A Season of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  “Thank you, Nellie. The cake looks delicious.”

  She looked up, saw the cook coming toward her and shook her head. Her appetite was gone. “I don’t care for cake tonight, Nellie.” She rose and glanced from her mother to her father. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to my room now. I have work to finish before tomorrow.”

  “Ellen! Surely, you do not intend to continue helping Willa with those decorations.” Her mother looked aghast. “Why, Mr. Lodge—”

  “I will not be seeing Mr. Lodge until Sunday morning, Mother. And the bows for the decorations need to be finished.” A twinge of satisfaction rippled through her. “Willa is depending on me. Her baby has taken ill, and she can no longer do the work.”

  “That is not your concern, Ellen.”

  She stiffened, looked at her father. His gaze was cool, direct.

  “Your mother is right. It is important that you stay home tomorrow and prepare yourself for Mr. Lodge’s arrival. Willa can find someone else to do the work. You are not her servant.”

  And I am no longer ten years old. “No, Father, I’m not. I’m her friend.” She dipped her head, pulled her wrap higher around her shoulders and walked to the door, the rich silk of her long three-tiered skirt whispering softly in the dead silence of the room.

  * * *

  “It sounds as if Aunt Ruth’s having a real hard time, Ma.” Daniel frowned down at the signature on the letter in his hand. “Who is Lillian Morton?”

  “Ruth’s neighbor. She’s got seven children.”

  His mother’s knitting needles clicked out a steady accompaniment to the whisper of the rockers on her chair—a comforting sound he’d listened to all his life. He watched her small hands manipulating the needles, one pudgy finger extended as she guided the red yarn between them. “Remember how I used to sit by your feet and watch you knit when I was a youngster?”

  She glanced up at him, a soft smile on her lips. “I remember.”

  “I never could figure out how you could take a string of yarn, put it through those needles and have it come out a pair of socks or a hat or something. I still can’t.” He grinned down at her. “Remember that time you tried to show me how, and my fingers kept getting in each other’s way until I was all tangled up in the yarn?”

  She nodded and laughed. “You finally gave up, said, ‘It must be a woman thing,’ and went outside.”

  “At least I was smart enough to know when I was licked.”

  “Yes. You always knew....” She lowered her hands to her lap and looked up at him. “I’m sorry you had to give up your dreams when your pa died, Daniel. I tried to think of another—”

  He raised his hand, palm out, and cut off her words. It was one subject he didn’t discuss with her. There was no point. She felt guilty, and he felt cheated. But it was just the way of things. And it couldn’t be changed. He was too old for an apprenticeship now. And he’d quit one again to take care of her. “There wasn’t any other way, Ma. These cabins are for Mr. Townsend’s loggers. The only way we could stay was for me to go to work for him.” The sadness in her eyes made his heart ache. He pulled up another grin, chuckled. “I sure couldn’t have provided us a home by knitting.”

  “No. But, all the same, it cost you the good life you could have had. And your hope of courting Ellen. And I see how—”

  “Don’t, Ma! It’s over and done. And there’s no way of knowing what would have been. We’ll finish with the decorations tomorrow. Then Ellen will choose her husband, and I’ll go back to camp.” He pasted on a smile. “And aren’t you the one that always tells me ‘God works things out for the best’?”

  She stared up at him, took a breath and nodded. “I guess my heart got in the way of my rememberin’ that.” Her voice choked.

  He hurried to her chair, leaned down and kissed her cheek, tasted the salt of a tear. “No cryin’, Ma. I’m fine. Besides, my ma doesn’t cry—she prays.” That won him a smile. It was wobbly, but it was still a smile. She returned to her knitting.

  He went back to stand by the fire and looked down at the letter he still held. “This woman is kind to care for Aunt Ruth, but doing so, on top of caring for her own family, is working a hardship on her. I know you were planning to go and take care of Aunt Ruth after Christmas, Ma, but her need seems more urgent than ever.”

  “I’ll go when you go back to camp.”

