by Carla Kelly
“Yes, indeed. Pa’s involved in a major land deal in the Alberta District of the Northwest Territories.” Will rubbed his hand together. “Sir Wilfrid is interested in expansion, and what do you know, so are we.”
He must have recognized the wonder in her eyes. “As well as you think you know my father, that’s a different man upstairs, the single-minded businessman.”
He took his coat from the rack by the door and shrugged into it. “Care for a ride home? I’m going past your house.”
He let her off with a smile and a tip of his hat, as charming a gentleman as his father. She went inside to a warm house with the light on in the kitchen and Angharad putting the final touches on her Christmas dragon for Da.
Della kissed her cheek. “I have a job typing for Uncle Jesse. He’s already told me that means a Christmas ham, even if I am a new employee. Thirty dollars a month, Angharad. No oatcakes this winter.”
It was a family joke and Angharad beamed at her. “We will become as rich as coal mine owners, Mam. Aunt Mabli asked if I could help her in the kitchen on Fridays and the two weekends before Christmas at fifty cents a night. The Knights have a lot of dinner parties, she says.”
“Will that be enough for your Christmas plans?” Della asked, remembering her own days in Colorado when she and Papa cut out pictures from the Sears Roebuck Catalog and gave them to each other during lean months in the mine.
“Aye. Aunt Mabli said she will help me shop, because she knows the best places in Provo. We will be provident. That is one of my new spelling words.”
They spent a pleasant evening in the kitchen, Della reading aloud from Pickwick Papers, careful not to break the spine of the new book, since it was Owen’s Christmas present, and Angharad coloring in the last of the red on the dragon.
“Uncle Jesse is going to the Tintic District tomorrow, and he said he could give your dragon to Da,” Della told her. She looked at the notes, sharps and flats coming out of the dragon’s thought bubble, and had an idea.
“My dear, let us write the words to ‘Lead, Kindly Light’ on the back. You know, just to remind Da.”
“He’s not going to forget us, is he?” Angharad asked, all the anxiety there, as if it were lodged barely under her skin and ready to pop out at the first opportunity.
“No, he is not,” Della said firmly. Whatever doubts she felt, she could save them for later, when the lights were out, Angharad slept, and she was free to stare at the empty space beside her in the bed and wonder when, or if, her man was coming home.
“You write the words, Mam. You still have teacher handwriting.”
Della smiled at that and wrote the words, finding herself humming along to the old hymn by Cardinal Newman. She took special care with, ‘The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on!’ remembering times Owen had sung to her. She panicked for a moment, searching her heart for the sound of his voice, wondering how long she would remember it if he never returned.
She walked into the parlor and looked out on the falling snow, which hid the mountains to the east and Winter Quarters Canyon, where widows and fatherless children were carrying on with their lives, much as she and Angharad were doing here, some sixty-five miles to the west and four thousand feet closer to sea level. Silent, she walked through to the kitchen where Angharad worked and out to the back porch, facing west and south toward the Tintic Mining District. “ ‘Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see the distant scene—one step enough for me,’ ” she whispered.
L
The rolled-up tube with its singing dragon and words to the miners’ hymn went on its way to Tintic with Jesse Knight the next morning. Della typed letters for Canada and listened when Will’s brother Raymond came into his office and shared stories about the ranch Father had bought in Alberta District and more land he wanted to buy.
“What is your father planning?” she asked, feeling it was all right for her to interrupt them, since both men were lounging in her office and eating Christmas shortbread that someone from the mailroom had brought that morning. Besides, she knew the brothers from many a Sunday dinner at the Knights’ house.
“Sugar made from beets,” Ray said. “He is inviting farmers to settle on the prairie and raise sugar beets. He’ll build houses for farmers and workers and a factory to turn beets into sugar.”
“My goodness, the expense!” Della said.
Raymond shrugged. “Father operates on the principle that money serves no purpose lying around in a bank vault. How can he help people that way?” He smiled at her expression. “I know! He takes some getting used to, doesn’t he, Will?”
The brothers laughed, went into Will’s office, and shut the door, leaving her to type another letter to the prime minister of Canada and wonder how it was some people had more vision than others. She couldn’t even imagine borrowing more than an egg from her neighbor, let alone thousands of dollars from a bank.
She thought about that on her walk home, shaking her head over the offer of a ride from Will because she wanted to stretch her legs after a day confined to an office. She peered in windows on the way home, past the wreaths on the doors and into parlors, some with Christmas trees, some without, but everyone with a father and a mother, as far as she could tell.
Uncle Karl had sent her a letter yesterday, and she needed to thank him for the memory of her own father that he had included, just a simple story about picking up dried buffalo dung to make campfires on the long walk to Utah Territory. She would read it to Angharad tonight and then tuck it in her top drawer along with the letters from Owen and an earlier letter from Uncle Karl with another story about Indians, one in particular who had followed their wagon train for two days and offered three horses for a pretty Swedish woman with blond hair.
That one had led to questions from Angharad that shifted into a modest discussion about why the Indian wanted the Swedish girl, and where babies came from. This parenting business was onerous, indeed.
