Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  The Chesters are patient employers. Though I have cooked in their large, shiny, tiled kitchen for six months, I am still perfecting some of the fancier dishes. They are newly minted in their money, having inherited the estate from Mrs. Chester’s father, and are desperate to make a go of it properly. Mrs. Chester hired a kitchen girl to help me with the cleaning, and they keep a small group of maids. I am glad when they hire an older woman as a housekeeper shortly after I start; I should not like to be in charge of such a large place, or a staff. Besides, I have enough on my hands now, as Mrs. Chester also wants to start having formal teas and pretty luncheons.

  I go to the larder. It is always packed with things I still consider delicacies: candied ginger, unusual spices, fruits, and jellies. Will I ever get used to the finer things again?

  But I enjoy making unique dishes with specialty ingredients. Monday is the first tea, and while I will have off on Sunday as I do every week, I want to make sure I am prepared.

  As I reach through the bags of tea, cones of sugar, and sacks of flour, and pull what I need for a pastry, my hand knocks against the coffee and the bag splits open, enough for the smell of the pre-roasted beans to waft upwards. I pause. It smells so very much like the brew I would make for Doctor Kinney each morning after roasting the beans myself in the small tin roaster. What a luxury it is to buy them already browned!

  Tears come without warning sometimes, and this is one of those times. I stand there, holding the coffee, and my shoulders tremble as I close my eyes and try to hold in my longing. I don’t speak of him to anyone—my aunt, my new friends, or my acquaintances at the Chester house—as if by staying silent, he will disappear eventually from my memory. I will be able to think of him fondly without missing him quite so much, only recalling him during soft, faded moments in summer gloaming.

  Does distance make my heart fonder? I wonder. I miss my friends too, almost as much as I do my days with Doctor Kinney. I wish I had had more time to laugh at Anette Zalenski’s off-color jokes, to sit for tea with Marie the smith, to help Alice can more goods, and to hear Sadie’s prattle. I even miss Kate. And Widow Hawks’ absence from my nights is a constant ache.

  “Mrs. Weber?” It is Beth, the kitchen girl. “Are you alright?”

  I straighten, but am not able to turn quite yet.

  “Yes, yes. Just planning out Monday’s tea.”

  She leaves me be, and I go ahead with organizing the menu again.

  I’m grateful I need only be in the great house from four-thirty in the morning to ten at night. From what I hear, many women are stuck in the kitchen for longer hours, or even live with the staff. I’m fortunate. Aunt Mary found a very fine arrangement for me.

  My employers pay me well considering my shortened time, so I am able to afford a tiny cottage on the beach in Gloucester. One large room contains the kitchen and sitting space, all of which has a window overlooking the ocean, with a porch along the front facing the beach. There is a washroom leading into a bedroom, and that is it. The renters before me were a married pair and the bed is enough for two, so I sleep in the middle. Some nights, early on, I would wake, thinking Widow Hawks slept next to me, but those mild sleep-dreams have since stopped.

  After lunch is served and then cleaned, I go to the market. The stalls are always open, come rain, shine, or snow. Tonight, I will be making a vegetable puree and potato soup to go with the meat, and I need end-of-season turnips and parsnips.

  I walk the stalls. It did not take long for me to meet most of the keepers. Some are elderly sisters who know Aunt Mary, and know I am her niece. They offer me their chickens and eggs for a good price. The butcher is a round, happy man who reminds me a little of my father in a holiday mood. The dairyman has a son who is widowed like me, and while I have not talked to him much, I recognize in him a pain I never felt with the death of Henry. The dairyman’s son truly loved his wife. Would I be distraught, had I married Doctor Kinney, and he died? Likely.

  Ada Baker is waiting for me next to vegetables of all sizes. They tumble out of baskets in a green and pink medley. She and her daughter Jean have the best produce, and they do a roaring trade every week.

  “Will we see you tomorrow?” she asks warmly. Sometimes Aunt Mary and I sit with them at church, and then Jean and Rose both come to my house for tea in the afternoon.

