by Kit Morgan
“All right. Just ... give me a moment,” her mother requested.
Maisie tensed. Maybe she would faint – then what? She took a deep breath and forced a smile. At least Mrs. Whitehall was in the house to help her if need be.
“Okay, I think I’m ready.”
Maisie stopped trying to hide her worry. “Are you ill?”
“No, but ... never mind, let’s go.”
Maisie tightened her hold on her mother’s arm and led her to the staircase. “Why don’t you take a moment to steady yourself,” she suggested.
Her mother nodded and swallowed again, as if she was about to walk a tightrope. She took a fortifying breath, and managed the first step down.
JONATHAN FINISHED SHAVING, washed his face, put on a clean shirt and combed his hair, then studied his reflection in the mirror. “Not bad, Bridger.”
He went to the bed, sat and pulled on his boots. He’d had breakfast with the other boarders and decided to clean up a bit before settling into his day. Or that’s what he told himself. But it was his second shave that morning, granted that he’d missed a few spots before. Maybe he should see about a new razor, or start going to the local barbershop. Did Cutter’s Creek have a barbershop? There wasn’t one back when he’d lived here before, but maybe there was now. He made a mental note to look after escorting Maisie to work ...
To his surprise, his heart leaped at the very thought of Maisie Woodhouse. He glanced at his chest out of curiosity and noticed his hand over his heart. Gads, he didn’t remember putting it there! He removed it and cleared his throat, as if that would help.
“I ain’t sweet on her, am I?” he asked himself. Because really, how could he be? He barely knew her. But she was the only marriageable woman in town around his age, and Aggie had suggested to him twenty or thirty times that Maisie was a nice girl ...
Jonathan shook his head. “Nah, couldn’t be.” Besides, that’s why he’d asked her to take a stroll with him in the first place – so he could get to know her better. Escorting her to work was ideal – no one would think anything of them walking to the mercantile together. No rumors of courting would get started over it, would they?
Courting ... the word ricocheted around in his head like a stray bullet. Would he court Maisie if he got to know her better? Could he? Shouldn’t he wait until he was more settled into his new job at the mill, and started saving money for a place of his own? No woman wanted to live in a boarding house, did they? He’d have to have his own place before he wed.
He wandered downstairs and stopped dead in his tracks. A woman he’d never seen before sat at the dining room table, glaring at him. Frowning, she took a deep breath and yelled, “Maisie!”
Maisie Woodhouse burst in, a spoon in her hand. “Mama, what is it?”
Jonathan didn’t move as the woman pointed an accusing finger at him.
Maisie took one look at him and blushed. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry – I didn’t think anyone else was in the house.”
His eyes bounced between the two women a few times. “No, uh, still here.” He nodded at Maisie, then did the same to her mother, who looked ready to skin him alive.
Maisie caught the venomous look on the woman’s face, went to her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Mama, may I introduce Mr. Jonathan Bridger?”
“You may not.”
Maisie flushed red with embarrassment. She gulped, looking helpless, and he moved toward her in response.
“That’s close enough, young man,” Mrs. Woodhouse snapped.
Maisie’s shoulders slumped as disappointment clouded her features. For a moment he hardly recognized her – defeat didn’t look good on Maisie Woodhouse. Not at all. “I thought I’d come down and get myself a cup of coffee, if there’s any left,” he tried, hoping to bring some normality to the conflict.
“Yes, there is,” Maisie said in relief. “I’ll get you some.”
“You will not,” her mother said through clenched teeth.
Maisie, still behind her mother, rubbed her face a few times, then put her hands on her hips. “Mama, I was only being polite.”
“I don’t care. He’s a stranger.”
“He’s our neighbor.”
“He’s a man!”
Maisie’s mouth dropped open. “What ... what has that got to do with anything?”
“Everything,” Mrs. Woodhouse grumbled.
Maisie shook her head in dismay. “I’m getting Mr. Bridger a cup of coffee, Mama. Stop being so rude.” She headed for the kitchen before her mother could protest, leaving Jonathan to face Mrs. Woodhouse alone. The woman continued glaring at him.
He noticed a bowl of oatmeal sitting in front of her. “Mrs. Whitehall’s oatmeal is quite good, isn’t it?” he said, nodding at her breakfast. “She put raisins in it this morning. Hard to come by around here sometimes, raisins.”
“Yes, I know.”
Jonathan fought the urge to fidget. He was reminded of times he’d faced off with his mother as a boy, times when she was highly displeased or inconvenienced by something, whether it had to do with him or not. Mrs. Woodhouse had that same look on her face ...
“Tell me,” she said as Maisie came back from the kitchen, a cup and saucer in her hands. “What interest do you have in my daughter?”
Jonathan blinked in surprise, glanced at Maisie and back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. What to say? “Well ... that remains to be seen, ma’am.” Might as well be honest. He wanted to get to know her first before releasing his heart. He chanced a look at Maisie, who didn’t seem thrilled by his statement. Her face was trembling like an aspen in a sharp wind.
“Hmph.” Mrs. Woodhouse picked up her spoon.
Maisie set his coffee on the table and, without looking at him, fled back to the kitchen.
