Farmerettes

  She opened the front door and glowed at the sight of him. How did she get so lucky? Hugh! Australia!

  He whistled. “You’re beautiful.”

  She hugged him. How good he looked, standing tall and expectant in her front hallway.

  Mum invited him into the parlor, but he offered to help her in the kitchen. “I make great coffee…and your kitchen reminds me of ours,” he said. He needed this taste of home before he left for battle.

  Dinner was jolly for everyone as Hugh and her parents compared funny farm-disaster stories. Nanny topped them both with her tale about the day their outhouse tipped in the wind with her fat uncle Egbert still sitting in it. Jean had to force her laughter. Tomorrow Hugh would go to war.

  After dinner, Hugh suggested a walk. “I need to say good-bye to the horses and the farm.” He had already romped with Dickens and scratched Shep’s favorite spot behind the ears. The dogs followed them to the pasture, sticking to Hugh’s side, somehow sensing he was leaving.

  Jean breathed deeply. How she loved this place. Could she leave it? Her great-grandparents had come here from a home they loved in Scotland, had set new roots into this fertile earth, turned it into home. She could do no less.

  So why did she hesitate?

  The sun sank lower, draining away the gold and leaving shadows in its wake. “Shall we have our peach pie outside?” Jean suggested when they returned to the house.

  They sat on the dim front porch eating pie and sipping hot coffee. She wiped a dab of whipped cream from the side of Hugh’s mouth, and he kissed her. She loved the intimacy. She wanted to savor every second with him before he left, but she was too tense.

  “Let’s take a drive,” suggested Hugh.

  “You got the Jeep again,” Jean said. “Someday I’ll find out how you manage that.”

  “I have my ways,” he answered, “but they’re classified.”

  She smiled. Life with Hugh would never be dull. But what if he was too daring once too often when he went to war? She could not imagine this vital, wonderful man ever ceasing to exist.

  Beyond the Jeep she saw Johnny leading Binxie to the pasture fence. He came every night to comfort her. She walked with him like a girl in a trance. Jean had watched how gently, how patiently he treated her. It wasn’t easy for him to find the time to come; there was so much work to do at the farm this time of year, but he did.

  Johnny called Cairo and handed Binxie an apple to feed her favorite horse. Jean remembered how calmly he had comforted her after the first bad news about Rob, and how he could make her laugh in the good times.

  As she watched him profiled against the twilight sky, she realized she could never leave this land, or Johnny. Yes, he was with Binxie, but she knew that she had loved him since forever and could never totally stop. If she felt this strongly about Johnny, was it fair to marry Hugh? He deserved better than half a love.

  She gripped Hugh’s hand more tightly. It would be so hard to let him go.

  “Are you ready to take a drive?” Hugh asked her.

  “Let’s stay here and talk,” she suggested, an ache already beginning in her heart.

  Friday, August 27, 1943

  Isabel

  Isabel toweled her hair dry and put on her favorite flowery blouse and blue shorts. All week she had worked hard—setting tables for seventy people, starting breakfast before dawn, washing dishes, peeling and chopping endless quantities of vegetables. At least she didn’t have to do the bathroom this week. Binxie had scrubbed it beyond spotless, then cleaned the entire recreation room.

  Isabel baked every day too, but that wasn’t a chore—she loved creating cookies, tarts, and pies. She felt special with every smile and compliment she received. Several girls joked about taking Isabel home so they could keep enjoying her delicious desserts.

  It was Friday night—date night. She stroked her ring wistfully. Last year at this time, she would have been getting ready to see Billy. Tonight, although she wasn’t interested in any other man, she itched to go out, do something besides work and grieve.

  She pulled her curls back with a blue ribbon, then ran downstairs to join the other girls, scattered around the recreation room. She hoped someone might offer something more exciting than another game of cards or Monopoly. But everyone looked tired, and complained about scratches, aches, and peeling sunburns.

  She sat beside Helene, whose face was lined with exhaustion. Binxie slumped in a chair across from them, deep in her own world of sorrow. Several times a day, she went from that melancholy state to rushing around in a frenzy of action.

