Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Just a few more; then I’ll help you.” Rose switched the cold flatiron for the hot one, then slid it over Hugo’s worn blue chambray shirt. She’d mended it as best she could, but the garment wouldn’t last much longer. Mary Ellen had sewed these very buttons on it the first time she and Rose had shared a cup of tea. Now that shirt was Hugo’s favorite—a reminder of his dearly departed wife’s devotion.

  “D’ya really think I can do it?” Prentice’s glasses bobbed upward as he scrunched his nose. “Lotsa folks say I’m clumsy.”

  “If you always bother to listen to bad opinions, you won’t have time to live your life. I hold with the notion that it’s far better to try and not quite get it perfect than to sit still and never see or do anything.”

  “That’s why you’re so fun.”

  “Why, thank you, Prentice. I take that as quite a compliment.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the porch, and a few solid, thumping knocks announced the arrival of a man.

  “C’mon in, Hugo!” Rose called as she brushed more water from the pot of noodles she’d boiled a few hours earlier onto the placard of the shirt to starch it. Pressing the iron to the cloth, she detected the faint aroma of noodles rising in the steam. It sharpened her appetite.

  “Dad’s bringing wood.” Prentice galloped over to the door when it didn’t swing open. He jerked it open, then stammered, “Miss Rose, it’s not my daddy.”

  Chapter 6

  Rose put the flatiron back onto the stove and glanced over her shoulder. “Mr. Diamond! Do come in.”

  “I have those other packages for you.”

  She scanned the room. “Oh yes. Could I trouble you to place them over by the hall tree?”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  “We already got our surprises in the mail today.” Prentice eagerly followed behind the storekeeper.

  Rose held up her forefinger. “But we both know it won’t be a surprise if you tell anybody what it is.”

  Prentice jerked his hand out of his pocket.

  “You may sneak past Mr. Diamond and go put your special thing beside mine in the drawer of the parlor desk.”

  “Yes’m, Miss Rose.”

  Garret straightened and watched the boy leave the room, then gave her ironing board an assessing look. He cleared his throat. “There you are. I’ll be going now.”

  Slipping the shirt onto a hanger, Rose laughed. “If you don’t mind me finishing Hugo’s shirts, you’re welcome to join us all for supper.”

  “I, uh … thanks, but—”

  “Prentice and his father live across the street. We exchange favors. I do their laundry, and Hugo hauls wood for me and refills my stove and lamp gas. Since I need starch on laundry days, I usually make a noodle casserole. It’s silly for me to make one just for myself, so they always join me on washday for supper.”

  “That’s quite an arrangement. Practical.”

  “It’s sensible. The evening’s still warm, and there isn’t much of a breeze. Please feel free to remove your coat. Hugo always dines in his shirtsleeves.”

  Mr. Diamond’s face went ruddy. He curled his fingers around his lapels and closed the distance between them. He looked down at her and lowered his voice. “Perhaps you could give me a bit of advice regarding laundry.”

  Rose felt a bit dizzy from his nearness. She busied herself arranging the last shirt on the ironing board and tried to sound casual. “Do you have a stubborn spot that won’t wash out?”

  “I haven’t tried to wash it yet.”

  “That’s probably a point in your favor. The wrong solution or temperature can set a stain. What is it?”

  He let out a sigh and peeled out of his jacket. With a hooked thumb, he dragged the right side of his vest’s neckline farther to the side of his chest.

  “Oh my. That’s a nasty scorch.” She looked up at him. “I take it you’re unaccustomed to doing your own laundry?”

  “Correct. I don’t have the talent you’re demonstrating at this moment. I looked away from the ironing board and failed to keep the iron in motion. Have I ruined the shirt?”

  “Did it burn all of the way through, or is what I’m seeing the worst of the damage?”

  “The very tip is darker.”

  “Daddy!”

  Prentice’s shout rescued Rose from gawking at Mr. Diamond. He’d continued to stand close enough that her skirt brushed his leg, and the line of the scorch arched right up toward his shoulder, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. She’d almost reached up to touch the mark—just to check the severity of it, she hastened to tell herself. She cleared her throat and called out, “Hello, Hugo. Supper and your laundry are about ready.”

