Always meant to be here...the thought should have rankled my spirit, but hearing him say this was almost like hearing Providential permission. Ernest’s joy couldn’t have surprised me more.
I place myself in his shoes. What if he were to come to my dear home and own it? Though our town home is nothing compared to this farmhouse, I would be pained. I am pained, for my dear home is owned by another. And nothing I can do about it.
Ernest’s smile continued as he waited for my response. My heart was not prepared for such a sweet gift. I wish Uncle had sent Ernest instead of Mr. Bleu to reveal the truth. How much easier this would have been to bear!
I pulled a small bench close and sat next to him. “I’m not sure I am capable of loving this farm as much as you, but I will try.” A lump formed in my throat as I thought again of Mother. “She always wanted me to visit. I refused her wishes, time after time. It’s a wonder she didn’t drag me here herself, if she desired it so greatly.”
Aunt put her arms around both of us, as if we were partners. Ernest looked at me, eyes serious, smile fading into pleasant curves. “You need a pair of stout boots. Spring is coming.”
And here I thought he was about to offer another endearing compliment. Me in stout boots? I couldn’t fathom why.
Wind whipped unmercifully in direct retaliation against laundry day. I winced at the chapped hands Aunt, Helen, and Kirsten would have by day’s end. As expected, I was given an easier chore than the rest. I ironed soggy linens and kerchiefs until thoroughly steamed myself. My hands, though pruned, stayed perfectly warm. Felt good to do something and not sit around wondering about my eternal significance. I kept to myself at the ironing board.
Aunt, Helen, Kirsten, Ruby and little Toliver sang lively folk songs while scrubbing and heaving buckets and kettles of water. My corner by the stove protected me against blasts of chilly air. Ernest’s proclamation, “You are meant to be here” rang in my ears all morning. Until I saw Mr. Bleu at midday meal. I can see plainly that he does not believe as Ernest. I wonder if he believes it for himself?
Toliver watches me continually, his dark brown eyes peering from beneath tables. Mr. Bleu gives him all the affection a father might and I think of my own. Missing him. Dear, dear Father...
I PERUSED THE FAMILY’S bookshelves and found a large book about botany. Colored plates would help tremendously. The writing is descriptive enough, though I am tempted to color in all the pen and ink illustrations with proper colors. I am in search of one item, actually. The large book Mr. Bleu purposed to read while confronting me. I thought nothing of it at the time, though I find it humorous that such a stern fellow might need a shield to hide behind. I recall it had blue cloth binding with a matching ribbon marker. He must have secreted it to his chamber. Nosy girl, I am. Perhaps I should search for the ledgers instead...
I found the ledgers without much trouble. They are stacked atop the pie safe beneath Aunt’s household book. They are certainly large enough to be ledgers. How am I to know the financial status unless I see the numbers for myself? The kitchen is occupied nearly every moment of the day by someone in the family. Asking Uncle is out of the question. His embarrassment is as fragile as mine. I recall that Aunt occasionally works for the MacDonald’s, but there is no skimping on meals unless I consider the bean and cornbread luncheons. I should abandon this curiosity. I don’t own this place yet. Two months until my birthday. I will be a submissive niece until then, gain some trust Uncle lacks with me and then I will pursue business matters. No need to be in a hurry. I say this, yet I tightly clench my pen as I write. There is no hurry, is there? I am here to stay—maybe forever.
Gloom settles over me this evening. I shall blame Mr. Bleu. We were all sitting in the parlor, the boys wrestled without reprimand from Aunt or Uncle, Little Ruby and Toliver stacked blocks and Helen and Kirsten played cards—something I was never allowed to do as a child. Mr. Bleu, Uncle, and Ernest shared newspaper sections and Aunt had her hands wrapped around a hot cup of chamomile tea. I peered around Mr. Bleu to see if he brought the large volume out again—that weighty shield. I cocked my head to the side to look beneath his chair. He snapped his head up and looked right at me, his lips twisted down, unmistakably irritated. With me.