But she was content, knowing Angharad would have brought the mail in tonight and there would be a letter from Owen, because he was a man of regular habits.
To her surprise, there was no letter that night, or the day after, or the day after that. She had inquired at the post office to see if snow or road agents or some national calamity she was unaware of had stopped the mail between Provo and Silver City. All she got was a shrug and the suggestion that maybe she could be more patient. After all, it was nearly Christmas, and the post office was swamped with maybe a thousand letters going here and there.
Nothing. She wrote every other night anyway, and so did Owen’s daughter. It was time to put on a brave face.
Chapter 40
L
Mam, why isn’t Da writing to us?”
“I am certain he is busy, dearest.”
The week before Christmas could not possibly have been longer. Thank goodness for Mr. Auerbach, who insisted Della and Angharad come to Salt Lake for the annual employees’ holiday party, which meant spending the night with Mr. and Mrs. Whalley, Pekka, and Reet at her former manager’s house.
Who wouldn’t enjoy a party at the department store? Angharad had sat on Santa’s lap and whispered in his ear. Della felt her face go numb when she saw Santa look away, gather himself together, then turn back with a hearty “Ho ho!” and a candy cane.
Della wanted to sit on Santa’s lap, give the big man a shake, and demand that he produce one Welshman who loved mines more than his family. A fervent letter to Dr. Isgreen had produced a prompt reply, urging her to hold on a little longer, even though it was difficult. She had to smile at his last few sentences. “ ‘This may sound less than professional, but only a moron would stay away from a charming wife and daughter. You have my complete permission to smack him when he shows up. It might even be good, therapeutically, at least for you. Yours sincerely.’ ”
Long after Mr. Whalley and the children had gone to bed, Della sat up with Kristina in tears, wondering what to do. Kristina had hugged her, held her off, and looked
at her with serious eyes full of hard-earned and unwanted experience. “Dearest Della, this is where women have to dig in and just keep breathing.” She sighed and looked out a window that wasn’t there in Mr. Whalley’s parlor. “There were days, even here in Salt Lake when I started work, that the most ambitious task I set for myself was just to breathe. That always led to working and then to the children and fixing meals. I breathed.”
Kristina couldn’t help her laughter then. “If we were in the canyon, Eeva Koski would drag you into the sauna!”
“I would go gladly,” Della said.
Kristina’s eyes misted over. “There are times when I think of Matti.” Her face went solemn. “Jim tells me to think all I want. Sometimes he likes to sit in the quiet and remember his Augusta. We keep breathing. You too.”
It was good advice. She kept breathing when Kristina shyly announced before they returned to Provo that she was already in the family way. She kept breathing when Angharad sat so close to her on the train and in church, as if hanging on to the only permanent person in her life. Or maybe Della sat close to Angharad; it was hard to tell. She kept breathing at the school party, when Angharad and three friends sang “Adeste Fideles,” and Della wished with all her heart that Owen sat beside her. She breathed and sent Uncle Karl one of Angharad’s Christmas cards, with its small dragon beside a tree.
The Knights’ office party was held in the boardroom at the Knight Investment Company. Uncle Jesse circulated with eggnog in one hand and Christmas bonuses in the other for everyone, even new employees. The promised ham was delivered, along with an already-decorated tree from the Payson ranch by Raymond’s family.
L
There was always something in the air on Christmas Eve, no matter whether it was snowing or raining, or whether someone was there or not: a special feeling of peace and goodwill that came, free of charge, to anyone who needed it. Della needed it.
She sent Angharad ahead to the Knights’ house, where everyone was gathering for the big night of hors’ d’oeuvres and laughter and maybe a discreet rattling of packages. She promised to show up in an hour with her offering of Welsh cakes, the special kind made with sultanas and a dusting of sugar.
She never minded standing at the range and flipping the cage bach until they were nicely browned on both sides. The house was still. She breathed in the solitude and found it to her liking, in that way of Christmas that was going to come, no matter what. Granted, matters could have been better, but the ham would go in the oven to slow cook all night, and there was a respectable pile of presents under the tree, including Owen’s copy of Pickwick Papers that she could always mail to him in a day or two if he decided not to come.
After Angharad went to bed, there would be an orange and handful of nuts for her stocking, plus a small package that Della intended to place on top, a gift from one grateful heart to another.
Hungry, she searched the neat pile of cage bach for one a little crooked, halt, or lame. She found it and popped it in her mouth, relishing the goodness.
Della looked at the clock and changed into her green wool dress with the lace collar that Owen had given to her from Gwyna’s modest stash. A critical look at her hair reminded her that it wasn’t going to change, and she could live with that, particularly since she had no choice.
She turned down the lamp in her bedroom, struck by the fact that she wasn’t thinking of it as their bedroom. It was her bedroom. Maybe in the spring she would get a yellow bedspread.
Breathe, breathe, she told herself. She was reaching for her coat when she heard carolers in front of her house. She smiled, happy she had made extra cakes, and went into the kitchen for them.
She walked onto the porch, pleased to see such an assembly. She stood there, aware she was happy because they were singing and it was Christmas Eve and she was headed to a party with dear friends. Kristina and Dr. Isgreen were both right about taking each day one at a time. It would be a good New Year’s resolution.
