The Sugar Queen

by Tess Thompson

  “We don’t want you to leave,” Cymbeline said.

  “We want you to stay forever and ever,” Fiona said.

  I smiled in a way I hoped was reassuring. “I don’t want to go away either, so put that out of your minds. I was only teasing. About going to Boston, that is. Not about the amphibians.” I waggled a finger at them.

  “It was Flynn who put the frog in her bed,” Cymbeline said in a rush of words. “None of the rest of us like frogs either.”

  I allowed myself a stiff smile, even though inside I wanted to throw my head back and laugh. “I’ll hold you to this.”

  For the first time, Theo spoke. “What do we call you here at the house?”

  I hadn’t thought about that, but it was a good question. I was Miss Cooper at school. Nanny Cooper didn’t sound right somehow.

  “You may call me Miss Quinn at home. However, you mustn’t share it with the other children. When we’re at school, I’ll have to treat you like I do all the others.”

  “Even though we’re special?” Cymbeline grinned and swung her legs.

  “That’s correct.” I tented my hands under my chin. “Now let’s get ready for bed. If you wash up, clean your teeth, and put on your nightgowns with no fuss, I’ll read to you the first chapter of a book before lights out.”

  All five bounced from the couch as if there were springs under them. Josephine and Flynn both grabbed a lantern, lighting the kerosene wick before heading toward the hallway. I did the same with one more, then picked up the two books I’d already chosen from the shelves earlier and followed them up the stairs to the bedrooms.

  As promised, they obeyed my directions. Sharing space in the bathroom, one by one they brushed their teeth and washed their faces. I had to send Flynn back for a second scrubbing, as the dirt under his fingernails appeared to be almost as old as him.

  In the hallway, he held out his hands for inspection. “Much better,” I said.

  “A little dirt never hurt anyone,” he said.

  “It hurts me,” I said.

  “Why?” Flynn asked.

  “Because it does,” I said. “It’s a grown-up thing.” I patted his back. “Now stop asking questions so we can have our story.”

  The two little girls had crawled under the covers on their twin beds. Flynn, Theo, and Josephine sat cross-legged on her bed. I slipped next to Fiona and read the opening passage from Heidi. I’d chosen it from the shelves of the library, remembering how much I’d enjoyed it as a child. Like the Barnes children, Heidi was without a mother. As for me, I was like Heidi—a visitor in a remote and beautiful place.

  The lamplight flickered as I read. Fiona fell asleep after only a few pages. Her body, warm and heavy beside me, reminded me of my sister, and a pang of homesickness washed through me. I pushed the pain aside. These children needed me present in the here and now. They had a way of making everything immediate. I liked this, as it kept me from thinking too much about the family I’d left behind.

  When the first chapter was done, Cymbeline had also fallen asleep. I shooed the boys off to their room.

  At the doorway, Flynn stopped. “Miss Quinn, will you tuck us in?”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, as I pulled Cymbeline’s quilt over her shoulders.

  While I was adjusting Fiona’s blanket around her small, chubby body, now curled into a ball, Josephine pulled back her quilt and slid into bed.

  I stood, smoothing my skirts. Josephine lay on her side, watching me.

  “How about you, Miss Josephine?” I asked. “Would you like a tuck-in?”

  She smiled. “I’m too big, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t think there’s an age limit.” I crossed over to her bed and sat on the end. With my fingers I traced the stitches of the red-and-white flower pattern on the quilt. “What a pretty quilt.”

  “My mother brought it with her from New York.” She folded her hands under her chin and looked toward the sleeping form of her sisters. “I’m the only one who remembers her.”

  “The boys don’t?” I asked, surprised.

  “They remember some things, but not very many. They’re bad memories mostly. I remember good things too.”

  “Like what?”

  “There was a time when Mother tucked me in. Before the boys were born, I guess it was. She used to sing to me when I was very little.”

  “Do you remember any of the songs?”

