by Jan Holly
Chapter Three
Rose woke slowly, stretching under the unfamiliar covers. She ached in every fiber of her being. Eventually she opened her eyes, looking about the room, without lifting her aching head. Sunrise. Light filled her room as she sat up in bed, looking out the window. She saw yellow grass and gently curved hills, all golden in the morning sun, some unfamiliar trees as well as a grove of oaks. Last thing she remembered, she was biting into sweet cornbread and sipping hot tea. Next thing she knew, she was waking up in the first day of her new life. Her relief at being alone was enormous. She couldn’t take it all in: she was married? She was someone’s wife? She thought back to the previous day, at the train station.
After the train had come to a whistling, screeching, clacking, steaming halt, her traveling companion, Miss Annabelle Spack, had stepped out onto the platform, and Rose had seen him: Charles. Charles Smith was tall, dark haired, with almost black, straight brows and warm, golden brown eyes. He had stood there: broad shoulders, wide chest, and big arms, his hat in his hand. He had looked so hopeful, then she had seen his expression change to one of consternation. Such a handsome man, she thought in distress, and there she had stood, shorn and feeble, with her ugly glasses to protect her eyes from the sun’s glare, and wearing such a shabby dress. And then she had to go and faint. Everything had become dark and kind of far away feeling and then thud, the next thing she had known was the vial of smelling salts right under her nose. She remembered waking up on the dirty station floor, gazing up at Mr. James, the pastor, Mr. Jenkins, the Genteel Correspondence man, and Mr. Smith, her fiancé, all looking down at her.
Looking out the window from where she sat in the bed, she noticed a privy. That would be her first destination. Hurriedly getting her shoes on without buttoning them, her stiff muscles and joints aching, she hoped that she would not encounter Charles. As silently as she could, she left her bedroom and went out the front door.
Going back into the house a few moments later, she felt that every board made a creaking sound. She didn’t know where Charles was, but she assumed he slept in the room that was behind the closed door on the other side of the parlor. She tiptoed back into her room and shut the door. There was no lock. Anxiously, she took off her clothing and washed with the water in the washstand. There was a clean towel set by it, and a new bar of lavender scented soap. She dried herself, shivering in the cold morning air, but so grateful to be clean. She put on her other dress. It was not her best, she had worn that yesterday, and had fallen asleep in it. As worn as that best dress was, she had saved it for her last day on the train, knowing she would meet the man who was to be her husband. She marveled at the thought: meeting her fiancé for the first time on their wedding day. She pulled on her stockings and then her shoes again, this time securing the buttons with her steel hook that she retrieved from her carpetbag.
She remembered the stories her traveling companion, Miss Annabelle Spack, had told about marriages arranged through correspondence. She described how one woman had stepped off the train, taken one look at her groom, and turned around and got right back on. Despite how Annabelle’s blue eyes had flashed with amusement, there was no mistaking the worries she had harbored. Rose had worried, too. By the end of her lengthy journey, the letters she had exchanged with Mr. Smith seemed hazy in remembrance, like a dream.
Rose peered into the small looking glass that stood upon the chest of drawers. A solid night’s sleep had not banished the sallow pallor of her face nor the rings around her eyes. It did not appear that her hair had grown a bit, either. She turned back to her carpetbag and got out her brush and comb. Smoothing her hair took less than a minute’s work. The nuns had cut her hair off when her fever would not abate, thinking to cool her head. She tilted her head from side to side, regarding herself in the mirror, before setting down her brush. She made the bed, making sure the linens, bedclothes, and quilt were smooth and straight. All she wanted to do was crawl right back under the covers and sleep. Summoning bravery, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and left the room, intending to attempt to make breakfast for herself and Charles.
†
Charles flipped another corn pone cake, adding it to the stack that was warming on the stove. He had heard the faint sounds of Rose stirring, and quickly gotten himself ready for the day after tending to his horse. Truth be told, he was usually up before dawn most days, and had been keeping still, not wanting to wake the woman sleeping across the house.
