by Hewitt, Kate
Lucas’s face fell as he took a forkful of chocolate cake and reduced it to crumbs with the tines of his fork. “I don’t rightly know,” he answered after a moment. “And I don’t believe Jed does either.”
“But surely now the war’s over and he’s back…”
“Things were bad between them, Ellen,” Lucas said quietly. “Really bad. I don’t know that anyone can just walk back into a marriage after all that.”
“But what else can Louisa do?” Thoughts of scandal and divorce flitted through her mind. Surely Louisa would not take it as far as that?
“Stay where she is, and have Jed stay where he is, and let them live their lives separately,” Lucas answered with a shrug. “I’m sure there’s more than one married couple who agreed to the same, after the war. Nobody’s the same.”
“You don’t seem too changed,” Ellen remarked, more to lighten the mood than anything else.
“I was luckier than some. Most, even. I never went over the top the way Jed and so many poor fellows had to. I did most of my work away from the Front.”
“But you were in danger, too.”
Lucas shrugged again. “It wasn’t the same,” he said, and Ellen noted the shadows that had entered his eyes. Did Lucas feel as if his military service wasn’t as laudable as his brother’s? She knew he’d been doing something hush-hush for the British government, but what, he’d never been able to say. Was it some sort of guilt that kept him away from the island, feeling he hadn’t fought in the trenches the way all the other island boys had, Jed included? She knew not to ask, not now, at least.
“Well, I must thank you indeed for this lovely luncheon,” she said brightly. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so well! And I’m meant to be taking Andrew and Gracie out for tea, but I’m afraid I won’t eat a bite.”
“I’m sorry to have spoiled it for you,” Lucas answered, his eyes crinkling in a smile.
“I’m not,” Ellen returned with a laugh. “But I should take my leave, as they will be waiting for me.”
Gallantly, Lucas rose from the table. “I’ll see you out, and then return to settle the bill.”
“You’ve been so kind, Lucas.”
Briefly, he touched her hand with his own. “It has been my pleasure, Ellen, but I think you know that.”
She fought an urge to slide her gaze away from his own warm one as she gathered her gloves and reticule. Surely she was imagining that note of quiet yearning in Lucas’s voice. The days when he’d cared for her in that way were long gone.
“I shall see you at the barn dance,” Lucas promised her as they bid farewell on the street. He pressed her hand once more, and Ellen smiled at him.
“I look forward to it,” she assured him, and as she walked down the street, she felt Lucas’s gaze on her all the way until she’d turned the corner.
Chapter Four
The night of the Hewitsons’ barn dance was balmy and clear, with a slight breeze blowing off the bright waters of Lake Ontario lending a freshness to the air.
Ellen put on her best pink silk dress, with the dropped waist that had become fashionable recently, the hem barely skimming her ankles. It looked shocking somehow, here on the island, where everyone was still wearing fashions from before the war, shirtwaists and skirts that brushed the ground, but in Glasgow or even Kingston, Ellen knew she would have fitted right in.
“You look like you’ve stepped out of the pages of that Vogue magazine,” Caro told her with smiling envy as she ran her hands down the sides of her own well-worn dress, one whose hem she’d mended and collar replaced several times over.
“I can’t imagine myself in one of those magazines,” Ellen told her. She’d only seen the upscale magazine with its many fashion pages a few times, but she was quite sure she looked nothing like the sleek, sophisticated women featured in it. “Perhaps I should have my hair bobbed or shingled,” she mused as she tucked a few stray wisps up with pins. “So many women are doing it now. I saw women with hair barely past their ears when I was in Kingston.” Like Caro, she’d put her near waist-length hair up in its usual boring bun.
“Oh no, your hair is glorious,” Caro protested. “That color—it’s a cross between a chestnut and a sunset. If only you could wear it down!”
“Now that would be scandalous,” Ellen teased and grabbed her matching wrap. Even though the evening was warm, when the sun went down, the temperature dropped so it was pleasantly cool. “But thank you for the compliment.”
