The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  “Adding and subtracting is the problem?”

  He shrugged. “I can do it if I think long enough. But I don’t well remember how to multiply and divide. You remember how Mr. Bellows used to hit me with a cane?”

  “Yes.” Ewan often felt the slash of the same cane for not sitting still in class. “What if I helped you?”

  Malcolm sighed. “No one can help me. I’m stupid.”

  “Once you understand the concept and memorize the multiplication tables, it starts to make sense. The trick is to get into the rhythm. Try it. One times one is …”

  He waited.

  Malcolm shrugged.

  “One,” Ewan said. “One times two is?”

  “Two?”

  “Exactly.” Ewan sang through the times tables in time to the harness jingle. “Two times two is four; two times three is six; two times four is eight.”

  They worked on memorizing the multiplication tables through twelve. Ewan beat on the wagon, sang to the rhythm, called out the numbers, and encouraged his friend. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves provided a steady beat.

  “It can’t be that simple,” Malcolm said.

  “I’ll work with you. You’re intelligent. We can do this together.”

  Halfway to Sterling they stopped to water the horses. Ewan collected pebbles. While they ate their dinner, he demonstrated multiplication with piles of small stones. “Two times three is taking two piles of three stones and putting them together. How many do you have?”

  Malcolm ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, pondering. “Six?”

  “Perfect.”

  While Ewan bit into his slab of spiced beef and thick, chewy bread, Malcolm arranged the stones into three piles of four each. “Twelve?”

  Ewan nodded. “Try five times six.”

  The young man’s brow furrowed as he moved the stones around. Ewan shook his head. Twenty years old and no one had ever explained how arithmetic worked. When Malcolm shouted and grinned, Ewan knew he had grasped the concept—probably for the first time.

  “Five times five is twenty-five; five times six is thirty. I just have to memorize the answers and I know?” The wonder in Malcolm’s voice troubled Ewan.

  “Exactly. We’ll practice all the way to Sterling. I bet you’ll have it down by the time we get there.”

  He did.

  “How come no one ever explained it like this before?” Malcolm asked as they put up the sweaty horses that night at a livery stable.

  Ewan shrugged. “You keep singing the song and memorizing the numbers. The next time we team together, we’ll work on division.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Malcom said. “But I still don’t want to leave the horses. I love them.”

  Ewan felt the same way about his fiddle.

  “I know Ewan can earn the money,” Kate said. “He’s always been clever and resourceful.”

  “Seventy dollars is a large sum,” Mama said. “How much does he earn fiddling?”

  Kate didn’t know, and she’d hardly had time to talk to Ewan alone since his stuttered proposal on Sunday. “He can work the harvest and find other odd jobs. People always need help.”

  They sat together quietly while Kate chewed on her lip and tried to think what Ewan could do.

  Fairhope was a small town. The mercantile was the biggest enterprise, and most folks lived on farms. Ewan couldn’t be the minister. He had received a primary teaching certificate last fall, but dedicated spinster Doris Hall schoolmarmed the grammar school east of town near the bend in the stream. Mr. Storner taught the secondary school in town.

  “Maybe he could work at the train station?”

  Her mother frowned. “Those jobs are taken.”

  “I’ll give him my job,” Kate declared.

  “Your father wouldn’t agree,” Mama said. “You know he wants Ewan to demonstrate he can provide for you without our help.”

  Kate threw herself onto the soft velvet settee. “What am I going to do? How can I help him? Don’t you think he’s the perfect man for me?”

  Mama sat beside her. “I loved his mother as my dearest friend. I know he’s a fine young man. If you’re adult enough to wed, Kate, you need to think about what it means to be a helpmeet.”

  She pondered the word helpmeet. Obviously the Bible passage meant a wife should assist her husband. How could she help him? What could she do to encourage Ewan to work hard for them both?

  Kate savored the thrilling thought he was working for her. It was like Jacob in the Bible. Except, he wound up with two brides. Kate chuckled. That wouldn’t happen. Ewan only looked at Kate; he never even saw other girls.

