by Carla Kelly
He remembered his own childhood, a hard drill of work and hunger, growing up on a piece of land tired from years of cotton that wore out the soil, but was the only thing his father could rent. Jack never went to town. He joined up in 1863 when he was thirteen, not because he believed in states’ rights or slavery but because he hated the farm. The sight of Savannah had kept him awake all night with the wonder of it. He could have told Amelie that Wisner wasn’t much, but why ruin the gentle child’s pleasure?
He wondered what she would make of the Superior Mercantile, which was anything but. Her eyes widened as she looked around the crowded store, smelly with smoked fish and coffee beans. Elbows on the counter, Mr. Watkins watched the whole show. “Why, Jack, twice in one week? And each time with a pretty girl? What’ll that faro dealer at the Back Forty think?” he teased.
Jack put his hands over Amelie’s ears. “That’ll do,” he said in his foreman voice. He handed over Lily’s list. “We have ten dollars and two bits for school supplies. Can you help us?”
Lips pursed, Mr. Watkins surveyed the list. “So the pretty high yaller gal is a schoolteacher?” he asked, which meant that Jack’s hands covered Amelie’s ears again.
“Mind yourself, Watkins,” he said, “or I’ll . . .”
The store owner looked around elaborately. “Go to another store?” He got the hint, though, because he returned to the list. “ ‘And if there is enough money, Franklin Colors.’ Let’s see what we can do.”
Perhaps feeling some amends were owed, Mr. Watkins handed Amelie a basket. “You help me and there’ll be something in it for you.”
Jack could have told the merchant that Amelie would have helped for nothing, but the man had never seen her scrubbing pots.
“Keep her busy, Watkins. I have a plan,” he said as he stood in the doorway and looked across the street to the Back Forty.
Watkins followed Jack’s gaze. “Gonna drink? I can’t keep Amelie busy that long!”
Jack crossed the store in a few quick strides until he leaned over the counter to speak in Watkins’ ear. “Not another word, and it’s not what you think.”
There must have been enough menace in his voice, because Watkins nodded and quickly returned his attention to his business.
“I’ll be back in five minutes, Amelie,” Jack said. “Be a good girl.”
He went into the saloon, a dark place that felt good after the noonday sun. There was Vivian, just reading at a table because it was early for faro.
“We haven’t seen you in a while, Jack Sinclair,” she said. “Saving your money for that big pretty bull?”
“He needs grain and hay more than I need to lose money in here,” Jack said with a tip of his Stetson. “How are you, Vivian?”
“Finer’n frog’s hair. Sit a spell.”
Jack did as she asked and looked around the room. Before Wyoming started to wear him out, the saloonkeeper had tried to give the Back Forty an elegance it never attained. He looked at the fine desk in the corner. Maybe Oscar had thought his customers might be inclined to sit there and write polished letters home, something that never happened. Still the desk remained, and its equally elegant chair.
“Clarence Carteret’s daughter is going to teach school on the Bar Dot and she deserves a pretty chair.”
“Mrs. Buxton won’t donate one to the cause of education?” Vivian joked. “Let me ask Mr. Buxton next time he’s in here.” She strolled over to the chair and blew the dust off the seat. “For you, one dollar. You know how Oscar likes to turn a profit.”
“I don’t have one dollar. Every penny is going to school supplies at the mercantile, and you know how that bandit marks up his merchandise.”
“For nothing?” she asked. “Nothing’s for free here, not in a saloon.”
“That’s what we can afford,” he told her, relying on her good nature. “You’re a civic-minded woman, Vivian. Oscar won’t mind. Call it an investment in education.”
She thought a moment, then laughed. “You sure drive a hard bargain. Take it.”
He kissed her cheek, picked up the chair, and considered his remaining credit at the Back Forty. “Do you have a winter coat that you’re just plum tired of looking at?
She rolled her eyes. “Does the teacher need a coat too? Jack, you’re pushing it.”
