Chapter 16 #3
“From Chattanooga,” Mrs. Carver repeated. “She’s staying at the boarding house. You might’ve met Rowena’s mama, Mrs. Gibbs. She works the dining room for Miss Mary. Mrs. Dunham, this here’s Miss Rowena Gibbs.”
So this was the daughter of Mrs. Gibbs, the woman who’d acted so strangely toward her. Josephine offered a smile. “Good to meet you Miss Gibbs. And, indeed, I’ve made your mother’s . . . acquaintance.”
“Yes. She told me she met you.”
The man who’d come in earlier reappeared at the counter, plunked down some goods, and pointed. “Gimme a couple of bottles of that, too, Carver.”
Josephine caught the odor and realized what she’d taken for mud was manure—and that he’d tracked it across the floor. Already, Mrs. Carver had placed Miss Gibbs’s order on the counter and was quietly sweeping behind him as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Mr. Carver packed the man’s purchases in a box, wedging the bottles in. “Careful with them last two things, Jed. And enjoy!”
The man grunted and left.
Mr. Carver tallied Rowena’s order while the girl suddenly found her voice—chatting easily, smiling. She was lovely, perhaps sixteen or a bit older, and nature had blessed her in all the right places. She knew it, too.
“Rowena . . .” Mrs. Carver asked. “You know any womenfolk needin’ help? Mrs. Dunham could use some work.”
Rowena’s gaze slid to Josephine. “I thought you was only here for a few days. Now you got a hankering to stay?”
What she’d done to get on the wrong side of the Gibbs women, Josephine didn’t know. But Mrs. Carver’s eyes revealed surprise as well. “I have no intention of staying indefinitely, Miss Gibbs. But while I’m here, I must provide for myself. So any ideas would be appreciated.”
“I ain’t got none.” Rowena gave a shrug. “’Less you know how to slop hogs. But I’m guessing you ain’t no better at that than you are at cooking.”
Rowena Gibbs had excellent aim for one so young, and her arrow hit its mark.
Josephine forced a self-deprecating laugh.
“I see my efforts in Miss Mary’s kitchen this morning have sprouted legs.
” She didn’t have to wonder who had repeated the tale.
Mrs. Gibbs would’ve pleasured in it. “But you’re right, I’m not a very good cook.
However, I am a good teacher. So if you know of any children needing instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, or even manners, I’d be happy to oblige. ”
Rowena’s face flushed red. The girl grabbed the basket and turned, then pulled out the bottle of whiskey. “Mama didn’t order this.”
“No,” Mr. Carver said. “Your papa sent word by one of your brothers. So you make sure he gets it.”
Rowena shoved it back inside, but Josephine caught the shadow of disapproval—or was it dread—in the girl’s features before she slammed the door behind her. Josephine watched her through the mercantile window, regretting how she’d responded to her.
“Don’t you mind Rowena.” Mrs. Carver’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“She’s strongheaded, like her mama.” Her attention darted about the empty store.
“But I guess that’s a good thing, considerin’ Gus Gibbs turns meaner than a rattler when he drinks.
Even them boys know to steer clear till the next day. ”
Josephine’s stomach knotted. Her gaze moved to the neat stack of whiskey by the register, and she wished she could smash every last bottle.
She weighed her options, but there were none.
She could not return to Miss Mary’s without a job, not after the woman had all but handed her one.
She could already picture Miss Mary waiting for her on the porch, hands on hips, with Dodge Coburn summoned and ready to take her back to Tullahoma.
She could not let that happen. There had to be another way.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Dunham? I got some fresh eggs left, and Mrs. Tolley brought some of her good ‘country loaf bread,’ as we call it. It’s good with butter.”
Josephine’s mouth watered, but she shook her head. “No, thank you. But I appreciate your kindness.” She turned to go, then paused. “Where I’m from . . . there are women who have banded together for the sole purpose of bringing change for women. Change for—”
“You one of them suffragists?” Mrs. Carver whispered, glancing toward her husband. “The ones we get wind of from newspapers now and again?”
Josephine hesitated. Dodge Coburn and Jack Daniel knew, but no use broadcasting it. “Other women have helped me, so if I can help another woman—especially with what we talked about—I want to. So please, let me know.”
Caution flitted across Celia Carver’s face. “You mean well, Mrs. Dunham, and no doubt. But you’re new to town. You don’t know our ways. Be careful what burdens you take on, even in kindness.”
Mrs. Carver returned to her work and as Josephine left, something inside her turned hard and fast, like a lock long stuck finally giving way. She closed the door to the mercantile, vowing that before she left this town, she would do as much damage to Jack Daniel’s distillery as she could.
But first . . . she had to accept that job.