Chapter Eight #2
Mrs. Gerber’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”
Kate cleared her throat. “No reason, really. I . . . I thought I might know someone that was related.”
“Well, I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I need to get on with dinner. Good luck to you. What did you say your name was?”
“Kate. Kate Kerwyn.” She turned to go.
“It was good seein’ you, Kate!” Constance called as Kate made her way down the steps.
Once she was back in the street, Kate paused forlornly, wondering what to do next.
The Gerbers’ cottage was the last one on this end of Magnolia, with only weeds and spindly trees beyond.
She stared at the scrub brush for a few minutes.
Where had all of these “foreigners” lived?
In tents? Or had their dwellings subsequently been knocked down?
With a heavy sigh, she started walking back up the hill and checked her wristwatch. If she wanted to get back home by suppertime, she would need to start now, but she desperately wanted to inquire at the cottages at the high end. She tried to calculate how much time it would take . . .
She paused, however, when she saw a man exit the furthest one, a bundle of lumber under his arm.
Upon taking a few steps closer, she recognized the dark curls and realized that the man was none other than Henry Crawford!
She had forgotten that the Crawfords were working on the Murphy cottage for Frank and Julius.
Quickly, she spun around. She had no desire to speak to the likes of Henry Crawford.
He and Mary had stopped by the farm several times since the debaucherous party, though Kate couldn’t understand why, unless it was an attempt on Henry’s part to see more of Louisa.
Or, she thought darkly, on Mary’s to see more of Edmund.
Curiously, though, neither got much of a chance, as Henry stayed mostly outdoors with Edmund and Mr. Kerwyn, who oddly did not seem to remember having met the brother and sister the night of Ray’s party.
According to Edmund, Henry was always offering to help, but when actually tasked with a project, he was of little real aid.
Edmund found his ignorance extremely amusing, and took what Kate thought was valuable time to try to instruct him in the milking of cows, sharpening of plow blades, and the greasing of the tractor engine.
Likewise, Mary was stuck inside with the women.
Like her brother, she tried, in her own small way, to be helpful, but she was also not very successful.
For example, she had several times attempted to suggest to Mrs. Kerwyn how she might spruce up the front room by moving the furniture, or adding small tassels to the curtains, or perhaps painting the walls a different color other than white—and other ridiculous ideas.
Additionally, she seemed eager to make a best friend of all the Kerwyn girls, but most especially Kate.
She was always trying to get Kate alone, and when she did, would ask all sorts of exasperating questions about Edmund.
Kate was tempted to tell her to ask him herself, but she didn’t want to give the precocious young woman any extra reason to lure Edmund into conversation.
Already he turned red and sheepish whenever she spoke to him.
A few times Kate had been tempted to warn him of .
. . of what? Making a fool of himself? But before she could ever get the words out, Edmund would thwart her by declaring how lovely and perfect Mary was.
“Isn’t she, Kate? I’ve never met someone so .
. . so refined, I guess you would call it, but down to earth at the same time. I can’t explain it. Can you?”
Kate couldn’t. Neither could she explain Edmund’s apparent growing attraction for her.
It was obvious to her that Mary was toying with him, perhaps for lack of anything else to do.
It simply wasn’t possible that a woman so elegant and cultured and .
. . well, urban, would be interested in a lowly farmer like Edmund Bertram.
Was it possible that a woman could break a man’s heart out of boredom?
“Kate!” Henry shouted.
Kate’s shoulders drooped. She had started down the Muellers’ stone path to escape his detection, but having been spotted, she turned.
“What a delightful surprise!” he called as he jogged up.
“What are you doing here in town?” He dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
She was surprised that he was perspiring, as back at the farm, he did more talking than heavy lifting.
She had just witnessed him carrying a plank of lumber, though, so he must indeed be doing something.
He was in shirtsleeves, yet he still managed to look elegant, attired as he was in a brown velvet—velvet?
—waistcoat and plaid serge trousers. He was, Kate admitted as she pulled her gaze away from his dark curls and deep green eyes, extremely handsome.
It was a shame that his character was not, she thought, reminding herself of what he had done with Louisa in the kitchen.
“I was shopping for Mom.” She held up her basket. “And I was just going to call in to say hello to Mrs. Mueller,” she fibbed. “So, I’ll say good afternoon.” She tried to turn away, but he stopped her.
“Well, since you’re here, why don’t I show you our progress on the cottage?” he suggested eagerly, gesturing further up the hill.
Kate checked her wristwatch and feigned surprise. “Oh, my! I didn’t realize the time. I need to get back. Mom will be worried.”
Henry glanced up and down the street. “How’d you get here?”
