by Annie Boone
Hazel wondered if to Clara, the fact that her husband owned a camel was fully as objectionable as having a sister whose husband may have fathered a bastard. She longed to discuss the situation with Minnie, but her sister was so busy helping Gavin that she was not able to call and visit as she had before. Privately, Hazel wondered if Minnie preferred solitude to visiting when she was in the grips of the sadness that seemed to strike her.
“Does it not seem very odd that half the town is following the piano?” Clara asked, her mind moving from the subject of Oakley’s birth to the subject at hand.
“It does, but it’s endearing as well.”
“Endearing?” Clara found this perspective baffling.
“Yes. These people have adjusted to living in a place where they must forsake all but the memory of what they left behind, and they have done so, in order to build a better life for themselves and their families. They’re very brave.”
Clara’s expression was thoughtful. “We also gave up what we loved,” she said.
“We had no choice,” Hazel answered realistically. “We were going to lose it.”
“We gave up Boston,” Clara said.
“Would we have wanted to stay in Boston living so differently? Doing without? Not able to go to the theatre or to the opera, having to scrimp and do without so that we could survive? Did we love Boston for what we received from it, or because of what it is?” Hazel shook her head. “I miss Boston and all that we knew. But it was slipping away from us. Minnie was wise to direct us to a new path. It hasn’t been easy, but this is something we can build on.”
“You have servants,” Clara said, not disguising the envy in her voice. She didn’t begrudge Hazel for her affluence, she simply wished that she had it as well. “And a new hat. Your husband is generous.”
Hazel did not share her private feelings with Clara in the same manner that she shared them with Minnie.
“Yes.”
“When Peter’s mine yields the silver,” Clara said confidently, “I’m going to have servants too. And my own horse,” she added.
“Do you think you’ll talk Peter into getting rid of Jezebel?”
“I’m certainly going to do just that!”
A shout went up. The wagon had arrived at the ranch and the people following hurried so that they could watch as it was brought into the house. The steps of the front porch were very wide, fortunately, and allowed room for the box and the men who strained to carry it. Hazel and Clara watched as their husbands and other men combined their strength for the demands of the task.
“How did the piano at our house ever get inside?” Hazel marveled to Clara as they noticed the fierce expressions on the faces of the men.
“It was always there,” Clara replied. “I don’t ever remember it not being there until it was sold. And I don’t remember how it was taken out,” she added. That was something the girls could not watch, and they had stayed upstairs rather than witness the loss of their mother’s treasured piano.
It took a considerable amount of heft and ingenuity to get the piano into the parlor, with no small amount of cursing, which the ladies pretended not to hear. But finally, it was in the parlor, in the corner of the room that Hazel had made ready for it.
The house was crammed with people. Mrs. de la Rosa, who was in the kitchen preparing the meal, took one look at the throng and signaled to Jane to join her. While Abel Markeli, his touch almost reverent as he produced his piano tuning implements, concentrated on making certain that the instrument had survived its journey and jostling without damage to the sound, Mrs. de la Rosa produced a punch bowl filled with hot apple cider flavored with cinnamon. Jane served the guests with an air of importance, wearing her newly sewn white apron over her new dress. There were not enough mugs and glasses for everyone, so the people, with a lack of etiquette that would never have been seen in Boston, passed the vessels to the ones beside them who had not had a drink. Mrs. de la Rosa kept the punch bowl filled and then began serving slices of fresh bread, wedges of pie, biscuits, anything she could find so that hospitality, however haphazard, would be observed.
Then Mr. Markeli stood up, his fingers raised as if he were about to make a pronouncement.
“Abel?” Harley asked.
“It is perfect,” Abel Markeli pronounced. “Mrs. Wyatt?”
A path formed in the crush of people to allow Hazel to make her way to the piano bench. But when she did, she turned to Mr. Markeli. “Do you play” she asked him.
“Once, I did,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Years ago.” He shrugged. “Many years ago.”
