by Jan Holly
Mr. Charles Smith
Blacksmith Shop
Cutler’s Pass, California.
Curious and confused, he opened that letter and quickly read Rose’s words. He sat down. He read the letter again. He sat, staring into space, the letter held loosely in his hand. Finally, he shook his head.
“Sylvester,” he called to his assistant. “Head on over to Barney’s, all right? Get some letter writing paper, put it on my account. Thanks. Oh, and Sylvester? Make sure the paper is plain. No fancy colors.”
That afternoon, he closed his shop early and headed home. When he arrived, he saw Rose sitting in the rocking chair on the front porch, wrapped in her shawl and wearing her dark spectacles.
“How are you, Rose?” Charles asked, walking up the steps.
“Better, thank you,” she said, smiling a little. “I didn’t get a thing done today. Just slept, mostly. But my head feels well again. Are you all right? You’re home early.”
“I wanted to a make sure you were okay,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his forehead with his sleeve. He couldn’t shake his worry. She had been getting better, and then she got sicker. What if her health was beginning to decline?
“Although I have many plans to court you, I think you’d best retire early again tonight. Seems like that headache was a powerful one. I’ll fix us up something to eat and bring it out here.” Charles waited until she nodded, then went into the kitchen.
They ate in a companionable silence. Charles sat on the top stair and Rose sat in the rocker.
“I guess I should make another chair,” he said.
“Yes, do,” she said.
He had a horrible moment of worry, imagining that there’d be two chairs and one empty. He tried to lift his fears up to God. He tried to accept that everything was in God’s hands. It was hard.
†
The next morning, Rose slept late again. When she awoke, she felt stronger. After the episode at breakfast when she had felt shaken by the extent of her loss, she finally felt more serene once again. Tears were always just a thought or a memory away, and she knew she’d never stop missing her family, but she had so many blessings.
Under her plate, there was a piece of paper visible. She sat down and lifted her plate and saw an envelope directed to her. She wondered at its lack of postage and thought the handwriting looked slightly familiar. Opening it, she read:
My dear wife, Rose,
I told you that I do not have a way with words. They seem a poor vessel in which to hold all my thoughts and feelings.
If I could, I would move a mountain to see you smile. I would do anything to ease your sorrow.
There is a place of great beauty that I am in a mind to bring you if you are willing. Mr. Chadding will lend me his buggy. The seats have new springs and I think you would find it a pleasant journey.
Well, as you can plainly see I have no talent at writing letters. Thank God Pastor James wrote what I said and helped me make a lick of sense when we were corresponding. That way I got my bride.
Your everloving husband,
Charles Smith
Rose sat back in her chair. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t blink. Until finally, she took in a great gulp of air and read the letter again. And again. And then again.
†
Charles Smith, he read, after finding a letter under his pillow. It was bedtime and Rose was presumably asleep in her room. The envelope read:
Charles Smith
Under his pillow
In his bed
At home.
He pulled back the covers and settled against the headboard, reading the outside of the envelope again. Then, unable to wait a moment more, he tore open the letter.
Dear Charles,
While I am sure one would hope that a wife and a husband would always agree, I cannot believe that is always the case. In truth, I am finding myself in disagreement with you already, after such a very short time of being married, and after such a brief courtship which was notable for its spanning such a vast distance.
You wrote, sir, that you do not have a way with words. You disparaged your ability to express yourself. This is a claim with which I cannot agree.
Your letter left me starry-eyed and breathless with wonder and joy. Your letter filled my heart with excitement and hope.
Yes, please, I would like very much to accompany you on this journey of which you speak. I would imagine it is plain to see that I would go whither thou goest very happily indeed.
I have already traveled to the ends of the earth to be with you, a decision I grow to appreciate and reflect upon with gratitude more each day.
Love,
Rose
Charles sank down into the covers and stared up at the ceiling. He read it again, and again and again, finally falling asleep with it in his hands.
Chapter Eleven
Saturday morning dawned with some fog that obscured the sun. Charles kept looking at the sky, finally announcing that the fog was burning off, and they could take their trip. He rode off after breakfast, and returned driving a buggy. Rascal tossed his head as he approached home while Rose watched from the porch.
“Aren’t you handsome, pulling that fine buggy?” she asked, coming down the steps to pat Rascal’s neck.
“It’s just about an hour’s drive there. I figured we should go while it’s cool,” said Charles, securing Rascal to the hitching post.
“I packed some food, tea, and some water,” said Rose. “Now will you tell me where we are going?”
He looked up from checking the buggy’s axle. “It’s a surprise.”
After helping Rose up and into the buggy, Charles unhitched Rascal and they headed into town.
“We’ll pass through town. Have any shopping to do? Or maybe you have a letter you need to post?” He looked straight ahead, but when she looked quickly at him, she thought she saw him fighting a smile.
“Ah, no. No, thank you. I have recently posted a letter. I hope to get one in return. But, there may not be a letter for me by the next train,” she said serenely, looking off to the side.
