Surely it was no coincidence that Uncle walked into the kitchen at that exact moment, sat down, and glanced at me as if I were Queen Elizabeth about to issue an edict. He lowered his head.
I opened my mouth, but words lodged in my throat. Too much pain, too much change. And Queen Elizabeth’s mighty collar choked me. I’d make a terrible monarch. My earlier thoughts of independence evaporated. I was tied to this place, like it or not.
Ernest’s moans drifted down the hallway.
Uncle ignored the sounds. “Well. What are we to expect?” All business, as Mother could be at times.
They both gazed at me now, four reflections seeking to read my eyes as I had done earlier. “This is your home. Why would I make you leave?”
Uncle shrugged. “Didn’t know what manner of gal you are.”
He couldn’t tell. After my time here, hadn’t they seen who I was? I cried. In front of two grown men, I dropped my head into my arms. My crown fell. It’s true. I don’t know them, they don’t know me. I might have murdered them in their beds and had this whole place to myself.
Honestly. What would I do with a farm?
“I don’t want this place. I do want my life back. Do you understand? I want my parents to hold me in their arms again. I want my home back, long talks over tea, my trips to the lake...”
I thought this was my new home. But now I see that I’m more than a mere burden. I’m unwanted. That’s the word that popped into my head as they looked bug-eyed at me.
I had been open-hearted to this family and they had seemed so to me. Clearly, I was mistaken. The question of what to do with myself has just been trumped by an undeniable fact. At first, I thought I could get things back to normal—whatever that meant—if I returned the deed to Uncle. To allay his fears and show my pure motives. But is it right to hand over Father’s last gift to me? My inheritance. What if I am supposed to own this place? Raise my own family here. What if God has a plan for me in all this? To cast off Father’s legacy gift might open me to divine judgment somehow...Not to mention poverty.
Uncle left. I rose from my chair and washed the dishes. Mr. Bleu dried them. We didn’t speak, I couldn’t and he wouldn’t. As soon as we finished, he tried to say something, but I scampered up here to my small square of solitude. He has been unkind despite the forced show of drying dishes.
Not surprising but I have a roaring head ache now.
JAMES SHUFFLED THROUGH his bag for a peppermint. His stomach had grown nauseous after questioning that niece of Hammond’s.
Oh, how he hated that she’d seen him trigger into sickness. What foolishness. She must have thought he was insane, though she’d showed no sign but slight annoyance. He’d been the one annoyed! Not to be able to control oneself in a group would ever be a thorn in his flesh. The uncontrolled fear that gripped him—the heaving sickness. It couldn’t happen again. Next time, he wouldn’t be caught off guard. Next time, he’d count to a thousand.
Hammond trooped up the attic stairs with a lantern and a box under one arm. James held the door.
“Here. Why don’t you go through these papers and see if there’s anything we oughtta know.” Hammond set the metal box on his cot and nervously wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
James’ blood grew hot. “What are these?” He knew without asking what they were—what they might contain.
“Dorothy’s not gonna need them. Her pa’s business and the like.” Hammond shoved the handkerchief in his back pocket
“I don’t know that I have any business going through this.” That was the honest thing to say. But anticipation gripped him to the core. He needed to see. And Hammond, thank God, did not appear to have looked through them yet. Some things were better left unknown.
“You have at them. Dorothy’s just a gal. We must look out for her.” Hammond’s face appealed with honesty. “She might need us to help out with something else. Maybe an unpaid bill? Who knows.”
James nodded in agreement.
“You know I’m not good with numbers. She deserves better than who she ended up with.”
“Not true. But I’ll see what needs attention, if any.” He nodded, giving Hammond the security he needed. The security he always needed.
What an odd pair they’d made during the war days. One boastful, overly sure-of-himself twelve-year-old rich runaway and this easygoing farmer with more bravery than anyone could have predicted. If only others could see him, know what he did, know the real man when worst came to worst.
