A Patchwork Family
Page 15
Mercy looked up from the quilt she was piecing from those pretty party-gown scraps, her face aglow in the lamplight.
“I didn’t send her to the academy to become good friends with the headmistress, now did I?” she asked mischievously. “Does she sound all right, otherwise? Her letter to me didn’t say a lot—and I certainly recall being required to write home on Sunday afternoons while I was a student there!”
He smiled, folding the pretty sheet of parchment into his pocket. No sense in hurting Mercy’s feelings. “Yes, ma’am, she sounds just fine. Curious as to why she ain’t heard any more from that Tucker fella, though.”
Her eyes narrowed as she considered this. “She thinks I’m hiding his letters, doesn’t she?”
Billy’s jaw dropped. He’d never mentioned his sister’s suspicions, yet Mercy knew enough about Christine to guess at them.
“Do you think I’m keeping back her mail—or yours, Billy?”
“No, ma’am! You wouldn’t never do that,” he protested. “You understand how much she wants to hear something—any little thing—about Mama.”
Mercy nodded and focused on her quilting again. “Your sister has to learn about trust again. Not an easy lesson, considering how your mother has behaved—and how Christine has compromised our trust in her. None of us can make her believe or do anything, Billy.”
Didn’t he know that! He also knew how his sister made herself out to be suffering so, when—especially compared to Gabriel Getty—Christine didn’t know how lucky she was. Billy had thought about that sad, silent boy a lot since the party, and though he missed his sister something fierce, her letter reminded him that some things about her would never change.
She would always be Mama’s daughter. And even as he yearned for the sound of his mother’s voice again, and the way she smiled when he’d done something well, Billy knew that his time here with the Monroes was remolding his expectations.
It felt good to be a giver now, as well as a receiver.
Hard work and a satisfying sameness turned the days into weeks when autumn came to the Kansas prairie. There were horses to tend and stalls to shovel, butter to churn and eggs to fetch, covered wagons headed west and people to feed each time a stagecoach passed through. Billy spent every possible moment observing how Judd and Nathaniel trained the Morgans that made this way station such an important stop along the Smoky Hill trail.
He collected dried buffalo and cow chips for the stove, aware that winter winds would soon whistle through the cracks in the log walls. Mercy kept newspapers stacked in a corner, and one day they soaked them in water to form a pulpy wallpaper coating on the inside of the house. Not pretty, but practical.
With Asa’s help, they gathered the pumpkins and squash, dug the potatoes and turnips and carrots, and then stored them in the root cellar beneath Judd and Mercy’s bedroom. A large rag rug covered the trapdoor in the floor, and when Billy clambered down the rope ladder into the earthen cave, he wondered what it would be like to hide from Indians down here for days at a time, like Gabe had done. Would he get so scared he couldn’t talk?
Onions hung in bunches along the walls, along with pungent bundles of drying peppermint and medicinal herbs. Their vegetables filled several bins, and a shelf held glass jars of green beans, corn, and jellies Mercy had preserved over the summer. Store-bought tins of peaches and tomatoes sat on the floor, too. A barrel of salt pork filled one corner.
“Never had this much stuff in our cellar back home,” Billy remarked as he emptied potatoes into their bin.
“You were closer to town,” Mercy reminded him. “And you weren’t feeding coachloads of people each week. We’ll need to make another trip to the Frontier Store soon, for staples to see us through the winter. Christmas will be here before we know it!”
Along with Christine, the sparkle in her eyes implied.
Billy perked up at the prospect of presents, and a decorated tree, and the aromas of his favorite holiday foods—and yes, he longed to see his sister again. Yet he suspected the Queen Bee’s homecoming would be more jarring than joyous: Christine was accustomed to fine gifts that the Monroes couldn’t afford.
The quilt Mercy worked on late into the evenings excited his eyes with its bright, shining colors. And knowing whom those clothes had belonged to was a real comfort to him.
But his sister would see it as a collection of scraps and rags that were good for nothing else. To Christine, it was just another example of how Mercy made things over, and made do with what she had—no matter how much love and artistry held her quilt together.