  Lucy entered the room. “Anyone want to go to Romeo’s?”

  Several girls ran upstairs to change their clothes. That leaves only us gloomy ones, thought Isabel. Is that girl in the corner staring at me again? She turned her head quickly to see, but the girl was sketching something in her book.

  In a clatter of laughter and chatter, the farmerettes left for Romeo’s. Peggy stopped in front of Binxie and asked, “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  Binxie shook her head and smiled weakly. “No. I need some quiet time to study my manuals. Please, go.”

  “I’ll be here with her,” Isabel reassured Peggy. Relieved, Peggy followed the others.

  Isabel watched them leave, half-wanting to join them. She looked at Binxie staring glassy-eyed at a manual, and Helene holding a novel. Every sound outside made Helene look up at the screen door. Waiting for Dan. He looks nice enough, thought Isabel, but that scar showing under his shirtsleeve is hideous. From the expectant glow on Helene’s face, he obviously made her happy.

  Binxie’s manual sat open in her lap. The left page was full of dense script, and the right side some complicated diagram. “That looks hard,” Isabel said, just to start a conversation. “But I guess it makes sense to you.”

  Binxie looked up, her eyes vague and lost. “I must learn it,” she whispered, “and become a pilot. Kathryn would want me to finish what she started.”

  Isabel didn’t know what to say, so she murmured, “You’ll feel better in time.”

  Dan knocked at the screen door. “Are you ready?” he asked Helene. “I have something to show you.”

  Helene

  Helene watched Dan’s profile as they sped down the country roads. She was worried. “Is something wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine.” His face, intent on the road, gave nothing away.

  Through all her worries about home, Dan was the bright spot that kept her going. And, she thought with some guilt, perhaps the reason I’m still here. Is he about to end it?

  They turned onto Mrs. Fraser’s drive and approached the red brick farmhouse with its tidy garden of vivid flowers. Why were they here?

  Mrs. Fraser welcomed them inside. In her formal way she offered them a seat in the parlor and served crystal glasses of elderberry cordial and slices of cake.

  “This is so pleasant,” said Mrs. Fraser, sipping her drink. She leisurely questioned Helene about the work at the farm, her family. Helene was confused. Apparently there was nothing urgent after all.

  When Mrs. Fraser walked to the piano, sat down, and played “Cabri Waltz,” Helene noticed Dan knotting his napkin into a wrinkled ball. Why was he so nervous?

  Mrs. Fraser finished the first verse. “Dan?” she said, beginning the verse again.

  Dan stood up and retrieved a fiddle from a shelf by the piano. He positioned it awkwardly in his weak right arm, lifted the bow with his left one, and accompanied Mrs. Fraser. His bow danced across the strings with spirit and joy.

  Helene was astonished and delighted. Watching the two make music together warmed her heart.

  “Helene,” said Mrs. Fraser when they finished the waltz.

  “I can’t play anything.”

  “Then sing.” The older woman patted the piano bench beside her.

  Re
luctantly Helene went to the bench. Dan segued into “Buffalo Girls.” The catchy tune, silly words, and Dan’s grin made it easy to join in.

  I danced with the dolly with a hole in her stocking

  And her heels kept a-rockin’

  And her toes kept a-knockin’!

  So I danced with the dolly with a hole in her stocking

  And we danced by the light of the moon.

  They sang it twice, then stopped for breath. Dan looked at her shyly. Helene jumped up, ready to throw her arms around him until she realized she might crush the fiddle. “You’re wonderful,” she said.

  “Thanks to you, Helene.” He turned to Mrs. Fraser. “And to this tough taskmaster.”

  The rest of the evening flew by as they played music, sang, and laughed at off-key notes and words they had forgotten. To see Dan so loose and happy was a joy.

  Finally Mrs. Fraser stopped and got up to clear the dishes, waving away offers of help. They picked up the glasses anyway. As they walked to the kitchen, Helene told Dan, “You play so beautifully. I bet the square dancers will be glad to hear you again.”