Days of fire and smoke. Blood and prayer. Drum and fife, forward and onward to victory. He shuddered and forced himself to breathe slowly. He pasted a grin on his face, remembering the frog he and Danny had put in Colonel West’s boot—and in a flash, Dorothy’s stunned face came before him. Her shock and sadness.
A different kind of war, he’d expected. But not complete ignorance as she’d convincingly displayed. Still, she owned the land, and further still, she had control over those ten acres he needed. Unless control could be slipped from her frail female hands. Not by a long shot. He’d fought too hard, worked too hard to let a mere girl control his destiny.
Her open grief tore at him. She didn’t dash away to hide her face, but let them all see what this news did to her. Bravely, she did the dishes any way. He felt like a heel the whole time. He had been too hard. Brutal even. He’d heard a version of his father’s voice come rolling out of him, demanding truth.
Well, she’d told them the truth. She wanted her old home back. Her parents to hold her. Their sustaining presence. He himself had run from a firm hold, right into war. When he’d run back home three years later, the arms of his father were open wide, though it was hard to take comfort. His disbelieving mother had grown stone cold.
Dorothy’s emotions were raw. Unstable. They needed to be careful, or she might blow like an undetonated cannon ball.
He heightened the fire in his oil lamp and set to work. Heart in his throat, he went through every account, each piece of mail. In the very bottom, tied in a string were the letters and receipts. Dear God! What if Hammond had found them instead? What then? He’d begged Dorothy’s father to destroy them, why did he keep them? Do not let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. They were nobody’s business...and yet...he held them in his hands, considering. These letters could be useful, if worst came to worst. If Dorothy could be trusted. If...
He bundled everything back into the box and tucked it safely in his sack. He released a long breath. The Lord was indeed looking out for him. Always.
Chapter 7
FEBRUARY 29, 1880
A knock sounded at my door. I did not want to answer. I knew I looked awful. I failed to braid my hair last night and now it’s tangled and matted from my tears. Bruised eyes, from sleeplessness. I snuggled deeper in my bed. Not comfortable, no. A crick in my neck tightened—sorrow in my heart squeezed. I feel as if death had visited me afresh.
I should have been giddy at the thought of owning an entire farm. Thrilled with the possibility of this enormous, tangible inheritance. Something good may be wrought here. Expanding the production levels, feeding the nearby community, helping the poor. Why not? I could be one of those women capable of leadership, in full and fair competition with the stalwart men of this age. If only my wants could redirect themselves. I have no inborn passion for this.
Never in my life had I imagined myself a—what shall I call myself? A farm mistress? Memories of farmer’s wives only brought back odors that were not commonplace where I grew up, but all too ordinary here. Might I, too, smell like a farm-woman now? Soured milk and clinging dung? Smells aside, why do I have the feeling that there is a grand decision before me, when the answer is simply to let Uncle’s family stay?
Mr. Bleu seemed to feel that I might hand over the deed and pretend that fact of my father’s ownership never existed. “That would be the best for everyone,” he’d told me. So sure of himself.
This thought roils in my gut. Life may be easier this way. Feels l
ike a falsehood because it is. And what of the money owed my father—and by law—to me? Why should I lose all claims to my only inheritance?
Another knock. I tossed down my pencil and journal. “Yes?”
Kirsten walked in with Helen trailing behind her. Dressed in their Sunday best of navy blue wool with white linen collars and stiff cuffs. They sat on the edge of my bed, eyes studying the wooden floor. Not a word was spoken. Kirsten wore her hair looped behind her head in braids. Helen wore hers in one long roll from ear to ear. “We don’t want you to be angry with us.” Helen sighed. “Please.”
I crouched before them, my blankets a twisted mess. “Angry?”
“For not telling you sooner.”
They made room for me between them. “How is it that you girls know your father’s business?”
“He told us before you came, just in case we had to pack up and leave soon.” Her eyes widened. “He wanted us to be prepared.”
“Put those thoughts out of your mind.” The placid fear on their faces... so ignorant of what really being without a home means.
