A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Geoffrey scowled. “And who might you suggest?”

  Emmaline offered a one-armed shrug. “Perhaps Tildy?”

  The V between his eyebrows deepened. “Tildy is our friend, not our servant.”

  Chastened, Emmaline lowered her head. A movement caught her eye, and she peeked to witness Jim Cotler scooping another serving of potatoes onto his plate. With a bold grin, he carried a forkful of the deplorable mess to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then he patted his stomach, waggling his eyebrows. Emmaline’s lips twitched as she fought the urge to bestow a big smile of thanks on the young ranch hand. His impish behavior reminded her of a colt frolicking through a meadow. With a light giggle, she said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jim, but you will surely get a stomachache from consuming so much of this sorry meal.”

  Jim raised his shoulders in a shrug and continued eating. When he finished, he and Chris carried their plates to the sink. Jim glanced over his shoulder at Geoffrey and then Emmaline. “Would you like me to help with the dishes, Miss Emmaline?”

  Chris gawked at the boy. “You never wanted to wash—” Then a knowing look crossed his face. He grabbed the back of Jim’s neck and tugged him toward the kitchen door. “Come on. We have chores waiting in the barn.”

  With their departure, Emmaline and Geoffrey were alone. She jumped up and began clearing the table.

  Geoffrey sat back in his chair, his coffee cup hooked on one finger. His eyes followed her every movement. She found his silent observation unnerving. Her ineptitude in cooking equaled her lack of skill in housekeeping. She wished he would leave her to struggle through the tasks without an audience, but she couldn’t find the courage to ask him to leave. She stacked all of the dirty dishes on the counter beside the sink, then reached for the pump.

  In seconds, Geoffrey was at her side. “You must use hot water or the dishes will not be clean.” He directed her to the reservoir on the side of the stove. Using a dipper, he ladled several scoops of water into the sink. Steam rose from the tin basin.

  Emmaline hesitated at putting her hands into that steamy water, yet the dishes must be done. She lifted a stack of plates and started to place them in the sink.

  Once more, Geoffrey intervened. “You need soap, Emmaline.” The impatience in his tone raised her defenses. Plunking the plates onto the counter with a noisy clatter, she spun to face him. “As I said at suppertime, I have not been given the opportunity to learn housekeeping. At home, I did not cook. I did not clean. I did not sew or sweep or . . . or wash dishes. If you want these tasks done to your satisfaction, then do them yourself or hire someone. But do not expect perfection from me!”

  They glared at each other, their noses only inches apart. Emmaline saw her own angry reflection in Geoffrey’s pupils. She marveled at her behavior—she had never so boldly rebelled against anyone. Perhaps this unforgiving land was already molding her into someone new.

  Geoffrey lifted his face to the ceiling and drew a long breath. When he looked at her, the irritation in his expression was gone. “I do not wish to fight with you, Emmaline.”

  Gathering her newfound courage, Emmaline drew her shoulders back. “Then kindly do not find fault with everything I do. As you told me before bringing me here, I have much to learn to become a rancher’s”—her throat went dry—“wife.” She swallowed hard and crossed her arms. “I now see that you have much to learn about being a husband.” The downthrust of his eyebrows gave her pause, but she finished her thought. “You cannot claim to love me and then distrust me. Love and trust are inseparable, Geoffrey. Your accusation this morning . . .” She paused, the remembrance of his harsh words stinging anew. Lifting her chin, she said, “I am not a trollop.”

  “I did not say you were a trollop.”

  “You insinuated as much.”

  Geoffrey caught her elbow and guided her to the table. “Sit down, Emmaline. Please.”

  The final word compelled her to pull out a chair and seat herself stiffly on its edge.

  Geoffrey sat across from her and folded his hands on the crumb-laden tabletop. “I apologize for my words this morning. The sight of Jim’s hands on your shoulders . . .” His thumbs twitched. “I didn’t like it.”

  Apparently Miss Tildy had been accurate in her assessment of Geoffrey’s jealousy.

  Fixing her with a steady gaze, he said, “You must understand that you are a very attractive woman, Emmaline. Having you here could create . . . temptation.”

