by Amanda Cabot
“Yes.” Harriet gulped at the swift response. How embarrassing! She lowered her eyes, then raised them again when she realized Lawrence had not read her thoughts but was simply answering her question about the book. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I lent it to Zach and Priscilla. I wanted them to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Does that mean you liked Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
Rather than reply, he strode to the corner and brought the dunce stool close to her desk. It was only when Harriet was seated that he answered. “I wouldn’t say I liked it, but I will admit that it made me think.”
“And what did you think?”
His smile took years off his face, giving Harriet a glimpse at what he must have looked like a decade ago. “I think,” he said slowly, drawing out each word, “that the reason you recommended that particular book is that the author is named Harriet.”
She pretended to be annoyed. “The next thing I know, you’ll accuse me of having written it.”
“Did you?” He acted as if that would not surprise him.
“No. I read books, but writing’s not the life for me.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss the idea. Your life may be too full right now, between teaching and raising your siblings, but that won’t always be the case.”
It was flattering, having someone believe she was capable of writing a book as powerful as Mrs. Stowe’s masterpiece, but Harriet couldn’t let Lawrence continue to think she was that talented. “Perhaps I won’t always be so busy, but I’m a reader, not a writer.”
He gave her another playful grin. “Thanks to you, I’ve joined the former group.” Leaning forward, his hands on his knees, his expression turned serious. “Tell me, Harriet. Don’t you think Mrs. Stowe—the other Harriet—exaggerated the evils of slavery?”
It was a valid question. “I don’t know. Despite Jake’s claims to the contrary, I’ve never met a slave.” When Lawrence raised an eyebrow, she explained that her brother believed working for Karl Friedrich was tantamount to being sold into slavery. “As much as he hates farming and having to do what he considers women’s chores, I think the punishment is working. Jake seems to have realized the consequences of his behavior.”
“I’m glad. I have to admit that your brother worried me. I’ve seen others his age continue on the wrong road.”
Unbidden, the image of Thomas Bruckner’s almost cherubic smile flashed through Harriet’s mind. She didn’t want to think about Thomas, not today or any day. Even slavery was a more pleasant topic than the man whose angelic face and sweet words had almost convinced her that he loved her. She thanked God every day that she’d overheard Thomas boasting that he’d find homes for her siblings before the wedding. “I won’t be saddled with the brats,” he’d announced. And, as it turned out, he hadn’t been saddled with her either.
Harriet forced thoughts of Thomas away and fixed her gaze on Lawrence. “The reason I’ve never met a slave is that Fortune is a farming community,” she explained. “Like Ladreville, the farms were small enough that there was no need for slaves. I know it’s different in other places, particularly on the cotton plantations, but I do think Mrs. Stowe makes a good case for abolition.”
“Even if it would destroy the economy of the slave-owning states, including Texas?”
“I don’t know.” That was beginning to sound like a refrain, and yet Harriet could not regret initiating the discussion. This was what she sought, the exhilaration of talking about more than lesson plans and the latest fashions. “What do you think about the news of so many bank failures?”
Lawrence sighed. “Unfortunately, it isn’t only banks that are failing. I read that several railroads have gone bankrupt and that other businesses are teetering on the brink. People are calling it the Panic of 1857 and saying it might be worse than the one we had in 1837.” Lawrence’s eyes were solemn as he said, “When I read Mrs. Stowe’s book, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if slavery were abolished and planters suddenly had no workers. The cotton wouldn’t be planted or picked; the planters would have no money; they couldn’t buy goods. Everything might collapse. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t called a town meeting to vote on the bridge. I don’t want to do that while there’s so much uncertainty.”
Harriet blanched at the thought. Though she had no recollection of the earlier panic, the problems this one was causing were ominous. Still, she wasn’t certain Lawrence and the slave owners were right in believing that abolition would destroy the country.
“You make a compelling argument,” she admitted, turning so she could watch Lawrence’s expression. “And yet is there any way to justify cruelty to another human being? Is there any possible reason to excuse a man like Simon Legree?”
