She Shall Be Praised

by Ginny Aiken

  So it was up to her to make the best of things. Her only problem was that she didn’t have the slightest notion what those gifts might be.

  “Dreadful!” Oh, the horrid, ghastly, appalling, vile, and revolting indignity of it all.

  Emma fought to contain her anger and disgust as she trudged back to the cabin after being forced to use yet another tree as an—ahem!—necessary. At least the kettle of hot water was a permanent fixture in the hearth, as Mr. Lowery had said. She’d also counted a good stack of cakes of plain cream-colored soap—nothing like the sweet French-milled bars she fancied, but they certainly did the job of cleaning hands… and smelly lengths of muslin.

  After Mr. Lowery had stomped out, she’d poured the steaming hot water into another, smaller pot, dunked the wet muslin, and hurried outside with the mess, a cake of soap tucked into her skirt pocket. Even though the heat had scalded her hands, she’d bitten down on her lip against the burn, dunked and dunked the rag, rubbed it with the soap, and dunked it again in fresh hot water until it smelled good and clean. When done, the fabric seemed lighter in color—maybe just washed clean of prior stains.

  With the muslin spread over the back of one of the chairs, Emma stood in the center of the room, next to the table, and turned slowly all the way around, taking in every detail. She didn’t know what she hoped to find, since there wasn’t much to see, other than raw walls, floors and ceilings, the bunks, the hearth, the rocking chair and the… well, goodness!

  She hadn’t seen that the night before. In the farthest corner of the cabin, far away from the light that sliced in through the two front windows, Emma spotted a wooden contraption with a tall, spindly rod at one end and a large wheel at the other. Both parts were attached to a simple wooden frame. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was a spinning wheel. She remembered she’d seen a similar one at an exhibition in London, and knew women in the European countryside worked them for hours and hours to turn wool into yarn.

  Neither Mr. Lowery or Colley struck her as the spinning sort.

  Where was Mrs. Lowery?

  Mr. Lowery had mentioned a wife when they’d had their conversation a short while ago. Didn’t she come to the summer camp with her husband and son?

  That seemed strange to Emma, even though she understood how a woman wouldn’t want to endure the less-than-civilized conditions. She didn’t want to be here, either, but didn’t have a choice.

  “En garde!”

  Emma jumped almost a foot off the floor at the loud yell. She clasped her hands over her pounding heart, spun, and found Robby Lowery wrapped in what must once have been a woman’s cape. In his hand, he held a dried, brittle tree branch like an epée. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, and his brown hair tumbled in a tousled wave over his brow.

  Her breath came out in gusty bursts. “Don’t you ever do that—”

  The crumpling of his gleeful expression stopped her words. His bottom lip twitched and he blinked fast and hard. It struck her in that moment what a lonely life the boy must live. She didn’t have the heart to crush his delight just because his sudden appearance had startled her.

  “Well!” She forced a light tone of voice. “Art thou off to a duel, milord?”

  Robby let out a wild whoop, spun so the cape swirled around, and leaped into another pose, his “sword” extended at the ready. He dropped to one knee before her, reminding her of the position his father had recently adopted. “I’m sworn to protect my lady’s honor.”

  His game surprised her. The playful episode seemed unusual for a child who lived on a western ranch. Before she could ask about his unexpected form of amusement, the boy made a deep bow before her.

  “Forgive thy lowly servant, milady. I have come upon thee in such a fashion as to have caused thee grave distress. It never was thy steadfast knight’s intention.”

  Emma fought her smile. “All is forgiven, kind sir. Carry on.”

  “Indeed! I must be off to meet King Ban and King Bors and our twenty thousand fellowship. King Leodegrance needs rescue in the country of Ca—Came…” He paused, a fierce frown on his childish face. “Camelia—”

  “Cameliard,” Emma whispered, stunned by the boy’s words. “You know the tales of King Arthur!”

