by Kit Morgan
“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you then.” He watched her walk down the hall as if the floor were made of ice and about to break at any moment. He knew that feeling well. After years of dealing with his own family, he wondered how he’d managed not to fall through.
Nine
Maisie did her best to get through the morning. Mama was as horrible and demanding as she could be. Once upstairs, she sat in her chair and berated Maisie for not coming when she first called, not bringing her shawl right away, and what had she been doing upstairs all that time anyway, woolgathering?
Maisie wasn’t about to tell her she’d been speaking with Jonathan – Mama would throw a fit. It was bad enough she’d begun to criticize poor Mrs. Whitehall’s oatmeal while Maisie was upstairs. She had a strong feeling Mama wouldn’t want to eat downstairs again anytime soon. So it would be back to the old routine of either reheating and dressing up something Mrs. Whitehall had already made, or making something for Mama from scratch.
“Where’s the mending?” her mother asked, somewhat calmer.
Maisie sighed in relief. “Downstairs. I’ll fetch it.”
“You’ll do no such thing!”
Oh good grief, now what? “How else am I to get it up here?”
“Call down the hall – tell Mrs. Whitehall to bring it up.”
“Mama,” she said in disbelief. “There’s nothing wrong with going downstairs and getting it. Surely you can handle being alone for a few moments?”
“I can be alone.”
Maisie’s hands went to her hips. “Then what is the problem?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed on her. “You. You’re the problem.”
“What?”
“You’ll talk to that man if he’s down there. I don’t want you talking to him or any other man, you hear me?”
Maisie couldn’t believe she was hearing this. “Mama ...”
“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me! First comes the talking, then comes the sparking – that’s how it always starts!”
Maisie couldn’t believe her ears. What was her mother going to do, chain her to the wall of their room? She headed for the door. “I’m going to fetch the mending.”
“No!”
Maisie took a deep breath, held it a moment and let it out slowly as she turned to face her mother. “Mama, I am going downstairs to fetch the mending, then you and I will work on it until it’s done. There’s almost no laundry today to worry about.”
“I am your mother and you’ll do as I say!”
“Not if you’re being unreasonable.”
Her mother’s eyes bulged as she turned almost purple. “Maisie Anne Woodhouse, I am your mother!”
Maisie shook her head. “No, you’re not. And I’d very much like her back, if you don’t mind.” She went out the door, closed it behind her and stood in the hall a moment, her hands shaking. This sort of behavior was unsettling. And if Jonathan Bridger knew anything about it, she was more than willing to let him escort her to work that afternoon.
Downstairs she fetched the mending and headed back up before Mrs. Whitehall spotted her. She certainly hoped Mama didn’t give the woman any grief while she was at work. Thankfully, her mother usually napped in the afternoon, or sat in her chair by the window, or both. Mrs. Whitehall said she hardly heard a peep from her – it wasn’t until Maisie got home that Mama came back to life. If one could call it living.
Back outside her door, Maisie took a deep breath and counted to ten before entering the room. Once inside her mother barely looked at her. So now she wasn’t speaking to her? Well, that wasn’t so bad, given the alternative. She shook her head in resignation, split up the mending and gave Mama half. “Here – there’s not much mending today either.”
Her mother looked at it, sighed wearily and picked up the first piece.
Maisie watched her a moment. The tyrannical harpy from moments ago was gone, replaced by the lackluster shell of a woman her mother had become over the last few months, threading a needle with as much enthusiasm as one being led to the gallows.
Where had her real mother gone? Where was the loving, sweet woman that had raised her, who’d shared her father’s dream of going west and starting a newspaper? Had she been so wrapped up in her father’s dream that when he died, everything good in her died with him? She was there in body, but her heart and mind seemed lost. How long would she be like this?
That was the real question, one Maisie had asked herself many times over the last few days. Hopefully Jonathan would be able to help. At this point, she was at her wit’s end. Granted, she hadn’t been to see the doctor and get his opinion. And why not? She should go there now, tell her mother she had a quick errand to run or that she was leaving for work early. Was she that afraid of what he would say?
She began to fix the hem of Mrs. Mitchell’s wool skirt. In a word, yes. Now that she thought on it, she was terrified. What if he said there was nothing to be done? What if he suggested she send her mother away?
“Ow!”
Her mother glanced up. “What’s the matter, dear?”
Maisie stared at her as she sucked on one finger. She’d been distracted by her fear and pricked herself with the needle. “Nothing, Mama. I’m fine.”
Her mother smiled. “Glad to hear it.” She bent to her work again without another word.
Tears welled in Maisie’s eyes. For that moment, Mama had just acted perfectly normal, the way she used to. There had to be hope for recovery. She couldn’t be that lost, could she?
But that was just it. Maisie honestly didn’t know, and was afraid to find out.
JONATHAN COMBED HIS hair for at least the third time before putting on his jacket. He grabbed his hat off the bed, left his room and headed downstairs to wait on the front porch for Maisie.
