Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  “Well, finally you see fit to come home.” Alice’s greeting hurt. “I suppose it slipped your mind that I was coming by to take you to our missionary meeting.”

  My own Aunt Annie, Copper thought as she kissed Simon’s cheek. “Forgive me, Alice. Have you had lunch?”

  “Simon and I were forced to dine without you.”

  “We were fine, sweetheart,” Simon interjected, “just a little concerned about you.”

  “Truly, I didn’t mean to be away so long, but Mrs. Archesson needed me, and then the weather . . . Alice, perhaps the ladies in the missionary society would like to help her. She is all alone.”

  “That would hardly be appropriate,” Alice replied. “The missionary society was formed to help convert savages in uncivilized nations, those who have not had a chance to hear the Word of God. Mrs. Archesson is an old sot, hardly deserving of our time.” She pulled the rarely used bell cord, summoning Searcy into the room. “Fetch my umbrella,” she demanded before pulling on her gloves and trailing the housekeeper to the foyer.

  Simon and Copper stepped onto the porch with Alice. The rain had nearly stopped, but Simon opened Alice’s umbrella.

  “I will apologize for your absence,” Alice said to Copper, “but you must learn to take your obligations seriously.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be ready next time.”

  “It amazes me, Simon, that you do not have better control of your wife,” Copper heard her say as brother and sister walked head to head toward the waiting carriage. “Benton would have a fit if I set one foot on the grounds of that madhouse.”

  Copper strained so hard to hear Simon’s reply that she nearly fell off the porch.

  “And that, my dear, is between you and your husband as this is between my wife and myself.”

  “Well!” Alice shot back. “Pardon me for trying to save her from humiliating herself.”

  Simon came back to the porch and slipped an arm around Copper’s waist as they watched Alice settle herself in the carriage.

  Waving good-bye, he said, “Off to save the heathen in faraway lands. Heaven save us from the ladies of the missionary society.”

  “Alice has her way and I have mine. That doesn’t make her wrong,” Copper responded, surprising herself.

  “No, just misguided,” he said. “Now tell me what has made you so late to lunch. Must you let your husband starve?” He nuzzled her neck. “Do I have to be a heathen to get your attention?”

  “Simon,” she said, pulling away, “the neighbors.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d stayed with you on Troublesome Creek; then I could kiss you anywhere I pleased. There’d be no one to see but bears and raccoons.”

  “Don’t tease me. I could pack my trunk in nothing flat.”

  “Maybe someday. One never knows what God plans for the future.”

  Copper couldn’t help herself. Simon’s words had opened a little window of hope. Might she someday have her heart’s desire? Might they return to her beloved Troublesome Creek? She turned the thought over in her mind, then tucked it away in her heart for safekeeping.

  Birdie’s house sure looked sad in the daytime. Weeds and brambles snatched at Copper’s clothing as she made her uninvited way across the overgrown yard. Birdie wouldn’t mind that she was here; they were friends now. But Simon would be angry if he discovered she’d sneaked away without someone to accompany her. Sneaked off! She, a grown, married woman, had had to steal away in order to take a walk alone. A walk that just happened to lead to the outskirts of town and Mary Martha Archesson’s uninhabited house.

  When she and Andy had been here before, she hadn’t realized how big the place was nor how decrepit. The round support pillars of the wraparound porch were rotting, and the roof sagged dangerously. Simon had told her that he and the undertaker had to take Aunt Annie’s body out the back door for fear they’d fall through the floorboards if they tried to carry her across the porch.

  The house must have been grand at one time, sitting back from the road as it did on an expansive lawn. Despite the peeling paint, you could tell it had once been pristine white. Large gaslights flanked the double doors, and faded black shutters hung askew at the long, many-paned windows. It was probably the site of lots of parties with its two-storied grandeur.

