by Karen Kirst
“Liesl, you should call her Mrs. Amaker. She isn’t your grandmother.” Oscar rested his hands on the closed trunk lid.
The little girl wrinkled her nose and tilted her head, clearly puzzled. Kate’s heart went out to Liesl. Oscar was asking the impossible—for the Amakers not to care about his daughter, and for Liesl not to care about them. Still, Liesl was his daughter, and the Amakers would need to respect his wishes.
Oscar unlocked and opened the trunk, the scent of lavender rolling out. He stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets. “You’re welcome to whatever might work for you.”
“Thank you.” Kate moved aside a layer of tissue paper. Mrs. Tipford had wrapped everything with care. A cheesecloth sachet of lavender buds lay atop the clothes. She blinked. Lavender was one of her favorite scents, and she’d kept a crystal bottle of lavender water on her dressing table, a gift from Johann.
“What’s that?” Liesl asked.
Kate lifted it and smelled it, inhaling the herbaceous, floral scent, and then she held it under Liesl’s nose. “It’s called a sachet, and ladies use it in their dressers and armoires to keep their clothes smelling nice. I had some sachets like this once.” Before her house burned down. “I love the scent of lavender.”
Liesl breathed in deeply and then sneezed, giggling. “Daddy, can I have some in my dresser, like a grown-up lady?”
Kate looked at Oscar, holding the lacy bundle and tilting her head toward Liesl. At his nod, she handed the sachet to the child. “You may have this one.”
“Thank you.” She hugged Kate’s side and scampered out, no doubt to put the scented packet in her room.
Oscar followed her, pausing at the door, but continuing on, his boots thumping on the stairs.
Kate lifted the first garment from the trunk, grateful to be alone. The maternity clothes were on top, which made sense. A blue dress with black trim, and a brown dress with small, red flowers scattered over it. She held the brown one up to her, testing the length of the sleeves and the hem. Gaelle Rabb must’ve been several inches taller than Kate.
Beneath those two garments in the trunk lay a lovely red shawl. Red was Kate’s favorite color, and she had used it whenever she could in trims and accents in her own clothes.
Under the shawl, Kate found a heavy, burgundy cloak. She held it up, feeling the weight. Something to wear other than Johann’s coat.
A tap sounded on the doorframe. It was Oscar, holding a lidded, square basket. “Thought you could use this.” His eyes went to the cloak and flicked away. “Sewing kit.”
“Oscar.” It was the first time she had called him by name, and he went still, his hand gripping the doorframe. Kate swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this?” She wondered how she would feel if it was a neighbor going through her husband’s things, preparing to wear his clothes.
He nodded. “The clothes aren’t doing anyone any good packed away. I should’ve given them to Mrs. Tipford a long time ago, so she could hand them out to folks in need. I guess now I’m glad I didn’t.”
Again Kate had that feeling, the feeling that she wanted to go to him, to touch his shoulder or squeeze his hand, to let him know that she understood his loss, the need to move forward but the reluctance to do so, to comfort him.
And perhaps to be comforted, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kate rode beside Oscar in the farm wagon, heading south to Mantorville, the midmorning sun bright and almost no wind. The overnight frost had long since melted away, promising a lovely fall day, warm for this time of year. She’d left her coat behind, opting for the red shawl instead.
Oscar pulled his hat down, shading his eyes. “I’m of half a mind to bring Martin’s cows over to my byre to save on time going between the farms. I’ve got the room, especially since I moved the young bullocks out to the pasture with the shed.” He shook up the reins. “And I was of half a mind to bring Martin with us today and have the doctor check out his cough. I could hear him all over the barn when we were milking this morning. I asked, but he refused to come, said he would be fine.”
“I wish you had been able to persuade him. He was ill last winter with the same cough, and it lasted for months. Grossmutter is worried about him, too. I feel guilty going to see the doctor when I’m healthy, and he’s in need and staying home.” Kate shifted on the hard wagon seat. Finding a comfortable position…any comfortable position…was proving more difficult these days.
