Mallory

by Hebby Roman

  He put his hand on the sergeant’s arm. “Hotchkiss, how long?”

  “Another day or two, sir?”

  “Good enough. Dismissed.” He saluted and turned back to his captains.

  ***

  Mallory squeezed Sally Rodgers’ hands. “I’ll be fine. I just need to post a letter to my good friend in Georgia.” They were standing in front of the post office, a small wooden building. “You go on ahead.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t leave you, but it’s late, and I need to get Frank’s… er, Captain Rodgers’ supper. He doesn’t like to eat in the mess hall. Says the food is, er… not very good.”

  “You’ve done more than enough.” She released the other woman’s hands. “Please, Sally, I appreciate all your help and hospitality. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “If you’re certain?” Sally scanned the dusty main street.

  Mallory followed her gaze. The tiny town was quiet and almost deserted. She watched as a housewife entered the green grocer’s, a cowboy with his distinctive headgear pulled over his face, snoozed in front of the saloon, and the butcher was sweeping the wooden walkway in front of his store.

  “I think it’s safe enough, and I’ll only be a minute,” she said.

  “All right,” Sally gave in. “I’ll expect you after supper then?”

  “Of course.”

  Sally turned and walked a few steps. Then she turned back and waved.

  Mallory waved, too, and smiled. She liked Sally. The woman had welcomed her into her home without a moment’s hesitation, and her husband, Captain Rodgers, seemed nice, too.

  Sally had introduced her to several families in the town of Fort Davis, who might be interested in the school she was starting. They didn’t have much money, though, it was plain to see and, like the lieutenants of the fort, could only afford a fraction of what the commander was paying her.

  She chewed her lip. The familiar gnaw of guilt made her uneasy. She owed the commander a great deal and, if she hadn’t needed his money to return to her son, she’d turn down his offer of three dollars a week. In some strange way, she didn’t like being beholden to him, though, with due regard to the sleeping arrangements, they were observing the proprieties. Still, his offer was so generous.

  But if she was honest with herself, she knew the commander wanted her as a substitute mother for Peggy. Not that he would come out and say it, but that was why he was willing to pay her. And Peggy needed a mother in the worst of ways.

  Still, some small part of her felt as if she was taking advantage of his goodness. She chewed on her lip again. More reason to exceed his expectations with regard to teaching and mothering his daughter. She’d make sure he didn’t regret paying her extra.

  She entered the post office and pulled the letter to Nancy out of her pocket. Glancing at the address on the front, she wondered how it would be received. With her best friend, she’d left nothing out, from her abduction by the savages, to the unexpected death of her intended husband, and her new circumstances. She’d written Nancy, telling her everything. Her best friend was one of the few people she could trust.

  She’d considered buying a round-trip stagecoach ticket to San Antonio, wiring Nancy to send Macon, and returning to the fort. But that would have taken most of the funds she had left. Then what? She and Macon would be together, but she’d need to earn enough money for them to have a proper place to live. And the thought of bringing her child to this dangerous place, without the protection of a husband, was disconcerting.

  A gray-haired lady stood behind the desk. She approached her and held out her hand. “I’m new in town, staying at the fort. My name is Miss Reynolds. Are you the Postmistress?”

  The woman gave her the once over, and the back of her neck heated. She’d seen how Sally and the lieutenants’ wives, not to mention the townspeople, were dressed. She stuck out like a sore thumb, swathed in a lavender-colored day dress with lace at her neckline and cuffs.

  “Yes, Ma’am, glad to meet you.” The Postmistress bobbed her head, her gray curls wreathing her face. “I’m Mrs. Burnside. Do you have a letter to post?”

  “Yes.” Mallory put it on the desk and paid the postage. She thanked the Postmistress and turned to go.

  “Oh, Miss, seems you have a letter from the same lady you’re writing to.” Mrs. Burnside held up an envelope. “Here it is.”

  Seeing the familiar handwriting of her friend, her heart galloped, wanting to burst from her chest. She grabbed the letter. “Thank you, thank you so much, Mrs. Burnside.”