  Copper followed a trail marked by flattened weeds to the back. There was the cellar door and there the cistern where Andy had pumped water to wake baby Matilda. Wandering, lost in thought, she passed a small stone building set a short distance behind the house. Farther along, an ancient apple tree sported knotty green fruit. Is this where Birdie’s baby is buried? There was no marker of any sort. Tears came to her eyes, and she sat on the steps of the stone building to rest a minute. Sad though she was, she felt a comforting presence, as if an angel sheltered her with his wings.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck noon. She’d have to hurry to beat Simon home. With a last look around, she returned to the front and set off toward Willow Street. Someday she’d have to ask Simon for her own carriage. What a blessing it would be to come and go as she pleased, though Alice wouldn’t approve. Copper wished she didn’t care so much what her sister-in-law thought.

  Simon was pacing the porch when Copper made her way up the walk. The heat of the day had forced her to remove her hat and gloves, and now she had no time to make herself proper before he saw her.

  The chain of his watch sparkled in the sun as he stared down the steps. With an exaggerated sigh, he tucked the watch back in his pocket. “Laura Grace, where have you been?”

  Ah, the dreaded Laura Grace. It took her right back to her childhood and her stern stepmother. Stubbornly, she didn’t answer, just made her way to him and bussed his cheek. “It’s good to see you too, Dr. Corbett.”

  “I don’t come home from the office to eat my noontime meal alone,” he reprimanded.

  She didn’t wait for him to open the screen door but barged through and let it slam behind her, then slapped her hat and gloves down on the hall table before going to the dining room.

  Simon followed, sitting silently at the head of the table, cutting each bite of his food as precisely as if he were in surgery before forking it into his mouth.

  Copper’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had formed, and she felt ashamed. She wiped her mouth with the edge of her napkin, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Simon.”

  His eyes met hers. “You worry me. And Searcy . . . she had no idea where you were.”

  “I didn’t set out to go so far, but I walked all the way to Mary Martha Archesson’s house.” Pausing while buttering a yeast roll, she pointed her knife in his direction. “Something will have to be done before she comes home. The house is falling down, and the lawn is a mess.”

  “If you will promise to stay away, I will send someone around to see about Mrs. Archesson’s house.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she replied, jumping up to kiss his cheek. “You’re the best husband in the world.”

  “What am I to do with you? Don’t you understand you’re not expected to fix everyone’s problems?”

  “Well, of course not, Husband.” She tickled his mustache. “Just those I know about.” Seating herself again, she pushed green beans around with her fork. She hadn’t had much of an appetite for days—must be the heat. “When will Birdie get to come home?”

  “Thank you,” Simon said after Searcy stepped in from the kitchen and poured more ice water. “It’s not as simple as it may seem. She has to be declared competent before she is released, and she has to have somewhere to go.”

  “Could she come here for a while until her house is repaired?”

  “That is out of the question,” Simon said. “She’s safe where she is for now.”

  “You be eating them beans, Miz Corbett,” Searcy interjected. “Searcy didn’t cook all morning just to slop the hogs.”

  Copper took a big bite. “Delicious.”

  “Don’t worry about Mary Martha Archesson,” Simon said as he
stood and patted her shoulder. “She stands to inherit all of Annie’s property. She’ll be able to take care of herself.”

  Copper followed him to the foyer where he retrieved his hat.

  “Keep out of trouble this afternoon,” he admonished. “I expect to find you here when I return.”

  “I’ll be right there in the porch swing. I’m going to an auxiliary meeting with Alice, but after that I have a new ladies magazine to read.”

  An hour before supper, Copper sat in the porch swing, Woman’s Home Companion open on her lap, languidly stirring the air with a church fan and sipping iced lemonade. The title of an article caught her eye: “What Man Does Not Love Beauty? Mrs. Pinkham Counsels Young Wives to Keep Their Attractiveness.” She glanced about, embarrassed by the racy title but captivated all the same.

  Seven-eighths of men marry a woman because she is beautiful in their eyes. What a disappointment, then, to see the fair young wife’s beauty fading away before a year passes over her head! Strengthen yourself so you will not break down under the new strain on your powers.

