“Oh!” I cried. “Mrs. Rattle's ducks! No one will have fed them!”
“I don't see as how feeding her ducks is any of our business,” complained Mrs. Goodhand. Little knowing, I thought, that she did so every week.
I implored her to allow me to take the end of yesterday's loaf, “as a particular treat.” I hurried across the fields to Silver Lining, my heart lifting just to see it, even though Mrs. Rattle would not be there. I tore the bread and rolled it between my thumbs into tiny pellets before tossing it to the hungry ducks. I wanted to prolong my stay through the night until morning, when she should return. I'll have to get used to her not being here, I realized. I'll have to think new things all on my own.
It was on the journey home that I conceived my notion.
The more I thought on it, the more possible it seemed. I found Alfred back in the barn, his face morose while he cleaned the hooves of a cow named Poppy.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Mmmm?” said Alfred.
“Do you suppose the other farmers feel as your father does about Bright Creek?”
“They'll be relieved to sell the milk again, if that's what you mean.”
“No, I mean his displeasure when he discovered that Mr. Forrest mistreats his workers, that they work such long hours.”
Alfred laughed. “Everyone works long hours, Mable. Farmers longest of all. But you're right that my father thinks Mr. Forrest should pay more when the labour is so tedious and tiring. And not bully the ladies while they work.”
“Well, tell me what you think of this. Now that Mr. Forrest is ready to buy milk again, what if the farmers said that they would sell only if conditions at Bright Creek improve?”
Alfred's hands stopped moving.
“Farmers do not want to play games, Mable. They need to sell their milk.”
“But they need to sell their milk forever. Suppose no changes are made and business returns to the way it was before? Suppose a month from now the factory ladies protest again? And the farmers are once more saddled with gallons of sour milk.”
Alfred looked at me with one eyebrow lifted. “Is that being planned? Has Mrs. Rattle suggested such a thing?”
“She is still imprisoned. I have not spoken with her. But if I were organizing a campaign for workers' rights, that's the way I'd plan it,” I said. “Think about it, Alfred. Do the farmers not wield the most power in this equation? If Bright Creek cannot buy milk, they will go out of business. But the farmers can sell elsewhere to Groveland or the place in Perth Valley, though it is many miles farther, I realize. But, on the face of things, is it not Bright Creek who must compromise to keep what they depend upon?”
I held my breath. Would he agree?
Alfred was quiet while he finished with Poppy. Then he stood and patted her flank.
“You've a devious mind, Mable,” he said. “If ever you have a suitor, I'll be sure to warn him. But on this matter … Let me speak with my father. He won't like the pressure, but he may see the sense in it.”
“Suppose you go to Mr. Forrest yourself,” I said. “Suppose you speak on the farmers' behalf?”
“I will need to first speak to the farmers. Peter Deegan and Brice McCoy may not be willing to risk so much.”
“But will you, Alfred?”
“Let me think, Mable.”
Ambler's Corners
November 13, 1901
My dear Mable,
I am troubled by the quarrelsome tone of your most recent letter. You seem almost eager to declare yourself at odds with me (and, indeed, with everyone else!).
You say that “to risk censure and discomfort by following one's heart is better by far than to obey expectations without a heartbeat.” With such dismay did I read those words!
Do you not understand that honest women like your Mrs. Goodhand or Mrs. Forrest are so respected because they are respectable?? Surely it is better to stand safely amid the flock in a sunny meadow than to willfully follow the black sheep through a thistle patch? Without knowing what inclement weather awaits you?
I am heavy-hearted with the fear that I am in some way responsible for your behaviour. By encouraging your story writing, I hoped to harness your fancies to a manageable task. It seems, however, that a nature wilder than I realized has been unbridled.
I beg you to seek guidance in your evening prayers. Turn away from the dangerous temptation of imagination. Remember, it is wiser to be dull than overly merry!
Most sincerely, with concern,
Your friend,
Hattie
If only Hattie knew how late her warnings come! And how little I would heed them in any case. She begins to sound more like Reverend Scott with every note. Her talk of flocks and thistles might win her a position as sermon writer for a dullard minister. How lucky am I to be the lamb who sprouted wings to fly!
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16
The Bright Creek ladies were released this morning. Alfred saw them in town, leaving the courthouse, all together. He says they looked disheveled but were laughing, walking with linked arms. He did not notice Mrs. Rattle in particular. And though his errand would affect them mightily, he did not think to stop and speak.
Alfred collected the post at the office and then drove to the Deegan dairy farm, where he had arranged to meet the other farmers concerned by the Bright Creek situation.
“Pete Deegan got the sense of it at once,” Alfred reported at the lunch table. “But Mr. McCoy and his son, Bart? They must have said fifty times that it was crazy.”
“It is crazy,” grumbled Mr. Goodhand. “But it's worth a try, just to have the upper hand with Francis Forrest for an hour or two.”
“That was the winning point,” agreed Alfred. “Nobody likes the man. No one wants to see him gloating.”
