by Annie Boone
“I’ll fetch something for you to wear, ma’am? And then I’ll help you with your unpacking?”
“Yes, later, thank you, Jane. For now, I think I’ll pick something out myself to wear. Where are my things?”
“It’s called the spare room, ma’am, it’s the next room on the right. They told me that Mrs. Wyatt kept her things there. This was her bedroom, but she didn’t like a lot of mess. She liked the space.”
“Mrs. Wyatt’s room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She wondered where the Colonel had slept. Of course, it was not unknown for married couples to sleep apart. But it was perhaps telling that Harley had chosen his mother’s bedroom, not his father’s, for his own married bedchamber. Or perhaps it meant nothing at all. How was she to know?
Pulling her wrapper over her nightdress, she went into the room that, according to Jane, was where her belongings had been taken. The room itself was well furnished with a chest of drawers, an armoire, a shoe rack, and a large closet built into the wall. There would be ample room here for her wardrobe. She supposed Harley also had a dressing room of his own.
Last night, before he got into the bed, she had listened to the soft whisper of his clothing moving against his skin as he undressed. The room had been swathed in darkness, but that hadn’t hindered Harley. It had been his bedroom first, before he took a wife to share it with, and he knew where everything was located.
She was married now. She was a wife. This was the joining together that the minister had spoken of, more than words or even vows, or the presentation of a ring that he had put on her finger. It was a perfect fit. He had seemed pleasantly surprised at that. She wondered how he had decided what size of ring to choose.
She decided to wear the blue print dress with the loose sleeves and the trim cuffs. It was not as elaborate as many of the others that she had brought with her, and she realized that, if Harley intended for them to entertain often, she would need to conserve her wardrobe so that she saved her best frocks for important occasions.
After she had washed and dressed, she pulled her hair atop her head in a loose knot that allowed several tendrils to fall loose with artful abandon. She made the bed and tidied the room, just as Jane returned.
“Ma’am,” Jane said. “It’s not for you to clean up in here.”
“I am used to it, Jane,” Hazel said.
“But Mr. Harley, he doesn’t want you doing maid’s work.”
“I—um, let’s go to the spare room, Jane, and see about unpacking my belongings.”
“Don’t you want breakfast first, ma’am? I’ve set places for you and Oakley.”
Oakley. The child who lived at the ranch.
“She hasn’t eaten yet?”
“No, ma’am, she’s waiting for you.”
Why hadn’t anyone told her? Hazel fumed silently as she left the room. Had she known that a child’s breakfast was waiting upon her presence, she would have moved at a faster pace.
The dining room looked out onto the majestic landscape of the Colorado sky beyond the Wyatt acreage. It provided a breathtaking view to enjoy during a meal.
“Hello, Oakley,” Hazel said as she approached the table. “I’m so very sorry, I didn’t know that you were waiting on me. I apologize.”
The girl looked back at her out of calm green-blue eyes. “No trouble, ma’am,” she said. “I knew you’d be down eventually.”
“Yes, well. I am not sure of how things are managed here. Perhaps you can help me.”
“Jane made bacon and eggs, ma’am. She’s just giving them a bit more heating.”
“Cold eggs are dreadful,” Hazel agreed.
Oakley wrinkled her nose. “Yes, ma’am. If you want your breakfast in bed, it’ll be hot.”
“Thank you,” Hazel said firmly. “But I think I shall eat at the table. Do you always eat your breakfast here?”
“If no one comes to the table, I eat with Jane.”
That answer provided Hazel with no more insight into Oakley’s position or role in the household than she had had the night before. Harley’s failure to elaborate on the child’s identity made it seem as if he either did not want Hazel to know, or did not think it of sufficient importance to inform her. She would have to find out on her own, apparently, a task from which Hazel’s courteous nature cringed.
“Has school already let out for spring planting?” Hazel asked after Jane brought in their plates, along with a cup of coffee for Hazel and a glass of milk for Oakley.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t go to school.”
“You don’t go to school?”
“No, ma’am. The Colonel, before he died, taught me the alphabet and my numbers.”
“That must have been five years ago.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And since then?”
“Jane teaches me, when she has the time.”
The girl should be in school, not obtaining an education in fits and starts, provided by an ailing older man who had since died, and then the housemaid.
“Oakley,” Hazel said. “I am here and I shall teach you. We shall have lessons daily, right here at this table.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Oakley said. She did not sound as if the prospect was one that she found inviting.
But she was obedient, and Hazel discovered that she was bright, despite the sporadic scheduling of her education. As she reviewed the alphabet with Oakley and helped her with her writing, she realized that the child had done much learning on her own, without tutoring either from the Colonel while he was alive or from Jane. She had taught herself to read and her arithmetic skills were impressive.
“Oakley,” Hazel said after an hour. “You’re a very smart girl. You haven’t had any teacher except for Colonel Wyatt and Jane, and yet you know all of this?”
Oakley’s countenance retained its placid expression. “They got me started, I reckon and then I kept going. I reckon I know all I need to know.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten, ma’am.”
“I don’t know any ten-year old who has managed to learn all that she needs to know. There are other things to learn as well. Do you know how to sew?’