  The church fan whipped the humid air, faster and faster.

  Keep your beauty; it is a precious possession. Your husband loves your beauty, and he is proud to be seen in public with you. Try to keep it for his sake and your own.

  The pale cheeks, the dark shadows under the eyes, the general drooping of the young wife’s form—what do they mean?

  Copper read on, pushing the swing slowly with one foot.

  They mean that her nerves are failing, that her strength is going, and that something must be done to help her through the coming trials of maternity.

  A jolt like lightning surged through Copper. Maternity! That meant the family way . . . being with child. . . . Oh, my goodness, I’m going to have a baby. The open magazine plopped to the floor when she jumped up and hurried into the house.

  The mirror hanging in the foyer was in shadow, so she leaned forward, nose-to-nose with her reflection, and stared hard. Were there just the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes? And, yes, her shoulders were definitely drooping. Her nerves didn’t seem to be failing, however, so what did that mean? Did you have to have all the signs or would two do? Perhaps she should read more of Mrs. Pinkham’s counsel.

  Settling back in the swing, one leg tucked under, she found her place in the magazine.

  Build yourself up at once by a course of tonic with specific powers, such as Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound.

  A letter of commendation followed.

  To my suffering sisters,

  Let me write this for your benefit, telling you what Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound has done for me. I am but nineteen and suffered monthly with painful cramping, dizziness, burning sensations at the back of my ears and on top of my head, nervousness, soreness of muscles, bearing-down pains, could not sleep well, tingling in my feet and legs, and, oh, how I longed to be well! One day I wrote to Mrs. Pinkham telling her all, knowing I could do so in perfect confidence. She replied with a lovely letter telling me exactly what to do.

  Paw-paw circled a spot of sunshine, an unwelcome distraction.

  “Lay down!” Copper said more sharply than she’d meant. His old brown eyes looked up sadly. “I’m sorry—” she fished a sliver of ice from her lemonade and let him slurp it from her hand—“but I need to finish this before Simon gets home.”

  Satisfied, Paw-paw plopped down on the top step.

  “Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.”

  After taking nine bottles of compound, one box of liver pills, and using one half package of sanative wash, I can rightly say I am cured. I am so happy, and I owe my happiness to none other than Mrs. Pinkham. Why will women suffer when help is near? Let me, as one who has had some experience, urge all suffering women, especially young wives, to seek Mrs. Pinkham’s Compound. You can avail yourself of it at any druggist.

  Standing, Copper retrieved letters from home stuck deep in her apron pocket. Her foot tingled painfully. Was that another sign? She’d have to ask Simon. For now, she couldn’t wait to reread the letters from this morning’s post, one from Mam and one from Brother Issac.

  It seemed a lifetime, not mere months, since she’d waved good-bye to them in June, the day of her wedding. Brother Isaac had married her and Simon in the little church in the shadow of the mountains. He had been her minister for years, and she missed him dearly. Her heart beat fast at what his letter told her. He was coming for a visit! How wonderful it would be to see someone from home.

  Mam’s letter was not so cheerful. Daddy had been sick again. Nothing serious, Mam wrote. Nothing that couldn’t be helped by mustard plasters. Laura Grace was not to worry; they’d be leaving for Philadelphia in two weeks.

  Lost in thought, Copper tapped her chin with the envelope from Mam’s missive. Mam and Daddy and Willy and Daniel had been preparing to leave for Philadelphia since Copper left Troublesome Creek with Simon. Mam wanted to take the boys to a place where they could get an education, and Daddy had agreed. They should have been there and settled by now. Copper felt uneasy. Was Mam telling her everything?

  But Isaac was coming. He might be here any day now, and he would tell her all the news from home.

  Over supper, Simon shared news of his own. Mary Martha Archesson was to be released from the asylum. She was considered to be of sound mind. Graciously, baby Matilda’s parents did not press charges against her. As soon as the men Simon had hired finished repairing her house, Birdie could come home.

