"A letter from Janie came today," Winnie began. "She had good news. There's going to be an addition to their family."
A small sting of jealousy pierced Irene. A child. Janie would have a child to hold and loveand keep. Then a rush of guilt forced aside those feelings, and she spoke from her heart. "That's wonderful," she said quietly. "I imagine they're excited."
"Nervous is more like it."
Irene sensed there was more to come. "Did she say anything else?" she asked, sipping her tea.
"Actually, yes." Winnie fiddled with the knife alongside her plate. "They want me to come and stay with them when the time comes." She glanced up, giving Irene a meaningful stare. "But I'm not sure I'll be able to leave by then.''
"Of course you will. There's nothing more important than being present at the birth of your first grandchild."
"Except watching over your own children."
The two women locked gazes, one imploring for understanding, the other doing the same for different reasons.
"I'm fine, Mother. I have been since the day I moved to Grand Rapids. You have nothing to worry about." Inwardly, she asked for the chance to make her own decisions and to be treated with the respect she felt she deserved when she did make them.
"I have cause to worry, Irene, and I can't go gallivanting off until I know you're all right."
With eyes as big as saucers and ears to match, Lydia and Jonathan watched the stand-off. Neither had expected to witness the conflict that existed between the two women. Jonathan, who wasn't sure what it was all about but suspected it had something to do with his presence in the house, decided he didn't want to witness anything and rushed from the room. Lydia, who was sure they were talking about Ross Hollister and Mrs. Wilson's dislike of saloons, had no intention of missing anything. So she sat as still as an owl in the night, unblinking, glued to her perch.
"Janie is the one who needs you now," Irene reminded her.
"She has her husband, and he's a good man."
The words were like an accusation, leaving Irene heartsore. Her mother didn't believe she could possibly make a decision on her own, a good sensible decision. She believed, as did most of the town, that she'd made a wrong choice when she'd let Andrew go. Poor Irene.
"Irene, you're a dreamer with your head in the clouds. You've read so many books, you believe in them. You need to keep both feet on the ground. Be sensible. Stop staring off into meadows that don't exist."
Even though spoken gently, the words hit Irene with the impact that only the truth could hold. She had spent most of her day dreaming of faraway, nonexistent meadows and languorous boat rides, of a man who didn't suit life in a small town. But she refused to acknowledge this aloud and defiantly lifted her chin.
"I'm a grown woman and I'll make my own decisions." Then she added, "Without consulting anyone." Rising from her chair, Irene stalked from the room, barely hearing her mother's exasperated sigh.
Winnie watched her daughter leave, unable to call her back. What was the use? She hardly knew how to deal with this side of Irene, a side she'd never seen before the disaster of the "almost" wedding. Frustrated, she poured another cup of tea.
From her end of the table, Lydia spoke softly, "Why don't you like Mr. Hollister?"
Startled, Winnie glanced up. She'd forgotten about the girl's presence.
"Why?" Winnie repeated Lydia's question.
"Don't you think he's a nice man?"
"Hmph! Hardly." Winnie fiddled with her knife again.
"I think," Lydia began thoughtfully, "that sometimes you have to look real close at a person before you can judge them. The things they do and say don't always tell all there is to know. It's sort of like people who act ornery on the outside, but have good hearts on the inside. Or like people who tell lies and really want to tell the truth and they hope someone cares enough to find out why they tell lies. It's just that things get locked up inside and it's hard to let them out."
Winnie listened to the young girl's words. Any other time she would probably have agreed, but this situation affected someone too dear to her heart, and she would not allow herself to be swayed by "maybe's."
"But," Winnie said, rising, "sometimes all you need to know is what you see." She stirred the thick soup, set a trivet on the coolest part of the stove, and placed the pot on it. Then, in an attempt to dismiss the subject, she announced, "The soup's ready. Call your brother and Irene."