I confess, I did something I should not have done. I just couldn’t bear him thinking that I was staring at his scars. I played the frightened female and pointed, “Large spider—beneath your chair!” A stupid, unnecessary lie.
The three boys came tumbling over, a shoe sailed and Mr. Bleu stood in time for it smack him in the eye, on the scared side.
He cursed as the chair flipped backwards. The boys chased the imaginary spider beneath the sofa. I’m also sorry to report that Uncle spilled his pipe on the sofa, leaving yet another hole on the aging fabric. Aunt’s eyes quivered shut.
Perhaps blaming Mr. Bleu for my lie isn’t fair. But he stood there seething at me. As if I cause spiders to walk on eight legs and invade happy homes. Sad to confess, but he was truly caught in a web of my own making. Wanting to know which book he had and nosing around has caused him pain. He now lies on his cot, somewhere in this house with a pack of snow on his eye. He likely isn’t able to read that monstrous volume at the moment.
The boys all thought it fun. Ernest just wanted to know what the spider looked like. My description confused him, “Black with red and yellow spots—no, some white by the head—and the front legs were curved a little...” and failed to match any found in the arthropods manual. Of course, they would have an arthropod manual! This made for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.
Aunt betook herself to the kitchen with the little ones, not willing to risk a spider bite on any sweet hands. Uncle declared, “Must’ve come in on the firewood...” Helen and Kirsten skirted out and up the stairs into their shared bed for the remainder of their card game. They invited me to join them, but my gloom and guilt prevailed. Sadly, this was misunderstood for grief—and while the pain is still very real—I am too wrapped in my own shame to do anything pleasant at the moment. Even learning forbidden cards.
It’s been way too long since I’ve enjoyed myself with friends, sitting on a bed—laughing and dreaming. However, I worked especially hard today. My back aches from ironing and my hands have chapped regardless of my warm situation inside by the stove. Beeswax balm, my pen, my room—none of them make up for my stupidity. At least I’ll be able to sleep soundly tonight. Weary as I am.
JAMES SEETHED BENEATH the snow pack. His head ached and his eye poked unmercifully. Heavens, that girl is trouble. He wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute he was quietly reading his book, the next she stared blank-faced at him.
Before a retort had surfaced, she’d screamed over a spider and a shoe went sailing into his face. He had plenty of retorts in mind for her. Clever ones. Next time, he’d use one and see if she ever stared at him like that again. In fact, he was certain there wasn’t even a spider. Her description was ludicrous. Hammond believed her, no doubt.
Well, he knew one fact. If she was deceptive about small things, she was capable of lying about the big ones. Not only was she emotionally unstable, she might not be trustworthy.
No question. He was right.
Snow dripped down his face and onto his pillow. He tossed the whole lot aside and willed himself to sleep. These were going to be a long few weeks. How to handle Dorothy? He folded his hands across his chest and petitioned God.
Chapter 9
MARCH 2, 1880
The spider incident is forgotten. Mr. Bleu looks no worse for the wear this morning. I expected to publicly repent and not feel at peace until then. I could hardly swallow my oatmeal for the impending judgment of the ridiculous spider-lie. God has had mercy on me. Private repentance must have been sufficient. No one said a word about it, neither did I.
Aunt lit a thick, yellow wax candle standing in a cracked willow plate. She said the kitchen needed brightening and we would likely have a dark, rainy day. “Good thing it didn’t rain yesterda
y.”
I wondered what a rainy day on a farm was good for. When I peeked out the back door this morning, I smelled the chicken coop on the upwind, followed by pig’s manure. The pigs are closer to the house than the cows. The melting snow is soggy brown. Its beauty completely lost.
I addressed Mr. Bleu. “When do you return to your own home?” I added what I thought must be a pleasant smile. I needed his snide presence to leave me be.
“Not for another week yet.”
“Solitude too dull for you, living alone?” I wished I had not said that aloud.
“No, but the mares are too great for me to leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“What?” He bit back.
Ernest cut in, “Foaling. Seven of our mares are about to give birth.”
