Refining Emma

by Delia Parr

  “You’re right. I had a very late night, but I shouldn’t have slept so long,” Emma grumbled. “By the time I had corralled both chickens, got them out of Orralynne’s room and back into the root cellar, then sat with Miss Burke until she settled herself back to sleep, it was nearly three o’clock. I’m still not sure why the chickens had to choose her room to roost, unless mine wasn’t good enough,” she added.

  Mother Garrett grunted. “I still don’t understand why the chickens weren’t sleeping at night.”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “Maybe they got disoriented after spending so much time in the root cellar, where it’s dark. I just wish they hadn’t chosen to escape on the one night when Liesel and Ditty are at home with their families so they weren’t here to help me.”

  “Well, at least none of the other guests suspect a thing about what happened. Apparently they all slept through it.”

  Mother Garrett sighed. “I don’t know how they did that. Orralynne has a scream that can curdle the milk in every cow for miles.”

  Emma held on to the seat as the carriage descended down the steep hill to Main Street and realized the seat next to her was empty. “Wait! Where’s Reverend Glenn?” she asked, miffed with herself for sleeping late and missing the opportunity to talk with him before breakfast.

  “He left early today with the Masseys. They wanted to stop by their home before going to church. He was going to have breakfast with Reverend Austin and his wife before services. He’s also going to spend the day with them, if I’m not mistaken,” Aunt Frances offered.

  “You can talk with Reverend Glenn tonight,” Mother Garrett said.

  Aunt Frances sighed. “This is the first Sunday since the explosion and fire. Apparently Reverend Austin thought it would be helpful to have Reverend Glenn with him. There’s bound to be an unusually large number of people at services today, and some folks might want to stay awhile to talk to them.”

  “Tragedies have a way of bringing people to their knees. That’s how Reverend Glenn put it,” Mother Garrett added.

  “Very true. Very true,” Emma whispered, haunted by the grief and pain she had seen etched in the faces of so many townspeople touched either directly or indirectly by the tragedy at the funeral services less than a week ago.

  Aunt Frances caught Emma’s gaze and held it. “I was wondering . . . I’m hoping both Andrew and James are at services today with their families. Do you think they might be able to come back and visit with me for a while at Hill House?”

  “I think they should all join us for dinner,” Emma insisted. “Will that be all right, Mother Garrett? Would we have enough to serve everyone?”

  Mother Garrett smiled. “My mother taught me well, Emma. I can stretch most any meal, even when my larder is getting low, which it is at the moment, thanks to those chickens you insist on keeping in the root cellar. By the way, I didn’t start up making stew this morning because you overslept, and I was waiting on you to tell me to go ahead. Instead, I’ve got a nice ham that’ll do for dinner today.”

  Emma let out a long sigh. “Tomorrow’s Monday. Since Steven is bringing the supplies from the General Store to build a strong pen and Mr. Kirk has stayed behind to help him, I thought I’d give the chickens one more chance.”

  “Another chance? To wreck Hill House or frighten your guests?” her mother-in-law argued.

  “To redeem themselves,” Emma countered.

  “They’d have to lay a dozen golden eggs every day from now to Judgment Day to do that. To my mind, there’s only one way for those chickens to redeem themselves, and that’s in my stew pot.”

  Sunday services were inspiring but bittersweet. As good as it was to have so many people packed into the church, Emma could only think about those who had gone Home or were unable to attend services today because they were lying in sickbeds at the hotel.

  Reverend Austin’s sermon touched everyone’s heart, but it was seeing Reverend Glenn stand to give a brief sermon of his own that left Emma’s face glistening with tears. Drained and exhausted by the time services ended, she did not mind that it took a good while for people to exit the building. In gentler months, members of the congregation often lingered to chat in the churchyard, but the harsh January cold sent everyone back to their carriages and others rushing back home on foot.

