She Shall Be Praised

by Ginny Aiken

  Peter couldn’t avoid the shot of irritation that ran through him at yet more evidence of his son’s love of make-believe. And Robby knew it. The boy blushed. But then, he went on.

  “And then…” he frowned furiously, thinking. He crossed his arms and clamped his lips tight for all of a moment. A defiant glare and the tilt of his chin spoke volumes. “Then you, King Peter, and your faithful knight, Sir… er… Lady—um, no. Your faithful knight, Colley, will have to set off on a quest to catch them and bring them back. Can I go with you on the quest?”

  Peter bit back the scolding that bubbled to his lips. Instead, he focused on the boy’s initial statement. “Robby’s got a good point, Colley. Make sure you and Wade tie up their feet, too. Can’t have them up and walking away.” He turned to his son. “No one will be setting off after these two. We’re going to make sure they stay put.”

  “What about her?” Colley asked, eyes narrowed, free thumb jabbing toward the cabin. “You ain’t gonna tell me you want to tie her up, are you? Cuz I won’t tie up a lady.”

  Peter shook his head. “You won’t have to. We’re awful shorthanded as it is, and her cooking, cleaning, and doing the wash ought to help us a good deal. Plus she and Robby seem to have a lot in common. That’ll help some, too.”

  Colley made a face, wreathing her features with more wrinkles than a body might think possible. “Ya really think she can do any of them things?”

  “No. But she can read, and Adele’s housekeeping books are in that old trunk. She’ll learn.”

  He hoped.

  The skepticism on Colley’s face gave Peter pause. Did Miss Crowell have it in her to do what was needed? She looked as though she hadn’t done a single productive thing in her whole life.

  Looking beautiful wasn’t productive. Pleasant? Yes. Enjoyable to see? Of course. Appealing to any man? So long as he wasn’t blind… he couldn’t help but notice her appeal. But deep red hair and sparkling green eyes on their own did no one any good. Neither did a woman dressed in lace and velvet. Or her love of old stories and such silliness.

  Surely, Miss Crowell wouldn’t spend all day entertaining Robby’s penchant for flights of fancy. Peter didn’t have the heart to take the book from his son, since it had been Adele’s and he cherished it, especially for that reason. He did still miss his mother, even though as time drew out, Peter knew the boy’s memories of her continued to blur.

  Still, he feared Robby might resemble his mother more than him in nature. Adele’s bookish bent had left her unprepared for the harsh realities of life on a sheep ranch.

  Robby needed strength and know-how to carry on Peter’s legacy.

  He watched as Colley marched the two scoundrels to the rustic bunkhouse, Wade at her side. He couldn’t let a pathetic pair of thieves ruin all the work he’d done since coming West. A glance at Robby, using his branch to “fence” with a tree not five yards away, reaffirmed his conviction.

  He’d fought long and hard to build something of value to leave behind. As the only son in a family of five, Peter’s father had inherited the family farm in Ohio, but when the War Between the States broke out, he’d felt compelled to join the Union Army and fight for what he’d known was right. Peter remembered his father’s two rare furloughs from the front line, when the older man spent much of his time in a silent haze, deep in thought. It had been especially heartrending when Captain Lowery died a few months before General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox Court House. It had never felt fair.

  By that point, Peter’s oldest brother, Stu, had worked the farm for years, carrying far more responsibility than most youths his age did. Their mother had worked just as hard as Stu, and while doing so, she’d instilled in all four boys the certainty of her love, respect for discipline, and appreciation for industriousness.

  Peter had known the farm would provide well for Stu, their brother, Tom, two years older than Peter, and their families. Brett, the youngest Lowery boy, had always been studious and devoted to the Lord. He’d followed God’s call into the ministry, and now led a growing congregation in Cleveland. But Peter had little future back home.

  “En garde!” Robby leaped with his “sword” in hand to jab at an imaginary enemy.

  Yes, Peter feared the draw that books and make-believe had for his son. Those things, while perfectly fine on their own, wouldn’t do the boy a whole lot of good here on this rugged land. They certainly hadn’t helped his mother. He tugged his hat off and ran a rough hand through his hair.

