Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
S itting at the small table in Miss Taylor’s main room and sipping some fragrant tea from a delicately flowered teacup with an elongated saucer on which to set a petite cake or sandwich, Hank’s thudding heart slowed to a normal beat. He couldn’t help thinking this was one time he might have preferred something stronger.
He sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Elsie was fine. He’d been younger, still living with his grandfather, when he’d seen his cousin Edna faint and had been too frozen to react.
She’d been standing near the fireplace and perhaps had been overcome by the heat. He hadn’t known the signs of a lady’s swoon, and no one else was paying attention. So, he hadn’t leapt to her aid when she’d crumpled and hit her head on the edge of the marble hearth.
Thank the Good Lord Edna hadn’t died. She’d remained unconscious for several terrifying days and had taken months to recover. But Hank had carried the guilt ever since.
He took a deep breath and then a sip of his tea. If Elsie had swooned, she probably would have been fine. Bruised, yes. The ground was hardened by a lack of recent rain. But what if she’d hit her head on a stone? The very idea made his rapid heartbeat kick back up.
Now, cowboy , he chided. Stop digging in your spurs. Elsie’s fine! He gave her another studying glance. Still pale but looking a bit more like her lively self. Her eyes had regained their normal brightness.
In one hand, Miss Taylor held a silver platter of baked goods formed in a roundish shape. Her other hand grasped a china platter with a small bowl of jam and one of pale butter. “Elsie did a bit of baking this week, trying a Scottish recipe from Mrs. Cameron.” She held out the silver platter for Hank to select one.
Curious, Hank studied the offerings, wondering what exactly she’d baked. They weren’t flat like cookies and too lumpy to be rolls, or so he hoped. He did want a wife with cooking and baking skills. He caught himself and had to inwardly laugh. He had wanted a wife who’d be good in the kitchen. But right now, he’d take Elsie alive and healthy, and hopefully, someday, in love with him.
“These are scones.” Miss Taylor brought him back to the present. “You eat them with jam and the clotted cream.”
“Oh, I thought that was butter.”
“No,” Miss Taylor said cheerfully. “Similar, though. Mrs. Cameron gave me a crock of clotted cream.” She glanced at Mrs. Bailey. “I hope you’ll like it. Elsie tells me that you’re a dab hand at butter making.”
The stern expression on Mrs. Bailey’s face eased into a preen. “Well, it does make a difference what you feed your cow,” she said in a self-deprecating tone. “There was a time when she got into a wild onion patch.”
Elsie laughed. “That butter, ugh. We hadn’t known the patch was there. Although, ever since, we’ve made good use of those wild onions. Saved us having to plant any.”
Mr. Bailey nodded. “More room for carrots and potatoes.”
Elsie wrinkled her nose. “And turnips.”
“Parsnips,” Mary echoed, with a similar scrunched face.
“Rutabagas,” Ricky chimed in.
“Beets,” Elsie said with a giggle, obviously enjoying being playful with her siblings.
Her brother and sister let out simultaneous groans.
Mrs. Bailey swept her offspring a repressive frown. “That’s enough from the three of you. I count it a blessing when we have a good crop of those vegetables. Those are staples that last.”
“Speaking of our root crops….” Although, Mr. Bailey’s expression remained solemn, his voice held a lift. “The harvest is plentiful, thank the Good Lord. Of course, I don’t dare to hope until everything is stored safely away, this looks to be the best in four years. Even better because we have the extra field.” He gave Elsie a direct look. “Come the beginning of October, we’ll need you home, Daughter.”
She grinned at him. “I’ll be there, Pa.”
Hank had to give Elsie credit for maintaining her cheerful countenance. He knew how much living and working in town meant to her. To return home, to the arduous labor of bringing in the harvest, must cost her some pangs.
After spreading clotted cream and jam on his scone, Hank took a bite. Delicious. When he’d finished his mouthful, he forced himself to wait to take another. “Do you harvest the crops by yourself?”
“Those from our garden, of course,” Mrs. Bailey answered.
Mr. Bailey nodded in agreement. “Our nearest neighbors, the Smithsons, we help them—takes about a week with us all working together, and then they help us for about four days. So, our harvest time lasts about a week and a half.”
