by Mary Davis
And most of all, she shouldn’t get involved with this man. He had secrets. She was sure of it. But when she opened her mouth, all common sense flew out of her head. “I would love to look after them.” Maybe Gabe and Dora could stay healthy that way.
Dora clapped.
“I really appreciate this. I’ll pay you back somehow.”
She didn’t know how he would ever be able to on miner’s wages. But she liked the idea that he would try. It would mean she would likely see more of him. At least every day when he came to retrieve his children. And then by whatever means he would try to pay her back. It was really no trouble. Gabe and Dora were sweet. She lifted up prayers for a quick recovery of the ill children and that her remaining pupils would stay healthy.
By the time the miners got off work, Bridget had a pork-and-potato stew ready with biscuits and a peach pie for dessert.
Gabe sat by the window, watching. “Here he comes!” The boy jumped off the chair and opened the door before his father could knock.
Mr. Thompson remained on the porch. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated. His nostrils twitched. He appeared to have gotten a whiff of supper. Then he said, “Come on, Gabe. Dora. Time to go.”
He must have a tremendous amount of willpower to turn away from a cooked meal. She knew he had to be hungry after a full day of work.
“Miss Greene made supper.” Gabe grabbed his father’s sleeve and pulled.
Mr. Thompson stumbled across the threshold and gazed at her. “We don’t want to impose on Miss Greene’s generosity.” His words said one thing and his eyes another.
Bridget smiled at him. “It’s no imposition.” It had been nice having more than just herself at her supper table the other night.
“Come on, Papa.” Gabe pushed his father aside and closed the door.
“If you’re sure that it’s no trouble.” Mr. Thompson’s stomach rumbled.
She pretended not to hear it. “I would enjoy the company. It would be much better than eating alone.”
Mr. Thompson crossed to the sink, but he appeared to have already washed up. “Sure smells good in here.”
So he had noticed.
After dessert, Dora jumped up from the table. “Can I show Papa your clock?”
“Dora,” Mr. Thompson said sharply. “You didn’t ask to be excused.”
She huffed a breath and climbed back onto her chair. “May I be ’scused?”
“Thank Miss Greene for supper and dessert.”
The girl turned to Bridget. “Thank you for supper and dessert.” She twisted back to her father. “May I be ’scused now?”
Mr. Thompson grinned at his daughter. “Yes. Take your plate to the sink.”
Bridget could see he loved his children very much.
Dora carefully carried her plate to the counter by the sink and then stood by Bridget’s chair. “Can I show Papa your pink clock?”
“I’ll get it.” It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to go into her bedroom. Bridget stood.
Mr. Thompson stood, as well.
Bridget acknowledged his courtesy with a nod before she left the room. She returned a moment later with the ceramic clock in her hands and set it on the table. It sat about fifteen inches high and eight inches wide and had pink and yellow primroses painted on it.
Mr. Thompson’s eyes widened as he moved around the table to get a better view. “This is really nice.”
“Papa, I want a clock just like this.”
“Maybe someday, darling.” He picked up his daughter. “Time for us to go.”
By Friday, Bridget’s class of twenty-two had been reduced to eight pupils, and the first children who had gotten sick were reported to have whooping cough. Neither Gabe nor Dora was among the sick. It had been prudent of Mr. Thompson to have arranged for his children to stay with her in the afternoons.
At his knock on her door, Bridget’s heart sped up. She willed it to slow down. She couldn’t let this man climb into her heart. So why had she started preparing enough supper for four? She told herself she was just lonely, but she knew it was more.
People were really going to start talking if this kept up. If not for Dora and Gabe, she would put an immediate stop to it.
Maybe.
* * *
Miss Greene’s door opened to Dora swallowed up in a pink apron with a ruffle around the bottom. “I’m helping make supper!”
Lindley smiled down at his daughter. “I can see that.” It was good for her to have someone to teach her, even if only for a short while. And the aroma was marvelous.
He reached out his arms to pick her up. But she lifted the front of the apron off the floor as though it were a ball gown, twirled around and trotted back to the kitchen area. His arms were left hanging in midair. He dropped them and settled his gaze on Miss Greene. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to try to decline a supper invitation.” He hoped she wouldn’t say yes.
She crossed to the door. “Not in the least.”
“I didn’t think so.” He picked up the five-pound sack of flour he’d set just outside the door. “I can’t let you keep feeding us without giving you something in return.”
She beamed. “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”
He enjoyed the suppers they shared for more than just the tasty food. He enjoyed her company immensely. He didn’t want them to end. Not each evening or into the future.
The next night, he brought two pounds of white sugar. Then brown sugar. Then coffee. Salt pork. Lard.
Chapter 7
When Lindley and his children arrived home after supper that following Thursday, Marcus stood in front of his house. His relationship with the man had been strained since their talk two weeks ago about grievances. And so went the attitudes of the rest of the men. Without Marcus, Lindley had not been able to find out what the men and their families needed changed most. Though he had a good idea from his own recent experiences.
