The bell over the door jangled. Esther did not immediately glance up; her customer was comparing two hats before making her selection. Ava, knowing that Esther was busy, came from the back of the shop to help the new customer.
“Oh! Mr. McKennie. What a surprise.” Ava’s smile was tentative—his presence was indeed a surprise. While Connor had been present at another Sunday dinner two weeks past, his behavior toward his grandmother’s guests had been uniformly taciturn. He had certainly never expressed any curiosity about Esther and Ava’s dress shop.
Esther glanced away from her customer; she, too, was surprised to see Connor. He had yet to speak two kind words to either her or Ava.
Without acknowledging Ava’s greeting, Connor stared around the shop. He frowned and studied the display of laces, buttons, beaded trims, rickrack, and piping. Ava drew near him but waited for him to speak.
“This is how you make your living?” he demanded.
Ava was confused and stuttered, “Well, yes. We accessorize dresses and hats and perform alterations.”
Connor grunted and turned his attention to the racks of ready-made dresses. He pulled one from the rack and looked it over. “So you add the trimming? Yourselves?”
“Of course. Who do you think would do it?” Ava sounded miffed; she was growing impatient.
He didn’t respond, but he hung the dress back on the rack. Without turning his eyes to Ava he said, “My grandmother sent me to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. She would have asked you herself on Sunday but the weather was bad, if you recall.”
“Oh. I’m sure we would be delighted to come. When—”
“I’m to drive in tomorrow afternoon and bring you back.”
“I see. How lo—”
“We’ll bring you back Sunday morning in time for church.”
“Do you always interrupt?” Ava was beyond irritated.
“Not always.” He moved toward the door.
“And can we expect to be graced with your presence at Thanksgiving dinner?”
He shrugged. “That’s likely.”
“I’m surprised you won’t be at your parents’ for Thanksgiving.”
“We’ll all be meeting at Søren and Meg’s Thanksgiving Day. My parents, too.” he mumbled.
Esther had kept one ear trained on the exchange between Ava and Connor while assisting her customer. The woman decided on the hat she wished to buy and Esther was writing a receipt when Connor opened the door on his way out.
By way of goodbye, he threw over his shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow about three o’clock.”
“Well!” Ava’s vexation was boiling over.
Their customer, a matronly woman, chuckled. “Mark the day, ladies. You’ve heard more words today from Connor McKennie than many a folk around here have heard in years.”
“D’ye remember our Thanksgiving at th’ lodge?” Breona and Marit were polishing the few silver items Palmer House possessed for the Thanksgiving feast on the morrow. Breona’s question held all the beauty and wonder that memory evoked.
“Oh, yes!” Marit stopped polishing and recalled their first Thanksgiving in Corinth—their first and last in the lovely old lodge before it burned.
Joy had envisioned the lodge as a mountain retreat that would attract wealthy city guests longing for peace and quiet. The guests were to provide the income she, Breona, and Marit needed to survive in Corinth. Then, God willing, they would find a way to help the girls ensnared in the two “gentlemen’s clubs” located in the tiny town.
To that end, Joy had sent for many of the fine furnishings stored in her warehouse in Omaha—the furnishings she and Grant had planned to use to open a new business. Mr. Wheatley and Billy, Grant and Joy’s former employees, had tagged along with the furnishings and had been with them ever since.
Joy had requested the best of what she had in storage be brought to Corinth, and Marit, having never been far from her dairy community, had been overwhelmed when she had seen the men unloading the heavy dining tables and chairs and the ornate china cabinet and sideboard. She had been in raptures when she unpacked the boxes containing the elegant silver tea service, china place settings, and crystal stemware.
Thanksgiving Day had been the loveliest holiday Breona or Marit had ever known—two tables set with an overabundance of candles in gleaming candelabras, a fine dinner served on the finest china, and the company of new, dear friends.
But all those beautiful things had been lost when the lodge burned. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner would still be served on their best dishes, but those “best dishes” would be mismatched and the table linens cleverly patched here and there.