  “It’ll be good to go back. How did you know about that?”

  “Someone at the growers’ party told me. I could listen to you all night.”

  Dan hugged her, then returned to the piano and played a short tune.

  “That’s pretty. What is it?” asked Helene.

  “You like it? It’s the music for my mother’s favorite poem.”

  Helene was amazed how the simple haunting melody reflected the spirit of the sonnet.

  Dan started again and softly sang, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

  Helene timidly joined in. Before they reached the end, Dan stopped. “It needs more work. Should I continue?”

  “Nothing else could do proper justice to that poem. Finish it,” said Helene. She turned to see Mrs. Fraser watching them, tears glistening in her eyes.

  The older woman collected herself. “Thank you. That poem is special to me. It’s been a long time since I heard it.”

  She must have shared that with her husband, thought Helene as Dan wrapped an arm around her.

  Mrs. Fraser recited the first lines of the poem, then added, “I would love to read the entire sonnet again.”

  “We have a copy. Dan can bring it next time he visits.”

  “I would dearly like that.” Helene had never heard Mrs. Fraser sound so wistful.

  “I’ll bring it in now,” said Dan. “It’s in the truck. I was planning to return it to Helene tonight.” He hurried outside and came back with the slim volume.

  Mrs. Fraser’s hand reached for the worn book, then it flew to her heart. She grabbed the book, opened the front flap to read the inscription. Helene already knew what it said. To Polly, October 1917. I love thee with the breath and smiles of all my life. James.

  “Where did you find this?” Mrs. Fraser rasped.

  Hesitantly, Helene answered. “Jean found it at Nelly’s place.”

  “Nelly Turner’s?”

  Dan nodded. “Do you want to sit down?” He reached an arm out to her.

  “No. Thank you.” She stood taller. “But please bring me another glass of cordial.”

  Even as she drank, Mrs. Fraser clutched the leather-bound book tightly in her other hand. “I never thought I’d see this book again.” Then she regarded the young people staring at her with concern. “You need an explanation.” She took a deep breath. “It was my brother’s. We bought it together in a bookstore in Halifax.”

  “James Earnshaw is your brother?” Helene blurted.

  “Yes. My maiden name is Earnshaw. Jamie was my little brother—your Willy and Peter so remind me of him.” She stroked the book tenderly. “He wanted this for his sweetheart. How he loved that girl. Polly. He met her when he was visiting us here in Winona.”

  Helene stifled a gasp. Dan glanced at her. He knew what this meant to her and her friends.

  Mrs. Fraser shook her head sadly. “We were worried about Jamie loving an unknown servant girl, but he reassured us she was a gentle, sweet daughter of a minister. She worked for a respectable old family who trusted her completely. Jamie planned to marry her when the war ended…but she broke his heart. Never answered a single letter he wrote to her.”

  She sighed and regarded her guests. “How could she do that? He was so sure she loved him. But even if she didn’t, could she not have done the decent thing and written back to a lonely soldier in a strange land?” Mrs. Fraser clenched her jaw. “How could she have been so heartless?”

  Only one answer made sense to Helene. “Maybe she never got those letters,” she said quietly.

  Mrs. Fraser stared at her, puzzled.

  Helene took a deep breath. “We found a packet of letters—written to Polly by James Earnshaw—lovingly wrapped in lace. Someone treasured those letters, but I don’t believe it was Polly.”

  Dan’s eyes grew wide. “You found them at Crazy Nelly’s!”

  “And the poetry book was there too?” asked Mrs. Fraser. “You think Nelly stole them? Why would she do such a thing?”

  Helene remembered the story about the packed suitcase. “Wasn’t there a rumor about Nelly waiting for a lover who never came? Maybe she loved James too. She thought he cared for her, but when she realized it was Polly he loved, this was her way to keep them apart, to get James for herself.”

  “In a twisted way, that makes sense,” said Mrs. Fraser. “But how did she get letters addressed to Polly?”

