by Delia Parr
‘‘They’re waiting for you on the patio. Opal has one basket with breakfast inside, and Garnet has the basket with dinner,’’ Mother Garrett offered, as if reading Emma’s mind. ‘‘It’s not too late. You can still change your mind about going riding.’’
‘‘Not after all the work Aunt Frances did on my riding skirt. Thank you again, Aunt Frances. The skirt fits well and it really . . . swooshes when I walk,’’ she replied, grateful to have two honest compliments to offer. In point of truth, she rather enjoyed the freedom of having no petticoats beneath the slim riding skirt, but she kept that notion to herself.
Aunt Frances beamed. ‘‘I’m so excited that you’re pleased with it. You know, I’m almost glad that chicken ruined the brown fabric. You look so much prettier with a touch of lighter colors.’’
A touch? It was difficult for Emma to think of the garish, shimmering fabric that covered her from waist to toe as anything other than a huge nightmare that promptly stifled any urge to defy convention once in a while. A bizarre image of the guest who had worn a full costume made from this fabric formed in her mind’s eye, and she quickly shuttered that memory. ‘‘I’m just glad the chicken is gone. I hope you secured the gate after carrying the chicken back down to the woods.’’
‘‘It’s secure. I checked it again before I went to bed,’’ Mother Garrett insisted. ‘‘By now that chicken should be long gone, off looking for other chickens.’’
Aunt Frances nodded. ‘‘Most likely.’’
Relieved that one of her prayers had been answered, Emma said her farewells. When she reached the patio, she saw the two picnic baskets sitting on top of the back stone wall and the sisters standing next to them, gazing down the hillside.
They turned around as she approached, and the sunlight caught the pins they wore so Emma could easily tell them apart. Almost simultaneously, the sisters’ eyes bulged, and Emma put a finger to her lips. ‘‘Not a word. Not one. Not a giggle, either,’’ she warned in as loud a whisper as she dared.
Each sister clapped a hand to mouth and nodded, but that still could not stop the tears of laughter that escaped.
‘‘I know, I know. . . . It’s awful. But Aunt Frances worked very hard to make this for me, and we can’t offend her.’’
Garnet was the first to break her silence. ‘‘You look like you’re dressed to join a traveling circus or a theater troupe.’’
‘‘All you need is some sort of silly cap,’’ Opal whispered.
‘‘In point of fact, one of my guests was part of a theater troupe, but she was leaving that life. This came from the costume she left behind. If I’m not mistaken, I believe there is a rather silly-looking bonnet still in the trunk in the garret. So . . .’’ She sobered. ‘‘Do you still want me to go riding with you?’’
‘‘Of course!’’
‘‘Absolutely!’’
Convinced she was about to endure one of the most humbling moments of her life, Emma let out a deep sigh. ‘‘The sooner we leave, the sooner I can be off Main Street and disappear into the woods.’’
Garnet grinned. ‘‘We’re not using Main Street today.’’
‘‘But the livery is at the south end of Main Street.’’
‘‘True, but we’re heading north today for a change, so Mr. Adams brought the horses here. They’re tied up right behind the gazebo. See?’’ Opal pointed toward the woods. ‘‘If we ride single file at first, we can follow the path through the woods, cross the main roadway, and ride along the Candlewood Canal a ways before crossing over. If I’m not mistaken, it’s only a mile or two. From there, we were hoping to . . .’’
While Emma was relieved to avoid parading down Main Street, she found she could not really concentrate on Opal’s words, for she was staring too hard at the gazebo. Shocked speechless, she pointed and eventually managed to give voice to her words. ‘‘That . . . what are those . . . purple stains on this side of the gazebo?’’
Garnet took a look. ‘‘What a pity. That’s probably from the mulberries. But don’t worry. The season for them is done. There can’t be much of them left.’’
‘‘Most likely,’’ Opal agreed.
‘‘B-but you planted the mulberry trees behind the gazebo, not on the side. How could the mulberry stains be on this side, and what would smash the berries up against the gazebo like that?’’ Emma countered. ‘‘I hope this isn’t some sort of prank.’’
