by Jan Holly
“Mr. Smith,” Doctor Petersen said, and then paused, looking out the doorway of the smithy.
“Doctor,” he said, unable to say any more.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, turning back to Charles and shaking his head. “Forgive me. I am at a loss. I called on Mrs. Smith this morning. I am going home and will write to a colleague who will hopefully be able to come quite soon to consult with me.” He appeared lost in thought, his eyes again looking out the doorway.
“Doc?” Charles felt desperate and angry. He had a momentary thought of Rose at home, sewing or patting her horse, and his mind slammed shut at the thought of her not recovering. He felt a surge of love that nearly felled him with its intensity. Rose.
The doctor took a few steps away and put his hands on his hips. He looked down at the ground and then turned back to Charles. “Again, I beg your pardon. My thoughts are scattered on this day. In truth, I see every evidence that Mrs. Smith is recovering from her fever. Her vitality and color are better. She has gained some weight, and reports no dizziness. She is sleeping well.”
Charles nodded, his mouth dry. The quiet of the forge seemed to press in on him.
“I must ask your patience,” said the doctor. “Hopefully there will be good news. Just, please, continue having Mrs. Smith rest. Let me enlist my colleague’s assistance and then we can be sure that your wife is truly growing well. Please do not let her be aware of any concerns.”
“But,” Charles said, confused. “But if she is feeling better with each day that passes, and you can see the evidence of that… doesn’t that mean she is becoming well?” He experienced a wave of guilt. Had their outing the previous day weakened her? Were all the kisses they shared damaging her heart? He knew they made his heart race, that was for sure. He couldn’t summon the words to ask these questions.
“I am reassured by every sign that she is recovering and yet.” Doctor Petersen paused, looking intently at Charles. “And yet, I must again ask for your patience. As you recall, I had a concern as I was not able to ascertain the functioning of her heart.”
Charles bit back an impatient retort. “Yes,” he said shortly.
“I fear that I… I am troubled by the fact that I was still unable to examine the function of her heart. I will let you know as soon as I know when my colleague can arrive. In the meanwhile, continue encouraging her to rest and not over-do it. No strain. Don’t let her know about any concerns for her well-being.” The doctor turned away as if to go.
“Doctor,” said Charles. He yanked off his heavy apron and threw it in a corner. “Why? What could be wrong?”
“We should have every reason to be hopeful,” repeated the doctor as he turned back to Charles briefly for a quick nod, and then he strode away.
Charles nearly called after him, but then stopped. He figured if the doctor was heading home to write that letter, then the sooner the better so that Rose could get expert help. He kicked a pail and sent it soaring across the forge until it crashed against the wall.
“Sylvester,” he bellowed.
Moments later, he was riding home, restraining himself from making Rascal gallop in the heat of the late afternoon. He needed to see Rose. He had a fearful notion that she would not be there, though he chided himself for his runaway thoughts.
Sweetheart was in the paddock, and she raced back and forth, whinnying to Rascal. Charles dismounted and quickly took off his horse’s saddle and bridle, letting him loose in the paddock to reunite with Sweetheart.
He walked to the back of the house when he heard Rose’s voice.
“Charles! Up here!”
Confused, he stopped. He looked up into the apple tree.
Rose looked down at him from where she sat on a branch. She swiftly tugged her dress down over her ankles and he felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. He was the one getting dizzy spells now, he thought ruefully.
“What in tarnation are you doing up there in that tree?” Charles asked, his voice coming out louder than he had planned.
She laughed, holding onto the branches on either side of her. “Apples, Charles! I saw apples up in the tree. Apples, in the summer! So I climbed right up.”
“You did?” He felt all the air leave his chest. He couldn’t handle all the emotions pressing in on him so he just let anger rise first. “You shouldn’t be up there! You could fall. You could get hurt!”
She laughed. “I’m not going to fall. And if I did, it’s a short way down. Apples only grow in the fall, in Massachusetts.”
He shook his head and could not help smiling. Her face looked so pretty and happy, looking down at him. He reached up his hands to help her down.
“I started to imagine baking a pie, despite this heat,” she said. “Or at least giving Sweetheart an apple. But they’re not ripe. I admit I tested one, just to be sure. Yes, these apples need more time. They are green as can be.”
“They’ll ripen up soon, you just wait and see,” he said, loving the feel of her hand in his. He put his hands on her waist and felt his chest hurt at the sudden worry that she could be injured somewhere, deep within her beating heart -- someplace that he could not fix. The thought that she would not be there, by his side, to see the apples grow red and fall from the tree frightened and infuriated him, and he pulled her gently into his arms.
“I ate one, Charles,” she admitted, looking up at him. “I’m going to get a stomach-ache for sure.”
He smiled and kissed her cheek and held her as if she could break right there in his arms. He stepped back, holding her arms. She looked up at him. Her eyes were so beautiful that it was hard to look away. But he did. Breathing evenly, he took another step back and let go of her arms. Resolutely looking away from the troubled expression clouding her eyes, he put his hands on his hips and looked out into the distance at the hills and oak trees. He searched for something innocuous to say and came up with nothing.