Aunt blushed and swatted Ernest with a dishtowel. “She’s not used to such talk.”
“She needs to study-up if she’s going to stay on,” said Mr. Bleu.
“Baby horses?” I must have seemed silly.
“Colts and fillies.” Ernest smiled wide. “Best time of the year.”
“Can I have one?” Oh, where are my manners? Why did I behave in such a childlike way? In two months, all of them were mine. I needed to tread carefully.
“I want one too!” Little Ruby spoke out, a ray of sunshine to my heart. Why shouldn’t we all want baby horses? Colts or fillies, I mean.
Mr. Bleu let out an exasperated sigh.
Uncle nodded and lifted his eyes to mine. “You should choose one. Most definitely.” He sipped his coffee and added, “The others must be sold, but we will spare one for you.”
“Only if convenient...”
“Can you ride?” Helen asked.
“No. I always take the tram car. Or walk.”
Helen spoke with her mouth full. “I’ve never been on a tram.”
“I’ll take you sometime.”
“Me too!” Henry piped in. The other two boys looked as jealous as King Saul. Didn’t take a genius to figure out that they desired a horse far more than I did. I’ve never wanted one, but the thought of petting a foal seemed irresistible. Why not go ahead and claim one? I usurped their greatest want by a vain, fleeting idea. Now I was to have a horse and likely the boys’ hatred. All in one morning.
“Sell the horse.” I was not about to put up with their simmering disappointment. I have enough guilt already. “It was a foolish request.”
“No, no. You shall have the horse of your choice. Won’t take no for an answer.” Uncle smiled as if pleased with himself, at his generous gift.
Ernest sat back in his chair his gaze questioning mine and his father’s. I determined to let the boys have the horse instead. Not sure how to make that happen, but happen it must. I need their trust far more than an animal I know nothing about.
But what about Mr. Bleu? Did I even care to have his trust? He is not my family, but he seems to be like family to Uncle and the rest. Shall I make efforts in his direction? Diplomacy, good Queen Bess, never hurt anyone.
Toliver popped his head over my knees. When had he crawled beneath the table? He pointed with a single finger on both hands, “’Pider.”
“No,” I whispered. “No spider.” I took his cold, sticky hands into mine and looked into those brown eyes. I’d never looked so deeply into the face of a black child. I ran my hand over his short, wooly hair and patted his back. He scooted away. I suddenly wanted to be his mother. Preposterous notion. One does not claim infants like horses...or a family their farm.
“How is your eye this morning, Mr. Bleu?”
“Fine.”
I nodded, considering a response. “I think today is a good day for baking, if that’s alright with you, Aunt. I’d like to make Mother’s favorite. Unless you have a favorite, Mr. Bleu?”
He jerked his head up from buttoning his jacket. “My favorite what?”
“Dessert.”
“Strawberry short cake.”
No berries in winter. “Impossible, pick something else.”
He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. Water off a duck’s back. Let it slide. I’d make apple pandowdy. And molasses cookies. Warm as many hearts as I could.
UNSTABLE, UNTRUTHFUL, and greedy. Never mind that she’d taken back her request. Still, the damage was done. Hammond might risk finances on outfitting his niece far more than he’d be willing to do for his own daughters.
Did Hammond really think that keeping her bread buttered would do him any good? She’d only clamor for more. They always did. It would be the ruination of them all.
He brushed down Bucephalus’s flanks and fed the hungry beast his oats.
Hammond approached. “Hey, did you find anything interesting in that box of Dorothy’s? No unpaid bills, were there?” Slight worry creased his brow.
“Looks like everything is in order. All bills paid, letters and papers just as you would expect.” And some that Hammond wouldn’t expect. He lifted the front left hoof and inspected it for hidden stones. Then the right. Less said, the better.
Hammond swiftly wound a long length of rope between his hand and elbow. “Do you think she might have any papers with her that she might have neglected? In her desk maybe?” He wound the center with the remainder of the rope in a perfect coil, tucking away the end. “I don’t take to strangers showing up here telling us we owe anything.” He placed the rope on an iron hook in the doorframe. “I won’t be able to pay it.”
