Beauty for Ashes

by Dorothy Love

  “I’ll show you how it’s done sometime,” Lucy said. “But not today. I’m already late. Save me a piece of your wonderful bread, all right?”

  “It’s for—”

  “Charity. Right. Never mind.” Lucy donned the straw hat and tied the bright green ribbons in a saucy bow beneath her chin. “I’m sure Reverend Patterson appreciates your help.” She sighed. “If things don’t improve around here soon, I’m not sure Aunt Maisy can afford to keep this place open. We may wind up needing charity ourselves.”

  She waggled her fingers and left, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

  A rectangle of early September sunlight filtered through a chink in the heavy parlor curtains. Pushing them aside, Carrie stared onto the busy street, her thoughts a-jumble. If the Verandah closed, where would she live? What if Henry found work in Chicago? Would he sell the farm, leaving her without any place to hang her hat? Or suppose he left it all in her hands. How would she manage the plowing, planting, harvesting all alone?

  Across the way, a man in a felt bowler entered the bank. Two mill hands emerged from the bakery carrying white paper sacks. Outside Jasper Pruitt’s mercantile, a drayman halted his freight wagon just as Mariah Whiting came out, her arms full of packages.

  Carrie felt a stab of guilt. She shouldn’t have spoken so sharply to Mariah and Eugenie that day at Mr. Gilman’s place. Despite their evident disapproval, she wanted their friendship. She glanced at the clock. The bread wouldn’t be done for another few minutes. She took off her apron and hurried out the door.

  Outside Jeanne Pruitt’s dress shop, she caught up with her friend. “Mariah?”

  The mill foreman’s wife turned. “Oh. Hello, Carrie.”

  Mariah’s brown eyes, usually so warm and alive with light and affection, were wary. She turned to study the dark green dress displayed in the shop window.

  “I saw you coming out of Mr. Pruitt’s just now, and I came to apologize.” Carrie laid one hand on Mariah’s arm. “I didn’t intend to speak so harshly to you and Eugenie the other day. I don’t know what possessed me, really.”

  “Eugenie and I know very well what possessed you. And we’re very concerned about you.” Mariah whirled around, her skirts sweeping the sidewalk. “Mr. Rutledge is not a proper gentleman.”

  She glanced at two women coming along the street and lowered her voice. “His brother came here to visit him, all the way from Charleston, and Mr. Rutledge turned him away. His own kin. What’s worse, they say he frequents that disgusting gambling house down in Two Creeks.”

  Carrie fought a stab of disappointment. She didn’t want anything to mar her impression of Griff. “Are you sure? You know how people love to gossip.”

  Mariah nodded emphatically. “I know all too well how folks like to gossip. That’s why Eugenie and I are so worried about you. We don’t want you to ruin your reputation by keeping company with the likes of Griff Rutledge.” She patted Carrie’s arm. “Even if the gossip about him isn’t true, after Race Day he’ll be gone, and then what? If you insist on consorting with him, no respectable man will want you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve given up on finding love.”

  Mariah’s expression softened. “You’re still in shock about Nate and Rosaleen. But that’s no excuse to take up with Mr. Rutledge. This obsession with him is quite unlike you, Carrie.”

  “I know. I don’t understand it myself.”

  “You need to pray about this, my dear, and wait upon the Lord.”

  “I do pray. Every day. But sometimes I wonder whether God is listening.”

  A rig clattered along the road. The train whistle shrieked.

  “Sometimes he seems remote to me too.” Mariah nodded to a farm boy who passed them on the sidewalk. “All those years ago, when our little daughter drowned, I felt as if he’d abandoned me. But his love is constant, so it must be us mortals who move from beneath his wing.”

  Mariah shifted her packages to her other arm and peered up the street. “Here comes Sage. I shouldn’t keep him waiting. He worries about the mill every moment he’s away from it.”

  Carrie nodded. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday.”

