by Amanda Cabot
“Is that the reason you left Fortune?”
One of them. “How did you guess?”
Though Isabelle had been staring into the distance, she turned to face Harriet, her expression solemn. “My family had a similar experience in the Old Country. Léon got into trouble and would have been jailed if we hadn’t left. That’s why we came to Ladreville.”
“Léon a troublemaker? I would never have thought that.” Harriet had met Isabelle’s brother on several occasions and had found him to be a serious, hardworking young man.
“Maman said it was a stage of growing up. She must have been right, because once we arrived here, there were no further problems. He still plagues me with his teasing, but I don’t think that will ever end.”
Harriet nodded. “I don’t mind the squabbling, because I know it’s normal, but I worry about Jake. He’s like a stranger, filled with hatred.”
“Perhaps it’s only anger.” Isabelle gave Harriet’s hand a quick squeeze. “Sometimes they’re hard to separate.”
Isabelle’s touch warmed her, and the concern she heard in her voice told Harriet she had not been wrong in confiding in her. Isabelle understood; she wanted to help. “You could be right,” Harriet admitted. “Jake does seem angry most of the time. I’ve asked, but he won’t tell me why, and recently he’s gotten this notion that I’m going to marry Karl Friedrich. Even when I told him I wasn’t planning to marry anyone, I could see he didn’t believe me.”
Isabelle shrugged, as if to say she’d expected that. “Boys his age aren’t logical, and they don’t trust anyone older them. Besides, there’ve been some big changes in Jake’s life. You brought him to a new town, so he has to make new friends.” Isabelle watched as a mockingbird spotted a squirrel and chased it out of the tree. “That’s hard enough, but now he’s working on the farm too. Did you know that Léon used to work there?” When Harriet shook her head, Isabelle continued. “It didn’t last very long. Though Léon didn’t say much, I imagine Karl is a stern taskmaster. Is Jake used to that?”
Harriet hadn’t considered that possibility. “I don’t suppose he is. I’ve tried my best, but I’m not as strict as I ought to be, either at home or at school.”
As the corners of Isabelle’s lips turned up, she said, “Eva’s happy about that. She says you make it fun to learn.”
That was the first good news Harriet had heard all day. “I wish I could believe that, but no matter what I do, other than Eva, the young children seem afraid. I don’t understand it.”
Once again Isabelle’s expression sobered. “They are afraid. They’re afraid of you.”
“Of me? Why?” Lawrence had claimed that was the case, but Harriet hadn’t wanted to believe it. “What am I doing wrong?”
Her friend shook her head. “It’s not what you’re doing. It’s the way you look.”
Harriet tried not to sigh. Once again Lawrence had been right. He had said she looked forbidding. That must be what Isabelle meant. “I’ve been trying to smile more often.”
“It’s not that.” Isabelle studied her gloves as if the buttons contained the mysteries of the universe. At length, she looked up and met Harriet’s gaze. “There’s no easy way to say this, but your clothing and the way you wear your hair can seem . . .” She paused, then said rapidly, “You appear un peu intimidating to small children.”
A little. If Harriet had had any doubts that Isabelle was uncomfortable with the subject, her use of a French phrase would have quenched them. Though she knew Isabelle spoke French with her family, she was normally scrupulous about not lacing her English conversations with French words.
“What you really mean is more than a little, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. Eva said the others think you look like a scarecrow.” When Harriet’s back stiffened, Isabelle laid a cautioning hand on her arm. “Now, don’t be offended. It’s not hard to fix. If you come to the mercantile tonight, we can get started.”
“I’m not sure.” Harriet had more important things to worry about than her hair and clothing, things like her brother’s anger.
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to win over your pupils or not? The choice is yours.”
When phrased that way, there was only one answer. As Harriet nodded, Isabelle gave her a triumphant smile. “I’ll see you at 7:00.”