“I walked.”
“Walked? That’s much too far. Allow me to drive you.”
“No, really, Mr. Crawford. Please.”
“Henry,” he corrected her.
“I’m happy to walk. It . . . it clears my head.”
“No trouble at all! Don’t go anywhere!”
He jogged backward for a few moments as if to make sure she was staying put, then grinned, spun back around and continued up the hill.
Kate refused to be commanded by the likes of Henry Crawford. She began walking briskly toward Chestnut. She had gotten three-fourths down the block before she heard his motorcar chugging behind her.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” he said with an amused expression, directing the car in front of her path.
Forced to pause, Kate flashed him an irritated glare. “I could say the same.”
“Come on.” He gave her a wink. “You’ll be late otherwise. And I was headed out there anyway.”
Kate could think of no way out of this, so she sighed and climbed reluctantly into the passenger side of his Pontiac Six. As soon as she was seated, Henry immediately threw it into gear, as if afraid she would change her mind.
She couldn’t tell the make of one car from another, but this one was quite nice inside, not like Edmund’s rusty old “beast.”
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” Henry said, looking over at her with yet another grin. Honestly, was that all he ever did? Grin?
She made a point to look out the window. “I don’t think it matters much either way, Mr. Crawford.” She was not only shocked by his bluntness, but by the fact that he found her dislike of him amusing.
Henry laughed. “But why?”
Why? Because you seduced my sister, who is engaged to another man! she wanted to say, but she refrained.
Kate had half expected Louisa to break her engagement with Vernon in the weeks that had followed the party, but she had not, though she still continued to stare adoringly at Henry whenever he did happen to come into the farmhouse.
For his part, Henry seemed immune to these rather obvious overtures, or pretended to be, at least.
It was a shock, then, when just yesterday, Louisa had surprised them all by announcing that she and Vernon had decided to move up the date of their nuptials from October to May.
She looked directly at Henry as she said it, but he did not react in the slightest. Later, after everyone had gone, her parents had given Louisa their blessing, though they hoped that the rush was not due to something . . . inconvenient.
“Look, whatever you might think, I’m actually a rather decent chap,” Henry insisted. “I could help you, if you’d let me, you know.”
“I wasn’t aware I was in need of help,” she said dryly, her eyes alighting on the tombstones as they passed the cemetery now.
“I mean, I could help you with your art.”
She turned away from the window. “I wish people would stop calling me an artist,” she said sharply. “I don’t make art. I make baskets for money, pure and simple. There’s nothing artistic about them!”
Henry let out a little laugh. “But there is. The color, the patterns. Anyone who can make something so beautiful out of twigs and weeds and string is an artist. Think what you could do if you had real materials!” He turned down High Street.
“I have friends in Chicago. Artists, playwrights, actors. You should meet them. Discuss your work. I’d be happy to introduce you. ”
Kate felt her stomach clench. He was starting to sound like Frank and Julius.
Did he really see her as an artist, or was he teasing her?
She wavered a little in her decision to dislike him.
“Introduce me? As what? A poor country bumpkin you met during your dreary sojourn in the wilds of Wisconsin?” she asked, deciding to test him.
Henry shifted the gears. “You’re much too hard on yourself, you know. And in that way, you’re just like every other artist. All you lack is confidence.”
She drew in a breath. He was right. She did lack confidence.
“Confidence, my dear Kate, is half the battle. There’s a certain .
. . je ne sais quoi about it all. If you think of your work as just a bunch of twigs stuck together for money, then that’s what it is.
If, however, you see it as a beautiful creation emanating from your heart, a conduit for the divine, if you will, then it is. ”
Kate looked out the window again. A “conduit for the divine” felt a bit far-fetched, but she did feeling stirrings of . . . well, something when she was weaving together the patterns she saw in her mind. Then again, simply believing something was art didn’t make it so.
“Well, suit yourself,” Henry said jovially when she failed to answer. “But remember, I’m happy to help if you decide you can bear it. Maybe someday you’ll grow to trust me.”
Kate’s wandering thoughts snapped back. That was the problem.
She didn’t trust him. But she wanted to, she conceded, which was what was so unsettling.
She wanted to believe what he was telling her about herself—about her art, if nothing else.
But there was something about him that unnerved her.
At times she still felt as she had at the potluck, that he could somehow see right the way through her, and she continued to feel exposed and vulnerable around him, on edge. She didn’t like it.
She gave him a final glance. Thankfully, his eyes were on the road, but he still wore that idiotic grin.
She shifted her body slightly away from him as they bounced along the country road toward home and remained silent for the rest of the way.