“You both need to see the doc.” He glanced behind him into the wagon box. Thirty-two cheeses rested on a bed of straw, each carefully sewn into a cheesecloth bag. “I’m glad you’re done making new cheese for the winter. Now that you’ve shown me which ones need brushed and turned in the cheese house, you can leave that chore to me.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s my job. You have enough to do with your own chores and your woodworking and all.” He’d insisted she stay home this morning and finish the hemming she and Grossmutter had started the afternoon before to alter Gaelle’s dresses to fit her. Kate wore the brown and red dress, which matched the red shawl perfectly. When Oscar had first seen her in the new-to-her clothes, he’d looked thoughtful, but said nothing. She didn’t know if she was disappointed or relieved at his reaction, but it felt nice to have fresh clothes to wear.
Oscar raised one booted foot to rest on the kickboard, and propped his forearm on his knee. “If you have to go over there every day to turn them yourself, then I have to go with you. I don’t want you on those rickety cellar stairs with no one else there. And if I’m going to go, I might as well turn and brush them myself.”
Kate felt guilty causing him so much more work. He hadn’t asked for any of this. How could they repay his kindness? In her life, she had often been on the giving end of charity, but never before had she needed so much assistance.
Mantorville was a bustling, busy town, several times the size of little Berne. Built on the north bank of the Zumbro River, the town rose up from the river to the plains. Coming in from the north as they were, the town spread out and down as they reached the outskirts. On the left, the large, limestone county courthouse rose, its pillared front entrance and domed central tower a testament to law and order in Dodge County.
Oscar pulled up at the intersection of Main Street and Fifth. A square brick building stood on the corner, and hanging over the door, Dr. Horlock’s shingle swung in the breeze.
Across the street, the three-story stone Hubbell House hotel and restaurant sat solidly, white trim-work gleaming. Johann had taken Kate to the restaurant once as a special treat.
Oscar helped Kate from the wagon and held the door open, revealing a set of stairs. “Doc’s office is on the second floor. I’ve never met him, though George Frankel says he’s a good doctor. Horlock took over Doc Easterly’s practice when he retired last year.”
An enormous Boston fern sat in front of the windows, and a set of horsehair-silk furniture that had gone out of style years ago was grouped around a small, low table. On an inside door, a small sign hung from a nail. The Doctor Is With a Patient. Please Take a Seat.
Kate eased herself down into a chair, felt herself sliding on the slick upholstery and pressed her toes into the rug. The furniture reminded her of her grandmother’s parlor, and being scolded for sliding off onto the floor on purpose when she was a little girl.
Oscar clasped his hands behind his back and paced the small space. His scowl made Kate feel even worse about taking up his time like this, especially when it seemed so unnecessary.
“You don’t have to wait for me. You said you needed some supplies from the hardware store and the sawmill. I could meet you somewhere when I’m finished here. Maybe at the mercantile?”
“I’ll wait.” He stopped pacing to study a painting on the wall and then moved to read the book titles on the case in the corner.
The door opened, and Dr. Horlock came out, wiping his hands on a towel. A burly farmer followed, ducking his head to come through the doorway. “Have your wife put a poultice on the wound for a couple of days. Boils can be nasty things, and the heat will help draw out the infection now that I’ve lanced it.” He spied Kate and Oscar and smiled. “Ah, hello. I didn’t realize anyone had come in.” He nodded to the farmer. “If you aren’t better in a week, stop in again.”
The man nodded, put on his hat and clomped down the stairs, not looking at anyone.
“A man of few words.” Dr. Horlock grinned. He was about thirty, Kate guessed, but looked older. He had thinning blond hair and wore wire-framed spectacles. Slender, and not much taller than Kate, he finished drying his hands and folded the towel neatly. “Now, which one of you is the patient?” He raised his eyebrows, pretending not to notice Kate’s expanded middle.