The girl struggled to answer. “Well enough,” she said, somewhat evasively.
“I shall teach you. A woman needs to know how to do her sewing and mending.”
“I’m better with horses and cattle.”
“You can excel in both ranching tasks and in domestic tasks,” Hazel answered, not swayed by the girl’s argument. “I gather that you already know how to do some cooking.”
“I help Jane sometimes.”
If the girl was aware that her position in the household was ambiguous, she gave no indication of confusion. Apparently she was content to live here under the terms which seemed to have been established. She was neither servant nor family.
After another half hour, Hazel allowed Oakley to finish with lessons for the day, but assured her that they would resume tomorrow. “Can you see if Jane is free, Oakley?” Hazel asked. “I’d like to unpack my clothing now. Please let her know that I’ll be in the spare room.”
Jane appeared shortly after Oakley delivered the message. Hazel was already in the spare room, emptying her trunks of their contents. Jane gazed, wide-eyed, at the dresses which emerged.
“You have the most prettiest dresses I’ve ever seen,” she said.
Hazel was surprised. While her wardrobe came from a time when the family had been in financial health, the styles had changed. Bustle sizes had altered. Hats were different. “Thank you, Jane,” she said. “I thought we could bring out all the dresses and then put them away by types; some are for daily wear, others for dress.”
“They all look like fancy dress to me, ma’am. And so many hats.”
With a pang, Hazel thought of how profligately she and her sisters had shopped for hats when they were Jane’s age. Even now, reduced to fewer, her number seemed like abundance to this child in her blue skirt an
d white blouse. “Do you have a special dress, Jane?” she asked. “One that you would like a hat for?”
“I only have this, ma’am,” Jane said, pointing to the clothes she was wearing.
“Perhaps we can get some fabric and you can sew a new dress. Do you know how to sew?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, Ma taught all of us. But I give my money to Ma to use for the family. There’s nothing for extras.”
A second change of clothing did not seem to Hazel as if it was extra, but she didn’t want to criticize Jane’s family. If there were many children, perhaps all the money went to provide necessities.
“I’ll see what fabric I have,” Hazel said, knowing that Harley would not dispute her wish if she wanted to buy material at the general store. “And we shall sew you a new gown. Would you like that?”
“Very much, ma’am, but I can’t take charity. Ma is strict on that. Mr. Wyatt wanted to buy me new shoes last year when mine weren’t fitting proper, but Ma said I could wear old ones of hers.”
Hazel was heartened to know that her husband had sufficient empathy to care about Jane’s footwear. The news emboldened her.
“I see. Perhaps Mr. Wyatt was not sure of how to explain, as a man of some consequence in the town, it is important to him that the people of his household, including you, must present an appearance that reflects well upon his standing.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that because you are an employee of Mr. Wyatt, your clothing and footwear reflect on his. People might think that he isn’t a good employer if he does not provide what you need. I think we shall return to the store and see if we can find shoes that will suit. Mr. Wyatt will approve.”
Jane’s face showed puzzlement. “Why would folks who come here to talk to Mr. Wyatt care about my shoes, ma’am?”
“My father was a man of business,” Hazel explained as she sorted her undergarments into a neat pile. “He insisted that my sisters and I, and our mother, must dress well. He did not want his business associates to think that he could not afford to keep us in proper style.”
“You mean folks might think Mr. Wyatt is down and out if all of us at the ranch don’t dress proper?”
“Sometime like that . . . I wonder, Jane, if you can tell me a little about Oakley. She dresses in boy’s clothing. Has she always done so?”
Jane, who was reverently taking that hats out of their boxes, ostensibly to make sure that they had survived the journey in good shape, but in truth to admire a height of fashion that seemed as if it were entirely current to her. “She’s always done that, ma’am,” Jane answered. “I started working her when I was fourteen and she’s always worn britches and a shirt. There’s old clothes in the nursery from when Mr. Harley was a boy and that’s where she gets them.”
Oakley was ten. It would not be many more years in the future when she would be maturing and the clothes that suited a young girl would no longer fit as easily when she began the physical transformation into becoming a young lady. At that time, Harley’s cast-off clothing from boyhood would not be as easily transferred to the use of an older Oakley.
6
Harley had no objection when Hazel proposed buying fabric so that Jane could make a new outfit. In fact, he heartily approved.
“It comes easier, a suggestion like that, from a woman,” he said. It sounded as if he might be praising her, but Hazel couldn’t be sure.
They were at the dining room table, eating the supper that Jane had prepared. Harley didn’t seem to notice what he was eating; beef, potatoes, biscuits, green beans and berry cobbler were all appreciated, but Hazel sensed that Jane’s repertoire of menus was limited.
“Then you don’t mind if I go into town to buy the material?”
“I’ll send one of the hands with you. The horses aren’t used to a woman’s hand at the reins. They can be a mite spirited.”
“I learned to ride when I was a child.”
“I’ll get a horse for you,” he said. “Angus White has a filly for sale. I’ll take a look at her, and if she’s right for you, I’ll bring her on over.”
Hazel felt a flash of temper, unusual in her demeanor, at his peremptory assumption that she had nothing worthy of input in the matter of choosing a horse.