  “Of course,” I say, and place turnips into my basket. Jean comes around the corner with parsnips and smiles at me. The ladies in this city are usually cold to outsiders, but Aunt Mary paved the way before my arrival. She hinted at my miscarriage as if it was a strange illness, and alluded to my time out West as wild and mysterious. I think some of the women assume I still miss my husband.

  “We’ve got in the first spring asparagus,” Jean announces. “I’ll bring a bit for tea tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and move on to the dairy stall for cream. My employer, Mr. Chester, likes his food full of flavor. I think a bit of cream in the puree might be an unlooked-for treat tonight, and I wish to please Mr. Chester as well as his wife.

  “Here you are, Mrs. Weber.” The dairyman reaches under his stall with my request, where an icebox keeps things chilled even though it is not very warm outside yet. Andrew, the son, comes around the corner hauling a large cheese. He sets it down carefully and gives his head a shake to the little hands reaching up from below the counter to pick at a curd. His wife left him a son and a daughter to care for; the daughter is at school, but the little boy is still at home with the men and his grandmother.

  “On the Chester tab, as usual?”

  I nod, give a small smile to Andrew, and head back up to the house. The roads are winding, twisted, and cobbled in places, though a few are still dirt and mud. Everything leads away from the wharves, where the inky water is home to fishing boats. My path is up the hill, with the ocean to my back and the wind in my face. Everything here feels heavier, older, wetter. I am not sure which I like more: the coolness of Gloucester, or the dustiness of the Territories. Nostalgia always hits when I am away from either. Granted, I will not return West, so I suppose I will always feel nostalgic about it. It is strange to hold with genteel traditions, such as a Congregational sermon every Sunday. It’s odd to wear lighter boots and put on gloves when I go out. The life I had out in the Dakotas seems so much more colorful than what I have now. But I do love the winds off the ocean, the salt in the air, the crying of gulls midday, and the white of the houses and the sky and the salt marshes.

  Beth is waiting for me at the trestle table in the big house. She has heated the stove for supper and set water to boil. She learns quickly, and I am pleased with her. I will have to say so to Mrs. Chester when I next get a chance. My new tendency to daydream is always cut short when I enter the kitchen. Always so much to do, so many things to attend. It is a good, busy life.

  “Mrs. Weber, I was hoping I might help with the tea on Monday,” Beth asks breathlessly. I see her eyeing up the jam I have put out and give a laugh.

  “You can taste it when it’s all set. If there is enough pastry dough, we can make petites for all the staff to try. I don’t think Mrs. Chester will mind.”

  She comes over to help me unload the basket, and then starts to clean the turnips. I pull out the mill to grind the puree once the vegetables are soft. It is a luxurious, fantastic kitchen to be sure, with plenty of space, many surfaces, and the stocked larder, but I miss the simplicity of the doctor’s. I am sure it is, once again, just nostalgia.

  “Mrs. Weber?” Beth breaks into my thoughts. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “I’m mainly self-taught,” I say, concentrating on putting the mill together. “I cooked for my husband, and then for a doctor in the Dakotas, and now here. Time helps us all learn.”

  “I’d like to be a fine cook like you, someday,” she says wistfully.

  “We’ll make sure have an education,” I tell her, and find myself warm at the idea. I could find purpose in that, teaching a young orphan a skill so she might always find wor
k. It is not unlike having a daughter for a few hours in a kitchen, teaching her how to make her way as a wife. I smile fully at her. “You will be making the main dishes in no time.”

  “Really?” Her soft, violet eyes sparkle. “I’ve only just started, but you think I might do so well?”

  “It’s a bit of an art, but not a difficult one.”

  She is so happy with this idea she falls to scrubbing the vegetables with renewed care. I smile at her young, narrow back. Yes, I will find a life here. It is possible.

