A Season of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  Have faith, Daniel.

  He grimaced and plowed through the snow to the pung. How many times had his mother admonished him to have faith? More than he could count. But how could you have something that had died? His faith, hope and dreams had all been buried along with his father in a grave twelve years ago. His life was what it was—what it had to be. And by God’s grace, he’d make the best of it. It wasn’t so bad. At least, it hadn’t been until today when Willa started stirring things up. He’d put a stop to that, and things would settle back to normal. As soon as they were through with this decorating, that was.

  How did Willa ever get Ellen to agree to help her? No matter. After tasting of the work and learning what all Willa had in mind, it was certain Ellen would not return tomorrow. He dropped his load onto the snow at the back of the pung, then filled his arms with new green boughs to take inside. Only one afternoon. He could manage that.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s beautiful, Mother!” Ellen lifted the skirt of the new dress her mother held up for her inspection. “The blue color is a perfect match for my eyes.”

  “Do you think Mr. Lodge and Mr. Cuthbert will find it compares favorably with your gowns made by the modiste in Buffalo?”

  “Of course they will, Mother.” She smiled and touched the fancy needlework that decorated the bodice. “Your stitching is—” She stopped, taken aback by a sudden frown on her mother’s face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve been tending the fire again. There’s sap on your hand.”

  She twisted her wrist and stared at the small dark smudge on the outside edge of her right hand. She’d been so thorough scrubbing and creaming her hands. How had she missed it?

  Her mother draped the new dress over the hoop-backed chair beside the window and returned to stand beside her. “I understand you were visiting Willa again today.”

  She stopped rubbing at the spot and looked up, grateful for the change of subject but leery at the cool tone. “Yes, I was.”

  Her mother nodded, glanced down.

  Had she inadvertently gotten sap from her hands on the lavender silk gown she’d changed into when she came home? She squared her shoulders and resisted the urge to look down and check.

  “It’s thoughtful of you to wear one of your old gowns when you call on Willa. I’m sure she would be quite envious of these costly, stylish ones.”

  “I see Isobel has been reporting on my activities.” She raised a brow and arranged her features in the pout that always won her her way. “Really, Mother, I’m no longer a child.” She huffed out a breath and ran her hands down over her gown. “And you know Willa is more than generous. She would not envy my gowns.” The responding flicker in her mother’s eyes tightened her stomach and sent a warning tingle up her spine.

  “You’re right, of course, dear. I should not have spoken so of Willa. But now I’m puzzled.” Her mother gathered her skirts, sat in the chair at the edge of the hearth and smiled up at her. “If not to spare Willa’s feelings...why did you wear your old gown for your visit? Obviously, it’s not because you prefer it, since you changed into the lovely one you’re wearing as soon as you came home.”

  Isobel and her tattling! She looked at the glint in her mother’s eyes and pasted a faux smile on her face. “Why, Mother, you know walking through the deep snow would ruin this silk. And my old wool gown is much warmer. Besides, I was helping Willa.” Her mother’s nose flared like a dog’s that had caught the scent of its prey at her last words. So her mother had heard. She braced herself for the discomfort of a confrontation.

  “I understand that you are bored until your beaux arrive, Ellen. But if you must visit with your old friends, please remember you are not a servant, and do not do mundane tasks. I’m shocked Willa would ask such a thing of you.”

  Disapproval frosted her mother’s voice. She lifted her chin. “Truly, Mother, I’m surprised that you, of all people, would call sewing costumes mundane. I understand you speaking so of making decorations, but not of sewing.”

  Her mother gaped, recovered. “You are helping Willa make costumes for the children that will be speaking verses at Christmas?”

  Is it so inconceivable to you? She nodded. “Yes. I thought you—”

  “What decorations?”

  She looked at her father, squared her shoulders at the sight of his scowling face. “Willa is making decorations for the church and parsonage.”