Lawrence shook his head. “The answer is no, even though slave owners claim that slaves are their possessions, not human beings.” Rising, Lawrence walked to the window and stared outside for a long moment. When he turned, she saw concern etched on his face. “I tell you, Harriet, I don’t know how this will end. There’s so much emotion on both sides.”
The way he looked, as if he’d taken the weight of the slavery debate on his shoulders, made Harriet wonder if she’d made a mistake in urging that he read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. “Your next book needs to be something happier,” she said with a bright if forced smile. “I would offer you one of Jane Austen’s stories, but I don’t imagine you’d enjoy them.” As she described the world of Regency England, Lawrence shook his head, agreeing that it held no interest for him, but she saw that the diversion had accomplished her goal. His mood was lighter. When he left, it was with a copy of Washington Irving’s Sketchbook in his hand.
Harriet remained in the schoolhouse, looking around the room that once again felt empty. She and Lawrence would probably never agree on slavery or Mrs. Stowe’s book, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the time they spent together. For the hour that he was there, Harriet felt alive—truly alive. It was the way she felt when she was with Isabelle, but so much better.
Harriet gathered her books and slid them into the satchel as she prepared to return home. Isabelle was a dear friend, but Lawrence was . . . She paused, searching for the correct word. Special. That was it. Lawrence wasn’t simply a friend; he was a special friend, and oh, how wonderful it was to have a special friend, if only for a few months. For when January ended, so too would Lawrence’s time in Ladreville.
Harriet bit her lip, trying not to think about that. There was no benefit in dwelling on things she could not change. She shouldn’t spend time worrying about the future. Hadn’t she taught her siblings that? Instead, she would enjoy each and every minute of the present. It was all she had.
12
“I’m glad you decided on a new dress for the festival.” Ruth moved back to study the frock she had pinned onto Harriet for a preliminary fitting. Deep green with gold braid trim, it was both simple and elegant at the same time. “As Ladreville’s new teacher, you’re sure to be the center of attention.”
Harriet smiled, as much at the beauty of her new gown, which was reflected in the long mirror Ruth had brought into the parlor, as her sister’s words. Even though Grandma would have disapproved, calling it self-indulgent, Harriet could not deny the pleasure she found in wearing attractive clothing. Still, she doubted Ladreville’s citizens would notice. “I imagine the townspeople will be more interested in Sarah and Clay’s son than me. Babies always take the limelight.” And that was good. Harriet wanted her family to blend into the community, not stand out.
“You or Rob.” Ruth unpinned a seam to adjust the fullness of one sleeve. “It doesn’t matter. I’m simply thankful that it won’t be me. No one pays any attention to the ladies who pour punch.”
Harriet felt her jaw drop as her sister’s words registered. “You’re going to pour punch?” A month ago, Ruth had offered up vehement protests against attending the festival. Now she was planning to participate? What had happened? Harriet stared at her sister, trying to under
stand. “You know there’s more involved than just pouring punch. You’ll have to talk to some people.” Admittedly, if Ladreville was like Fortune, most guests would say little more than “please” and “thank you” with an occasional “good evening” thrown in for good measure, but still . . . for someone as shy as Ruth, even such minimal social contact would be painful.
“I can do it.” Ruth poked another pin into the sleeve, then stepped away so that Harriet could see her reflection in the mirror. “I know I can.”
Ignoring her gown, Harriet kept her eyes on her sister. “You look like my sister, but you don’t sound like her.”
Ruth smiled. “I feel different. It’s hard to explain, but I feel lighter now, as if I’ve cast away a heavy yoke, and it’s all because of him.”
“Him?” Ruth had spoken with a man? Harriet studied the face that she knew as well as her own. Ruth looked older, and yet at the same time, her expression reflected almost childlike wonder.
“Sterling.” Ruth blushed. “Pastor Russell. I know you probably didn’t expect it, but I started talking to him when I took the blancmange to the parsonage. I can’t explain it, but he made me realize I had no reason to be afraid of other people. And, Harriet, he . . .” Though Harriet hadn’t thought it possible, Ruth’s blush deepened. “He said I was pretty.”
