by Natalie Dean
“I think I’m following along with you,” he said with a smile as he brushed the teardrops away with his knuckle. Then he started to laugh. “You know,” he said conversationally, “being down in the mine hasn’t done anything for your complexion. And I haven’t washed myself either. If you think we can stand to wait a bit for the rest of the tale, what do you say to me bringing in some water to heat on the fire and we can get some of this dirt off us?”
She looked down at herself. Her dress bore a top layer of dust over the fabric and her hands were grimy. “Oh,” she wailed. “I look horrid!”
“Not to me you don’t,” he said, rising from the chair and settling her on her feet. “But I’ll get the water and once we’re clean, maybe we could see about getting something to eat and then you can tell me everything you just tried to say now, only this time, you can say it without talking so fast I think there must be a posse after you.”
“Peter, did you know that Long Sally’s first . . . Martha’s father was hanged for stealing?”
“I did,” he said. “Long Sally is a rough sort, but a good person.”
“Martha is going to have the part of Mary in the performance.”
He nodded in approval. “Give her a pronged halo, why don’t you, to keep away some of those miners who think that they ought to be able to treat her like she works at the Laydown,” he said, referring to the saloon in Newton which served more than whiskey to its customers.
“Peter—"
He stopped at the door. “Sweetheart, you’re as pretty as ever, and I could look at that cute face of yours all day, but there’s no denying that the hair on your head and the skin on your flesh have taken on a color that no earthly mortal has ever borne.”
After he went out to get the water, Clara looked down at her dress. She might never be able to get it clean. A surreptitious peek at the garments beneath the dress confirmed that the frilly undergarments were much the worse for their time in the mine.
Not so long ago, she would have been distraught at the prospect of a ruined dress. But she did not feel that way now. She would wash it and scrub the fabric and hope for the best. She had other things to wear. Peter was the one who needed more shirts and trousers. The next time he had money, she was going to insist that he buy a new shirt and new trousers. She could sew him others, but he deserved something new besides his wedding suit that he only wore to church.
She had forgotten all about preparing dinner in her haste that afternoon to see Peter in the mine, but there was bread and butter and strips of salted meat and tomatoes from the garden that she’d canned.
“Now, then,” Peter said once they’d sat down to eat, “tell me about the camp.”
“Peter, they’re so poor and they have nothing. Just their hopes of striking it rich in the mines.”
“That’s every miner’s hope,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but you . . . you don’t care about being rich.”
His brown eyes were steady on her. “No,” he said, “I don’t. But I know folks who set quite a store by it.”
“You mean me,” she said.
He tilted his head and looked at her with a smile. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to want her husband to strike it rich.”
“Now I don’t want you to ever go down in the mine again,” she replied, shuddering at her memory of the mine, its darkness and the enclosed feeling she had had once she stepped down from the rope ladder onto the dirt. “You could be a carpenter. We could live on what you earned.”
“Most men in Colorado do their own carpentering.”
“But—well—we’ll think of something. Peter, you must promise me that you won’t—"
“I can’t promise that I won’t go back into the mine, sweetheart,” he said. “I bought the mine for a reason and I think—I know—that it’s going to be a big strike.”
“How can you know it? All I saw was dirt.”
Peter didn’t answer. He knew because he’d seen it, just that day. But this wasn’t the time to tell Clara that their days of making two bits do the work of six bits were about to come to an end. She’d had her epiphany today and he’d had his as well. His could wait.
“You didn’t go far enough into the mind. And I’m not suggesting that you should! Go on, tell me about the camp.”
So she did, happily relating to him the plans for the performance and how they had changed, so that all the children would dress up in a costume while the story was told. Hazel said that one of Gavin’s ewes was ready to deliver, so there would be a lamb for the story. Hazel would ask Harley to bring a cow. Then they were going to have a great feast, she told him excitedly. Hazel had said that her cook could make plenty of food and Harley would be in favor of it. The children would have their bellies filled that day.
Peter stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That’ll be a good thing for them,” he said. “Poor mites, they don’t often get a full belly.”
“You’ll have toys for them?”
He nodded. “Tops and puzzles and such . . . nothing fancy.”
“I didn’t see many toys in the camp,” she said. “To have their own will be more than they can conceive of, I should think.”
“This is for Twelfth Night, you say? That’ll give me more time. You said Harley is buying presents from the general store? They might want those for Christmas; I don’t expect they’d think Santa is going to make an appearance.”
Clara nodded eagerly, glad that Peter was offering his ideas on the celebration. “Harley can give the presents to the mothers so they can put them by the children’s bedrolls. They’ll find them when they wake up on Christmas Day.”
“You know,” Peter said, “if there’s going to be a lamb and a cow, seems only fitting that Angel should make an appearance. She’s a sure enough camel and I reckon the Wise Men rode camels, don’t you?”
“That horrible beast, she’s likely to bite the children.”
“Not if I hold onto her.”
“Oh, Peter, you’ll be part of the performance!”