  Copper clapped with joy. “I am so excited for Birdie. I just hope she doesn’t get too lonely living in that big house by herself.”

  “The passing of time brings change for everyone. If Mary Martha is unable to reconcile herself to her new life, then she will have to return to the asylum.”

  “Oh, that mustn’t happen,” Copper replied, standing and scraping their plates before taking them to the sink. “We must pray that God will send a way to keep Birdie busy. . . . ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’ you know. Mam must have said that a thousand times while I was growing up.” She filled the sink with water and took a bar of lye soap from the ledge. “Go on now, Searcy.” She shooed the housekeeper away. “You’ll be late to your Bible study.”

  Searcy wrapped her Bible in a starched and ironed tea towel before tucking it in her basket. “Searcy don’t feel right leaving you with these dishes,” she said as she tied the strings of her bright blue bonnet under her chin.

  “A little dishwater won’t kill me. Now, go on. Go show the girls what you’ve learned this week.”

  “You be leaving them skillets, Miz Corbett,” Searcy said as she stepped out the door. “Searcy be doing them in the morning.”

  Copper washed and Simon dried.

  “What’s this about Bible study?” he asked. “I’ve never known Searcy to leave before her work was done.” Turning a plate, he studied a chip in its rim. “We’ll need to replace this one.”

  Copper took the plate to the pantry and put it in the basket they kept for donations to the poor. She’d never get used to the waste in this house. She came out of the narrow room talking. “You know I’ve been teaching Searcy to read the Bible. Well, she’s already learned half the alphabet, and she can write her name. She’s so pleased with herself that she is teaching the other housekeepers and maids on the street. They meet once a week at Searcy’s house.”

  Simon took a platter from Copper. “How did you get the ladies to let their maids have an evening off?”

  “That took some finagling and arm-twisting.” She laughed and smiled at him. “I found they couldn’t turn me down when we’re rolling bandages together at the hospital auxiliary meetings.”

  Copper scrubbed the cast-iron skillets and dried them in the still-warm oven before she sized them with a dollop of lard. Then she untied her apron strings. Was it her imagination, or did the waist of the apron feel a little too snug? Best share her news with Simon.

  “Come sit on the porch with
me,” she said, reaching for his hand. “There’s something I want you to see.”

  It was a pleasant evening. A cool breeze had swept away the lingering mosquitoes, and a harried hummingbird darted in and out of the trailing red trumpet vine that inched its way to the roof. Copper and Simon sat together on the swing, and she shyly handed him her Woman’s Home Companion, now dog-eared at Mrs. Pinkham’s column.

  “What is this, my dear?” Simon smiled at her indulgently and seated his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “What in this bit of folderol could possibly be of interest to me?”

  “Just read it.” A blush rose from her collarbone and washed across her cheeks. She busied herself smoothing the front of her dress.

  He read aloud, “‘What Man Does Not Love Beauty?’” then read silently for a while.

  Copper could not meet his eyes when he stopped and peered at her from over the top of the magazine. She had not felt such a remove from him as she did at this moment. To her, since their time at the creek, he had seemed as much a part of her as her heart or her right arm, but now she was aware of their dissimilarity. . . . Her body was a vessel, and she could carry life. It seemed to set her apart somehow.

  Laying the magazine aside, Simon reached for her wrist and placed his fingers at her pulse. She could feel the throb of her heart at the base of her throat . . . the very same beat that he discerned with his fingertips.

  “Are you ill?” he said with some alarm.

  At his tone, Paw-paw roused from his sleep and came across the porch to lay his head in Copper’s lap. She rubbed his head and scratched behind his ears. “Not ill, but surely you’ve noticed a difference in me.”

  “I’ve a good mind to make a bonfire with this tripe!” He flung the magazine across the porch. “If you think for one moment that you are any less beautiful to me than the day I first met you on Troublesome Creek . . .”