Chapter 9
The next day was B day and adding five more numbers to Jewel’s repertoire, or so Ivy informed Torin after breakfast. He still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around his daughter counting to ten. Fifteen would be an unimagined bonus.
Today, Jewel wanted to wash the dishes by herself, so he swept the floor and kept an eye on her until she’d finished.
Afterward, she ordered him from the room so she could dry them, a task she zealously guarded as her own.
While he didn’t allow her to wash dishes unsupervised, he figured the worst she could do while drying and putting them away was drop one, and the sound of breaking would bring him running to clean up before she cut herself.
To his surprise, since she seemed so taken with her new governess, Ivy wasn’t excused from Jewel’s domestic tyranny and was dismissed as well. With a smile, the woman held up her hands to signal I’m going and waltzed out of the room.
With each new encounter with Ivy to ponder and only positive evidence of her interactions with his daughter, gradually Torin relaxed his need for vigilance. He was still wary about the governess, but not as knotted up as he’d been the previous day.
Upon Ivy’s request, the two went to Jewel’s room for Torin to show her the contents of the toybox, the first and only piece of furniture he’d ever crafted.
Doing so had taken him months, for being single-handedly in charge of a baby meant very little free time and even less sleep.
Far too often, he napped when Jewel did.
Up until his work on the box, Torin had never considered himself a perfectionist. But for his precious child, every inch needed to be sanded velvety smooth, the corners carefully rounded, and the top made easy for small, uncoordinated hands to open.
The inside contained his childhood treasures.
Stacks of square blocks. His tin army soldiers.
A hard rubber ball. A spinning top. A bag of marbles.
Another of jacks. A black pull-along horse on a wheeled platform.
Crouching to lift them out, he smiling to himself, remembering the hours he’d spent playing with the toys beside his daughter.
Ivy dragged over a nearby three-legged stool, took a seat, and leaned to examine them. “We had a pull horse, too. A bay, though, not a black.”
Looking at the toys laid out in a semi-circle on the floor, Torin became aware his daughter lacked girl toys.
He reached to push the horse, making it roll into a stack of blocks and knock them over.
“You might be wondering why she doesn’t have a bisque doll.
I thought about buying one, but with her clumsiness, I was afraid she’d drop and break it.
I don’t mind the destruction. But if Jewel murdered her baby, she’d be devastated. ”
“Unlike Humpty Dumpty, you can glue a doll’s head back together,” Ivy said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“But the experience would be traumatic, so a ragdoll is a much safer choice. If I might borrow the marbles and jacks today? I’d like to see if Jewel’s ability to count beans can transfer to other things.
Maybe tomorrow, we’ll try with the soldiers or the blocks. ”
He scratched his head, and then lowered his arms. “You’re so creative. I keep wondering why I didn’t think of the activities you do to teach her. I feel I’m a failure as a father.”
“Learning is a lifelong venture,” she reassured him.
“So speaks the teacher.”
Ivy raised her nose in the air. “Jewel’s learning now,” she said with mock primness. “And she will continue to do so.”
Neither voiced the unspoken thought that Jewel’s life wouldn’t be long.
Torin scooped up the bags of jacks and marbles and extended them toward her. “Jewel should be done drying the dishes by now.” He placed them in her hands and stepped toward the door.
“Oh, and, Torin….”
He turned.
“You know how I know what kind of father you are?”
He braced himself, as if for a blow. Ivy’s barely been around us, so how could she know?
“Jewel’s a happy and secure child,” she simply said.
He nodded and escaped before she could see on his face how desperately he needed to hear her confirmation. All too often, he doubted himself.
As he moved about the house dusting and sweeping, from habit, he kept a sharp ear out for any sign he’d need to rush to protect his daughter. But he only heard their voices—Ivy’s calm, instructive tone and soft laughter. Jewel’s answers and giggles.
So far, Ivy had been even better—kinder, warmer, and an excellent teacher—than he’d dared hope. If he’d followed his instincts rather than his fears, he’d probably have somewhat relaxed his vigilance on her very first day here.