“Silent Night” blended into “Joy to the World” and her personal favorite, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She listened in appreciation and watched the plumes of used-up air coming in puffs from each caroler. She rubbed her shoulders, wishing she had actually put on that coat she had taken from the closet.
The last song faded into the frigid air, and Della handed around the Welsh cakes. She stepped back, expecting them to hurry on, but they stood where they were. A caroler stepped forward and cleared her throat.
“We’ve been asked to hum a hymn just for you,” she said, and then she glanced at the porch next door, where Della saw her neighbors listening too. “A note, please?”
Della’s heart nearly stopped when she recognized the note. She reminded herself to breathe; then she closed her eyes as the carolers hummed and Owen Davis sang the miners’ hymn to her.
She heard his voice coming closer and realized he had been standing on the porch with her neighbors, the duplicitous, conniving, clever, irritating man, the man she couldn’t fathom living without. She opened her eyes.
Now he stood in the center of the carolers. He set down his valise and held out his arms. With a cry, she threw herself into his arms, trying to hug him everywhere.
“ ‘The distant scene—one step enough for me,’ ” he sang right in her ear in his beautiful second tenor voice. “Della, Della, give me your answer true.” He segued into “Daisy Bell,” which made the carolers laugh, wish them a merry Christmas, and move away, leaving them alone in a snowy yard on a quiet street. “ ‘I’m half crazy all for the love of you. It won’t be a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage.’ ”
He stopped singing, held her off for a long look, and pulled her close and kissed her. He must have noticed that she was starting to wobble on uncertain legs because he picked her up and carried her up the steps and into their house, as he had done last May.
“Let’s begin again, shall we?” he asked as he set her down. He took her by the shoulders, his dark eyes full of concern now. “Della, can you forgive me for being an idiot? I mean no ordinary idiot, but a certified, bona fide idiot.”
She nodded, unable to say anything. She touched his face, outlining his profile almost as if she expected him to disappear, and she needed a reminder that would last awhile. The gesture brought tears to his eyes, which she flicked away, and then she kissed him.
“I’m to take hors’ d’oeuvres to the Knights,” she said, finding her voice.
“They won’t miss them,” he told her. “We’re not going anywhere. I stopped there first and gave Angharad a great kiss. She scolded me and I deserved it. She also agreed to spend the night with Mabli and show up here tomorrow morning on the dot of eight o’clock to open presents. You’re stuck with me.”
“I have so many questions,” she began but then realized not one of them mattered. Owen was here and he was singing again.
They stood in the front room, close but not touching. Words were needed now, and she waited for him to speak.
“One thing you need to know, Della, and not an hour from now, or tomorrow. I really stopped at the Knights’ house first to hand Uncle Jesse my resignation. I am no longer connected to the Banner Mine, or any Knight mines.”
She breathed deeply and filled her nostrils with the fragrance from his overcoat that would always smell of coal. Which reminded her …
It must have reminded her husband too. He tossed the coat he had been holding onto the sofa, his eyes lively. “I also sent a letter to Gomer Thomas, thanking him for the offer to work with him but telling him no. I’m through with coal, m cara. Done with it. Come a little closer, if you wish.”
“If I wish,” she repeated. “I do wish. They won’t miss us at the party?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Chapter 41
L
I hate to admit this, m cara, but I’m getting too old for an entire night of wild Welsh abandon with Greek women.”
“Oh, and how many Greek women might there have been before me?” s
he teased back.
“I lost count after one.”
“That’s pretty much my score with Welshmen.”
He turned onto his back, perplexed with himself. How can you tease a woman when all you want to do is apologize? “Della, I believe I could ask for your forgiveness every day for the rest of our lives, and it wouldn’t be enough.”
God bless the lady. She rested her head on his chest. “Once was enough.” She poked him in the chest, but it turned into a caress and then a shy look when she rose up on her elbow. “I’ve finished apologizing to my father for being a demanding twelve-year-old.” She smiled and he saw the wonder in her face. “My uncle has been sending me stories about his brother’s life. Let me tell you the most amazing one.”
He listened with astonishment as she told him how her father, the blackest of black sheep, if Aunt Caroline was to be believed, had financed the major portion of Uncle Karl’s law school expenses.
Upset with Uncle Karl on a nearly visceral level, he couldn’t speak for a moment when she finished. It was more pleasant to run his hand down her arm from shoulder to wrist and feel her softness. Maybe that was what real strength felt like. He had underestimated this wife of his, this kindest of gifts to a widower and his daughter.
“Della, you’re not angry that he could easily have financed your own college education to pay his brother back? I am, and I don’t mind admitting it to you.”
She laughed. “And that, my love, is the reason the country is called England and not Wales! Why fret and stew and talk about it? I would never have met you if my way had been smooth, and that would be the greater loss.”
She was right. He thought about that while he shaved and heard the homely sound of someone making breakfast in the kitchen. When he finished, he made their ruin of a bed and wondered if she would mind if he brought his carving tools in from the shed in the backyard and worked in the kitchen. He had some free time on his hands, now that he was out of work.