“Well, I reckon I’ll see to Rascal,” he said, turning to go back to the paddock.
“I’ll… I’ll get dinner on the table. It will be waiting for you when you are ready, Charles,” she said, slowly walking into the house.
In the barn, Charles brushed Rascal, trying to take comfort in the familiarity of the task. The fresh, sweet scent of hay and the sound of his horse breathing should have brought him some measure of peace, he thought, but instead his heart was heavy. His thoughts went around and around like the wheels on a wagon. He was startled when he heard the pastor’s voice call out to him.
“Charles?” The pastor stepped inside the barn.
“Pastor James, I didn’t see you coming,” said Charles, setting down the brush and leading Rascal into his stall.
“Thought I’d pass by on the way home,” he said. “How’s Mrs. Smith?”
“Will you join us for dinner?” Charles asked. “You are welcome.”
“Thank you kindly but I won’t stay,” he said, then waited.
Charles leaned against a hay bale and rubbed his face, then left his hands covering his eyes. “Doc stopped by. He’s not sure about her heart. He’s sending for another doctor.” He slid down so that he was sitting, and looked out of the barn door. Pastor James walked to the doorway and then turned back, looking at Charles silently.
“She looks as though she is recovering more and more, each time I see her,” he said, sitting down next to Charles. “This must be tearing you up something fierce.”
Charles nodded, not looking at him. He clasped his hands over his knees and bent his head. “Her eyes. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. I thought to myself just a minute ago: they’re otherworldly. Then I got this notion that maybe that means she… that she… isn’t long for this world.”
The pastor put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Don’t lose hope, brother. We’re all of us otherworldly, meant for Heaven, our true home. You’re not alone, even if you feel as though you are. Remember it’s through the valley and darkness, all right?”
Charles nodded, looking down at his hands.
“You’ll let me know,” the pastor said.
He nodded again.
“Can I say a prayer?” The pastor squeezed his shoulder once.
Charles stood up. “I just can’t. Sorry.”
“I understand.” Pastor James stood and began to walk toward his horse. “But I’ll pray the whole way home.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, turning to walk back to the house.
†
Rose set the table, glancing out the kitchen window when she passed by it. She saw Charles leave the barn and head for the pump. By the time he entered the kitchen, she was setting the last dish on the table. He held her chair out for her and she sat down, smiling. She was about to say something lighthearted about courting, but her smile died on her face when she saw his closed, set expression. He sat down heavily and after a moment reached his hands across the table.
“For what we are about to receive we give thanks. In the name of your son Jesus Christ, amen,” he said quickly and quietly, staring down at his plate.
She passed him mashed potatoes and he took the bowl without meeting her eyes. Her heart sank. She had remembered it was a particular favorite of his and he didn’t look pleased at all. He ate slowly, unlike his usual manner.
“Charles? Did something bad happen today at work?” Rose asked softly.
He shrugged, not looking up from his plate. “Everything is all right.”
She waited, but he didn’t meet her eyes, so she ate quietly. He finished his meal and brought his plate to the sink.
“I’ll wash up,” he said.
“Charles, no,” she said, quietly insistent as she stood up and went to his side. “You’ve had a hard day, I’m sure. Working in that heat! Why don’t you sit down and I’ll join you in the parlor. This won’t take me but a minute. Or, better yet, the front porch. I think there’s a bit of a breeze now.”
“You do that, Rose. Go rest. You… you shouldn’t be making meals and mashing potatoes and climbing trees!” He took the plate she was holding without looking at her and plunged it into the water.
She stepped back and paused, looking up at him. Why was he so angry, she wondered. Leaving the kitchen, she hesitated, then left the house using the back door. She went to the barn.
Leaning on the door of Sweetheart’s stall, she gazed at the horse who was standing quietly, her eyes bright and alert. She walked over to Rose. Rose gently stroked Sweetheart’s cheek while the horse delicately lipped her cheek.
Despite the few tears that had been falling, she smiled. “Oh, you sweet, sweet horse,” she murmured. “You’re not homesick, are you, dear? You don’t miss your family too much, do you? You’ve got Rascal, and me, and… and… Charles.”
Her voice faltered on the last word. Charles. What was wrong? What was troubling him and why wouldn’t he tell her? Weren’t married people supposed to share each other’s burdens as well as joys?
She rested her face on her arm and pondered this. Maybe she was borrowing trouble. Her mother had told Rose that she took too much to heart. She recalled her mother saying, “Don’t borrow trouble.” She would quote the Bible verse to Rose, saying, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.” She tried not to worry, remembering her mother’s gentle wisdom. However, she could not dismiss the sense that Charles and she had been drawing nearer to one another, and now he seemed to be distancing himself. Was he regretting his choice in his bride? She shook her head slowly. He had said he loved her. She felt certain that he was not a fickle man who would profess love one day and then the next have a change of heart. No. Something was troubling him, something he would not – or could not – share with her. Patience. She remembered the strength of that word the night before, how it had filled her mind and soul. She nodded. She would be patient. Whatever Charles was battling with, he was not alone. God’s love was ever abiding. And, Charles was married. He had a wife who loved him and would be with him, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. She straightened, giving Sweetheart one last caress. Until death us do part, she thought, walking back to the house. The kerosene lamplight cast a gentle glowing path onto the ground. She followed it all the way home.