Elsie set her cup on her plate. At the clinking sound, she winced. “And we pray that a storm doesn’t roll in before we’ve finished. One year, we got in all of the Smithsons’ crops and only half of ours.”
“Elsie,” her mother chided.
Wanting to spare Elsie from more of her mother’s disapproval, Hank hurriedly asked another question. “Do you take turns? One year the Smithsons go first and the next year you do?”
“No.” Elsie frowned. “The Smithsons have greater status, so they always come first.”
“Elsie,” her mother warned again. She looked from Hank to Miss Taylor. “The Smithsons’ family is larger, with adult sons and sons-in-law.”
“The Smithsons are richer,” Ricky muttered.
Mrs. Bailey let out an exasperated breath. “Yes, more well-off,” she admitted. “They come from money back East. But they’ve been good neighbors.”
Ricky scowled and stretched out his legs. “Because we cater to them. And, still, they rub our noses in every good deed.”
“That’s enough,” Mrs. Bailey snapped, her expression tight. She glanced at Miss Taylor and then at Hank in apology. “I promise, I’ve brought them up better.”
Miss Taylor set down her teacup and sent Mrs. Bailey a reassuring smile. “I do believe an American virtue is honesty, which your children obviously have in abundance.”
Mrs. Bailey’s expression eased into a smile. “I suppose so.” She glanced around the room and sighed before looking at Elsie. “I know it will be hard to leave here, Daughter. But we truly do need you.”
“I know, Ma. I don’t mind. There will still be time to complete both harvests before I must return to town for the Harvest Festival. Miss Taylor expects me to help with her booth.”
Her parents exchanged glances. “Very well,” Ma said. “ If we’ve finished bringing in the crops, we’ll attend the Harvest Festival, too. But, Elsie, that’s an if .”
The dismayed expression on Elsie’s face made Hank volunteer. “I can help you out. If you don’t have someplace to put me, I can sleep in the hayloft.”
Every eye turned his way.
Mr. Bailey made an up-and-down motion to indicate Hank’s Sunday attire. “You sure about that? It’s dirty, backbreaking labor.”
“Honest labor. My neighbors and I have only large gardens and small crops of animal feed. We three take about a day’s labor at each one’s place. I can come after that.”
Mr. Bailey glanced upward, as if checking out the sky. “Can’t rightly turn you down, Mr. Canfield. Getting all our crops in faster will surely make a big difference to our family.”
Mrs. Baily gave Hank a speculative look.
Yes, ma’am, I’m interested in courting your daughter. Not that he said so, of course. He knew better than to overplay his hand with Elsie.
“We can make up a pallet for you, Mr. Canfield. There’s no need to sleep in the barn.”
Hank could tell by the stiffness of her words that the family might not have bedding to spare. Well, this time of year, they probably had blankets enough, but not sheets. “Tell you what. I’ll bring my own blanket roll, and all you have to supply is some straw.”
Mrs. Bailey’s face relaxed. “Well then. Won’t be the most private or comfortable of accommodations. But we’ll do our best to make you welcome.”
One glance at Elsie’s shining eyes was enough of a reward for Hank. Helping the Baileys with their harvest would surely give him some courting time.
In October, the Saturday evening before she was to leave town, Elsie was in her room packing for her return home. She’d laid out her old clothes on the bed, intending to give Mary her Sunday dress. Same for her undergarments and old shoes. She’d work the harvest in the old clothes she’d left at home and bring along the forest-green apron she’d recently made.
She looked down at her feet and lifted her skirts a bit to admire the new high button boots, and then turned her foot to the side to view the small heels that elevated her height an inch. She’d purchased them at the mercantile after being paid by Mrs. Sanders for her embroidery work and receiving her wages from Miss Taylor. Even better, she had enough money left to buy the boots for her father.
Her glee at her new footwear hadn’t worn off, to the point that wearing them made her want to take dance steps instead of doing the sedate glide she’d been practicing. Here, in the privacy of her room, she could do a twirl and sashay before running out of space and laughing at her own silliness.
