by Carla Kelly
“It gets better,” he said, sounding more like the Owen she knew and loved. “Included in my salary is a furnished house waiting for us in Knightville, the town Uncle Jesse started because he didn’t want saloons and sporting houses anywhere close by. It isn’t furnished right now, but he assured me it would be.” He tried a joke. “We’ll have to take Angharad’s house, of course.”
She laughed because he expected it. If she was honest, the thought of the dollhouse in transit truly was a funny image. “Is there a school?” she asked, knowing it would look nothing like the Maeser School, where Angharad had already invested herself.
“Aye, miss,” he teased, but gently.
Maybe he knew he had broken her heart by going back on his word. He had no idea how badly, but neither did she. This man-woman business was new to her. She dug a little deeper, thinking of her husband now, and the relief he must feel to know he could provide comfortably for a wife and child. I must bend, she thought, but how far?
“Uncle Jesse said the enrollment now is large enough to be funded by the county,” he told her between bites. “Good stew, m cara. I don’t know much about counties here, but he said increased enrollment means there will be a new building soon.”
“Is the … the … mine close by?” She even hated to say the word.
“Five miles away, but there is a rail that travels the distance several times of the day and night and on special demand. I am not certain I could recommend Silver City to you, but I doubt you will need to go there. Eureka looks a little better. Well no, it doesn’t.”
She set down her spoon and touched his arm, just a small touch. “I need to know how often you will be in the mine. Please be honest with me, Owen Rhys Davis.”
“The dread three names! I measured for a solid day already. I’ll be in Salt Lake soon with one of Jesse’s other mining engineers, who knows where to get the wood I need. One of his machinists will craft the hinges. You saw my model.”
Della picked up her spoon and set it down again. The last thing she wanted to do was anger her husband, but a wife needs to know. “You didn’t answer my question. How often?”
He threw up his hands. He seemed to reconsider the matter, and gave her a wry look instead. “I’ll be more carefully measuring the length of that one level or drift, which should take me quite a few hours. I’ll be underground for the installation, of course. I am also going to train a good crew to do the work.” He shifted his chair closer to hers. “I know I made you a promise, m cara. I also know I can help save other lives. Can we leave it at that for now?”
Whatever Della had hoped for, this was more than she expected. “We can, but you have a bridge or two to mend with your daughter.”
“Aye. I don’t like breaking her heart.” He kissed her cheek. “Or yours.” He looked toward the hall and Angharad’s room. “I’ll give her a moment.” Again that wry look. “I’ll give me a moment, if I’m honest. Della, do you ever feel helpless and wonder what to say? The women in my life are tasking me.”
Someone has to, she thought, and not with much charity. Still, he was her eternal man, so she’d better cheer up. “I think we both have a lot to learn. Now I will tell you about my day with Mr. Dewey and his decimal system.”
He laughed, and the cloud hanging over the kitchen seemed to lighten, if not disappear altogether.
“You could assign yourself one of those essays, ‘What I did during my summer vacation,’ ” he suggested as he buttered the heel of the loaf, his favorite part. “You know, you and Mr. Dewey.” He winked. “Or maybe you and Mr. Davis.”
“I couldn’t show that to anyone. Not even you.”
“Pray, why not?”
“You’d get a swelled head.” She buttered a slice of bread too. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, and at very little expense.”
He laughed at that. When he sat back, she nodded her head in the direction of the hall. “Good luck. She’s terribly disappointed.”
Serious now, he nodded back and left the room. Della heard a soft knock on the door, a muted “Come in,” and then the door closed quietly.
She went about her work in the kitchen, thankful that for some reason she had not thrown out the boxes they had used for their move from Winter Quarters. She took a moment to rest her hands in the hot dishwater because it felt good. She wondered what she would find to do in Knightville to distract herself from the knowledge that her husband would be underground again, probably more often than he would ever admit. Teaching was out, and she doubted Mr. Dewey was well known in the Tintic Mining District.
