by Jan Watson
“That was an awful thing when Kenny died.”
Cara shook her head. “Boys . . . they sure can cause a lot of grief.”
Darcy stirred honey into her tea. “That’s why I’m only having girls,” she said, holding up the honey pot. “Want some more long sweetening?”
“No, I’ve got plenty.”
“When did you first take notice of Dimm?” Dimples played in and out of Darcy’s round cheeks. “Was it love at first sight?”
Cara grinned. It was good to talk about happy times. “I’d have to say I liked his manners, and it didn’t hurt a bit that he was riding a good-looking horse.”
“That Star,” Darcy said. “He was aggravating as sin.”
“Now Star just hangs out in Miz Copper’s pasture getting fat and sassy,” Cara said.
“He was already plenty sassy if you ask me.” Darcy stood and stretched. “I’d best go check on Mammaw. I put an extra quilt on your bed.”
“Good night, Darcy.”
Darcy hugged Cara tight. “Sweet dreams.”
Sunlight woke Cara the next morning. Chagrined, she leaped out of bed and hurried to the front room. Coffee perked on the stove, and a plate of biscuits and eggs sat waiting on the warmer.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Darcy said, poking her head out of Mammaw’s room. “Help yourself to breakfast.”
“I’m sorry to have slept so late,” Cara replied.
“I expect you needed it. I’m just finishing Mammaw’s bath.”
Cara started for the bedroom door. “Can I help?”
“You can pour me another cup of coffee and have one yourself.” Darcy’s voice held a smile that warmed the room.
Cara cut into her egg, then sopped up the bright yellow yolk with a piece of buttermilk biscuit. The first sip of coffee hit the spot. She felt her shoulders soften as tension drained from her body. Looking around, she took in the just-mopped floor, the light streaming in the windows, Darcy’s sewing machine and dress forms laden with bright fabrics and wished she could take the feeling of this room with her when she left. Maybe she’d never go home—just stay here in this sunny kitchen forever.
She’d scraped her plate and put it with others in the dishpan when Darcy bounced into the room. “Mmmm.” She sniffed the steam from her coffee. “Thanks, Cara. This is just right. Bring your cup and come on. Mammaw’s ready for devotions.”
Mammaw, propped up by pillows, her open Bible on her lap, gave Cara a smile to rival Darcy’s. “Come give me some sugar,” she said.
Leaning over, Cara bussed the old woman’s soft cheek, spiderwebbed with wrinkles. Mammaw smelled of starched linen and coffee. Every case on her pillows was embroidered with flowers and birds and butterflies. Even the collar of her gown was brightly stitched. It was as if she lay in a flower garden.
Darcy sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, so Cara did the same.
“I feel like reading from Psalms today,” Mammaw said, flipping the Good Book’s pages with her crippled fingers. “Listen to this, girls, from chapter 84. ‘Behold, O God our shield, and look upon the face of thine anointed. For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.’”
The verses from Psalms ran through Cara’s mind as she walked the long way home later that morning. How was it that she’d wished for some warmth to take home with her and then Mammaw’s devotion spoke of the Lord God as a sun and a shield? Could Mammaw read her mind? Did God even know she, Cara Whitt, existed? It seemed a mighty stretch of imagination to think so. Cara was sure God had bigger things to think on. Maybe she’d start thumbing through her Bible, though, like Mammaw and Ace did. She wouldn’t mind having the strength it seemed to give them.
She walked along, switching the tall grasses in front of her with a long stick, hoping to give warning to any varmints lurking there. She stopped for a moment to watch a long green lizard slip off a flat rock. Being the same color as the new spring grass, he disappeared easily, hiding in plain sight no doubt. She wasn’t afraid of lizards, but all the same she didn’t want to step on one. Just the thought gave her the willies.
Soon she came to Troublesome Creek. She’d have to cross it. All sorts of creepy things hid in the dark water—tadpoles with their ugly bug eyes, snapping turtles, and slithery water moccasins, maybe death itself.
Dimmert had taught her to throw rocks in the water before she waded in. He said the snakes would go up under the riffles if they felt threatened, but what about the turtles? Wouldn’t they be too slow? What if one mistook her big toe for a tasty treat? She reckoned if that happened, she’d have a turtle hanging off her foot until the next storm. Once a turtle clamped its jaws shut, it wouldn’t let go until it thundered or until a cow bawled. There was no cloud nor cow in sight.