There was no reason to feel as if she were facing a firing squad. Isabelle was her friend. She wanted to help. But no matter how often she tried to reassure herself, Harriet could not dismiss her apprehension. It felt as if a hundred butterflies had taken residence in her stomach, all beating their wings furiously as they tried to escape.
“Come in.” Lighting the way with a lamp, Isabelle led Harriet through the mercantile to a back room. Filled with cartons and crates, this was obviously the stockroom. It was also more private than either the main part of the mercantile or the Rousseaus’ home on the second story. Someone—perhaps Isabelle—had cleared a space for a wooden chair and a small table. The latter held a second lamp along with a comb, brush, and assorted hairpins.
“We’ll start with your hair,” Isabelle said as she gestured toward the chair. A moment later, Harriet’s spectacles carefully placed on the table, Isabelle had removed the pins and was brushing Harriet’s hair. “This is beautiful,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t hide it.”
Harriet didn’t hide her hair; she merely arranged it in the simplest style possible. “I don’t have time to fuss with it.”
“Nonsense. That might have been true a few years ago, but even Mary is old enough to dress herself.” Isabelle continued drawing the brush through Harriet’s hair, straightening the long locks. “Once you heat the curling iron, it will take less than ten minutes.”
“Curling iron? We don’t own one.”
A low chuckle greeted her words. “Isn’t it fortunate that we just happen to sell curling irons?”
In far less than ten minutes, Isabelle had coiled Harriet’s hair at the base of her neck, leaving a few strands free. Those strands were soon curled. “How does that feel?”
“Strange. I’m not used to hair touching my face.” When Harriet turned her head, the curls bounced against her cheeks. It was a distinctly odd sensation, almost as if she were a different person. Harriet patted the back of her head. Normally she pulled her hair into a tight bun at the middle of her head. This one seemed looser, and it was positioned far lower. “Are you sure the bun is secure?”
Isabelle’s eyes sparkled with mirth. Though butterflies were still rampaging through Harriet’s stomach, filling her with a combination of dread and anticipation, her friend was clearly enjoying herself. “It’s called a chignon, and yes, it’s secure.” Isabelle took a step backward, tipping her head to one side as she studied Harriet. “Magnifique,” she announced.
When Harriet reached for her spectacles, wanting to see if she looked as different as she felt, Isabelle shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s get you out of that dress.”
Harriet looked down at the medium brown calico that had been new five years ago. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Indeed not . . .” Isabelle pursed her lips in feigned indignation. “If you want to look like a mouse. A dead mouse, that is.” Without waiting for a reply, Isabelle crossed the room and opened a tall cabinet. “Your hair is so pale that you ought to wear bright colors, like this.” She pulled out a garnet red gown. “Let’s see if it fits.”
Even without her spectacles, Harriet could see that this was finer than anything she had owned. Not only was it made of broadcloth, which Ruth had told her the fashion books referred to as “lady’s cloth,” rather than the sturdy calico of her weekday clothing, but the skirt was fuller, requiring extra yardage. The extravagance did not end there. It had slightly puffed sleeves, and the bodice boasted tiny tucks and delicate ivory buttons. “Where did you get this?” Harriet asked as Isabelle slid it over her head, carefully protecting her new coiffure. Though the mercantile carried a few ready-made bodices, s
he had not noticed any frocks.
“I made it.”
Isabelle acted as if that were nothing, though Harriet knew how many hours of work must have gone into the tucking alone. “When did you do this?” She had only agreed to consider new clothing this afternoon.
“I started the first day I met you.” Isabelle’s laughter filled the room. “Gunther tells me I meddle too much, but I was determined to see you in a pretty gown.”
“This isn’t just pretty. It’s beautiful.” Harriet’s hands caressed the fabric, delighting in its soft texture. Calico might be more practical, but there was no denying the pleasure of the almost silky weave. “I’ve never had anything this fine.” Grandma had claimed there was no reason to waste money on furbelows, and all too soon, there had been no money to waste. Harriet began fastening the buttons.