  Aunt Frances rode back to Hill House with her two sons and their families, leaving only Mother Garrett and Emma to ride home together. Emma helped her mother-in-law into the carriage, but before she could climb aboard herself, Zachary Breckenwith approached her.

  Smiling, he tipped his hat. “I was hoping to speak with you before you left. As you know, I’ll have to leave on Wednesday. Is there any chance you might have time to meet with me before then? Tomorrow, perhaps?” he asked as he helped her into the carriage.

  She took her seat next to Mother Garrett but hesitated before answering him. Although she was surprised he was leaving again so soon, she also felt hesitant to begin this new aspect of their relationship. “Tomorrow isn’t a good day, I’m afraid.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  Mother Garrett poked her head around Emma to address him. “Tuesday will be fine. If you come for dinner at one o’clock, you’ll be able to see whatever you need to see with the warmth of the afternoon, such as it might be. These old bones of mine tell me snow is coming soon.”

  Emma cast her mother-in-law a hard glance. Obviously, if she did decide to allow Mr. Breckenwith to court her, she would have to set up some rules at home with Mother Garrett and probably Aunt Frances, as well. The time to set those rules appeared to have come a whole lot sooner than later, but she did not want to embarrass her mother-in-law by countermanding her suggestion in front of the man.

  She turned away from Mother Garrett to face him and smiled. “Tuesday, then. At one.”

  He grinned. “I’ll be bringing a mount for you, so dress well for cold weather. You might want to save those golden trousers you wore riding last fall for another time. They’re not nearly heavy enough for this time of year,” he stated before waving to the driver to begin taking the two women back to Hill House.

  Stunned, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes to ease the pounding in her head that had started up again the moment he mentioned the time she had gone riding with the Mitchell sisters. “He’s taking me riding? In the dead of winter? With a panther lurking about? Has the man no sense at all?” she groaned.

  Mother Garrett patted her knee. “You’ll enjoy riding again. You’ll do just fine.”

  Emma poked one eye open. “Fine? The last time I went riding, I was sore for a week. And I wasn’t riding out in the bitter cold, either. And what about the panther?”

  “You won’t be riding alone. You’ll have Mr. Breckenwith with you as your protector. But just to ease your worries, I’ll be generous and loan you my umbrella.”

  Sunday dinner was raucous, reminding Emma of the meal they had all shared together to celebrate the Leonard brothers’ reconciliation last fall. For whatever reason, Orralynne did not mention the midnight visitors to her room last evening, for which Emma was grateful, although she did have the opportunity to remind everyone to make sure their doors were closed and securely latched at night.

  Andrew Leonard agreed to return for his mother in two weeks, weather permitting. Both Andrew and James, along with Andrew’s four sons, made quick work of hauling away all the spoiled food in the root cellar back to their farms and even managed to keep the two chickens from escaping again in the process.

  By late afternoon, the boardinghouse had quieted down again. Along with Mother Garrett and Aunt Frances, Judith Massey was upstairs resting while her husband, the Ammond brothers, and Anson Kirk went into town to help finalize the plans for tomorrow’s panther hunt. Orralynne and Lester Burke had come to dinner, along with Mr. Lewis, then retired together behind closed doors in the library.

  Left on her own, Emma went up to her bedroom. Although she
was still tired from her late-night misadventure, she decided against taking a nap in favor of spending a little time looking back at her life before she could look ahead and seriously consider Mr. Breckenwith’s proposal.

  Late-day sunlight filtering through the single window in her room added even more warmth to the pale yellow walls. Kneeling, she opened the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lifted out the several gowns she kept stored there, laid them neatly on top of the quilt on the bed, and glanced at the collection of personal treasures she had saved from her parents and grandparents, along with others she had accumulated during her life as both a wife and mother.

  She reached into the far-left corner to trace the outline of the first account book her grandmother had kept after opening the General Store. Next to the book, a brown paper wrapper protected her grandfather’s glass harmonica. She closed her eyes for a moment and cocked her head. The memory of sitting on her grandfather’s lap after supper while he played his harmonica or told her tales of how he had brought his family to this area, one of the first families to call Candlewood their home, came to her.