She stood wavering on the bank for the longest time. When had she become so afraid of things? She wasn’t like this as a girl. In her growing-up years she’d helped her mother birth babies, tended her siblings’ cuts and scrapes, and helped her daddy kill hogs without the blink of an eye. Now she was scared of itty-bitty tadpoles. It started when her brother died and got worse when she nearly lost her mother. Ever since then she saw danger lurking around every corner.
Something jumped from the bank and hit the water with a splash. She ventured a little closer, chucking a small, smooth stone into the water. Ripples circled ripples until the rings broke at the water’s edge.
“‘The Lord God is a sun and shield,’” she spoke loudly as she waded across the creek. The cold sent shock waves up her spine. “‘The Lord God is a sun and shield,’” she said again and felt the comfort of the words circle her like the rings of water circled the impact of the stone. Soon she was on the other side, shaky but safe as she made her way home.
The house was no more welcoming than the day before, but she wasn’t as dejected as she had been. Spending the night with Mammaw and Darcy had been a rare treat, and before she left, Darcy insisted on fitting her for a new dress, though she knew Cara couldn’t pay her for it. The fabric Darcy chose was yellow- and brown-checked gingham. With a mouth full of straight pins, she darted and tucked while Cara turned this way and that dressed only in her in her muslin chemise. Cara would have picked from the stack of floral-print feed sacks, but Darcy would have none of it. “You’re going to have a dress of nice fabric and that’s that,” she said.
Fetching her whittling knife and a small piece of hardwood, Cara settled down on the top step of her porch. The sun felt warm, so she took off her sweater and folded it for a cushion. She closed her eyes and studied the wood with her hands, allowing it to tell her the shape it would take. Soon slivers of aromatic walnut sang from her fingers like a long-remembered melody. She’d make a small basket to thank Darcy for the dress.
Maybe she would wear that dress to church. Ace took his children nearly every Sunday, though Dance rarely accompanied him. Dance wasn’t much for crowds. Ace had been after Cara to go along. He said she needed to hear the Word. He said things would be easier to deal with if she had that comfort.
CHAPTER 7
DARCY WHITT ADJUSTED the window shade. The glare was giving her a headache. Frowning, she maneuvered another piece of pattern on the material laid out across the kitchen table. If she worked it right, there should be enough left over to make a new bonnet to go with the dress. Cara had been easy to fit; she was tall with broad shoulders but slender. She’d fallen off a lot since Dimmert’s trouble, and her clothes hung on her like a scarecrow’s. Next time she came over, Darcy would take her skirts in.
It had been fun to have her spend the night, Darcy mused while marking bust darts with a sliver of Fels-Naptha. Laying the soap aside, she picked up her dress shears and bent over the fabric. Darcy loved this part of dressmaking—the fir
st snick of the scissors, fitting the dress form, pinning and basting—the anticipation of the finished garment. It was like painting a beautiful picture. Truthfully, she should be finishing the order for Mrs. Upchurch, an evening dress of velvet and lace trimmed with velvet roses. The roses lay completed on the sideboard waiting to be handstitched to the gown, one at the shoulder and several trailing down the side of the skirt. Personally, she didn’t think pink complemented Mrs. Upchurch. Lavender or perhaps dusky green would have been a better choice.
Mrs. Upchurch was her best customer, though, and Darcy meant to please. Another thing to thank Miz Copper for. Five years ago Miz Copper had sent Darcy to Lexington to train under a dressmaker there. Now she could barely keep up with the orders from Mrs. Upchurch and her high-society friends. She’d make more money if she moved her business to Lexington, but that was no place for Mammaw.
She had enough money to keep herself and her grandmother fed and to have a few nice things—hand-finished underwear, rustproof corsets, and fine-milled soap—but someday she wanted a reason to wear corsets and fancy gowns like she made for others. She felt herself blush. Maybe that reason was Henry Thomas. It didn’t hurt to dream. Dreams kept life from being so ordinary.
