Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
St. Louis
W hile working outside on the short breaks from her housekeeping duties, Hester wore a broad- brimmed hat to protect her skin. But, from time to time, she raised her face to catch the golden rays of the autumn sun. She loved this time of year when the weather softened from the humid heat of summer and the cold of winter was yet to come.
Technically, Mrs. Ransome owned this plot of land, and the gardener worked the large yard. Yet, Hester felt proprietary about the garden, as if the space belonged to her alone, especially since the gardener often snoozed about this time of day, sitting on an overturned bucket inside the shed and leaning against the wall. His sonorous snores could be heard yards away from the small building.
The garden. Her space. Not her job, but her pleasure to slip away in her free moments and enjoy being outdoors. Many times, deadheading a flower or stooping to pull out a weed, she imagined working like this in her own garden. I’m close. Next spring! Just the thought made anticipation quicken her heartbeat.
Jimmy had sketched a map of their plot of land, including the trees, pine and aspen, the saskatoon bushes in one corner and the apple sapling, a gift from his neighbor, planted in another. Most importantly, in Hester’s opinion, lay the rectangular area he’d dug up for her garden.
He’d prosaically only planted root vegetables—potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and turnips. But he promised to dig a larger garden and plant more fruit trees when she was there to nurture them. Hester had already chosen the spots. She imagined tapping the drawing. Cherry here. Pear there.
Hester crouched to pull out a dandelion. Instead of tossing it onto the weed heap, she set it aside. She’d dry the weed in her herbal cupboard. A cup of dandelion tea was always good for what ailed you.
A few steps away, lavender edged one side of the path, the stems long and woody with the very last of the summer’s blooms, and the scent barely noticeable. Jimmy had written that he’d laid down a few flagstones, more like steppingstones than a proper path. But he promised to have the whole walkway filled in by the time she arrived. I’ll plant lavender on each side of the front walkway to the house.
“Miss Smith?”
A voice broke through her daydreaming.
“Mail for you, Miss Smith. From Sweetwater Springs.” Kitty, the slovenly Irish maid, pranced down the path, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. She waved a letter and slanted Hester a sly look. “But it’s not yer brother’s handwriting.”
“Thank you.” Not willing to indulge Kitty’s curiosity, Hester didn’t glance at the envelope. She slipped the letter into the pocket of her apron.
“Ain’t ye gunna see what it says?”
“I want to gather a bouquet of mums for the parlor before Mrs. Ransome wakes up.”
Kitty wrinkled her nose, turned, and flounced back to the house.
Hester sighed. The girl, who’d come to work for Mrs. Ransome four months ago, was nothing but a frustration.
When I leave here, I’ll never again have to train another housemaid.
Her fingers itched to open the letter. Instead, Hester took the small clippers from her other apron pocket and cut some of the colorful mums.
But even as her hands stayed busy, Hester couldn’t help wondering who, besides Jimmy would write to her. To keep her growing sense of dread at bay, she tried to think of potential correspondents. Delia Norton, for example, who, with her minister husband, had hosted Jimmy for dinner. She’d told him she looked forward to meeting Hester and perhaps had written to introduce herself. Yes, surely the letter is from Mrs. Norton.
Later in the kitchen, after arranging the flowers in a cut glass vase, Hester thought to make a cup of tea before opening the letter. She got as far as heating the water and spooning tea into the tea ball but gave up after spilling half of the precious leaves onto the counter.
Leaving the tea to be cleaned up later, she sat at the battered wooden table in the center of the room, opened the envelope, and began to read.
Dear Miss Smith,
It is with deep regret and heartfelt condolences that I write to inform you that your brother, James Smith, was killed in a logging accident by a felled tree on October 7th. He was rushed to Sweetwater Springs, and Dr. Fergus Cameron labored over him mightily, while I prayed fervently for the Lord to preserve his life and, when he passed several hours later, to receive his soul.
A cold flush went through Hester’s body, making her light-headed. No, no. This couldn’t possibly be true. Not Jimmy!
She dropped the letter onto the table and covered her face with her hands. She forced herself to breathe through the tightness in her chest. Then, her heart in her throat, with shaking hands, she picked up the letter, reread the first paragraph, and then continued.
I wasn’t well acquainted with your brother. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Smith was a reserved man, not prone to joining social activities, although he faithfully attended church services when he wasn’t working at the logging camp.
