Stone Dreaming Woman

by Lael R. Neill

  Mavis, too, wore her Sunday best and had just finished winding an old-fashioned knitted fascinator around her head when Jenny came downstairs.

  “Well, Jen, we’re ready. Toby’s bringing the team around. You’d best wear your furs. It’s cold outside,” Richard advised.

  “You’ve done so well with Toby, Mr. Weston. Perhaps he’s not as slow as everyone thinks,” Mavis remarked, picking up her coat. “You know, he wasn’t born deaf. He was as right as rain, going to school and everything, until the scarlet fever when he was ten years old. He nearly died, and when he got over it he couldn’t hear any longer.”

  “Really?” Jenny said. “Well, that just reinforces what I thought when I first saw him. He may not actually be retarded at all.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Richard allowed. “He does well enough when I can make him understand what I want.”

  The physician in Jenny lit up like a lantern as it had when she first saw Toby. “I had an idea about him a while ago. Would you object if I try to teach him to read? He may have the foundations for it already. If he could just communicate, it might open up a whole new world for him.”

  “That’s a splendid idea,” Richard said, opening the door for them. He took her wicker picnic basket and gave her a hand up into the seat of the buckboard. He could afford a much nicer buggy. Heaven only knew why he drove an old rattletrap of a farmer’s wagon. But Richard had become an anomaly in the Weston family: an artistic and unrealistic daydreamer whom the details of day-to-day life touched only lightly.

  “Uncle Richard, why do you drive this thing?” she asked. “It’s awfully open to be running around with during the winter.”

  “It was in the barn when I bought the place,” he replied with a shrug. “The weather’s not that bad, if you dress for it. If it’s too raw outside, I stay home.” He helped Mavis up, then came around to take the driver’s seat. He settled himself, clucked to The Girls, shook the reins, and they were off.

  At that latitude in January, full dark fell by five o’clock. Fortunately a decent moon rode part way up the clear, dark sky, illuminating the road with long, sharp shadows. He whistled tunelessly as the horses trotted along, while Jenny let her mind go blank and merely enjoyed the crisp night.

  A collection of idle conveyances already surrounded the church when they arrived. Richard quickly tethered and blanketed The Girls before ushering Jenny and Mavis inside. The solid and surprisingly large brick building boasted a big fellowship hall in the basement. They hung their wraps in the outer hallway, and Mavis showed Jenny where to put her basket. About twenty baskets lined two long tables; she placed hers on the end. Soon they would go to young men who would then claim the donors as their partners for the evening. In theory, no one knew which basket belonged to whom, but in practice, most of the swains had been well coached beforehand.

  Jenny went through so many introductions that her head swam by the time the pastor moved to start the proceedings. She sat between Mavis and Richard at a long table near the right side of the hall, and just as Reverend Aubrey came to the front of the room, three figures in red tunics slipped in. The first, quite tall and slim, had crisp, light blond hair. She recognized the second as the French-speaking constable from the train. The third one drew a smile from Richard. Jenny looked the other way.

  “Do you know that shorter officer in the middle?” Mavis asked Richard.

  “That’s Constable Laurence Bernard. He comes up from River Bend sometimes, usually when there’s an emergency here. He seems a very personable young man, although I’ve only spoken with him on two or three occasions,” Richard said. “And, Jenny, the tall, blond fellow is Shane’s partner—actually his subordinate officer—Corporal Paul Weller. I’ll introduce you when the opportunity presents itself.”

  “I think I told you Constable Bernard was on the train with me. We had rather a nice conversation, all in French, of course,” Jenny responded.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our box social,” Reverend Aubrey began. The tall young man had such a rich, resonant voice that Jenny wondered if he could sing. “Shall we stand for a word of prayer?” he said with formality. The room filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and shuffling feet, then all went quiet. Jenny bowed her head but cut her eyes sideways at the three police officers who stood in identical reverent parade-rest poses against the far wall.

