The Bride’s House

by Sandra Dallas

  “Hello there, Miss Bent. It is Miss Bent, isn’t it?” He removed his hat. “Mrs. Travers introduced you only by your first name, so I’m not sure.”

  “It is.” Nealie was pleased that he knew her name and that he called her Miss Bent instead of Miss Nealie. It sounded refined.

  “You hardly looked at me at dinner, and I was afraid you were angry that I’ve added to your burden. If that’s the case, I hope to make it up to you, for I’ve never liked to cause unpleasantness. So I waited here, thinking you might come out. I’m new in town and don’t have many friends yet. I’d like to consider you one.”

  It was the prettiest speech that Nealie had ever heard, and she was so taken with it that she couldn’t think how to reply. So she stood mute, teetering on the board, the slop bucket gripped in her hand.

  As if muteness were the proper answer, Will continued. “I’m told there is a drilling contest being held on Sunday afternoon, and I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of escorting you to it.”

  Nealie only stared.

  “I’m being awfully forward, but Georgetown doesn’t seem like a place where conventions matter much. In the East, you’d meet a girl at church and get to know her parents and then after a month or two, you’d ask to walk her home. That’s such a bore. Georgetown isn’t half so stiff. It’s one of the things I like about the place—the lack of conventions.” He stood up straight and put his hands on the top rail of the fence, and when Nealie didn’t respond, he said, “I apologize if I’ve given offense. Perhaps you’re spoken for.”

  “No. There’s nobody I care about,” Nealie replied. If she had been worldly, Nealie might have flirted a little, dropped a hint that she had many suitors, turned down Will’s first invitation while suggesting he might ask her out another time, made the man anxious. But she had none of those wiles. So tightening her grip on the bail handle of the bucket, she said, “You bet I’ll go. I mean, I’d be pleased to accept, Mr. Spaulding.” She wished her reply could have matched his fine words.

  “It will be my pleasure,” he said. “I’ll say good evening then and see you at breakfast in the morning.”

  Nealie watched him place his hat on his head, turn gracefully, and disappear into the night.

  “Oh, good evening yourself,” she called, not sure he heard her. She stared into the darkness for a long time. When she turned to go back into the house, she found Mrs. Travers at the door, watching.

  “Mr. Spaulding talks like a gentleman,” Mrs. Travers said in what was not entirely a compliment.

  “He asked me to go to the drilling contest come Sunday.”

  “So I heard.” Mrs. Travers stepped back to let Nealie enter the kitchen. “What about Charlie Dumas?”

  “What about him?” Nealie’s tone was defensive.

  “Wasn’t he planning to take you?”

  “I’m not obliged to him. Besides, he never asked.”

  “He probably thought he didn’t have to. He’ll be mighty hurt.”

  “Well, I don’t see why. I’ve never encouraged him.” Nealie poured hot water into the bucket and scoured it out. “He presumes.”

  Mrs. Travers studied the girl for a moment. “I wonder if Mr. Spaulding is all vine and no potatoes,” she said, so softly that Nealie asked her to repeat the words. But the woman held her tongue, maybe because it wasn’t her place to tell Nealie what to do. If the girl wanted a bit of fun, she wouldn’t stand in her way. It was clear that Nealie hadn’t had much of it in her life.

  * * *

  At supper later in the week, the men talked about the drilling contest and who was likely to win. There were three events that Sunday: single, double, and triple jacking. A single jacker gripped a four-pound hammer in one hand. In the other, he held a drill—a steel rod with a pointed tip—against a slab of granite. The jacker turned the drill each time he hit it, some fifty times a minute, until he’d drilled a hole deep enough for a charge of dynamite. Two men made up a double-jack team, one holding and turning the drill in the granite, while the other hit it with an eight-pound hammer. With triple jacking, two men took turns hitting the drill, which was held by a third man. The winner was the man or the team that drilled farthest into the rock in a given amount of time. A good jacker was much admired, because the mines needed efficient drillers to make the holes for the dynamite charges.

  “You going to enter?” one of the men asked Charlie Dumas.