James’s stomach tightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you want to ask her?”
“Oh...”
“Hammond, you’ve got to face this.”
The man placed his hands on the hips of his overalls, looking upward at the multitude of cobwebs that covered the stable ceiling. Perhaps as many crowded his thinking these days.
Hammond lightly nodded. “I think you should go peek in her desk while she’s out. Chances are she doesn’t even know a bill from an advertisement.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t invade her privacy.” This just didn’t feel right.
“Davy-boy, she won’t even be in the room. You’re helping me, not stealing. I’m her guardian,” he pointed to his chest, “and I have a right to know.”
Hammond was right. Dorothy’s birthday wasn’t for a while yet. It’s just business. “Okay. I’ll go look. But if I get caught, you are going to be the one to explain. Not me.”
“I happen to know she’s baking in the kitchen. Gonna be there awhile. You might wanna jump to it right now.” Hammond walked away without his answer.
How the man could boss him around like he was twelve again! Never mind, he’d just get it over with. He trekked around the house and peered in at the kitchen door, to be sure. There she was, leaning over a mixing bowl stirring with all her might. He ducked away as she lifted her head. He’d go in the side door, closest to the stairs.
Thankfully, everyone was busy with a multitude of chores. He swiftly climbed, looked behind him and down the hall, and slipped in. He glanced around. Tightly made bed, trunk, wardrobe, rocking chair, desk, vanity—all tidy except her desk. A book lay open, her pen still resting carelessly in an open ink bottle. He came closer and spied around for any missives.
An empty teapot, a folder of sketches, old letters. Nothing Uncle would want. He gazed down at the book—a journal of sorts. Little sketches of the family filled the sides. He didn’t mean to pry, but he caught the word “spider” and glanced further down.
He knew he was wrong to do it, his gut even twisted in defiance. But he couldn’t help himself. Heat crept down his neck when he’d read his own name. So. She had lied about the spider. But he was wrong about her staring at him. Couldn’t bear for him to think she had been inspecting his scars. She felt shame. A drawing of her spider ended the journal entry, with a much-tangled web at its feet.
His closed his eyes, confused. He had no right to be in here. Hammond would just have to deal with whatever came his way. He quietly slipped out, thanking God he’d not been caught.
&n
bsp; He made his way slowly to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. The room was empty except for Dorothy. She bent over a cookery book, flour dusted the sides of her black skirts in spite of her apron. A spicy aroma wafted. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d made molasses cookies. She just might be good for a few things...
Chapter 10
MARCH 5, 1880
The snow melted with rain and sank into the earth leaving behind mud thick, oozing mud. Even so, I was determined to have my walk to the little township named after Paris, France. I’m afraid it lacks the grandeur of the real Paris. Though I have never actually been to Europe—yet—I’ve thumbed through many travel books. I’ve been jealous of an old school friend who married last year and enjoyed a honeymoon overseas. Her letters boasted all too much: this cathedral, that castle, this museum, that dress shop... I stopped reading them when they came. Then stopped writing back when Mother and Father grew ill. I wish I hadn’t. I daresay no one will think to write to such a poor correspondent.
This town has neither castle nor chateau—regardless of what a man’s house might be to him. All red brick and clapboard with the usual signs for usual labor. Draper, barber, lawyer, doctor. The train depot where I arrived—all grimy with coal dust. Amidst these norms, I sought one thing. Proper tea. Surely that was not too much to ask.
Kirsten and Helen had looped their arms with mine. I felt quite a foolish schoolgirl until I realized this action was more than comradery. The roads and byways were so thick with mud that if we didn’t link arms together, we wouldn’t make it town decently attired. Mud had already found its way down my boot and beneath my heel. Real tea would be worth it. I ardently miss the tram car.
I am forced to reckon with more mucky nature than I ever anticipated. “Surely I will find tea.” I spoke my hope aloud yet again. Helen just blinked at me with a shrug.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 6