“Good morning.”
He turned and saw her at the threshold of the kitchen. “Morning. Pull up a chair,” he said easily. “Coffee’s hot and there’s cream and sugar.” He turned back to the stove just in time to turn out another cake before it got too toasted in the small cast iron skillet. Behind him, he heard the sounds of her sitting at the table and then serving herself coffee. He hoped she’d put plenty of cream and sugar in. She had looked as though she were about to keel over, bracing herself against the doorway of the kitchen. Finishing the final cake, he brought the plates to the table, along with molasses and butter. He served her and then himself, and sat down.
“This is absolutely delicious,” she said, after a moment.
He looked up, feeling pleased. “Glad you like it. Just corn pone.”
“I’ve never had that before,” she said. “And this coffee is so good.”
“Got chicory in it,” he said.
“Well,” she said, quietly. “Had I known there’d be such wonders as these, I would have tried to recover and come out west all the more quickly.” She smiled and ate another bite.
Charles saw how slowly her hands moved as he registered her words. “Recover?”
She stilled, looking at him. “Well, yes.”
“You’ve… you’ve been ill, then?” It would have been obvious to anyone, but he didn’t want to pry.
“Surely,” she began, and then stopped. “Surely, you recall my letters? From the hospital where I was convalescing?”
He frowned, not understanding. “Pastor James corresponded on my behalf with a nun you knew in Boston. He brought me the letters you had dictated to her.”
“Yes, and I enjoyed hearing your letters read to me. I listened with great pleasure indeed to your words which your pastor penned.” She took a quick breath. “But, it seems that you are implying that you were unaware of my state of health.”
“No matter,” he said, pouring more coffee to cover his confusion.
“May I,” she asked anxiously. “If you still have my letters? May I see them?”
“Sure,” he said, after a moment. He went into the parlor, retrieving the small stack from the mantle. He handed it to her.
She sat up straight and went through each page. There were not many. Then she did so again, more slowly, this time looking at each page worriedly. “Right here.” She pointed to one page, showing it to Charles. “I remember telling Sister John what to write. My hands and eyes were still weak, you see. I was describing my education, my upbringing, and then right here it just ends. I said a great deal more but it is not here. The letter just ends abruptly on the next page, right here…” She held out the page to Charles. “I remember describing how my father and brother became ill with the fever, and then passed on, after my mother and baby sister had died. I explained how I, too, succumbed to the fever and how I was recovering under the care of the Sisters of Mercy.”
He took a slow sip of coffee, trying to buy time while he glanced at the letter that she held. Seemed as though Sister John had left some information out. So be it. He had assumed his bride-to-be could not write very much, or, like himself was unaccustomed to writing at any length and putting his thoughts into words. But he had no idea it was due to ailing health. He didn’t know what to say.
“I so looked forward to your letters,” she said, setting the pages down on the table and smoothing them. “If the train came, I’d look forward all day to Sister John arriving with a letter from you and Pastor James. She would read it to me, and it was as though
I could see everything. She read it so that I could rest my eyes. I imagined your voice. I can read. I can write, too. Sister John wrote down the words I said. My hands were still weak, you see.”
“I can write,” he said, uncomfortably. “Just not one for writing at any length.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, reassuringly. “But it was your words, that your pastor wrote, which I found so interesting. I longed to see the west, see an entirely new part of the country after living my whole life in one town.”
“Well, I sure am sorry your family got sick, and passed on. I’m sorry to hear that you were poorly, too.”
“I was nearly well, but the journey seemed to have set me back some,” she said, twisting the napkin in her hand. “I’m sure after a day or two of rest, I’ll be cooking you this wonderful, what did you call it? Corn pone?”
A day or two of rest? He served her another cake from the short stack he had left warming on the stove. It looked as though she were fading away, right before his very eyes.
“Well, I got some chores to do before I head into town for work. Is there anything you need? Anything from town?”