The dance was in full swing when she, Caro, Rose, and Peter arrived by wagon. Ellen had thought Peter wouldn’t attend; he hated crowds now and didn’t even like going to church anymore, sometimes leaving before the service was over, but he’d been sitting in the kitchen in his best Sunday suit when Ellen and Caro had come downstairs, his hands resting on his knees.
“Don’t you look handsome, Peter,” Rose had exclaimed, her face flushed with pleasure at seeing her son taking part and looking it as well, but Peter had just given her a blank, almost indifferent look, and her face fell although she said nothing more.
“I think we’ve all scrubbed up rather nicely,” Caro had put in cheerfully, and Rose gave her a quick smile of gratitude before they’d all started towards the Hewitsons, with Peter driving the wagon.
Now, as she surveyed the swept barnyard that served as a dance floor, Ellen couldn’t keep from humming under her breath as the makeshift band struck up another tune and couples took to the dirt floor. Within minutes, Henry Spearson, Johnny from Ellen’s year’s little brother, had whirled Caro away, and Ellen tried not to mind feeling a bit like a wallflower. She was twenty-eight years old, after all, and certainly past the first blush of youth. Perhaps no one would ask her to dance tonight.
Instinctively, without even realizing she was doing so, she scanned the barnyard for Jed, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he hadn’t even come. Either way, Ellen doubted he would be willing to dance, with her or anyone else.
She was still looking for him, even though she knew that he wasn’t there, when she felt a tap on her shoulder and she turned around to see Lucas smiling expectantly at her.
“You promised a dance,” he reminded her, and she nodded her happy assent.
“So I did, and I’m pleased you remembered!”
Lucas took her in his arms and they started around the dance floor as couples whirled around them. It felt nice to dance again, freeing somehow, the cares slipping away from her shoulders every time they spun around.
Lucas gave her an appraising, serious look. “You look lovely, Ellen.”
“You’ve cleaned up quite nicely yourself,” Ellen answered lightly. Lucas’s hair was brushed back with pomade and he wore a city suit with a celluloid collar that put the local boys’ homespun trousers and shirts to shame.
“Thank you very much indeed,” Lucas replied with a grin, before his considering look turned serious. “Have you come to any conclusions about the farm?”
Ellen shook her head. “I’m afraid not. We’re going to put the pasture on the market, but the manager at the bank didn’t sound terribly optimistic.” Her stomach knotted as she thought of the potential consequences. “I don’t know what we’ll do if Aunt Rose loses the farm. She’s spoken about moving to Stella or even off island, but I can’t imagine her anywhere but here.” She sighed dispiritedly. “I wish she’d let me help.”
“As generous an idea as that is, your money would only go so far, Ellen,” Lucas told her gently. “Your aunt needs a sustainable solution. An ongoing source of income, not just an injection of cash.”
“You sound like a lawyer,” Ellen teased, although with the faintest touch of irritation. Lucas seemed to be more sensible than sympathetic, and his distance from the island, emotional as well as physical, still possessed the power to hurt her. “Besides, where are we meant to get an ongoing source of income? With the prices the way they are—”
“Actually, I have an idea.” Lucas whirled her around again as Ellen stared at him blank
ly.
“You have an idea?” she repeated. She had no idea what plan Lucas could come up with to save the farm, but judging from the slight yet confident smile curving his lips, he seemed quite certain about it. A flicker of curiosity as well as doubt rippled through her. What on earth could Lucas be thinking of?
“I do,” he confirmed as his smile widened. “But I’m not going to explain it to you while we are dancing.”
“Then when—”
“After.” He whirled her around again, faster this time, and laughing now, Ellen let herself be carried by the tune until the song ended and the couples began to disperse.
With one hand on her elbow, Lucas bore Ellen away from the barnyard, and towards a flat limestone ledge that jutted out into the lake’s waters, now touched by the gold of the setting sun. It was such a perfect, tranquil moment—the lake still and smooth, the sky wide and open.