  “Could I make my wedding dress? It would cheer him if he knew I expected to wear the dress at Christmastime.”

  “What a lovely gesture,” Mama said. “There’s fabric in your grandmother’s old trunk. Let’s see if it’s suitable.”

  Kate pulled the trunk from the dark corner of the attic and set it on the floor of her bedroom.

  “After your grandmother died, your father couldn’t bear to remember his heritage. It made him feel too sad.”

  “Will Papa mind?”

  “No. He’s always meant you to have Guiddame’s prize possessions.”

  Kate lifted the lid. Her father’s mother loved the dried lavender tucked inside.

  “Such fine cloth.” Mama unfolded the red-and-green plaid with lines of royal blue. “Perfect for Christmas.”

  Kate lifted the soft wool to her shoulders. “There’s plenty for a dress.”

  “Your Guiddame would be pleased you like it.”

  “What have we here?” Papa stood in the doorway.

  “Kate needs a new dress for winter, and I remembered this fabric.”

  “The MacDougall tartan,” he said. “I once had a cap made of the plaid.”

  “Do you mind, Papa?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s see what else is in the trunk.” He pulled out an old leather volume. “The family Bible.” Turning the musty pages, he paused at the names written in dark ink. “Her death was the last item on the list. Your birth the one before.” He turned the book for Kate to see.

  “Why is it in the attic instead of in the parlor where we can read it?”

  He shrugged. “It should come out. Enough time has gone by I don’t miss her with such a sharp ache. She’d be on me for hiding away this Bible.”

  Kate knelt beside her mother and reached into the chest for a large deerskin bag. “What’s this?”

  She struggled to contain the bundle of old leather and wooden sticks as she lifted it out. She turned to her father, who barked a bitter laugh. “I’d think you, of all people, would recognize a musical instrument. Bagpipes.”

  She peered closer and saw round holes in one of the sticks. Turning the bundle over, four wooden tubes jutted out the back of what appeared to be a flattened sack covered in the MacDougall plaid. One stick had small holes on the capped end, and the other three tubes had knobby endings.

  “You must blow in these holes, but what is this sack the sticks are attached to?”

  He pursed his lips in distaste. “Bellows. You blow into the mouthpiece, place the bag under your arm, and manage the sound by squeezing out the air.” He pointed to the finger-holed stick. “You play the notes there on the chanter. The longer tubes on top are drones. They make low bass and tenor notes under your melody.”

  Papa helped her hold all the awkward pieces in place.

  The short mouthpiece smelled musty and reedy, but when she blew into it, the bag expanded under her arm. She blew and blew to fill the bag until her lungs ached and she felt dizzy. A squawk sounded, and Mama’s hands flew to her cheeks.

  Papa laughed. “After all this time, you’ll need to make new reeds if you want to get any sort of melody. I give them to you, Kate. The pipes are your heritage, but I will not listen to such caterwauling in my house. Take them away!”

  Kate clasped the jumbled instrument to her chest. “Thank you.”r />
  He laughed again. “We’ll see if the neighbors feel the same.”

  Chapter 4

  Ewan winced as Kate blew into the bagpipes. The scolding, harsh sound grated on him as she wavered the tone, trying to find a clear note.

  She spit out the mouthpiece in a gasp. “Don’t you love it?”

  “If you must make music with multiple tubes, I like the panpipes. How about a fiddle and flute duet?”

  Kate set down the awkward bundle. “I’ll get one.”

  Ewan picked up the “instrument” to examine. He observed dings and dents in the wooden tubes, and was that blood on the cloth? With a little care and perhaps a new cover, it would look presentable in public, but the noise! He shuddered. His musician’s ear could be both a godsend and a curse when it came to musical notes.

  He tugged at the chanter and it came apart, exposing an old reed. Ewan blew, amazed it still produced a sound. He popped out the old one to study better. Surely a new reed would help the tone. In the meantime, without a reed, Kate couldn’t make any noise. He grinned.

  Sitting across from him, Malcolm laughed. “Thanks.”

