by Karen Kirst
Then Oscar was at her elbow, opening the door, ushering her outside.
“I think we should have some lunch, don’t you?” His tone was so mild she blinked. “At the Hubbell House? They serve a good meal there.” When she paused her step, he shrugged. “My treat.”
The restaurant was pleasantly busy, but not crowded, and they were shown to a seat in the main dining room. The waiter handed Oscar a printed card. “We’ve still got pot roast and pork chops, but the next stage is just arriving, so you might want to hurry.”
Oscar raised his brows at Kate. “Either is fine,” she answered his unspoken question.
He ordered chops for them both, and the waiter hurried away.
“I’m sorry about that business at Watterson’s.”
Kate unfolded her napkin, smothering a weak smile at the lack of room on her lap to put it and wondering if she should just spread it over her belly. “It’s not your fault. There are men like Mr. Watterson who don’t think women should be doing business, or think that they’re too simple to understand. Or they hope they can take advantage of them, drive a hard bargain, and the woman will just fold her tent and go away.”
“I’m glad you didn’t cave. Half price.” He leaned back and toyed with the cutlery. “That’s robbery.”
“The problem is, Watterson took a lot of inventory from us last year. If I don’t sell to him this year, what can I do with the rest? Mrs. Hale will take some, but not much, and the other two stores here in Mantorville only take about ten pounds each. With there being a creamery in Rochester, the stores there don’t need to buy from me.” As she worked down her list of possible sales, the worry mounted. She’d invested time and money in the production of the cheeses, and if she couldn’t sell them, the Amakers would have nothing to show from a year’s work.
The stagecoach arrived, clattering to a stop outside the window. Through the rippled glass, Kate watched the passengers descend. The driver jumped down, coiling his whip and reaching back up for the mail bag. Hostlers hurried to unhitch the horses and lead them away, bringing fresh animals from the stables behind the hotel.
A large man edged between the tables, his long coat catching on chairs. Mr. Siddons. Kate tensed. Everyone in Dodge County knew who Mr. Siddons was.
“Mrs. Amaker?” He smiled, but his pale eyes glittered without warmth. Reptilian and cold. “I thought that was you.” He nodded to Oscar. “Rabb.”
Oscar shook his hand, half rising.
“Mrs. Amaker, I was sorry to hear about your house fire. A total loss, I believe?” He gripped his lapels. “I understand you might be selling out and heading back east? If that’s the case, I would like to be the first to offer cash for the farm and livestock.”
And just where did you hear that bit of news? Mr. Siddons was the wealthiest man in the county, and at every opportunity, he gobbled up more and more farmland. He had an immense dairy between Kasson and Mantorville, and Kate’s heart hurt at the thought of Johann and Martin’s beloved Brown Swiss cows being absorbed into the immense Siddons holdings. They would cease to be individuals with names and personalities and become numbers, worthy of being kept only if their milk production numbers merited it.
“We have not yet decided if we’ll go east or stay here, but I will convey your interest to Martin and Inge.” Kate didn’t like the way Mr. Siddons rocked on his toes, looking down at her alongside his bulbous nose, as if calculating her net worth and productivity. The Amakers might have to sell out, but she’d rather give the farm to George Frankel rather than see it in the hands of Mr. Abel Siddons.
The waiter brought their food, and Mr. Siddons spied someone else he wanted to speak to and took his leave.
Oscar bowed his head, said a short grace for their food and took up his fork. “I was thinking, I need to make a trip to Saint Paul to deliver some furniture to a store. I could take the cheeses along with me and sell them there. You’re more likely to get a better price, too.”
He spoke as if the Siddons interruption hadn’t happened. It took Kate a moment to switch her thoughts and concentrate on what he was saying. “You’d do that?” A spark of hope lit in her chest. If he could sell the cheeses for enough, maybe they could find a way to keep the farm.
Nodding, he spread a roll with butter. “It won’t take me much out of my way, and the sooner you have the cheese money, the sooner you can make your plans with Martin’s brother.”