  Mariah waved and hurried down the sidewalk. Carrie watched Sage stow her packages inside her rig. They drove away. Carrie headed back to the Verandah, her thoughts racing, her feelings a mix of shock and disappointment. She hadn’t known about Griff’s visits to the gambling house. No wonder people were talking. On the other hand, according to the books she read, gambling among prominent men was an accepted practice in the Carolinas. Or at least it had been before the war, when slaves did all the work and there was nothing else to occupy a gentleman’s hours. Was it Griff’s fault if some folks in Hickory Ridge didn’t realize that?

  Anger propelled her along the dusty sidewalk. How dare anyone judge her? Head down, she stomped past the barbershop just as the door swung open and a man hurried out.

  “Whoa there, Miss . . . well, hello, Carrie.”

  Griff, smelling wonderfully of bay rum and shaving soap, smiled down at her. “We seem always to be running into each other. Literally.”

  She returned his smile, stunned at how happy she was to see him. At how quickly the sound of his voice lightened her glum mood. She loved the sound of her name on his lips, his broad, confident smile and dark eyes.

  He offered his arm. “Where to?”

  “The Verandah. I’ve six loaves of bread in the oven.”

  He grinned and brushed one finger across her cheek, sending nerves skittering along her spine. “That explains the smudge of flour.”

  Heat suffused her face. “I saw a friend on the street and wanted to catch her before she got away. I should have checked my mirror first.”

  “Mrs. Whiting, wasn’t it? I saw her through the barbershop window.”

  “Mariah, yes. We’ve known each other for years.”

  “And she warned you not to get mixed up with the likes of me.”

  “No, she was—”

  “It’s all right. I’m used to being new in town—an unknown quantity, so to speak.” He nodded to a couple of men who passed them on the sidewalk. “And she’s right, you know.” His dark gaze sought hers. “The last thing I want to do is make you unhappy, Carrie.”

  Her heart stumbled. Something was growing between them, something that made her feel beautiful and alive. How could he dismiss that so easily?

  They reached the Verandah. He paused, one foot on the bottom porch step. “So long as we understand each other, I would like very much to have the pleasure of your company. How about another riding lesson sometime soon?”

  Suppose, in the end, he disappointed her? Shattered her heart? At least she would have a few weeks of happiness.

  She smiled up at him. “I’d love to.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Carrie slid into the back pew of the red brick church and peeled off her short lace gloves. The meeting was well underway. Up front Eugenie Spencer was speaking to a small group of women perched side by side in the first pew like birds on a wire. Through the open window came the clopping sounds of horses’ hooves and the squeak of the drayman’s wagon. In the hawthorn bush beside the window, a cardinal sang.

  “. . . will need several ladies to take charge of the decorations this year,” Eugenie said. “Mariah has agreed to help and to play the piano for the Christmas Eve service.”

  The ladies bobbed their heads in silent approval. Sitting alone in the back pew, Carrie couldn’t help noticing how many of their hats were Ada Wentworth designs, couldn’t help wishing Ada were here now.

  Molly Scott, the mayor’s wife, spoke up. “I reckon I can get Hiram to chop us down a Christmas tree when the time comes. And I can help with the decorations too.” She shook her head. “I sure do miss the orphans. Mrs. Lowell had ’em trained into a right nice choir.”

  “Whatever happened to those children?” Rosaleen asked.

  She was seated near the front of the church next to Deborah Patterson, the m
inister’s wife. Colored light from the stained-glass window above the pulpit played upon Rosaleen’s dark hair. Today she wore a simple ivory muslin frock sprigged with pink rosebuds and a matching shawl. Even in the unadorned gown, she was easily the prettiest woman in the room. No wonder she had turned Nate’s head.

  “Some growed up and left and some of the little ones found homes is what I understand.” Molly twisted around in her pew to face Rosaleen. “When the money dried up, Mrs. Lowell had no choice but to shut the doors. She moved to—”

  “Ladies.” Eugenie tapped the podium to get their attention. “We’re off the subject here. Now, who else will volunteer for the pageant this year? There are costumes to sew, and there’s lots of baking to be done. It’s September already. Christmas will be here before we know it.”