  “My pleasure, Ma’am, hope to see you again.”

  Giddy with happiness, she skipped out of the post office and stopped at a half-rotten bench, a few yards away. She sat down and smoothed the envelope. She couldn’t wait to read about her son and how he was doing.

  But first, she slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and brought out her picture of Macon. She had taken his picture out of its silver frame, wanting to have his image with her all the time.

  She hadn’t told anyone about her son. If she did, she’d need to lie and say she was a war widow or admit her shame. Neither option appealed.

  She traced her index finger over his eyebrows and then his cheekbones. A tear trickled down her cheek, and she brushed it away.

  She tore into the envelope and skimmed the contents.

  “Macon misses you but he is well… he likes first grade and is a good student… his teacher says he excels in math… Was she married yet…? What was her new husband like…? She’d try to write every week… she hoped Mallory would write as often… she would read her letters to Macon.”

  Mallory chewed the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood. She could go and ask for her letter back, but it would be embarrassing. Surely, Nancy would read through her letters before she read them out loud to her son. Wouldn’t she? Especially her first letter, filled with all kinds of ugliness. Of all she’d suffered and endured. She didn’t want her son to know any of it.

  She couldn’t wait to return to her son. With what the commander paid her and what the others could afford, even with the pittance she was paying the Rodgers, she’d be hard-pressed to save enough money to return. It would take months, and she’d need to keep her expenses to a minimum. Except for one thing…

  She needed some simple day dresses. She was tired of people, like the Postmistress, looking at her as if she was a fish out of water. She wasn’t much at housekeeping, but she could sew a fine seam. With Sally’s help, she hoped to buy some inexpensive fabric and make a few everyday dresses.

  Other than day dresses, she wouldn’t spend a penny she didn’t need to. And the sooner she saved her money—the sooner she could get home to Macon.

  She tucked the letter inside her pocket beside Macon’s picture and rose. She’d read her friend’s letter again before retiring. But now, she needed to get back to the fort as promised.

  Her glance fell on the cowboy snoozing on the saloon’s front porch. He looked up, and she could have sworn the cowboy was Ben Murphy. Her heart clenched in her chest, and her palms started to sweat.

  The cowboy lowered his head, and she looked away. Surely, she was seeing things? The commander had been adamant about Ben not coming to town. But considering how arrogant and hostile the man had been, would he have listened?

  She didn’t know, and the cowboy, whoever he was, gave her the shivers. She picked up her pace, hurrying along to the fort.

  Chapter Five

  Mallory leaned over Peggy’s shoulder. “Yes, you’ve got the subject and the verb correct.” She pointed at the sentence Peggy was diagraming. “Now, what’s the direct object?”

  Peggy pointed at the word “street” and glanced up. The sentence read: “Jill threw the ball into the street.”

  “You’re close, but it’s the word ‘ball’ that’s the direct object. ‘Street’ is part of a prepositional phrase. The direct object is a noun or pronoun that receives the action of a verb or shows the res
ult of the action. The direct object is not always the noun at the end of a sentence. Many times, it is, but not always.”

  Peggy’s bottom lip jutted out. She lowered her head and finished diagraming the sentence.

  “All right. Very good. Let’s take a look at this next sentence,” Mallory pointed to the primer.

  She moved back, took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her face. The weeks had rolled into June, and most days, even though the sun was strong, the air was cool. But today was different—it was the heat of the day—just after their nap. She was perspiring in her new lightweight cotton dress worn without a corset.

  She’d settled into the life of the fort. In the mornings, she taught three children from the fort and two from town, along with Peggy. They ranged in ages from a fifteen-year-old boy, Jeb Houghton, from town, and a fourteen-year-old girl, Annie, who was Lieutenant Richter’s daughter, to a six-year old girl from town, Becky Lovell, who was the same age as her son. The other two children, a boy and girl who were non-identical twins, were about Peggy’s age, and were the children of Lieutenant O’Sullivan.