  “Naw, it’s not much of a contest, not like the Fourth of July,” Charlie replied, looking at Nealie, who was handing around a platter of ham meat.

  “You afraid you’ll lose,” the man taunted.

  “I wouldn’t lose,” Charlie replied. “I’d just rather watch, that is, if somebody’ll watch with me.” He tried to catch Nealie’s eye, but she refused to look at him.

  “Charlie’s getting soft,” another man said. “Maybe he’s lost his touch.”

  “I’m as good as I always was. I’d just rather stand by Miss Nealie while some other miner gets up a sweat.” Charlie grinned at Nealie and said, “I’m going to put a bet on Jonce Kelly, and if he wins, I’ll treat you to dinner at the Hotel de Paris, Miss Nealie.” He pronounced the hostelry’s name Pair-is, instead of Pair-ee. “How’d you like that, Miss Nealie? I bet you never been there.”

  Nealie blushed and fled into the kitchen with the empty platter. She returned with a bowl of mashed potatoes in one hand and a pitcher of gravy in the other.

  “You’re going with me, aren’t you, Miss Nealie?” Charlie looked at her, a little uncertain.

  The girl set down the gravy so hard that it slopped onto the table. “No. I don’t reckon I am, Mr. Dumas,” she told him.

  “Aw, you’ll like the drilling contests. Won’t you go with me?” Charlie said, as the other diners stopped eating to watch the two.

  “I got plans,” Nealie said. “I got other plans.”

  Charlie stared at her. “You don’t want to go with me?” he asked, his mouth half filled with food. The other diners stared at him, and he shifted in his chair.

  “You should have asked me before. Like I said, I got plans.”

  The dining room, which had once been the tiny house’s parlor, was small, barely big enough for a table and nine chairs, and the air was always close, as if the miners around the table used it up. But it seemed even stuffier than usual, what with the window closed against the cold. Nealie wanted to flee to the kitchen to escape the curiosity of the boarders. One or two of them had hoped to court Nealie themselves, but they’d seen how it was with Charlie, and they’d kept silent. Now they listened with interest, looking from Charlie to Nealie, hoping she had quit the big man.

  “Miss Bent is going with me,” Will said quietly.

  Charlie stared at him, his mouth open.

  “It is my understanding she’s not spoken for, and I invited her. She accepted.”

  “You got no right,” Charlie said.

  “Yes he does. You don’t own me, Charlie Dumas. You never asked. You presume. I guess I’ll step out with anybody I please.”

  “We got an understanding,” Charlie persisted.

  “Not with me you don’t. I never agreed to anything with you.”

  Charlie’s face turned red and he looked at his hands. Nealie hadn’t wanted to embarrass him that way, but he shouldn’t have asked her out in front of the other boarders. He should have known better.

  Mrs. Travers came out from the kitchen then, her face flushed from leaning over the cookstove, her hands wrapped in her apron. “Nealie, would you help me?” she asked. Nealie bolted from the dining room, and Mrs. Travers followed, telling the girl, “You dish up the apple crisp. I’ll finish serving.”

  Nealie went to the bucket of water and splashed the cool liquid onto her face, then turned to the dessert and scooped it into bowls. She stayed in the kitchen until the boarders finished their suppers, talking little to each other, because they were all a bit embarrassed at what had happened. They left as soon as they had eaten their desserts, all
except for Will. Nealie found him waiting for her when she went back into the dining room with a shuckbroom to sweep the carpet. She was startled, and a thought came over her that Will was going to tell her he’d made a mistake in asking her out. She couldn’t blame him, of course, not after the scene Charlie had made. Will had been embarrassed, and he might think it her fault. Perhaps he had reconsidered asking her out and he was glad to have an excuse not to escort her. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t good enough to be seen with him.

  “If you would like to be released from our commitment, I understand, although I would be greatly disappointed,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bring you complications, Miss Bent. It seems that Charlie Dumas has a prior claim.”

  Nealie looked at him a moment before she said, “Mr. Dumas doesn’t have any claim on me. Pay you no attention to him, Mr. Spaulding. He means no more to me than a horsefly. I said I was walking out with you on Sunday, and I intend to do it.” She added, “If you still want me to.”