Ellen settled on the stone, spreading her skirt out, as she tilted her face to the last of the setting sun.
“That’s better,” Lucas said as he sat next to her, fanning his face. “It was hot over there.”
Ellen lowered her head as she turned to give him a serious look. “Lucas… what did you mean, you had an idea? Aunt Rose and I have thought of everything, from making only cheese to getting rid of all the livestock.” The McCafferty farm, like so many other smallholdings on the island, had a bit of everything, but only a little. They could never compete with the huge beef or dairy farms springing up out west. “Nothing comes close to helping make ends meet.”
“Ah, but I’m not talking about using the land to farm,” Lucas said with a twinkle, “although I think you would need to have some farming element, in order to keep your customers feeling as if they were getting the real experience.”
Ellen shook her head slowly. “Customers? What on earth are you going on about?”
“Or perhaps I should say guests.” The smile he gave her was wry, his blue eyes glinting with humor.
“Now I’m really confused.” She gave an uncertain laugh, and Lucas leaned forward, earnest now, the teasing twinkle in his eye replaced by a gleam of determination.
“Ellen, I hate the idea of you not using your talents,” he said, and took her hands in his. “You are an artist, and you were going to be a teacher of art. Why not do those things here? Use the abilities and talents God gave you?”
“Here? How?” Ellen stared at him in disbelief, fighting a prickle of annoyance that even now, when things were so desperate for the McCaffertys, he was going on about her art. She tried to pull her hands from his, but Lucas held on, smiling faintly as he noted her resistance.
“Don’t get het up—let me tell you. You could run a guest house where you offer art lessons. I know you’re struggling, but so many society women are restless and bored. The rich haven’t suffered in the war, from it, in the same way. Their businesses are booming and they’re looking for amusement. I see it in Toronto, and I know it’s happening all over. Boston, New York, Chicago… Why not offer a holiday for people like that, with more money than sense, more time than work? You could arrange different lessons in sketching and painting, have trips to vantage points on the island, meals in the farmhouse, even a little help on the farm if they wanted to. I think society women would find it amusing to turn their hand to a bit of work—shelling a pea or collecting an egg. They would love the novelty.”
“I don’t want to amuse people,” Ellen exclaimed, and this time she did pull her hands from Lucas’s. She felt strange and shivery, as if he’d suggested something unreasonable, outrageous, even insulting. “And I certainly don’t want to offer up our life here as some sort of commodity or—or entertainment!”
“Even if it saved Jasper Lane?” Lucas countered quietly.
“It wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
She shook her head, unsure why she suddenly felt so angry. “Do you actually think running some sort of holiday service would pay our bills?” She meant to sound incredulous and scathing, but she heard a faint note of hope in her voice, and she realized that was why she was angry. How could Lucas give her a slender thread of hope, when it so clearly led to nowhere? No one would pay for a holiday in a ramshackle farmhouse, to be given art lessons by a has-been painter, who herself hadn’t drawn anything in years. She shook her head, annoyed at herself now for dreaming about it even for a second. “It’s impossible.”
“To believe a thing impossible is to make it so,” Lucas quoted. “I heard people say that in France. Why don’t you want to believe it could work?”
“Because I don’t want to get my hopes up,” Ellen replied shortly. “Or Aunt Rose’s, for that matter.”
“But what if you got your hopes up and they were realized?” Lucas leaned forward, his gaze, as it swept over her face, seeming far too knowing. “What are you so afraid of, Ellen?”
Of trying and failing. Of not being good enough.
Ellen swallowed as she looked out at the lake. “Everything, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want to give my heart to something only for it to fail.” She’d done that before, too many times, and while this professional enterprise wasn’t the same as a failed romance, it was still dangerous, and Ellen felt too battered to try again. Perhaps that was really why she’d come back to the island—because it was safe.
Lucas regarded her thoughtfully, a look of sorrowful understanding in his eyes.
Ellen looked away, knowing he saw too much. He always had, ever since they’d been children. He’d understood and encouraged her drawing far more than Jed or anyone else ever had; he’d seen how much it had meant to her. She still held those childhood conversations dear, even as she reminded herself that that was all they had been.
