Get it done and come back home, so that you’ll be here when—”

  He raised two fingers and touched them to her lips. “I’ll go in two weeks. It will take that long to arrange things here. I’ll wire my cousin Ira to get things going in Philadelphia. It shouldn’t take long.” Reaching down to take one of Sarah’s hands, David said quietly, “When I come back we’ll be married. Mother will be able to attend.” He looked up at her doubtfully. “Do you think?”

  Sarah bit her lip, didn’t reply.

  David sat down abruptly, running his hand through his hair again. Sarah started to move away, but he grabbed her hand. “That wasn’t a proper proposal, Sarah. In fact, it was miserable. I’m sorry.”

  It’s all right. I understand.”

  He looked up at her hopefully. “Do you love me, Sarah Biddle?”

  “I don’t think Lincoln will approve of your selection of a wife, David.”

  “I don’t give a rip what Lincoln thinks.”

  Sarah smiled down at him. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Tom called from upstairs that Mother Braddock was coming down for supper.

  “Shall we tell Mother tonight?”

  “Oh, I think not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you should be sure before you tell Mother Braddock.”

  “Sarah Biddle.” David’s voice was angry and Sarah faced him, surprised at the emotion. “You are the sweetest, most humble, most capable girl I’ve ever known. I’m too old for some wild romance, but I want to marry you just as surely as snow flies in December. Now, will you or won’t you?”

  Sarah looked about the kitchen doubtfully. “I think I belong in the kitchen, not in the parlor.”

  David turned her face towards him. “Don’t look at the house, Sarah. Look at me .” His voice took on a reassuring tone. “Every man I know has commented at one time or another that they wish their own daughters could be as genteel as you.”

  “I don’t have the right background for—”

  “You don’t need a background to be my wife.”

  “That’s not what your friends will say.”

  “Then they aren’t my friends.”

  “Don’t be immature, David.”

  “I’ll be immature if I want to!”

  Sarah picked up the platter of turkey and headed for the dining room, her eyes blazing. “Then you’ll be immature alone, because Tom and Mother Braddock and I are eating supper now!”

  David wandered sheepishly into the dining room just as Sarah and Tom settled at their places. He kissed his mother on the cheek and took his place at the head of the table, snapping his napkin angrily and shoving it into his lap.

  Abigail Braddock’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she said innocently, “Did I hear a bit of an argument coming from the kitchen?”

  Sarah’s cheeks reddened and David’s eyes blazed as he stabbed a piece of turkey and shoved it into his mouth, preventing him from answering.

  Abigail chuckled. “My, my, children, such a lot of fuss over a simple engagement.”

  Sarah laid down her fork and looked up.

  Tom plunked down his water glass and let out a loud “What? ”

  David emptied his glass of wine and speared more turkey.

  Abigail’s mellow voice continued, “We’ll have the ceremony in the parlor. I’ll have Elsie Thornburn in yet this week and we’ll discuss the gown. Sarah will want a simple ceremony . . . not much fanfare.” Abigail turned to David, “But I insist that you announce it in the Philadelphia papers—and move me into the room across the hall so that my room can be redecorated for the two of you.”

  Sarah began to protest, but Abigail held up a thin hand. “My beloved child, of all the things that could have happened to me today, this is the very happiest.” She smiled warmly at Sarah and asked, “It has happened, hasn’t it?” Looking sternly at David she scolded, “And shame on you, David Braddock. Proposing in the kitchen !” Clucking her tongue she asked, “Don’t you have any romance in you at all, Boy?” Abigail turned back to Sarah. “Just like his father. All business. Closes in on a wife like he closes in on a banker to finalize some financial plan.” Abigail chuckled. “Think you can put up with him, Sarah?”

  For once, Tom Biddle remained so amazed he had nothing to say. It gave Sarah a rare occasion to formulate a heartfelt response. Casting a sidelong glance at David Braddock, she reached out to pat the back of his hand as she answered Abigail. “A woman can put up with a lot when she loves a man, Mother Braddock.”

  Unromantic as he was, David Braddock was given wisdom at that moment. He took Sarah’s hand in his own and squeezed it. And he didn’t let go.