“Well, then, son,” said Mr. Goodhand, “I'll go over there with you this afternoon. There's strength in numbers. Best have it done quickly.”
“That's right, Dad. The milk gets collected Sunday evening. The girls are expected back to work on Monday morning, so things should be sorted out now. Pete Deegan will come too. I think we hold the winning ticket.”
I decided it was best to follow the womanly example set by Mrs. Goodhand and Viola. I did not offer an opinion on the matter under discussion. But Alfred winked at me as he shuffled out the door with his father.
LATER
It is nearly unbearable to wait for word from Alfred and his father.
I have penned another chapter for Hattie, mostly to avoid writing her a letter containing a brisk lecture on small-mindedness.
PART THE ELEVENTH
{MYRTLE'S REDEMPTION}
Unbeknownst to Helena, the bandits' hideout was only twelve miles from her home. Their thundering ride following the holdup had retraced the miles covered by her train ride the night before.
Helena's father, the earl, had recovered slightly from the heart attack occasioned by the news of Helenas elopement, but hovered now within Death's desiring grasp. The Lady Myrtle, upon causing her father to collapse, had undergone a transformation.
So intense was her remorse that she had vowed to nurse him day and night until he once more looked at her with recognition. She rested only briefly in the armchair beside the earl's bed, praying each time she woke that he might have recovered his wits so that she could make amends.
But there he lay, his skin ashen, his eyelids fluttering occasionally, and his every breath a rasping labour.
When Myrtle notified the police that her sister was missing, possibly a passenger on the train that had been robbed, they had tracked Helena's flight as far as the scoundrel, James, and there the trail went cold. Unwilling to confess his own cowardly behaviour in the face of the outlaws, James had lied and told the investigators that Helena had never boarded the train with him.
As distraught as Myrtle was over her father's illness, she was nearly deranged by Helena's disappearance. Every hour she tripped across some new reason to cry. Elizabeth, the maid, brought chil
led cucumber slices to soothe Myrtle's swollen eyes and urged her to partake of soup or biscuits, but was turned away at each attempt.
She who had resented every smile bestowed upon her sister now yearned to see her comely face once more.
“If my father is delivered from his illness,” Myrtle whispered to the moon, “and my sister retrieved from whatever misery has befallen her, I pledge to perform charitable deeds for as long as I shall breathe upon this earth.”
With this solemn vow forsworn, the Lady Myrtle allowed herself to eat her supper and to sink into sleep, not really expecting that tomorrow would bring an answer, of sorts, to her dreams.
To be continued …
LATER STILL …
The farmers have triumphed!
The men returned for supper in a fever of merriment. I believe Mr. Goodhand thinks he has played out a schoolyard fight with Mr. Forrest and finally succeeded in punching him in the nose. (No such thing occurred, in fact, however much it was deserved.)
The afternoon in the Bright Creek office was spent shouting, stamping feet, and thumping on the table until finally they all sat down like gentlemen to agree upon the details….
The ladies will work one hour less per day and have a full half-hour dinner recess.
They will change tasks every two hours and have five minutes' rest between each change.
Anyone in contact with scalding water or harsh cleansers will be provided with gloves or other protective clothing.
They may be fined only for tardiness of ten minutes or more.
They may speak to each other while they work.
Such a list of improvements! In exchange, the ladies will not protest again and the farmers will sell their milk at the same price as before.
Alfred says Mr. Forrest was grudging in the end but not objectionable. I suspect the ladies will be jubilant.
Mr. Goodhand had quiet words for me, while the others were tidying. “It seems odd to you, Mable, that Mr. Forrest would not consider speaking to the women who were causing the trouble. Mr. Forrest is the sort who thinks it takes men to speak to men. And he would spit beetles before he'd speak to the little girl who had the bright idea how to fix things. I didn't expect to be thanking you, but the idea worked, and here I am.” It was as kind a gesture as he has ever made.
Meanwhile, as closely as I watched Alfred and Viola last night and this evening, I have gained no further indication of their love. I wondered briefly if I imagined my discovery but have decided otherwise. The very lack of evidence has confirmed my suspicion. They are careful in company not to even look at each other.
And so. “Viola,” I said as we readied for bed. “What do you suppose will happen next?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“If we were living in a story, what would be the next chapter? We have left home, traveled afar, met interesting strangers, been challenged by adversity, and encountered the police. Should there not be a love scene?”
“Are you suggesting that your shameless flirting with Tommy Thomas and the Brown twins be counted as love? You are only fourteen, Mable. I think you'll have to wait for your love scene.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Could the love scene be yours?”
She became still as a chair. She knew that I had learned her secret.
“Mable,” she said, looking into my eyes. “If ever you needed to be trustworthy, this is the moment. Sit down.”
I sat. “You can trust me.”
She took my hand. “I do not know how you … But Alfred and I –” She broke off, blushing deep pink.
“I know,” I said. “When you came to fetch me at the courthouse, I saw it then. But why must it be such a great secret? Do you not wish to shout the news from the spire of Sellerton Methodist?”