  He nodded. “Mama read to me about the king and his knights every day. I have her book, and I try to read them myself, but sometimes the words are long, and I don’t know them all.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Emma said. “It’s a very old book, written with old, old words we don’t use anymore.”

  “But it tells the best stories of kings and queens and knights and jousts and… and Merlin, of course.”

  The excitement on his face echoed what she had felt back when she’d discovered the wonders of Sir Thomas Malory’s retelling of the Arthurian legend. “Oh, Sir Robby, milord. I do agree indeed.”

  His expression lit up again. She’d said the right thing.

  “Can I show you my book?” he asked.

  “I would love that.”

  As his “sword” rolled across the floor with a clatter, Robby ran to the corner where the spinning wheel sat, dropped to his knees, and opened a small leather trunk. After carefully closing it again, he returned to her side.

  He held the book out to her. “Here, Lady Emma.”

  How long had it been since she’d last spent a few hours lost in Malory’s tales of times long gone? She took the tome, hefty in its solid weight. “Would you like me to read a chapter or two?”

  His eyes sparkled. “Would you really?”

  “Of course.” She gestured at the bunk. “Why don’t you sit next to me? It is your bed after all.”

  Robby scrambled to one end and Emma scooted in beside him. Both leaned back against the wall. She let the book fall open on her lap to Book IV, Chapter XVI… How the damosel of the lake saved King Arthur from a mantle that should have burnt him. Emma smiled. She remembered the tale, one in which Arthur was given a mantle as a gift meant to do him harm. However, the Lady of the Lake came to warn him against wearing the garment lest it kill him. King Arthur turned it against the giver, who did indeed die under its effect.

  Emma read, relishing the cadence of the old English, the story of intrigue, the triumph of the king.

  That was how Mr. Lowery found them when he walked into the cabin. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  At her side, Robby shrank down against her.

  “I’m reading Robby a story,” she answered, bewildered by his attitude. “Nothing strange in that.”

  “Robert,” the rancher said, his voice stern. “Are you spending more time on those fancy tales of kings and knights?”

  “Yes,” the boy said into Emma’s side, his puff of breath warm even through her blouse.

  “Haven’t we talked about this before? Didn’t we decide you needed to spend more time learning about the ranch with Colley?”

  This time, no response was forthcoming.

  “Robby?” his father asked.

  “Yessir.”

  “I reckon Colley has something practical for you to do. Why don’t you go find her?”

  A deep, heartfelt sigh warmed Emma’s side. Slowly, reluctantly, Robby pried himself away from Emma and slid off the bed. He dragged his feet as he walked to the door, and as he pushed the latch, he glanced over his shoulder. Emma spotted the sheen of a tear in one of the boy’s eyes.

  Goodness gracious! One would think the child had committed a dreadful crime. But all he’d done was sit at her side while she read for a while.

  As soon as Robby closed the door, Emma bounded upright. “Mr. Lowery—”

  “Miss Crowell! Robby has a fanciful nature, as I’m sure you noticed today. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it won’t help him make his way out here. He must learn the practical things in life. Stories like the ones you read won’t stand him well in the future. He needs to know as much as possible about ranching and running sheep.”

  Emma tossed the book onto the bunk, crossed her arms, and t
apped a toe on the floor. “That sounds quite dreary, don’t you think? Robby is a child. I enjoyed stories when I was his age.”

  He arched a brow. “And you’ve told me you can’t cook. What can you do, Miss Crowell?”

  Pride stung, she propped her fists on her hips. “I can speak French with a flawless continental accent. I excel at drawing and lovely watercolors. And I’ve been told I’m quite gifted with a needle and floss, I’ll have you know. My embroidery and needlepoint tapestries are exquisite. I’m not utterly useless, sir.”

  To her horror, the corners of his mouth twitched. He ticked off a finger. “But you can’t cook, can you?” Another digit. “Can you iron a clean shirt?” The third. “Can you patch a man’s trouser knee?” A fourth, fifth, and one from the other hand. “Can you spin wool, weave cloth, train a child?”