  Kate sashayed into the parlor with the cane flutes she and Malcolm had constructed during the summer. Ewan knew this instrument and blew a tentative breath into the largest one. Ah, a much more satisfying sound.

  The reed flutes always reminded him of his mother. She’d escort them to the creek near the school when they were children, carrying a thick knife. She’d cut the cane, whittle out holes, and they’d make music on the riverbank. Kate took to it the best, though Malcolm wasn’t bad. Ewan’s favorite childhood memories were of sunny days along the chattering creek piping the flutes.

  “Let’s play your mother’s song.” Kate blew the opening notes of “The Bonnie Blue Bells of Scotland.” Ewan joined in, modulating his tone to ensure the notes were in tune.

  Mrs. MacDougall clapped. “It reminds me of Bonnie to hear her song. You have her gift, Ewan, and it’s a pleasure to hear.”

  “And me?” Kate asked.

  “You’ve been well taught.” Her lips lifted in an indulgent smile.

  Kate made a face and laughed with her merry mother.

  Malcolm closed his eyes. “Play the number song.”

  Ewan tried a few notes to find the right pitch and then piped quietly while Malcolm ran through the multiplication tables.

  MacDougall entered the parlor and frowned. “What’s this children’s song?”

  “Ewan taught me to multiply.”

  His father challenged him on several. Malcolm got them right.

  “Do you understand what it means?” MacDougall asked.

  Malcolm reached for a collection of his mother’s silk embroidery threads. “I’ll show you. Two times two is four.” He deftly moved the floss hanks into groups as he sang the multiplication tables to ten.

  “So, if I have a box three feet by two feet by one foot deep, what’s the volume?” His father asked.

  “Take it by steps,” Ewan said. “First, three times two; then the answer times one. You can figure it, Malcolm.”

  Mrs. MacDougall blinked rapidly.

  “Three times two is six. Six times one is six. The answer is six?”

  Ewan played a piper’s congratulations tune.

  MacDougall stared at his son. “I don’t believe it. Come to the store tomorrow and I’ll put you to work.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Got to get the horses shod. Sorry.”

  MacDougall stomped out of the room, but his wife approached Ewan. “How?”

  “He needed encouragement. I don’t think he’d ever grasped the concept before. He’s on his way.”

  “But I still don’t want to work in the mercantile.” Malcolm rose and went upstairs.

  Kate tucked her hand into Ewan’s elbow as she walked him to the porch. “I’m so proud of you. Thank you for helping Malcolm.”

  “He’ll do fine.” Ewan leaned closer to her, sighing at her lilac scent, so like his mother’s.

  “What will you do tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be harvesting the Reverend’s crop this week. That’ll pay for my room and board,” he paused, “until we’re married, of course. Once I’m finished there, I’ll seek work at the other farms.”

  “I ask everyone who comes into the store if they need a worker. I’ll help you.”

  Ewan jerked. “What type of work?”

  “Anything. Right?”

  He nodded. “I suppose so.”

  Kate inspected her slippers peeping from beneath her dark skirt. “I’ve found fabric to make a dress.”

  “You’re a good seamstress.”

  “I know about my father’s arrangement with you, and I know you can do it. I’ll support you any way I can. I’m sewing a wedding dress.”

  Her confidence caught him by surprise. “You have such faith in me?”

  She glanced toward the lighted window and dared a kiss to his cheek. “God brought us together. He’ll see us to the wedding.”

  Ewan pressed her hand to his chest.

  “Good night, Ewan,” Mr. MacDougall called.

  He kissed Kate’s hand and jumped off the porch into a night studded with approving stars. He danced all the way to Reverend Cummings’s hay-filled barn.

  Kate spent her afternoons working at her father’s mercantile. She loved cutting fabric for the farm wives and watching the shy grins on children’s faces when she slipped them a piece of penny candy.

  When the teamster from Clarkesville stopped by with the weekly order, Kate compared the bill of lading to their ledger list. She checked off each item as she unpacked it from the crate and signed her name at the bottom. Kate swallowed when she saw the freight charges marked “C.O.D.” Her father was out of the store. “How do I pay this?”