The meal passed in stilted silence, which had become the way of most of their meals recently. Afterward, when the table was cleared and the dishes done, not a word had been spoken.
Seated around the parlor stove, the evening seemed interminably long, just as the winter stretching before Irene seemed unending. Her head ached so badly with the decisions she needed to make that she couldn't concentrate on her lessons for tomorrow.
"I think it's time for bed," she said to Jonathan and Lydia as much as to herself.
Without complaint, the children readied for bed.
"I believe I'll sit up and knit for a while," Winnie said. "I'll tend the stoves before going up."
"All right, Mother."
Irene followed Jonathan to Lydia's room, where a lamp was left glowing until he fell asleep. She pulled the blankets UP to his chin and brushed his hair back from his forehead. He smiled and she smiled back.
"Can we go skating next Saturday?" he asked.
"We'll see," she answered, unwilling to make any decision at this time. "Get some sleep."
He snuggled down and closed his eyes.
In the bigger bed beside his, Lydia motioned Irene to sit on the edge near her.
"Don't be sad, Miss Barrett. It'll all work out. You'll see."
Looking into the earnest face of her charge, Irene replied, "I hope so, Lydia." Then she tucked the blankets warmly around her. "Good night."
"Good night." Lydia watched Miss Barrett's slender form disappear through the open doorway, thinking that somehow, some way, everything had to turn out all right. It just had to!
Clara Wilson turned down the only lamp burning in her house. Her policy of never using more of anything than was necessary applied to every aspect of her life.
She laid down the bible she'd been reading and pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ease the strain in her eyes. But it didn't help. It was more than eye strain and she knew it.
With considerable effort, she managed to hoist herself from the chair. Then, reaching for the lamp, her eyes rested on the tintype of her late husband which stood propped against a neat stack of school books.
"Oh, Thaddeus," she said, bringing the picture closer to her face. "There's so much to be done."
Oftentimes she would speak to him as though he were with her. Somehow it eased the lonelinessand the guilt.
Replacing the old picture, she carried the lamp through the house while she locked her doors and checked the windows.
After negotiating the narrow staircase and crossing the tiny hall to her bedroom, she blew out the lamp. In the privacy of the dark room she removed her black bombazine dress and hung it beside all the other dresses exactly like it. Every move was executed with as much precision and efficiency as if they were carried out in the bright light of day. After donning a plain flannel gown, she slid between the cold sheets to ponder and plan.
First, she pondered Irene. Such an attractive, bright young woman, but obviously not bright enough to stay away from the wiles of Ross Hollister. And no wonder, with a mother like Winnie Barrett. Clara had assessed the stuffy, socially conscious woman in one glance as caring more about what others thought than what they did.
Tucking the covers tightly to her bulk in an effort to get warmer, Clara released an exasperated sigh. Saving Irene from herself, Ross Hollister, and that mother of hers could turn out to be more of a task than a woman her age ought to take on. She sighed again. But she cared about Irene, and she despised Ross Hollister, while Mrs. Winnie Barrett simply irritated her.
She remembered the day W
innie had arrived on her doorstep strutting like a banty rooster and gaining entry, then demanding that Clara stay out of Irene's affairs. It had been all she could do to keep from taking her broom from behind the door and sweeping the little woman from her porch. If she truly cared about her daughter, the thoughtless woman would see they could accomplish more by working together than threatening each other. In actuality, Clara had not threatened but merely warned. If the superintendent found out, Irene would lose her position, and that man was not worth it.
Finally warmth surrounded her, but anger kept her from sleeping.
She needed a plan. One that would help Irene as well as rid the town of that evil drink. She could notno, would notrest until she found a way to achieve that end. It was her mission. One she had accepted a long time ago.
Chapter Nine
Lydia walked the distance to the general store with a mittened hand protectively covering her coat pocket. With her mind so thoroughly occupied, she hardly gave a thought to the snow crowding the tops of her boots. Familiar, yet scarcely heard, were the sounds of jangling horse harnesses and creaking wagons surrounding her as she plodded on.