  His eyes narrowed. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and stared at her. “So that is where Daniel Braynard took that load of pine boughs I saw in the pung when he drove by the store this morning.” He rose, crossed to the hearth and knocked the side of his pipe against the end of a burning log. The dottle fell onto the shimmering coals and burst into flame. “I should have guessed.” The fire shadowed his face as he straightened and slowly nodded his head. “Manning Townsend is a generous man, and it only makes sense that Willa would ask Sadie if her grandfather would donate pine branches to trim the church.”

  “And that Daniel Braynard would deliver them.” Her mother gave an eloquent sniff. “After all, Daniel is one of Manning’s loggers—and Willa and Sadie, and Callie for that matter, have always remained close with him.”

  As I once was, until you and Father stopped it. Her face drew taut. She turned and looked into the flickering flames to drive away the useless memories. “Daniel is a teamster.” She snagged her lower lip with her teeth, but it was too late—she’d spoken the correction aloud. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father glance her way, then pull the pewter pipe holder on the mantel toward him.

  “I heard the logging camps have shut down until this blizzard passes. That means most of the loggers have come home for the time being.” He lifted his pipe and blew through the stem. “I would suppose Daniel is among them.” He turned his head and fastened his gaze on her. “Did he say what he’d be doing while he’s home when you saw him at Willa’s?”

  She shook her head, then tucked back a curl that fell free. “No. We spoke very little.” The words left a sour taste in her mouth and the memory of the uncomfortable, strained silence between them filling her thoughts. She tugged her silk wrap closer over her bare shoulders and turned to warm her other side, unable to make herself comment further. They would hear soon enough that Daniel was also helping to make the decorations.

  “I see. Well, all the same, perhaps it would be best if you forget your little philanthropy.”

  It was an order couched in soft words. She turned her head and looked into her father’s eyes.

  “Your beaux may not understand why you would do such...work.”

  “Then I shall explain.” She lifted her chin, startled by her unaccustomed defiance. “I have given Willa my word, Father. And I intend to keep my promise.”

  “And risk your future of ease?”

  Mine, or yours and Mother’s, Father? The thought shamed her. She’d never considered it before. Still, what did it matter that her father might be thinking of what he would gain by her marriage to a wealthy man? It was the way of things in society. She shrugged her shoulders. “There is little danger of that. Mr. Lodge and Mr. Cuthbert, as well as the other men of the Buffalo elite, are always in competition. This time it is for my hand. Neither of them would let the matter cause them to lose to the other.” Another sobering thought. Did either man truly care for her? Oh, what did any of it matter? She would have what she wanted.

  Her father’s brows lowered. A chill touched her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

  “Perhaps you have judged too hastily this time, Conrad.”

  Her father stiffened and shot a frosty look at her mother. “Explain yourself, Frieda.”

  “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Lodge, and even more Mr. Cuthbert, would consider it an advantage to have a wife who does charitable works? Or, at least
, oversees them? It could be beneficial to a politician.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed. He set his pipe in its holder, pushed it back in place, then stood looking into the fire and stroking his beard. She watched him and waited, tensed when he lifted his head and looked at her. “Presented in the right way, the help you’re giving Willa can be turned to your advantage, Ellen. We’ll discuss it further, when I’ve given it more thought. Meanwhile, continue on.”

  The discomfort of her parents’ displeasure was gone. And so was some of the good feeling she’d had about helping Willa.

  * * *

  No steam drifted from the spout. Daniel crossed to the fireplace and felt of the iron kettle—it was barely warm. He picked up the small shovel, carefully raked the covering ashes off of the coals and blew gently. The embers shimmered, began to glow red at the breath of life-giving air. There was a soft rustle behind him.

  He rose and turned, held back a frown at the sight of his mother’s old, worn wrapper with its frayed ties and tattered hems on the sleeves. The faded blue fabric fell unrestrained from her shoulders and swayed at her stocking-clad feet as she came to stand in front of him. Warmth filled his chest. She’d never have to wear the ragged dressing gown again after Christmas.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “I felt the need for a cup of coffee. Sorry I woke you, Ma. I tried to be quiet.” He lifted his foot and wiggled his toes inside his thick wool sock as proof.