Owen came out later and went directly to the porch, where he sat with his feet up on the railing and the backs of his hands over his eyes. Indecisive, Della stood in the parlor and then went down the hall to Angharad’s room, where it was her turn to knock on the door, go inside, and console a little girl.
Angharad’s eyes were swollen with tears, but she took a few shuddering breaths and laid her head in Della’s lap. “He shouldn’t be in a mine, no matter what he thinks,” the child said, reminding Della of the many times Angharad had seemed much older than her seven years. Maybe that was the fatalism of mining camp children, because Della remembered grown-up dread on the Colorado Plateau, the kind that gnawed at her stomach even more than hunger, when the mine didn’t pay.
Mustn’t think of that, she told herself. Mustn’t think of Papa.
“When are we moving?” Angharad asked finally, when the shortening shadows of early September yielded gracefully to nightfall.
“Friday. We’ll start packing tomorrow.”
Chapter 23
L
They left Provo on Saturday, delayed because of one piece of good luck. Her sister-in-law, Mabli Reese, had been hired by Amanda Knight to replace their old cook, who gave her notice and said she was moving to Logan to live with her ailing sister. Mabli’s telegram to Owen had been followed a day later by the now-former cook at the Edwards boardinghouse, eyes bright, two stuffed valises in hand, and the happy news that the Knights wanted her to move in the Davises’ house when the Davises moved out.
“They will have an apartment above the carriage house for me, but it isn’t ready yet,” Mabli said, over chamomile tea in Della’s kitchen. “And since you’re leaving your furniture here, at least for now, I agreed.” She peered closer at Della, who tried to look happy. Her eyes narrowed, but she glanced at Owen, all smiles.
“Darling boy, I left a small trunk at the depot and I believe the driver was taking it to the Knights. Could you bring it here instead?”
Owen did an Oriental salaam, which made Mabli giggle. “Your wish, madam, is my command.” He said something in Welsh that made her roll her eyes.
“My dear, you do not look happy about this change of address,” Mabli said as soon as Owen left.
“He’s going back in the mines, this time in Tintic,” Della said, hoping Angharad, moping in her room, wouldn’t hear.
“Duplicitous man. He told me he will be head carpenter and running the shop in Silver City.” Mabli set down her cup with a decisive click. “I will have his hide.”
“He will be head carpenter, so you needn’t flay him. He’s contracted with Uncle Jesse to timber up the levels strong enough to withstand what the Banner seems inclined to dish out,” Della said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “He has a plan to make the Banner safer for miners. I believe the job will extend to other Knight mines, as needed.”
“He’ll be underground measuring and putting beams in place, won’t he?”
Della nodded. “I can’t keep him out of the mine.”
“I suppose he said he was doing it so other miners wouldn’t die, and that is somehow going to bring back all the friends he lost.”
“Mabli, you have a way of going directly to the heart of the matter,” Della replied, impressed.
“I’ve seen this before, Della.”
“From Owen?”
“From my own husband, God rest him,” Mabli said simply. “
And probably dozens of other miners, both the quick and the dead.” She shrugged. “Is this how they make sense of death? Who’s to say?”
How did I make sense of my father’s death? Della thought later, after Mabli was unpacking. It was something for her to think about. With Angharad busy helping Mabli, Della had managed to sneak out of the house. Mentioning she was going to Maeser School would likely have set off another storm of tears from Angharad, and Della wasn’t up to that.
She walked purposefully enough, but she slowed her steps when she crossed the street and turned the corner. Owen had nudged her awake last night, muttering something about waking him up with her talking. “Over and over, you’re asking, ‘What will I do?’ or something like that,” he told her. He had been kind enough to cuddle her close until he thought she returned to sleep.
Owen didn’t wake up when she got out of bed and tiptoed to the porch, where she sat, arms wrapped around her legs and chin on her knees, until dawn began to announce its appearance with preliminary throat-clearing from the rooster next door.
