Finally Ben closed The Pilgrim’s Progress. “I suppose that’s enough reading for tonight. Goodnight, Annabelle. Goodnight, Richard.”
When the cabin door closed, Richard threw down his writing stick and glared at her with an anger she had never seen directed at her.
“What?” Her voice sounded defensive to her own ears.
“You had no right to do that.”
“Do you mean giving Ben those old clothes? Why? You don’t wear them.”
“That’s because those were Papa’s clothes.” It was rare that her brother showed such emotion.
“Isn’t it better that someone use them, rather leaving them in that old trunk forever?”
“No! And especially not him.” Venom spewed from the simple pronoun.
Annabelle lowered her voice. Who knew how much of their conversation was penetrating into the lean-to shed built onto the other side of the wall? “Don’t be foolish. Ben is our friend. He is helping us.”
“I don’t want his help. Anyway, who asked him to stay? We were better off without him, back when it was just you and me.”
She reached for her brother’s hand, but he jerked it away. “That’s not true, Richard.” She hated the pleading tone in her voice. “Things are easier now. And it was so lonely before he came along.”
“Now you’re always on his side!”
She was torn between pity and exasperation. “Don’t be silly.”
Annabelle tried to put her arms around him as she used to when he was younger, but he jerked away. “We can’t trust him. I want him to leave.”
She was surprised at the way her stomach twisted at the thought of their guest leaving. “Well, that shouldn’t be much longer. He’ll tire of us soon and want to be on his way again.”
The statement seemed to cheer Richard up, although it depressed her. After her brother had gone to sleep, she found herself awake, staring into the darkness.
Ben’s physical transformation reminded Annabelle how shabby she and her brother must be. She rarely bothered to look in the cracked mirror that hung over the fireplace. What did it matter if the brown calico dress didn’t fit well and was frayed around the wrists and hem? Until now, there’d been no one to see or judge.
How different from the old days in Philadelphia, where every morning she’d sit on an embroidered footstool watching her mother get ready for the day. Caroline would arrange her golden hair into ringlets on top of her head and smooth violet-scented lotion into her skin. If Ben were to treat her like a grown woman, Annabelle thought with a jolt, maybe she should dress like one.
The next day when the men were in the fields, Annabelle glanced speculatively at the trunk. Dinner was simmering and the laundry was neatly folded. Surely there was time just to look …
Minutes later, she was up to her knees in ruffles and petticoats. Her mother had brought two dresses besides the one Annabelle now wore. One was as utilitarian as the brown wool. The other was made of wine-colored taffeta, extravagant yards of it.
Caroline had allowed each member of the family to bring one item that reminded them of life on the east coast. Annabelle had chosen her china-headed doll, a grimy thing, which resided at the bottom of the trunk, its head now cracked from when the bandits had tossed it carelessly aside. Richard brought the pocketknife he used for everything from cleaning trout to whittling figures out of pine wood. Her father had brought as many books as would fit into the trunk, including the Bible, The Pilgrim’s Progress, and the textbooks.
Her mother had brought the taffeta dress.
Annabelle shook out the rustling folds. Before sense reasserted itself, she shucked off her old dress and pulled on the stays, sucking in her breath to yank the laces tight. Next, she pulled the taffeta gown over her head. The stiff fabric tickled her flesh as multitiered flounces swung around her ankles. Reaching behind herself, she fastened the row of tiny fabric-covered buttons. Once, long ago, her mother had a servant to help with such tasks, but Annabelle had only herself.
She turned sideways to see as much as possible in the small, cracked mirror hanging over the hearth. Annabelle was pleased that the stranger in the mirror looked almost like an etching in Godey’s Lady’s Book, except something was spoiling the effect, like a wrong note in a piano chord. It was the childish braids hanging to her waist.
Unbinding them, Annabelle combed her fingers through the resulting cascading waves of hair before coiling them on top of her head and jabbing in hairpins. She turned her head to survey the results. Certainly no one could call her a child now, she thought. Even Benjamin Marlowe would have to admit she was a fully grown woman.
The fantasy dissolved like a panful of dishwater dumped over a pile of sugar. The dress might have done at a fancy soiree like those her mother attended before marrying Gustav Bergman, but it looked ludicrously out of place here. Scoffing at her moment of foolish vanity, Annabelle reached behind herself to loosen the buttons—and froze.
Ben stood in the doorway. He should have made a sound to warn her that he was back, Annabelle thought, and her heart started pounding slowly with what she thought at first was anger. He could have whistled a song, treaded heavily, or knocked on the door, so she would have been prepared.
He took one stride toward her, and suddenly she could not breathe. The blasted stays were too tight. Outside, a second set of steps approached, and she sank back with a mix of relief and regret. Richard, of course. The men had returned earlier than expected, and Ben had had not thought to knock before entering the cabin. Why should he? There had never been reason to before.
Richard banged through the door behind Ben and stopped, staring back and forth between the two of them. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Ben edged back toward the door. “I believe I won’t be having supper tonight. I want to fix that plow before tomorrow.”