  “Goin’ without your boots don’t do no good.” She smiled, gave his foot a gentle swat. “I’m your ma. When you’re up and stirrin’, I don’t hear it—I feel it.”

  He leaned down and kissed her soft cheek, all pink, creased and warm where it had been resting against her pillow. “I know, Ma. It’s a heart thing.”

  She tilted her head back and gave him a look. “Don’t you make game of it, Daniel Braynard. God puts it there. You’ll know when you have young’uns of your own.”

  The words cut deep. He wanted children, but that dream had died along with the others. This afternoon had made him more certain of that than ever. He pulled up a smile and nodded—not that it would fool his ma. She had an uncanny ability to look straight into his heart.

  “How about some hot chocolate, ’stead of coffee?”

  He looked down at her small pudgy hand she’d rested on his forearm. That was his ma, always trying to make the hurt go away, to make everything better for him. But there were some things not even a mother could fix. He was a teamster—and a teamster he would stay. “No, Ma, coffee’s fine. I bought that chocolate as a treat for you.”

  “Tastes better when it’s shared.” She lifted a small pan off a nail driven into the log mantel and waved it toward the flickering coals. “You get that fire goin’, whilst I fetch the cream.”

  His protest died. If he wanted his mother to enjoy that chocolate, he’d have to drink it with her. She’d save it until he did. He lifted two small pieces of dried pine branch out of the kindling box, then stood and watched her hurrying to the small cupboard he’d made for her birthday the year his father died. The thick braid of her long gray-streaked dark hair dangled against the faded blue cotton between her shoulders. Her new dressing gown was dark green. She was partial to green.

  His lips tugged into a smile at the thought of her pleasure when she saw the new wrapper and the moccasin slippers he’d had Bowing Fern make for her. It wasn’t what he’d planned. He’d hoped to buy her a stove so she wouldn’t have to keep the fire going summers and bend over the hearth to cook, but losing work when his shoulder was injured set him back in his saving. Maybe by spring he’d have enough set aside, if it stopped snowing so he could go back to work.

  He shot a glance at the window by the door at the opposite end of the kitchen. The small panes, visible between the curtains made from a burlap bag dyed red, were coated with frost. He’d put the stove down at that end of the room. With fires going in the stove and on the hearth, the whole kitchen would be warm even on the coldest winter day. And in the summer heat, she could open the door and catch the cool breezes that flowed off the forested hill behind the row of company-owned cabins while she cooked.

  “You plannin’ on rubbin’ those together to make a fire?”

  He started from his thoughts, saw the slight twitch of her lips, remembered and grinned. “Something like that. Barking Fox taught me how.”

  “Well, I know! What were you—nine? Ten?” His mother’s eyes, a more pronounced green than his own, brightened with laughter. “You almost burnt the house down practicin’.”

  “Now, Ma...it was only the kindling pile that caught fire.” His grin widened at her teasing, faded when he saw her shiver. That wrapper was worn too thin to keep her warm. He laid the pieces of branch on the fire and gave a couple of puffs to encourage them to burn. Tongues of flame leaped up from the fire and wrapped around them. He added a couple small chunks of ash, then waited for them to catch fire.

  “’Less I disremember, Sadie missed out on that adventure. But Willa, Callie and Ellen were all here that day.” His mother set the crock she carried on the table and took a ladle off a shelf. “You scared ’em for certain.”

  “No more than I scared myself.” He chuckled and rocked back on his heels. “They were sore impressed when I demonstrated my new skill, but I’ll never forget all the running around and squealing those girls did when I accidentally caught that kindling afire.”

  “For all that, they helped you. They’re good friends.”