Garnet redirected Emma’s attention. ‘‘Look—on the gazebo steps. There’s your culprit.’’
Emma took one look and stiffened as the renegade chicken maneuvered itself into the gazebo, up onto the benches, and finally along the railing edge on the side of the gazebo, where it set itself to roost. She ground her teeth together when the chicken’s purple droppings hit the side of the gazebo.
Opal and Garnet both started giggling.
‘‘That gazebo makes for the prettiest chicken coop. It’s the mulberries, all right,’’ Opal managed.
‘‘Pigs and chickens just love them,’’ her sister said. ‘‘I’ve heard some farmers even plant mulberry trees to feed their stock, although most of the trees are going to nurseries these days. The demand from farmers turning to the silk industry is really growing.’’
‘‘That’s because silkworms love mulberries, too,’’ Opal explained.
‘‘I don’t know much about chickens and their habits,’’ Garnet observed, ‘‘but I’ve also heard they make good pets. Maybe the chicken has adopted you instead of the other way around. It sure seems to like being here.’’
‘‘Back home, Mrs. Billings had a pet chicken once. Don’t you remember, Garnet?’’
‘‘Oh, that’s right! She had the sweetest little chicken. It would eat right out of our hands. It followed her all around the yard, too. She even had a little shed built just for . . . What was that chicken’s name?’’
‘‘No more talk about chickens—as pets or otherwise,’’ Emma grumbled. ‘‘Yesterday I prayed for the chicken to leave the patio. This time, I’ll be more specific and ask for the chicken to leave my property. I’m even going to add pigs to my prayers, just to be sure there’s no misunderstanding should a wagonload of swine spill out onto Main Street and a renegade pig finds its way here for those mulberries.’’
She turned and grabbed the baskets. ‘‘Shall we go?’’ Emma asked, silently whispering her prayer, hoping the answer would be more akin to her liking than to His.
————
At the end of their outing, Emma rode back up the path through the woods behind Hill House wearing a grin that almost stretched from ear to ear.
After an hour or so astride, she had felt as comfortable and as confident as she had thought she would be. They had stopped for a bite of breakfast and dinner but otherwise traveled the rest of the day through woodlands and farmlands, some of which Emma had inherited. They were too busy chatting and laughing together to bother dismounting when resting their horses or pausing at creeks and streams for their horses to drink.
She set aside her disappointment that her prayer about learning something that might help her with the Leonards’ squabble had gone unanswered, but Emma was almost giddy knowing she had proven Mother Garrett’s patronizing words to be true. This had been a very, very special day she would long remember.
As planned, she reined up at the edge of the woods, dismounted, and handed her reins to Opal, who insisted on taking the horses back to the livery with Garnet.
Opal looked down at her and frowned. ‘‘As well as you did today, you’re not as used to riding as we are, especially for so long. Are you sure you’ll be able to get back to the house all right?’’
Emma widened her grin. ‘‘I feel terrific. When you come back, you’re both going to tell Mother Garrett how well I did, aren’t you?’’
Both sisters nodded.
‘‘Good. I’ll have plenty of fresh water ready in your rooms so you can wash up.’’
‘‘Watch out for that chicken,’’ Garnet teased bef
ore she and her sister turned around and led Emma’s horse away.
Emma watched them until they reached the main roadway and turned south before she headed back to the house. She managed only a step or two before she realized she had been astride for so long, she did not quite have her equilibrium back. She held still for a moment, took a few tentative steps, and felt her back and leg muscles protest.
She dismissed the first few twinges as normal but worked the muscles in her hands and arms as she started walking slowly toward the house. She passed by the gazebo without sighting the chicken and made a mental note to speak with Aunt Frances again.
If Aunt Frances would agree to find the chicken again at dusk when it was sleepy, Emma would also ask her to solve the problem of that chicken once and for all. If not tomorrow, someday soon there would be chicken stew simmering on Mother Garrett’s cookstove.