The door closed behind him, and Annabelle picked up her old brown dress from the bed, holding it in front of the burgundy gown. “Why are you back early?”
“Didn’t you hear? The plow broke.” Richard studied her like Cotton Mather surveying a strumpet. “What on earth is that thing you’ve got on?”
“Mother’s old ball gown, as you know perfectly well.”
“Why are you wearing it?”
She turned her back to him, face hot. “I wanted to see if it fit. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change.”
The door banged closed a second time, and this time Annabelle barred it before quickly donning the brown dress. She couldn’t decide if she was more frustrated with Ben, Richard, or herself. Why should she feel guilty? She hadn’t known Ben would come home early. Yet deep inside, Annabelle knew that for some reason, she had hoped he would see her in the dress. It had even seemed as if he had liked seeing her in it. A thrill passed through her at the memory. What would have happened if Richard hadn’t burst in?
Well, Annabelle told herself, whatever she’d hoped, Ben had fled from her like Joseph fleeing Potiphar’s wife, an analogy that made her cheeks burn hotter.
After that incident, the old camaraderie was gone. Ben no longer spent his free time inside the cabin helping peel potatoes or playing his harmonica, but remained outside in the field digging out stumps and plowing new furrows with Richard, or lying under a tree staring up at the sky. His “loafing” no longer showed the old peacefulness, however.
It did not surprise Annabelle when a few days later, he came inside the cabin wearing his buckskins. “I’ve decided it’s time for me to move on. I’ll stay long enough to help Richard bring in the corn, then I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re leaving?” She had dreaded this moment.
“I’m sorry, Annabelle.” From the finality in his tone, she could tell it was no use trying to change Ben’s mind. “I appreciate your hospitality. I’ll never forget my time here.”
Neither will I, Annabelle thought, but she only nodded.
Richard received the news with his usual impassivity, but Annabelle could tell her brother wa
s pleased. Despite everything Ben had done for them, her brother had always seemed to resent the other man’s presence. Annabelle had often wondered why. Jealousy? Fear that Ben was trying to take their father’s place? Ben had done his best to make friends with Richard, but the youth never responded to his overtures.
She bent her head over her dinner plate as an intense wave of depression washed over her, caused by the thought that those long, lonely days were about to return, and life would become one bone-wearying day of work following another. Once again, she’d be as cut off from the rest of humanity, like a prisoner in a cell.
It was her own fault, Annabelle thought. She had driven Ben away. To spare her feelings, he’d decided it was kinder to leave. How he must pity her. The thought made her curdle with embarrassment. Annabelle reminded herself that Ben never planned to stay, and she was flattering herself to imagine she was the reason for his departure. For some reason the thought made her feel worse.
After dinner, Annabelle went outside to be alone with her thoughts. The late-afternoon sun lit her path toward the boulder where her parents lay buried. The remains of wildflowers from her last visit were scattered in front of it, limp petals rotting. She pressed her palm against the big rock, feeling its warmth from the day’s sunshine, then sank down. “What should I do?” she whispered.
She stayed listening in vain, until the sun slipped behind the mountain and a chill breeze sprang up.
While making his preparations to depart, Ben told Richard and Annabelle about the stream of covered wagons he’d seen heading toward Portland and Salem. New settlements were cropping up all over the state. Soon, he told them, they would have neighbors.
During their final meal together, he added, “Eventually, someone’s bound to explore those boulders blocking the pass that leads to this valley. Then you won’t be alone anymore.”
Annabelle remembered the two bandits she’d seen at the mouth of the canyon. It was pure luck that they hadn’t followed her over the rocks and found the trail up to the valley.
Richard’s fingers curled around the jackknife he’d been using to cut his food. “What if the newcomers try to take our land?”
“Don’t worry. Your homestead papers will keep your land safe,” Ben reassured him, then paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, looking at two shocked faces staring at him. He set the fork back down. “Don’t tell me your farm isn’t registered?”
“We haven’t left this valley since the day we arrived here,” Annabelle said, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Well, just once, and I didn’t go very far.”
Something in her voice must have alerted him. He looked up. “Why not?”
“I—I met a couple of travelers. They didn’t seem like good people, and I came right back here.” She changed the subject. “What do you mean about registering our farm?”
“Surely your parents went to the nearest land office before clearing the ground for planting,” Ben said, frowning. “That should have been their first course of action if they planned to establish a farm here.”
Annabelle and Richard looked at each other. They had allowed Ben to assume that their parents had built the cabin and cleared the field for crops. Secrecy had seemed the key to their safety.
“We … we didn’t know anything about a land office,” Annabelle said. Who would have thought one had to register land? If Papa had ever mentioned it, she hadn’t paid attention. “After our parents were … that is, Richard and I thought it was better to stay here than try to continue on alone.”
A series of conflicting expressions crossed Ben’s face. “So this valley wasn’t your parents’ destination?”