Fishing a straight pin from the corner of her puckered mouth, she secured a piece of pattern to the fabric. If Mammaw slept another hour, she could finish cutting Cara’s dress and start on the roses. The evening dress needed to be in the post to Lexington no later than the end of the week if it was to arrive in time for the ball Mrs. Upchurch was attending.
Tap-tap-tap. Someone was at the door.
Spitting out the pins, she hurried to open it. “Dylan?”
“Hey, Darcy.” Dylan smoothed a shock of yellow hair from his forehead. “Look what I found.”
“Oh, pretty,” Darcy replied, standing in the half-open door. “I’m surprised daffodils are already blooming.”
“Over on Troublesome,” he said. “Daffodils and flags, but the flags are still furled.”
“Too bad. Irises are my favorite flowers.”
Dylan smiled. “My mom’s too. She says they smell like summer.”
Darcy knew she should ask about his mom, perhaps invite him in for a cup of coffee, or at the very least pour him a glass of water, but Dylan didn’t need encouraging. He was as hard to get rid of as a stray cat with a litter of kittens. “Well,” she said instead, “thanks for showing me the daffodils.”
“I meant for you to have them. I thought you and Miz Fairy Mae would enjoy them.”
Darcy took the flowers. “Thanks,” she said again.
“Would your mammaw like some company?”
“I’m sorry. She’s sleeping, and I’ve got work to do.”
“All righty then.” Dylan stepped off the porch and walked backward across the yard, keeping his eyes on her. “See you soon.”
“Soon,” Darcy said and wagged her fingers before closing the door firmly behind her.
“Was that Jean Foster’s boy?” Mammaw called from her room.
Darcy sighed, resting her bowed head against the closed door. Mammaw was awake; she’d have to put her sewing aside. She took a breath and went to Mammaw’s room. “Yes, it was. And just look what he brought you.”
Mammaw stuck her nose deep into the yellow bouquet. “Don’t they smell pretty?”
“Let me get some water. You can keep them on your bedside table.”
“I think Dylan meant these for you.” Mammaw’s eyes twinkled. “Looks like somebody’s stuck on you, Darcy.”
Darcy plopped down on the side of the bed. Butter yellow blossoms drooped from her hand. “Oh, Mammaw! Dylan’s just a boy.”
“He’s a year older than you, Darcy Mae Whitt. Twenty-two’s hardly a boy.”
Uh-oh, when Mammaw called her by her full name, that meant she was aggravated. Mammaw liked Dylan and made no bones about it. Now Darcy was leery of telling her Henry Thomas was coming to call on Sunday after church. She could wait, just let him show up. When Mammaw saw how handsome he was—chiseled cheekbones, perfectly straight nose, and hair black as midnight—she was sure to warm up to him. Not to mention he was educated. My, my, such a catch wanting to court her.
Darcy fingered the buttons on her blouse, one after the other telling her fortune: Doctor. Lawyer. Merchant. Chief. Doctor. Lawyer. Lawyer—the very last one! That settled it; she was meant to marry a lawyer.
“Darcy,” Mammaw said, “you’re smashing the jonquils.”
“Sorry. I’ll just get that water.”
Soon the flowers sat prettily in a tall blue vase and Mammaw was up in her invalid’s chair. “Is it warm enough to take in some air? Those daffodils make me want to be outside.”
“I think so,” Darcy answered. “Let me fetch your shawl just in case.”
It was pleasant outdoors. Darcy spread an old quilt on the porch floor and sat there with her needle and thread. Mammaw, parked in a patch of sunshine, held the fabric roses on her lap, handing one to Darcy when she was ready. The ball gown was lovely with its skirt spread out across the faded glory of the quilt.
“I made that quilt you’re setting on when I was first married,” Mammaw said.
“How old were you?” Darcy asked, snapping a thread with her teeth.
“Fifteen,” Mammaw said with a chuckle. “I thought I was a grown-up.”
“Were you happy? Did Papaw Whitt make your heart flutter?”
“Through the first four babies I reckon he did—early on. Here’s a truth for you, little gal: when hard times come through the door, young love goes out the window.”
“Oh, Mammaw, I hate to you think of you unhappy.” Darcy placed her sewing aside for a moment, laying her head on her grandmother’s knee.