Kate’s appetite fled at this reminder that he was eager to get them out of his house and his life.
* * *
Oscar loaded the rest of the lumber into the wagon box—including the special dimensions he’d ordered at the last minute—careful not to bump the cheeses still resting in the straw. Kate had sold ten of them to the remaining stores in town. Those, with the one she’d given to Dr. Horlock, meant she was returning home with twenty-one unsold.
She sat on the wagon seat now, wrapped in the red shawl, hands in her lap. He was glad he’d taken the time to give her some lunch at the Hubbell House, but she’d only picked at her food. The offer from Siddons must’ve killed her appetite. Either that or the unpleasant encounter at the mercantile.
His jaw tightened, remembering Watterson’s uncivil treatment of Kate. Yanking on the ropes securing the lumber, Oscar wished he was yanking on the lapels of Watterson’s coat. The bounder, trying to take advantage of Kate because she was a woman in desperate straits. He had known Watterson was a cold miser, but he hadn’t known the extent of his antipathy toward women.
At the second store, he hadn’t missed how Kate had run her hand over a bolt of soft, white flannel, a wistful look in her eyes. It had hit him like a blow to the chest. She had probably spent months making things for her coming baby, only to have them all burned to ashes in the house fire. To his knowledge, she didn’t have so much as a diaper pin left.
Which made the cheese money all that much more important.
And he didn’t have anything in a bureau or trunk at his house to give to her. When Gaelle and the baby had died, he’d packed up all the baby things and sent them over to George Frankel’s house. The Frankels could always use baby clothes and such, and Oscar had known he would never need such things again. He’d kept Gaelle’s clothes, but he’d gotten the baby things out of the house quickly.
He climbed up into the wagon and gathered the reins, chirruping to the horses. Kate grabbed the seat and her belly as the wagon lurched, headed up from the riverbank sawmill to the top of the hill and the level prairie.
She looked tired, her shoulders drooping a bit. When they got home, he’d insist she sit for a while. Gaelle, near the end of her pregnancies, had suffered from swollen ankles and a tired back. Oscar peeked toward Kate’s feet, but her long skirt covered her shoes.
That skirt. Gaelle’s. It had been her favorite maternity dress. Not because she was fond of the color, but because she said it was comfortable and easy to put on.
Seeing Kate in it when he drove up to the house this morning to pick her up had brought back so many memories. Surprisingly, though thoughts of Gaelle still brought a pang, they hadn’t hurt like he’d been expecting. Which troubled him. It was supposed to hurt, wasn’t it? He was supposed to be battling his resentment and grief, wasn’t he?
“Oscar,” she said, turning to him. “Before we get to your home, there’s something I need to ask you.”
He slowed the horses to a walk and gave her his attention, caught by the gravity of her tone.
“You asked me not to speak about Christmas to Liesl, and to ask Grossmutter to do the same.” She twisted her hands in the red, yarn fringe of the shawl. “I’d like to ask you to reconsider that request.” When she put her hand on his arm, she looked up at him with those blue eyes, filled with concern. “I don’t think you can understand how important Christmas is to Inge. She looks forward to this season all year. The town has several ev
ents, and she helps Mrs. Tipford and the other ladies plan them all. The Star Singing, the Advent tour, the church program and gift giving. She bakes once-a-year treats and decorates and anticipates.”
Oscar listened. Gaelle had been like that, too. It was one of the reasons Oscar had abandoned all the trappings of the Christmas season after her death. It reminded him too much of all the good times.
Kate bit her lower lip and then continued. “This might very well be the last Christmas we have in Minnesota.” Her voice faltered a bit. “I know I should be grateful that Martin’s brother is willing to take us in, but none of us wants to go, to leave this place we’ve worked so hard to build, the place we have our roots. From what Martin has said, his brother isn’t a pleasant man, and the work Martin will do in the tannery isn’t pleasant, either. I’d like to do everything I can to make this Christmas special for Martin and Inge. It isn’t easy for anyone to uproot their lives and start over somewhere else, but it’s especially hard when you’re elderly. I understand your concerns about Liesl, but I’m concerned about my family, too. Surely giving them a good Christmas won’t hurt Liesl too much.”