  Chapter 8

  The Lord is with you. . . . and if ye seek him, he will be found of you.

  2 Chronicles 15:2

  G reat thunderclouds were rolling in from the west on the day that Carrie Brown stood on the platform of Lincoln’s train station to bid good-bye to her grandparents. A multitude of passengers had gathered that morning to compete for seats on the train, and Carrie tried to hurry her grandparents, admonishing, “Now don’t worry. You’ve met Mrs. Hathaway, and you both like her immensely. You’ve seen that she has a good job and a nice room for me. I’ll have weeks to work before registering for the fall term. I should easily be able to save up enough to get me started through the first year.”

  Walter Jennings looked towards the darkening sky before answering gruffly, “I don’t understand what all this figuring is about. We’ve already told you we support your decision. Seeing Lincoln and the university and meeting Mrs. Hathaway for ourselves has put any doubts we had about your coming here to rest. We’re going home to St. Louis with few worries about you. But Carrie,” he pleaded, “you know we can pay the tuition and your expenses. I don’t understand why you have to work.”

  “Grandfather,” Carrie said shortly. “We’ve been through this and through it. I want to do this on my own. I’ve got to grow up. Make my own way.”

  A great clap of thunder resounded, and with a harrumph and a grunt, Jennings bent to kiss his only grandchild, angrily brushing an errant tear off his cheek.

  Lucy Jennings gave in to her emotions, crying quietly as she smiled encouragement to Carrie. “We’re both so very proud of you, Dear. We know you’ll do well. Be sure you write. Be sure you let us know if you need anything. Be sure to come home for Christma—” her voice wavered and she put a lace-edged handkerchief to her face.

  Another clap of thunder reminded the Jenningses of the need to hurry. Lucy Jennings regained her composure. Straightening her shoulders she gave a little toss of her head and said, “Goodness, what’s gotten into us. As if we didn’t raise you for this very moment.” She sighed deeply. “It came too soon, that’s all, Carrie. Here. Let me look at you.” Laying a gloved hand on each of Carrie’s shoulders, Lucy Jennings gazed down at her granddaughter with love and said, “We’ve done our best, Carrie. I know we’ve spoiled you, but you’ll outgrow it. I hate to go, but in the end, I know it’s for the best. Now—” Emotions threatened again, and Lucy hugged Carrie as she whispered, “May the Lord bless thee and keep thee, dear child.”

  When Carrie was released from her grandmother’s embrace, she stood back and looked up at Lucy with serious eyes. “I’ll work hard, Grandmother. I’ll write, just like you asked, and everything will turn out.”

  Walter Jennings interrupted gruffly. “Promise us you’ll go through with teaching the Christian Endeavor Society meetings, Carrie. There is no greater training ground than
that of serving the Lord. You know, Grandchild, that our greatest concern is that you walk with God, that you transfer your dependence upon your grandmother and me to dependence upon God. If you learn to do that here in Lincoln, Nebraska, whatever else happens will be fine with us.”

  The train whistle blew just as it began to rain. Walter Jennings grabbed Carrie up and swung her about, hugging her tightly and whispering, “God be with you, Granddaughter.”

  Lucy began to cry again as she and Walter boarded the train. Carrie backed under the overhang of the station and watched through the car windows as her grandparents pushed their way past a few passengers and settled by a window. Lucy struggled in vain to open the window, but it began to pour rain and the two were carried out of sight, waving furiously.

  The moment she lost sight of them, Carrie felt a pang of loneliness—a flash of panic-stricken fear. I’m on my own now, she thought. It’s up to me to make something of myself. The enormity of her first steps of independence washed over her as she darted through the rain back to the hotel, grateful that Augusta Hathaway was occupied elsewhere and could not observe her young charge’s feeble attempts to fight back tears.

  The summer of 1883 proved to be one of the most difficult periods in Carrie Brown’s life. She had asked Augusta Hathaway for work without realizing just what she was requesting. As a child in her grandparent’s home she had amused herself by “helping” servants clean windows and dust furniture. When Augusta’s head housekeeper introduced Carrie to cleaning, Carrie was amazed.