  Jeanne Pruitt from the dress shop and Sarah Broome, the pale young woman who had taken over operation of the telegraph office from Mary Stanhope, raised their hands. Carrie raised her hand too. Baking was the one thing she was good at.

  Eugenie glanced around and scribbled in her notebook. “Jeanne and Sarah, I appreciate your help.”

  Carrie frowned. Hadn’t Eugenie seen her hand in the air too?

  “And now to Race Day,” Eugenie went on. “I’ve asked Mrs. Gilman to speak to us about that.”

  The banker’s wife, clad in yards of dark-blue silk, a glittering pin on her shoulder, rose and made her way to the front of the church. “Ladies, unfortunately we’ve had a setback. The printing company in Knoxville we hired to make fliers for the event has temporarily shut down.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Patterson spoke for the first time, startling Carrie. Usually, the minister’s wife spoke not a word and left church as soon as the Sunday sermon was concluded. Mrs. Whitcomb said Deborah was unsuited for the role of pastor’s wife, but Carrie liked her calm expression and gentle smile. Maybe Mrs. Patterson was painfully shy. Or drained of energy after her weekly visits to the sick and the indigent.

  “We have no way of knowing when the print shop will reopen,” Mrs. Gilman went on. “I understand they’re waiting for a new part for the steam press. With our event only a month or so away, we can’t afford to wait to get the word out. So we need every one of you to make and distribute signs all over Hickory Ridge. Send a copy to your friends and kinfolks living elsewhere. The more people who know about Race Day, the larger the potential crowd, and the better for our town.” She looked around the room. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much everyone is counting on its success.”

  Rosaleen stood, rustling her muslin skirts. “My husband will take some copies to Knoxville for us when he goes to call on the university. And well, I know I’m new here and all, but I’d be willing to meet the incoming trains and personally invite visitors to come back for Race Day.”

  Molly chewed her bottom lip. “A one-woman welcoming committee? I’m not sure about that, Miz Chastain. Some folks might not think it’s proper.”

  “I’ll make copies for Sage to post at the mill,” Mariah said. “For the few men who are left.”

  Carrie thought of Henry. There hadn’t been a solitary word from him since he’d left for Chicago. Surely he knew by now whether or not he would find work in the rail yard. Surely he’d written to his wife. Was he all right? How was he getting on in the steamy, dirty city? Desperate as she was for word from him, she would not beg the information from the insufferable Mary Stanhope.

  Mrs. Gilman handed out a sample flier. “Use black ink, ladies. It’ll show up better. Be sure to finish them and post them no later than the fourteenth. That gives folks a month to make plans to watch Majestic run the race.”

  “What about the other horses?” Mariah asked. “Has anyone heard anything about that?”

  “My husband is taking care of that,” Mrs. Gilman said. “Two gentlemen from Maryland are bringing horses, and so is Mr. Vaught from over in Maury County. Colonel Bruce of Kentucky is planning to attend too. The colonel is an expert on the Thoroughbred pedigree. He even published a book on it a couple of years back. They say he owns a mare that goes all the way back to the very first Thoroughbred champion in the 1700s. But he won’t be bringing her this year. She’s about to foal.”

  Molly Scott nodded. “I reckon it’s good for business to have competition from all over, but Hiram is betting on that Rutledge feller to ride Majestic to victory.”

  Carrie suppressed a smile. Any mention of the magnificent horse and his trainer made her insides soften. She would bet on Griff too if she were a betting kind of person. Griff’s way with horses was something rare and magical.

  “Well then.” Eugenie stood. “I believe this concludes our meeting. Let’s all go home and get to work. Hickory Ridge is depending on us.”

  With a rustling of bustles and petticoats, the women rose, chattering all at once. Carrie slipped out the back door, intending to speak to Eugenie about baking sweets for the Christmas celebration. Though bread was her specialty, baking cookies was a part of the tradition she had long shared with Henry and her friends. Now, more than ever, she needed a familiar ritual to cling to.