“Just show me what I can do, while you’re away today. Cleaning, mending, things like that.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, but I want you rest today, as well as on the Sabbath tomorrow, all right? After such a long journey, you need to catch up on some rest. I’ll show you around, though, if you like.” He cleared the dishes and left them soaking. “Right here is the trap door to the root cellar. Got some potatoes and onions down there, but not much.” He showed her the pantry, with the box of dried apples, the tins of peaches, the salt pork, salted fish, beans, and pickles and tomato preserves. “There’s a good grocery in town, and I get milk and eggs and vegetables and fruit from neighbors nearby. Here’s some water, there’s more in the kettle on the stove. The well is out there, you can see if from the window.”
“Mercy, you’ve got a lovely house. Everything just so,” she said admiringly.
He felt pride swell his chest as he glanced at her. “There is a shop in town that launders clothing and the like, but I have soap flakes and a washing tub there, if you have a need for it.”
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Well, Rascal’s out to pasture, otherwise I’d have you meet him, but you can do so tomorrow.” Truth was, he saw how she trembled after standing even that short time. “I have a hickory rocker, right here.”
She lowered herself into it, as though every bone in her body ached. “What a well-made chair,” she said, rocking slowly.
He got ready to leave and then turned to say good-bye.
She had fallen fast asleep.
Chapter Four
After placing a blanket carefully on Rose’s lap, he quietly left the house. He saddled up Rascal, who had come racing in from the pasture at the sound of Charles’ opening the gate. They headed for town but Charles’ first stop was not his blacksmith shop, it was at Doctor Petersen’s.
“A trip that long can sure take it out of a body,” said the doctor, after listening to Charles’ concerns. “You say she lost her family to a fever, though? She is mourning, Charles. You’ve got to give her time to get back on her feet. There is the concern about a relapse, however. I will drop by first thing.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Charles. “I appreciate it.”
He walked to his blacksmith shop, leading Rascal. After opening up, his assistant, a stout young man with red hair and dozens of freckles named Sylvester, arrived and began heating the charcoal and getting the bellows in place.
†
“Hello?”
Rose woke with a start. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. Her sleep had been so deep. She saw the blanket on her lap and touched it, trying to ground herself in the here and now.
“Hello? Anybody home?” The voice came again, from the front porch.
“She would come to the door if she were home,” another voice said mildly.
Rose struggled to her feet and went to the front of the house, smoothing her hair. Opening the door, she saw two women smiling, a buggy behind them. The first woman carried a basket, the second held a cloth covered bundle.
“Hello,” Rose said, smiling in welcome. “Please, come in.”
“I’m Clara Lee Chadding and I’m so glad to know you,” said the first woman. She was small and round, with blond ringlets framing her face. “I live past town, over yonder.”
“Hello,” Rose said again. “I’m Rose Adams, I mean, Smith!”
“Takes a while to grow accustomed to a new name,” said the second woman. She was tall and thin, with thick, dark hair in a knot at the back of her head. Her skin was tanned and her blue eyes, framed by laugh lines, looked kind and curious. “I’m Eleanor Tilden, but folks call me Nell.”
“Please, have a seat,” said Rose, gesturing toward the parlor. It felt strange to suddenly be playing the part of hostess. Her new home felt unfamiliar. “I’ll just put the kettle on.”
“I won’t hear of it,” said Clara Lee, gently laying her hand on Rose’s arm. “We just want to say nice to meet you and set a spell, then we’ll be on our way.”
They sat in the parlor.
“I brought a few things for you to serve for dinner,” said Nell. “I imagine you are tuckered out after all those days of travel. I sure was, and I only came from Texas.”
“Thank you!” Rose admired the chicken pie and jacket potatoes. There was also a jar of dried applesauce.
“I knitted this shawl for you,” said Clara Lee, “when I heard you were on your way. I know you must be used to cold weather, coming from Boston. Here, the nights and mornings can sure be chilly but the days are pretty mild. A shawl is sometimes just the right amount of warmth.”