Harriet’s heart began to sing with joy. “Oh, Ruthie.” The childhood nickname slipped out. “Of course you’re pretty.” And Sterling Russell was a miracle worker. It didn’t matter how he’d done it, he’d made one of Harriet’s dreams come true. He’d helped Ruth emerge from her chrysalis.
“You’re planting a garden?” Though there was no dirt under her fingernails, Lawrence had heard the story from half a dozen citizens, and when he’d walked to the schoolhouse this afternoon, he’d seen the evidence.
Harriet fisted both hands on her hips in what Lawrence hoped was feigned indignation. When she adopted this pose, Harriet reminded him not of a gnat or a hummingbird but an angry hornet. She pursed her lips, but despite the stern expression, Lawrence sensed that she was trying not to laugh.
“The schoolmarm in me wants to inform you that you have an incorrect subject and verb tense. It’s the children who did the work—not me—and it’s done—past tense.” The lesson delivered, Harriet laughed, and the smile she gave him warmed Lawrence’s heart more than a fire in January. “The truth is, essentially you’re right. The children and I have planted a garden.”
“In late October?” That was part of what had surprised him, that and the thought of Harriet digging in the dirt.
“It’s a winter garden,” she announced, as if that should be evident. “Frau Friedrich told me which seeds to plant. Most of them won’t sprout until spring, but a few will come up soon. The rest will give us something to look forward to.”
Her enthusiasm made Lawrence want to continue the discussion. “I didn’t realize agronomy was part of the curriculum.”
As Harriet moved to her chair behind the desk, a sweet perfume filled the air. It was probably nothing more than soap. Lawrence knew that his mother and Lottie had scented their bath soap with flowers. Harriet probably did the same. But whatever it was, the scent teased his nostrils and made him want to pull that silly dunce stool closer to her.
Seemingly undisturbed by his nearness, Harriet shook her head. “It isn’t, but I needed something to teach the children patience.”
Patience. That was something he could use. Lawrence had to admit that he’d never considered gardening as a way to gain it, but didn’t Ecclesiastes say there was a time to sow? Perhaps Harriet was right.
She smiled at him again. “I won’t claim it’s as difficult as chasing bandits, but being cooped up in a classroom with two dozen fidgeting pupils is not my idea of a good day. Besides, I’ve always loved flowers. Even though we didn’t have many at our home in Fortune, I enjoyed the ones we did.”
“I gather that your mother was not a gardener.”
Harriet’s face darkened. “No,” she said shortly. “She was occupied with other things. Now, tell me what you thought of Oliver Twist.”
The lighthearted moment had ended. Harriet couldn’t have made it clearer that she wanted to change the subject than if she’d announced it in those words. Though Lawrence complied, all the while they discussed Oliver and Fagan, a part of his mind pondered her change of mood. What had bothered her? Was it the thought of her former home, or was her discomfort somehow connected to her mother? He wouldn’t pry, but he couldn’t help wondering. And so, as he made his way back to the stone building that was his home, he continued to think about Harriet and the flowers she loved. He’d told her about the spread of bluebonnets that Clay and Zach claimed was the finest in Texas, promising that he would return to Ladreville to take her there next spring, but he wanted to do more.
That was it! Lawrence grinned as he climbed the front steps. He turned around, considering, then shook his head. Not now. Though he shared the children’s lack of patience, it would be unwise to enter the mercantile now. Harriet might stop by, and then the surprise would be spoiled. He couldn’t let that happen. Having it be a surprise was almost as important as the item he planned to order, for somehow, though she had never said it, Lawrence knew surprises—at least pleasant ones—had been all too rare in Harriet Kirk’s life. That was going to change.
“You look very fetching today.” The smile that accompanied Karl’s compliment softened the lines of his face, making him almost handsome. Not as handsome as Lawrence, but . . . Harriet pushed that thought firmly aside. There was no reason to be comparing Karl and Lawrence, no reason even to be thinking of the town’s mayor. Karl was the man who had invited her and her family to the harvest festival.