“Are you coming to church with us?” Kirsten asked.
Church. This would be a quiet place to reflect without having to speak with anyone just now. “I suppose I need to get ready.” They pulled me off the mattress.
“We’ll bring you breakfast.” Helen surged forward and hugged my neck. “Thank you.” Her passionate whisper resonated with my own desperate cries. How I wish I could grasp God tightly and say those same words. Perhaps I may feel better if I do. Helen can’t truly know if I will evict her and her family until it doesn’t happen. And if I embrace God, I know in certainty I cannot predict His decisions either.
Mother had an embroidery verse she’d stitched and hung on the staircase wall at home, “Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.” Psalm 100:4
Job’s plights and praises stabbed my memory. “Blessed be the name of the Lord...”
Between bites of toast and swallows of coffee, I was ready within minutes. Mr. Bleu had readied the wagon. I gazed around at the patchy snow. A speckled earth—the dark, the light.
Aunt and Uncle stayed home with Ernest. I know sooner or later I would have to speak with them on this matter. I surely don’t want to.
Mr. Bleu was necessarily polite. I suppose he thought better of his cold manner and decided to pretend to be kind. We both know I control the acreage, the creeks. His water. If he perturbs me, I have recourse. Power...Listen to me! I am writing in a most monarchal tone. This is not how I wish to behave. I wish to be kinder to the world than it has been to me. Or am I confusing God with the world?
No doubt, I need forgiveness for those last words.
The ride to church needs no explaining. I do not care to immortalize the journey here in these pages. As expected, no one spoke, no one needed to. But I will do my best to describe the church because it’s beautiful simplicity caught my attention. No stained glass or intricate carving like my church in Ohio. No plush pews. This place resembled a few clapboard churches I saw in the distance while on the train. Dull, plain, and uninteresting from the outside.
Mr. Bleu offered his arm. I didn’t want to look the fool in front of the other parishioners...and the brick walkway was still slick in places, so I took it. As soon as we entered, I slipped my hand out as fast as I could. No need to set tongues wagging.
Mr. Bleu and the farm slipped from my thoughts. I noticed the candles first. Each high arced window glowed with a single, white taper candle wedged in a pewter candlestick, surrounded by a hurricane glass—little reflections of each flame bounced through the glass to the window, glowing like diamonds on fire.
The walls are the whitest-white, the pews an aged oak. Smoothed by many hands. A simple pulpit, a simple altar. Who needed heavy carvings and carpets here? I sensed that this place is loved. Else why would anyone spare the church so many expensive candles? Without them, this place might be like any other boorish structure.
Hymns were sung. The candles glistened, dripping sluggish paths that grew and thickened as the minister taught. I scarcely heard him, so mesmerized by the shinning flame but feet away. His last words caught me and I knew I was more like the flitting moth drawn to the fire and not the first human to discover it.
“Reckon it nothing but joy, my brethren, whenever you find yourselves hedged in by various trials. Be sure that the testing of your faith leads to power of endurance. Only let endurance have perfect results so that you may become perfect and complete, deficient in nothing...James 1:2-3”
Hedged in? Yes, I reckon I am that. The minister said these words amid the calm pools of candlelight. These words dropped like a soft rain, though I resisted the initial impact. I soaked them in because my spirit had been like parched ground and I would have been mad to refuse what I desperately needed. Joy and endurance might thrive together in my heart! God grant me joy because I cannot conjure any on my own.
This particular Sunday, I believe, will always stand out in my memory as a contrast of darks and lights. The lights have stayed with me even now as I write, and gaze upon my oil lamp’s flame, remembering. Glimmering. Like hope—perhaps?
After the last hymn, Mr. Bleu ushered us to the wagon without any friendly introductions. I suppose this honor shall wait for Aunt.
When we returned, Uncle and Aunt served a feast fit for the Queen. Ernest sat at the table, supported by a few parlor cushions. I walked over and he took my hand, “You’re a grand cousin, alright.” At that moment, I understood something. This farm was his birthright. He should have inherited, not me.