  Emma took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned her attention next to the items from her parents that she had stored away after giving most of them to her sons to treasure. In her reticule she still carried the pocket watch her mother had used while operating the General Store, but kept the well-worn work apron her mother had used for years here, where it rested next to the comb her father had used to groom his beard.

  Next she studied the center of the trunk where she kept a small box filled with mementos from her beloved husband, Jonas. She took hold of the box, leaned back on her haunches and cradled the box on her lap. She did not have to open the box. She knew the contents too well.

  The words on the many little notes he had written to her and left on her pillow or in the cash box at the General Store where she alone would find them had been inscribed on her heart for many years, along with the simple word engraved inside the slim silver wedding band she had worn as his wife: Blessed.

  “Blessed,” she murmured as visions of their lives together flashed quickly through her mind. Their work, side-by-side, at the General Store. Their three sons, now grown with families of their own. Their easy companionship. Their laughter. Their love.

  “Our lives together were truly blessed,” she whispered. Without the blessings of her marriage to Jonas, she would never have the courage to contemplate marriage to anyone else.

  While Jonas and Zachary Breckenwith were two very different men, in looks and temperament and avocation, they did share many good qualities that she considered essential in a spouse. Like Jonas, Zachary Breckenwith was a decent, honorable man. Even more important, he was also a man of faith who embraced the Word.

  Though her life with Zachary Breckenwith would be far different than it had been with Jonas, she suspected she would find that marriage to him would bring her the very things she had missed during her widowhood: the friendship and companionship one could only pray to find with a loving spouse.

  She gripped her box with both hands and bowed her head. “Dearest Lord, now I must come to you again to ask for your guidance. This time I need help that I might make the right decision—for Zachary Breckenwith, for me, and for all those I love. Amen.”

  Lovingly, she put the box back into the trunk, replaced her gowns, and closed the lid. She was scarcely back on her feet when she heard a series of crashes and a cry of distress coming from the first floor.

  She grinned as she walked to her bedroom door. “Ditty must be back. Poor thing. I wonder if she’ll ever grow into those feet of hers,” she murmured as she left her room. When she reached the hall and heard Ditty’s voice, along with another she did not quite recognize, her suspicions were confirmed. She proceeded directly to the center staircase, prepared to find almost anything by way of an accident downstairs.

  When she reached the top of the stairs and glanced down to the hall below, however, she gasped, gripped the banister with one hand, and clapped the other to her heart. As much as she knew and accepted Ditty’s clumsiness, and as much as her imagination might allow, she was totally and absolutely unprepared for the vision of pure catastrophe that lay waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  20

  PAINT. PAINT. AND MORE PAINT.

  Red. Blue. Yellow. Orange. Purple. Emma gave up trying to determine how many colors had splashed onto the floral carpet runner she had had designed especially for the main hall at Hill House and rushed down the steps as fast as she could.

  Ditty was rooted in the center of the mess, and the young woman’s gown wore enough paint to serve as an artist’s palette. Surrounded by upended tins of paint the size of an ordinary butter crock, Malcolm Lewis was merely standing in the hallway in front of Ditty. He was wearing a well-stained artist’s coat, looking rather dazed and stupefied.

  His narrow face mottled red with embarrassment the moment she stepped, albeit very carefully, into the disaster zone. “I’m sorry. Oh my. I’m so sorry, Widow Garrett. Forgive me. Oh my. Oh my, do forgive me,” he pleaded as he approached her, his voice a bit shrill with despair. “I shouldn’t have opened up all that paint and brought it out here. I simply shouldn’t. I know better. I truly do.”