“Who knows. Could be that the train is running ahead of schedule. Maybe you’ll get your letter sooner than you think,” he said.
She tried not to laugh as they drove down Main Street, through downtown, and began their journey in earnest, heading north.
“Do you think I could ever ride Rascal?” Rose asked impulsively.
Charles shook his head slowly. “When he is pulling a wagon or buggy, seems as though it settles him some. Riding, I still have to keep my eye on him. He’s young, still. He does this thing where he pretends to be afraid of something. Like, something he sees out of the corner of his eye. Then he uses that as an excuse to shy away or buck or bolt. Sure, sometimes he does get spooked. I can tell the difference, I don’t rightly know how. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t trust him to carry you safely.”
Rose discovered that while Charles had the reins in his hands and had his eyes on the road, words seemed to come easily to him. She asked him more details about his parents and older brother, and what it had been like living in Montana. He described how his brother, Abel, had left to make his living in Texas as a rancher. Charles hadn’t heard back from him in a while, and admitted he was worried.
“It’s a hard life, being a rancher. He wanted me to consider going with him, but our father hoped that we’d both work with him and inherit the smithy. Ever since I was a small boy, all I wanted was to be a blacksmith, so I was glad to stay in Montana. Seemed like it took the wind out of all our sails, though, Abel leaving. My mother said she longed to see more of America, and got my father thinking about homesteading in California. The rest is history. I reckon, towns keeping growing with the railway growing as fast as it is, and more people mean more work for a blacksmith.”
Rose asked him more questions about his work, his family, and the people of Cutler’s Pass. He described a weathervane he had just made, and how one of his favorite things
was making and repairing tools, although shoeing horses was a close second. His assistant, Sylvester, was taking on more and more of the farrier work, and Charles said he missed it.
She was curious, too, about the plants, trees, and animals she saw as they drove. “Even the air has a fragrance entirely different from the scent of Boston’s air,” she said, taking in a deep breath.
“Does it, now?” Charles took his eyes off the road to glance at her. He smiled broadly. “What does it smell like?”
“It’s an aroma almost impossible to describe, but I’ll try to do it justice. It has the fragrance of a hotter, more southern sunlight on dry earth with its own unique combination of minerals. Mingled with this is an amalgamation of almost herbal-like scents from various aromatic plants and trees. It’s wonderful.”
Charles laughed out loud. Rascal rotated his ears backwards for a few paces. Charles asked her, hesitatingly, about her life in Boston. She was quick to describe details about her life, leaving out her late family members, and the time passed quickly. The landscape began to change, subtly at first, and then more dramatically. They entered a grove of trees.
“It’s so dark, now, and damp,” Rose said wonderingly, staring up at the trees. They were a type of pine trees, she could see, and their graceful branches spread out and interconnected overhead, creating a lace-like canopy.
“Almost there,” he said.
They drove on, out of the grove and up a slight incline. Charles slowed Rascal and they walked into a forest of redwoods. After a few moments, he stopped the buggy and the three of them were enfolded in a hushed silence. Charles turned in his seat and lowered the buggy’s roof, and Rose looked straight up.
“These are redwoods,” she whispered. “They are, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he said, watching her face.
The trees were enormous, stretching high overhead. The girth of the trunks was astounding. The forest was nearly silent.
“It’s like a kind of church,” she said, looking at him with tears in her eyes.
He nodded and got out of the buggy, going around to help her down. They walked up to a tree and touched its porous bark, gazing up into its branches. She marveled at the deep quiet in the forest.
“When I’m here, I feel as though I’m saying a prayer. But I don’t say a word,” said Charles.
She turned to him, understanding in her eyes, and nodded.
They walked together, their footsteps muffled by the pine needles that carpeted the forest floor.
“I’m imagining how many centuries these trees have witnessed,” she said.
Rose wanted to keep going after they had walked for a bit, but Charles urged her back to the buggy.
“We don’t want Rascal to get lonesome,” he said.
“You’re really concerned that I’ll become fatigued, aren’t you?” she asked seriously.
“Well, that, too,” he said casually, looking off to the side.
She tucked her hand around his arm and he stopped walking. He covered her hand with his, looking down at her. She remembered how he had kissed her hand, and her heart pounded as she looked down at the ground. Charles walked on, holding her hand in the crook of his arm. He led Rascal to a small creek so that he could drink, and he helped Rose back up into the buggy. He joined her, and they drank some tea from a jar and ate sandwiches. The bread crumbled a great deal, and they began to laugh, joking that the Chaddings would be finding breadcrumbs for years to come. They kept brushing at the crumbs and laughing. All too soon, they were heading back to Cutler’s Pass.
“I loved it, Charles,” she said, as their home came into view. “I loved it. Let’s go back there again soon.”
“You got it,” he said, looking pleased and proud. “Anytime. There’s another place I want to take you next though.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, closing her eyes, sighing.