That wasn’t exactly what Peter had had in mind, but when Clara flung herself on him, he remembered that it had been days since they’d enjoyed one another’s affection. If she wanted him to be a part of this thing, just to keep Angel under control, then he’d do it.
Clara spent the next couple of weeks in a whirlwind of activity. There was the sewing on the costumes to be done, getting ready for Mother and Father and their arrival to Colorado. There was rehearsing with the children, who were, against her expectation, so eager to please and well-mannered that Clara praised them highly for their behavior.
Their mothers watched in sober pride as the children, suddenly invested with a sense of ceremonial decorum, stood in their positions as Clara, narrating the story until a narrator was chosen, took the participants through the episodes of the story.
The mothers were nearly as excited about the performance as the children, and when Clara explained to them that, following the performance, there would be a meal for everyone, the women’s eyes widened.
“Peter is making toys so that everyone gets one,” she said proudly. “The custom of giving gifts comes from the Wise Men. But . . .” she lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner and motioned the mothers to come closer. “There will be presents for you to give to your children on Christmas Day. But say nothing; it must be a surprise and they can believe that Santa Claus has come while they were asleep.”
Gretchen Kilgore, whose son Alton was going to play the part of King Herod, gave Clara a suspicious look. “You ain’t funning us now, are you?”
“Shut your mouth, Gretchen,” scolded Long Sally. “Mrs. Edwards wouldn’t say it if she weren’t goin’ to do it. She’s up here every day making sure our brats are primed for this thing. You think she ain’t got better things to do?”
Clara was taken aback by Long Sally’s belligerent defense and hurriedly spoke to take away any ill feeling. “We are working together on this,” she said. “So that the children w
ill understand why we celebrate Christmas. And,” she added, “this will be a very special event for me and my family. My mother and father are coming all the way from Boston for Christmas in Colorado with me and my sisters, and they’ll be eager to see the children perform.”
“Folks are coming all the way from back East to see them?” repeated Dora, whose daughter was going to be an angel in the play.
China Jean’s mother, a dainty little woman with hesitant English and a ready smile that made up for any lapses in language, looked at Clara in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard correctly.
Clara decided not to correct the misinterpretation that Mother and Father were coming from Boston to see the children in the Christmas story performance. But when she told Hazel about it, her sister laughed.
“Why not,” she said. “In fact . . . what do you think about asking Mother to do the narrating? I have a feeling that you might be needed to keep the children in order so that they know when to make their appearance. By the time of the program, the mothers might be just as exuberant as the children.”
“Mother . . . that would be perfect,” Clara declared. “Oh, Hazel, this is going to be the best Christmas ever!”
“Yes,” Hazel agreed thoughtfully, “I do believe that you just might be right.”
On Christmas Day, when the Ellis daughters and their husbands and parents and Oakley gathered at the Wyatt ranch for the holiday, Clara was convinced that her wishes were going to come true. When she opened the present from Hazel and found a new hat inside, she was so excited that she squealed.
“Try it on,” urged Peter. “Let’s see how these Boston ladies look in their new hats.” He followed through on his suggestion by helping Clara pin her hat on, occasioning laughter even from the imperturbable Oakley, who laughed even harder when Mother put her new hat on top of Oakley’s blonde head for just a moment.
After they had opened presents and eaten the Christmas meal, it was time for the Ellis tradition that the daughters had been longing for, and that was the music. Hazel beckoned for Oakley to join the women around the piano; Oakley hesitated at first, but Harley gave her a little push on her shoulder and she went forward.
She knew the songs; she had sung them with Hazel throughout the season. And, as the first carol came to a close, Clara caught the sound of Oakley’s pristine voice.
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
“You,” she said as soon as the chorus ended, “you shall sing in the performance!”
Oakley, who had been watching the preparations with an enraptured eye while Hazel painted the scenery for the different settings, looked alarmed, then looked to Hazel.
But it was Mother who answered. “Clara is right,” she said. “You have a beautiful voice. And a choir of angels sang to greet the birth of the Lord.”
“I don’t reckon you’ll have that choir on hand for this gala,” Peter said. “But maybe Miss Oakley can represent the choir with her voice.” He smiled at the girl. “Now that you’ve shown us what you can do, we’re going to want to hear a solo next year.”
“Better get to practicing, Oakley,” Harley said.
The smile that he received for this remark nearly brought Hazel to tears as she watched. She knew that it was not easy for Harley to praise; he was a quiet man by nature. But his words, on Christmas Day, were a gift to the young girl who knew today that she was part of a family.
Chapter 19
Clara met the camel’s limpid, long-lashed gaze with a stare. “I’m warning you,” she said. “Don’t you spit or bite or do anything nasty to ruin this performance. If you do, I vow I’ll ride you all the way to Bethlehem myself and sell you to a caravan!”
“Now, is that any way to talk to her,” Peter chided. “So . . . how do I look?”