  “If Polly was Nelly’s maid, she could easily intercept her mail. Polly never answered your brother’s letters because she didn’t receive them!”

  “My poor brother. I wonder why Polly didn’t write to him?”

  “Nelly probably stole those letters too, maybe even offered to mail them for her. Then Polly assumed he wasn’t interested in her after all, and gave up.” Suddenly Helene gasped. “Oh my Lord. There was another letter.”

  “What other letter?” Mrs. Fraser asked.

  “The package included an unsent letter from Polly to James.” Its full impact hit Helene like a bullet. She breathed deeply, then continued. “Polly wrote to James, telling him how much she loved him, how she hoped he would write to her…and that…she was expecting his baby.”

  Mrs. Fraser sat down. “My brother’s baby?”

  “Nelly must have stolen that letter before it was ever sent. When Polly didn’t get an answer, she stopped writing, thinking he didn’t want her or their child.” Helene ached with pity for the girl.

  Mrs. Fraser grew so agitated Dan fetched her a glass of water. She took a sip. “My poor brother. He almost made it to the end of the war. He was killed crossing the Sambre-Oise Canal. November 4, 1918. Almost the last battle of the Great War. He died never knowing he had a child at home. It breaks my heart.”

  “Mine too,” said Helene sadly.

  Mrs. Fraser sipped her water and asked softly. “Would you like to see some photographs of Jamie?”

  Helene nodded and Mrs. Fraser pulled a faded album from a drawer and carried it to the sofa. Helene and Dan sat on either side of her as she opened the book to sepia pictures of two youngsters in various poses and places. Young Agnes’s face, framed by long, curly hair, was strong and determined. James looked like a saucy, happy little guy. He resembled his sister, but he reminded Helene of someone else too—although she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Mrs. Fraser flipped through the childhood photos, then reached pictures of them as adults. James had grown into a handsome fellow, the mischief still in his eyes.

  His sister touched the photos gently. “My husband worked for the government, so we spent most of the war in Halifax. We visited Warren’s parents here twice. Jamie came with us the second time and met Polly. He made a few trips back before he enlisted. The last time I saw my brother w
as in Halifax, before he shipped out. He was happy, in love, full of plans for the future.” She took another sip of water. “For so long I’ve hated that Polly, but now I realize how horrible it must have been for her too. To be an unwed mother with no support—her father was a rigid Baptist minister from a small town near Lake Erie. He would never have accepted Polly in his house again. Obviously Nelly wouldn’t have helped—indeed that’s probably why she fired her.”

  Dan suddenly paled. “I know that story. A girl with a Baptist father who came here from Lake Erie to work for a family that suddenly let her go.” He began to shake. “That sounds like my mother.”

  Helene gasped. “Polly? Mary!”

  Dan’s brow furrowed in thought. “But she married my dad. It doesn’t make sense. She never spoke about her past. Nor about James. We only met her father—a harsh old man who didn’t like noisy boys—twice before he passed away.”

  Mrs. Fraser looked at him with awe. “This is impossible. But if it’s true…you could be Jamie’s son.”

  Dan stood up. The muscles in his face, his hands, everything seemed to move at once in agitation. “We need to find out for sure.”

  “But who would know?” asked Helene.

  “My dad,” said Dan. “Mrs. Fraser, I’m sorry. We have to leave.”

  Barely waiting for Helene to follow, he hurried from the room. The second she shut the truck door, they sped down the lane, gravel spewing behind them.

  Dan dropped her off at Highberry, and Helene watched him race home. What would he discover there?

  Saturday, August 28, 1943

  Helene

  Helene barely slept that night and dragged herself to the Beldings’ orchard the next morning. Although she was bursting to tell the girls the news, she decided to wait until she had the whole story. As she picked, her mind kept racing back to the possibility. She almost fell off the ladder she was so preoccupied.

  At one o’clock, as they arrived back at Highberry for the day, she heard Dan’s truck. She raced for it and jumped into the passenger seat.

  Unshaven and wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, Dan looked at her, his face full of emotion.