  Hugo dumped an armload of logs by the hearth, dusted off his hands, and mussed Prentice’s hair. “Sounds great. Were you a good boy today?”

  “Pretty good. I can’t stand on my head yet. Miss Rose is going to help me learn how.”

  Suddenly it all sounded wrong. Rose could only imagine what these men must be thinking—that she’d demonstrate for Prentice by upending herself in a completely undignified display of petticoats and limbs. She’d just told Prentice what others thought didn’t matter, but she started reconsidering that statement. Hugo would surely understand, but how could she sit across the supper table from Mr. Diamond if he believed she’d—

  “Miss Rose taught you how to ride a bicycle and walk on stilts,” Hugo said smoothly. “It makes sense she’d be the one to show you that, too.”

  “I’m sure all it will take is for someone to stabilize Prentice,” Rose murmured. “Hugo Lassiter, have you met Mr. Diamond, the new mercantile owner?”

  Hugo walked over and shook Garret’s hand. “So are you—oh, I did the same thing—scorched a shirt. Mine looked much worse. I came to Rose for help with that disaster. Though I’m sorry your shirt met the same fate, it’s reassuring to learn I’m not the only man in town who botched up his shirt.”

  Garret’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “The only domestic skills I possess are sweeping and eating.”

  “So he’s joining us for supper.” Rose switched flatirons again and shoved a few curls away from her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Hugo, do you mind if he borrows one of your shirts so I can apply some peroxide to that scorch?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Rose made sure she didn’t offer the blue chambray. It didn’t take but a few moments to pop an extra place setting on the table, and soon they all bowed their heads for grace.

  “You’ll never imagine what came on the train,” Hugo said once they started eating. He didn’t wait for anyone to actually guess. “A washing machine for Cordelia Orrick! Nice, big, modern one.”

  “You don’t say!” Rose set down her glass.

  “It’s another one of those mystery gifts.” Hugo mixed honey with his peas and used his knife to lift them to his mouth.

  “Mystery gifts?”

  “Yes, Mr. Diamond. It seems folks in Buttonhole look out for one another. Every so often, something someone needs just …” Rose spread her hands, palms upward. “Appears.”

  “Miss Masterson, are you telling me someone secretly bought the Widow Orrick a washing machine?”

  “My daddy told you; she didn’t.” Prentice slurped some milk. “Ever’body else calls her Miss Rose. How come are you calling her Miss Masterson?”

  “We’ve only recently met. It’s mannerly to address one another that way. Miss Masterson deserves my respect.”

  Rose smiled at him and nodded her head. “That’s most kind of you, but in truth, I’m of the opinion that respect is better shown than spoken of. We’re all brothers and sisters in the family of God. I’d take no offense to you addressing me by my given name.”

  “Likewise.”

  Prentice squinted through his thick glasses. “Your name is Likewise?”

  “It’s Garret.”

  Rose watched how Garret made an effort to lean down a bit closer each time he spoke to Prentice. He didn’t slow his speec
h as if he were talking to a baby, and his tone carried warmth. More than anything, that convinced her of his character. A man who showed kindness to a gawky little boy had to have a good heart.

  “Mr. Garret, wanna know ‘bout other mystery gifts?”

  “Sure!”

  “Mrs. Percopie got a fancy icebox for the diner. Mr. Creek got a great big plow for his farm when the old one broke to smithereens. Hattie’s pa got a rifle.”

  “A Marlin repeating rifle—a fourteen shot,” Hugo added. “He’s kept that family in meat for the past two winters with the hunting he’s done.”

  “He’s quite a hunter,” Rose agreed. “Bless his heart, he’s been kind enough to give me some delicious roasts.”

  “Even though I’ve been here but a short time, Miss Rose,” Garret said as he chased a noodle to the edge of his plate and speared it with his fork, “I’d guess you shared every last one of those roasts with someone.”

  “Roasts are meant to be shared.” She smiled. “The Secret Giver sent me a bicycle.”

  “Do you have any idea who it is?”