Thoughtfully, she patted her pocket.
This was the third letter she'd posted for Miss Barrett since they'd arrived. Pulling off her mitten, she withdrew this last one from its sheltered place. The neat handwriting, so perfect with its beautiful flourishes, reminded her of Miss Barrett. Carefully, she returned the letter to her pocket.
Inside Mr. Gregg's store, she made her way to the section where the mail was sorted and put into wooden cubicles. She stopped at the window.
"Hello there, young miss. Have you come for Miss Barrett's mail?" the postmaster asked, winking at her.
"Yes, sir." She allowed the letter to remain hidden for a while longer.
"Well, it just so happens I've got something for you."
Lydia's heart ground to a halt. Would this be the one from her aunt? Silently, she prayed that it wouldn't be.
"Here you go. And it's all the way from Buffalo, New York. Imagine that." He winked again good-naturedly.
Lydia accepted the letter with a feeling of dread. She tried to smile a thank-you, since her throat felt so tight that it wouldn't let any words pass through.
She forced herself to look at the return address for the name of the sender.
S. Jefferson Blakely.
Something painful spread from her stomach and radiated toward the outward reaches of her suddenly cold body. Numbly, she tucked the letter inside her pocket, alongside the one she was to have mailed, and walked from the store.
Outside, a leaden sky dropped great feathery flakes of snow around her, and like a veil it curtained her from those who passed by.
She couldn't go home yet. Not until she decided what to do.
Wandering up the hill, she followed the railroad tracks until she stood before the school, How could she leave? For the first time in her life she'd made friends, real friends. She and Jonathan belonged here with them, with this wonderful little town, and especially with Miss Barrett.
Behind the building, rows of long rope swings hung listless, drawing her to them. She brushed the snow from the wooden seat and sat down, her arms looped around the ropes, her hands folded in her lap.
In the hush of a Saturday schoolyard, she stared absently at the beautiful blue mittens Winnie Barrett had made for her while her mind, in a state of confusion, desperately sought an answer.
It wasn't fair, she thought. None of it was fair.
She'd tried so hard to make things right for Jonathan and herself since their mother had died. When nothing else worked, she'd lied, taken what wasn't theirs, and even run away to protect her brother.
And now this.
Pulling both letters from her pocket, she compared the handwriting on each. The one from her aunt contained small, carefully spaced lettering as though she held tightly to what was hers. Lydia knew she must be stingy and probably didn't understand children at all, or even like them.
What choice did she really have? Only one.
Lydia removed her mittens and slipped a finger under the edge of the envelope, her heart deafening in her ears. Slowly, she tore the paper until the letter lay exposed under her gaze.
This was wrong. She knew it. Guilt pounded in her chest as she watched the snowflakes melt on the letter, making inky blotches.
There could be no turning back, just as there had been no turning back when they'd escaped the orphanage. And knowing she couldn't explain her actions to Miss Barrett or bear to see the mistrust in her eyes forever after, she vowed never to tell a living soul about this transgression. Nevertheless, it was the only answer.
Fiercely, she clutched both letters in her fists. Then one at a time she tore them up and stuffed them into her pocket, hidden until she could burn the tiny pieces in the kitchen stove.
Sitting very still with the gray light of day shadowing her, enveloping her, a new burden lowered, resting heavily upon her young shoulders. Without trying to justify her deed, she simply accepted the weight as necessary.
Then, slipping on her mittens, she left the swing and the empty schoolyard behind, taking the long way home.
Monday morning dawned bright and sunny. And for once Jonathan looked forward to going to school. He rushed through his usual chores with less foot-dragging and more enthusiasm, even drawing a few words of praise from Mrs. Barrett, who he suspected didn't really like him.
But today he didn't care.
"My, my! What's this?" Winnie exclaimed. "A second bucket of water when the first one is only half empty?"