Hazel gestured to the bench. “Then play for us, please,” she said.
He did not answer. He looked at her with an expression in which yearning and dread were combined. Finally, he shook his head.
“It is your piano, Mrs. Wyatt,” he said in his accented English. “It is for you to welcome it to your home.”
“The town has welcomed it to our home,” she answered. “I would like to hear you play. Perhaps one of the songs from your homeland?”
He protested. No one wanted to hear songs they didn’t know. He didn’t remember the tune. He had rheumatism and the fingers, they no longer moved over the keys the way they had in younger days.
“Mr. Markeli,” Hazel said, her voice clear and warm, “we would be honored to hear you play. Will you indulge us?”
She did not see Harley’s gaze resting upon her. If she had, she would have been as mystified as ever by his expression. He was studying his wife as if she were a woman he did not know, a scroll he could not read, a wonder he could not fathom. The stern, taut lines of his face were relaxed into a tenderness that was alien to his countenance. She was the most beautifully dressed woman in the room, with her elegant dress and stylish hat. She was the most alluring woman present, with only Clara to rival the lush curves of her womanly form. But as her husband watched her like a thirsty man longing for a cool stream, he noticed none of these things, although they had mattered to him from the moment she arrived. He noticed what he could not see; he noticed her heart.
Mr. Markeli bowed his head. “Thank you, Madame Wyatt,” he said in a voice so low that no one else could discern his words.
He sat down at the bench and for a moment, did nothing, as if he were uttering a prayer. Then, tentatively, his hands hovered over the keys, not daring to touch them.
When his hands finally made contact with the keys, it was as if he were caressing a lover from whom he had been absent too long. His fingers moved gently, adoringly, but the sounds that came forth confirmed that his touch was welcome. To most of the crowd, the tune was unfamiliar, but for Clara and Hazel, for whom a night at the opera was a favorite outing, the haunting lilt of the song evoked that magical circumnavigation of emotion from sorrow to joy. When he finished, the people in the house clapped their hands and cried out for more.
Mr. Markeli refused, and stood up. But Hazel whispered in his ear. He nodded and sat back down.
“Clara?”
Clara was not one to be shy at performing in front of a crowd. Her beautiful soprano had been prized when young ladies shared their abilities at gatherings. She moved over to the piano without a qualm, Peter watching her with a look of rapture on his face.
“Verdi?” she asked Mr. Markeli. “He is a favorite composer of mine.”
“And of mine, too, Madame,” the older man answered. Without asking what tune to play, his fingers introduced the song and Clara smiled.
The people, the townspeople of Newton and neighbors of the Wyatts, listened with awe as Clara’s voice took them away from their hard lives and the work that never ended, the worry that was a constant refrain to their days, and brought them to a destination of beauty through lyrics in a language that none of them spoke. It didn’t matter. They were transported by her voice to a place that existed, however ephemerally, somewhere beyond Colorado.
She finished singing and was treated to rousing applause. She smiled, recognizing their app
roval for her achievement, and then went back to stand by her husband’s side.
“Play something lively, will you, for us, Mr. Markeli?” Hazel asked. “So that everyone can sing along?”
As he began to play, toes started tapping and someone began to clap. There was no room to dance in the crowded room, so the men and women swayed in place as they sang along to the familiar lyrics. Mrs. de la Rosa threw up her hands and filled the punch bowl, muttering in Italian that there would be nothing left. But she was smiling as she complained.
12
Oakley didn’t understand. “You wanted the piano,” she said the next morning at breakfast. “But you didn’t play it until everyone was gone and it was just me and Mr. Harley and Jane.”
Harley had wondered the same thing, and had asked her, that night when they were alone in their bed, why she had waited to play until everyone was gone. She had simply said that she wanted everyone to enjoy it, and when they were all gone back to their homes and to town, she would play where no one would mind her mistakes.