He rubbed his hand down his face, feeling like an ogre. Or that fellow in the Dickens story, Scrooge? He’d used Liesl as an excuse, yes, but in reality, he hadn’t wanted to think about Christmas because it was too painful for himself.
Perhaps he could let them have their fun and just stay out of it. Yes, that’s what he would do. They could celebrate however they wanted, and he’d hold himself out of the jollity.
Slapping the lines, he urged the horses on. “It’s fine. Do what you like. Give yourselves whatever you can as far as a nice Christmas is concerned.” He almost said he wouldn’t mind, but that wouldn’t have been true.
Kate’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled, worry lines smoothing on her brow. “And I thought, if you like, I might be able to make something for Liesl. She showed me the princess dress in her storybook, and if you wanted, I could sew one for her as a Christmas gift. That might get her mind off a baby for Christmas.” She smiled softly. “I love to sew, and it would be no trouble.”
That baby for Christmas notion. Oscar sighed. Every night that request headed Liesl’s prayer list. “It would be a load off my mind if you could get her fastened onto some other Christmas gift, that’s for sure. Maybe you two can go to town and look at fabric? And not just for a Christmas present. If you’d be willing, I could pay you to make up a new set of dresses for Liesl for the next couple of years or so. She grows so fast, and I feel like I’m always looking for a seamstress to make new clothes for her.”
“I’d like that. And you wouldn’t have to pay me. It would be a way we could give back to you for your hospitality.”
Kate’s smile was a fine reward in itself. And he had a few thoughts on how to compensate her for her time if she wouldn’t accept money.
They pulled into the yard, and Oscar stopped the horses in front of the house. There was hardly room, what with all the buggies and traps parked out front. He recognized the flashy chestnut of the Tipford’s, so the pastor and/or his wife were here, but who were all these other folks?
He leaped down and reached up for Kate. “Looks like a party. Do you know what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “I’ll go see.” She reached into the straw where she’d put the medicines she’d gotten for Martin, and Oscar led the team around the back of the house to his workshop door to unload the lumber. Rolf gamboled around, bushy tail wagging, tongue lolling.
Martin met him inside the workshop door, rheumy-eyed, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. “You might want to stay out here.” He coughed. “Hen party going on in the house.”
Oscar slid a couple of boards toward himself and grasped them under his arm. “What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. I got out of the way first thing, me and the dog. Mrs. Tipford showed up with a basket of clothes for Inge and me that have come from the church people who wanted to help.” Martin plucked at the new, blue wool shirt he wore. “It’s nice, yes? Then the other ladies came, and the kettle was heated and I left. It is the wise thing for a man to do when the women get together.” He shrugged, good-natured about it. “I went down to the barn and swept out the feed and tack rooms, and I fixed the broken hinge on that end stall door.”
Something Oscar had been meaning to get to for weeks. He’d noticed over the past few days how handy Martin was to have around, fixing little things, tidying up, always doing something. “Thanks.” He slid the boards into the rack and went back for more. Martin met him in the doorway, a four-by-four under each arm.
“Where do you want these?” Martin turned his head, coughing in a tight bark, wincing at the small explosions.
“Walnut goes in the middle rack, soft maple in the upper, but I can get it. Why don’t you take a rest?” The old man looked like a stiff wind would topple him.
Martin shook his head. “It is good to stay busy. I am not fast, but I am steady.” He eased past Oscar and into the workroom.
In no time they had the wagon empty of wood. Oscar rolled a cheese toward himself. “Let’s put these down in my cellar. Save a trip back to your place.”
As they stacked the rounds on an empty shelf, Oscar told Martin what had happened at Watterson’s. Martin’s shoulders sagged.