  Because of the school, Peggy had struck up a friendship with Tammy O’Sullivan. Before they’d known each other in the schoolroom, Tammy and her twin, Thomas, had been inseparable. Now, Peggy had a new “best” friend, and Mallory liked to think she’d helped the girls to get to know each other.

  So far, she’d been able to save a few dollars, after she’d sewn a few appropriate dresses, but it would be months before she had the funds to return home.

  Nancy was keeping her word, writing every week, telling her details about her son that made her heart glad. Though, the letters didn’t always come once a week. Sometimes, a couple of weeks would pass, and then she’d get three letters, all at once.

  She wrote Nancy each week, too, letters that were full of small, newsy details, suitable for reading out loud. She’d learned, if she needed to write Nancy about “adult things,” to include a separate note. That way, Nancy didn’t have to be concerned about reading her letters to Macon.

  Nancy had been suitably appalled at what had happened to her when she’d first arrived, but her life had become routine now.

  She glanced to see if Peggy had made progress. The young girl chewed on her pencil. She scrunched up her eyes and wrinkled her freckled nose. Then she threw her hands in the air.

  “I don’t know, Miss Mallory.” She shook her head and tears formed at the corners of her eyes. “I can figure out the subject, the verb, the adjectives, and adverbs… but the direct object… I just don’t understand.”

  She pushed back from the desk. “And I’m tired of diagraming sentences, Miss.” She turned her woebegone eyes up and fanned her face with her tablet. “It’s so hot today, Miss, like a furnace in this doggone parlor. Can’t we go outside and sit on the porch where there’s a breeze?”

  Gazing at the pleading look in Peggy’s eyes, she put her arms around the girl, something she’d wanted to do for a long time. She’d been concerned about forming an attachment and then leaving after only a few months. But now, she knew she wouldn’t be heading home anytime soon. And she’d grown fond of Peggy. Giving in to her feelings, she embraced Peggy and stroked her long blond hair.

  “It is hot in here, you’re right.” She kneeled beside the girl. “Don’t you worry, you’ll get it eventually… the direct object, I mean. One day, with practice, it will seem easy.” She patted the girl’s shoulder. “You’ll see. You’re a very smart girl.”

  “I wish my Papa thought so.”

  She straightened and rose, keeping her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Oh, he does, Peggy. I know he thinks you’re smart. He just feels concerned that—”

  “Guilty, you mean.” Peggy shook her head.

  She pursed her lips, wondering how she should answer. “Guilty because your studies have been neglected?”

  “No, guilty… guilty that… my Mama died.”

  “Oh, Peggy.” She leaned down and embraced the girl again. “You shouldn’t think like that! Your father is a good and kind man. I’m sure he loved your mother very much, and I doubt he feels responsible for her getting sick. It was the will of God, nothing your father did.”

  “He meant to take her to the hospital sooner, but he couldn’t get away from Fort Concho.” Peggy turned her face up again. “I was littler then, but I remember. He was upset and angry when the hospital said it was too late.” She lowered her head and buried her face in Mallory’s skirts, sobbing. “I wish he would forgive himself. I know I have. It was the district commander who was to blame, not giving him permission in time. Not my Papa.”

  Mallory held the girl tightly, letting her get the grieving out of her system. She’d sensed something had been bothering the girl, but Peggy must have felt as constrained as she did. Afraid to open up. Afraid to let her see her darkest worries and grief. Mallory understood how it made life simpler to hide one’s feelings.

  She patted Peggy’s back and lifted her chin. With her handkerchief, she wiped the girl’s eyes dry and said softly, “Let’s forget about lessons for today. We can sit on the porch and enjoy the breeze, like you said. Maybe do some sewing or…” Then she glimpsed the crude drawing of a paddle boat on the corner of Peggy’s tablet.

  The young girl was fascinated by paddlewheel steamships. They’d been reading history this morning with the other children, about La Salle, the French explorer who’d discovered the Mississippi River. Seeing the rough sketch, gave her an idea.