  The gruff bearded man pointed to the letters. “Cash on Delivery. You pay me cash from the till, and I’ll write you a receipt.”

  She opened the lock box, counted out the bills, and waited for the teamster to sign. He tipped his hat and left the store.

  Kate tapped her fingers on the receipt. Something wasn’t right.

  The bell above the door rang, and a sweaty Ewan entered. “Hello, pretty girl. Have you got a drink for a thirsty man?”

  He smelled of summer crops and hard work; his sunburned face shone. She reached for a tin cup under the counter. “The pump is outside.”

  When he returned, she showed him the bill. “Does this look correct to you?”

  Ewan examined the numbers. His eyebrows rose, and he pointed to the freight charges. “Does it really cost this much?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “You’re paying a high percentage versus the cost of the items. It would be more economical to hire Malcolm to haul your freight.”

  “He’d like that,” Kate said.

  Ewan rubbed his chin. “This is the usual cost?”

  Kate shrugged. “My father always pays this bill.” She collected the papers and stuck them into the ledger. “He’ll check them. I have another problem.”

  She pulled out the bagpipes from a basket under the counter. “I’ve been trying, but they won’t make a sound.”

  He nodded.

  “I asked Josiah to look at them last night. He doesn’t know anything about musical instruments and didn’t want to help me. Do you know why they would have stopped playing?”

  Ewan’s hands went into his pockets. “What have you done different?”

  “Nothing. Watch.”

  She gathered the three drones and leaned them against her left shoulder, slipping the air bag under her arm. She pointed the finger-holed stick, the chanter, toward the ground and adjusted the mouthpiece. She blew and the bag expanded but produced only an empty whoosh.

  Kate moved her fingers over the holes. No sound, only air rushing between her fingers. If she pushed her elbow hard against the bag, the air came out faster, but the drones only emitted a low groan, hardly music and unaffected by her fingering.
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  “At least it doesn’t hurt anyone’s ears now.”

  The way he said it, a sort of flippant remark, made Kate suspicious. She pushed out the air from the bag and stared at him. “What did you do to my bagpipes?”

  “Do you have a piece of twine? Let me help you.”

  She set the poor bagpipes on the counter and retrieved a spool of hemp twine from the shelf. Ewan arranged the instrument like a skeleton on the counter, each part pointing in the correct direction. He tied the three drone sticks together, “so they’ll stop flopping around,” and then tugged apart the chanter.

  Kate gasped. “Did you break it?”

  He pulled a birch bark box from his pocket. “Here’s your problem. You need a new reed.”

  She examined the roughly shaped bagpipe reed. No longer than her little finger, the reed part looked like two tiny fans glued together on the side with a narrow slit at the top. A piece of thread tied them together at the base of the fan and around an inch-long narrow tube.

  Ewan plucked it from her hand and blew into it, producing an airy duck quack. “It works. I copied the old reed I found inside the chanter the other night. I could see you needed a new one.”

  He put the pieces back together. “Try it now.”

  He set the instrument into her arms. Tied together, the three drones no longer flopped out of control. Kate blew into the mouthpiece to fill the bag, and a wailing squeal sounded.

  Delighted, Kate ran her fingers up and down the holes. The noise screeched like a wild cat, and Ewan clapped his hands on his ears. “Enough!”

  She let the mouthpiece drop from her mouth. “You don’t like the sound?”

  “No. Doesn’t it hurt your ears?”

  Her thick braids wound around her ears muffled the sound. Kate recognized it wasn’t a pleasing tone, but she’d only blown the instrument a couple of times. What did Ewan expect?

  “Wouldn’t you rather play your flutes?”

  Kate considered him. Ewan’s fine ear enabled him to tune her reed flutes with tiny knife cuts. She loved the light happy sound of the small flutes, but these bagpipes gave her a feeling of power. The loud, uncontrolled noise, the heaving bellows, the floppy sticks, made for a physical experience. She loved the bagpipes, even if she couldn’t play them yet.