“I’m asking for Madeleine Sansever’s girls. It’s gonna be a bad winter.”
He had said the magic word. With a swish of her dress, Vivian climbed the stairs. Chair in hand, he waited, confident of Vivian’s kindness, even if she was ruthless at the faro table.
Vivian came down the stairs with one coat over her arm. “The best I can do,” she said.
“Thanks, Vivian. You sure you can spare it?” The coat felt heavy and serviceable.
She shrugged. “Wool makes me itch. A bad winter?”
“I think so. In fact, if you have somewhere else to go, I’d advise it.”
She kissed his cheek and he breathed in a faint whiff of rose talcum. “I’m still saving to open that millinery shop.” She touched his hand. “You’re still a good man, Jack Sinclair.”
“Scat now,” she teased. You’ll give the Back Forty a bad reputation if we get more generous.”
“Nothing’s free, Viv,” Jack reminded her. “You’ve done me a signal favor and I won’t forget it.”
“You like this schoolteacher?” she asked, and he heard a little edge to the question.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied without a blush. “You would too, though. She’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s all anyone tries to do. It’s going to be hard for her with such a father.” He hefted the coat. “Madeleine Sansever will probably say a prayer for you. There isn’t much between her and ruin.”
Vivian nodded. She was acquainted with rocks and hard places.
He gave her a little salute and picked up the chair. He knew Lily was going to ask him where the chair came from, and he knew he’d probably tell her. He figured she had been lied to for years, and he had no plan to continue the pattern.
Watkins was tallying up the total when Jack returned. The basket rested on the counter and Amelie watched, her eyes showing her concern, as the merchant checked off each item.
“I don’t think we have enough,” she whispered to Jack.
“We’ll have enough,” he replied with a meaningful look at Watkins.
It wasn’t much of a list, but Mr. Watkins tallied it again, probably more for dramatic effect than anything else. “If your schoolmarm can make do with one box of Franklin Colors, we’ll make it. Trouble is, I can only let go of one map.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “What’ll it be? A map of the world or the United States?”
“I want both maps.”
“Jack, you’re not listening. The world map is one dollar. You’d owe me two dollars for both.” When Jack said nothing, he sighed. “The world map has the US and Europe already. Granted, they’re a bit small that way, but . . .”
Jack gave Amelie his whole attention. “What should we do? It’s your education.”
She regarded the merchant a long time, long enough for Mr. Watkins to shift his feet. Jack recognized the calculating look she gave him, because Madeleine had the same shrewd expression. He hadn’t thought to see it on gentle Amelie’s face, but there it was.
With a small sigh of her own, she reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a little cross on a chain. Without a word, she undid the clasp and laid it on the counter.
Bingo, Jack thought. I can take it from here. “Amelie, didn’t your papa give that to you?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes, silent. The next sound was Mr. Watkins taking another map from the dusty pile next to the fly strips.
“Keep your necklace, little girl,” he said. “I suppose I can donate the map. It’s good for business.”
“The Lord’ll bless you for this,” he told Mr. Watkins.
“I suppose you told that to the faro deale
r across the street,” Watkins grumbled.
“Vivian’s a good sport.”
Mr. Watkins peered elaborately around him to the sidewalk where Jack had left the chair and coat. “Did those just follow you across the street when she wasn’t looking?”
When Mr. Watkins finished wrapping everything, he leaned across the counter and handed Amelie a Pink Pearl eraser, long and slim with undercut edges. “That’s for your help.”
Amelie’s eyes widened at the gift, then she shook her head. “You already made a big donation to my education,” she explained.
Jack never thought he would see Mr. Watkins at a loss, but there it was. Too bad there wasn’t anyone else in the store to watch the merchant struggle to maintain his composure.
“Miss, I always pay for help and you helped. It was a promise, remember?” Mr. Watkins chuckled. “That is, unless you’re certain you will never make a mistake and need it.”