  “Peggy, have you ever seen a stage play?”

  “A stage play, Miss? Like on a big wooden platform with people talking?”

  “Yes, just that.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “Uh, maybe one about Jesus being born. One Christmas, when I was little, we were staying in San Antonio before Papa was posted to Fort Concho. I remember there was a play at the church where we went. It was about Jesus being born.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, yes. I wish I could see another one, now I’m older.”

  “What about being in a play… acting a part?”

  Peggy’s blue eyes, so like her father’s eyes, lit up. “Oh, Miss, what fun that would be! I would love to be in a play! What would it be about, something from the Bible?”

  “No, not the Bible. I have a portfolio of plays my father gave me the Christmas before… I lost him.” She hesitated and then smiled, trying to lighten her tone. “There’s a play I know you’ll like. It’s about life on the Mississippi, and part of the play takes place on a paddle boat, too. It’s called ‘Kit, The Arkansas Traveler.’”

  “Oh, Miss, can I see it? Is there really a part for me?”

  “Well, there’s a little girl in the first act, and then she grows up—”

  “Where is it? Can we read it right now?”

  Mallory laughed, glad she’d hit upon something to brighten Peggy’s day. “Of course, right now. Tell you what, have Martina make us some sweet iced tea, and you clean up your desk. I’ll step out and get the portfolio of plays from my trunk at the Rodgers’ cabin. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Miss! Oh, I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Then meet me on the front porch in about ten minutes.”

  “You’re wonderful, Miss Mallory. You know?” Peggy rose and embraced her, putting her arms around her and hugging her.

  Mallory hugged her back, enjoying the smell of the young girl, a mixture of rose-scented soap and starch. She wished she hadn’t waited to embrace Peggy. Besides being fond of each other, they both needed comforting. Peggy missed her mother. And she missed her son. They made a perfect pair.

  ***

  Gregor stepped through his front door and heard raised voices coming from the parlor. He smiled to himself and shook his head.

  Who would have thought a play would capture his daughter’s imagination? Miss Reynolds was a godsend, helping Peggy with her lessons, fostering friendships, and… mothering her. Thinking
about them together and their animated chatter, his heart warmed.

  At the same time, he was amazed at how much work went into staging a play. Knowing what he did now, gave him pause, remembering the times he’d dismissed play actors, feeling they were charlatans or worse, earning a living by spouting a few words on a stage.

  Now, he knew better. There appeared to be lots to do to stage a play properly. Miss Reynolds had appropriated his best carpenter, Sergeant Campbell, to build them several sets. One of the sets, Peggy had painted by herself.

  It was a two-dimensional painting of a riverboat, complete with an oversized paddlewheel tacked on. Who knew his daughter was as captivated by paddle boats as most girls were of castles and princesses? The riverboats were an endless source of fascination for her. Someday, he hoped to travel east and take her for a ride on one of those luxurious, floating palaces.

  Again, it was Miss Reynolds who’d noticed his daughter’s interest, and the discovery had given her the idea of putting on a particular play, “Kit, The Arkansas Traveler.”

  Of course, Peggy couldn’t play the lead role, that part had gone to the fifteen- year-old boy from town, Jeb. Annie Richter would be Jeb’s wife, and Thomas O’Sullivan had been cajoled into playing the villain. No one wanted to play the villain, least of all Thomas. His sister, Tammy, Peggy’s new friend, was excited to portray all the female walk-on parts with enough costume changes to gladden any girl’s heart.

  There had been a heated discussion as to who would act the part of the young child in the first act. Miss Reynolds had wanted Peggy to portray the child, but Peggy had begged to play the part of the grown-up daughter. Miss Reynolds had said Peggy would need to wear face paint for the part of an older girl, which had sent his daughter flying to him, asking permission to wear rouge, lip paint, and face powder.

  He didn’t hold with such things, but to make his daughter happy, he’d agreed. He’d been surprised Miss Reynolds had the necessary cosmetics. Not that he’d seen any hint of make-up on her clear, flawless complexion.