“It’s about time you thought about yourself.” Isabelle’s voice held a slight hint of asperity. “Ruth and Mary are more stylishly dressed than you.”
“Not anymore.” Harriet pivoted on her heel, enjoying the sensation of the soft fabric swirling around her. “I don’t know how to thank you, Isabelle. This fits perfectly.”
Her friend’s smile broadened. “Wait until you see how you look.” As Harriet replaced her spectacles, Isabelle dragged a full-length looking glass from behind the cupboard. “What do you think?”
Harriet stared at the mirror, astonished by the sight. Those were her spectacles and her eyes. That was her nose, and yes, that was her mouth, but everything else looked different. The hairdo, which felt so strange, made her look younger, more approachable. Perhaps it was the ringlets, perhaps the color of the dress. Harriet wasn’t certain. All she knew was that her face seemed softer, her cheeks rosier. “Is this really me?” As she asked the question, she pictured Lawrence. What would he think? Would he still call her forbidding? Harriet shook her head slightly, trying to chase away her errant thoughts. There was no reason to care about Lawrence’s opinion. She was doing this for the children.
Isabelle gave her a quick hug, then took a step back to admire her handiwork. “This is the way you were meant to look.”
Harriet’s gaze returned to the mirror, for she was almost mesmerized by the transformation. “I can’t believe the difference. I feel like Cinderella getting ready for the ball.”
“Does that make me the Fairy Godmother?” Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Gunther will split his sides laughing at that thought.”
“How can I possibly thank you?”
“That’s simple. Throw out those old clothes you’ve been wearing and make yourself some new dresses.” Isabelle pulled two bolts of fabric off one of the crates. “This deep green would look nice on you. So would the pink.”
When Harriet left the mercantile half an hour later, though her arms were laden with packages, her heart felt lighter than it had in years.
Lawrence was bored. He hadn’t expected that. The first months had been busy, dealing with the townspeople’s complaints. Most of those complaints had been petty, and he’d chafed at the realization that being mayor and sheriff of a small town was far different from the freedom and excitement he’d found as a Ranger, that the justice he wielded was on a smaller, less dramatic scale. Today he would have welcomed a dispute over payment for one of William Goetz’s tables. Instead, he was sitting in his office, staring at those gloomy maps and even gloomier portraits from the Old Country, wondering what to do.
He ought to be glad there were no more problems on the Friedrich farm and that the rustlers had left Zach’s cattle alone. He ought to be happy that his days had been free of complaints about Harriet and her insistence on efficient exits from the schoolhouse. Instead, he was bored.
He couldn’t even visit Sterling, for he knew the minister was writing a sermon for his ever-dwindling congregation. Each Sunday fewer people entered the German church. Though Lawrence knew Sterling was concerned, he claimed there was nothing anyone could do. “You can’t threaten to arrest them if they don’t come to church,” Sterling had said. “All you can do is pray that God will soften their hearts.” And so Lawrence prayed, but that did not bring the parishioners back.
He stared at the wall again, frowning at the maps. Michel Ladre had been proud of them, declaring they were evidence of the turmoil his emigrants had escaped. That might have been true ten years ago, but today Lawrence found them annoying. The townspeople were Texans now. If maps and pictures were going to hang on the wall, they ought to be maps of Texas or even of the United States of America. The portraits should be of the governor and president. Alsace, Lorraine, France, and Germany no longer had any relevance.
Knowing that someone would undoubtedly complain but not caring, Lawrence pulled everything from the wall. The spots where the pictures had been were brighter than the surrounding surface, leaving no doubt that something had once hung there. He could buy some whitewash at the mercantile and fix that. At least while he was painting, he would not be bored.
But as he left his office, Lawrence found himself turning left. Though the mercantile was to the right, it seemed that his feet had other ideas, for they headed toward the school. He wasn’t planning to visit Harriet. Of course he wasn’t. But, as long as he was almost there, he might as well check on the students. The students. Not Harriet.