  That was his ma—always thinking of him. He shook his head. “I’d like that, but you didn’t raise me to be selfish, Ma. You need to go tomorrow, while the weather is favorable. It’s quit snowing this evening, and the wind has died off, which means the stage will get through to Olville all right tomorrow. But the weather can change faster than a blink.” He slapped the letter against his palm, thinking. “You’ll need some money for your needs while you’re in Syracuse...and to get you through any emergency stops should the weather turn bad. I’ve some set aside. We’ll stop at the bank and pick it up when I walk you to the trolley in the morning.”

  Silence. He looked over at his mother, met her gaze on him warm with love and shining with pride. “‘Thy father and thy mother shall be glad, and she that bare thee shall rejoice.’”

  Her whispered Bible quote filled his heart, tightened his throat.

  “You’re right, Daniel. I’ll go tomorrow.” A smile warmed her eyes. “And I have my new warm wrapper and slippers to take with me.” The smile died. “But I won’t be here with you on Christmas Day.” She lifted a pile of knitting from her basket, rose and came to him. “Merry Christmas, son. I hope these keep you warm.” She handed him a pair of socks and a hat, then lifted a matching scarf into the air. He ducked down and she draped it around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  He cleared his throat, tugged the hat on, slipped his hands into the socks and gave her a big hug. “Thanks, Ma. I’ll sure appreciate these when the wind’s howling and the snow’s flying.”

  She nodded, blinked and started across the room toward her bedroom. “I’ll get packed and I’ll go tomorrow, Daniel. But I don’t like leaving you...now.”

  Now. That last word was a mere whisper, not meant for him to hear. She didn’t believe him about Ellen. He should have known she would sense the emotional tug-of-war going on inside him. I’ll make it, Ma. He pulled his gifts off, folded them and strode to his bedroom to put them with his other gear. He’d be going back to camp as soon as his work for Willa was done—storm or no storm. He wasn’t going to stay in town and watch Ellen with her beaux. A man could only take so much.

  Chapter Nine

  Both stoves were pouring out heat. The sanctuary and the back room were warm. The lamps were lit. Everything was ready. Daniel tugged his new hat and gloves on, left the church and headed for the parsonage.

  Happy, busy sniffing out the news of the previous night, gave a welcoming bark and came bounding up the path from the stable to greet him at the porch steps. “Hey, fellow. How are you doing this nice sunny day?” He rubbed behind the dog’s ears, thumped him on the shoulder and got peppered with snow sent flying by the dog’s thick furry tail for his trouble.

  “Is that the reward I get for being nice to you?” He laughed, brushed the snow off of his sleeves and climbed the steps. The dog jumped ahead to the door, gave a vigorous shake, then tilted his head to the side and peered up at him, tail wagging.

  “All right, there’s no need to beg. I’ll let you in.” He stomped his boots clean, knocked and opened the door. The smell of hot coffee tinged with a remaining hint of breakfast bacon greeted him. “Smells good in here.” He reached up and tugged off his hat.

  “Good morning, Daniel.” Willa smiled and came toward him, patting the swaddled baby on her shoulder. “Did you come for a cup of coffee before you start working on the decorations?”

  “No. I came for you.”

  “Oh? Is there a problem?”

 
“You might say that.” Daniel looked around, didn’t see anyone else in sight and lowered his voice. “Where’s Bertha?”

  “She took advantage of the break in the weather and went to visit her niece. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I know what you’re doing, Pest, and it stops now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  He snorted.

  “Oh, all right!” She tipped her head and looked up at him, gave him another of those sweet smiles. “Is it working?”

  “Of course not!”

  The baby whimpered.

  “Shhh...” Willa patted harder, frowned up at him. “Stop snarling. You’re frightening Mary.”