  His dream had cost Adele her life. He couldn’t, in any way at all, let her death be for a failure.

  Neither drought nor grasshoppers, outlaws nor an addlebrained society belle, draped in miles of velvet frosted with lace frou-frou, as Adele used to call that sort of feminine trimming, would derail him.

  He wouldn’t let them.

  Mr. Lowery’s directions clear in her mind, Emma forced herself to overcome her reluctance and opened Mrs. Lowery’s trunk. It was a plain travel storage container rather than the elegant, well-appointed case Papa had given Emma not so long ago, with all its specialty compartments and lovely dividers for her various necessities. This one was just a simple rectangular space within leather-covered wooden sides, filled with someone else’s… things.

  She found a number of books at the top, well-worn and clearly important to the rancher’s wife. Robby had returned Le Morte D’Arthur to the trunk when his father had put an end to their reading—and napping—time, and now, she reached for that one first. Curiosity burning in her, Emma pulled out the other books, one by one. First, she brought out a lovely Bible, covered in rich black leather, its edges softened by much handling. On the cover, in embellished script, the name Adele B. Lowery had been embossed.

  Odd. A Bible didn’t strike Emma as something a woman would leave behind at her husband’s summer camp. At least, not if the woman read it as often as the wear on the leather cover seemed to suggest.

  As Emma lifted it, the Good Book fell open, and she noticed a number of notes on the margins written in graceful script. That discovery made her slam the book shut, feeling as though she’d trespassed on the other woman’s most private thoughts. She would simply have to apologize once they met. She imagined that wouldn’t happen until the fall.

  She set the Bible to a side, and then dove back into the trunk. The next book she withdrew was The Frugal Housewife. She didn’t much think she’d have to worry about being frugal, seeing as there was nothing but frugality around the camp. She set that one next to Mrs. Lowery’s Scriptures.

  Following that book, she brought out Miss Leslie’s Directions for Cookery. That one might help, since the rancher had made clear he expected her to run the kitchen. Next came something perhaps more promising, The Housekeeper’s Encyclopedia. While she didn’t know a thing about cooking or cleaning or running a home, a housekeeper generally did. The encyclopedia might help.

  The last book she found was one that nearly brought her to tears. A copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management always sat within Ophelia’s reach at home in Portland. If only Ophelia were near enough to teach Emma now…

  Emma hugged the book close, blinked at the tears scalding her eyes, and rocked herself in place, on the floor, with knees drawn close to her body. While she was glad to have found a treasure trove of useful books, there was nothing like an excellent teacher at a student’s side.

  She would have no such luxury.

  But before she could give in to self-pity, she squared her shoulders and returned to the trunk. A lovely, hand-made white lace shawl covered a few other items. She pulled out the exquisite piece, carefully laid it across her lap, unwilling to set it on the rough floorboards, and another book slipped out as she did so. She bent to pick it up, but when she read the notation inside the cover, she yanked her hand back as though it had been stung by a bee.

  JOURNAL

  That went too far. Emma couldn’t imagine violating another woman’s innermost self in such a direct way. She ginger
ly picked up the slender tome and slipped it back into the trunk, tucking it down against one wooden side. Next she placed the Bible back inside, followed by the other volumes. She did keep Mrs. Beeton’s tome out. If it had been good enough for Ophelia, then it was certainly good enough for Emma.

  “I’m at your service, Lady Emma!” Robby cried from the door to the cabin, startling her.

  She scrambled up, heart pounding, still clutching the Mrs. Beeton’s to her chest, and stared at the boy. “Goodness gracious, Sir Robby! You must not frighten a body by coming up behind them like that. Such a startle might give me the vapors. Give a lady a fair warning first, please.”

  The smug smile on his childish face told Emma the boy knew exactly what he’d done and was pleased with himself. An innocent child’s prank, but goodness, it had affected her. Not that she’d ever had the vapors, but that possibility always existed.

  “Oh,” Robby said, his voice serious. “You have Mama’s book. She used to read it all the time.”