Mammaw stroked her hair. “I don’t reckon anybody gets through this life without some hard times. Faith ain’t true unless it’s tested.”
Darcy took up her sewing. It was Mammaw’s much-used thimble that rested on her finger. “Tell me a story. Tell me how your faith was tested.”
“Law, I haven’t talked about this for fifty years, though I’ve thought of it every day.” Mammaw handed Darcy another rose and a small green felt leaf. “It was dead of winter. I had a new baby that year—Donald, your daddy. There was four other young’uns—Tad, Elwood, Perry, and Amanda. She was the nearest to your daddy. Your papaw was off somewheres. I can’t rightly recollect where. He was always working. . . .”
Darcy’s flying needle paused. She looked up to see a cloud cross Mammaw’s eyes. The twinkle that was nearly always there was replaced by the shimmer of tears.
“I took it in my head to mop the floor while Herbert was gone working. Seemed like every day he tracked in something for me to clean up. The baby cried, and I set the mop bucket under the kitchen table so the boys wouldn’t knock it over.” Mammaw covered her eyes with her hand. Darcy knew something bad was coming.
“She was a pretty little thing, Amanda was, golden curls and round blue eyes . . . Merky favors her. The kids all settled at my feet in front of the fire. I was in the rocker, the baby nursing. I guess I nodded off but surely not for long. I always watched my young’uns close.”
Darcy’s hand closed over Mammaw’s.
Mammaw shook her head as if she could change the outcome of her story. “Perry was there. And Tad and Elwood. But Amanda, my little toddling girl, was not. I remember stopping the rocker, laying the baby down by Elwood, rising up from the chair. I knew before I turned around what had happened. In my mind’s eye, I saw her blue face and her curls wetly plastered to her head. I thought to sit back down, take up the baby, and turn back time, but the icy fear that walked my spine told me it was too late.”
Darcy choked back sobs. Tears stored a long, long time, she figured, washed down Mammaw’s weathered cheeks.
“I reckon I could have stood it if when I turned around, I hadn’t seen her tiny feet, still pink, rising up out of the mop bucket. Those feet gave me false hope.” Mammaw sighed, long and deep, and sh
ook her head again. “Herbert said when he got home, the kids were still huddled at my feet, quiet as mice, Elwood holding the baby. There was no light to greet him except what issued from the fireplace. He sent Tad to fetch a neighbor lady whilst he pried Amanda from my arms.”
Darcy hugged her grandmother tight. “Oh, Mammaw, I’m so sorry.”
Mammaw leaned into Darcy’s arms. “You’re a good girl, Darcy Mae. God sent me the best granddaughter to replace Amanda, I reckon.”
“I’m glad,” Darcy replied. “I’m so glad to be yours.”
While Mammaw took her afternoon’s rest, Darcy finished Mrs. Upchurch’s gown. She folded it into a sturdy pasteboard box tucked all around with white tissue paper. As a surprise she slipped a lady’s fan made of clipped, white faux ostrich feathers into the folds of the skirt. The ostrich feathers had come from New York City. She’d ordered them herself. Cara had carved the fine wood handle. Next she thought she’d try peacock feathers trimmed to size. It was amazing what a body could order through the mail.
All the while Darcy worked, she thought of Mammaw’s story. She wondered if this was the selfsame table little Amanda had drowned under. Poor wee thing—it was too sad to think on. When she had babies, she’d name her first daughter Fairy Amanda, for Mammaw and the little lost one. She tried it out, “Fairy Amanda Thomas,” then blushed at her own conjecture.
But Henry was real and his attention to her was not false. She could tell by the look in his eyes. After finding a pencil, she settled at the table and began to sketch a wedding dress. Darcy had been designing her wedding ensemble ever since she attended Cara and Dimm’s wedding. She always knew her prince would come, and she wanted to be ready. Now maybe he had. As the pencil glided over the paper, a beautiful gown appeared. Hat or veil? Bustle or modified train? Hat and bustle, she decided, nothing too fancy for the church on Troublesome Creek. But then again, if she and Henry were to marry, she needed something stylish. Mrs. Upchurch’s husband was a banker, which Darcy fancied was the next best thing to being a lawyer, and Mrs. Upchurch always dressed as if she were receiving visitors any moment.