No, they would likely never have as elegant a Thanksgiving celebration again. Both women chuckled as they looked over their meager silver selection, dinged, dented, and tarnished.
“’Twas grand,” Breona breathed. “’Twas t’ grandest we’re loik t’ see in ourn lifetimes, I’m thinkin’.”
“It vas the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” Marit agreed.
“Boot, we be havin’ much more than silver now, eh?” Breona grinned, “An’ I wouldna be changin’ onythin’, ’cept t’ have Flinty here.”
Marit nodded. The mention of their dear friend, now gone, still stung.
“Such riches we be havin’ canna be bought,” Breona added.
“Ja, you are right,” Marit smiled.
Connor delivered Esther and Ava to Brian and Fiona’s as promised and then disappeared. Esther found herself hoping he would remain absent during the holiday.
It is hard to relax when he is around, Esther sighed, when it feels as though he is continually watching us, hoping to catch us doing something wrong.
Thanksgiving morning dawned, and Esther and Ava were caught up in Fiona’s demanding schedule. The two girls peeled a mountain of potatoes and apples and grated bowls of spices while Fiona mashed the potatoes and rolled out crusts for pies.
“How many will be eating dinner at Søren and Meg’s?” Esther asked.
“Ach! Thirty-five ’twas bein’ th’ last count,” Fiona replied—as though thirty-five at dinner was an everyday occurrence!
“Thirty-five!” Ava gasped. “Where will they all sit?”
“Dinna ye be worryin’ ’bout that,” Fiona laughed. “Meg will be havin’ it well in hand.”
Esther and Ava had not visited Søren and Meg’s house before. As they bundled up and piled into the wagon for the ride over, Brian mentioned that Søren and Meg lived in what was the Thoresen brothers’ first house, built on Jan Thoresen’s homestead, “Boot wi’ additions,” he added.
Additions, indeed! Esther marveled. She could see where the original house had been substantially expanded: The combined dining room and living room of the farmhouse was at least thirty feet in length. Two long rows of tables extended from the dining room’s wall to the end of the living room.
Three of Søren and Meg’s four children and their families were already present. Brian, Fiona, Esther, Ava, Connor’s parents, and Martha Combs (née McKennie) and her family raised their numbers to thirty-six.
Other buggies and wagons hailed them and drove past Søren and Meg’s house on their way to Karl Thoresen’s home just across the field.
“We only try to get the entire family together in the summertime,” Meg explained to Esther. “We help each other harvest and hold bonfire sing-alongs—like tonight, but without the bonfire.”
“A sing-along? Tonight?” Ava clapped her hands, thrilled at the prospect.
“Aye. Around six o’clock the crowd over at Karl’s house will come here. The men will break down the tables and we will gather in here and fill this room with singing!” Meg’s cheeks bloomed with color and her beautiful auburn hair, only a little faded through the years, made her appear far younger than her mid-forties age.
Esther and Ava found the number of women involved in preparing the feast—all crowded into the kitchen and talking at once—to be intimidating. As the women shooed the children out-of-doors, Esther
and Ava slipped through the door that led to the combined dining room and living room. They believed themselves alone until someone cleared his throat.
There in the corner sat Connor.
He stared at them, his dark eyes unwelcoming. Esther and Ava, pretending that the atmosphere in the room wasn’t distinctly chilly, occupied themselves by studying the small collection of framed family portraits hanging on the walls.
“Look here, Ava!” Esther pointed to a photograph.
Ava looked closely at the image Esther pointed to, a couple and their young daughter. Her mouth curved in delight.
“It’s Miss Rose!” she laughed. “And that must be Miss Joy!”
“Yes, quite a while ago,” Esther added. “That must be Rose’s husband. I heard he died not long ago. What a handsome man he was!”
They finished looking over the photographs and wandered toward one of the windows. Out of it they could see a knot of men standing near the barn, chatting and laughing, while children gamboled around them. Esther finally selected a chair by the window and sat down. Ava joined her.
They said nothing and did not look toward Connor.