  Chapter 31

  22 March 1882

  Aunt Mary sings off-key, but she does it with gusto. I look down at her in the middle of the church hymn and smile. She is tiny, like a delicate bird, and she wears overlarge pearls in her ears: her one glory from my uncle long since passed in the War Between the States. The wide-brimmed hat trembles with her warbling, and she has her eyes nearly closed, as if singing is an utter delight. I envy her abandon, her freedom in her age. Like me, she has no children, so my appearance in Gloucester gives her new life and vigor, and she is blooming with activities and notions.

  My mother is disappointed, but she understands my plain reasons for refusing to go home. I did not wish to return to Rockport, and live under a roof where I am a dependent again. Mother always did give my nature some encouragement, and she swayed my father in line with my preference. Anne, of course, thinks I am rash, and foolish, for remaining unmarried and taking on work.

  But Aunt Mary likes the simple method of life, the undulating of the sea, the quaintness of the village affairs, and she understands me well. I have only fond memories of her during my youth. She does not pry into my past much, and seems to surmise enough on her own with my sparse responses.

  The tune finishes, and we all file out of church. Ada and Jean Baker slide out before us, chatting happily with Mr. Baker and Jean’s beau, Clark. Rose is on the arm of her betrothed, their heads bent, still planning a wedding that has been the talk of Gloucester for months. Her grandmother, a close friend of Aunt Mary’s, is not helping matters by continuously adding new ideas and frills to the day.

  My eyes pass over the crowd. These are good people and they are more welcoming than I was expecting. I am lucky.

  And if I do not think about Doctor Kinney, I am that much better.

  As I nod about and follow my aunt, I catch the dairyman’s son watching me.

  He has his young boy on his hip and the girl in his grasp, and he is staring, as if measuring my strength. I have not spoken to him much, as his father runs the business ably, and I never met his young wife before she died, but he seems a gentle man.

  As he catches my eye, he gives a grave nod of his head, acknowledging that I caught him, then follows his parents out of the church.

  I frown. I do not think I want attention from any man just yet. But would Andrew’s interest give me a chance to move ahead, and perhaps have a baby of my own? Perhaps. Else I will dwell on my dusty past forever.

  Chapter 32

  22 March 1882

  At my little cottage, I prepare the tea for Rose and Jean, who arrive soon after church, flushed with spring chill and giggling over their menfolk.

  They are pretty things. Rose is slim and tall, and Jean is robust and also quite tall, and they make merry friends. I will be sad when they are each married and unable to come around quite so easily.

  “Come in, come in!” I open the door wide, and they walk into the kitchen, where the window gives a beautiful, wide view of the water. “You know where to put your wraps.”

  They trip in and out of the bedroom, then help with tea, chattering away as if they do not need to breathe. I enjoy their talking. It is refreshing to have it wash over me, so I do not need to think. It is my Sunday evenings, alone and quiet, that are the hardest to fill.

  “Did you see Andrew Angus making eyes at you?”

  I look up from my cup, surprised. I did not think anyone had noticed.

  “I don’t think it was quite like that,” I say carefully.

  “Andrew has kept his head down with his children for nearly a year now. I’m glad you caught his attention. He needs a nice woman to make him happy again,” Jean states.

  “Does he? I thought he was still grieving his wife.”

  “Oh, Janie, you ought to consider it!” Rose puts in.

  The two of them are love matches, so they think everyone else might be as well, and they dive into speculation of my future with gusto.

  “I’ve decided I am not meant to be a wife,” I say, and offer the biscuits in hopes of changing the subject. Jean takes one and bites off a corner.

  “You’d be grand at it, and you know it. Are you really happy being a cook at the Chester house? That’s what you want?”

  “I don’t think it is really about what I want, but what is. This is my life, and I’ll find happiness. I’ve found you two.”

  Rose hums. “I still say you should at least consider him. I’ve known him all my life, and he’s a very dear soul.”

  My silence prompts them to tackle the latest of Rose’s wedding decisions.

  They know me enough to understand I won’t speak if I don’t wish to divulge anything further. I’ve finally been able to master my easy emotions by not talking much to anyone, especially on topics like these.