  Emma was half tempted to strap on her skates to make her taller and keep her skirts from touching the floor and getting paint on them, but she would probably just slip and fall anyway. Instead, she used both hands to lift her skirts and tiptoed around a puddle of sunflower yellow paint and a tin of orange paint that had miraculously landed upright. She sighed when she noted that there were several areas on the walls that had not escaped ruin, but the massive oak coat rack near the front door appeared to have been spared. “Whatever happened?” she asked as soon as she reached him, making sure she was in a clear spot before letting her skirts drop back into place.

  “He tripped, and the paint he was carrying on a tray flew everywhere,” Ditty offered, almost triumphantly.

  Emma scowled at her by way of reprimand.

  “Well, I didn’t trip. I didn’t make this mess,” the young woman argued. “I’d just gotten home when Mr. Lewis—”

  “I did. I tripped. I’m not sure how it happened, but apparently I must have simply tripped over my own two feet,” he offered in support of Ditty’s explanation. “It’s all my fault. This poor girl only had the misfortune of arriving home just in time to become a victim of my own clumsiness.”

  “Are either of you hurt?” Emma asked, looking from one to the other.

  “I’m fine,” Ditty insisted, looked down at her paint-splattered skirts, and shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for my skirts, but at least I had already taken off my cloak and hung it up before the paint flew. There’s no real harm, I suppose. This is just an ordinary work gown, after all. A few splashes of paint won’t matter when I’m scrubbing floors.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ll pay whatever it costs to replace your gown. I insist,” Mr. Lewis added. He paused, looked down at the paint dripping from the hem of his trousers, and shrugged. “Other than a well-deserved stab to my pride, Widow Garrett, I’m not injured. But I still don’t understand how this happened. I’ve been in at least a hundred homes over the years, and I’ve never, ever once created such a mess.”

  He looked directly at Emma and swallowed so hard his Adams apple bobbed in his skinny neck. “I know that it is little consolation to you, and I truly do apologize.”

  “We all have accidents from time to time,” she offered. After last night’s chicken fiasco, she was not about to point blame at the man for having an accident, but she could not shake the nagging feeling that this accident may not have been his fault.

  “Whatever were you doing carrying a tray of opened paint tins into the hallway? I thought you were busy in the library with the Burkes,” she said, glancing at the hallway carpet and floorboards while searching for any evidence that might prove that her nagging feeling was well-founded.

  �
�Miss Burke only stayed a short while to discuss what she might wear for her sitting before retiring to her room. Mr. Burke was quite emphatic about her wearing a gray gown, although I’m not certain Miss Burke is very happy about that. He was going to double-check the measurements for the suit he’s tailoring for me, but within half an hour he had to stop. I’m afraid he wasn’t feeling up to the task and retired to his bedroom,” he stated quietly.

  Emma nodded, silently confirming that she recalled the artist’s earlier conversation with her about Lester Burke’s poor health.

  Mr. Lewis cleared his throat and continued. “Since I had the afternoon free and the boardinghouse seemed rather deserted, I thought I might move the paints from the library up to my room. Then I thought maybe I should just bring some of my paints out to the hallway. The daylight here is less filtered than in the library. I was hoping to choose a combination of colors for a stencil I had in mind for you.”

  When she tried to object, he held up his hand. “I know you haven’t had time to decide whether or not you even wanted me to design a stencil for the hallway, but I thought if I made a sample, with just the right colors that would be pleasing to you and match the colors in the carpet runner . . .”

  He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. The very last thing I wanted to do was create trouble for you.”

  “Your intentions were good,” Emma replied, then spied something behind him that caught her attention and made her stomach drop.

  “I’ll help you clean this up,” Ditty offered, “if you tell me how. I’ve never had to clean up wet paint before.”

  Emma scarcely heard the conversation that ensued. She was too focused on walking around him to get closer to the section of carpet behind him. The moment she saw the telltale stains, she stopped, walked back to the staircase, and noted the same stains on several of the posts below the banister. Hoping against hope she might somehow be wrong, she turned and looked back over her shoulder. “Did you have any black or white paint on the tray, Mr. Lewis?” she asked, interrupting his conversation with Ditty.