  She could do none of those things, true. But instead of letting his accusation and guilty verdict get the better of her, Emma blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.

  “No, Mr. Lowery, I can’t do any of those things, but I can read and write, I can sew, and, more important, I can learn. Give me a chance, and I can prove it.”

  The rancher gave her a measuring look. “I offered you the chance to make yourself useful here at the camp, but you answered you didn’t know how to cook. Now you say you can learn.”

  Emma realized how strange a hole she had dug for herself. “Well, yes. I did tell you both those things.”

  His smile widened. “I reckon you can start to show me how well you do learn right away. If you’re eager to earn your keep around here, you’ll have to work. And I really do mean work. We can’t afford to carry dead wood—any dead wood. The time Colley has to spend cooking or watching Robby is time she can’t spend with the sheep. Can’t have that, Miss Crowell. Not when there’s another able-bodied grown-up out here.”

  “But—”

  “The most logical thing for you is to run the house, especially the kitchen. And now you’ve said you’re quite capable of learning.”

  She tried yet a third objection. “But—”

  “Here’s your schoolroom,” he said, ignoring her attempt. “And over by the spinning wheel, you’ll find my wife’s trunk full of women’s things. Help yourself to her cookery and housekeeping books. I’m sure they have plenty in them to teach you what you need to know.”

  He turned on his heel and left.

  How could things manage to get worse and worse as time went by? They’d been dreadful from the moment she’d taken Pippa for her constitutional in the woods.

  Why did she say anything to Mr. Lowery? What had she got herself into now? And all she’d wanted was to travel from Denver to Portland. On her own.

  Oh, yes. She had wanted to feel all grown up.

  It dawned on Emma she’d achieved what she’d wanted, in a very odd way. She had the dreadful suspicion that life at the summer camp would have her feeling as grown up as anyone could in no time at all.

  Chapter 6

  Emma stood in silence after Mr. Lowery left the cabin, unsure what to do. She felt leaden, as though rooted in place, struck with an unfamiliar fear. She’d spent her life as the much-loved and well-pampered daughter of a successful businessman. She’d wanted for nothing, and had never faced anything that tested her to the core of her being, as she feared she would be by her stay here. She’d thought she knew herself, who she was meant to be.

  Now, she faced a challenge so unexpected and foreign to everything she’d ever experienced that she had no idea how to even begin to confront it.

  True, she rejoiced she’d been born into her particular family; she’d loved Mama, and still loved Papa, more than she could measure. She also rejoiced in the many blessings she’d enjoyed all her life, and yet, she also knew how much less many others had. She didn’t think it made any sense, though, to blame her for her father’s hard work and success, not even for his willingness to shower his only daughter with the fruits of that success.

  It wasn’t as though the family didn’t share their blessings with those less fortunate. Papa regularly gave substantial sums to their church, which then used that money to serve those less fortunate and needy. Emma well knew how often she and Aunt Sophia had taken food baskets, blankets, clothes, and shoes to many, many families who otherwise would have gone without. She’d been brought up to not only acknowledge the importance of the Scripture that called one to do unto others as one would have done unto one’s self, but also to live it out. She hadn’t, however, seen where it might call her to reject her father’s bounty.

  That bounty had meant a different life from that of many others, and she was beginning to understand the enormity of that difference. Perhaps she had been spoiled and not just pampered. Perhaps she had grown into a more frivolous person than many others—maybe even most others. But she didn’t feel she ought to be blamed for something she hadn’t consciously chosen to do. Or be.

  Emma slowly returned to the bunk. She sat gracelessly, a sense of dejection heavy and oppressive on her otherwise optimistic nature. The tears that had threatened time and time again since she’d come face to face with the two half-hearted outlaws poured out. And while she’d cried herself to sleep the night before, in that prickly, outdoors-pungent pine-needle substitute for a real mattress, those tears hadn’t brought any measure of release. She wondered if any amount of weeping would. How could she feel any relief under these circumstances? Where might some manner of comfort be found?