Jonathan stood there, knowing that while he wasn’t sure how he’d blown it, he most certainly had.
Eight
“Maisie!” Mrs. Whitehall declared. “Whatever’s wrong, child?”
Maisie shook her head as she walked through the kitchen and out the back door. She went straight to the clothesline and ran her finger over it. Her livelihood depended on that piece of rope – rather sad, now that she thought on it. She wondered what the future would hold ... and what it wouldn’t.
A husband, a home, children ... how could it when Mama acted as though she were losing her mind half the time? What man would want to put up with that? No, if Mama didn’t (or couldn’t) pull herself out of whatever pit she’d crawled into, Maisie would be taking care of her the rest of her life.
And Jonathan’s response had given her no confidence. “Well ... that remains to be seen” was as noncommittal a statement as you could imagine ...
“Maisie?”
She closed her eyes. Mrs. Whitehall wasn’t stupid – she’d know something had happened between Mama and her. “Yes?”
The landlady joined her at the clothesline. “Is everything all right? I thought I heard your mother earlier, but I was down in the root cellar.”
“You heard her,” Maisie sighed.
“She came down for breakfast?” Mrs. Whitehall asked in happy surprise.
“Yes, more or less.” She was there physically, she wanted to say. Not so sure about her mind.
Mrs. Whitehall frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You must not have heard how upset she was.” Maisie turned to face her. “She met Mr. Bridger. And she didn’t like him.”
Mrs. Whitehall sighed as well. “I’d just come back into the house when you came through the kitchen.” She patted Maisie on the arm. “I’m sorry, dear. I know how this has worn on you. It’s worn a little on all of us.”
Maisie’s eyes widened. “Oh no, don’t tell me that! I am so sorry – I ...”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Whitehall said with another pat. “I wasn’t implying that she’s disturbing my other boarders, only that we’re worried about her. Have you had a chance to speak with the doctor yet?”
Maisie shook her head.
“Maybe today would be a good day. He should be around – he was delivering the Jepsons’ baby girl yesterday.”
Maisie smiled faintly. “I’m glad to hear it.” The Jepsons had arrived in Cutter’s Creek a few months after Maisie and her family, and settled on a little farm just outside town. They were poor, but always willing to lend a hand to anyone in need. Maybe she ought to help Mrs. Jepson with her laundry. No charge, of course – she couldn’t do that to them ...
“I think you should consider Mr. Bridger.”
Maisie jumped. “What?”
Mrs. Whitehall studied her. “Consider him, won’t you?”
Maisie shut her mouth when she realized it was hanging open. “I beg your pardon?”
“He seems a nice young man ...”
“Mrs. Whitehall!”
“I was only suggesting ...”
Maisie shook her head. “No, you can’t. There’s no suggesting anything.”
“Maisie ...”
“No!” Maisie swerved around her and marched back into the house, only to stop in the kitchen. Now what? she thought. She took a deep breath and did the only thing she could do – return to the dining room.
There was no sign of Mr. Bridger. Mama looked up and frowned. “Is the laundry done yet?”
Maisie glanced over her shoulder. She hadn’t looked in the baskets to see if any clothes needed washing or mending. “I’ll check.”
“Check? What were you doing in there all this time? Did that man sneak through the back door to speak with you?”
It was all she could do to keep from groaning. “No, Mama, he didn’t.”
“Good. He’s trouble. They’re all trouble, the whole nasty lot of them!”
Maisie saw the venomous look on her mother’s face, one she’d never seen before. The sooner she spoke with the doctor, the better.
“Well?” her mother snapped.
“Well what, Mama?”
Her mother leaned forward in her chair. “Men are bad, don’t you agree?”
Maisie shivered at the conviction in her mother’s voice. Where had this come from? “No, I don’t.”
Sarah Woodhouse’s eyes grew round as her face turned red. “What did you say?”
Maisie had just about had enough. “I said no, I do not agr–”
Mama rose from her chair and slapped her across the face – hard. “Now don’t you agree?!”
Maisie stared at her in shock, her own face reddening. She took a deep breath, frowned and studied the woman before her a moment. This was not the loving, gentle woman she’d known before her father died. Yes, they had both been grief stricken, but Maisie had set her grief aside as best she could to ensure their survival. Her mother ... whatever this was, it wouldn’t do. “No,” she repeated. “I do not. Men are not bad. Was Father bad?”
Her mother raised her hand again.
Maisie caught her wrist and held her fast. “No, Mama. Sit and finish your breakfast. Now.” Her voice was firm, controlled and she hoped her mother couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
To her surprise, Mama sat and picked up her spoon, though not without one more look of disapproval. “Fetch me my shawl. I’m cold.”
Maisie took another deep breath. “Very well. I’ll be right back.” Not until she reached their room did she allow herself to cry.
JONATHAN STEPPED INTO the hall. The door to Maisie’s room was open a crack, and he wondered if he should close it. After Mrs. Woodhouse’s display of disdain downstairs, he’d decided to return to his room, get some money from the stash he’d hidden in one of his socks and buy a few things. Now that he had a job, he didn’t have to worry so much about parting with some of it. He’d need a better pair of boots to work in the mill, and a good strong pair of gloves ...