“Mable, you have such childish notions still. We could not continue living in this house if anyone knew. It would be unthinkable! And we have not yet made plans for the future. I must consider Mama. She needs the money I earn. I cannot risk her losing that.”
“But surely the school board cannot fire you for falling in love? That is too cruel!”
Viola smiled as if I were very dull witted. “Not for falling in love, Mable. I will be fired when we marry. There is a law against married women being teachers.”
“You're getting married?” I knew not which bite to take first. “There's a law against it?”
“Of course we'll marry someday. We simply don't know when. We must think of Mama.”
“There shouldn't be such a law! There's no law preventing married men from teaching!”
“That's true,” she said. “Men don't have babies. Marriage does not change their ability to teach.”
“It seems likely to me that a woman with children in her home would understand better than anyone how to teach them,” I said, believing it with all my heart as suddenly as I had thought it up. “There should be a law that only parents can be teachers, especially mothers.”
“Silly Mable.” And she hugged me!
LOVE POEM
As from Viola to Alfred
Perhaps my temper is too tart,
Perhaps my sister lost your cart,
Perhaps, at times, I am too smart:
You simply wink and smile.
Perhaps Cupid shot a dart,
Perhaps my gravy won your heart,
Perhaps, nay, surely, we won't part:
You'll have my love awhile.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17
I hoped to avoid the Forrests after church this morning (sermon: “Let Honesty Lead You to Heaven”), but Mrs. Forrest was waiting at the churchyard gate to pounce on us while her husband fetched the carriage.
Alfred escorted his mother right past her with only a curt nod. Viola held my hand and we intended to stroll past, but she stopped us with a greeting.
“You there.”
“Good morning,” said Viola.
“I suppose you think you're pretty clever.” Mrs. Forrest spoke to me.
I wondered briefly if she referred to what was foremost in my mind, but answered as though she did.
“I was only trying to help.”
“Well,” she said, “you might have.”
I looked at Viola, confused. Mrs. Forrest seemed to be saying …
“You heard me correctly,” she said. “Your fiddling may have resulted in some good this time. If those hard-headed girls actually perform their duties and they will have no excuse for complaints with the new hours Mr. Forrest will be satisfied.”
“How did you know it was my idea?”
“It had to be a female mind that came up with a sneaky plan like this one,” said Mrs. Forrest. “Alfred is a good boy, but he's as thick as an elm tree.”
Viola tightened her grip on my hand and Mrs. Forrest saw.
“Oh, ho!” she pounced. “That's the way it is, eh?”
Viola and I both shook our heads in protest. Mrs. Forrest seemed to swell with excitement before our very eyes.
“I knew it! You set your cap for that boy the moment you arrived in Sellerton!”
“No,” said Viola.
“I predicted this the night I heard you two singing in the lane like a couple of spooning cats.”
“You're mistaken,” said Viola.
“We'll see about that,” said Mrs. Forrest. “We'll see whether your sister's cleverness can wheedle you out of this one. We'll see how you slide out of the scandal of living under the same roof as your secret paramour! We'll just see …!”
She was positively gleeful as Mr. Forrest arrived in the carriage. He climbed down to help his wife climb up, and he tipped his hat to me. Not knowing, I thought with numbing dread, the earful he'd be receiving on the road home.
I stared at Viola aghast, but she was strangely calm.
“We must tell the Goodhands directly when we get home from church,” she said. “There will be no scandal if we have already made arrangements to live elsewhere.”
“Where will we live?”
&nb
sp; “Someone will have a room for us. I will not be defeated by that haranguing old bat. We'll tell the truth quickly before Mrs. Forrest can circulate her version. ‘Let Honesty Lead You to Heaven.’ I love Alfred Goodhand, and so to Heaven I go.”
Ambler's Corners
November 20, 1901
My darling girls,
Never was I more surprised than reading your news, Viola. If Flossie had shaken the feather duster in my direction, I might have fallen over!
I am happy for you, dear child, perhaps more so because I am certain that love came as a surprise to you too. And I am curious beyond words to meet Mr. Alfred Goodhand, to know for myself what you have both told me that he is worthy of you. I think your idea of bringing him here for Christmas is a splendid one. If he can survive a visit in the wild Riley house, he is a fine man, indeed.
All the children send hugs and kisses and shouts and cheers!
Affectionately,
Your mama
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22
I do not think my pencil can race so quickly as my thoughts or my beating heart for Viola is not the only one to have a romance! There, I have said it. Though perhaps I run too far ahead to call it “romance.” The plain truth is I have had a kiss! Yes! A kiss! I was beginning to despair that it should ever happen and now it has! Shall I tell all? Of course! Never again will I have a first kiss to describe and linger over.
The tale begins when the spelling bee ended. Viola had announced that this would be the deciding match. The Commas were in a frenzy of delight (hurrah!), having won by two points. Elizabeth departed in a fit of pique not that I blame her as I would have felt identically had the tables been turned but I was left with no companion.
“Despite your win,” said Viola, “you still must do the sweeping and wash the blackboard.”
Mable Riley Page 15