Her peaceful resolution lasted until she passed by the kitchen, where Charles was scrubbing a pot so vigorously, he was splashing water all over the floor. The dust from his boots mingled with the water, creating mud all over the floor which she had just washed earlier in the day. She bit her lip, fuming.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Charles said, evenly, not turning to her. “Instead of gallivanting all over.”
That did it. “Well, now I know,” she blurted. “I’m married to a rude man. Rude!” She spun around and went to her room, firmly shutting the door behind her. She paced for a while, fuming. Finally, she stopped at her window. She could see stars: layers and layers of stars. The Milky Way. Orion. She took a deep breath and let it out. Lord, she thought. Lord.
She turned, hearing a sound.
An envelope was sliding under her door. She watched, waiting. She heard Charles’ footsteps retreating. Quickly, she walked over to the envelope and picked it up.
Mrs. Smith
Her Room
Dear Rose,
I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
Love,
The Rudest Husband West of the Mississippi
She bit her lip, smiling a little. After reading the note again, she set it on her bed and opened her door, stepping into the parlor. She could see Charles sitting outside on the porch. He was sitting on the stairs and his usually busy hands were idle. Slumped over, he looked down at his feet, which were in socks. His boots were on the ground. Rose glanced into the kitchen and saw the floor was clean. She felt the last vestige of irritation leave her and she hurried out onto the porch. He stood up quickly.
“Rose,” he said, his features full of relief. He reached out tentatively to grasp her hands gently.
“Sorry for calling you rude,” she said, smiling up at him.
“You were just speaking the truth, no cause to be sorry for that,” he said ruefully, walking her to the rocking chair. He held her arm as she sat down.
“I’m not sick anymore, Charles,” she said in frustration. “You don’t have to be so… so… careful of me.”
He turned away and sat down on the steps. They were quiet for some time, as the night grew brighter with the moonrise.
“Sure is bright,” he said, eventually.
“I could read out here with this light,” she said.
“Your eyes,” he said. “They’ve been feeling better?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I keep forgetting my spectacles, that’s how I realized they were getting better and better.”
“That’s good. Real good,” he said softly. He sighed, leaning back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “Will you say something? From the Bible, or a poem?”
“Or how about a recipe?” Rose laughed.
He glanced at her in surprise, then slowly smiled. “The potatoes were real good, Rose.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, twisting her apron. “I admit I was thinking of apple pies. Mashed Potatoes? That’s such an easy dish. It doesn’t even require a recipe, or receipt, as my mother called it. All right, let’s see. How about a Psalm?”
Charles turned to face her, leaning his back against the bannister.
“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds,” she recited.
“He telleth the number of the stars; He calleth them all by their names.
Great is our Lord, and of great power; His understanding is infinite.
Sing unto the Lord with thanksgiving; sing praise upon the harp unto our God,
who covereth the heavens with clouds, who prepareth rain for the earth, who maketh grass to grow upon the mountains.
He giveth to the beast his food and to the young ravens which cry.”
Rose let the last word linger as she gazed up at the
night sky. “That’s not all of it, but that’s the part I remember.”
“Imagine that,” said Charles quietly. “God knowing how many stars there are, and each star’s name?”
“I lose count so quickly,” she laughed, squinting up at the stars.
He smiled and slid over so he sat next to the rocking chair.
“Careful you don’t get splinters,” she said. “I’d hate to have to count how many you could get!”
He laughed once, shaking his head. “Rose. Whatever did I do without you?”
She paused, struck by the seriousness in his voice. “Why, I guess you worked hard, and made a nice house. Seems as though you sanded this porch very well, in truth. I imagine I could walk on it barefoot and not get a single splinter.”
“That’s right,” he smiled, running a hand over the boards. “I made sure to make this porch smooth for you, even though I hadn’t met you yet.”
Rose turned her face away, smiling, hoping that her blush was not evident under the bright moonlight.
Chapter Eighteen
Charles held the cinch up, squinting. Nodding, he held it out to Mr. Barney.
“This will do.”
After Mr. Barney had wrapped it in some paper and tied it with twine, Charles took it and went back to the forge. Once inside, he placed the cinch with the saddle he had been repairing and cleaning. The leather gleamed in the light from the coals and the sunshine filtering through the window. He nodded in satisfaction. He had his old saddle ready for Rose, and a brand new cinch to keep it securely on Sweetheart. He had traded repairs on an old lantern for a bridle that would suit just fine. After cleaning it and oiling it, the bridle looked brand new.