Harley’s expression was unreadable as usual. But then, he had taken the brush from her hands and pulled it through the long, thick abundant hair. He had not spoken, but as he brushed her hair, he had watched her reflection in the mirror of the vanity where she sat, confused and breathless. When he finished brushing her hair, he had pulled her to her feet and into his arms and she had responded as if she had been invited.
“I didn’t want to make mistakes in front of everyone,” Hazel said evasively.
To a ten-year old child, this was logical. “Did you make any mistakes playing for us?” Oakley asked.
“A few,” Hazel admitted. “I haven’t played for a long time. Practice is important for music.”
“That lady with the pretty hair… Jane said she’s your sister.”
“Yes. I have two sisters.
“Where is the other one?”
“Minnie lives in Newton, but she’s very busy now. She and her husband are raising sheep.”
“Sheep!” Oakley said with the scorn of the cattle rancher in her tone. “Who would raise sheep?”
“Anyone who wants wool, and cheese, and milk, and meat,” Hazel answered tolerantly. “You shall meet my sisters on Christmas day. My family will be coming here to celebrate with us.”
Oakley did not look as if Christmas was anything remarkable to observe. Did no one buy the child presents, or tell her the story of the birth of the Christ child, when the Wise Men came to honor the infant king? Hazel thought of the pageantry of her childhood when Christmas was a time of magic and expectation.
“We shall all stand around the piano and sing,” Hazel went on, remembering the Christmases of the past. “We’ll go to church in the morning, and then come home and we open presents, and then we eat a wonderful meal. Then we’ll sing. It’s a special day. My sisters and I waited all year for Christmas.”
“I don’t think we do it the same in Colorado,” Oakley said.
“We’ll see,” Hazel answered. “Now, let’s get back to our lessons.”
That afternoon, she had Pablo saddle Juno and she rode to the Clifford cabin. As she tethered her horse to the post, Minnie, who had heard her arrive, came out to the porch.
“Hazel!” she greeted with pleasure. “It’s such a pleasure to see you.”
“And to see you. You and Gavin are so busy with the sheep that we haven’t seen you. I came by to visit and to make sure that you will accept the invitation to join us for Christmas Day.”
“Yes, Harley invited Gavin,” Minnie said, leading the way into the cabin. There was hot water already coming to a boil over the fire, and Minnie ladled water into cups and they waited as the tea steeped. When it was ready, Hazel followed her sister into the parlor. “Not without a scolding about raising sheep first,” Minnie said with a smile.
“Oh, did he offend Gavin? I’m sorry; there seems to be a great deal of disdain for sheep here in Colorado.”
“No, Gavin expects it. He knows how cattlemen feel about sheep. But it’s been a good move for us.”
For us. How easily Minnie thought of her husband as her other half. How fortunate she was.
“You look so elegant, Hazel,” Minnie said. “Stand up and let me see your riding outfit. It looks just as smart as the one you wore in Boston. Harley must be very happy with you.”
Was he? Sometimes she thought he was. The night when he had brushed her hair and held her with such passion, it seemed as if he were renewed in his affections. But in the morning, he had been the same as he always was: businesslike, aloof, intent on his work. In that letter that he had sent, advertising for a mail-order bride, he had written that he worked from sunup to sundown. And that had not been an exaggeration. There was always work to do on the ranch, even for the rancher who could hire hands and servants. But in the evenings, he seemed content to sit while she played the piano in the parlor. He did not have the same exuberant expression that Father had worn as his wife played and his daughters sang. She could not tell what Harley was thinking, but he sat there across from the piano as if he wanted to be there. Perhaps it was as much as she could hope for.
“He is very generous,” she answered.
That was a politic answer and Minnie accepted it as such. She knew that a new riding outfit and a horse and new hats and a wardrobe were only the outward show for what might be very different inside. She wished that Hazel might have the sense of partnership that Minnie had with Gavin, or even the odd and unbalanced bond between the obliging Peter Edwards and his imperious Clara. Hazel had married into the most prosperous of the husbands, and yet she seemed to be the least content.