  Message received. But you’re wrong this time, Ma. “Not Ellen. Not anymore.” He stared into the flames, seeing Ellen as she’d looked on that long-ago day with her golden curls dancing around her pale face and her blue eyes wide with fear as sparks flew from the burning wood. Still, frightened as she’d been, and worried, as always, of getting into trouble if she soiled or tore her dress, she’d helped Willa and Callie pull the burning kindling away from the pile stacked against the cabin while he pumped a bucket of water. He’d tried to stop her to protect her from her parents’ displeasure, but she’d pressed her mouth together so tight her lips had disappeared, shook her head and gone back to work. She’d had that same look of determination this afternoon. Only this time it was him she was defying. His gut tightened. He blew out a breath, dusted off his hands and rose.

  “Bad workin’ with her today, was it?”

  He glanced his mother’s way. Firelight glinted off the knife in her hand as she shaved chocolate into a small pile on the table. He grabbed a candlestick off the mantel, held the candle’s wick to the fire, then shielded the flame with his cupped hand and carried the candle to the table. Golden light flickered into the room, gleamed on the pan and what remained of a sugar cone and shimmered on the bowl of cream his mother had skimmed from a crock of milk. She looked up and smiled her thanks, but the question was still in her eyes. He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck and gave an evasive answer. “Willa was gone tending her baby a good part of the time.”

  “Umm.” She leaned down and picked up the teapot. “Babies take a sight of care.”

  “Seems so.”

  The wood crackled. A wisp of smoke drifted up the chimney. His mother poured warm water into the sugar in the bottom of the pan, added the shaved chocolate, carried it to the fireplace and set it on a trivet. “Fire feels good.”

  “You stay there and get warm. I’ll take care of the milk.” He picked up the crock and carried it to the cupboard at the other end of the kitchen. The cold chilled him, even through his wool shirt. He started back toward his mother and caught a glimpse of her rubbing her arms for warmth before she spotted him coming, dropped her hands to her sides and smiled. His face tightened. He couldn’t provide for a wife—certainly not one like Ellen. But he could keep his mother warm. “I’ll be right back, Ma.”

  He strode to his bedroom, grabbed the paper-wrapped parcel he’d brought h
ome and carried it back to the kitchen. His mother was pouring steaming creamy brown liquid into their cups.

  “The chocolate’s ready.” She set the pan on the sink cupboard, turned and stared. “What’s that?”

  He held the parcel out to her. “Merry Christmas, Ma.”

  “But it’s not—”

  “I want you to have this now.” He couldn’t quite hold the anger from his voice. It took him that way sometimes when he thought too much about how things were. He pasted on a smile. It didn’t fool her, but she pretended it did, and that was good enough. He held his breath as she placed the parcel on the table, untied the string and set it aside to save. Steam from her cup rose and twined itself among the wisps of gray hair on her forehead as she bent forward to unfold the paper. He clenched his hands, watched her face.

  “Daniel!” She gasped, touched the green fabric showing in the package, then drew her hands back and looked up at him.

  “It’s a wrapper, Ma. One that’ll keep you warm.” She ducked her head. He glanced at the small dark splotch that spread on the green fabric, saw another form and swallowed hard when she covered them with her small pudgy hand. “Put it on, Ma. I’ll get us some bread and butter.” He strode to the cupboard, then kept his back turned until the rustling sounds of fabric stopped.

  “It’s so fine...so warm and pretty...and green....”

  He turned. His mother stood by the fireplace, murmuring to herself, her small hands touching the dressing gown’s stand-up collar, patting the quilted sleeves and bodice, then smoothing the fabric that fell free from beneath it.

  “Fit’s you fair. I was worried it might be too long.” He glanced down. “Do the moccasins fit?”

  She blinked and took a breath. “They fit, and they’re fine, Daniel—mighty fine. And the wrapper is so warm and pretty. Mayhap the prettiest thing I’ve ever owned....” She blinked and shook her head. “I thank you, son. I truly thank you. But you—”