Lindley opened his front door. “Gabe, Dora, go get ready for bed.” His children scurried inside. He stayed out. “Is this a social call?”
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. Can we talk?”
“Want to come in?” He still hoped to get Marcus on his side.
“Not in front of the children. You go see to them.” The big man glanced around. “I’ll wait out here.”
Lindley nodded and went inside. To say he was surprised by Marcus’s visit didn’t adequately cover it. The man hadn’t spoken more than two words to him in over a week. He hustled his children to bed and went back outside. “All right. What did you want to talk about?”
Marcus hesitated and cleared his throat. “Those grievances you spoke of.”
Lindley had figured he would give him another week before broaching the subject again. “I haven’t done anything about that yet.” He really needed Marcus’s support.
“I know.” Marcus glanced around again and shifted his bulk. “But I want you to.”
Lindley could only stare at the man. Marcus was suddenly supportive of his position? With no coercing? “You were pretty adamant. What changed your mind?”
“My littlest one, only a year old, has the coughing.”
“Marcus, I’m sorry. Did you take him to the doctor?”
“Doc says there ain’t much he can do. His resources are for the men, to keep them healthy for working. Hardly glanced at my son.”
Lindley’s body tensed. “Is your boy real bad?”
“Not yet, but he’s not getting better. Decker’s six-month-old boy passed just yesterday from the coughing.”
Lindley didn’t know Decker.
“We have a doctor, but he ain’t no help when we need him. Leastways not for our families.”
“That’s not right.” Lindley shook his head. It wasn’t likely that he could convince the doctor to treat the child if Marcus couldn’t. At least not tonight. “When I was a boy and had a bad cough, my mother used to have me breathe in the steam from the teakettle. She would drap
e a towel over my head to keep the steam from evaporating. It would make me cough like the dickens, but then I could breathe better for a while.”
“Thank you. I’ll try that.” Marcus turned to walk away and then stopped. “We’ll talk about those other grievances tomorrow.” He left.
Lindley was sorry for Marcus’s child being sick but was glad the man was on his side now.
* * *
The following week, Bridget sat at her table with Mr. Thompson and his children. Every evening for two weeks, they had eaten supper together like a family. A closeness she’d never had or felt with her own family. No siblings to share life with. But she’d had a string of nannies to keep her company, some good and some who didn’t last a week.
It wasn’t until she was fourteen that she had been invited to sit at the supper table with her parents, and even then they hardly acknowledged her presence until she was older. They were busy discussing their interests.
But these meals with Lindley and his children were something altogether different. Gabe and Dora spoke freely at the table, not hushed or glared into silence. Instead, their father smiled at them.
Mr. Thompson glanced at her.
The corners of her mouth automatically pulled up, and she warmed all over. The sudden thought that she didn’t want these suppers to end popped into her head. Oh, my. It was far too early in their friendship to have such thoughts. Wasn’t it?
But there was something intimate about eating together. And they had done it every night for two weeks. And he was so good and kind with his children, giving them respect in the way he spoke to them and corrected them. In time, the threat of illness would pass, and Mr. Thompson wouldn’t require her help any longer. She couldn’t bear to think of how lonesome it would be at her table when their suppers together came to an end.
“There’s still some spice cake.” She had not had so many sweets in her life until recently. She made sure she always had something for dessert to make supper last longer. But her corset was getting a bit snug.
Mr. Thompson wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid I can’t stay.”
The children whined. Bridget felt like whining as well but refrained.
Mr. Thompson patted the air with his hand to quiet his children and then spoke to Bridget. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“All right.”
“The miners are meeting tonight to discuss better working conditions. With so many of the miners’ children still ill, I was wondering…if…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth, looked down and then back up. “…if I might leave Gabe and Dora here with you until it’s over.”
“Oh, dear, the miners aren’t going to strike, are they?”
“I don’t think it will come to that.”
She hoped not.
“So, then, may they stay with you?” His eyebrows pushed up, and he seemed not to breathe.
That meant she would get to see him later. “Oh, yes. Please do.”
Dora cheered.
Mr. Thompson stood and ruffled Dora’s hair. “Thank you. I really appreciate this. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He put on his hat and left.
A giddiness like a schoolgirl’s rose inside her at getting to see him again later. “Who wants a piece of cake?”
Both children raised their hand as though they were in her classroom.
After dessert, Bridget noticed that the heavy mist from earlier had turned into a steady rain. She went to the window and peered out into the inky blackness.
“Your house doesn’t rain,” Dora said.
Bridget turned to the girl. “Doesn’t what?”
Dora spread out her arms. “Doesn’t rain. It’s all dry. Ours rains right in our bed. Gabe thought it was me, but it wasn’t.”
“The roof leaks,” Gabe said. “Papa had to move our mattress to the middle of the room. He says the mining company needs to fix it.”
Mercy. These poor children and the other miners and their families. No wonder so many of her pupils were sick. She knew the houses for the miners weren’t sturdy, but no one should have to live in a house with a leaky roof. She was most fortunate to have the little one-bedroom house she did.