  Again she looked around, and, of course, nothing had changed. Her situation remained as bleak as it had been for a day and more. She dropped onto the bed, her face in the pillow.

  She’d never felt so alone, not even after her mother died giving birth to her stillborn brother. Although consumed with grief, Papa had kept Emma at his side for months and months afterward. He’d often taken her along on his travels, even. She had for a very long time missed her mother, and still did, but Emma had never felt alone, not even during that painful mourning period. Not like she did right then. “Oh, Papa…”

  But her father was nowhere near enough to hear her plea, much less answer. She had to find a way to gather her wits, to discover what she really was made of, to face her situation, and go forward to accomplish—

  “What?” she whispered into the fragrant mattress. “What is it I really must do?”

  No voice came to answer her question, but a tiny glimmer of gumption flickered to light deep inside her. She had wanted to be on her own. This was her chance to see what she could accomplish through her own strength and wit.

  She knew herself well enough to know she was no ninny, no simpering, silly girl. True, she took pride in making the most of the looks she’d been blessed with at birth, and she always looked on the best side of everything, but that didn’t mean she was an utter fool. She did have the ability to learn, as she’d told Mr. Lowery, and she’d always been told her stubborn—er… her determination was more than ample.

  Just who did Mr. Lowery think he was? He’d ordered her to work for him as though she were his employee. He’d cast down his challenge, certain she would fail, as his expression had revealed. The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew. And the more disgusted she became with the notion of possible failure.

  No.

  She refused.

  She would not fail.

  Not Emma Marguerite Crowell.

  Hmph. She’d show Peter Lowery what she was made of.

  At the heels of that thought a traitorous part of her began to weaken. She stood and squared her shoulders, refusing to entertain even the slightest element of feebleness. Goodness, if she was strong enough to be known as stubborn—er… determined by those who knew her best, then she must, of course, also be strong enough to succeed at just about anything she tried.

  And she’d been challenged to try to run this… this… could she call it a house? No, surely not. A cabin made more sense. Or maybe it was nothing more than a rustic camp.

  “Bah!” What did i
t matter what one called it? She only knew people lived here, including her for a number of months, and she needed to somehow run it. For her own sake—her very sanity—she had to turn it into a proper home. She knew what a proper home was. She would model her efforts after Aunt Sophia’s lovely, welcoming home in Denver. She could also model them after Papa’s and her own home in Portland. Ophelia knew how to make one feel at ease, and she’d succeeded there. Emma’s success, of course, would depend on how much this place could be improved.

  She swatted her cheeks dry of the last trails of the tears she had shed. Mr. Lowery had said his wife had books to teach the reader how to run a proper kitchen, and, one would hope, a home. With that kind of guidance, at least half of her job was already done. All she had to do now was…

  “Hm… find the books.”

  Emma approached the trunk. She felt uncomfortable about the prospect of going through another woman’s belongings. What would Mrs. Lowery say when she learned Emma had rummaged through them?

  A shimmer of unease ran through her. Well, she supposed she couldn’t help it. The woman’s own husband had told Emma to do so. Taking a deep breath, she dropped down to her knees and opened the trunk.

  “Tie ’em up?” Colley asked.

  “You heard me,” Peter answered. “Can’t have a pair of rustlers loose around the flock. They’ll have to get used to being prisoners. That’s what they’ll be for a good, long while after I take them down to Adam Blair in the fall.”

  Shotgun in hand, Colley swept the glaring Sawyer and distressed Ned with a skeptical stare. “I dunno about that tying-up part, boss. It’s a long, long time ’fore fall gets here.”

  “Exactly. That’s why keeping them subdued and tied good and hard is the best thing to do. I don’t have the time to stand watch and keep a gun on them, and neither do you. You, Wade, and I already have too much work to do to waste even an hour watching these two.”

  “But they can still ’scape into the woods!” Robby cried, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “They can run without their hands, you know, King Peter—er… Papa.”