  Besides, the doctor’s wife had been known to flout convention herself. Hadn’t she attended births in Two Creeks when others were afraid to venture so far from town? Surely she wouldn’t hold Carrie’s friendship with Griff against her.

  “Carrie?” Rosaleen swept into the aisle and placed one hand on Carrie’s arm. “May I ask you something?”

  Carrie nodded, one eye on the open doorway. Eugenie and Mariah walked out together, the wide brims of their hats touching as they talked.

  “What in the world is an account receivable? Nate told me to go through a ledger and add them all up, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to add. I don’t want to ask him. He already thinks I’m dumb as a fence post.”

  Well, what had he expected? Anyone who spent more than ten minutes with Rosaleen would realize the woman was in no danger of being mistaken for an intellectual. Still, Carrie couldn’t very well let her muddle a business Nate had spent years building.

  “Accounts receivable is the list of people who owe the shop money for books they have ordered or already received. The universities are the largest accounts, but you should check Mr. Gilman’s too. He orders a lot of books from Nate and pays up when they arrive. If you add all those amounts together, you’ll know how much income to expect at the end of the month.”

  “Oh, is that all there is to it?” Rosaleen frowned. “Why didn’t Nate say so instead of giving it some fancy name? Accounts receivable. My word.”

  “I must go. I need to speak to Eugenie.”

  “I’ll walk out with you.”

  They left the church and stepped into the bright sunshine. Eugenie—and everyone else—had gone.

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry I held you up,” Rosaleen said. “Walk over to the bakery with me, and I’ll buy you a cinnamon bun. Make it up to you.”

  “Thank you, but I should be getting back to the Verandah soon. I promised to help Mrs. Whitcomb with supper tonight. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

  “I wondered where she was today.” Rosaleen snapped open her parasol. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t want a cinnamon bun?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Suit yourself.” Rosaleen started down the road.

  Feeling suddenly bereft, Carrie stood in the shade watching a wren flitting in and out of the nest it had made in the hollow of a tree. Maybe she’d skip the Christmas celebrations this year. By then Griff would be gone. Unless Henry came home, there wouldn’t be much to celebrate anyway.

  “Sweet, isn’t she?”

  Carrie spun around. “Mrs. Patterson. You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry.” The minister’s wife walked over to a small wooden bench set beneath the trees. Carrie noticed for the first time that she walked with a slight limp and that her left arm hung useless at her side. But her face was radiant, her smile genuine. “I love watching the wrens. So industrious. Please . . . join me
for a moment.”

  Carrie sat down.

  “You’re Mrs. Daly.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “I’ve seen you in church for the past several weeks. I meant to welcome you sooner.”

  “Thank you. I enjoy your husband’s sermons quite a lot, and now that I live in town, it’s more convenient to attend church here.” She brushed at a cloud of gnats forming around her head. “I love our county church, but we haven’t had a regular pastor since Mr. Dennis moved away. We have the circuit rider from time to time, but it isn’t the same.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m always sad when a church loses its leader.” Deborah Patterson paused and studied Carrie’s face. In the trees above them, a blue jay squawked. The little wren ducked into her nest. “But that isn’t why I waited for you today.”

  “Oh?” Carrie rubbed the coin-sized protrusion of bone at her wrist and watched the sunlight dappling the ground.

  “I saw Mrs. Spencer ignore your offer to help bake.”

  Carrie shrugged. “I seem to be out of favor with everyone these days.”

  “Because of Mr. Rutledge.”

  “My word. Is there anyone in town who doesn’t know that I speak to him now and then?”

  A smile lit Deborah’s face. “Apparently not. Forgive me for asking, but are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, other than that my life is a terrible mess.”

  “I’ve been praying for you,” Deborah said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can sense your uncertainty. You want to please God. You want to be happy. You’re not sure whether one precludes the other.”

  Carrie didn’t try to hide her surprise. How could this woman see past her troubled heart to her very soul? She nodded.

  “Our Lord delights in our joy. You say your life is a mess, and maybe it is, but he can bring order out of chaos and turn the worst suffering to his good. But you must be willing to surrender everything into his safekeeping.”