“I should have gone to town myself. Kate has no experience with men like him.” Regret lined his face. “Last year Johann sold all the cheeses. He had a way of dealing with men like Watterson, getting us a good price for our product.” He rubbed his hands down his face. “I miss my grandson very much.”
Oscar nodded, feeling a kinship with the old man. If Johann was here, so much would be different for all the Amakers…and for himself.
“I had a few words with Watterson before I left.” Not that it would do much good. Still, someone had needed to stand up for Kate. “You don’t want to do business with him if you can help it. Anyway, I told Kate I would take some of your extra cheese to Saint Paul with me at the end of the month and sell them there. I have to deliver some furniture pieces to a store there, and I am sure the grocers in the city would buy some of your inventory.”
Martin raised his head, a hopeful light in his eyes. “We might get a good price if you’re already going up there. It was always too far to justify the expense of a trip, but if you’re going, anyway…” His step had a bit more purpose as he went up the cellar stairs.
Oscar followed him up, pondering the notion that what a person really needed to keep going was hope more than anything. Hope that things would be better down the road, hope that someone cared, that there was a way forward.
After unhitching and turning out the horses, Martin picked up a broom, brushing aside Oscar’s protests. “I will sweep out the wagon. Then I will come to the house.”
Oscar nodded and headed to the pump to wash up. He respected that Martin wanted to work, needed to be doing something, but Oscar would need to find light jobs, preferably indoors, until the old man was feeling better. He opened the kitchen door and stepped inside. The pocket doors into the parlor were wide open.
His sitting room was crammed with females. Skirts and bonnets and chatter and scent. The smallest of the lot spied him and shot off the footstool, crashing into his knees. He swung her up, and she squeezed his neck. “Daddy, look. We’re having a tea party.” Liesl squirmed with glee. “Grossmutter… I mean… Mrs. Amaker let me wear my bestest dress, and I got to drink cammic tea, and eat cookies, and I’ve been really good. I got to help hand out the teaspoons.” Her brown eyes sparkled, and her smile was contagious. He had no idea what cammic tea was, but she looked like she was having fun. He hadn’t known what a social creature his little girl was.
Kate turned from the stove, carrying a tray, and Oscar lowered Liesl to the ground and took it from her. Here she was supposed to be resting, putting her feet up,
and she was carrying heavy trays and waiting on people.
“Thank you. I just brewed another pot. Would you like some tea, or would you prefer coffee?”
He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I would prefer that you sit down and let someone wait on you. You have to be tired from your trip to town. I can make my own coffee.”
Her lashes flicked upward, their looks colliding, and he read the surprise in her eyes. It made him feel good to catch her off guard with a little care. She spent so much time looking after everyone else, it was high time someone put her first. He set the tray on the table in front of the fireplace, and Mrs. Tipford nodded.
“Hello, Oscar. Thank you for letting us use your parlor for our meeting.” She gave him a bright smile, most likely well aware that he’d had no say in their being in his house. “I’ll pour. Now, Inge, you have the lists of food for after the Star Singing? We’ll combine the Star Singing with the Christmas Eve service, and we’ll have the treats at the church afterward. That seems to work best. And, Gussie, you’ll have the usual school program?”
Gussie Slocum, the schoolteacher, nodded, taking notes on a tablet.
Oscar realized he’d stumbled smack into the Berne Christmas Committee’s plotting session. Oh, no. He refused to get sucked into this. They could plot and plan to their hearts’ content, as long as they left him out of it. He quietly took his leave, heading into the kitchen and sliding the pocket doors nearly shut behind himself. Martin had it correct. When women gathered, it was wise for men to scamper.
Liesl followed him, squirming through the narrow space between the doors. “Daddy, Grossmutter… I mean, Mrs. Amaker…says I can be in the Sunday school Christmas program, and that all the children get to be in the Star Singing, and that when December finally comes, we will go visiting every night. And she will teach me to make Christmas treats.” She climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, kneeling and propping her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. “And we can make decorations, and learn new songs, and we will read about Baby Jesus.” She drummed her toes on the seat.