  His declaration of her attractiveness pleased her, yet his warning raised a note of anxiety. “Do you think either Jim or Chris would . . . would . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the thought aloud.

  “I believe they are human enough to respond to an invitation, whether real or imagined. And since we are not yet wed . . .”

  “But Jim is just a boy. Why, he doesn’t yet shave!”

  “A boy can have feelings like a man.” Geoffrey’s serious tone silenced any further protest. “We must all reside here together, so . . . be careful. It would be best if you weren’t alone with either of the hands any more than necessary. I will make sure Jim and Chris understand the boundaries. But you must do your part, as well.”

  Before she could respond, he stood and waved toward the sink as he made his way across the room. “There is lye soap there on the counter beside the sink. Scrape some into the basin and stir briskly to create foam. Then wash the dishes.”

  That man! Must he always issue orders? The desire to flee this place gripped her once more.

  THIRTEEN

  I BEEN THINKIN’ . . .” TILDY waited until Ronald lifted his attention from his plate. When that man was focused on food, no words got past his ears to his brain. “Miss Emmalion, she bein’ raised in a fine house over there across the Big Watuh, prob’ly don’t know much ’bout livin’ the hard life.”

  Ronald’s brow puckered in thought. “You’s prob’ly right at that.” He picked up the remaining half biscuit on his speckled plate and sopped up gravy. “Now, we’uns, we knows ’bout the hard life, don’ we?”

  Tildy tucked her chin low. “Mm-hmm, yes we do. Troubles a-plenty.” She pointed at him. “But blessin’s, too. Lots o’ blessin’s. The Lawd has been good to us.”

  “Yup.” Ronald popped the biscuit in his mouth and chewed slowly, a look of pure pleasure on his face.

  One thing Tildy had always liked about Ronald was how he enjoyed his food. She might not put anything more than corn pone and wild greens on his plate, but he savored every morsel. Sometimes she wondered if his open appreciation for a meal stemmed from a time of being denied food, but she’d never asked him about it. There were some things a body just didn’t want to know.

  “Seein’ as how the Lawd’s been so good to us an’ we learned how to make this hard land a place of good livin’,” she said, “I’s thinkin’ maybe I could do somethin’ to help out that little gal o’ Geoffrey’s.”

  Ronald’s eyebrows rose. “You gonn’ give her some lessons on livin’ hard?”

  Tildy chuckled. “Reckon nobody needs lessons in that. Life takes care o’ that on its own. No sir, I’s thinkin’ I gonn’ give her some lessons on survivin’ the hard life. ’Cause sure as God made the sky blue, she’s gonn’ face some real trials in this place o’ dust an’ wind.”

  “You think that li’l gal’s gonn’ listen to an old colored woman? You just gonn’ git yo’self hurt.”

  Tildy’s temper flared. She liked the idea of her man trying to protect her, but his getting in her way when she had something she wanted to do was another thing altogether. “The good Lawd done placed that gal on my heart an’ I be obliged to answer His call. So’s I gonn’ help her.”

  Ronald reached across the table and put his leathery hand over hers. “You a good woman, Tildy Senger.”

  “Well, you oughtta know, hmm?”

  They shared a soft laugh. Tildy gave his hand a squeeze and then rose to start clearing their table. “Don’t know ’xactly what all Miss Emmalion needs, but I
do know for sure she could use a friend. Looked like a li’l lost lamb when she turn up here today. Mm-hmm, just a li’l lost lamb.”

  When she tried to take his plate, Ronald held on to it. “Cain’t I have another piece o’ that sweet ’tater pie?”

  Tildy reared back, one eyebrow high. “You done already had two pieces.”

  “I knows it, but there be some law say a man cain’t have three pieces o’ pie?”

  Tildy shook her head. “I gits you another piece, but you cain’t have the last one. I’s takin’ that over tomorrow mornin’ as a treat for Miss Emmalion. That gal could use some fattenin’ up.”

  “Now that’s a pie!”

  Emmaline couldn’t resist beaming at Tildy’s ecstatic exclamation. Choosing to ignore the three ruined pies that rested in the bottom of the slop bucket beneath the counter, she focused solely on her success—a perfect, beautiful sweet potato pie.