Debts are inglorious. They smother. Debtors don’t want a warehouse full of furnishings, hay rakes, cows and pigs from those who couldn’t manage to pay what they owed.
Aunt sniffed and pulled out my chair. She had been crying again. Uncle prayed such a prayer of gratefulness. I knew I would never take back my promise. I’m not sure what to make of this indebtedness. I want a family, not servants.
Chapter 8
MARCH 1, 1880
What does one do when waking up yet again to the knowledge that she has indeed inherited a great deal of property—or is about to? My birthday must be a looming event for poor Uncle. He’s invested an entire life into this acreage and livestock. Feels like Pilgrim’s back-breaking burden to me. If I had my way, I’d unlatch it and watch it roll down a steep hill into a forgotten abyss. Transplant the family to town. But this place is my father’s last gift to me. And wasn’t Mother’s constant hope that I would visit and know her home?
Looking at this issue with open eyes, I see my father handing me my mother’s very heart. I must not compare this farm to burdensome sin though. It isn’t as if I couldn’t love this place. I already hold some affection for it, as one might for a pastoral painting. Now I must jump into this painting like Alice in her looking glass and experience it. I must own this farm. Dirt under my nails and a tan on my face. Perhaps I, too, will become silent at supper from the daily exertion.
Once again, I must go down to breakfast and look everyone in the eye as this new person. Not the bereaved, homeless cousin, but the girl that regrettably holds sway over their father. I don’t believe fathers should be demoted in such a way. But what am I to do? If Uncle’s problems were of his own making...
And what if Uncle, hard worker though he is, makes poor choices concerning money? I sneer at myself. Me, who squandered the last bits of my money on sweets and books in order to fill a potential void. Oh, Father and Mother, what have you given me? Pandora’s box is more tempting. Another ridiculous exaggeration. I’ve got to muster some of that hope I held yesterday! Some thankfulness. I smell bacon sizzling. Yes, I can surely be thankful for that.
Ah, my heart is ten times lighter after talking with Aunt and Ernest this morn. Good Aunt saw my wrinkled brow. I didn’t know until she asked about it. I must watch my melancholic ways so that my inner workings are not so transparent. All the same, I
am glad my anxiety was exposed this once.
There is nothing quite like an understanding embrace. After I’d swallowed my last drink of coffee—I can’t wait to buy tea—Uncle, Mr. Bleu, and the boys left to check on the horses. I busily scraped bacon bits and grease that had settled in the bottom of the iron skillet. Aunt put her arm around me and most directly said, “This must be a great surprise to you. I can’t imagine being in your shoes. Are you very angry with us?” She shook her head, “No, I can see that you are not.”
“I never knew, Aunt. I came here honestly needing a home.” I have to admit, her directness made me just a tad uncomfortable.
“And a home you shall have, as much as I can give you one.” She gave me a squeeze. “Don’t let this place burden you, Dorothy. I have learned that all things in this earth belong to God. He will take care of us.”
I confess, the thought of actually taking care of this family myself had never crossed my mind. Control of the farm, yes, the livelihood of eleven? Certainly not.
Ernest leaned forward on a cushion, listening. We are closest in age, but I believe he the farthest along in wisdom. I feel the fool next to this would-be prince. He should have the throne, not I. Have I not read that God uses the foolish things of the world to confound the wise? I am the fool-thing, I am confounded as well. I’ve also read that He sets kings in their places. And if he sets kings, he must set the queens as well.
Ernest smiled handsomely, peace lighting his face. “I’ve known for a few years about your inheritance, Dorothy. Father told me as soon as I was able to understand. All this time, I just thought, “I can’t wait for her to come see this place. I know she will love it.” He opened his hands and looked into them, as if seeing the vast acreage of this farm spread out in his palms. He looked back at me. “And for some reason, knowing you would be here someday gave me hope. I can’t explain why. I’ve been praying for years for you. So please, don’t be sad about coming. You are meant to be here. Always were.”
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 5