She must have drifted off into a light sleep, because all of a sudden, it seemed, they were home and Charles was peering up at her from the ground. She took his hand as he helped her down, and she slowly walked into the house. Too sleepy to do anything but head straight for her bed, she was asleep again as soon as her head met the pillow.
When she woke, it was almost dark. She could hear the faint sounds of crickets just beginning their nighttime serenade. At first she was confused, then she realized she had slept far later than she had planned. She sat up and lit her kerosene lamp. There on her bedside table, beneath the lamp, was an envelope.
Dearest Rose,
I just looked in on you, fearing you may have felt unwell. I grew concerned that the journey may have taxed your strength. Perhaps the jostling motion of the buggy made you feel ill, as on the train. I fear that I should have waited another week before bringing you on a journey. I was selfish, perhaps, in wishing to share the redwoods with you.
Forgive me, but I tarried some, looking down at your face. The sun was just starting to get real low, so there was not a great deal of daylight left. But I could see your expression, and you looked so happily asleep, as though you were having a sweet dream. I admit I did not hurry away, but instead found it difficult to stop looking at you, and to leave your side.
Call to me if you need me and I will back at your side in an instant.
Your own loving husband,
Charles Smith
She covered her face with her hands. Overcome, she felt almost afraid of her response to the letter. The way she felt about Charles surprised her. She had not expected this kind of fearful joy. Traveling west, getting married to a virtual stranger: all of that had been such an adventure. This feeling of discovery, of falling, though, felt like an even greater adventure. She lifted her face and got up from the bed, straightening her dress. She had fallen asleep with her shoes on. Washing up and brushing her hair took but a moment and then she hurried outside.
After leaving the privy, she found Charles in the barn. He was grooming Rascal, unaware of her presence. She stood in the threshold for a moment, watching her husband. His expression was kind and focused as he brushed Rascal’s mane, carefully untangling any snags. Again, she was struck by Charles’ large size, and powerfully strong arms and shoulders, contrasted with his gentleness.
“Well, howdy,” he said, seeing her. His eyes brightened and he smiled slowly. “Thought you had turned in for the night.”
“No,” she said shyly, coming to stand by Rascal, who reached his head toward her. She stroked his long face as he snuffled against her cheek and neck.
“Being a bit forward, Rascal,” complained Charles. He stood, looking at her, the brush held forgotten in his hand. “You feeling all right, Rose? You didn’t get sick, did you?”
“No,” she said sincerely. “I felt wonderfully well all day. It’s a bother how I need to sleep so much more than I ever did before I became ill. I used to stay up late each night whenever I could, and never liked resting during the day. I used to be stronger, and a bit plumper, too.” Then she froze in embarrassment. Why had she added that last comment? She hoped it was dark enough so that Charles couldn’t see her expression.
He resumed brushing for a moment more and then set the brush down. “I’ve got a plate of food for you.” Then he froze, his expression embarrassed. “Not that I think you need to be plumper!”
Rose burst out laughing. She turned away, holding her stomach, as gales of mirth shook her. Charles came around to face her, smiling and looking relieved. She stopped laughing, struck by the sweetness in his smile. He reached up, hesitated, then ran his hand through her hair. She could hardly breathe, feeling his warm, large hand caress her hair. He held the back of her head, looking into her eyes. Then his eyes dropped to look at her mouth. She felt her heart beat faster and she was filled with anticipation. Then Rascal nudged his trough so that it banged against the barn wall. Charles blinked and took a deep breath, smiling into Rose’s eyes. He dropped his hand, and Rose felt simultaneously disappointed and relieved.
“You got food, you got water.
Now settle down, you hooligan,” he said to Rascal.
“He just wants attention. Don’t you, you darling,” she said, smoothing the horse’s long forelock. “Let me just plait this here, Rascal, even if you are a boy. And a scamp at that. Would you like that? Oh, to have such long hair!”
“Yours is softer, though,” said Charles quietly, not looking at her while he put away the grooming supplies.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, startled.
He reached out and caught her hand, and she held on. They walked together into the house.
“It’s probably too dry. I tried to keep it warm,” said Charles, taking a plate from the stove and handing it to her.
“I don’t care,” she said. She bowed her head for a moment and then ate the stew quickly.
“You sure polished that plate,” he said admiringly.
“It’s all the fresh, California air,” she said. “It gives me such an appetite.”
He bit back a grin.
“What?” She looked up from her plate. “Oh, don’t you dare make me start laughing again!”
“It just reminded me…” He covered his mouth, trying to hide his grin.
“Yes, I know. You were reminded of my foolish comment in the barn regarding my former comparative plumpness in contrast to my current convalescing state of slenderness.” She couldn’t help laughing.
“I’m just glad you’re feeling well after our trip today,” he said, relief evident in his expression.
“I had a wonderful time. I love our home, and Cutler’s Pass, and all the kind people I have been meeting, and Rascal, and… and…” She stopped, flustered, looking down at the table. “And it’s finally so good to see a little more of this part of the world. I had read about redwoods, even seen some in a daguerreotype, but to actually stand in their presence? It was incredible.”