  “Not really. Did your mother sing to you?”

  I smiled, thinking of my mother’s raspy, off-key voice. “My mother’s talents aren’t musical, but yes, she sang to us when we were young until we asked her to stop.”

  Josephine’s expression turned wistful. “I can’t remember if my mother ever laughed.”

  “She must have at one time or another,” I said.

  “What’s your mother’s laugh sound like?”

  I thought for a moment. How could I describe one of the most precious sounds in the world? “Quiet, like she wants the laugh to stay in her throat but can’t quite manage.”

  “Do you miss her?” Josephine asked.

  “I’m trying hard to be brave but yes, very much.”

  “What’s your sister like?”

  I smoothed the quilt up over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Right now, you need to go to sleep. The morning will come early.” Standing, I took the lantern from the bedside table.

  She yawned. “Thanks for reading to us.”

  I turned to go, but a cold hand reached out to me. “Miss Quinn? I wouldn’t mind if you kissed my forehead.”

  “All right, then.” I leaned over and kissed her softly, as I’d done the others. “You have sweet dreams.”

  “You too.”

  I left the door open a crack and headed across the hallway to the boys’ room. They were in their beds and turned on their sides talking quietly. I wanted to stand in the doorway and eavesdrop, but resisted.

  “Gentlemen, are you ready for your tuck-in?” I asked.

  They rolled onto their backs in perfect time, as if they’d choreographed the move. I suppose they’d learned to work together for space in their mother’s womb.

  I stood between their two beds and gazed down at Theo, then Flynn. They wore matching red-and-white plaid pajamas, but even in the muted light I could tell them apart. Not only did the scar give Flynn away; their personalities were in stark contrast, which made them appear to look different even though they were identical. The scholar and the scoundrel, I thought. I adored them equally.

  “Miss Quinn?” Theo asked.

  I sat on the end of his bed. “Yes?”

  “Are you ever afraid of the dark?” Theo wrinkled his nose.

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m usually so tired at the end of the day, I fall right to sleep. Are you?”

  “Not if Flynn’s here. But sometimes I can’t fall asleep.”

  I smiled as I smoothed the quilt over his legs. “You’re a lucky boy to have a brother to keep you company. Do you know what my sister does when she can’t sleep?”

  He shook his head.

  “She tells herself a story, like the ones she likes to read.”

  “Mine would have pirates,” Flynn said. “And a ship.”

  “What about you?” I asked Theo.

  “I’d tell a story of a happy family at Christmastime,” Theo said.

  “That sounds like a story I’d like to read.” I moved over to Flynn’s bed, where he had shifted to his side. His eyes fluttered as he tried to stay awake. This little one played hard and probably slept even harder. I swept a lock of hair from his forehead.

  He looked up at me sleepily. “No kisses. Boys don’t like them.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I chuckled and fluffed Flynn’s hair, then Theo’s. “Good night, sweet princes. Sleep well.”

  With lantern in hand, I left the door slightly ajar as they mumbled their good-nights. In my room, I undressed and readied for bed. After washing and brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I t
iptoed back to my room, conscious not to wake the children. The floorboards didn’t squeak as they did at my own home. I slipped into the cold sheets and blew out the lantern. It had been a long, stimulating day, and I was weary both mentally and physically, even though it wasn’t much past eight. I closed my eyes and curled into a ball, waiting for the bed to warm from my own body heat. The house creaked, as if saying good night to its inhabitants. Soon, I warmed and drifted off to sleep, content with a good day’s work done.

  Chapter 16

  Alexander

  * * *

  Around nine that evening Jasper and I nursed whiskeys in the corner of the saloon. Tonight, I’d made an exception to my aversion to public drunkenness and gambling. I wanted to gather as much gossip as I could about Samuel’s death. Men in bars talked too much.

  A man named Mike Murphy ran the saloon. I leased him the building. Other than that, I stayed out of his way. Every town needed at least one watering hole, whether I approved of what went on here or not.