An hour passed, then two. “Where’s Papa?” Dora yawned for the seventh time.
Gabe was still trying to hide his tiredness by keeping his mouth almost closed as he struggled against yawns. He was fighting one now and turned away from her so she couldn’t see.
“Time for bed.”
Dora reached up thin arms, obviously ready to call it a day. Bridget obliged by picking her up.
“I’m not tir—” Gabe’s mouth gaped wide, unable to stop the yawn.
Dora laid her head on Bridget’s shoulder. “Are you taking us home?”
She couldn’t do that. “How about if you sleep here?”
Dora nodded as her mouth stretched wide again.
“Where?” Gabe asked.
“I thought you could sleep on the sofa and Dora in the bedroom.” She carried Dora to her room and sat her on the bed. She pulled an extra quilt out of her cedar chest and took two of her shirtwaists out of the wardrobe. “Let me get your brother settled in the other room, and I’ll be right back.”
Gabe sat slumped against the arm of the sofa but jerked upright when she entered the room. “I’m not tired.” He yawned.
“I’m sure you’re not.” She handed him a shirtwaist to use as a nightshirt. “Change into this while I spread out the quilt on the sofa.”
Once the sofa was ready, Gabe climbed between the folded layers. “When’s Papa going to be here?”
“Soon.” She hoped. She was concerned something might have happened to him.
“I’m gonna stay awake and wait for him.” His eyelids drooped.
“You do that.” While you lie right here. If she told him to go to sleep, he would probably try all the harder to stay awake.
When she returned to the bedroom, Dora still sat on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling and her head down, hunched over. Her slow, steady breathing indicated that she was asleep. How the girl had not tumbled headfirst onto the floor was beyond imagination.
Bridget knelt and carefully untied her little shoes and then slipped them off. She exchanged the girl’s dress for the shirtwaist and tucked her under the covers. Dora didn’t appear to wake up during the whole process.
She slipped out of the room and checked on Gabe. His soft snore proved he was asleep, as well.
She went to the window and peered out again. Rain came straight down. And there still wasn’t any sign of Mr. Thompson. She put a log in the fireplace, and the flames jumped to life, licking at it. She added another.
Sitting back in her rocker, she picked up a book. Unable to concentrate, she set it aside and retrieved a quilt block she was piecing from her sewing basket. She could sew and worry at the same time. But that too proved futile. She set the cloth aside and gazed into the fire.
Lord, please keep him safe. She hated to think of these children losing both their parents.
A knock sounded on her door. She startled, jumped up and answered it.
Mr. Thompson stood, dripping on her porch.
“You’re safe!”
A smile pulled at his mouth. “Did you think I wasn’t?”
“I—I just didn’t know. You said an hour. And the rain. Anything could have happened.”
“Sorry I’m late. The meeting ran longer than I anticipated.”
Remembering the children sleeping, she lowered her voice. “Come in out of the rain.”
He shook his head. “I’m a soggy mess. I don’t want to dirty your house. I’ll just collect my children and not inconvenience you any further.”
“They’re asleep. I thought they could stay here the night. I can take them to school with me in the morning.”
He stared at her a moment before speaking. “I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”
“It might be difficult to carry them both. They’ll be soaked as well before you get home.
I would hate for them to get sick over a perceived inconvenience. Which, I assure you, it is not.”
He studied her. “I fear I have already taken far too much advantage of your kindness, eating your food and leaving my children in your care after school.”
Was he going to turn her down? It was his prerogative. But it really was no inconvenience. The children were already asleep.
“I would appreciate not having to drag them out in this weather. May I see them?”
“Of course. Wait here a moment.” She returned quickly with two towels. One she tossed on the floor beside the door, and the other she held out to him.
First, he removed his hat, shook the water off and tossed it to the floor of the porch, then did the same with his jacket. He took the towel and dried his hands and face. “There. I’m not so bad now.”
No, he wasn’t bad at all. “You can stand on this towel.” She pointed to the second cloth on the floor.
He stepped over the threshold and closed the door. “Thank you.” He patted the worst of the rain off his pants with the towel he’d used on his face.
She motioned him forward and put her finger to her lips. “Gabe is over here.” She led him to the sofa in the sitting area in the corner.
He knelt beside his son and brushed a lock of hair off Gabe’s face. The act was so tender and loving. Gabe didn’t stir.
Bridget couldn’t imagine her father ever doing anything so affectionate. Her parents had never been cruel nor hit her, but they had high expectations. If she didn’t want to be reproached or put aside, she had better do as she was told. No love or compassion, just expectations. It wasn’t until she’d come to know the Lord that she had felt anything like love. She hadn’t known what she had been missing.
This man loved his children deeply. And if he loved them, then maybe he could come to love her.
He stood and gave her an inquiring look to ask where Dora was.
She led him to the bedroom and pushed open the door, staying in the doorway. She never imagined a man in her bedroom. But she knew there was nothing inappropriate or intimate about it. He was simply checking on his daughter.