The children were outside, the younger ones running in circles, playing tag and appearing to be having a good time, the older boys engaged in building a human pyramid while the girls watched, probably hoping to see the pyramid collapse in a tangle of arms and legs. Everyone appeared to be healthy and happy. His mission was complete. And yet Lawrence climbed the steps and entered the schoolhouse.
“Harriet?” He stared at the petite blonde-haired woman who stood at the chalkboard, her back toward him, writing lessons. This woman wore a fashionable red dress, and her hair was softer than Harriet’s. She was the right height, the hair was the right shade, and this was obviously where Harriet should be, but Lawrence wasn’t certain he wasn’t seeing a stranger. No-nonsense Harriet Kirk did not own a fashionable dress, much less one in a color other than putrid yellow or dirty brown, and she most certainly did not wear her hair in a style that even Lottie would envy.
As the woman turned, Lawrence felt his jaw drop. This woman was beautiful. No, that was too mild a word. She was stunning. She was spectacular. She was . . . “What . . . ? How . . . ? Why . . . ?” Though the questions whirled through his mind, Lawrence’s tongue refused to form complete sentences. It was embarrassing. Here he was, sounding as tongue-tied as a schoolboy, all because he found himself in the presence of a beautiful woman.
Harriet—for it most definitely was Harriet who stood by the chalkboard—smiled. “You forgot who, where, and when.” She was amused by his discomfiture, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Lawrence tried to look away, but his eyes were as disobedient as his feet had been when he’d told them to go to the mercantile. “I came to see how your brother was faring.” Though it wasn’t the truth, it was the first coherent thought to emerge from his mouth.
The sparkle behind those spectacles told Lawrence that Harriet had seen through him, though she pretended to believe his explanation. “He’s not happy working for Karl,” she said, the warmth in her voice betraying her inner smile, “but I don’t think anything would please Jake these days. As for the other . . .” She held her skirts and made a mocking half-curtsey. “Isabelle is responsible. She told me I looked like a dead mouse.”
“You don’t look like a mouse anymore, dead or alive.” What an inane thing to say! Lottie would cringe and tell him he knew nothing about speaking to a woman. That was self-evident.
The corners of Harriet’s mouth turned up again as she pretended to fan herself. “Why, thank you, Mr. Wood. Your flattery would turn a girl’s head.”
“Harriet, you know I was a Ranger. We believe in plain speaking.” That was true, but it didn’t explain why he was having so much difficulty with this conversation, why he felt so flummo
xed. He couldn’t deny it, though; just the sight of Harriet turned his thoughts to quicksand. Who would have guessed that she would emerge as a beautiful butterfly?
“I’m surprised your mother never taught you to make pickles.” Though Frau Friedrich’s voice was even, Harriet sensed the disapproval.
“Mother was busy with all the children.” She wouldn’t tell her that Mother had no time to make pickles because her days were spent locked in her room. “Besides, I don’t think she liked the flavor.” Harriet enjoyed the sweet and sour flavor of what Frau Friedrich called bread and butter pickles and had asked for the recipe. The German woman had insisted that, rather than simply write out the instructions, she would show Harriet how she made them.
“The important thing is to not overcook the cucumbers.” Frau Friedrich had let Harriet mix the pickling solution and pour it over the sliced cucumbers and onions. “Once it comes to a boil, it’s time to put everything into the jars.” Deftly, she ladled the aromatic mixture into the first of the canning jars, tightening the lid. “Now, you try.”
To Harriet’s dismay, she spilled fully a quarter of the pickles on her first attempt. “I’m afraid I need more practice.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get it right before you know it.” The older woman’s voice was warm and encouraging, so different from the strident tone Harriet associated with her mother. “Now, try again.”
By the time the twelfth jar was filled, Harriet had managed to drip only a little over the edge of the jar.
“Sehr gut. Very good,” Frau Friedrich translated. “Now, let’s sit a spell. I made a kuchen I thought you might like.” She brought out the fragrant coffee cake and cut two generous slices. “Enjoy it.”