  Hugo propped his elbows on the table and nodded. “My boss at the bank is wealthy enough. The gifts are all on the expensive side.”

  “I think it’s Mr. Hepplewhite,” Prentice said. “He always finds pennies and nickels behind kids’ ears. Maybe he finds money other places, too.”

  “And what about you, Miss Rose? Do you have a suspicion?”

  “Almost everyone in Buttonhole wonders.” Rose gave a dainty shrug. “Conjecture is normal enough. My thoughts have taken a different path though. It occurs to me that more than one individual is capable of showing kindness anonymously.”

  “She acts all calm now.” Hugo chuckled. “You should have seen her the day her bicycle arrived. Our Rose was absolutely giddy.”

  “I’ve had hours of enjoyment riding about. Is everyone ready for dessert? I made peach cobbler.”

  Over a large piece of cobbler, Garret Diamond turned into a sleuth. He and Hugo discussed how the first mystery gift, an organ for the church, arrived the Easter before Rose had moved to Buttonhole. They decided it had to be a husband and wife or a brother and sister. Only a woman would have thought to order a baby’s layette with express delivery for Mrs. Andrews when she adopted a foundling. Then, too, they reasoned that only a man would have known the particulars involved in selecting the right plow and would think to include a supply of the proper-sized cartridges with the gift of a quality rifle.

  Rose dumped the dishes into the sink to soak while she continued to remedy the scorch in Garret’s shirt. Dabbing peroxide on the large mark bleached away much of the discoloration, but she couldn’t help inhaling the fragrance of bay rum that drifted up from the fabric. Normally the homey scent of noodle starch steamed up from her ironing board; Garret’s bay rum smelled heady and masculine.

  The sheriff dropped by, accepted a chunk of cobbler, and mentioned, “Sneedly’s brood is croupy again, and Doc’s out on a call. You got anything that’ll help out, Rose?”

  “Let me see.” She excused herself and went into the spare bedroom. Instead of bothering to turn on the gaslight for just the few minutes she’d be there, she brought a candle she lit from the stove. The bottom drawer of the five-drawer chest over by the window held her supply of medicaments, and she quickly walked her fingers along the bottles, tins, and jars until she pulled out two items. Holding one container in her hand, the other in the crook of her arm, she managed to grab the candle and return to the gentlemen.

  “Sheriff, I do have a couple of things that ought to help a bit.” She blew out the candle and set it on the buffet.

  “Oh, good.” The sheriff pushed away from the table and started to leave. “I hoped you’d scare up a cure. Those kids are barkin’ up a storm.”

  Rose took the bottle from the crook of her arm, jostled it, then held it up to the light. “I’m afraid I’m about out of the Jayne’s Expectorant.” She looked down at the chunky, blue-green container in her other hand. “This is a new tin of camphorated salve though. I’ll go over and help make mustard or onion plasters.”

  “Jayne’s?” Garret’s brows rose. “Is that stuff any good?”

  “Doc recommends it. I think it works fairly well, especially if the children breathe in steam vapor.” Rose reached for her cape.

  Garret swiped it away and draped it over her shoulders, smoothly enveloping the ample volume of her leg-of-mutton sleeves. “I have a bucketful of curatives I took out of the store and put in the back until Doc could take a gander at them. A fair number of those bottles strike me as nothing more than false hope. I’m sure I saw a few bottles of Jayne’s.”

  Rose perked up at that bit of news. “With Red Riding Hood on the glass?”

  “Oh, is that who it was?” Garret chuckled. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the bottle now. We’ll drop by the store, and you can check to see if anything else there might help the children.”

  “Do you mind if I finish your shirt later and return it tomorrow?” She searched for her apron pockets beneath the cape and slipped the bottle and tin into them.

  “Not at all. I appreciate your help. It’s looking a world better already.” He held out his hand. “Why don’t you let me carry those?”

  “I’d rather ask you to bring the rest of the cobbler if you don’t mind. I doubt Mrs. Sneedly had a chance to cook a decent meal if the children are ill.” Rose handed him the still-warm metal pan and swiftly tucked a fresh loaf of bread, a bag of split peas, a hunk of paper-wrapped bacon, and almost a dozen fresh peaches into a flour sack.