“I was somewhat surprised by your shop,” Connor said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
Esther didn’t know what he was implying. “Oh? I’m sorry; I don’t take your meaning. In what way were you surprised?”
He shrugged. “Guess I thought the clothing would be . . . gaudier.”
Esther blinked, not believing what he was insinuating. “Gaudier. As in what exactly?”
Connor didn’t flinch from her question. “As in your former vocation.”
“I am happy you were disappointed,” Esther responded, her face heating. “But apparently you are not the gentleman your grandfather is. He would not have taken such effort to make your point.”
“Because I don’t ignore and dance around the obvious division your coming here has created in this community?” His jaw was set, his challenge was unmistakable.
“Division. I see,” Esther grated. “So, unlike your grandparents, you’re not of the forgiving type.”
“Forgiving? I don’t feel the need to forgive you. I just don’t happen to believe people really change their stripes. I’m just wondering how long your attempt to earn an honest living will last. How long before you turn back to a more familiar occupation or until you corrupt one of our young men or women.”
Ava’s mouth hung open, but Esther, nearly blind with rage, stood up. “So you’re waiting for us to set up a bordello in the back room of our shop, is that it? Why? Why would you think such a horrid thing? Is it because you would like to be one of our first customers?”
He blanched. “That is a filthy thing to say.”
“Filthy? You have no room to talk, Connor McKennie,” Esther spat. “You’ve just accused us of planning to start a whorehouse in RiverBend! After all the kindness the people here have shown us? You must think us monsters!”
Her expression darkened. “Oh, believe me, I know your type. You practice your ‘religion’ of redeeming grace within the walls of a church building but as soon as you walk outside, you condemn anyone whose past—forgiven or not—has not lived up to your standards. For you, there is no redemption for a fallen woman.”
She glared at him, even as her chin began to quiver. “Do you think every ‘fallen’ woman had a choice in the matter? Well, while some of them did, many others did not, Mr. McKennie. Not every little girl grew up with a father and mother who cherished and protected her. Not every little girl—”
Esther’s control abandoned her. She stammered, “Not-not ev-every li-li—” but could not finish. Her face collapsed and she broke down into sobs. Whirling about, she pushed through the front door and ran down the slope toward the road that led over the creek. Back toward Brian and Fiona’s farm. Back toward the safety of their little shop in town. Anywhere but here!
Connor McKennie stared after her, his scowl dark and foreboding. “Good riddance,” he muttered.
“You are a bigoted, ignorant fool, Connor McKennie.” Ava was not usually outspoken, but defense of her friend ripped away her normal reserve. “You think you know so much? You think your precious Erica was pure as the driven snow, her virtue the only ruler by which every woman is to be measured?”
“Don’t you dare speak her name,” Connor shouted. “Don’t you defile her name with your filthy mouth!”
Ava glared at him, shaking with shame and pain. “Tell me, Mr. McKennie. Did the father of your precious Erica sell her to a bordello at age twelve? Because that’s what Esther’s father did. He sold her, like a man sells a cow. Her own father. Sold her into slavery. What would you have thought of your darling Erica, had her father done the same?”
Ava felt she was going to throw up. She gagged and started to stumble. Connor instinctively reached out a hand to steady her, but she pushed it off.
“Don’t you touch me, you hypocrite!” Ava ran through the door and, as fast as she could follow, trailed after the lone figure now far down the road.
Connor was left alone in the living room, and the emptiness in his heart, the emptiness he was so accustomed to, was displaced by something else, something unfamiliar. He ran a hand through his hair and found he was shaking.
Could what Ava said be true? Could a father ever sell his own daughter . . . like that?
The revulsion he felt made him shudder: Revulsion at the images Ava’s words carved into his imagination.
Revulsion at a father scorning his most sacred duty.
Revulsion at the horror of a child defiled.
But above all, revulsion at his own cruelty.
Connor was still standing there, trapped between loathing and regret, when Fiona came looking for Esther and Ava. “We were hearin’ bad-tempered words, Connor, and on Thanksgiving! For shame! What—why, where air they bein’?”