“No. We were on our way to the Willamette when someone told us this route was a shortcut through the mountains.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. His gaze flicked around the cabin’s interior with new understanding. Annabelle knew he was noticing the clumsy way the rough-hewn logs fit together, the thick smoke that emitted from the chimney into the room, making their eyes water. When he spoke again, however, Ben’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Nothing changes the fact that without papers you have no legal title to this land. Anyone could come and boot you off.”
Across the table, Richard bristled. “We built this cabin and planted the crops. This land belongs to us.”
Ben turned sympathetic eyes on him. “Unfortunately, the government wouldn’t agree. If you want to keep the farm, you’ll have to go to Salem and register. That’s a hundred miles from here.”
“Are you sure it’s necessary?” Annabelle frowned. “In the five years we’ve lived in this valley, no one has come except you.” The Indians didn’t count; they only passed through, never bothering them or showing an interest in staying.
“Trust me, there will be others soon. Someone will find this canyon and decide to turn up and see if there’s arable land.”
Richard chewed his lip, looking sullen.
“We have no choice,” Annabelle told her brother. After her initial stab of worry, a flare of excitement lit inside her. This was the excuse she’d been looking for to leave the valley—really leave the valley—and mingle with other people for a while. Below, there were stores, churches, maybe even a theater. She could see what the new fashions looked like and find out what was going on in the outside world. Who knew? Maybe the experience would even cause Richard to agree to move to a settlement permanently. Their mother had always wanted her children to experience “civilized life,” although how civilized Salem would be, Annabelle admittedly didn’t know.
Richard looked unconvinced. “What if someone squats in our cabin while we’re gone? We won’t be here to stop them.”
“We’d lose the farm anyway, without the proper papers,” Annabelle reminded him.
Richard stood up, his body silhouetted against the fire as rigid as a stiletto. “Then get them yourself. I’m staying.”
“Don’t be silly, Richard. I can’t go alone, and you can’t stay here by yourself. You’re only fourteen years old.”
“That’s almost grown.” Her brother’s tone dared her to disagree.
It was true that he had borne a man’s responsibilities for years, and she knew Richard wasn’t likely to listen. As he grew toward adulthood, he grew more stubborn every day. Annabelle turned for help toward their guest. “You tell him he can’t stay, Ben.”
Immediately she realized it was a mistake. Ben had seen Richard’s jaw tauten and his eyes glitter with hostility. Doubt crossed the man’s face, but he spoke up. “I’m hardly in a position to tell you what to do, Richard, but in this situation, I’m afraid I agree with Annabelle. It’s not that you’re not fully capable of carrying on, but I would feel irresponsible leaving you up here alone. What if you got sick, or had an accident? What if someone dangerous came along, and no one was here to help defend you?”
A picture of the red-bearded bandit flashed across Annabelle’s mind. Richard’s face could have been carved from marble. “I’d shoot him, just like I would have shot you the day you showed up if Annabelle hadn’t grabbed the gun first.”
A muscle clenched in Ben’s jaw. Annabelle was ashamed of Richard, but she bit her tongue. It wasn’t just her brother’s safety that worried her. If he wouldn’t go with her, that meant she couldn’t go either.
The former soldier read her thoughts. “There’s something else you haven’t considered, Richard,” Ben said gently. “Annabelle can’t travel by herself. And obviously I can’t take her with me, not unless you come along as well.”
“Why not?” Richard demanded.
“Because …” Ben rolled his eyes. “Just trust me, I can’t.”
Annabelle’s cheeks felt hot. Really, she thought with exasperation, Richard was so naïve! That’s what came of growing up removed from civilization, without the opportunity to learn the facts of life—not that she knew much about them herself.
“It’s not proper for a young lady to travel with a gentleman to whom she is not related,” she
said primly.
“Why not? What difference does it make?” Richard was too busy making his argument to touch his food. “You said yourself, Annabelle, that if he meant any harm, he could already—”
Ben coughed and a wave of crimson rolled up his face. Annabelle wished she could disappear. Richard seemed oblivious to the others’ discomfort. “You trust him, don’t you?” he demanded.
“Of course I trust him,” Annabelle said, unable to look at either of them.
“Then you’ll have to go with him, because I won’t.” Richard stamped out of the cabin, banging the door behind him.
Ben didn’t move from the other side of the table. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “By trying to help, I’m afraid I’ve only managed to—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll find a way to convince him.” He sounded unconvinced.
She shook her head. “Richard is as immovable as … as one of those big boulders by the creek. He wouldn’t come unless I trussed him with ropes and carried him on my shoulders.”
“That would be a sight to see. Maybe we could carry him together.” He tried to smile. “I’m willing to take you to Salem, Annabelle. I give you my word, I will be a gentleman.”
“I can hardly ask you to do this.”
“Why not?” Ben smiled. “It’s not as if I have a more pressing engagement.”
She wavered. The prospect of entering the world again was as great a temptation as the apple when it had beckoned Eve. “Would you, Ben? Would you really take me?”
“If you would be comfortable traveling with me unchaperoned. You could just think of me as … as an uncle.”
Uncle Ben. Annabelle couldn’t help smiling.
“All right, then,” he said, taking her expression for agreement. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
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