  “Thank you for teaching me, Miss Tildy.” Emmaline leaned over the pie and sniffed. The mingled aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg made her stomach rumble in eagerness to sample a bite. But she would save this for tonight’s dinner. How surprised the men would be!

  “It’s purely pleasure to share some o’ my recipes with you, honey,” Tildy said, her walnut brown eyes glowing. “You’s givin’ me a gift by listenin’ to what I got to say.”

  Tears pricked Emmaline’s eyes. Over the past two weeks, the colored woman had spent part of each day at Chetwynd Valley in patient tutelage. Emmaline could now start her own stove and adjust the heat by turning the damper. She knew to keep the reservoir filled so she would have hot water available whenever she needed it. She understood the importance of burying the contents of her slop bucket lest she invite coyotes or raccoons to her back door. There were moments when she felt like a true Kansas pioneer.

  Even her cooking had improved. Last night’s roast, while tougher than Emmaline would have preferred, was neither charred nor raw. The potatoes and carrots were boiled to perfection since she had learned to poke them with a fork to determine their doneness. She could fry eggs, bake corn bread, and make a stew—but not a maw stew.

  As for cleaning, Tildy had woven stiff bristles together to make a broom and taught Emmaline how to sweep without filling the air with dust. Surely many of Tildy’s own chores went unfinished during the time she spent with Emmaline, yet she never voiced a single word of complaint. She also never, never made Emmaline feel dim-witted for her lack of knowledge. She merely explained the steps and then praised Emmaline’s fledgling efforts. Tildy had announced that next week she intended to teach Emmaline how to bake bread. After today’s success with pie baking, Emmaline felt ready to tackle the challenge of a perfectly browned loaf of bread.

  “I never realized how much effort went into the running of a household.” Emmaline touched the delicate crust on the pie with one finger. “Something as simple as baking a pie takes so many steps! When someone else does all the work, I don’t believe you can fully appreciate the endeavor.” Tilting her head to the side, she fixed Tildy with a pensive look. “Do you find that to be true?”

  “Well, now, chil’, since I always been a worker, I don’ know I fully unnerstand what you’s sayin’, but somewhere in the Good Book . . .” She tapped her full lips. “I believes it’s in ’Clesiastes, but I cain’t be recallin’ ’xactly where. Somethin’ like ‘there ain’t nothin’ better for a man . . . that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor.’ ”

  “Do you read the Bible every day?” Emmaline asked. In their time together, Tildy had often quoted Scripture.

  A crooked smile curved Tildy’s round cheeks. “Oh, now, I don’ do no readin’ myself. But ol’ massuh’s wife spoke o’ the Good Book to us slaves. Said it be her Christian duty. An’ she liked that’un about labor a whole lot. Prob’ly as a means o’ gettin’ her workers to take satisfaction in their toil ’stead o’ slackin’ off.”

  Emmaline found it impressive that Tildy had memorized so much Scripture just from hearing it read aloud. Perhaps she hadn’t paid enough attention to sermons while growing up, because she couldn’t quote any verses. “While it is satisfying to complete tasks assigned to me, I cannot honestly say I enjoy spending my entire day working.” Thoughts of home flitted through her mind—the hours spent arranging flowers in lovely vases, reading books, taking slow walks through the daisy-filled cemetery, or embroidering delicate butterflies and pansies on crisp white cotton. Those activities, though not taxing, had held their share of pleasure.

  “We gits rewarded when we works hard,” Tildy insisted. She propped her fists on her hips. “When my Ronal’ leaves the table wit’ a big ol’ smile on his face, does my heart good to know I satisfied him. Don’t it pleasure you to see Geoffrey sit back an’ pat his belly aftuh a good meal?”

  Emmaline gave a little start. Was she learning all of these things to please Goeffrey, or to prove to herself she could meet the challenges of the prairie?

  “An’—” Tildy gestured toward the pie—“ain’t you proud o’ what you done learned today? Now you can invite peoples over to sit in dat parlor wit’ you, an’ you can serve ’em a pie you made wit’ yo’ own two hands.”