As Christmas got closer, Billy hoped this good woman wouldn’t regret the efforts she and Judd had made on his sister’s behalf. But he suspected that even Miss Vanderbilt’s best lessons wouldn’t teach Christine to appreciate the gifts the Monroes gave from their hearts.
“Stagecoach a-comin’! Stagecoach a-comin’!”
Billy set baskets of corn fritters on the table and then dashed outside without a coat. Even though she only had to ride the last eighty miles on that rough, rocking stagecoach—because the train took folks clear to Topeka now—Christine would be peevish after her long trip. Her letters were proof she’d been sharpening that catty tongue, with the help of her snooty new friends.
But dang it, he hadn’t seen her since September! Surely she’d missed him a little.
As the red Concord coach approached in the swirling snow, he waved high and wide at Mike. The driver had six sets of reins woven between his fingers, so he could only jerk his head in response. Billy yearned to take those reins himself someday, to sit there as unruffled as Mr. Malloy did while controlling six magnificent Morgans. He made it look effortless, but the man’s skill and precision came from years of experience—and the respect he had for his horses and passengers.
Once he could read the WELLS FARGO lettering on the side—for Ben Holladay had sold out last month—Billy trotted alongside the rolling vehicle to escort it into the yard, his excitement running high.
“Afternoon, Mr. Bristol!” Mike called out as he set the brake.
“Afternoon to you, Mr. Malloy! You bring my sister this time? And Miss Vanderbilt?”
“Sure did, son! And more trunks for those two gals than for all the other passengers combined.” As he hopped down on muscular legs, with his buckskin duster blowing in the wind, Malloy cut an impressive figure. “Why do you suppose that is, Billy?”
“ ’Cause they’re girls?” he guessed.
“Give that man a cigar! If you’ll help the folks get out, I’ll fetch the ladies’ luggage from the boot.”
Billy reached toward the coach door, but it swung open so hard it banged against the vehicle’s side. A matronly woman in a maroon cape grabbed his hand to step down. Her distressed expression needed no words to identify the problem.
“Privies are right over there, ma’am,” Billy said, pointing the way. “Glad you could make it. Merry Christmas to you.”
Though he knew that nine passengers could ride inside, Billy swore he handed down half the population of Abilene before there was a break in the parade.
And then, there stood Christine.
Or was it Mama? Bundled in a heavy woolen coat, with a hat lined in rabbit pelt like the muff she carried, this princess looked like somebody!
“I can step down myself, Billy. You’re too little to—”
He grabbed her at the waist, whirling her around in his glee while her single long ringlet flew out behind her. Christine’s whoops joined his in childlike delight for a moment, but then she remembered where she was. Who she was.
“Put me down, Billy! Please put me down!” she amended as Miss Vanderbilt appeared at the doorway. “Who do you think you are, to—”
“I’m that little brother you left in your dust without so much as a fare-thee-well!” he replied. “But I’m not so little anymore, am I? Not the runt you and Wesley could pick on any old time you pleased!”
Where had that come from? Billy set her down, as surprised
at his outburst as his sister was.
But it was true, wasn’t it? He had picked her up without even thinking about it. And danged if he hadn’t shut her up for a minute, too!
“You’ve obviously been hard at work with the horses and the harvest, young man,” Miss Vanderbilt remarked crisply. She put her dainty gloved hand in his, grinning as she stepped to the ground. “This home-steading life agrees with you, Billy Bristol. And there’s nothing wrong with that! Now let’s help Mercy get this meal on so these other travelers can be on their way.”
Like a little cyclone she approached, all bluster and business beneath her stylish red cloak and plumed hat. Mercy rushed out to hug her, realizing just how much she missed her family in Philadelphia; pleased that this Christmas, Aunt Agatha and Billy’s sister would be with them. As the other passengers quickly hung their wraps on pegs and seated themselves, Aunt Agatha assessed the steaming bowls of food.