She rounded on him. When he didn’t answer but turned his head away, she demanded, “Oh, Connor McKennie, what have ye done? Where are Miss Esther and Miss Ava?”
He looked at his grandmother’s feet, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I believe Esther and Ava have walked home,” he stated. “We had something of a . . . disagreement.”
Fiona stared at him. “I see.” And perhaps she saw more than he thought she did, for after many moments, she folded her arms.
“Connor, ye air m’ grandson, an’ I love ye. Ye air knowin’ I do,” she whispered. “Boot ye’ve bin pinin’ for your sweetheart long enow. I’m fearin’ ye hev allowed th’ sorrow t’ be twistin’ yer heart awry from th’ Lord an’ his ways.”
Nodding to herself, she sighed and added, “I canna allow ye t’ harm two lasses already wounded s’ badly.”
He met her eyes then and her disappointment was plain. “Take yersel’ off, Connor. ’Tis a meetin’ wi’ God ye b’ needin’. An’ I’ll b’ thankin’ ye not t’ darken ourn door till ye be seein’ yersel’ as much a sinner in need o’ grace as onyone else.”
He flushed, slowly nodded, and let himself out the same door Esther and Ava had just used.
~~**~~
Chapter 12
Thanksgiving had been ruined for Esther and Ava, something they refused to talk about, even with Fiona. Instead the girls both pursed their lips and set themselves at their work—with the exception of one mournful comment by Ava. “I had so looked forward to the sing-along.”
Esther hugged her friend and they did not speak of it again. They both prayed and did their best to put Connor McKennie from their minds. They were grateful when December started well for their shop.
Esther had talked Ava into risking their small savings, maintaining that Christmas would boost their sales. And so they had spent—invested, Esther insisted on calling it—all the money they had on new stock for the holidays.
The girls were excited the morning Jeremy Bailey delivered a crate just arrived on the train. It could have been Christmas morning for them, as thrilled as the little shop owners were. They spent the morning unpa
cking and arranging what they hoped was an artful display of tempting but affordable gifts for women: Handbags, gloves, tasteful pieces of costume jewelry, handkerchiefs, and small bottles of cologne.
They were pausing for lunch when Ava heard a soft knock at the back door. She wiped her hands on her apron and opened it but saw no one. Instead, a pair of pheasants, freshly killed, lay on the back step.
Ava stared at the brilliant green of the pheasants’ feathers and called to her friend. “Esther.”
“Who is it?” Esther bustled to the back door; Ava stepped aside so Esther could see for herself.
“Oh.” They didn’t say the words aloud; the peace offering spoke on its own, and neither of them doubted who had left it.
“I must say,” Ava huffed, “in the past we have both received flowers and candy from clients who behaved as utter louts, but never . . . dead birds.”
“It is not as though this fixes anything,” Esther muttered. Every word Connor McKennie had hurled at her still haunted her; every day was a struggle to press on with the harsh condemnation ringing in her ears.
“Well, I don’t intend to leave this bounty on the step one more minute.” Ava, ever practical, lifted the birds by their curled feet. “I plan to eat well tonight!”
“Yes,” Esther replied, distracted. She scanned up and down the alley and, seeing no one, closed the door.
Christmas would fall on a Sunday this year. At Palmer House preparations for the holy day grew to fever pitch.
Ten days prior to December 25, Marit set to the Christmas baking with fierce and joyous abandon, conscripting help from every resident of Palmer House. Any soul who dared wander through the kitchen was subject to Marit’s command!
Mr. Wheatley found himself grating nutmeg, ginger, and cinnamon; Marion chopped mountains of walnuts, almonds, and candied fruits; Jenny whipped butter and cream until her arms ached, handing off the bowls to Flora or Alice to take over her chore, only to be tasked with sifting flour.
As the days passed, the upper shelves in the pantry filled with cakes, pies, and cookies, and the lower shelves groaned under fruitcakes soaking in pungent, spicy brine.
Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5) Page 12