Laurel_Bride of Arkansas

by Carra Copelin

  “But I’m not telling you how to run the house. You know how to do that.” He hobbled to the doorway. “In the meantime, I’ll go roust the boys out of bed.”

  Laurel stared after him, her mouth agape. Living in the city, she hadn’t thought too much about how their food got to the kitchen and hadn’t a clue as to how to go about it. She looked around the room and searched the walk-in pantry for something with which to make a decent breakfast. She thought back to the meals she’d had at home and at the boarding house. In Philadelphia, she’d watched Cook prepare a few meals, omelets and French toast were her specialties, but the meals in Lawrence had been much simpler.

  She remembered a favorite and set about looking for the makings. In a few minutes she’d rounded up a dozen eggs for a good scramble, a few potatoes and grease for frying them in, ham, and some more of those crackers. This would have to do. She was setting all of the food out as her husband and the boys sat down at the table.

  “This looks pretty good,” Griffin said, with a smile. “Dig in fellas, this is it until dinner.”

  “I hope you like it.” She watched as all three devoured what was on their plates. Between last night and this morning’s meals she could tell she was going to have to cook more food per sitting. She sincerely hoped Aunt Jennie had many recipes and instructions for cooking. Otherwise she was afraid her stay here would be short lived.

  When they’d packed up and left the house, she sat at the table among the dirty dishes and retrieved her glasses from her pocket. She was very fortunate they hadn’t broken when they flew from her hand earlier. Reading or sewing was next to impossible without them. She opened Aunt Jennie’s book and almost lost her nerve.

  The chapters ranged from setting up a new household, to cleaning the chimney, to preparing a chicken for the pot. Her eyes halted on that last section and she reread the words slowly. Kill . . . chicken . . . hold feet . . . neck firmly. Pull down on neck . . . twist . . . fast and hard. Neck will snap . . . Next was something about flapping wings. Oh, good Lord. Can I do this?

  She shuddered and flipped through a few more pages, and came across milking a cow, feeding chickens, and pigs. Thank goodness she hadn’t seen any pigs here. Now, back to the cow. She remembered hearing Cook say the cow had to be milked early. By the clock on the mantle over the fireplace, it was just seven. Time to get up and get started.

  She stacked the dishes for washing later, and went out the back door of the kitchen onto the screened-in back porch. A couple of wooden wash tubs hung on the wall to her left, along with a washboard and a dolly stick like the one she’d seen the washerwoman use to clean clothes. A shelf beside those held a bar of soap and a box of washing flakes. Outside in the yard, a short distance from the house, she saw a bench to set the washtubs on and two poles with a line strung between them to hang the wet clothes for drying.

  A basket with a handle sat on the floor by the porch entrance which she thought would make a good egg basket, so she grabbed it to tackle egg gathering first. As soon as she stepped out into the yard, several chickens came toward her. A few were a reddish-brown in color, but most were fluffy white. She put her hand down to pet one of them and found the feathers to be softer than she’d imagined.

  She’d had feather pillows and feather mattresses all her life, but this was the first time she’d ever felt them on an actual bird. She ran her hand down the back of the second bird, but the third one drew back and pecked her hand. The first two followed suit, and when she straightened to go into the coop, she noticed a half dozen or more had surrounded her. As she went through the door, two of them flew at her and landed on her head.

  “Shoo!” she squealed. “Get away from me!” Instinctively, she threw the basket over her head for protection, realizing too late it held dirt in the bottom. There wasn’t a lot, but enough to get in her hair and eyes. Blinking madly, her eyes teared, thankfully clearing away most of the grit.

  With blurred vision, she went about retrieving the eggs from the nesting boxes, and when she left the coop, the chickens followed her to the house, pecking at her skirts and flying at her. At that moment, she’d have had no trouble wringing any of their necks.

  After placing the eggs on the back porch, Laurel tackled milking the cow. She wasn’t sure how, but somehow she managed to avoid the hens on the way to the barn and she was grateful. Inside, near the stall where she’d found Griffin yesterday, stood the cow.