  His mother used to read it all the time, hm? And Emma had found the worn Bible inside the dusty trunk, too. But she’d seen no sign of the woman other than Mrs. Lowery’s rocking chair and the trunk. What did all that mean? Did she not need any of that wherever she was? She had others? Odd, indeed.

  And it gnawed at Emma’s curiosity.

  “Sir Robby,” she started, her voice warm and gentle but resolute, “where is your mama?”

  The slight smile melted right off the boy’s face. He lowered his gaze and shifted from foot to foot. His shoulders slumped.

  Oh, dear. Something was wrong here. And she’d gone and stirred it up. But now, it couldn’t be helped. She had to finish what she’d started.

  In a handful of hurried steps, she came to Robby’s side. When he wouldn’t look up at her, Emma knelt, and she saw the tears on his cheeks. Her heart squeezed at the misery the boy displayed, especially since it hadn’t been her intention to upset him.

  She curved a finger under his chin and lifted his face so he couldn’t avoid meeting her gaze. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  A deep, shuddering breath ran through him, and Emma felt it in that minor, tender contact between them. Through the gleaming wetness in his eyes, he met her gaze.

  “Mama’s with the angels now.”

  “Oh, Robby…” She opened her arms, letting the book fall to the floor, and the boy slipped into her embrace. Emma’s eyes welled up, too.

  At first, she just held him with a light touch. His tears dampened the fabric of her blouse as he stood stiff while he continued to weep. But then a deep, rough sob wracked him, and he melted into her clasp. A storm of sobs followed that first painful one, and he cried in despondent anguish.

  Emma couldn’t help but join him. She wept for the grieving child she held, as well as for the grief-stricken girl she’d been after her own mother’s death. She knew only too well how Robby felt. She wept for her situation, too, the limitless loneliness she’d felt since she realized she’d been abandoned. She wept for her uncertain future, and she even wept for the helplessness of her present.

  To her amazement, she realized she also wept for Mr. Lowery, whom she scarcely knew. The loss of his wife explained to a certain degree his aloofness and unyielding stance. His struggle was as great as Robby’s was and hers had been, even though somewhat different. A mother and a wife represented two different kinds of loss.

  No wonder he refused to lose his ranch. He’d already lost much.

  The situation also explained Robby’s unexpected affinity to a book like Sir Thomas Malory’s. Since it had belonged to his mother, and he said she’d read it to him regularly, it represented his strongest tie to the memory of the woman who clearly had loved him.

  Emma sat after a bit, drawing Robby onto her lap. The boy curled up, and little by little his sobs diminished until they trembled to a stop. She glanced down, saw he’d cried himself to sleep, and swept the curling lock of brown hair off his forehead. As she held him, her heart felt too large for her body to contain, filled with emotion for the child, and she realized this moment would never leave her memory. Neither would her growing feelings for the youngster.

  Pippa padded over to them, crept up into Robby’s lap, and snuggled close to the boy.

  It seemed to Emma she might be able to help here at the camp in more ways than one. Robby needed his mama, and while Emma wasn’t equal to that responsibility, she certainly knew she could comfort, care for, and help the boy in ways no man, not even a father, could. Or perhaps would, since Mr. Lowery was quite consumed by the need to earn a livelihood.

  Ophelia had often told her that nothing happened to folks for no reason at all. As odd as it might be, perhaps Emma had been left behind by the carriage for the sake of this child.

  She sighed. Odd indeed.

  Before Robby could awaken, she rose, cradled him close, surprised at how small he really was, and carried him to the bunk. There, she tucked him under the blanket and marveled at the wave of tenderness that swept over her. If this could happen to her, all but a complete stranger, simply by their shared grief, what might it be like for a mother to love a child? The mere thought moved her to tears again.

  Chapter 7

  As she worked to compose herself, Emma watched Robby sleep for a handful of minutes. Moments later, to help set aside her melancholy, she squared her shoulders and strode to where she’d left Mrs. Beeton’s. She picked up the substantial tome and marched to the table, where she drew out one of the two chairs, and then sat to study for her newest assignment.