No point in telling her husband that one night he was gone, she had sat upright, heart pounding so loud ships at sea could have heard it, as she relived the Molly Bee cave-in. For the first time in years, she stood at the portal to the Molly Bee screaming “Papa, Papa!” until she was hoarse. The room was cool, but she had found herself in a puddle of perspiration. Afraid she had screamed out loud, she had hurried to Angharad’s room, only to find her asleep.
The next night had been worse, as she remembered the last time she saw her father. He had teased her about something she couldn’t even recall now, and she had stomped away down the path to school, not letting him kiss her cheek. The first few years she had been in Salt Lake City, under Aunt Caroline’s thumb, she woke up nearly every night in tears, thinking of Papa standing there (she had looked back once), waiting for his daily kiss.
She came to a stop on the sidewalk close to Maeser School, still covered with regret after thirteen long years now and shame so thick she could nearly touch it. She had wanted to ask Aunt Caroline when the hurt would go away, but her aunt would have just scolded her, as she had scolded her for bursting into tears at the dinner table one night because the cook served meatloaf and mashed potatoes, her father’s favorite dinner.
“ ‘It’s been four months, Della. Stop it,’ ” Della whispered out loud, remembering Aunt Caroline’s angry words with perfect clarity. “ ‘Your father was a ne’er do well, and your mother deserted you.’ ”
That last bit wasn’t quite true, but Della had only known that less than a year, from a long-delayed letter that Frederick Anders had written to his brother, Karl, in 1876, mourning the fact that Olympia Stavrakis had been dragged away by her father, screaming and reaching for her baby, when Frederick was in the mine and unaware.
Twenty-four years Aunt Caroline had kept that letter from her own husband, a letter rightfully Della’s. She had the letter now, but too many years had passed, and the mine had closed. How could she ever find her mother?
Irritated, Della ordered herself not to think about her father or her mother as she quickened her pace and arrived at Maeser School. Just stepping inside the building, quiet all summer, brought back memories of another kind. As she walked toward Mr. Holyoke’s office, she passed classrooms where educationists were adding the last touch to their bulletin boards or writing on the blackboard using colored chalk saved for special occasions, like the first day of school.
For the life of her, she wanted to be doing precisely that. Why on earth had a progressive nation like the United States decided that only single women could teach? What in the world would she find to do in Knightville? She had no idea, but Della already knew that it would not include staring hard at the calendar every twenty-eight days.
She tapped on Mr. Holyoke’s door and walked in. She held out the Dewey Decimal System manual, hoping to make this quick before she started to cry.
“Thanks so much for letting me help this summer,” she told the principal, who took the book from her and gestured for her to sit down. She shook her head. “I have a lot to do, sir. My husband took a job in the Tintic Mining District, and we are leaving as soon as possible.”
For a small moment, Mr. Holyoke’s evident dismay gratified her starved heart. To her embarrassment, she felt tears gather from wherever it was they lurked, ready to show up when she least wanted them. “You’ll … you’ll let Miss Wilkins know that Angharad won’t be in her class after all?” she managed to say in a rush, ready to bolt from the office.
His eyes troubled, Mr. Holyoke nodded. “We’ll miss you both.” He opened his mouth, closed it as if he thought better of what he was planning to say, then opened it again. “I’ve been doing some checking around on your behalf, you know, something in the assistant librarian realm. Brigham Young Academy has an opening, and I would have recommended you highly. I was going to tell you tomorrow.”
“It’s nice to know,” Della said quietly. “Thank you.”
“If things don’t work out for Mr. Davis in Tintic, check back with me. That position will go quickly, but there will be others,” he said, coming around his desk and holding out his hand, which she shook. “You will be a valuable resource anywhere you live, Mrs. Davis, and I don’t mind saying so. Good luck to you three.”