“How do you do it, Mercedes?” she said with a proud chuckle. “You, who could barely boil water when you were Christine’s age! Why, that platter of beef and braised vegetables rivals anything I’ve seen in a St. Louis restaurant.”
“Thank you, Aunt Agatha,” Mercy replied. “Actually, Judd and Billy put most of this meal on the table.”
Her aunt’s eyebrows rose as she filled water glasses for the others. “You’re not telling me Billy cooked—”
“No, but he dug the potatoes and carrots,” Mercy replied, smiling as her husband and his red-haired shadow stomped the snow from their boots. “And Judd shot and butchered the buffalo.”
Had she really left Aunt Agatha speechless? Christine’s reaction was easier to read: she’d started to sit down, too hungry to wait for the others, but then stood by the sideboard instead.
Buffalo? she mouthed at her brother.
Billy grinned. “I field dressed it myself, mostly. And I’m learnin’ how to butcher, too.”
“And shall we give thanks for these gifts?” Judd spoke above the passengers’ chatter. When Mike Malloy stepped in and shut the door against the snow, Judd began. “Most blessed Lord who provides all we have, and all we need, we thank You now for the bounty on this table. May it nourish these, Your people, and remind us of the many gifts You give us each day. Make us especially mindful this season of Your precious and perfect Son, the greatest gift of all. Amen.”
“Amen!” came the echo, and hands shot out to pass the platters.
When the meat came around to Mike, he was chuckling. “Awfully nice of you folks to leave me so much of this buffalo roast,” he said, heaping his plate. “You might think such a wild, ugly beast is not to your liking, but Mercy cooks it real slow—”
“All night,” she chimed in, “with buttermilk, onions, and sliced apples, to take out the gamey taste.”
“—and as you can see, it falls apart when I put my fork to it.” He took a large mouthful, closing his eyes ecstatically as he chewed. “Judd Monroe, if you ever tire of this woman’s ways in the kitchen, I’ll be taking her off your hands, sir.”
“Don’t count on it,” came the good-natured reply.
With the next passing of the platter, the last slice of buffalo disappeared. Potatoes got slathered with butter, corn fritters held gems of jelly on their way to open mouths, and as ginger snaps and cut-out sugar cookies got dunked in cups of hot coffee, the room filled with satisfied sighs.
“Well, folks, looks like more snow ahead, so we’d better get rolling.” Mike Malloy slipped into his duster, warming them all with his grin. “Merry Christmas to you Monroes. And to you two Bristols—and to you, too, Miss Vanderbilt. Have a wonderful holiday together.”
As he rounded up his passengers like a shepherd herding a flock, Mercy again felt grateful for this young man’s friendship. While some drivers gossiped of dirty dealing and dubious financial management on Ben Holladay’s part, Mike Malloy took up the reins for Wells Fargo with the same integrity and levelheadedness he’d displayed under the stage line’s former owner. His Christmas wishes lingered as the seven of them ate, and Mercy hoped this was an omen about how the entire visit would go.
Christine seemed reserved, however. Or was she just tired from the trip? Perhaps better behaved, after the months of Miss Vanderbilt’s guidance?
Indeed, Aunt Agatha was recounting the girl’s advances in language and domestic skills, and complimenting the way she helped other girls remake their mothers’ gowns.
“She wants to create a new uniform for the school!” the headmistress raved. “And with the big-city garment factories producing so much ready-to-wear clothing now, Christine could design herself quite a nice career.”
The young lady in question smiled politely at this, but seconds later she was rolling her eyes at Billy.
Billy covered his snicker by eating a ginger snap before the headmistress could catch on to their exchange.
“Thank you for taking such an interest in our girl,” Judd remarked. “Sounds like she’s figuring herself out now. Finding more possibilities than we can offer out here on the plains.”
He, too, gave Christine an encouraging smile, but her response was less than enthusiastic.
Mercy chalked this up to the fact that young girls didn’t know how to receive compliments graciously, and to Miss Bristol’s sullen nature in general.