He felt nervous but didn’t know why. After all, he was only walking her to work – what harm was there in that? But of course, it wasn’t walking Maisie to work and risking upsetting her mother that worried him. It was that the help he wanted to offer her might not be the help she needed. If that was the case, then how could he help her?
True, he knew a lot about dealing with difficult parents – his were by far the most difficult that he knew of. Olivia was no peach, either – she could outperform her parents quite easily. Often he’d wondered why they put up with her, or she them. Yet weren’t they family? Was it because deep down, they knew they were all each other had? Hadn’t he stayed with them all those years for just that reason?
But what did that make him now – the deserter? The one who couldn’t take it?
“Hello, Jonathan.”
He turned to see Maisie standing in the doorway ready to go to work. She looked lovely, and he blinked a few times to keep from staring. He was also glad she’d interrupted his thoughts – that line of thinking would get him into trouble, maybe even cause him to contemplate going back. And he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. Guilt had a way of prompting people to do stupid things, and returning to his family would definitely be that. “Hello. Are you ready?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the staircase, sighed and turned back. “Very.” She stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
“Is your mother doing better?” he asked. He didn’t know her well enough yet to tell if the look on her face meant she was frustrated, sad, relieved, or a combination of all three.
“Yes, but I need a break. At least I have my job.”
Okay, a combination, he thought. “It’s hard caring for someone you love who doesn’t understand that you are caring for them. Was she still difficult this morning after we parted?”
“I’m afraid so,” Maisie said over another sigh. She headed for the porch steps.
Jonathan stopped her when they reached them. She looked at him in curiosity before he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She smiled weakly. “Forgive me – I seem to have forgotten my manners. Yes, let’s go.” She wrapped her arm through his and they descended the steps.
/> When they reached the end of the front walk they glanced back at the house. The front of the house was the south side, while the windows of Maisie’s room faced west. Jonathan wondered if Mrs. Woodhouse would be watching out one of those windows as they headed for the mercantile – and if she was, would she open one and yell at them.
“Thank you for escorting me to work,” Maisie said, distracting him again. Her voice was soft, soothing. How could her mother not react favorably to such a voice?
“Oh yes, of course.” He fought the urge to glance at the second story again as they continued on their way. “A walk is always nice.”
“It would be nicer if my mother hadn’t acted that way earlier. I do apologize for her behavior.”
Jonathan forgot about the windows and focused on Maisie. “Don’t be. Your mother needs help – there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“She’s ... well, she’s ...”
“In pain,” he finished for her.
Maisie stopped and looked at him. “And you have experience with such things?”
“I’ve had experience with difficult people – difficult family members especially. I know the way they act day in and day out can wear on a person. The difference is, my folks are not nice people and never have been. From what I’ve heard about your mother, she wasn’t always this way, was she?”
“No, of course not. She was a wonderful, kind, loving person before my father died. I don’t understand what happened.”
Jonathan shrugged. “It’s like Mrs. Whitehall said – some folks can’t handle grief. They lose themselves, some in stranger ways than others.”
“What do you mean, stranger ways?”
He started them walking again. “Well, when I was a boy – maybe five or six, I can’t remember – my family came west with this wagon train. Something happened, I don’t remember all the particulars, but it was bad and a man was shot for something he did. I remember he had a wife and daughter – they left the wagon train in Clear Creek, Oregon ... well, Oregon Territory back then.”
She looked confused. “What does that have to do with ...?”
“Something was wrong with our wagon, so we stayed behind in Clear Creek to fix it – we figured we’d catch up later. Then Pa heard about a local family of cattle ranchers, the three Cooke brothers, and wanted to purchase a steer. We went by their place to inquire about it and found the mother and daughter that left the wagon train.”
Maisie sighed but he went on.
“My sister Olivia couldn’t stand the daughter, and let everyone within earshot know it. Some folks didn’t take kindly to Olivia talking bad about her, and were quick to remind my family who they were staying with. That’s when we found out one of the Cooke brothers had a wife who couldn’t talk for years.”
Now he had her attention – Maisie’s eyes went wide. “What happened to her?”
“Same thing that happened to you and your ma – she lost someone she loved. She was just a child at the time, but it so devastated her that she stopped speaking. Her pa took good care of her, though – he was a trapper, and took her along with him. By the time they came to Clear Creek, she was about your age.”
“Did she ever speak again?” Maisie asked as they reached the mercantile.
“Yep. It took her a while, from what I hear, but now she talks just fine. She and her husband live in England now, on account of him becoming a duke and all.”
Maisie stopped dead. “What – a duke?! Surely you’re jesting.”
“No, ma’am. Folks all over Oregon know the story. I heard about it when we passed through Washington Territory years back.”
Maisie stared at him. “But ... what happened to her? How did she get her voice back?”
“She fell in love, Maisie. And love and time can heal a lot.”
She stared a moment more before giving him a slow nod. “I suppose. But Mama is making it very hard right now. I’m not sure I know how to love her through this.”