Then he heard a sob, a sniffle and a whimper. Maisie was crying. His body tensed in response. She sounded awful, rousing every protective instinct he had. Before he knew it he was pushing open her door, improper or not. Doggone it, he couldn’t help himself!
She turned at the sound of the door creaking.
Jonathan stopped himself at the threshold. “Maisie? Are you all right, honey?” Honey?! Good grief ...
“No,” she said, shaking her head, then “yes, I’m fine.”
Jonathan took a risk. “No, you’re not. Don’t lie – it doesn’t befit you.”
She looked at him, her eyes red from crying ... and laughed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Thank you for your concern.”
He noticed her mother wasn’t in the room – she’d have no doubt made herself known if she was. “May I come in?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry, now’s not the time.”
He took an involuntary step forward, glanced at his booted feet and rolled his eyes.
Maisie laughed. “You can’t seem to help yourself.”
“My feet aren’t so good at listening.” He smiled gently. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded but said nothing.
“Don’t let your mama make you feel bad, Maisie. I understand she’s not herself.”
She laughed again. “Well put. She hasn’t been herself since Father died. I’m not sure at this point if she ever will.”
“Don’t say that.” He took another step into the room. Drat – he’d better get a hold of himself and fast. But she looked so sad, so utterly defeated, as if her whole world had just come crumbling down at her feet. He had to do something ...
He took another step forward. That wasn’t the something he’d had in mind. Or had he?
She faced him, her lower lip trembling, and swallowed hard. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t know where to draw strength from. I only have so much of my own.”
He smiled in relief. “Is that it? Well, there’s help for that.”
She looked incredulous. “You make it sound so easy, Mr. Bridger. Have you not known suffering?”
He was a little taken aback, but his feet propelled him toward her anyway. “Trust me when I say I’ve known what it is to suffer and then some. And I know you can either go through it alone or have the good Lord hold your hand.”
Now she looked stricken. One eyebrow rose in question. “Then why doesn’t He?”
Jonathan’s face softened further. “But He does.” He glanced around the room. “You have a roof over your head, food on the table, friends to talk to. Mrs. Whitehall’s a kind lady.”
Maisie’s eyes followed his around the room. “Yes, she is.”
“You and your ma aren’t starving on account you got work. Things could be a lot worse.”
To his surprise, she stepped closer to him. “Thank you.”
She was close enough to pick up the scent of lavender in her hair. She must have gotten it at the mercantile. “What for?” he asked, voice cracking.
“For reminding me. You’re right, things could be worse.”
Jonathan looked into her eyes. “Well ... do yourself a favor and try not to forget Who’s in charge.” He glanced up for good measure.
“I did forget.” She hung her head.
Before he could stop himself, he tucked a finger under her chin and brought her face up. “He didn’t.”
She took a shuddering breath. “Thank you.”
He nodded, unable to speak. He was so nervous he thought he’d trip if he moved.
“You ... you’d better go before ...” She took another shaky breath, “... someone sees us.”
He nodded in understanding – they were breaking so many of the rules of propriety. But ... then why not break one more? He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
As he pulled away, Maisie’s hand went to the side of her face, her mouth open in surprise.
He studied her lips and fought the urge to kiss them too. It was bad enough he’d given her that sudden little peck. But she hadn’t slapped him. Yet.
“You’d better leave,” she said again.
“Yeah, I guess I’d better. Before I do something sill
y.”
She made a choking sound, as if she’d started to laugh but changed her mind. “S-silly?”
He glanced at the ceiling and laughed himself. “Yep. Like kissing you.”
“You just did.”
He looked at her as he forced himself to step back for safety’s sake. “No, I mean really kiss you.” Her face had a pleading look, as if saying yes, please do, but he didn’t dare. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that – or, or done that. But you looked like you needed someone to look after you for a minute.”
She smiled weakly. “You’re right, I did.”
He wanted to move closer again, but he knew better. For one, he didn’t want her to think he was completely bereft of manners. And for another ...
“Maisie!” came a shriek from downstairs.
Her shoulders slumped. She grabbed a shawl off the back of a chair. “I have to go.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I know.”
She trudged past him and stopped at the door. “Jonathan?”
A tingle went up his spine at her speaking his name. “Yes?”
“Perhaps it’s not a good idea for you to walk me to work this afternoon.” She waved a hand toward the hall. “My mother ...”
“Oh, that,” he said, his voice even. “All the more reason for us to take that walk. How else could ...?”
“Maisie!”
They both heard someone coming up the stairs and quickly stepped into the hall. Mrs. Whitehall appeared just as Maisie closed the door. “She’s in a state, child. Best come quick.”
“Right away.” Maisie brushed past Jonathan.
He reached out and touched her arm before she could get away. “Maisie. I’ll meet you on the porch.”
She turned around with such a look of anguish it tore his heart out. “I can’t,” she sighed.
“You must.”
“Why?” she asked and tossed a hand in the air.
“Because I know what it’s like.” He glanced at the staircase and back. “Maybe I can help.”
Her mouth fell open. She blinked a few times and closed it, then bit her lower lip and slowly nodded.