Tough or not, Emma was going to savor every single bite.
29
UNFORTUNATELY, MOTHER GARRETT had been right.
Again.
Emma could not soon forget her day of riding with Opal and Garnet, even if she tried. Even two days later, every muscle, every bone in her body still ached. She was finally able to braid her hair on the first attempt today without too much pain. Bumping along in the buggy with the two sisters to see them off on the morning packet, however, was only slightly more bearable than the glint of amusement in Mother Garrett’s eyes—a glint that showed no signs of disappearing in the near future.
Emma waited on the landing until the rest of the passengers boarded the packet boat. Once Opal and Garnet climbed up to the cabin roof, they started waving good-bye with their handkerchiefs from Aunt Frances. Emma instinctively responded with a hearty wave.
‘‘We’ll be back in the spring when the tulips bloom,’’ Opal cried. ‘‘Tell Mr. Breckenwith we hope to see him then.’’
‘‘And tell Reverend Glenn we’ve decided to give our crosses to our parents and ask him to make two more for us,’’ Garnet said as the packet boat moved away from the landing.
‘‘I will,’’ Emma promised. She carefully offered a final wave good-bye and struggled against the fear that when the Mitchell sisters returned in the spring, Emma might no longer be at Hill House. With a weary heart, she started the long, painful walk toward home, but by walking slowly and stretching her leg muscles very gently, she found the more leisurely pace almost enjoyable.
By midmorning, Candlewood was bustling with activity. One wagon after another, and occasionally a single rider, traveled up and down Main Street. Other wagons were still parked the length of Canal Street, waiting to carry away the merchandise and livestock arriving on freight barges or to deliver goods being shipped east to New York City via the Erie Canal.
She eased her way along the planked sidewalk and managed her way through the shoppers traveling in and out of stores and around the workmen beginning construction today on a clock that would stand in front of town hall.
On a whim she turned off Main Street onto Coulter Lane. With her meeting with Mr. Langhorne only days away, she stopped at Mr. Breckenwith’s to see if he had returned from his trip. When Jeremy answered her knock, his cheeks flushed the moment he recognized her. Relieved to find that her lawyer had indeed returned, she followed Jeremy as he escorted her directly to his mentor’s cluttered office before he promptly disappeared.
Zachary Breckenwith was seated behind his desk. When she entered the room, he stopped writing, looked up, and set his pen aside before rising to greet her. ‘‘I was just penning a note for Jeremy to take to Hill House asking you to stop by. Please, have a seat.’’
After she sat down, very gingerly, he followed suit. ‘‘I take it you enjoyed your ride the other day with the Misses Mitchell,’’ he said with a very uncustomary twinkle in his eyes.
Her cheeks flushed warm. ‘‘And the news of my ride spread all the way to the county seat?’’
He chuckled. ‘‘No. I came home by packet boat on Monday and spied the three of you. It’s quite interesting how far one can see from the canal when standing on the cabin roof of a packet boat, especially when a rider is wearing something that catches the sun. The female travelers were quite intrigued and asked me if I knew the identity of the woman who was dressed in silk and went riding alone with not one but two male companions.’’
‘‘And your reply?’’ Annoyed that she had been spotted and discussed by strangers, Emma was duly unsettled that he thought the incident was humorous and that he was responding to the whole situation as if he had set aside his role as her lawyer to become something . . . more?
He laughed at her question. ‘‘Client privilege. On all accounts. I trust the sisters enjoyed their stay?’’ he asked, reminding her that he found Opal and Garnet as delightful as she did.
‘‘Completely. I just saw them off. They were disappointed you were out of town and said they hoped to see you on their next visit. I was on my way home when I thought I’d stop to see if you’d returned. May I assume you have the information I requested?’’ she asked, anxious to learn the content of Enoch Leonard’s will before telling him about her upcoming meeting with Mr. Langhorne.
He nodded. While he rifled through his papers to find the will, she described the situation between the Leonard brothers as it now stood, grateful for the confidentiality he had mentioned a moment ago. ‘‘Unfortunately, since I asked you to get a copy of the will, James and Andrew still haven’t resolved their differences.’’
