by Mysti Parker
“Oh.”
She poured Harry’s coffee and felt his eyes boring into her.
“Thanks, darlin’.” His hand shook as he took a drink. He set the cup down and focused on his plate. “We better hurry or we’ll be late for church.”
After the service, they returned to the house for lunch. Mr. Stanford still didn’t make an appearance. April showers pitter-pattered outside, triggering contagious yawns. Jonny fell asleep on the parlor rug with his marbles lying in wait under his fingers.
Ezra woke him and led him upstairs for a nap. Portia followed, pausing at the top of the stairs to look down the hall at Mr. Stanford’s closed door.
Once settled on her own bed, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Surrendering to the mid-day insomnia, she sat at the little table by the window and tried to read from the book of Longfellow poems. Rain pattered on the window panes. The words jumbled into nonsensical language. Her thoughts drifted down the hall and toward her employer. Her heart ached for him; being faced with the prospect of marriage again must be hard to accept, especially when he still wore his wedding ring and the sting of his late wife’s death hadn’t lessened.
Would he mind if she checked in on him? All he could do was tell her to go away — then she would at least know he was alive. She set the book down and started to get up, then sat back down. She’d already intruded once into his personal space. He might tell her to leave and never come back if she did it again.
No, she had to have courage right now — part of her job was to help care for everyone here, and she couldn’t live with herself if he lay in there sick or… worse, with no one knowing. Everyone else might be afraid of intruding on him, but it was better he yell at her than Jonny. Harry, Ezra, and even Bessie, acted as though nothing was amiss, but the strange quiet that had settled over them had completely unsettled her.
Before she could change her mind again, she stood and went straight out into the hallway, walked quietly but quickly to his closed door, and rested her ear upon it. She heard nothing, and no one stirred from the other rooms.
She closed her eyes and lifted her hand to knock, but hesitated. What am I waiting for? Surely he wouldn’t send me away for being compassionate?
With three quiet raps on his door, she stepped back, and waited.
Nothing.
She knocked again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
Cheeks burning from the blush this decision brought, she knew she had no other choice. She had to try the door. If it was locked, she’d just have to give up and return to her room and hope he emerged eventually. If it was unlocked, she’d have a quick look and make sure he was in one piece.
Deep breaths. She turned the knob and slowly eased open his door.
“Mr. Stan—” She closed her mouth when she saw him sprawled across the bed.
Was he…? Soft snores from his partially open mouth flooded her with relief. He lay atop the quilt on his back with one arm resting above his head and one folded over his stomach. Not dead, thank God. From the looks of it, he simply needed this deep sleep. She was about to close the door when her eyes drifted to his bare chest and lingered on his tanned skin, the soft-looking curled hair, the firm muscles of his abdomen. He wore loose gray cotton trousers, and one leg was bent, supported by one large bare foot. His other foot hung off the side of the bed.
Her eyes widened, and she quickly but quietly shut the door. She stood there breathing hard with her hand on the knob. She had just gawked at her employer without his knowledge. Her half-naked employer. If someone had thrown bacon on her cheeks at that moment, it would have sizzled.
Portia let go of the door knob and stepped back. He was all right. He hadn’t woken up and exploded in anger. No one had to know, and she could rest easy knowing he was fine. She turned around and came two inches from colliding with Bessie. She clapped a hand over her mouth to contain a scream.
“Calm down, Mrs. McAllister,” Bessie whispered. “You’re gonna scare everybody. I was just bringing him some coffee. He told me to wake him up at four o’clock. I talked him into drinking some of my sleep tea this mornin’ when you all went to church, and he’s been asleep ever since.” She held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and rapped hard on his door with the other.
At a groggy-sounding, “Come in,” she started to turn the knob but turned to Portia first, winked, and whispered, “He is a fine-looking man. Can’t blame a young woman for havin’ a peek.”
Bessie opened the door, and Portia caught a glimpse of Beau sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. She fled down the stairs and out to the porch before her face caught the house on fire.
Chapter Twelve
On Monday morning, the entire household stirred before sunrise. The men dug into breakfast as soon as Portia and Bessie got it on the table. Portia poured Mr. Stanford’s coffee. He looked much more rested than he had since she arrived — the circles under his eyes were lighter, his face clean shaven. She caught the soapy tallow scent of William’s Yankee Shaving Soap. Jake had used it religiously; she used to run her fingers over his smooth jaw right after he shaved and would kiss him to take advantage of his not-so-prickly affections.
Beau took a sip from his cup and caught her looking at him. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Sugar?” She peeled her eyes away from him to focus on the few white cubes in the pretty porcelain dish.
“One, please.”
Quickly as she could so no one saw her hand shaking, she plucked up a sugar cube with the little silver tongs and plopped it in his cup. Coffee splashed onto the table from the sugar’s sudden dive.
“Is something wrong?” His voice held an undercurrent of laughter.
Portia’s eyes widened. “No, nothing at all. Sorry,” she muttered and escaped into the kitchen. Ezra’s throaty laugh followed her until the door swung shut behind her. Bessie looked up from getting the biscuits off the pan and onto the plate and pursed her lips together, holding back a laugh.