“But how are you?” Hazel asked. “We see so little of you.”
Minnie nodded. “I know. Sometimes, I’m very tired. Other times, and I don’t know why, but I feel quite sad. As if, sometimes,” she admitted, “I want to cry. For no reason. I fear— Hazel, do you think—”
“No,” Hazel said firmly, interpreting her sister’s intent despite no words being uttered. “Mother fell into a decline because of the failing of Father’s businesses. I sometimes wonder if she would have fared better had he not tried to protect all of us. You are not that way. You have had a letter from Mother, have you not?”
For their mother had begun corresponding with her daughters, her letters arriving not so often as theirs did, but still, regularly.
“Does she not sound so much better now that Father is close by?” Hazel said persuasively.
“She does sound better,” Minnie admitted. “I wish we could see her for Christmas. I know we cannot,” she said when Hazel began to speak. “And I am grateful that you and Clara are here. It will be Christmas, I know that. I am grateful.” She sighed. “But it will not be home.”
“We must make Colorado our Christmas now,” Hazel said.
“Yes,” Minnie said, but her affirmative response lacked vitality. “But it will be very different. Remember the tree, Hazel, how it looked, with the strands of popcorn and cranberries all around it? Is it not remarkable that it looked the same every year and yet we never tired of it?”
“Harley assures me that we shall not lack for trees to choose from this Christmas. But Minnie, Oakley seems quite uninterested in Christmas, can you believe that? I don’t think they celebrated the holiday with any enthusiasm. I told her that my family would be there on Christmas Day to celebrate with us. I am not sure she understands why we make such a great to-do over Christmas. She isn’t a heathen,” Hazel added quickly. “She knows the commandments and I have insisted that she accompanies us to church. Harley has given way on this; he used to allow her to stay home. Fancy such a thing!”
Minnie had seen the girl with Hazel and Harley in the Wyatt pew, wearing her boy’s clothes and her braid, looking for all the world as if she would rather be anywhere else. “She’s a pretty child,” Minnie said.
“She is,” Hazel agreed. “I have not told her, and I suppose I’m silly to do it, but I’ve been sewing a dress for her
. It’s very simple, nothing elaborate, and I don’t suppose she will ever wear it,” Hazel sighed. “But sooner or later, she shall have to accept that she is a girl. She cannot go on a cattle drive. That is her dearest wish. Harley pays no attention when she mentions it because he doesn’t think she is serious. I think she is.”
“She could never do that,” Minnie said. “Only men go.”
“I know. I am hoping, somehow, that she will find pleasure in being what she is.”
“Perhaps she would do, if she knew who she is,” Minnie suggested.
“Yes, I think that might be part of it. But Harley does not discuss the matter and I do not bring it up. I simply assume that she is his child. People in town believe she is; I can tell by the way they look at her, and then at him.”
“The resemblance is striking,” Minnie noted. “It would be hard to think anything but that he is her father.”
“I wish he could tell me,” Hazel said. “I think that if he could admit to being her father, he’d be less… um, aloof.” She was not sure how to explain Harley’s impenetrable distance, so she did the best she could hoping the point would be appropriately made.
Minnie nodded slowly and bit down on her lower lip in thought. “Perhaps in time, he will. He may think that you would not accept her.”
“How can he think that,” Hazel demanded, “when I have been the one to insist that she have lessons, even if I am the one teaching her, and she is eating with us because I suggested it. He cannot believe that I would rebuff her if he confessed to fathering her, and he must think me a fool if he believes that I don’t know.”
“In many ways,” Minnie said, “the move to Colorado has been hardest on you, even though you are married to the richest of our husbands.”
“Do not say that to Clara,” Hazel advised with a smile. “She feels quite deprived at having no servants. She is determined that when Peter strikes his silver vein and they are rich, she will be able to live entirely as she used to.”