Although Ivy had offered her help with household tasks, he’d refused.
The thought of them both in the kitchen cooking together or cleaning up after a meal, felt too intimate.
The governess had given him a look that suggested she bided her time.
But she’d soon find a way to help him, regardless of his decree.
Maybe we can take turns cooking. That way, neither of us is in the kitchen at the same time.
Once he’d finished the daily chores, he stood in the hallway, listening to the tiny taps of marbles bumping against each other and his daughter’s enthusiastic counting.
What should I do now?
I could read. While the idea had appeal, he’d just finished a book.
Starting another seemed slothful. Torin realized he’d now have free time on his hands.
The idea so discombobulated him, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
Discombobulated. He almost snorted a laugh, amused by his word usage.
But in an entirely new and almost refreshing fashion.
For, truth be told, in a very different way, he’d been discombobulated since the birth of his daughter.
What do I want to do? Not a question he’d asked himself in years.
He glanced out the window, noting by the sway of the tree branches that the wind had dropped off considerably. I could go tramp around. But he wasn’t yet ready to leave the vicinity of Ivy and Jewel. Maybe, later, we’ll all go out for a walk.
What else? Once the ground thawed, he could expand the garden plot. Depending on the weather, he probably had another month before he could attempt that digging.
I could do laundry. But he recalled Ivy’s need to wash her travel clothes and figured he should wait until they could discuss how to handle their laundry—together or separately.
Maybe I can craft something.
But what? His home didn’t lack for furniture.
Hearing Jewel’s “cuh” for C sounds from the dining room gave Torin an idea. He could make a long, narrow shelf for her room to hold her letters. He had no doubt that in a month, she’d possess the entire alphabet. A simple enough project.
Then, remembering her need for girls’ toys, he thought of building a dollhouse.
He vaguely remembered one his cousins played with.
A fancy Victorian was beyond his woodworking skills.
Before, he would have dismissed the idea or settled for building a structure like a box, with a roof and four rooms.
Now, though, he decided to challenge himself.
If his daughter could learn her letters and numbers, he could build a Victorian dollhouse.
Maybe in time for Christmas. If Ivy were still here next Christmas, she would probably make the holiday a more elaborate one than Jewel had ever experienced. He found he liked the idea.
Like a breath of fresh air, Ivy had whooshed into his life and blown him out of his rut.
And she’s only been here two nights and three days. He had a feeling this might just be the beginning of the storm.
Crafting the letter G was giving Ivy fits.
She'd cut the shape from emerald-green felt the night before, stitching the edges and stuffing the insides by lamplight. As she worked, she imagined the G joining the other letters on the shelf Torin had hammered into Jewel’s bedroom wall—a gallery of the alphabet-in-progress—a new letter learned each day.
But in the daylight, the G looked more like a C with dyspepsia, and no amount of pinching the fabric could persuade its curved jaw to jut forward properly.
The misshapen G had bothered Ivy enough to unpick a seam and try to repack the insides, although the letter didn’t turn out much better.
Frowning, Ivy flipped it over in her hands and sighed.
Lifting her head to stretch her neck, she glanced around the kitchen. A few days ago, she’d persuaded Torin to let them work in here instead of heating the dining room when the kitchen was already toasty. After her father’s Spartan household, the warmth felt like a luxury.
Across the kitchen table, Jewel watched with bright, expectant eyes, her fingers already reaching. She’d been patient while Ivy sewed, learning to verbalize Gee and then making the sound of Guh.
“Patience, sweetheart. I need another moment.”
“Guh,” Jewel said helpfully. “Guh-guh-guh.”
The sound was perfect—round and guttural, exactly the way Ivy had taught her. A swell of pride loosened the knot of frustration in Ivy’s chest. Who cares if the letter is lopsided?
Jewel wouldn't. Her pupil would squeeze the shape, trace the edges with a chubby finger, press the G to her cheek, and say guh with the same fierce delight she'd shown each day, for every new letter from A through F.