From the one time my wife badgered him to attend a small dinner party we held at our home, as well as the four quiet chess games we had at his house, I was able to have a few conversations with him. I can tell you that Mr. Smith played an intelligent game of chess — we were two and two. He did tell me of his dear sister. I know from his tone and manner of speaking that he held you in high regard. He praised your skills in cooking and housekeeping, and he seemed especially proud of your talent with horticulture. He looked forward to what you’d accomplish with his garden and hoped you’d enjoy viewing the pampered roses in my father-in-law’s conservatory.
We held a funeral for Mr. Smith, with my father officiating and myself, Dr. Fergus Cameron, and Dale Marsden, Mr. Smith’s neighbor, attending. Your brother is buried in the graveyard behind the church, in a sunny corner near a tree. As of now, no tombstone has been placed. I have waited to know your wishes in the matter.
As I understand from your brother, you are his only living family member. I’ve taken the liberty of collecting Mr. Smith’s final wages, less the doctor’s fee and funeral expenses, and am sending them to you. In addition, my father-in-law, Andre Bellaire, who’s a great benefactor of our community, has purchased a train ticket for you.
I know you had plans to join your brother in Sweetwater Springs in the spring, and he told me he was eager for you to move here. I urge you not to wait and instead to come before the winter settles in. This being Montana, that could be any time soon.
I know this sad news must be a profound shock, and that the knowledge that Mr. Smith is with our Lord in heaven might not provide enough comfort when you want him to still be here on Earth. Your life will now be different from what you planned. I pray that God will guide you on your new path.
Please know that you will be welcome in Sweetwater Springs, for your brother’s sake, as well as your own. Let me know your plans and date of arrival.
Reverend Joshua Norton
Out of the deep recesses of her breaking heart came a wail of grief, quickly tempered lest Mrs. Ransome or Kitty heard. Hester dropped the letter into her lap, wrapped her arms around her middle, and rocked back and forth to soothe herself. In her shock, she didn’t know what to do or what to think. In spite of the stark words she’d just read, she couldn’t believe James was dead.
This must be a terrible mistake or maybe a horrible prank.
For a blessed moment of relief, Hester seized on that idea, clinging to the belief that her brother still lived. But upon reflection, the truth shone through. She might have doubted a letter from any other person but not Reverend Joshua Norton. Jimmy had written of his admiration for the minister and his family—of their goodness and their care for the members of their community.
No, Reverend Joshua wouldn’t be so cruel.
Kitty flounced into the kitchen, then stopped, her close-set eyes widening when she saw Hester sitting so still in a chair instead of bustling about. “Yer as pale as a ghost.” Her gaze focused on the letter. “Bad news, aye?”
Hester would have given anything to be able to answer to the contrary. She had to swallow several times before the bitter lump in her throat allowed her to speak. “I’m not well.”
Her voice wavered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to handle supper preparations without me.” She folded the letter around the train ticket and tried to tuck the pages back into the envelope. But her hands trembled so much, she couldn’t slide the papers inside.
With an exasperated sound, Kittie took both from Hester, replaced the letter in the envelope, and then handed it back.
“Thank you,” Hester murmured, trying to stand. But her knees wobbled so that she lurched to the side.
Kitty placed a hand on Hester’s shoulder and pressed her back onto the chair. “Sit a moment, lest ye fall over.”
The kindness in the maid’s tone made Hester sink back against the seat and throw off her usual reticence. “My brother was killed in a logging accident.”
Kitty drew in a sharp breath. “The one ye were going to Montana to live with?”
Hester met the maid’s eyes, astonished. She’d barely said anything about Jimmy, and nothing about moving to Sweetwater Springs.
“Not a big leap to guess yer plans.” Kitty patted Hester’s shoulder. “Let me make ye a cuppa tea. Then go up to yer room and have yerself a good cry. Most of the preparations for supper are done, anyway.”
Although grateful for the woman’s unexpected solicitude, she couldn’t help being a bit stunned by this side of the usually flighty maid.
Kitty caught Hester’s disbelieving gaze and flashed a gap-toothed grin. “What? Ye think ye didn’t train me right?”
“I didn’t think much stuck.” The wry words slipped out before Hester thought to hold them back.
Kitty brayed a laugh, and then slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in obvious consternation.
The girl’s reaction brought a small smile to Hester’s face—something she’d have thought impossible a few minutes ago. “It’s all right, Kitty. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“Ye’ve been nothing but kind to me, Miss Smith.”
Hester raised her eyebrows. “I recall quite a few scolds.”
“Pshaw,” Kitty scoffed. “Yer scolds are like a little bird chirping.” With her fingers, she made bird beak motions. “Breaking a dish would have brought me a hard slap from me mam and no supper. Then recriminations for days…maybe years. Ye didn’t even complain to Mrs. Ransome.”