Setting the sugar down on the counter, Portia exhaled loudly and put a hand on her hip. “What?”
“I’ve seen that look before, mm-hmm, sure have.”
What look? Dear Lord, is it that obvious? “He knows, doesn’t he?”
“Maybe he does, maybe he don’t.” Bessie chuckled and carried the biscuits into the dining room.
Portia dipped a kitchen towel in the water basin and dabbed her cheeks. The only way she would be able forget that image of him sprawled on his bed was to dive headfirst into chores and not stop until bedtime.
So that’s what she did.
~~~~
Portia leaned on her elbows at the kitchen table that night, having devoured her dinner of boiled eggs, green beans, and salt pork. Her eyelids grew heavy, as did her head, which bobbed as sleep tried to claim her. She and Bessie were both exhausted after a day spent cleaning, shopping, weeding the garden and flower beds, and stuffing pillows. The good thing was, she hadn’t thought about her half-clothed employer all day… until now. Hopefully, a good night’s sleep would take care of that.
The men had all gathered in the sitting room, enjoying a bit of whiskey — whether in celebration or resignation of the Clemons imminent arrival, she didn’t know. But it would give her a chance to retreat to her room without gawking at anyone.
“Get some sleep. You earned it today,” Bessie said.
She smiled in gratitude. Hearing praise from Bessie was a welcome surprise. She yawned and started to stand from her chair.
“Wait a minute. Let me doctor them blisters first.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ve had blisters a plenty.”
“Come on, let me see ’em,” Bessie said firmly while she opened a small tin can of salve.
Portia did as she was told and held her hands out palms up, while Bessie applied the pungent-smelling, greasy mixture to the red blisters. A clean white bandage came next, wrapped snugly around her right hand. After a sli
ght burning sensation, the salve provided a cool tingle to her raw skin.
“How do you make that?” Portia asked.
“A little cedar sap, some alder bark, and slippery elm, among other things.” Bessie tilted her head and grinned — clearly unwilling to share her complete secret recipe.
“Well, thank you. It’s feeling better already. Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from you about salves and teas.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Body weary and head full of jumbled thoughts, she left the kitchen, already imagining the downy comfort of her pillow. She passed through the dining room, headed for the stairs… and walked straight into a solid wall of a man.
“Oh!” Bouncing off him, she steadied herself and looked up into deep-set eyes that were just as startled as hers.
“Sorry,” Mr. Stanford said. “Let me just—”
He stepped left, and she stepped right, blocking each other’s path.
“Sorry,” Portia said.
She stepped left, and he stepped right. Blocked again.
His mouth stretched into a wide smile. “If you’re trying to dance with me, just say so.”
“No, I wasn’t… I mean… um…”
Slapping his thighs, he broke into laughter — rich, hearty, and completely unexpected. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t hold it in. The two of them laughed like they hadn’t done it in a million years. Heads started peeking out at them from the sitting room, slowly retreating as their guffawing subsided.
Mr. Stanford wiped his eyes. “I think I needed that.”
“Me too,” she admitted, trying uselessly to tuck her wayward hair behind her ears.
He nodded toward her bandaged hand. “Are you hurt?”
“Just blisters.” She held it up and wiggled her fingers. “Battle wounds for a hard day’s work. Bessie’s salve is working wonders though.”
“She’s really good with medicine. Shame she couldn’t be a doctor. By the way, thank you for your help around here. Bessie tells me you’ve lightened her load quite a bit.”
“That’s my job, right?”
“Right, but I reckon it needs sayin’ now and then.” He looked away and scratched his jaw. “Truth is I’m not ready for tomorrow.”
“We have everything ready for them,” Portia said, trying to sound reassuring.
“No, it’s not that. It’s the reason they might be coming. I’m not ready for it.”
“Oh. I see.” She swallowed hard and crossed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. Her sleepy mind hadn’t picked up on the obvious: he wasn’t ready for re-marriage. Racking her brain for the right words, she settled on the only thing she could think of. “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
“Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
His eyes drifted back to hers, and his lips curved into a soft smile. He looked much more pleasant with a smile on his face. Handsome even.
“Matthew 6:34.” She couldn’t break the lifelong habit of quoting scriptures. Not everyone appreciated the talent. Before Jake and Abby died, she spouted them right and left to grieving widows back in Brentwood. Oftentimes, they didn’t appreciate the sentiment, and soon enough, she understood exactly how they felt. Even after everything she’d been through, old habits proved hard to break.
Her employer, however, didn’t seem offended. He took a step closer and looked more relaxed than ever. “I never could memorize scripture like that. Claire could, and I probably should have appreciated it more. It’s good to know you’re a woman of faith, Mrs. McAllister.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Stanford. Like so many things these days, faith seems to be in short supply.”
“Maybe you’ll find it here.” He turned toward the stairs but stopped and faced her again. “Since you’ll be here awhile, you might as well call me Beau.”
“Only if you call me Po.”
