Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
H ester carried the dog into the house, setting her on the floor before depositing the unexpected gift from Mr. Marsden on the table. “I hope you’re trained to do your business outdoors,” she said to the skinny mite. “No going in the house allowed.”
The dog shook her tail and seemed to grin, which Hester took as a yes.
She pursed her lips, wondering how long it had been since the dog’s last meal. “I shouldn’t feed you too much at first. How about this? A little food. A bath. Then a little more food. Then I’ll attack any knots in your coat with a comb and scissors.”
The tail wagged so hard, the end hit the table leg.
Hester winced.
The dog looked behind as if curious but didn’t seem in pain.
“Silly girl.” Hester ran a hand down the whippy tail, checking. “You’re going to have to learn the placement of the furniture.”
As Hester tied on her apron, she couldn’t help smiling at her companion, who watched her every move with curious eyes.
A full tea kettle of water already sat on the stove. She opened the door of the firebox and poked the banked coals of wood from breakfast, before adding a few more sticks.
Then she unscrewed the top of the jar of stew and dumped some of the contents into a bowl. The stew smelled heavenly. Even though she wasn’t hungry, Hester couldn’t resist a taste, scooping up a bit of meat and carrot. The flavor matched the smell, and she wondered if Mr. Marsden had made the stew himself.
Carefully, she forked out the meat, carrots, and potatoes, dropping them into another bowl.
Carrying the second bowl to the dry sink, Hester poured some water inside to rinse away the gravy.
Back at the table, she cut the meat into tiny pieces and mashed the potatoes and carrots, stirring everything together. She crouched and set the bowl down in front of the dog.
Hester expected the starving creature to lunge for the food, but instead, the dog daintily stepped forward and began to eat—rapidly, to be sure. But not in big, gulping chunks.
While the dog ate, Hester hastened to the side porch, picked up the washtub, and brought it back inside, setting it close to the kitchen window so she’d have plenty of light. After pouring the hot water into the tub, she took the kettle and the pitcher back outside to fill them from the pump.
By the time she returned, the dog finished licking the bowl clean. Then, she lay down, never taking her eyes off her new mistress.
After going back and forth to the pump several times, Hester finally had enough warm water in the tub to bathe the dog, with more in the pitcher and the kettle to rinse her. “I’m afraid it’s going to be lye soap,” she informed the dog. “We’ll need to kill any fleas on you, although hopefully by this time of year, they’ll most likely be dead. I promise to be careful not to get any soap in your eyes.”
She picked up the dog and carefully put her in the tub.
Upon feeling the water, the dog splayed her legs but didn’t fight Hester to escape.
Slowly, Hester lowered her all the way until the top of her legs were submerged. “See. that’s not so bad.” Using Jimmy’s tin mug, she scooped water over the dog’s body. Dirty water trickled down. The animal shivered but allowed Hester’s treatment.
“You need a name.” She studied the dog’s limpid, brown eyes. “What do you think of Lucy? That’s always been my favorite name. So pretty. Not like the Puritan one my parents saddled me with.”
When Lucy was mostly wet, Hester lathered her body and legs. “Good girl,” she praised, tilting the dog’s head to dampen everywhere but the eyes and nose. Keeping the head up, she gingerly soaped and then dipped her hand several times in the fresh water to skim back the soap. “Let’s wait a few minutes to make sure your fleas die off.”
After the time passed, Hester thoroughly rinsed the dog, then lifted her from the tub to wet her legs, trying, but not quite succeeding, in holding Lucy away from her body to keep her apron and dress dry.
Once she set Lucy on the floor, the dog shook water all over Hester.
“Oh, you!” She sputtered and then chuckled, picking up the towel she’d placed nearby to dry her face. “Next time, I’ll be prepared for you to do that.”
Sopping wet, the poor animal looked like skin and bone. After toweling off the dog, Hester fed her again. On the floor in front of the stove, she made a pad with her oldest blanket, and then patted the space, encouraging the dog to sit. “Once you’re dry, I’ll comb you.”
She stood and removed her soaked apron. “I’ll have to change my dress, too, and hang this one to dry. I probably smell like dog. Good thing tomorrow’s wash day.”
Lucy grinned and pawed at the blanket, arranging the folds to her satisfaction, before, with a doggy sigh, curling up.
“You’re safe,” Hester said to her in a soft voice.
The dog watched her but didn’t raise her head.
Probably exhausted, the poor thing.
Never having had a pet, Hester didn’t expect the wave of love flooding her chest. “I promise, sweet girl, you’ll never go hungry again.” A familiar lump rose in her throat, although not from grief this time. “You’re home, Lucy.”
Hester took a long breath of satisfaction. And so am I.
That night, Dale had a hard time falling asleep. His mind was too full of the unwelcome changes that had taken place next door. While so far—under his coverlet, he crossed his fingers for luck—Miss Smith seemed like she might be a quiet and amiable neighbor, he couldn’t help how she’d stirred up old memories, best left buried.
The woman didn’t look anything like his pretty, elegant older sisters or mother, but she was petite like them. Heck, she was female like them. He tossed and turned before, finally, dropping into a restless sleep and dreamed.