She glanced at the coins for her father knotted in her handkerchief and carefully placed in the middle of the small table. She’d wrestled with her conscience when she received the embroidery money, torn between giving her parents half or buying the boots, herself.
After consulting Miss Taylor about the thorny dilemma, the two agreed that since Elsie had only promised them half her wages, and the embroidery money was earned on the side, and since she was using the funds to purchase the boots, for which purpose Pa would have taken her money, anyway, her actions would not be morally incorrect.
Her gaze traveled to the new satchel she’d fashioned to hold all the items she was taking. She’d used three layers of burlap to make a large bag with a sturdy shoulder strap. Then she’d taken discarded scraps of fabric and pieced them together like a crazy quilt to completely cover the burlap and added a drawstring. Miss Taylor had praised Elsie for her ingenuity in creating a colorful and practical bag from what was usually throwaway items.
Elsie had also crafted a muslin bag to protect the boots, which she then placed into her satchel. She’d rolled her nice undergarments and tucked them inside, before wrapping the shirtwaist and skirt around them.
Miss Taylor tapped on the doorframe. “I have something for you.” She held up a pair of leather gloves. “You don’t owe me anything for these,” she hastily added. “I was trying to fashion work gloves for ladies.” She grimaced. “My first experiment, working with the thicker leather challenged all my skills. So, I’m afraid these are full of extra pin holes and the middle finger on each is slightly lopsided. But I think I’ve figured it out now for the future.” She handed Elsie the gloves.
“Oh, Miss Taylor,” Elsie said on a breath, examining the workmanship of the gloves. Only by peering closely could she see the slight slant of the middle fingers. She looked up with a grin. “Your idea and my idea of lopsided are quite different.”
Miss Taylor chuckled. “I know, I’m a perfectionist. But I figured there are ladies who work the land and other heavy chores who might want to protect their hands, so we could sell a lot. It’s worth offering.”
Elsie slid them on and flexed her fingers, relieved the loose fit meant they didn’t restrict her movements. The leather was thicker and a bit coarser than the gloves Miss Taylor imported from Chicago.
“After finally having soft hands from using your lanolin cream every night, I desperately need these. Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to blisters and then rough skin that would snag on fragile fabric and trim.”
“Sewing isn’t the only time a lady wants soft hands,” Miss Taylor teased. “Now that you’ve caught the eye of Hank Canfield, not to mention those cowboys who’ve been shyly smiling and tipping their hats to you on Sundays….”
Elsie’s cheeks heated. “Thank goodness, those cowboys are too tongue-tied to approach me. I’m not interested in any of them.”
“I notice you aren’t including Mr. Canfield with that bunch.”
“I’m too young to get married,” Elsie said stoutly. She meant every word, even though wishful thoughts about Hank Canfield sometimes drifted into her head before she caught them and banished fanciful ideas of a courtship. “I’m enjoying myself too much working with you.”
“And I with you, my dear. I selfishly support your stance because doing so is to my advantage. Plus, I don’t favor girls getting married so young. The younger you are when you marry, the more children you will bear, risking your life and your heart each time. Why, by thirty you could have ten children!”
“If I’m still alive,” Elsie said bitterly. “Ma’s cousin died birthing her tenth, even though, after number nine, the doctor sternly warned her husband that she shouldn’t have any more.”
Miss Taylor grimaced. “Leaving that selfish husband with ten children to raise,” she said, her tone sharp. “That man’s practically a murderer.”
“Seven,” Elsie corrected. “They lost three along the way.”
Miss Taylor let out a sad sigh. “I shouldn’t be having this conversation with an unmarried young lady.”
“You’re unmarried,” Elsie said pointedly. “Besides, Ma had a similar conversation with me. But only after I told her that working for you would keep me from the necessity of marrying early.”
“Well, you can still enjoy Mr. Canfield’s company during the harvest. This will give you a chance to better know his character. Who knows, perhaps you’ll cross him off your list of possible far, far future husbands.”
Even as Elsie laughed in response, she couldn’t help thinking that crossing Hank off that list would prove hard, indeed.