  A minute or so later the auction started. Some baskets drew frantic competition; others went quietly to the first and only bidder. To Jenny’s astonishment, Richard paid an entire dollar for the basket that turned out to belong to Ruth Grayson, the postmistress. As Richard came forward to claim his basket, Jenny saw Shane and Paul trade a pointed look, and surprise on other faces in the crowd, too, with a few gasps, and not inconsiderable murmuring. There must be a story here, Jenny concluded.

  Richard escorted Ruth back to their table. “Jenny, this is Miss Ruth Grayson, our postmistress. Ruth, may I present my niece, Miss Jenny Weston,” he said as he seated Ruth. She seemed quiet, graceful, and perhaps a year or two older than Jenny herself. She wore her sleek walnut-red hair drawn back into an elegant figure-eight chignon and her dove grey dress with delicate ruching about the collar flattered both her graceful figure and her hazel eyes.

  “Miss Grayson. How do you do?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Weston. I understand you’re here for an extended visit?”

  “Yes I am. I just completed graduate school, and I need time to breathe,” Jenny replied.

  “Did you bring a basket?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Mrs. Conner insisted. But it looks like it’ll be the last one sold. And since I don’t know anyone here, it’s immaterial who buys it.” Jenny was being less than cordial on purpose. She did not care to make friends in Elk Gap. The fewer people who knew her, the fewer who could intrude on the very big grudge she had against a world that would not accept women in medicine. At the moment, that grudge sat very heavily upon her shoulders.

  As Reverend Aubrey moved down the table, it became obvious that Jenny’s basket would indeed be the last one up for bids. And while Paul and Laurence entered successful bids and partnered with properly modest and nicely turned out young ladies in the course of things, Shane had yet to open his mouth. Reverend Aubrey held up Jenny’s basket.

  “Bids, anyone?” he asked, peeking inside. “I can’t tell you what’s in it. That wouldn’t be fair. But I can tell you that it smells wonderful.” An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

  “Fifty cents,” Shane said. Jenny’s heart slammed through the floor.

  “Sergeant Adair has bid fifty cents. Going once, going twice… Sergeant Adair, you are about to share a real feast. Will the lady who brought this basket please stand up?” Jenny could not miss the surprised gasp and delayed polite applause when she rose. Shane took the basket and came to the table.

  “Good evening,” she said coolly. Right now the only man exempt from her grudge was her uncle. Consequently, Sergeant Adair collided squarely with the arctic blast that swirled inside Jenny’s heart.

  “Miss Weston. Such a surprise. I thought I was going to save Julia Tillman from being a wallflower.”

  Her hostile eyes transfixed him with a withering glance that, to her chagrin, seemed to have no effect. “I’ve never been a wallflower in my life. I’m not about to start now.” She took a cue from Ruth, who had begun quietly unpacking her basket.

  “This looks like Mavis’s doing,” he remarked.

  “It is. I’ve never learned to cook.”

  “I wouldn’t miss her fried chicken for the world.”

  He allowed her to serve him, then thanked her perfunctorily.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Shane,” Ruth remarked.

  “Why, Ruth?” He fixed her with a level look that could have gone completely through her. She looked down with a confused expression.

  “Well…no reason, really. Just…surprised, that’s all.” Jenny caught Richard’s eye. His
expression warned her away from the subject. Shane fell silent, all his attention purposefully fixed on his food.

  Conversation at the table inevitably drifted to the political situation in Europe. Will Tillman, sitting next to Ruth, gestured with a crisp drumstick; his wife had also contributed fried chicken to the potluck.

  “It seems to me there’s always trouble in the Balkans,” he opined. “Everybody wants a piece of those countries. Germany wants Austria and half of France, and the Good Lord only knows what the French want. Truth be known, I doubt they even know. You’ve been in Europe recently, Richard. What’s your opinion?”

  “I went to research the High Middle Ages, not to study current events. But you’re right. The Balkans have always been the best route between Europe and Asia. Whoever controls them controls commerce. And I agree. There’s so much unrest in Serbia. It’s going to erupt and take the rest of Europe with it.”

  “Why do you want to dwell on the past? It’s over and done with,” Andy protested.

  “Those who do not remember history are condemned to repeat it, after all,” Richard said.