Jonathan noticed the tears welling in her eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here, take this. And don’t worry, we’ll figure out how to help her.” His heart swelled. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, hold her close and tell her everything would be all right. But he’d already crossed the lines of propriety enough that day. Instead, he did the only thing he could think of and escorted her inside.
“Thank you for walking with me,” she told him after he closed the door.
Abigail walked into the storefront from the back. “Hello, you two.”
“Hello,” Maisie replied weakly. She turned back to Jonathan. “Again, thank you, and thanks for sharing your story.”
“What story?” Abigail asked as she went behind the counter.
Maisie turned to her. “Jonath ... uh, I mean Mr. Bridger was just telling me a tale about a mute woman who married a duke.”
“Oh, you mean Cozette Cooke?”
Maisie blinked. “You know the story too?”
“Of course – just about everyone in the Northwest knows it.”
“Not everyone,” Maisie grumbled.
“Don’t worry, you’d have heard it eventually,” Jonathan assured her. “Mind, folks in Cutter’s Creek mostly heard a twisted version of it from my sister back when we lived here, and I had to go around and tell people what really happened. After all, we were in Clear Creek when part of it was happening.”
“Lucius Judrow passed through Clear Creek not long before he met Emma,” Abigail put in. “If I remember right, he met some relatives of the Cookes.”
Maisie went behind the counter, removed her shawl and tucked it underneath. “It’s a fine tale, but I’m not sure how I can apply it to my situation with my mother.”
Jonathan leaned against the counter and smiled. “Remember what I said – time and love can heal many things.”
Abigail smiled. “Wise words, Jonathan.” She winked at Maisie. “Doesn’t hurt a thing if you call him Jonathan, too.”
Maisie blushed.
The sight sent a tingle up his spine. “I’ve got other stories about love and healing. I’ll tell you another when I escort you home.”
“Escort?” Abigail said, grinning at Maisie.
Her blush deepened. “He, um ... yes, well.”
Jonathan felt his own face flush and looked away. He hoped Abigail didn’t make a big fuss out of things. He hadn’t asked Maisie to court, after all ... though at this point, the only reason not to was her mother’s anger.
“I’d best get to work,” Maisie said nervously.
Jonathan studied her a moment, hoping his story hadn’t upset her. It always upset Olivia – but then, everything to do with Clear Creek did. She didn’t get her way in that town, and it stung to this day. Time and love obviously hadn’t overcome her hatred, and he doubted it ever would.
Come to think, Maisie’s mother reminded him a little of Olivia – demanding, impatient, overbearing, rude. A shudder went through him at the thought. He glanced at Maisie as another thought struck: should he be trying to get to know Maisie better? After all, what if her mother didn’t get better? That might be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. He gulped at the thought. What if he fell in love with Maisie and ...
“Jonathan?” Maisie’s voice cut through his train of thought.
He spun back to her, only then realizing he’d been heading for the door. “Yes?”
“I’ll see you later.”
He quickly nodded. “Y-yes. Of course.” His voice didn’t sound convincing. “You can count on it.” That sounded better.
She smiled with relief. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trying to help – I appreciate it. And you’re right, I can see how love and time can work miracles. Though ... I don’t know if I have the strength to see it done.”
Ten
“What did you tell him that for?” Abigail scolded as soon as Jonathan left the mercantile.
Maisie put a hand to her forehead. “Because it’s
true.” Maybe she was beginning to worry too much over this whole thing. Visions flashed before her of demeaning servitude to her mother, a life wasted, Mama only growing worse over time. She had to force it from her mind.
“Have you spoken to the doctor?” Abigail asked, as if reading her thoughts.
And therein lay another worry – what if the doctor told her to send Mama away and then she got better? Would they release her from their care? Would someone write to her to let her know that her mother had recovered? What if she didn’t get better – could Maisie live with the guilt of abandoning her only family? And she had no idea what was involved with the care of those sick of mind. Would she even be allowed to see her mother again?
Maisie began to rub her temples. Worry too much? How could she not worry?
“What happened?” Abigail asked with concern.
Maisie lowered her hands and closed her eyes. “Mama was being very belligerent today, but then the next minute she was her old self. I’m telling you, Abigail, I’m at my limit. I don’t know what to do for her anymore. And I’m so tired ...”
Abigail gave Maisie a hug. It felt good. Maisie had the sudden image of Jonathan Bridger doing the same to her, only this time instead of kissing her forehead he kissed ...
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you think of something. But you have to speak with Doc Abbott. At least find out what he has to say.”
Maisie sniffed back tears. “Yes, I know.”
“You can leave early if you’d like. As far as I know he’s in town. I haven’t heard of any emergencies happening today.”
Maisie wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” She suddenly glanced at the door. “Oh, but Jonathan was going to walk me home.”
Abigail took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain to him where you’ve gone. He’ll understand.”
Maisie nodded. She had to speak with the doctor – she didn’t dare put it off any longer. She would have to face facts, either her mother would get better or she wouldn’t. If she didn’t, Maisie would have to see to it that Mama was well taken care of, even if she spent the rest of her life as a spinster.