  “I’ll fill your stove while you’re gone,” Hugo called as she headed toward the door.

  “Take your laundry. It’s ready to go.” She swept out the door. Garret’s stride carried him alongside her, and she halted abruptly. “You forgot your suit coat.”

  “I’ll get it tomorrow. Those poor kids are waiting for help.”

  “More likely their parents are. The Sneedlys have six children. They’ve lost half again as many. I’ve never seen folks suffer so with the hay fever and croup.”

  “I have a whole bin of onions at the store. Remind me to grab a couple for the poultices.”

  Rose smiled at him. “Thank you. You know, you could have rubbed a bit of raw onion on the scorch—”

  “And made my shirt reek for eternity.” They turned the corner, and he led her diagonally across the street so they’d reach his store a few steps faster. “I’d rather lose my shirt to stupidity than to stink.”

  “Now that Cordelia Orrick has a washing machine, you might hire her to do your laundry.”

  “Miss Rose, don’t you dare try to get me to trade a ring around my collar for a ring through my nose.”

  Chapter 7

  It’s nothing short of a modern-day miracle,” Cordelia Orrick said for the third time since she’d come into the shop. “A Number Three Western Star washer. A Number Three, mind you! Why, I won’t know what to do with all of my spare time now that I won’t be using my washboard much.”

  Zeb Hepplewhite rubbed his nose with the ball of his thumb. “When I got word you’d gotten that newfangled washer, I was hopin’ you’d feel thataway. What, with Mrs. Kiersty getting up there in age and battling her quinsy, the laundry’s not caught up at my boardinghouse. When it comes to doing the wash, I’m as useless as hip pockets on a hog. Perhaps I could hire you to be the laundress.”

  Garret smiled to himself and put several new dime novels out onto the shelf. I’ll bet whoever the Secret Giver is, that’s what he had planned all along when he ordered that big new washer. Whoever the mysterious benefactor was, he seemed to have a knack for selecting practical items—at least most of the time. An icebox for the diner, a plow for a farmer, a hunting rifle for a family man, the washing machine for a mother … but a bicycle for Miss Rose seemed like an odd choice.

  Why a bicycle? Then again, everyone in Buttonhole seemed to think she was, as Mrs. Evert said, “dotty,” or as Rose confessed, �
��dusty in the attic.” It stood to reason that the Secret Giver chose something a bit less ordinary for that reason. Besides, hadn’t Rose pedaled down Main Street this morning with a basketful of her fresh peaches to share with some townsfolk? He still remembered the supper she’d made. He’d never tasted finer. The woman surely had call to boast about her culinary skills.

  He heard the train pull out of the station. About a quarter hour later, the mailbag was brought to the post office—along with a box bearing a label from Sears, Roebuck and Co. for none other than Miss Rose.

  Garret argued with himself over the whole matter. Miss Rose was only one person, a maidenly woman of very modest means. How she spent her money was none of his affair. Then again, where she spent her money—well, that was his business, or more to the point, it wasn’t his business. The rest of Buttonhole seemed quite pleased with Diamond Emporium. Folks were voluble in their praise, and sales stayed steady if not downright brisk compared to what he’d expected from the size of the town and the financial books the previous owner had shown him before he bought the place.

  So what if Miss Rose buys things from her catalog? She comes in here to get her staples and perishables.

  It didn’t matter. Not really. But it irritated him. Garret took it as a personal challenge. He was going to prove to that woman his store would give her top-notch service, fair prices, and far more convenience than the well-thumbed book she kept on her parlor table. Surely she could see for herself that he carried superior items.

  The bell rang over the door. Garret glanced up and gave a neighborly nod.

  “Hello, hello,” Lula Mae Evert singsonged. The pink splotches in her cheeks were every bit as bright as the ones painting her daughters’ cheekbones. The daughter on the right practically towed her mother along; the taller daughter on Lula Mae’s left had to be dragged forward. “Charity and Patience both talked me into letting them have new dresses.”