Kate scooted to the edge of the chair and began to push herself upright. Before she got far, Oscar was there with a hand under her elbow to help.
Dr. Horlock nodded. “Come right in.” He waited for her to go in ahead of him and then looked over his shoulder. “Do you want to come in with your wife?”
Oscar was already shaking his head. “She’s not my wife.”
The doctor’s brows rose, and heat filled Kate’s face.
“She’s my neighbor. Mrs. Amaker.”
“I see.” He nodded, though he was still clearly puzzled. “Well, then. You can wait out there. We shouldn’t be long.”
The examination room had a desk and chair in one corner, a padded leather table and glass-fronted shelves full of bottles, jars and instruments. Atop the desk stood a black bag, open, and filled with the tools of his trade.
“Now, Mrs. Amaker, what can I do for you?”
Kate stood beside the exam table and spread her hands. “I don’t know. I am fit as a fiddle, and I feel fine, but I promised Mr. Rabb that I would see a doctor.” She smoothed the ends of the red shawl. “My relatives and I are staying at his house, and he’s concerned about me and the baby.”
Dr. Horlock pushed the office chair around so she could sit, and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked relaxed, friendly, and his air of competence calmed Kate. She’d never been to see a doctor before, and didn’t know what to expect, but his kindness put her at ease, and she found herself telling him about the fire and her husband’s death and Oscar’s kindness.
“You say he’s a widower and has a little girl?”
“Yes, his wife died in childbirth a couple years ago.”
The doctor removed his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief, holding them up to the sunlight. “I can understand his concern for you, then. Shall we do what we can to allay his fears?”
Kate had expected to feel horribly embarrassed, but Dr. Horlock was quick and discreet, listening to the baby’s heartbeat, asking her some questions and feeling the rambunctious movements going on inside her. “You’re correct, Mrs. Amaker, you are fit as a fiddle. That is one active baby in there. Due in six or seven weeks, I’d guess?”
She nodded. “Around Christmas.”
“That will be a nice way to start the new year. Now, who will be with you when you deliver? Do you have a midwife?”
“My husband’s grandmother. And one neighbor across the road, Mrs. Frankel, she has twelve children, and she said I could send for her when my time came, too.”
“That’s fine. And if you need me or you have any concerns, you only have to send for me.” He went to the pitcher and bowl on a small stand and washed his hands again, giving her some basic instructions about getting rest and putting her feet up for a while each day.
Kate picked up her shawl. “Doctor, there was one other thing. My grandfather—” it was easier to refer to Martin as her grandfather rather than explain the relationship “—is ailing, but he won’t come to see you. He’s got a terrible cough, the same as he had last year. Is there anything we can do for him?”
By the time she left, she felt as if she’d made a friend. She clutched a packet of powders and a bottle of cough syrup for Martin along with instructions for their preparation and use. Dr. Horlock opened the door, and she thanked him.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. I don’t have the money to pay you, but I brought something I hope you’ll take in trade.” She looked to Oscar, who was staring at the medicines in her hand, his brows bunching. “I make cheeses, and I have several nice ones with me down in the wagon.”
The physician nodded. “Ah, lovely. You wouldn’t guess it, but my wife actually put together a list of things to bring home from the grocery, and would you believe, cheese was on it?” To prove his words, he pulled a paper from his pocket. True enough, cheese was listed third. Relief made Kate smile.
“Shall we bring one up for you?”
“I’ll get my bag and go down with you. I have a few calls to make.” He plucked his suit coat off the rack and buttoned it up. “I can drop the cheese off at my house on the way.”
When Oscar and Kate stood alone on the walk, Oscar asked, “What is the medicine for? Is the doctor worried about the baby?”
Kate shook her head, touched by the concern in his voice. “No, we are fine, Baby and I. The medicine is for Martin, for his cough. I might not be able to get him to the doctor, but I can still get him the medicine he needs. And Dr. Horlock was very nice. Do you think one cheese was enough?” She tucked the medicines under the straw in the wagon bed.