  “Attributed to Voltaire,” Jenny interjected.

  “Thank God we won’t be involved,” Ruth said.

  “Oh, we will. The minute Britain gets dragged in, we’ll go.” It was the only word out of Shane so far.

  And I hope you’re the first to enlist, Jenny thought sourly.

  “At least we won’t have to serve unless we want to.” The source was Paul Weller, who had bought Mary Ann Tillman’s box. He sat two places down from Jenny. Richard stopped the conversation for further introductions, then picked up the topic again.

  “Oh? How so? You’ll be needed for security here at home?”

  “Just so. Police officers are exempt from conscription.”

  Jenny looked at the chevrons on Paul’s right sleeve, then at the insignia on Shane’s and decided on a different tack to let the unforgivably dense sergeant know what she thought of him. She would pretend he was not there for a while. “Corporal Weller, I don’t understand what your ranks are. Could you explain it to me, please?” Paul looked surprised that she had asked him, which was just what she was after.

  “Well, Miss Weston, everyone starts out as Constable. That’s Laurence Bernard. He was only recruited about six months ago. Non-officers begin with Corporal. Then it goes to Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, and Staff Sergeant Major, and Sergeant Major. There is such a thing as Corps Sergeant Major, but there’s only one of them, and it’s an honorary thing. Actually, any non-officer rank above Staff Sergeant is uncommon. They’re usually relegated to administration, recordkeeping, and the like, and most of them are at Headquarters in Regina. Officers start as Inspector, Superintendent, Chief Superintendent, Deputy Commissioner, and Commissioner. These other badges are sharpshooter ranks. They begin with cross pistols and cross rifles. The crown cross pistols and crown cross rifles Sergeant Adair and I both have are the higher grade. And this one that looks like a star is a five-year service badge.” He pointed to Shane’s left sleeve.

  “I hope you’re not offended. After all, one is simply expected to know military ranks and badges and the like.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not offended. Not in the least. After all, you’ve only been in God’s country a few days. One must begin somewhere.” He responded loftily, picking up on her flirtatious overture. She decided she liked his wit, his open countenance, and the easy smile that lit his blue eyes. Shane, however, sat expressionless. Tired circles smudged the light skin beneath his eyes, and at one point he rubbed the front of his left shoulder moodily. It aroused Jenny’s clinical suspicions, but she said nothing.

  The strained evening died a merciful death, and Richard reclaimed The Girls. Politely Shane escorted Jenny to the wagon.

  “Thank you for the supper, Miss Weston,” he said after she had accepted Richard’s hand up to the buckboard.

  “You’re welcome, Sergeant. But you should thank Mavis, not me. And I thank you for rescuing me. I was about to sully my perfect record and become a wallflower for the first and only time in my life.” Her tone was as icy as she could make it.

  “I sincerely apologize. It was gauche of me to imply that, and I wish I could take back my words. Well, then, good evening.” She watched as he strode off down the street, catching up with Laurence and Paul in the next block. Richard swung the team out toward the North Village Road.

  “Well, now, wasn’t that a completely unmitigated disaster?” Jenny sighed.

  “Yes. In more ways than one,” Richard agreed.

  “I gather Shane is no longer seeing Ruth Grayson. But then, it was never serious between them,” Mavis remarked. “It was more like they were the only two of an age for each other, so it was natural that they keep company. Ruth is too gentle a soul to accept that Shane’s occupation can be dangerous. It preyed on her mind, I think,” Mavis observed. Jenny began adding the sum in her head. That could explain a lot. He’s been jilted and he’s as fed up with women as I am with men.

  Chapter Three

  The next few days at the quiet ranch slid past quickly. Jenny helped Mavis with the housework, which was not onerous since Richard contracted their laundry out to a sturdy German woman and her equally big-armed, slow-witted son, and everything beyond the front flowerbeds belonged to Toby. For Jenny’s energetic nature the idyll ebbed, and she knew she had to do something or she would wind up with cabin fever. Besides, Mavis had been delighted when she asked for help with a riding skirt, and she wanted to go to town to see what Tillman’s General Store had in the way of suitable fabric. So on Friday morning, Toby hitched The Girls to the buckboard, and Jenny meandered her way into town with an extensive shopping list in her jacket pocket. She hummed as the mismatched old horses sauntered down the road at a very low trot. The day was calm and unseasonably warm, making the spotty snow seem aged and decaying, and overhead the sky hung leaden with low, rounded clouds.