“Mrs. Ransome has more than enough dishes and won’t miss a few.”
As she spoke, Kitty brushed the loose tea leaves on the counter with the side of her hand into the other hand and then gently shook them into the tea ball, which she placed in the teacup. She took the kettle from the stove and poured hot water into the cup, adding two spoonfuls of sugar, instead of Hester’s usual one half. “Best have extra, Miss. Helps with the shakes. Whiskey would be even better. If we had some, I’d join ye in a wee dram.”
The thought of them tippling together brought another small smile to Hester’s face. “And get us both dismissed.”
“Nah. Even that ole witch wouldn’t begrudge yer a nip at such a time.”
Hester couldn’t bring herself to remonstrate with the girl about her disrespect toward their employer.
Kitty handed the cup and saucer to Hester. “Drink up, now.” She watched, eagle-eyed, for Hester to take a sip and then another.
The hot, sweet tea did seem to help, warming her chilled insides, if not her frozen heart.
“I couldn’t help noticing the train ticket,” Kitty said in a casual voice. “Ye gunna head out west?”
Montana without her beloved brother? Hester shuddered. “I couldn’t possibly go.”
“Begging yer pardon, Miss. But whatcha staying here for? Ye’ve said before that yer brother had a house. Ye wouldn’t even have to pay rent. And I know yer a saver. Just think, ye pry wouldn't have to work, at least not fer a while.”
The thought does have appeal.
“Far as I can tell, ye ain’t got no family or friends, ’cept that Mrs. Ledbetter, who ye visit once a month or so.” She shrugged. “Ain’t right for ye to be so solitary. Me family oft drives me batty, aye. But there’s a lot of us. Boisterous bunch, we are. That’s what the priest called us. Boisterous .”
“I’d be just as solitary in Sweetwater Springs.”
“But ye’d have yer own life. Not be at Mrs. Ransome’s beck and call. Work in yer garden all day long. Ye could make friends .”
“I’ve always been too shy to make friends,” Hester admitted, surprised what she was revealing. And I knew they’d cut off the friendship if they discovered my illegitimacy.
Yet wasn’t that what was happening now? Making a friend? How odd. She never would have thought brash Kitty had any depth, much less could provide some balm to the deep pain of her grief.
Her judgment of the girl made Hester feel ashamed. If, and it’s a big IF, I go to Sweetwater Springs, I’ll have to do better.
Whether “better” was possible was a thought for another time.
Once in her bedroom, Hester resolved to write a letter to Reverend Joshua Norton before giving into tears. She needed to thank him for his kindness to Jimmy, but also to let him know that she couldn’t possibly travel to Sweetwater Springs now and perhaps not ever.
That thought brought her up short. Jimmy’s house— their house —would have to be sold, his possessions packed and shipped to her. How could she possibly impose on strangers to carry out the tasks that, by right, fell to her?
Don’t I, at least, want to see the home he created with his own hands, his care for me in each part of the house and yard? I’ve imagined every bit of our home for so long. Can I really turn my back on my dream?
Go , she told herself. If living without Jimmy is too awful, I can sell up and return here. Maybe buy a little house out near Lovie.
Her thoughts skipped around, thinking about all the tasks she’d have to accomplish before leaving, including making a farewell visit to Lovie. Ten days , she estimated, which meant she could use the train ticket, saving herself the cost of the fare.
Before her courage failed her, Hester sat at the little table she used as a desk, pulled out a sheet of stationery, unscrewed the lid of her pork pie, stoneware ink bottle, dipped in her pen, and began to write.
Dear Reverend Norton,
You are correct that the news of James’s death was an unwelcome shock. Thank you for caring for him in his final hours and beyond. Although James was, like me, a reserved person, he was a diligent correspondent. Therefore, I can tell you that he, too, enjoyed your chess games and looked forward to more matches. Though initially hesitant, James also admitted to enjoying your dinner party. Thank you for making the effort to engage him.
Hester paused, rereading what she’d written and hoping she’d given enough of a hint that she was as shy as her brother. If the Nortons knew, they wouldn’t have high expectations for her to be social.
She dipped her pen into the inkwell and continued to write.
I will give notice to my employer and will avail myself of the train ticket to Sweetwater Springs, arriving on October 23th. I look forward to acquainting myself with you and your wife, and the other people of whom my brother James wrote.
Sincerely,
Hester Smith
Once the ink was dry, she folded the letter, tucked it inside an envelope, and added the address and stamp. That duty done, Hester allowed her shoulders to slump. A wave of grief threatened to swamp her. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. She had too much to accomplish to allow herself to weep.