“He said it was. And now that I know how much work goes into making one, I’m sure you overpaid.” Oscar took her elbow, guiding her around the corner toward the general store.
The Mantorville Mercantile was three times the size of Hale’s in Berne, and not nearly as inviting and cheery. Shelves packed with canned goods and patent medicines, cases stuffed with collars and buttons and suspenders, tables piled high with shirts and pants. A barrel of salt pork in brine sat near the front door, and a keg of vinegar balanced atop it.
Kate had never dealt with the owner. Martin and Johann had done the cheese-selling in the past. Johann had always thought the proprietor to be cross-grained and difficult to negotiate with. A tremor went through Kate, but Martin and Inge were counting on her to strike a favorable bargain, so she must be brave.
“Mr. Watterson runs things.” Oscar kept his voice low. There were several patrons in the store, and the man behind the counter was tying up a paper-wrapped bundle for one of them. None of the customers were ladies.
Kate watched him struggle with the length of string. It was short, almost too short to accomplish his wishes. But he finally got the knot tied, with only about an inch of extra twine sticking up from the ends. Parsimonious.
When the customer left, Kate stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly. “Mr. Watterson?”
He gave her a sharp-eyed stare, his thin lips a flat line in his face, no warmth or helpfulness in his expression.
“Hello. I’m Kate Amaker. I believe you have purchased cheeses from my late husband, Johann Amaker?”
“I have purchased a few.”
Kate felt as if a cold wind had rippled over her. She forced a bright smile. “Well, I’ve brought some into town today to sell. All two-pound cheeses, but I do have larger wheels…if you prefer to have them in the store for selling wedges and slices.”
“I am not accustomed to dealing with female vendors. Send your husband in to do business if you want to sell products to me.” Mr. Watterson’s glance flicked from her middle to Oscar, who stood a few steps behind her. “Is there something I can get for you, sir?”
Oscar shook his head. “The lady was here first.”
The shopkeeper looked as if he had just sampled straight whey.
“Mr. Watterson, I cannot send my husband. He’s dead.” Kate kept her voice flat and businesslike, though it was difficult.
The storekeeper looked at her from down his narrow, long nose. “Very well. How much?”
Kate named her price per pound.
No reaction from Mr. Watterson.
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry. I was waiting for the rest of the joke. You are joking, are you not? That price is ridiculous.” He busied himself with straightening his ledger book and pencil.
“That is the price you paid last year.” Kate had seen the receipt. This store had received thirty pounds of cheese, paid in cash, eleven months ago.
“That was last year. Times are tougher now. The harvest was lean, and people are buying less. I can neither afford to keep as much inventory, nor pay as much for local products.” He spoke patronizingly, as if she, a mere woman, was too simple to understand.
Her heart sank, but she refused to show it. “Very well. I shall have to take my product elsewhere.” She tightened the strings on her reticule, and turned away.
“Wait, I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy some, but not at that price.” He placed his hands flat on the countertop. “I’ll pay half.”
Half wouldn’t even cover the cost of making the cheese in the first place. She might as well roll the wheels of Emmentaler into the ditch. Every doorway to the Amakers staying in Minnesota seemed to slam shut in her face. But she couldn’t meet Mr. Watterson’s ridiculous offer.
“No. That’s not enough.”
Shrugging, Mr. Watterson turned his back and began taking canned goods out of a box and setting them on the counter. “Suit yourself. You know my price.”
“And you know mine. Good day.” The lump in her throat made speech difficult, but she managed to at least be polite.
She headed toward the door, expecting Oscar to follow, but when he didn’t she looked back over her shoulder. He stood at the counter, hands braced flat, leaning in. His voice was low, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but clearly it wasn’t what Mr. Watterson wanted to hear. He leaned away, his face mottling in red blotches.