‘‘And Widow Leonard is still staying with you at Hill House?’’ he asked as he found the document he had been searching for.
‘‘Yes.’’
He handed her the copy of the will and assumed a more serious demeanor as he slipped into his more formal and familiar role as her lawyer. ‘‘Unlike most people who wait until they’re on their deathbeds, he had this will drawn up some time before his death. As I recall, that was in August of 1833. I’m leaving again tomorrow with Aunt Elizabeth for a visit with relatives in Bounty, and I thought I might even go on to New York City for a spell to see some old friends. I don’t expect we’ll return for a good month, at least. Since the will isn’t very lengthy, if you have time, you might want to read it over here so I can answer any questions you might have. Unfortunately, I doubt you’ll find anything in the will that might prove helpful to you.’’
Dismayed to learn he would be leaving before her meeting with Mr. Langhorne, Emma turned all of her attention to the will she held in her hand. She felt odd about reading it, despite the fact it was now a public document. She focused on her good intentions, started reading the will, but skipped over the beginning that attested to the man’s sanity. By skimming over survey details, she was able to quickly verify that the present ownership of the land was in accordance with the dictates of the will.
The specific bequests to Aunt Frances, who had signed away her dower rights, were not unusual. She was permitted to keep her clothing and personal possessions, as well as ‘‘the bed linens, kitchen utensils, and a chair of her own choosing.’’
The part of the will that interested Emma the most was the section detailing the man’s very precise wishes for the care of his wife after his demise:
I hereby direct my sons to be responsible for the happiness, welfare, and general well-being of their mother, said Frances Carter Leonard. For six months of every year of her widowhood, each son shall provide her with a separate, furnished room for sleeping, ten yards of fabric, seven spools of thread, one cord of wood, two tins of licorice root, and such foodstuffs as she deems desirable. Out of respect and with gratitude for her many years of faithful devotion and care, they shall likewise return the same tender affection she has given to them, that she might spend her final years living in comfort, peace, and harmony.
Struck by the obvious affection and concern he had for his wife, Emma was also moved that he had known his sons well enough to remind them, implicitly, to get along with each other. She struggled to find her voice. ‘‘He cared
for his wife very deeply,’’ she murmured.
‘‘And provided for her accordingly,’’ the lawyer noted. ‘‘Most men, however, are very precise in terms of assigning specific obligations to the grown children who are left to care for the surviving widow, assuming they don’t wait until their last dying moments to dictate a will and have the time to give the matter some thought.’’
Troubled by the difficulties Aunt Frances was experiencing, Emma ran her fingertips across the document. ‘‘When it comes to caring for their widowed mothers, grown children should know what their obligations are,’’ she offered, ever grateful she did not have to face a similar problem with her own sons. ‘‘They shouldn’t need a will to tell them what they should or should not do.’’
‘‘It’s been my experience that with few exceptions, adult children generally honor all of their obligations to an aging parent, especially if it happens to be their mother.’’
‘‘Perhaps,’’ she said. Unfortunately, both James and Andrew were clearly following the letter of their father’s will. The foodstuffs they had delivered to Hill House were proof of that. Aunt Frances’s final years, however, were proving to be neither peaceful nor harmonious, and she wondered if that might be something to be pursued legally so that James and Andrew had no alternative but to compromise and reconcile.
‘‘What if they don’t?’’ Emma asked. ‘‘What if the children do some things but not everything the will calls for them to do?’’
He frowned. ‘‘If they don’t, I daresay few widows have the wherewithal to force their children to abide by the terms of a will. I’ve never had such a case.’’
Startled by his words, she stilled her fingers and held the will firmly in her hand. ‘‘Never? Even if the will clearly states one thing and the grown children ignore it? Let me see . . .’’ She studied the document carefully. ‘‘Here. It says the two sons should make sure their mother spends her ‘final years in comfort, peace, and harmony.’ What if they don’t?’’