Unable to work up the courage to talk to Miss Wilkins, Della walked home slowly. September had come, hot still, but with cooler nights that had started fading the marigolds lining the walk of an elderly lady who sat on the porch and tatted. All summer, Della had smiled and waved at her. She did it now, wondering if the woman would wonder where she had gone, when she didn’t smile and wave at her again.
From the somber look on Owen’s face as he sat on the porch, no one was probably happy in the house, either. “I arranged for my last paycheck to be sent to the carpenter shop in Silver City,” she told Owen, sitting down beside him.
He nodded, his eyes so distracted that she felt a chill on the back of her neck. “What’s wrong?” she asked, not wanting to know, not really, because nothing was right.
“Angharad asked Mabli if she could stay here with her so she could attend Maeser School.” Again that muscle worked in Owen’s jaw. “I reminded her that we are a family, and we go together. Della, what have I done?”
She couldn’t think of a thing to say, but he expected some consolation, someone to tell him, “There, there, everything will work out.” She wanted to remain silent, should have remained silent, but she couldn’t.
“You’re going back into the mines.” She left him on the porch, unwilling to console him because he had created this situation. She went into the kitchen to continue packing her few dishes.
He must have followed her so quietly. “I’m also responsible for supporting this family,” she heard from the kitchen doorway, and she felt a different sort of shame cover her. Of course he was responsible for them all, and he was not a man to shirk such a stewardship. Forgive me, she thought as she turned around and let him fold her in his arms.
She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud, but his arms felt good, so tight around her. Better to look ahead and not think about May 1 in Winter Quarters Canyon, or her father’s pained look as she flounced away from him on that last day of his life. She shuddered at the memory and closed her eyes against it. Maybe she could sleep tonight and not dream.
Chapter 24
L
Uncle Jesse’s word was good. Della stood back while Owen unlocked the door to their house in Knightville, peeked in as if he wasn’t certain and then stepped aside.
“Furniture,” he exclaimed, and then he touched his daughter’s head. “Angharad, you needn’t share your dollhouse, thank the Almighty. None of us are tall, but we’re not that short.”
“Do be serious, Da,” Angharad said. “I was willing to share.”
Della sighed with relief to hear Angharad tease back. Something unspoken between them assured her that this lovely daughter of Owen and Gwyna
Davis was going to do her best to like this situation not of her choosing. If she could, Della could. I should write, “I am the grownup” on a blackboard fifty times, she told herself.
The thought stayed with her as she walked through the house. It was small to be sure, and it contained no indoor bathroom, which made all three of them sigh, but the two bedrooms were large enough and the parlor almost spacious.
Della had to smile when Owen pressed the mattress a few times in what would be their bedroom and frowned. “We should have brought our mattress along,” he said.
“And turn out poor Mabli?” she teased. “Besides, oh picky man of my dreams, you already have the best component of any bed standing beside you.”
He laughed at that. “Aye, miss, I do. Did you ever hear such a whiner?”
“No! Martha tried to warn me about Welshmen, but I didn’t listen.”
He grabbed Della around the waist and gave her such a smacking kiss that Angharad stuck her head in the door and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes merry.
“Good for us,” Owen said much later, after the supper of stew and cornbread the Knightville Ward Relief Society president brought over, along with an offer to go grocery shopping in Eureka tomorrow, “so you won’t be cheated by the Italians.”
They had prayed as usual with Angharad, kneeling alongside her bed. With the child asleep, they adjourned to the parlor.
“It’s to the carpenter shop for me tomorrow,” Owen said. Della tucked herself close to him as they sat on the sofa. “School for Angharad?”
“Yes, and then Sister Pritchard and I will shop in Eureka and beware of Italians and Greeks, I believe she said.” Della felt her eyes closing.
They opened wide when Owen carried her to bed.
“I know it’s not what you wanted,” he spoke into her shoulder. “But I have some good ideas for the Banner Mine. You can keep house and be a lady of leisure.”
“I’d rather look for a job,” she said, trying out the idea on a man who was at the moment most mellow.