Amelie favored him with the kind of smile that would assure her of suitors to spare, in eight years or so, and took the eraser. “Merci,” she whispered.
They put their purchases in the buckboard next to the chair and coat. Amelie ran her hand over the chair, with its cane seat and gilt tracery.
“I don’t think Miss Carteret will break this one,” Jack told her. “Try on that coat.”
She did as he asked, holding her breath with the pleasure of black velvet on the collar. It sagged a bit off her shoulders and the sleeve tips nearly covered her fingers, but Jack knew Madeleine could alter it.
“I can give Chantal my old one,” she said. She took off the coat as if it was made of ermine and patted it carefully between the chair and the packages. She looked around at the shabby little town, satisfaction writ large on her face. “Let’s go see Bismarck.”
“Not until we have lunch,” Jack said.
“But you spent all the money,” she reminded him.
“All the school money, but I have thirty cents for two plates of chop suey at the Great Wall. Besides, a gentleman doesn’t ask out a lady and not pay for her lunch.”
He could tell that so much largesse in one day was almost too much. He knelt down beside her. “Amelie, just remember: Always save your lunch money for lunch.”
“Will I like chop suey?”
“Miss Carteret did,” he lied.
CHAPTER 12
To Lily’s surprise, Luella Buxton showed up two hours into the Great Schoolhouse Cleanup, as Chantal called it. She stood in the doorway, watching, as Lily and Chantal swatted at spider webs.
Lily put down her broom. “Luella, I’m delighted you could join us.”
“Mama said I shouldn’t because the dust would make me sneeze and upset my delicate system,” she said seriously. She gave a fleeting smile which transformed her solemn face for the briefest moment. “I told her I would brave it.”
“We’re glad you did,” Lily said. “Suppose we let you stand outside on a box and wash the windows? There is a lot of dust in here.”
“I can do that, because I am wearing my most ragged dress,” Luella said. “There isn’t a breeze so I will not catch cold, sicken, and die.”
“Goodness,” Lily said, trying not to smile, “that would be distressing.” How trying it must be to be the only child of a hypochondriac.
With Fothering’s help, Luella was soon washing windows. Lily watched her through the wavy glass. Luella’s most ragged dress was better than Chantal’s dress. Lily remembered her own childhood at Miss Tilton’s School, dressed as well as the others, but kept apart because of her skin color. Everyone was polite, but no one was friendly.
My school will not be like that, Lily thought. Heaven knows what we will learn, but we will be friends. She shuddered as she picked the cobwebs off the broom straws, feeling not much braver than Luella but determined not to show the hard-working Chantal what a faint-hearted specimen she was.
She admired the little girl who pitched in, scrubbing and cleaning without complaint. To her delight, Chantal started to sing. It was a tune Lily recognized. In a moment, the words came back to her, so she joined in. “Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse tous en rond.”
Chantal looked at Lily, her eyes bright. “Do you know the rest? Can we dance too?”
Lily glanced out the window to see Luella watching. She motioned her inside. “Chantal, let’s teach this to Luella right now.”
Luella hesitated in the doorway, but Lily gestured her closer until she stood close to Chantal. “Luella, we’ll sing it again, but slowly this time.”
They sang the catchy tune several times until Luella was tapping her foot to the rhythm. After another time, she joined in, with a voice so sweet and clear that Lily clapped her hands.
“Luella! I’m impressed!”
The child blushed, then told them to sing it again. After a few more times, Chantal taught Lily and Luella the short verses between the lively chorus. After they sang along, they put it all together, with Fothering as their appreciative audience.
“What does it mean?”
“Pont d’Avignon is a bridge in La Belle France,” Chantal said. She frowned. “I don’t know where it is.”
“If we had a map of France, I could show you,” Lily said. “I’m hoping we will have enough money for Mr. Sinclair and Amelie to get a map. Dear me, if the store in town even has such a thing.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I have prepared a repast, and it is the luncheon hour,” Fothering said from the doorway. “Do take a moment to indulge yourselves.”