“Better to give your heart away than to hold onto it,” he said quietly. “Don’t you think?”
“In some cases, yes,” Ellen answered as she turned back to meet his compassionate gaze. “But in this case, Lucas, I simply don’t think it could work. How would we even begin?”
“You could place an advertisement in the city newspapers. It could be as simple as that. You’ve got the space—the farmhouse has seven or eight bedrooms, at least.”
“Seven,” Ellen admitted reluctantly. “But they’re not of hotel quality—”
“People wouldn’t be looking for hotel quality. Yes, you might have to smarten things up a bit, and you’d need to share a room with Caro, but I wager you could offer four guest rooms for the whole summer season—charge fifteen dollars a week.”
“Fifteen dollars,” Ellen repeated wonderingly. “Surely not!”
“With meals and art lessons provided? Some people would be willing to be pay twenty.”
“Per room?”
Lucas nodded, and Ellen laughed out loud.
“Eighty dollars a week all summer long,” she mused out loud, already imagining the farm bustling and prosperous, with a hired man or two to help with the fields, the barn roof replaced, a new tractor… “It seems far too good to be true.”
“Admittedly, you may not be booked up the entire summer…” Lucas warned her.
“Even half that would be more than enough…” She sighed and shook her head. For a second, she’d let her dreams run wild, but now she was returning to reality with a thud. “I just can’t see how it would work.”
“And so you won’t even try?” Lucas’s voice was gentle.
Ellen looked away; darkness was slipping over the lake like a cloak, and from the barnyard, she could hear the merry strains of the fiddle, a sudden burst of feminine laughter. “You always had more faith in me than I had in myself,” she admitted in a low voice.
“And it has always been warranted.” Lucas touched her cheek, a butterfly brush of his fingers. “At least think about it, Ellen. For my sake if not your own.” He gave her a fathomless, lingering look, and wordlessly she nodded. Lucas rose from the rock where they’d been sitting, extending his hand down to her.
“One more
dance?” he suggested with a smile and she agreed, her head and heart both whirling from everything Lucas had suggested, and the dreams she couldn’t yet bring herself to believe in.
Chapter Five
In the week since the Hewitsons’ barn dance, Ellen had done her best to dismiss Lucas’s idea of offering art holidays, mainly because she told herself, over and over, that it just couldn’t work. They lived on a poor farm, in a ramshackle farmhouse. There were rotten floorboards on the porch and mice in the kitchen, despite their Malkin’s best efforts. The ceiling in one of the bedrooms leaked, and the sofa in the front parlor was threadbare. No one would want to stay there. No one would pay to stay there, and pay enough to keep the McCaffertys provided for. Certainly not wealthy city people who were used to the finer things in life.
She was almost angry with Lucas for suggesting such a thing, for naming amounts and for giving her that treacherous kernel of hope. What if… what if there was a way for her to keep the McCaffertys in their home, and she could stay as well…
That little kernel wasn’t enough to voice the idea to Rose or Caro or anyone; in fact, she felt humiliated just by the thought. How could she propose to the McCaffertys that she keep them afloat by offering art classes? It was arrogant in the extreme, as well as foolish. And so she went about her days, helping in the kitchen and the garden, picking wild strawberries for jam and darning socks, doing all she could to keep things going.
“There’s been no word from the bank,” Rose told her one evening after supper, when Ellen was helping her wash dishes. Peter had gone outside to see to the animals, and Caro was taking a berry pie to Iris Wilson, a war widow with three little ones who was struggling along with everyone else on the island and had recently come down with a bad summer cold. “No one’s interested in buying that back pasture, and I don’t think anyone ever will be. In truth, I’m not surprised. It’s all big farms out West now, with a thousand dairy cows or more. We simply haven’t got enough to manage.” Rose managed a smile, although Ellen could see the lines of strain from her nose to her mouth, the look of despair in her faded blue eyes.