  Eventually Elk Gap came into view down the tree-lined road. She made her first stop at Barnes and Sons, the livery stable and also the local feed-and-seed store. The proprietor, a youngish, burly man named Josh, loaded two fifty-pound sacks of grain for The Girls into the buckboard as though they weighed nothing, and welcomed Jenny to town. She perused the half-dozen horses he had for sale, ruling out four out of hand. He puffed up with offended pride and presented another two—a small, skittish young mare that seemed barely green broke, and a gelding that looked all right standing but paddled badly above a walk. In the end she declined them all and found it difficult to break away from Josh, who insisted that she did not know the first thing about horses and had no idea what a great bargain she was passing up. Finally she bade him good day with some firmness and returned to her buckboard. Then she tied the team to the hitching rail in front of Tillman’s and went inside. The proprietor, in his indefinite fifties, his thinning, dark hair parted down the center and relentlessly plastered down, came from behind the counter.

  “Well, Miss Weston, good morning. I’m Will Tillman. I remember you from the box social. What can I do for you?”

  “Yes, I certainly remember you, too. It was a rather…memorable night.”

  “I hope your visit is proving pleasant.”

  “It is indeed. I needed the same peace and quiet Uncle Richard has found here. Besides, I just graduated from school, and I haven’t seen my uncle in three years. He’s always been my favorite relative.”

  “Mr. Weston is a very pleasant gentleman,” Will agreed.

  “I’ll doubtless have the pleasure of seeing you and your family in church again. I have a grocery list here from Mrs. Conner, and I also need to look at your yard goods.”

  “Give me the list and I’ll have Andy fill it. And our dry goods are through that doorway.” He pointed off to his right where, at some time in the past, two buildings had been joined by an archway cut through the brickwork between them. “If you don’t find what you need, let me know. I can always order anything you’d like.”

 
“Thank you. I won’t be long.”

  “Oh, take all the time you want, and please call me if you need help finding anything,” he said amicably, picking up the list she had laid on the thick glass counter.

  Mr. Tillman, she had to admit, ran a large and varied dry goods inventory. There had to be at least fifty bolts of cloth on the tables, plus notions, knitting needles, yarn, crochet hooks, and thread, needlework supplies, hat forms, and a few printed patterns. She found what she needed almost immediately: a bolt of dark blue denim. But she wandered around, looking at the cloth, until a striped cotton broadcloth caught her eye. The delicate pattern, several shades of blue on a white background with a red thread running through it, simply shouted Mavis. She picked up the bolt, and also selected a brown-and-blue madras that would coordinate well with her denim. She dawdled for another few minutes, picked up two spools of thread, some blue buttons, and a simple woman’s shirtwaist pattern, then carried everything back to the counter. But by that time Millie, a tallish, neat woman, was behind it. She wore a primly starched, high-collared blouse with a cameo at her throat, and a practical black serge skirt.

  “Miss Weston, so good to see you again.”

  “My pleasure entirely, Mrs. Tillman.”

  “Did you find everything you need?”

  “Yes, I did. I’d like three yards of each, please. No, on second thought, five yards of the blue stripe, if you would?”

  “Of course.” Millie measured out the denim and cut it precisely. “You’re going to sew?” she asked rhetorically.

  “Mrs. Conner has agreed to help me make a riding skirt. I’m going to make a shirt to complement it. And the blue stripe is for Mrs. Conner by way of thank-you.”

  “Oh, Mavis will love this. Truth be known, she’s been casting covetous eyes at that bolt of cloth ever since we received it.”

  “Do you think five yards is enough?”

  “Oh, that depends,” Millie answered, wrinkling her brows thoughtfully. “Now, if you bought six yards, she could make anything she wanted to.”