“Thank you.” Harriet laid her hand in his and let him help her into the buggy. Though it was only a short distance from her home to the field where the dance would be held, he had insisted that he would escort her and her family there. The reason was now evident, for instead of the sturdy wagon the Friedrichs normally used when they came to town, Karl was driving a new buggy.
“I’ve never seen such a fine carriage.” Harriet admired the highly polished brass and wood and let her fingers trail over the soft leather seats. Her family had owned a similar carriage until Father had sold it to pay for his whiskey. Forcing back the unwanted thoughts, she called to her siblings.
The boys, undoubtedly at Jake’s instigation, refused to ride with Karl, and when Ruth volunteered to ensure that they reached the party together, Harriet agreed that they could walk alongside the buggy rather than ride. She and Mary would accept Karl’s offer. Surely with the rest of the family so close, no one would misconstrue her reason for being in the wagon.
“Where are your parents?” Harriet asked as she settled onto the front seat while Mary scrambled into the one behind her and Karl.
“They’re setting up our spot.” Karl flicked the reins, setting the buggy into motion. “Mutter wanted to get there early so everything would be perfect.”
“Knowing her, it will be.” Harriet glanced to the left as they crossed rue du Marché and waved at the approaching family. The children who scampered in front of their parents were her pupils, dressed in their Sunday best. Turning back to Karl, Harriet smiled. “Your mother is a wonderful woman. You’re fortunate to have such loving parents.” Though she knew the past could not be changed, she could not help wondering what her life would have been like if her parents had been different, if Father’s love of strong drink and Mother’s inability to cope with it had not exceeded their love for their children.
“Ja.” Karl nodded solemnly. “But a man longs for more than parents. He wants a family of his own—a wife and children.” He reached across and laid his hand on Harriet’s, giving it a little squeeze. “God did not make man to live alone.”
The gleam in his eyes, not to mention the touch of his hand on hers, made Harriet uneasy, for it reminded her of Thomas. She did not want to encourage Karl, nor did she want to provide g
rist for the rumor mill. Most of all, she did not want to be courted, especially not by this man. Deliberately, Harriet turned to look at Mary, her movement dislodging Karl’s hand.
“Mary!” Harriet frowned at the sight of her sister hanging over the side of the buggy, apparently trying to touch the ground. “Get back inside. You could hurt yourself that way.”
Karl scowled as he glanced at the rear seat. “She needs a father. I know you do your best, but sometimes a child needs a father’s hand. I—”
Unwilling to hear the conclusion of his sentence, Harriet stretched her arms toward her sister. “Come here, Mary.” As the child scrambled over the seat, Harriet settled her between herself and Karl. “Mary made butter today, didn’t you, sweetie?”
Her sister nodded and turned toward Karl, enthusiasm lighting her face. “I showed Eva how. Her mama never let her use the churn.” Though Frau Friedrich had insisted there was no need for the Kirks to bring anything, Mary, bursting with pride over her newly acquired culinary skills, had pleaded that she be allowed to make a dish of butter for the evening. The slightly lumpy spread now rested in a cut glass bowl that had belonged to Harriet’s grandmother.
Though Karl nodded, his pursed lips told Harriet he was not pleased by the interruption. A minute later, he hitched the horses to one of the posts that had been provided for the day’s festivities and helped both Harriet and Mary out of the buggy, frowning ever so slightly when Mary cradled the butter dish in her hands.
Placing a hand on her sister’s shoulder to keep her from running and possibly dropping the butter, Harriet walked slowly. The large field across the street from the school was no longer empty. Instead tables carried from the two churches were arranged around the perimeter, leaving an open space in the center where families would eat and where the dancing would later take place. The air was redolent with the aromas of roasted meat and chicken and the tangy smells of cabbage and pickles, while the sound of children’s shrieks punctuated the low murmur of the adults’ conversation. All of Ladreville, it appeared, had come to the festival.