His brow knitted together, and he went completely still for a moment, as though her nickname came as a shock. Shaking his head slightly, he rubbed his forehead until his features relaxed again.
“Po and Beau,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Now, isn’t that something? Goodnight, Po.”
He lightly grasped her fingers with his and gave a gentle squeeze. Then he climbed the stairs, crossed the landing, and disappeared around the corner. She heard his door click shut and glanced at her hand — the one he’d touched. It was a completely innocent gesture, so why did it feel like some un-scalable wall had fallen, and an undiscovered territory lay before her?
~~~~
Beau watched the birth of Tuesday morning from the front porch. Orange and magenta clouds streaked the horizon. The obnoxious rooster had taken his place atop the chicken coop, crowing like his racket alone could draw the sun into the sky.
“Today might be a good day for chicken dumplings,” Beau said, hoping that would silence the ill-tempered fowl. No such luck.
He hadn’t slept a wink all night. The days and weeks ahead held too much uncertainty to let him close his eyes and stall his racing mind. Why couldn’t things be simple anymore? He heard the first stirrings of life from inside the house and wondered if Portia was awake. It might be nice to sit here and talk to her for a while.
Last night, when they had laughed together, all his tensions had melted away, if only for a little while. She had certainly earned her keep, even if he couldn’t pay her yet. Those blisters on her hands proved she didn’t mind hard work and that she was willing to sacrifice her comfort to do what needed doing. Claire, busy as she used to be, never wore the blisters and calluses of a working woman. He had loved that about her — that soft femininity — and felt proud that he could provide her with such a life.
But Portia was a different woman. Jonny seemed to have taken to her, though he still wouldn’t say a word, not that he had heard, anyway. Was it possible he spoke to her in private? The thought stirred up a mess of emotions he didn’t want to sort through. Not today.
The door creaked open, and Harry stepped softly out to the porch. He froze when he saw Beau sitting there on the stoop.
“What are you selling this time?” Beau stared at the bundle of lavender fabric under his arm.
He flashed his innocent smile and rotated the stolen goods around his side until they were partially hidden. “Selling? I’m not—”
“Give me the key.”
Harry’s face went deadpan as he dug the key from his vest. He flipped it at Beau, who caught it in his fist.
“The dress, too.”
He must have decided the dress wasn’t as flightworthy as the key, so he took one step toward Beau and thrust it at him. Beau took it, and Harry stepped back to his original caught-red-handed spot. Turning away from Harry and back toward the yard, Beau let his eyes linger on the lavender dress his wife once wore. His fingers caressed the delicate fabric, and he imagined her warm body beneath it when they waltzed together. He’d already sold or traded many of Claire’s dresses and jewelry to make ends meet, but he’d held on to a few items like this — locked them away to keep them safe and out of his sight. So he thought.
“Look, Beau, I’m sorry. We need the money.”
“No. You need the money. I don’t care how you get your goddamn morphine, but you will not touch Claire’s things again. Is that understood?”
“But I can’t—”
“Stop talking!” Beau’s voice roared across the yard. The rooster went silent in mid-crow. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Stop making excuses or get your ass out of here.”
The air hanging between them felt thick and foreign before Harry conceded with, “Yes, Lord Stanford.” He didn’t try to hide his limp as he walked past Beau and across the yard toward the barn.
Beau returned the dress to the chest in his room. He had to force his fingers to relinquish the soft fabric. Tucking it beneath his bloodied jacket and the tear-stained letter telling him of her death, he clos
ed his eyes and shut the lid. The lock’s tumbler clicked into place as he turned the key. Once that was done, he put it in his pocket. For one long, lonely minute, he allowed himself to cry — quietly of course, so no one could notice him surrendering to emotion. He couldn’t pay bills with emotion. Only hard work could do that. He splashed his face with water at his basin, scrubbed it dry with a towel, and went straight for the barn.
~~~~
Come mid-morning, he was trimming the newest filly’s hooves. Harry occupied the next stall, doing the same with Crazy Girl. And it wasn’t going so well, much to Beau’s amusement and satisfaction.
“Ow!” That was the third “ow” of the morning.
“What now?”
“She bit my ass!”
Beau laughed. “She’s your girl, Harry. Be a good daddy now.”
“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious.”
“Just tie her head tighter and steer clear of those teeth.”
Ezra hollered from outside, “Looks like we’ve got company!”
Beau let the horse’s foot down gently, and with one hand on his aching back, he stood up straight and hollered back, “Be right there!”
Leaving the stable, he squinted into the sunlight and peered down the drive. A coach and two large carriages full of luggage rolled along toward the house. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. Probably should have taken the time to wash up before they got there, but it was too late now.
Ezra gave him a one-armed bear hug. “Excited?”
“I can hardly contain my joy.”
“Be nice, Beauregard.”
The closer their company came, the harder it became to breathe. He didn’t really know how to feel. Never once had he considered remarriage in the two years since Claire had passed, but that possibility now rolled up their drive on four expensive wheels. Worse yet, he couldn’t deny the obvious. He’d be marrying for money, if he married her at all, and knowing that made him feel like a whore.