  He scowled and moderated his voice. “You know how I feel, Pest—there is no ‘working’ going to happen. I’m over my childhood love for Ellen, and I intend that it will stay that way. She doesn’t know how I felt about her, and she’s never going to. She deserves better than me, and she knows it. I know it. Now—”

  “Daniel Braynard, I could shake you!” Willa’s blue-green eyes flashed. She stopped patting the baby and poked her finger against the jacket covering his chest. “You are one of the finest men I know. And any woman would be blessed to have you for her husband!”

  He gave another snort.

  “Yes, they would! Even Ellen. Especially Ellen.” She jabbed him again, so hard he had to take a step back. “You think you are so wise and gallant because when your pa died and you had to give up your apprenticeship at the counting house to provide a home for your ma, you decided you would never be good enough to be accepted by Ellen’s parents as a suitor and gave her up.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but she sucked in air and launched into him again before he got a word out.

  “Well, you were right about Mr. and Mrs. Hall. But, that doesn’t mean Ellen felt the same way. And you—” another jab landed on his chest “—never gave her a chance to decide for herself when she was old enough to think things through. And she has the right to choose. Open your eyes, Daniel, and you will see that Ellen’s values are not the same as those of her parents—though she has been so swayed and led astray by them, she thinks they are.” She narrowed her eyes, peered up at him. “Tell me you haven’t seen a change in Ellen these last few days. Tell me you haven’t seen traces of the old Ellen—”

  “That’s enough, Pest!” He held his voice quiet, reasonable, but what he wanted was to turn and drive his fist into the door to distract him from the pain rising in his heart. He’d buried his dream along with his father, and he didn’t want it resurrected—there was no hope for it. Bitterness rose, crept into his voice. “I have nothing of worldly goods to offer Ellen, or any woman, Willa. You know that. And I’ll not be the cause of a woman living the hard life my ma has endured.”

  “Oh, you are such a...a man, Daniel! Your ma loved your pa. And he loved her. Don’t you make that small. Love and respect are worth more than all the worldly goods a man can heap on a woman.” Her eyes darkened, challenged him. “Name me one time your ma has said she wished she’d never married your pa. Name me one memory she talks about that isn’t a happy one.”

  He glowered down at her, tried to think of an answer.

  “Well?”

  “Ma isn’t a complainer.”

  “Because she’s always been happy!”

  “Happy!” He shook his head, huffed out a breath. “Ma doesn’t even have a stove to cook on, Willa. And I can’t get her one. And she’s had to wear that old tattered and worn wrapper for years, until I saved up enough to get her a new one for this Christmas. She was cold, Willa.”

  “Not when she was in her husband’s arms or holding her child close, Daniel. And never, never in her heart. Love warms a heart.”

  This was getting him nowhere. He yanked his hat back on, took a calming breath. “Are you coming back to the church with me, or not?”

  “Or not.” Willa heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I can’t leave the house. I told you, Bertha is gone. And Mary can’t be taken out into this cold weather.” She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze full on. “But I wouldn’t go with you even if I could, Daniel. You’re as bad as Mr. and Mrs. Hall. You all think you know what’s best for her. Well, Ellen deserves a chance to make her own choice about her future, and if you won’t give her that chance, I will. At least, I’m going to try.”

  “It won’t work, Willa.” He set his jaw and reached for the door latch. “I don’t care how long I’m alone with Ellen—I’m not going to tell her how I feel!”

  “Felt.”

  He glowered down at her. “You know that’s what I meant to say!”

  “Yes. But you didn’t. ‘Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh.’” She gave him another of those sweet smiles. “Give Ellen my regards. And you have a lovely day, Daniel. Oh, and don’t worry about telling Ellen how you feel about her. You won’t have to say a word. Ellen’s a woman. She’ll know.”

  The hinges on the door withstood his slam.

  * * *

  Trapped? Betrayed? He didn’t know what he felt beyond the anger twisting his gut. Hoisted on his own gallows, that’s what he was! He never should have offered to help Willa with the decorations—wouldn’t have, had he known she planned to involve Ellen. He’d been ambushed, that’s what. Thrown into the lion’s den by his closest friend. “Swear to your own hurt and change not... Hah! Swear to your own torture!” Daniel stomped back to the church, filled his arms with wood for the stoves, stomped up the steps and shoved open the door to the back room muttering to himself.