  “I do. Of course I do.” Will smiled at her. “That’s splendid then. Since I met you, I’ve begun to like Georgetown more and more.” As he picked up his hat, he added, “If you will pardon me for saying so, I believe you deserve better than a man who takes you for granted.”

  Nealie mulled over the remark after Will left and liked it.

  * * *

  The girl was close with her money, because she had known nothing but poverty and had a great fear of being caught up in it again now that she was on her own. Nonetheless, the next day, Nealie took a five-dollar gold piece from a tobacco sack she kept hidden in the toe of one of her Sunday shoes, which she’d purchased with her first wages, and tucked it into the basket when she went to market. After she had picked out the comestibles for supper, she asked Mr. Kaiser to take down a bolt of bright green cloth sprigged with white flowers that had caught her eye.

  He unrolled the bolt and let the fabric spill across the counter. Nealie grabbed the loose material and held it against her face, then picked up a hand mirror to see whether the color suited. It was difficult to tell with the small looking glass.

  “My, that’s pretty with your coloring. I’d look just like a green tomato in it,” a woman said, fingering the cloth. She was the wife of a miner who lived near the boardinghouse, and she and Nealie had exchanged pleasantries on the street.

  “You think it suits?” Nealie asked. She wished she’d brought Mrs. Travers along for her opinion since her employer was not one to flatter, but Nealie hadn’t wanted Mrs. Travers to see how excited she was about attending the drilling contest with Will Spaulding.

  “I do, and if you don’t like it, bring it to me, and I’ll make a quilt of it. A quilt that color would be like sleeping under spring.”

  “You don’t think it’s too … ah … brassy?” Nealie liked the brightness, because she had never had a dress made from new cloth. Her clothes, even when they were new to her, had always been faded and worn.

  “It’s bold, but brassy? No,” replied the woman, who was herself dressed in a blue bright enough to make nature blush.

  Nealie wasn’t yet reassured. She looked up at the bolts of yellow and red. She’d never had choices like this before. Nor had she ever looked at herself in a large mirror to see which colors were right on her. She did like the green better than the other material, however, and so she bought the fabric and thread and packets of pins and needles and took them all back to the boardinghouse.

  Mrs. Travers spotted the fabric before Nealie had emptied the basket. “Somebody’s going to wear a new dress on Sunday, I’d say.”

  “Do you like it?” Nealie asked.

  “You’ll be as bright as a willow tree,” Mrs. Travers said. She might have told the girl she’d look better in something more muted, but the fabric was already bought. She added, “Not many women can wear the color. I daresay you can.”

  Nealie breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, all I’ve got to do is sew it.”

  “If I help you with the stitching, we should have it done in no time.”

  “You’d do that? Even though you think I ought to step out with Mr. Dumas instead of Mr. Spaulding?”

  “That’s your business.” Mrs. Travers pinched the fabric between her fingers. “This will take some work.”

  “If we had a sewing machine, we could finish it before supper. I saw a sewing machine once. You just put the fabric under a needle, and it sews a seam all by itself.”

  “And drips oil on it and chews up the material, too. I believe we’ll do just as well by hand.”

  After they finished preparations for supper, the two women sat down at the dining room table, and using Nealie’s second dress as a pattern, they cut out the green. Mrs. Travers pinned the pieces together, then Nealie tried on the dress. Mrs. Travers checked the fit, moving pins in and out, until she was satisfied. By the time the two quit to begin cooking, the dress was ready for stitching.

  They finished their sewing on Saturday, Mrs. Travers doing most of the work, because Nealie was too restless to sit with a needle. She tried on the dress a final time, and then she looked at Mrs. Travers in dismay. “Buttons. I forgot to get buttons. I hope they have them at the store.”

  “I’ve got some you can use.” Mrs. Travers went to a trunk and pulled out a box. She removed a set of black buttons, tied together with a string, and another string of dull brass buttons. “You take your pick.” The black would tone down the green a little.

  “Brass. I never had brass buttons, although I found one once, a soldier button. I’ll rub them with salt to make them shine.” She didn’t see Mrs. Travers frown as if she shouldn’t have given the girl the choice.