  Norah Murphy stood at the door to the dining room and recited, “Three times a day, Dearie. Hoist the chairs onto the tables. Sweep the floor first. Then mop. You do know how to mop?”

  Carrie assured Norah that she knew how to mop.

  Norah smiled. “Good. Now, when your university classes begin, you’ll have only the morning and evening mop. I’ll have another girl take care of noon. That way you’ll have the day free for your classes.”

  When Norah first witnessed Carrie’s attempt to mop, she stepped in immediately. “I don’t know what they do in St. Louis, Dearie, but here in Lincoln we do things differently.” Taking the mop from Carrie’s hands, Norah demonstrated. “Out and back, over and back—ugh!” Norah held up the mop. “You didn’t sweep first, did you?

  Carrie blushed with embarrassment, but after the next meal, the floor was thoroughly swept before she mopped. Norah inspected and approved.

  “Now, then, Miss Brown, we’ll add the windows to your schedule. Twice weekly Mrs. Hathaway wants the dining room windows washed. You can do that after the evening mop. Do not use soapsuds. Use a clean cloth and clear water.” Norah hauled a clear pail of water from the kitchen and wrung out her cloth. “Wet but not dripping, Miss Brown. Wash clean. Here, you try it.” Carrie took the cloth and began to wipe. “Good. Now wring the rag dry and go over them again. Then polish with a dry cloth. Rinse the cloth and change the water as often as necessary.” Norah Murphy grinned. “You’ll make several trips to the kitchen and back.”

  Norah added, “Once a month polish the windows. Mix a little dry starch with water to the consistency of cream. Wash the windows with it, then let it dry on. When its dry, rub it off with a damp newspaper. Gives a high polish—no streaks.”

  The morning after her first window polishing, Carrie’s arms ached so much she found it difficult to put up her hair. She dragged herself through the “morning mop,” grateful when lunch arrived. That afternoon cleaning the hotel lobby was added to her list of duties.

  “Silas Kellum will help you hang the rugs out back. They’re to be beaten clean on Saturday. Each Wednesday evening, after the guests have retired, you’ll sprinkle table salt over the rug and then sweep it clean. Do this to both sides.

  “Be certain you wipe down the stairs, polish the woodwork, and dust all the lamps daily. No feather dusters, Miss Brown.” Norah looked at her suspiciously. “Do they use feather dusters in St. Louis?”

  Carrie nodded meekly. “Yes, I think we did use feather dusters.”

  Norah shook her head. “Well, Miss Brown, the object of dusting here at Hathaway House is to remove the dust from the room—not to simply move it to another location. Use these.” Norah handed Carrie a neatly hemmed cotton cloth. “Begin in one corner of the foyer and dust thoroughly as you go. Don’t overlook the stairs and the woodwork. The turnings on the railing are particularly challenging. Commence with the highest articles. Wipe with the cloth, Miss Brown, don’t simply brush off dust. Remember: The object is to cause all the dust to lodge on the cloth. You will need to shake the dust out frequently. Do this out the back door, please. We do not want our guests having dust shaken in their faces, now do we? Once you have finished the dusting, wash out the cloth and hang it to dry on the lines in back.”

  Norah Murphy walked away, clucking to herself doubtfully about Miss Brown’s lack of training and Mrs. Hathaway’s “eternal patience with the present generation.”

  In spite of the hard work, Carrie Brown enjoyed her summer. She frequently sent Silas Kellum into gales of laughter with her flawless imitation of Norah Murphy, but she eventually learned to clean so well that even Norah Murphy was pleased.

  “Look at that, won’t you. An original hayseed, for sure.”

  “Straight off the farm. Look at that dress!”

  Cruel comments and jabs continued until Carrie, who stood in line waiting to register for her university classes, couldn’t resist glancing at the object of her classmates’ attention. The girl was in the line next to Carrie. She was dressed in outmoded clothes. A few pieces of hay clung to the back of her hair. More hay was stuck on the back of her dress. She was thin and blond, and she stood with her eyes on the ground and a worn carpetbag clutched in her hands. Carrie knew the girl had heard the cruel remarks, but although she seemed to be fighting back tears, she kept her place in line.