  The glint of amber catches my eye, where the bottle and Doctor Kinney’s handwritten prescription sparkles on the fireplace mantle, half-hidden behind my new handful of secondhand books.

  Warm regards, he’d written.

  He doesn’t write me at all, now.

  Chapter 33

  23 April 1882

  Andrew Angus, the dairyman’s son, asks Aunt Mary if he might court me formally a month later. I do not see why, and I ask him so bluntly at our first uncomfortable sitting in her parlor on Sunday afternoon. Aunt Mary, my chaperone in Gloucester, is with us. As we are both widowed, she does not see the need to actually sit in the same room, and graciously excuses herself at my bald question. Through the narrow doors, she is a shadow in the adjoining room.

  He has the grace to flush at my question, the high color turning his blond hair almost pink, the dusting of freckles disappearing for an instant. He leans forward, the starch in his shirt crinkling and crackling.

  “I suppose because I realize there is no other way to really get to know you, Mrs. Weber. And whether or not we decide to marry, I’d rather see for myself first if we’d be a good match and go from there.”

  His honest answer makes me smile. It is much like how Doctor Kinney would respond, and a tiny seed of wonder wells in me. Maybe I am not destined to be alone after all, though it is too soon to hopefully speculate.

  Chapter 34

  16 June 1882

  I learn his children’s names: Anna and David. Suddenly I have two surrogate daughters: Beth in the kitchen who has a knack for bread like I do, and Anna who shadows me whenever she can. I like that I can mold her a bit, that she is eager to please. School goes out in May and she comes with me several mornings of each week to sit in the kitchen at the Chester house, learn some basic cooking, and watch. It is a gift to Andrew, who otherwise has his hands full helping his father run the dairy farm and the market, and keeping an eye on little Dave.

  As I drop off Anna at the dairy stall, she scampers off to help her grandmother in the back with the cheese wrappings. Andrew brings me my order instead of his father.

  “I must thank you for your time with Anna,” he says, handing me the milk and eggs. “She speaks about you nearly every night, and what you show her and tell her about the world, even beyond the kitchen.”

  “She is a good girl,” I say with a smile. I hold my words tightly to my chest, just to keep myself in check. Still, I do not think Andrew would judge me for the love I hold for Doctor Kinney. In fact, I think he would understand my story completely. It is one of the reasons I am slowly taking a shine to the man.

  “She is a good girl, and much like her mother.” Even after a full year, Andrew stil
l gets a bit emotional when he speaks of his wife. I know he stops by her grave every Sunday before church. I’ve seen him there, his head bowed and his children close.

  “I wish I could have met her.”

  “You would have liked her well enough, I suppose.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wonder if the hold his wife has in his memory finally wanes. It would be a step toward building a life with me, if he can be more stoic about her.

  “Well, anyway, she has a lovely little daughter,” I say, and put the rest of the cold goods in my basket.

  “Perhaps you might still have a daughter,” he says, and I stop short. He plunges on, and does not even flush at his romancing. “I think you’d make a very good mother, anyway.”

  Now I am the one blushing, so I move away before his father comes back out and sees us standing there, like two young ones falling in the first flushes of love.

  Chapter 35

  21 August 1882

  My mother smiles across the tray and cups. I try to spend a Sunday afternoon here and there with my parents in Rockport. It is not so far a distance from Gloucester, so I might accomplish it when the weather is fine and stay for tea before going back to my cottage.

  “So, your aunt is still well?” she asks. It is a routine question. Aunt Mary is one of Father’s relations, and Mother is always careful to be proper and ask about her. Father himself would care to hear, though he continues to busy himself in his study this Sunday instead of joining us.

  “She is, of course. I don’t think she’ll ever change,” I say, and take the offered cup.

  My mother pours herself the brew and daintily adds a small sliver of lemon and lump of sugar. She still has the prettiest manners. Anne and I always tried to emulate her as we grew older and entered society. She led by example rather than harsh forcefulness, which was a good practice for willful young daughters.