“Girls, I think the spiders and mealy bugs can wait,” Lily said and held her hand out. “After you.”
Fothering had brought along a wicker hamper, which he opened with real flair. He snapped out a red-and-white checked tablecloth and declared they could eat al fresco.
“Who is Al Fresco?” Chantal asked as she smoothed down her dusty pinafore with a certain Gallic flair of her own that made Lily smile.
“I think he means we will eat outside on the grass,” she explained. “I’ll get Preacher, and you two help Mr. Fothering.”
She saw Luella hesitate and knew the child had never been asked to help the butler.
“We need everyone,” Lily said softly. “School is going to be different than home.”
Luella nodded. “Mama needn’t know.”
While the girls took the napkins and actual silverware that Fathering handed them, Lily pondered the propriety of joining a man working on a privy and decided it was time to put England far behind. She couldn’t see him, but she heard the sound of sandpaper. There he was, humming and sanding. She cleared her throat. Nothing. “Preacher?” she asked. Nothing. She touched his shoulder, and he jumped.
“Mercy, Miss Carteret,” he managed to gasp out.
Trying not to smile, Lily clasped her hands in front of her. “I appreciate a man who throws himself into his work but not literally.”
He smiled at her mild witticism and brushed the shavings down the hole.
“We’ve been invited to lunch,” she said.
“Oh, not me,” he said, but there was a light in his eyes that touched her heart.
“There is plenty for all,” she said, hoping it was true.
“Loaves and fishes?” he joked.
To her surprise, Preacher was right. Fothering produced bread and butter cut into diamond sandwiches, and little slices of picked herring from a jar. Chantal’s eyes opened wide, and Lily doubted she had ever eaten anything from a jar. Olives in a crystal bowl came next, followed by deviled eggs and raisins.
Lily glanced at Fothering, who had forgotten his butler demeanor and grinned from ear to ear as he watched the little girls eat. He must have known what she was thinking, because he leaned toward her and whispered, “I confess I raided the larder, but none of it will be missed.”
“You’re a wonder, sir,” she whispered back.
When they finished, both girls helped Fothering repack the hamper. The two rema
ining deviled eggs went into the now-empty herring jar, which the butler elaborately presented to Chantal. “One for you and one for your mother.”
“I will cut mine in half for Amelie,” the child said. “Miss Carteret, do you think she is having as good a time as we are?”
“You can probably count on that, but I know she isn’t getting deviled eggs as you did,” Lily replied.
After Preacher declared the outhouse a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and took himself down the hill, Fothering left with Luella. Lily could see regret in her eyes, but she said with a straight face that she had to take a nap or Mama declared she would droop and faint. Lily and Chantal finished sweeping out the classroom. As Chantal hummed and worked, Lily realized what was happening: Both girls had begun to invest themselves in their school. Spiders and mealy bugs were part of the curriculum, and so was a bridge in France and a song.
Finally, Chantal put down her cleaning cloth with her own regret. “Mama needs my help preparing for supper,” she said. “It is to be potato soup, and someone must peel.”
“Very well, my dear,” Lily said. “You have been of monumental help.”
“Monumental?” Chantal asked, her voice dubious. “Is that good?”
“It is . . . it is monumental,” Lily said with a laugh. She made a big circle with her arms. “Enormous, gigantic. That is monumental.”
“Very well!” She picked up the glass jar with the two deviled eggs crowded close inside and went to the door. She stood there, then stepped back. “Freak.”
Lily joined her in the doorway. There sat the cat she had heard so much about, blocking the path. His ears were ragged, and Lily wondered if they had been frozen off during a bad winter. He was probably gray and white, but he was dingy, probably unable to be the kind of cat he wanted to be, considering his surroundings. His tail had a crook in it as though he had fought a door and the door had won. He watched them and hissed for good effect, which made Chantal leap back until she was molded to Lily’s legs.