But Mercy couldn’t allow that to dampen her Christmas spirit; she had family gathered around her! The gifts she’d made needed a tree, even if it was just a chubby little cedar seedling from the riverbank. They could string popcorn, and unpack the ornaments she’d brought from back East, and display the crèche that had belonged to Judd’s grandmother.
Her buoyant mood sank soon after Christine went upstairs to change, however. The men had gone outside to do stable chores, and Mercy was stacking the dirty dishes, when Aunt Agatha returned to the kitchen with a small bundle of envelopes tied with string.
“I’m assuming you don’t know about this,” she began in a low voice, “but Christine has apparently been encouraging a man’s attentions. Someone from Atchison named—”
Tucker Trudeau, Mercy filled in with a silent sigh.
“—who is helping her locate her mother. Since she has no way of knowing anyone from there, I have to think she read a newspaper advertisement during her trip west. You know how rosy those hucksters make everything sound, from land acquisition schemes to mail-order brides.”
The woman’s expression sharpened, yet she was sincerely worried. “My immediate concern was that he was swindling money from her, by acting far too interested in her personally to be . . . proper for a man of his age.”
Mercy’s heart sank as her well-meaning aunt pressed the bundle into her hands. There were probably half a dozen envelopes. Only one had been opened. Apparently, Miss Vanderbilt had taken it upon herself to withhold most of the letters from Christine.
“I . . . thank you for telling me, Aunt Agatha, but—”
“It’s my duty to keep my students on the straight and narrow,” she replied in her shrill headmistress voice, “because most are so far from home, and the reputation of my school depends upon it. I sensed from the start that Miss Bristol would try our patience at every turn, Mercedes. You’ve taken on quite a responsibility for these abandoned children, and I want to help.”
Chapter Sixteen
What could she say to this? Mercy slipped the letters into her apron pocket and picked up a towel. Her aunt, with crisp white sleeves rolled above her elbows, was attacking the dirty dishes with the zeal of a preacher who’d baptized a dozen new converts. Although she understood the headmistress’s desire to remove such temptations from the fanciful Christine—to nip Mr. Trudeau’s attentions in the bud—this turn of events caught her smack in the middle.
If she showed Christine those letters, the girl would assume she had opened that first one. The moody Miss Bristol would despise her and the headmistress, which might lead to her running away from school or finding herself constantly on Aunt Agatha’s bad side.
But what if Tucker Trudeau had news of Virgilia Bristol? Didn’t Christine and Billy have a right to know if their mother had come to her senses? Or if she and that Wyndham character had settled in Atchison?
Mercy didn’t want to prevent the reuniting of this war-torn family—nor did she wish to alienate Christine by withholding news from a man who’d captured her fancy. In writing to her, Tucker may just be helping a pretty young girl who’d won his sympathies, rather than pursuing any romantic angles. By Mercy’s estimation, he must be at least ten years older than Christine. Probably had a sweetheart or two the starry-eyed girl didn’t know about.
“So you’re really going to let Christine create a new academy uniform?” she asked. But this was only small talk. Mercy didn’t wish to appear critical of her aunt’s actions, and she didn’t know how to respond to them yet.
As they unwrapped the precious pieces of the Nativity set that evening, Mercy prayed for guidance. She let Billy position the open stable on the sideboard in the front room, a sturdy piece Judd had carved to look humbly rustic. Out of crinkled tissue paper came the porcelain figures of Joseph and Mary, and the manger where the Christ child would lie.
“In our family, we wait for Christmas morning to place the baby in the manger,” she explained as she lovingly laid that little figure in the top drawer. “But for now, the ox and the donkey and sheep will look on.”
Judd was thumbing through the Bible, locating the familiar passage from Luke they always shared when the crèche came out. He raised the wick on the lamp and smiled at Christine. “We’d be honored if you’d read our Scripture for this evening, honey. It’ll be good to hear your voice again.”
The toss of her head sent that single ringlet flying. “Billy really needs the practice at reading aloud, don’t you think?” she replied tartly.