Driving home with her family in the buckboard, her parents on the seat and Elsie between her siblings, leaning against the tailgate, seemed like traveling back in time to her life a few months ago. Even her clothing was the same. After changing into her former best dress, with a deep breath of freedom, she’d slipped her work shirtwaist and skirt, along with the hated corset, into the patchwork satchel to wear on her return home.
Luckily, her yellow dress still fit. She’d gained some weight with having more abundant meals. But the corset had also molded her waist into a smaller size.
She sent a baleful glance at the bag and promised herself she’d enjoy the relief from tight stays and stiff clothes. Hopefully, Hank won’t fault me for having a real waist that was four inches bigger than he’s previously seen.
Some straw poked the underside of her leg, upper limb , she corrected, and shifted a couple of inches to find a more comfortable spot. She chided herself for missing riding in the cushioned back seat of Dr. Angus’s surrey.
How quickly I became spoiled. Elsie suppressed a smile. Well, I’ll take being spoiled to grubbing on the farm.
Her sister was so focused on reading Little Women that Elsie doubted she was aware of the discomfort of their ride.
Ricky fiddled with a blade of straw, trying to find the correct angle to make a whistling noising.
Usually, Elsie found his preoccupation with making strange sounds annoying, but today, she was still enjoying being with her family. Idly, she wondered how soon the hardships and annoyances of daily living would wear away at that feeling. I’ll try to keep this sense of appreciation going as long as possible.
Glancing at the foot of the wagon, she eyed the patchwork satchel containing her belongings and Pa’s boots, tucked into the corner next to the basket full of supplies. In addition to more prosaic items, Ma had purchased two cans of peaches, some dried cherries, and, surprisingly, white sugar and flour, an almost unheard-of treat.
I made that possible.
Elsie sniffed to see if she could catch a whiff of cinnamon, a spice that they seldom could afford. But she only inhaled the familiar smell of dust and dry grass.
Still basking with pride, Elsie remembered placing the knotted handkerchief holding her wages into her father’s hand.
Pa opened the knot of the handkerchief and glanced at the money, before carefully picking out the coins and putting them into his pocket.
He gave her back her handkerchief. “We’ll be able to buy supplies at the mercantile, paying cash.” His half-smile crinkled the lines around his eyes, inviting her to share in the relief of not owing the Cobbs more credit. “Your Ma wanted some extra victuals for that man of yours.”
“He’s not my man,” Elsie protested, feeling her cheeks heat.
“We’ll see.” Her father cleared his throat, obviously setting aside sentiment. “We’d best be going. We have a lot to do to prepare for the harvest.”
With a snap, Mary closed the book. “Trying to read with all this jolting is making me ill.”
“Silly one. What did you expect?” Elsie took the book from her. “I shouldn’t have given you this until we were home.”
“Once we’re home, Ma will have us busy from morn to night, and there will be no time for reading,” Mary complained, although she kept her voice down so their parents wouldn’t hear. “What if I don’t finish the story before you have to return the book to Mrs. Gordon?”
“That’s the nice thing about a book. The story will be there, waiting. I’m sure Mrs. Gordon will let me borrow it again.”
The breeze sent a vivid gold leaf dancing in the air and lifted the brim of the new hat Elsie had fashioned of straw taken from Mack Taylor’s stable. Miss Taylor’s father had kindly pointed out the clean bales and told her to select whatever she wanted. His straw was thicker than the grasses growing around their farm, which made for a sturdier brim, and the pink ribbon circling the crown also tied under her chin. This hat is not about to end up in the pigpen.
The leaf landed on her lap, making the yellow of her former best dress look sallow.
With a sigh, Mary slid lower until her head could rest on Elsie’s shoulder.
Careful not to knock the brim of the hat, Elsie rested her cheek on her sister’s head, inhaling the scent of her hair. When Mary was small, they’d often sat this way. But her sister hadn’t cuddled up to her for years.
For a brief moment, Elsie savored their connection before a glance at the patchwork bag once again made her remember the hated corset. What if Hank’s one of those men who insists his wife have a tiny waist?
Catching the stab of fear, Elsie made herself mentally shrug. I’m not getting married for years, so what does it matter what Hank thinks?
But, somehow, it did.