  As she read, Emma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Some of the material, since she was at a remote camp partway up an uncivilized mountain, was ludicrous. The chapter on dinners and dining included lists of dishes the likes of which she had enjoyed only at the most elegant of events in London or New York. Mrs. Beeton listed first courses, entrées, second and even third courses. And those menus were for dinners of twelve and up to eighteen guests. One summer dinner went so far as to suggest a menu that featured salmon and lobster sauce, perch and Dutch sauce, stewed veal and peas, lamb cutlets and cucumbers, haunch of venison, boiled fowls à la Béchamel, braised ham, roast ducks, lobster salad, a soup, vegetables, and no fewer than five different scrumptious desserts. At one meal, at that.

  Emma’s mouth watered at just the idea, but she understood the absurdity of giving any of those possibilities the slightest thought here on Mr. Lowery’s mountain.

  Then she found a section entitled Domestic Servants. Ha! It appeared she, Emma Crowell, would be the camp’s one and only domestic servant. On the other hand, she suspected the chapter on the rearing, management, and diseases of infancy and childhood might come in handy, certainly in dealing with Robby, to the best of her ability.

  She continued to peruse the book until her stomach growled. Oh, dear.

  She’d spent such a good, long while reading that she’d failed to keep track of time. Since she’d been charged with managing the kitchen, she supposed she needed food for an evening meal to satisfy her, Robby, Colley, and the hungry men. A quick check of her charming, flower-engraved silver pocket watch told her all she needed to know. The men would soon return and would want a hot meal on the table right away. Even if she knew nothing about preparing one. Even after she’d read bits and spots of Mrs. Beeton. Anxiety struck.

  She tamped down the feeling. Time had come to become acquainted with the lean-to at the back of the cabin, where, after their noon meal, Colley had told her Mr. Lowery stored the camp’s food supplies. The gruff but kind ranch manager had said Emma would find plenty there, since they’d just come up to the mountain meadow for the summer season, and she should be able to prepare proper meals. She’d said jars of meats, cans of vegetables, dried hams and beef, as well as a generous supply of preserved eggs, would offer sufficient variety, too.

  She didn’t know how to prepare any of that, but Mrs. Beeton’s fat, heavy book seemed to offer directions for just about anything anyone might want
to eat. And they were detailed directions, to be certain. Decision made, she attached Pippa’s rope to the dog and hurried to the door. As she opened it, she heard the rustle of movement behind her.

  “Where you going?” Robby asked in a sleepy voice.

  “To find something to make for supper.”

  “Can I come with you, Lady Emma?”

  “Of course, Sir Robby. Maybe you can tell me what you’d like to eat while we look through the supplies.”

  He scrambled out of bed, stomped into his boots, and trotted by her side as she rounded the cabin. “I really, really like chicken and biscuits and beans,” he said, his chatter a welcome respite from the constant, smothering silence of the woods. “ ’Specially when the beans have lots and lots of ’lasses. Mmm…”

  She didn’t remember having eaten beans with molasses before, but rather with onions and butter, but she supposed one could prepare things in a multitude of different ways. As she’d glanced through the different sections of Mrs. Beeton’s book, she thought she’d seen something about beans taking ten to fifteen minutes to cook, which would be most helpful to her, since she didn’t want to be late with the meal. She hoped to find the beans in the lean-to without much searching.

  “We might be able to have beans,” she told Robby, “but I don’t know about the chicken. I don’t see chickens here in the yard, and I wouldn’t know what to do with one even if you did have them.”

  “Colley does know. She takes the chickens—they make lots and lots and lots of noise—and then she twists the heads all the way around. The necks break and… well, that’s it.” Ghoulish humor brightened his expression. “I reckon you can cook ’em up, then.”

  The notion of twisting a chicken’s head until it broke turned Emma’s stomach. She couldn’t see where any amount of hunger would ever force her to reach that desperate decision. She hoped Mr. Lowery didn’t expect her to do… that to a poor, innocent, undeserving bird. No matter how much she enjoyed the lush flavor of roasted chicken.