  When another cruel jab was whispered, Carrie stepped out of her own place in line and crossed to where the newcomer stood. “You’ve got something—” Carrie smiled and reached back to pull the strands of hay out of the girl’s hair.

  “Oh!” the girl’s hand shot up to her hair. She blinked and said softly, “Thank you.”

  Carrie put a hand on her shoulder. “Here, just turn a minute.” Quickly, she brushed the hay off the girl’s clothes.

  “Thank you,” the girl repeated before thrusting out one hand and introducing herself. “Myrtle Greer.”

  “Carrie Brown,” Carrie answered. “Are you from Lincoln?”

  Myrtle smiled shyly. “Oh, no, not me. I’m from forty miles west.”

  The line moved forward and Carrie stayed next to Myrtle, who said, “You’ll lose your place in line. You were way ahead of me.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Carrie answered. “I’m from far away, too. St. Louis. I’ve been working here this summer, saving money for tuition.”

  Myrtle nodded. “I’ve been saving for years to get to come here. I finally got the money for the first term, though.” She reached up to touch her hair and grinned. “Didn’t have train fare, though. I hitched a ride with a neighbor to get here. He was bringing a load of hay to market. Thought I had it all brushed off.”

  “You rode forty miles in a wagon just to get here?”

  Myrtle nodded.

  “You’ve been saving for years?”

  Myrtle nodded. The line moved again. Myrtle asked, “You said you’d been working here this summer. You don’t know where I could get a job, do you?”

  “We can ask Mrs. Hathaway. She owns the big hotel here in town. That’s where I work. If she isn’t hiring right now, she’ll know who is. You can walk back with me after we get registered.”

  Carrie introduced Myrtle to Augusta Hathaway. “John Cadman needs kitchen help, Miss Greer,” Augusta offered. Surveying Myrtle’s worn clothing, Augusta added, “And if he’s already hired someone, you come back to me. We’ll find something.” Turning to Carrie, Augusta said, “Now you two scoot into the kitchen and ask Cora for
two big pieces of lemon cake. And some hot cocoa.”

  Over lemon cake and cocoa, Myrtle and Carrie discovered that although they had nearly identical university schedules, they had very little else in common. Carrie had been an only child. Myrtle had grown up on a farm, the eldest in a family of twelve children. While Carrie grew up in a house where she had few responsibilities, Myrtle had only recently escaped the duties of running a house. Two sisters had grown old enough to help, and Myrtle’s parents had finally given in to their eldest’s incessant begging to attend the university. Myrtle had studied by lamplight long into the night to get her primary certificate. She had sewed for neighbors and even helped one season with harvesting, just to add to the small cash savings she had designated for her first term. When she had finally reached what her parent’s thought to be an impossible goal, they had reluctantly watched her pack her two dresses and hop onto the neighbor’s hay wagon for the ride to Lincoln.

  Myrtle told about herself in a matter-of-fact way, but when she finished, she said firmly, “And I don’t plan to go back until I have my certificate and a teaching position. I’m not staying on the farm to be worked to death like my moth . . .” Myrtle looked up sheepishly and changed the subject.

  The first few weeks of school, Myrtle and Carrie were too busy working or studying to have much chance to build their friendship. Carrie complained to Augusta one evening. “I can’t believe they expect us to virtually memorize every word they say.”

  “Is that so impossible, Dear?” Augusta wanted to know.

  “Not for Roscoe Pound, it isn’t. Have you met him?”

  Augusta nodded. “I know the family. Amazing. Mrs. Pound educates the children herself. She has always been suspicious of the abilities of the local schools. I was their guest one Sunday afternoon. The family read the Scriptures aloud. In Greek.”

  Carrie nodded. “Just what I heard. Young Mr. Pound is only twelve, Mrs. Hathaway—yet he’ll graduate in ’87 with a degree in biology. He speaks fluent German, and Miss Smith’s Latin class holds no horrors for him! ” Carrie added, “We applaud for our professors, you know. I don’t mind when it’s Professor Collier. But applauding for a cross old hen like Miss Smith is almost more than I can take.”