“Why, goodness, thank you!” Rose was very moved. She blinked back tears as she pulled the shawl around her shoulders, admiring the soft texture and the rich amber color.
They heard the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching.
“Land sakes, it’s as busy as Barney’s Mercantile here this morning,” said Clara Lee, rising to peer out the window. “Look, it’s Doc Petersen.”
“We’ll be on our way,” said Nell. “Now that we’re acquainted, you let us know if there’s anything you need. I’ve got some extra laying hens and I know the Camerons have a milk cow they’re fixing to sell. Out west here we barter for most things, so perhaps Mr. Smith could repair tools, keep their horses shod, or some such thing.”
“And I’ve had such luck with my garden. I’ll have seeds a-plenty to share with you. Seedlings and clippings, too.” Clara Lee added, smiling proudly as they all moved to the front door.
“Howdy, Mrs. Chadding, Mrs. Tilden,” said the doctor, removing his hat and kicking the dust from his boots. “Looks as though I’m not first in paying a call today. These ladies get an early start, I see.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Rose breathlessly. The room was beginning to spin, just a bit. She reached behind her unobtrusively to brace her hand against the wall as she said goodbye to Nell Tilden and Clara Lee Chadding.
Doctor Peterson’s eyes keenly did not miss this subtle motion, and he swiftly, but somehow casually, was at her side in a moment.
“Where are my manners?” Rose tried to smile. “Please, sir, sit. What can I get you? I’ll just put the kettle on, it won’t take but a moment.”
“Oh, no thank you,” said the doctor, seriously, although his eyes twinkled. “Imagine if I had tea at each house I stopped at? Why, there’d be no more tea in Cutler’s Pass. And I’d be more tea than man!”
She smiled, sinking gratefully into a chair as Doctor Petersen sat across from her. He lifted his medical bag onto his knee and regarded her. Bald headed, with snow-white muttonchops and bright, dark eyes, he exuded kindness and intelligence.
“Sure are a long way from home,” he observed. “I’m from Boston, too. Did you know that?”
“No, I did not!” Rose smiled.
“As much as I love it here out west, I did not care for the journey. No ma’am, not one bit.”
“Terribly long,” agreed Rose.
“And all that rocking and noise.” He shook his head solemnly. “I bet your appetite just got whittled away to nothing. Mine sure did.”
“Yes, sir. By the second day, I could barely eat a thing,” she said, gratified that someone else had experienced the same thing as she had.
With gentle conversation and idle questions, his careful attention never wavering, the doctor soon got a picture of how ill she had been, how the loss of her family had left her so bereft and without means, how the long journey and nervous speculation about her future had resulted in a setback of her recovery. Once he saw she was comfortable conversing with him, he opened his bag and prepared to listen to her heart.
“Quite an invention, this bi-aural stethoscope,” he murmured. “Don’t know how we doctors got on without it.” He then checked her pulse, remarking what a lovely day it was, and asking about the weather back east. He palpitated her joints in her hands, glands at her neck, and examined her eyes.
“They get quite sore, since the fever, especially in the light,” she admitted. “Sister John, who helped me get well, procured a set of spectacles with dark glass lenses for me.”
“Well wasn’t that good thinking,” he said appreciatively. “Surely folks out here could use such a clever kind of device with all the sunshine we get in these parts. You keep wearing them, Mrs. Smith.”
“I will,” she promised.
“Some folks, I leave tablets for. Others get powders or tonics. For you, ma’am, my prescription is rest, wholesome food and plenty of it, more rest, and then more rest. You came all this way, now you get to rest on your laurels. Let Mr. Smith do the cooking and the cleaning up. He’s used to it, having been a bachelor. Let him bring the laundry into town as I’m sure he has been accustomed to. Doctor’s orders.” His gentle smile underscored the kind light in his eyes, but his tone brokered no argument.