Ten-year-old Dale played with a stray puppy he’d found on the way home from school—skinny and flop-eared and full of happy wiggles when he shared the remains of his lunch with her. On tiptoe, he carried the dog through a back door into the house, grateful that his mother, grandmother, aunts, older sisters, and some cousins entertained their suitors with tea and boring conversation on the front veranda. He intended to go up to his room by way of the servants’ staircase, when his sister. Clarise, spotted him.
Clarise was his closest sister closest in age. To her immense and often expressed frustration, at age fourteen, she was too young to be courted. Clarise looked like an angel—many people said so—with her long-lashed, sky-blue eyes and sugar-sweet smile. Curly blond hair fluffed around her classically lovely face, escaping from a thick braid, usually tied with a fat ribbon. She moved with grace, and, when she wanted, her manners charmed.
Most people, including their mother, saw only Clarise’s beauty and failed to notice the spitefulness of her spirit.
But never Dale, who often fell victim to her taunting. He’d learned to avoid her pinches and pointy elbow jabs, at least, most of the time. He knew, at the slightest excuse or sometimes no excuse at all, but a lie, Clarise would be tattling on him to their mother, which would mean a whipping. Depending on his supposed infraction and his mother’s mood, she might beat him bloody. He had the scars on his back and legs to prove it.
Dale glanced down at the pup. Discovered with a dog indoors. Oh, he was in big trouble!
Clarise sent him a gloating smile, and then whirled and raced off in the direction of the front veranda.
His stomach cramped, and he backtracked to escape the house and hide in the stables. He squeezed the dog so hard, the pup wiggled, and Dale almost dropped her. He had to slow down to reposition her against his chest.
His mother caught up to him in the back yard, marching toward him with her blue chiffon skirts fluttering, her beautiful face distorted with ire. She carried one of the many riding whips she’d stashed around the house to grab and hit whoever angered her, mostly Dale, but occasionally one of his sisters (although not Clarise) or a hapless servant.
She grabbed Dale’s shoulder with one hand, and, with the other, shook the whip under his nose. “How dare you! A filthy animal in the house. We’ll have fleas.”
The puppy cringed, and Dale would have done likewise if not for his mother’s crab-claw grip bruising his shoulder. “I never set her down,” he stammered. “Really, I didn’t.”
With a disgusted look, she stared toward the stables, where John Coachman sat on a bench near the wide door, polishing harness. “John Coachman, get over here,” she yelled, thrusting Dale around to face the man. “Take that creature and drown it.”
Dale twisted to look back at his mother. He knew it was useless to beg, but for the pup’s life, he had to. “No, Mama. Please. Just let her go.” Despite his care to hold back, a sob slipped out.
She held up the whip as if to smack his face. “Don’t you cry, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”
Dale nodded sharply, holding back his tears as best he could. But he could feel them about to burst forth. He’d really get the whip then. His mother believed if she disciplined him enough, he’d toughen up.
“Why must my only son be such a sniveling weakling!” She sent a sharp whip smack to the back of his leg but, luckily for Dale, she turned and marched back inside without inflicting more lashes.
The blow stung. But not as much as his pain about the dog. Her death is all my fault.
Dale knew he needed to run, to get out of ear-and-eyeshot lest his sobs erupt. But before he could take a step, John Coachman glanced furtively around and then took him by the arm.
Tears flooded. Ashamed, he tried to pull away.
The man held on and gently guided him around the corner of the stables and out of sight of the house. He placed a hand on Dale’s shoulders and bent close. “Now, now, Sonny,” he said in a gruff voice. “I won’t be drowning this dog. Yah have my word on that.”
“But…” Dale stuttered, not believing anyone would dare defy his mother.
“I’ll keep the pup. Take care of her.” He straightened and rubbed a leathery hand over Dale’s head, tousling his hair. “So, no need to fret, eh?”
Affection was rare in Dale’s life, and the coachman’s rough caress provided a small amount of balm to his hurting heart.
“Maybe sometimes, on my day off, you can sneak a visit to the pup, eh?”
Dale nodded vigorously and scrubbed the wetness from his face.
“Mrs. Marsden, that is, the senior-senior Mrs. Marsden, will be here in a couple of weeks. I’ll be picking her up from the train myself. She’s a kind lady, your great-grams. Not like that clutch of raptors you’re surrounded by. You stick close to her.” He held up an admonishing finger. “Mind, you don’t be repeating I said that. Cost me my job, you will.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The man tucked the dog under one arm and jerked a thumb in the direction of the house. “Go on, then. I’ve got to get this un home to my missus. She’s been a-pining since our old hound died. Wanted another. But I t’weren’t ready. Hurts something awful when you lose ’em. She’ll be right glad to welcome this one home.” He winked at Dale. “She might even hug me, and then buss me right there.” He tapped the side of his cheek with one finger and made a smacking kiss sound. “What do you think?”
That wink pulled a little levity out of Dale, and, with his index fingers, he tapped his own cheeks.
“Two, eh? I’ll be a lucky man.” John Coachman chuckled and set off down the drive.
Dale watched until the man was out of sight. How he longed to go along—to live with John Coachman and his missus. A family who loved dogs and laughed and gave hugs and kisses, surely would be kind to a boy.
Dale awoke in the dark, his heart aching for the loving family he never had. I’m forty-six years old, and yet that hurting boy still resides inside me. He stared into the night, his chest heavy.
With a sigh, Dale made himself turn over. Probably always will.