  “Do you ever wish we’d settled in Denver instead?” I asked.

  “Never.” Jasper gestured toward the window. “A man can breathe here.”

  When we’d come west, I’d bought up land in Denver. Whole city blocks belonged to me. If my family had taught me anything, it was that land ownership equaled wealth.

  The rest of my land holdings were for profit. Emerson Pass was my heart.

  I fell in love with this part of the country the moment we arrived that first spring. Meadows of columbine, lilies, and buttercups grew in the valley between mountains that kissed the bluest sky I’d ever seen. Aspens with their light green leaves fluttered in the breeze. The dry air smelled of pine and firs. In the time it took to unhitch our horses, I imagined the town we could build in this valley. I’d decided right then. This was home. I’d rebuild from the ashes.

  “Why do you ask?” Jasper finished his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m wondering if I’ve been naive that this town is safer than most places.”

  “There are bad people everywhere. Here there are fewer of them because there are fewer people than in the city. You’re not responsible for Samuel’s death.”

  I traced the rings in the pine table. The first winter I’d spent here, Samuel had taught me that the growth rings in a tree told the history of a place as well as any book. Pale rings were from spring growth, whereas dark ones were from late summer. Skinny rings were indicative of drought or other environmental impacts such as insects or too-densely-populated forests. Fat lines told the tale of an abundant growing season. I’d teased him about his love of trees. “Trees never let you down, unlike people,” he’d said.

  I wished the trees could tell me the secrets of the night Samuel was murdered. What had they seen? But trees only talked to Samuel, not to me.

  “Harley and Merry have asked if they might attend night school,” Jasper said, pulling me from my brooding.

  “Excellent.”

  Jasper said nothing.

  “Is there a reason they shouldn’t?” I asked.

  “Their evening duties would fall to someone else twice a week,” he said. “And what will the children do without Miss Cooper? Who will put them to bed?”

  I studied him for a moment, trying not to laugh. Jasper did not care for change. “I’ll put the young ones to bed. Harley’s duties can be done before and after school.”

  “And Merry’s?” One eyebrow went up as he tapped his middle finger on the side of his glass.

  “Two evenings a week won’t cause the house to go into chaos,” I said. “This is important for them.”

  He lifted both brows this time but didn’t say anything further. Long-suffering Jasper. My ways continued to scandalize him, even though he would never admit to it. I’d become too American for him.

  Still, he was loyal to me. Even during the embattled years with Ida, his dedication never wavered. I believe he would have let someone chop off his hands rather than any harm come to me or the children.

  I spotted the Higgins brothers as they came through the door and raised a hand in greeting.

  “Come sit with us,” I called out. “I’d like to buy you a drink for saving our schoolteacher.”

  They ambled over as Jasper rose to order the drinks from Mike.

  “How is she?” Clive asked.

  “Quite well,” I said.

  They each took a chair as Jasper approached with four glasses of whiskey.

  “We heard there’s a night school starting,” Clive said.

  “You interested?” I asked. Neither brother had gone to school, having been born and raised on the prairies with nothing more than a lean-to on their father’s claim. Their mother had died giving birth to Clive and left them to grow up without an education or anything much to begin with. They’d come here, hoping for a chance, and they’d gotten it.

  “Nah, probably not,” Wayne said.

  “Why not?” I asked the Higgins brothers. “A few hours a week and you could learn to read.”

  “I’d feel stupid sitting there in desks made for kids.” Wayne slapped his thigh. “Can you imagine these gangly legs in the classroom?” Wayne and Clive were strapping young men, broad-shouldered and tall with light hair bleached even blonder from the Colorado sun.

  I chuckled but had no intention of letting him off that easily. I’d have to provide incentive to them in another way. “Are you ever bored during our long winter months? Wouldn’t you love to read an adventure story during those evenings when there’s nothing else to do?”