“I should like to go with you,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze without backing down.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Oakley needs clothing too. Did you know that her clothes come from the ones that you wore when you were a boy?”
Perhaps he detected the note of challenge in her voice. He gave her a level glance, then returned his attention to his knife and fork as he sliced the steak.
“She doesn’t want to wear dresses,” he said.
“Why not?’
“I don’t know. She doesn’t want to, I reckon.”
“Shouldn’t she have the opportunity to wear something that is new and not a hand-me-down from you?”
“She doesn’t want much. She never asks.”
“Have you asked her?”
Hazel was astonished by her own boldness. Harley looked at her, a long, searching look that revealed nothing of what he was thinking. Finally, he spoke. “She lives here,” he said definitively, as if that were sufficient answer. “She can wear what she likes. It’s what you wear that matters. Have you something to wear on Sunday when we lunch with the investors?”
“How am I to dress?” she asked. “Will they be with their wives?”
“What does that matter? They will, yes, but you’re not dressing for the women.”
“You might be surprised,” Hazel said. “My father often had business meetings with his investors. My mother accompanied him to some of the social engagements and she was very particular about how she dressed.”
“This isn’t Boston.”
“Women are women, Harley,” Hazel said, finding it came more easily to challenge her husband upon a matter for which he had no means of refuting her.
“I have noticed,” he said, in a tone which might have been mirthful, although his expression did not change. “Now, suppose you tell me what that means.”
“Women are very observant. Men notice numbers and profits; women notice people. If I have been invited to join you for this luncheon, it is so that I can be assessed as an asset or a drawback to the venture. The men will not notice, but their wives will.”
“It’s the men who are putting forth the funds for the theatre,” Harley disputed her premise.
“Would you prefer to choose my dress for me, so that I am suitably dressed for the luncheon?” she inquired. Her voice sounded measured, but as the color rose in her cheeks, her voice trembled.
“I don’t know anything about women’s dresses,” he said finally, after another one of those lengthy pauses that both mystified and exasperated her.
She hoped that the investors’ wives were not fresh from New York, lest they recognize that her dresses were two years out of date. She supposed she could do a bit of work to give the dress she was going to wear a new twist. The blue print silk with the solid blue underskirt . . . if she sewed a blue bow to the bodice. . .
“I’ll need to add a few touches to my dress,” she said coolly. “It’s from two seasons ago.”
“I don’t ask you to wear something out of fashion,” he said. “Order a new dress.”
“It wouldn’t be finished in time before Sunday. I’ll buy some satin and see what I can do.”
“I suppose you can sew well enough?”
“Of course. It takes next to no talent to do embellishments to a dress. I couldn’t make a living as a dressmaker, but I can undoubtedly freshen an old dress into a new one.”
“Sometime next week, see about getting new ones,” he said. “I don’t want it said that Mrs. Harley Wyatt is out of fashion.” He paused. “The men won’t notice what you’re wearing, but they’ll notice how good you look in it.”
Before she had a chance to thank him for his complime
nt, he went on. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Constanza de la Rosa. She’s from Italy. She says she can cook. I’ve asked her to come here so that you can see if you want to hire her to do the cooking at the ranch.”
“What sort of dishes do you want her to prepare?” At home, Mother had hired the domestic staff, but she had known what she wanted in a cook who would be serving dishes to other Bostonians as well as international visitors connected to Father through his work. What was the cuisine of Colorado and did Harley want the cook to serve that, or to offer more cosmopolitan fare?
For the first time, Hazel saw her husband look flustered.
“Whatever fits on the plate, I reckon,” he replied at last.
Which was no help at all. Apparently the culinary choices at the Wyatt ranch were to be decided by Hazel. No doubt if Harley was not pleased, he would let her know.
He was not a man given to praise, but on Sunday, when she had finished dressing and doing her hair, he stood very still and watched as she approached him. He was wearing a broadcloth suit, a shirt so pure a white that it was almost blinding, trousers, string tie, clean boots, and a hat she had not seen before.
Hazel, who was putting on her gloves, looked up. “Is something the matter?” she asked in response to his silence.
Harley blinked. “I sometimes forget what a beautiful woman you are,” he said. “Time to go. I don’t want us to be late.”
He had placed a cloth on the wagon seat so that her dress would not be dirtied or snagged by the wood. Hazel was confident that her hair would stay in place, as she had affixed multiple hairpins to keep it in order beneath her blue-plumed bonnet, knowing that a ride in the wagon would expose it to the open air. She understood that her presence at the lunch was ornamental. Harley had made that quite clear, she thought. She had nothing to add of substance and she had no commercial input to offer. She was there to adorn.
Perhaps Mother had served the same purpose when she escorted Father to such engagements, but Father had solicited his wife’s views on the conversation and the other guests and he placed a great deal of merit on her assessments of character. But Father had been different; he loved his ladies, as he called his wife and daughters. He held their views in high regard. It did not explain, she reflected, why he had not asked for their opinions when he was facing the ruin of his financial properties. Perhaps it was because he thought it was solely his responsibility to provide for them and they were not to be bothered with the details.