  “But I don’t know anyone except you.” Emmaline tried to imagine herself and Tildy sitting in the parlor, sipping tea and eating pie, but the image eluded her.

  “Ain’t you met nobody when you go to church on Sunday?”

  Emmaline shrugged. “Certainly. But seeing them so briefly does not lend itself to forming friendships.”

  “Well, you knows Geoffrey.” Tildy frowned. “Do the two o’ you sit together of an evenin’ an’ reflect on the day? Mebbe read some Scripture from the Good Book an’ pray for each othuh?”

  Emmaline shook her head. “We do sit together on the porch—it is cooler there—but he does most of the talking. He tells me what he did with his day, and he instructs me on what I should have done differently.” Defensiveness climbed her spine. How she tired of Geoffrey pointing out her inadequacies. She glanced again at the pie and her chin lifted in pride. He would find no fault with that pie!

  She added, “Geoffrey spends all day tending to the sheep and the land. And between the household chores and keeping up with the garden, my days are quite full.”

  An odd expression came over Tildy’s face—a combination of irritation and sorrow. She squeezed Emmaline’s shoulder. “Summer time is work time—storin’ up so’s you can survive the winter months. Geoffrey’s got work on his mind right now, but you wait . . . come winter, when things slow down, you’ll have that chance to sit an’ talk the way you wants to.”

  Emmaline didn’t answer. Winter seemed far away, and loneliness was her present companion. She felt no closer to Geoffrey now than she had when an ocean separated them. Winter was just another season to bear before she could return to England.

  The sound of wagon wheels on hard-packed earth carried through the open window. Tildy looked toward the front of the house, her face lighting. “That be Ronal’, comin’ to fetch me home foh my own chores.” She gave Emmaline a quick hug, bouncing her thick palm up and down on Emmaline’s back. “You put that pie under a cloth when it’s cool an’ bring it out as a su’prise after supper. Yo’ man’ll bust his buttons in pride over what you done today.”

  Emmaline returned Tildy’s hug. “Thank you again for your help. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  Tildy headed out the door, her skirt held as high as the tops of her battered brown shoes. Emmaline slipped to the window and watched as Ronald jumped down from the wagon and offered his hand to his wife. She took it with a giggle and clambered aboard. Ronald climbed up beside her, taking a moment to nudge his shoulder against hers. They exchanged a smile—a smile that spoke of enjoyment at being together again—and then he slapped down the reins. The wagon jolted down the lane, with Tildy snug up against Ronald’s side and her bandana-covered head resting on his shoulder.

  A stab of jealousy propelled Emmaline from the window. She returned to the sto
ve and stared down at the sweet potato pie. Tears blurred the image. It would take more than learning to bake a pie to restore her relationship with Geoffrey.

  She moved to the open kitchen door and peered across the expanse of open prairie. If only one could turn back time. How lovely it would be to spend one more day in England with Geoffrey. To walk the streets of their little village side by side, with his knuckles occasionally brushing hers, their gazes colliding and then skittering away, their lips curved into permanent smiles of contentment.

  Back then, her heart had thrummed with joy every time he was near. Now, whenever he approached, apprehension sped her pulse. Would she ever stop mourning England and all she had left behind? She spun toward the broom in the corner, her skirts swirling around her ankles. Her black dress fit her perpetually somber mood. She began to sweep but then threw the broom aside. Many times back in England, she and Geoffrey had walked through the garden, sharing their innermost hopes and dreams, and often, Geoffrey had gifted her with a bouquet of fresh-picked daisies. Her soul hungered for the sight of daisies. Or pansies or morning glories. If she could pick a cluster of something bright and cheerful and place it on the table, surely her spirits would lift. Maybe the flowers would even provide a small reminder of England—of those wonderfully carefree days of kinship she shared with Geoffrey. And maybe he would remember, too.

  The decision made, she tied a bonnet over her hair and headed for the door.

  FOURTEEN

  GEOFFREY STOPPED AT the pump house to wash up before entering the house for the evening meal. He’d spent much of his day digging a ditch to channel water from the Solomon to a reservoir between two feeding pastures. His muscles were sore and tired, but he’d made sure the depth and width of the drainage would create a flow that soothed rather than frightened the sheep.