  Clive straightened slightly and looked over at me with an inquisitive glint in his eyes. “I’d like that, yes.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “If and when you’re ready, you may borrow any book from my library anytime you want.”

  Clive’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight.” He gestured with his hand to indicate the patrons in the bar. “You’re willing to let any of these men here inside your home, handling your books, simply because you want us all to learn to read.”

  I rubbed my chin. When he said it out loud, I sounded a bit daft. “That’s correct. It’s important to me that everyone in our town has access to books. What good are they collecting dust in my library?”

  “Books improve lives,” Jasper said.

  “How exactly?” Wayne asked.

  “Let me count the ways,” I said, quoting Elizabeth Barrett Browning, then inwardly cringing at my pretentiousness. “Entertainment during long winter months, transportation to other worlds, learning about new subjects. Your life will expand through reading, I can promise you.”

  “Why do you care about us expanding our lives?” Wayne asked.

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” Clive asked, not unkindly but sounding genuinely curious.

  I blinked as I tried to form an answer that wouldn’t make me sound arrogant and condescending. “Because I care about the people in this community.”

  The men still seemed unconvinced.

  “You give away a lot of meat,” I said. “Why do you do that?”

  Wayne shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  “No one goes hungry in our town,” Clive said.

  “You told us that when we came here,” Wayne said. “And we took it to heart. If we have scraps or extra, we give them away.”

  “This is the same thing,” I said. “Miss Cooper is a teacher. I have books.”

  Clive leaned forward and peered into his whiskey. “If you’re willing to have us into your home and share your books, then I suppose we could try school.”

  “No promises that it’ll work,” Wayne said. “Higgins men aren’t known for our brains.”

  “Most men aren’t,” I said.

  We all chuckled and sipped from our drinks.

  “Lord Barnes, we were sorry to hear about Samuel Cole,” Clive said.

  “He was a good man,” Wayne said.

  “You hear anything around town?” I asked qu
ietly.

  Wayne glanced nervously around the room before returning his gaze to me. “We have some fresh beef coming in tomorrow. You should stop in and get some.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Now, who wants a refill? I’m still buying.”

  The starry sky and full moon shed light over the snow as I drove us home. Oliver’s and Twist’s hooves made a pleasant clip-clop. The world seemed untouched and perfect under the glow of that yellow moon.

  Jasper’s shoulders sagged slightly from the whiskey. On the way there, his posture had been upright and stiff, but now he resembled a mere mortal.

  “You and Miss Cooper,” Jasper said.

  “What about us?”

  “You fancy her.” He paused as he looked up at the sky and let out a long sigh. “She fancies you.”

  “I’m sure of the first thing, anyway,” I said.

  He fell silent, adjusting his hat, then buttoning his coat up to his neck.

  “It’s been three years,” Jasper said. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t remarry. Not all women are like Lady Ida.”

  “True. Miss Cooper doesn’t seem the type prone to either madness or hatred, regardless of the weather,” I said. “Ida was fragile even before she had Josephine.”

  “Did you know how fragile she was before you married?” he asked.

  “No. I was in love. You remember.”

  “I do. I remember exactly.”

  “You saw it from the beginning, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I hoped I was wrong.”

  I shuddered as I slipped into the memory of the night I’d found Ida standing over our two-week-old Fiona’s crib with a knife.

  Ida wore nothing but a thin white nightgown. Her fair hair had been crudely chopped and fallen in tufts around her bare feet. I grabbed her by the waist and tackled her to the floor. She didn’t struggle as I pried the knife from her hand and tossed it across the room. Seconds later, she went limp as a rag doll on the braided rug and curled into the fetal position. Fiona had wakened during the commotion and started screaming. Josephine, at age ten, had come running from the room she shared with Cymbeline. She paled and slumped against the doorframe at the sight before her. Her mother on the floor with hair like a baby chick. Me, on my knees, weeping. The knife glittered in the moonlight.