“Just like a Wise Man,” she said approvingly. Peter had been the only husband to consent to don a costume and take part in the performance. Gavin had agreed to let one of the shepherds hold the lamb, and Harley’s cow was a placid beast who would stay put where she was placed. But they had both said that they wanted to watch. Peter, however, had no qualms and for his willingness to help, he had merited his wife’s adoring expression and his very own robe.
The Wise Man hugged his wife. “I have to admit,” he said, “I’m feeling mighty wise right about now.”
“What were you and Father talking about when they came by the other day?”
“Oh, he has some ideas about mining,” Peter said casually.
“Father? He doesn’t know anything about mining.”
“I reckon he’s willing to learn.”
“But—oh, you vile beast!” Clara said as Angel nipped her shoulder.
“Now, talk nicely to her and see if she doesn’t surprise you by being as docile as any lamb Gavin could bring.”
Clara had enough to do and making peace with the camel was not part of the day’s itinerary. Peter was going to ride Angel to the camp while Clara came at her own pace in the wagon.
When she arrived at the clearing in the camp where the performance was to take place, Harley and Gavin were putting up the cloth scenes, fastening them to the wooden support that Peter had constructed. Clara went to the camp where the children, supervised by Long Sally’s instructions, delivered at the top of her voice, were putting on their costumes. Oakley was being helped into her angel’s robes by Hazel; the children had heard her sing her part when they practiced and they were in awe that such a voice could come forth from the slight girl.
Out of sight, but not out of smell, Constanza and Jane were supervising the cooking of the food that would be served for the meal that they would all share after the performance. Constanza had baked so many loaves of bread that she said she was sure that there could not be any yeast left in Newton. Pink hams were cooking in firepits, the rich smell catching the attention of the children as the aroma wafted in the cool air.
It was a perfect day, Clara thought. It wasn’t snowing or raining and although the temperatures were crisp, the sun was bright. When Long Sally noticed the weather, she had said that the Good Lord was smiling on the children and the other women had nodded agreement. The men, some of them husbands and fathers, were not quite sure what to do with themselves until Minnie directed them to take a seat on the blankets that had been placed on the ground, facing the stage. When she caught sight of one of the men preparing to drink from a bottle, she fixed him with a stare as sharp as a bayonet until he put the bottle away.
“That’s right, Missus,” said one of the men. “This ain’t no day for demon rum. This here is a day for the Lord.”
Minnie smiled. “Exactly!”
For her part, Clara felt as though she needed to be in a dozen places at one time. She was doubly glad that Hazel had suggested having their mother do the narrating because Clara was much too busy. It was fortunate, Clara thought, that Long Sally was there to help; she managed to get the children calmed down as she stood on the side, ready to send them up when the scenery changed.
When all was ready, Clara appeared on the stage. She and her sisters and her mother had agreed that they would dress in their finest dresses in order to treat the day with its due importance. The black and green plumes of her new hat swayed in the breeze as she spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she greeted, “we welcome you to the first annual Newton Christmas Performance and we thank you for coming. We ask of our audience that you refrain from smoking, drinking, spitting, cursing and fighting during the performance.”
“You hear that, Lloyd Alvaney!” Long Sally’s voice boomed out from behind the stage.
The possessor of the name looked startled at hearing his name, and his list of vices, joined together. He nodded nervously. “I hear, Sal,” he answered.
Clara had not expected interaction. “At the end of the performance,” she said, “our actors will come out for their bows. We trust that you will applaud them then for their efforts. And now . . . the city of Bethlehem.”
Mother came forward and stood. She h
ad memorized her lines but even so, she held the Bible in her hands as if she were reading from it. Long Sally had been of the opinion that if anyone planned to get rowdy, the sight of the Good Book would stifle their rambunctious natures.
Mother’s gaze passed over the assembled audience. “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem.”
While it took Joseph a moment or two longer than it had during rehearsal to respond to the cue, with the result that Mary began to move forward without him, an expression of impatience visible on her face, to the audience, it was as if they were watching a performance on Drury Lane. Ignoring the instructions not to clap until the end, several of the miners applauded as soon as Mary and Joseph walked to Bethlehem.
The shepherds were so fascinated by the lamb in their midst that they almost forgot what they were supposed to do until Long Sally’s fierce whisper to get their backsides on stage, heard by the audience and the cause of more than one muffled laughter, brought them forth.
Oakley led the angels forward to the starry sky scenery and opened her mouth.
Gloria in excelsis Deo, she sang, the refrain a pure signal of rejoicing for the marvelous event that was taking place. The other angels clustered around her, watching open-mouthed as she sang, ignoring the shepherds who were just boys they knew and no one important.
As Peter was leading the other two Wise Men, their appearance was rather more sedate, and even Angel, perhaps mindful of the importance of her role as a Bible camel, moved into the scene with majestic dignity.
The applause that greeted the children when they emerged again, this time to take their bows, was thunderous. Hazel, Minnie and Jonathan Ellis rose in an ovation and the others followed suit. The children were confused by this adulation and looked uncertainly at one another.