  “Oh!”

  He froze, drank in the sight of Ellen standing at the table staring at him with a startled expression on her beautiful face and wanted to turn around and march right back out again. He gritted his teeth, gave a backward kick to close the door and bit out an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here. I thought you would go to the parsonage first.”

  She looked away, shook her head. “I waited until I saw smoke coming from the chimney.”

  Selfish, insensitive oaf! So concerned about yourself you forgot about her fear of sickness. He moved to the woodbox and dumped his load. “The baby is well, but Bertha is gone visiting, so Willa won’t be coming.” The traitor. He cleared his throat in an effort to stop sounding as if he were ready to bite nails. “We’d better get to work. There’s a lot to be done before church tomorrow. Unless you’d rather go home, since Willa won’t be making an appearance and we’ll be working alone without a chaperone?” He put the suggestion to her, but he didn’t have much hope she’d leave, not the way his life was going these past few days.

  She shook her head and her blond curls danced in the lamplight. “That won’t matter. Everyone in the village knows—”

  She broke off, leaving him wondering what she’d been about to say. He drew breath to ask, then let it go. Some things were better left unsaid.

  “I’ll stay. We haven’t long now.”

  The words struck hard. Though why they should was beyond him. It was what he wanted—to have this time alone with her over. He looked down at the wreath she was holding. “What’s that you’re doing?”

  “Well...” She motioned toward the pinecones he’d kicked into the corner to get them out from under his feet. “I was looking at that pile of pinecones while I was waiting for—” Her lips pressed together. Her lashes swept down, hid her eyes.

  Him? His heart lurched at the thought. Fool.

  She made a small dismissive gesture. “Anyway, I tied some cones to this wreath with twine and then added a bow from some strips I cut out of an old red dress last night. I thought it would help to hide this spot where we finished and the bunches come together.” She tipped the wreath in his direction, caught her lower lip in her teeth and looked up at him.

  He shifted his gaze to the wreath to keep fr
om staring at her mouth. She’d always caught her lip like that when she was unsure of herself. It was only a habit now, no doubt. Still, none of that mattered. Her hard work deserved recognition. “It looks good. A lot better than those first bunches you made, for sure. And the bow looks good on it. Brightens it up.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him a cool smile and laid the wreath down. “But a gentleman would not refer to a lady’s mistakes.”

  Being found wanting in comparison to her beaux rasped on his already-raw ego. The muscle along his jaw twitched. He returned her smile in kind. “I meant no insult. It was only my clumsy way of saying that you’ve developed a talent for this, and your work is much improved.”

  “Truly?”

  The word and the disbelieving tone in which she spoke it grated. Willa was wrong. There was little, beyond physical appearance, of the Ellen he remembered in the haughty woman across from him. And he’d be hewed down and debarked before he’d let her attack his character unchallenged. Somewhere deep inside, she knew better. “I may not be wealthy or have the polished speech of your beaux, Musquash. But have you ever known me to lie?”

  Her eyes flashed at his use of the name. Her nose raised into the air. “No, indeed. You are unfailingly honest, Daniel—even when it would be better to be less so.”

  He clenched his hands, disgusted by the supercilious ways she’d adopted. “I guess you can blame that on my unworldly small-town ways. I was raised to honor the truth, not slide my tongue around it and pretend to be what I’m not.”

  “Oh! Oh! How dare you!” Color flamed in her cheeks. She stiffened like a pry rod and gave him a look that could have frozen the river, had the weather not already done so. “You, sir, are...are—”

  “Busy. I’ve got a wreath to hang on the church door.” Bother with manners! She didn’t appreciate them from him anyway. He jammed his hat back on his head, then gestured at the different-length pine boughs bound into small clusters that were piled on the table. “You want more pinecones to fix up those decorations before I go outside?”