"Yes, ma'am," he answered brightly.
"Hmm. Are you expecting an extra cookie after school, perhaps?" she prodded.
"No, ma'am." And in spite of his earlier indifference, he puffed up a little at her words.
"Well, I believe hard work should always be rewarded," she said. "So you can count on that cookie. Maybe two."
He smiled, unable to hold it back.
With his chores finished, he sat down to a bowl of oatmeal, not exactly his favorite kind of breakfast. He preferred eggs and bacon. But today it was acceptable. And the funny thing was, he wasn't just sure why.
On the way to school, he hopped and skipped circles around Miss Barrett, and once in a while around Lydia, too. With each turn he studied his teacher as he had never done before. If he didn't think about her as his boss in school, he guessed he'd have to say she was kind of pretty. She had a special smile that seemed to make her brown eyes sparkle, and that's when he liked her best.
When they arrived at the school, he held the door open.
"Why, thank you, Jonathan," Irene said. "What a gentleman you are."
He puffed up a little more.
Inside the classroom, he hung up his coat, giving extra care to make sure it wouldn't come off the peg as soon as he turned his back, then went to his bench and patiently waited for school to begin.
A few times he noticed Miss Barrett watching him, but she didn't say anything.
When all the children arrived and the bell became silent, Jonathan forced himself to give his full attention to the lesson. He even volunteered a few answers.
The entire day became one happy blur, and still he didn't know why. But that was all right; he didn't have to figure it out to enjoy it.
At the end of the day, he dashed for the door, unable to allow David Peters to be the first one through it again. This time the victory was his, and he raced down the hall toward the second victory. He felt untouchable, soaring ahead with David close behind, yet not close enough to beat him into the bright sunshine beyond the open front doors. Practically flying down the steps, he felt a tug from behind on his coattails, but he shrugged it off and kept on going until both feet landed firmly on the ground.
''I won!" he yelled, thrilled with the ending of a perfect day.
"You cheated! You got up before the bell started ringing. Cheater! Cheater! Cheater!" David chanted.
"I did
not!"
"Did too!"
"You're just a poor loser," Jonathan said with a wave of his hand.
"Am not!" David leaned over Jonathan with the advantage of an inch and a half in height.
"You must be 'cause I didn't cheat. Just ask Miss Barrett."
David snorted in disgust. "Her? Why would I believe her? She's just aa" He searched his mind for the word he'd heard his mother use when she talked to their neighbor about his teacher. "A hussy!"
Jonathan had no idea what that meant, but he didn't like the way David Said it and he didn't like the way his eyes squinted when he said it or even the way his mouth curled around the word.
"You take that back!" Jonathan yelled.
With a threatening push on Jonathan's coat front, David said quietly, "Make me."
At that point Jonathan didn't care if David was an inch and a half taller or that he knew big words, he was angry. So angry that he pulled back his small fist and whammed it into David's stomach.
Surprised but ready, David slugged him back, not once but twice.
Jonathan wrapped his arms around David in an attempt to throw him off balance, but it was he who ended up on the ground with David sitting on him, punching his face.
Within seconds, an older boy had lifted David by the collar of his coat, allowing Jonathan to suck air into his lungs. The cold snow seeped into his coat sleeves and around his pant legs. But the humiliation of the beating burned him inside and out.
"That's enough fighting, you two," said the older boy, still holding David by the scruff of his neck. "Get up," he said to Jonathan.
Jonathan scrambled to his feet. The crowd around them had grown, and all eyes fastened on him.
"You both better hightail it before Mrs. Wilson hears about this," the boy went on.
Jonathan didn't need to be told twice.
With every ounce of strength left in him, he ran for home. Slipping and sliding in the snow, he sped across the schoolyard as if pursued. But not in fear of Mrs. Wilson-he just needed to escape the mocking faces staring at him. The one who'd lost the fight.
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