“All right.” After sewing the last stitch, Ivy set the imperfect G on the table. “Here. G for—"
“Guh!” Jewel snatched the letter up and hugged it against her pinafore. “Geen Gee, guh!”
“That's right. Green G.” Ivy's throat tightened even as her heart swelled as it always did when Jewel made a connection—color and letter and sound all woven together. “Can you think of a G word?”
Her pupil had gotten the concept that the sounds she was learning attached to the beginnings of words.
Jewel's brow furrowed, her tongue poked out. She looked around the kitchen—at the stove, the shelves of tinned goods, the window where sunlight pooled on the sill. Then her face split into a grin so wide her eyes nearly disappeared.
“Guh-een tee!” The child pointed toward the window at an evergreen. “Guh-een tee!” she repeated proudly.
Ivy laughed and clapped her hands. “Brilliant girl. Green tree! Now let’s learn how to write a G.” She slid the slate closer to them and slowly sketched out several Gs, explaining as she went. Then she turned the slate and chalk over to Jewel.
While the girl was engaged with her project, Ivy pulled a sheet of writing paper from her apron pocket. Today, she carried a few folded sheets and a pencil for moments like these and began a letter to Cora.
Dearest Cora,
I’m writing from the kitchen, with Jewel practicing her letters next to me and Brave curled up on a cushion on the chair on her other side. While it might appear an ordinary room, I call this space the happiest (and warmest) classroom I've ever known.
Jewel is making wonderful progress. She’s learned her letters through G now and can count to twenty reliably. You should see her face when she grasps something new. She lights up, which never fails to fill my heart with joy.
Torin has thawed somewhat from his wary stance in the beginning. He still is far too solemn, which would be fine if that was his natural personality. I have the feeling he once was a lighthearted, young man.
I will say that I’ve never seen a father who loves his daughter more than he does. It’s amazing to watch how he cherishes her. Although his doting does make me wish I my father had displayed more affection.
I confess to you, dear friend, that I am sometimes lonely.
Not unhappy—please don't mistake me. I love this work, and I am growing to love this place with its wild, heartbreaking beauty.
But I miss female companionship. I miss you, and I miss Katie, and I miss the feeling of being surrounded by women, even strangers on the street.
Is that foolish? I chose this isolation, and I chose it gladly.
Perhaps the choosing doesn't prevent the missing.
She paused, pencil hovering, and considered what else to say about Torin.
There were more details she wanted to write—about the way the house felt different in the evenings when Jewel was in bed.
How the parlor shrank to two warm circles of lamplight, with him on the couch with with a book while she sat in a wingchair, crafting the alphabet letters, reading, or playing the harp.
She wanted to describe the peculiar intimacy of shared silence between two people who were not family, not friends exactly, not anything she had a word for. About the way her pulse quickened when he glanced up from his reading, and their eyes met across the room before they looked away.
Cora experienced many such evenings while nursing Brian back to health. Surely, she’d understand.
But those experiences with Torin felt too fragile and private to express on paper.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Ivy straightened her spine and looked at Jewel, who was carefully drawing the letter G on her slate, her tongue between her teeth. You have work that matters. You have a child who needs you. That is enough.
But is it?
The question troubled Ivy more than she liked to admit. Quickly, she finished the letter.
Can’t you do anything to hasten the arrival of that baby?
Your devoted friend,
Ivy
She folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. She would add to it tonight and leave it outside on the table for Inga to carry to town tomorrow.
“I-vee.” Jewel held up her slate. “Look.”
The G was shaky, enormous, and backward. But it was also unmistakably a G.
“Oh, Jewel.” Ivy put her arm around the girl's shoulders and squeezed. “That is beautiful.”
Jewel leaned into her, warm and trusting.
She pressed her cheek against the top of the girl's head. Her hair smelled of the lavender soap Ivy had brought from New York—one of her few indulgences—packed alongside the fabric scraps, the teaching books, and her dreams.
They sat that way for a long moment, the governess and the child.
This is enough, Ivy told herself. This must be enough.