  * * *

  Mrs. Travers did not serve meals on Sundays, so Nealie had hours to ready herself for her engagement with Will. She heated water on the cookstove and washed. Then she scrubbed her long hair, letting it dry by sitting with her back to the hot stove. She brushed the hair to get out the tangles, braided it, and wound the braid around the top of her head in a crown. She looked at herself in the small mirror over the dry sink, and dissatisfied, she took apart the braid and fashioned a bun at the nape of her neck. But she wasn’t happy with the way that looked, either, so she tried wearing her hair down, then finally, at Mrs. Travers’s suggestion, she pulled it back and tied it with a black ribbon. “I wish my hair was smooth,” she complained to Mrs. Travers, not realizing that the curls that escaped around her face softened her features and gave her a childlike innocence that was more appealing than any sophisticated hair style.

  Nealie put on the new dress, then took it off for fear of spoiling it and sat in the kitchen in one of Mrs. Travers’s old wrappers, talking to the older woman. Every few minutes she jumped up and checked the clock in the parlor. Finally, a half hour before Will Spaulding was to call for her, she put on the green dress and went into the parlor, standing instead of sitting so as not to wrinkle the skirt.

  Mrs. Travers came in then with a piece of lace wrapped in tissue. “Here’s you a collar. I wore it to my wedding, and as I intend never to have another one, I’ve got no use for it. It will look pretty on the green and frame your face.”

  Nealie looked at the older woman with astonishment, for no one had ever given her such a wonderful present before. In fact, she’d never received a real present at all, only the ore specimens that Charlie Dumas had found and the dynamite box he gave her that she used as a trunk. She had lined it with a bit of calico to protect her possessions from the rough wood. “I couldn’t,” she stammered. “It’s too fine for me.”

  “Nonsense. The collar’s not doing anybody any good lying in a trunk where it’ll turn yellow.” Mrs. Travers reached up and placed the collar around Nealie’s neck, then fastened it with a breastpin. “I’m only loaning you the pin,” she said.

  Nealie went into the kitchen and viewed herself in the mirror. “Why, I look as fine … as fine as frog’s hair.” She went back into the parlor, posing a little with her hand on the back of a chair, rehearsing what s
he’d say to Will when he arrived.

  When she heard the knock on the door, she hesitated, however, for she knew she shouldn’t appear anxious. She waited until there was a second knock, and Mrs. Travers called from the kitchen, “Are you froze into a statue, or can you see to the door?”

  Her chin held high, just like the highborn ladies she’d seen in Hannibal, Nealie opened the door, but the smile on her face quickly became a frown. “Mr. Dumas, what are you doing here? I told you I wasn’t going with you.”

  “I am. He came for me,” Mrs. Travers said, nudging Nealie aside and motioning for Charlie to enter. “I wanted to see the contest myself, and Mr. Dumas offered to take me. I’ll just get my wrap.”

  She left the room, and Nealie and Charlie stared at each other. At last, Nealie said, “That’s real nice of you to go with her.” She meant it, too, and felt not one bit of jealousy.

  Charlie struggled for a reply but didn’t make one, because at that moment, Will stepped onto the porch. When he saw Charlie, he stopped, confused.

  “Mr. Spaulding, come right in,” Nealie said quickly. “Mr. Dumas is taking Mrs. Travers to the contest.”

  “I see,” Will replied, holding out his hand to Charlie, who shook it reluctantly.

  “Come along, Charlie. We don’t want to be late,” Mrs. Travers said, returning to the room, where the two men stood awkwardly. “Nealie, there’s a shawl on a hook in my room for you.”

  Nealie didn’t want to wear a shawl, because the day was fine, but she did not care to leave with Charlie and Mrs. Travers, either, so she went into the bedroom, waiting until she heard the couple go down the walk. Then she returned to Will and set the wrap on a chair. “I guess I won’t need this, after all. Besides, it will spoil my dress.” She ran her hands across the skirt. “I just made it. Do you like it?”

  Will stood back and looked at her critically, taking in the bright green, the brass buttons. “I’ll never lose sight of you. That’s for sure. Neither will anyone else.”