  She tried to remember Aunt Jennie’s instructions, precisely how to approach the animal. Be calm . . . speak softly, soothingly . . . and most importantly, have warm hands. A pail and a short stool sat to her right in a corner of the stall. She picked them up and sidled up beside the cow, who gave a woeful cry and stepped sideways with her hind feet bumping into Laurel. She went to pet the cow on the nose, to say something nice, and noticed the name “Bessie” carved into a board.

  “So Bessie,” she said in a soft, soothing voice. “We’re going to get you milked and you’ll feel better.”

  Bessie chewed the grain and hay sitting in front of her and answered rather insistently, “Moo!”

  “All right, all right,” Laurel answered back. “I’m doing my best. Careful or I’ll change your name to Bossie.”

  She sat the stool near Bessie’s hind quarter and placed the pail beneath her teats. And wouldn’t that be a word for the society matrons in Philadelphia? She’d bet not one of them had read Aunt Jennie’s Household Bible, nor did they know it even existed. She grinned as she imagined herself and her sisters, Emmeline and Adeline, blurting out that word in the middle of afternoon tea and her grandmother grabbing for her fan and smelling salts. The three of them, as small girls, had been holy terrors. But, alas, wool gathering wasn’t getting Bessie taken care of.

  Sitting on the stool, she rubbed her hands together, making sure they were warm per instruction, and then wrapped each one around a teat. After a short time she found a rhythm and stopped when the pail was almost full. She stood, stretched her back, and set the pail of milk off to her side, and then picked up the stool to return it to its original place in the corner. Her movements must have startled Bessie for the cow let out a cry.

  By the time Laurel heard the commotion behind her, it was too late. Bessie had bumped her on her backside, knocking her face forward onto the barn floor, and kicked over the pail of milk. She reached for the handle and managed to save half, but her dress was drenched with muddy milk and her left hand was planted in a fairly warm cow patty. She managed to crawl away from Bessie’s back feet and prop herself against the outer stall wall.

  Of all the things that had happened in her life, this was the most humiliating. Oh how glad she was her sisters weren’t here to see her predicament. While she could use a good cry over the events of the last few months, this struck her funny bone and she started to laugh. The harder she laughed, the more the tears streamed down her face. She lowered her head and let them flow.

  Griffin came into the barn to put the hoe, shovel and rake back against the wall where they belonged, when he heard the turmoil. He rushed over to her and saw her shoulders shaking with her sobs. He stuck his head around the corner and took a quick look at the cow, and then knelt beside his bride. Her corn silk yellow hair poked out of her braid at odd angles, her dress was stained with mud, and she smelled like the south end of a north bound cow.

  “Laurel? What happened? Are you hurt?” He should’ve stayed close today and helped her get familiar with the place and the routine. When he looked closer, he didn’t see any blood or obvious broken bones, but she hadn’t acknowledged him and she was still crying. “Laurel?”

  She shook her head, looked up at him, and giggled. “I’m sorry, but this has been such a day and it isn’t even noon.”

  “What happened?”

  She swiped at her face with the back of her other hand and took a deep breath. “I’m not exactly sure except that Bessie didn’t like something I did, and she let me know her displeasure.”

  “And you’re laugh
ing?” He flat out didn’t understand this woman. Her personality seemed so different from any woman he’d been acquainted with, he didn’t quite know how to handle her. She intrigued him and he definitely wanted to know more about her. He reached for her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and hopefully smelling a little better.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” she said, drawing herself up to reach the middle of his chest. “You’re telling your wife she stinks?”

  “I sure am.” He grabbed her manure covered appendage at the elbow and picked up the milk pail with his other hand and walked her outside to the pump head where he kept a bar of soap and a towel. He handed those to her and started pumping the handle to get water. “Here, you go. Clean yourself up and then we’ll go inside and you can tell me about your morning.”

  “All right, but I’m hurt you don’t like my new fragrance.”

  She flashed him a pout, but he saw a mischievous glint in her eyes. Yes, Laurel Weidner Benning was undeniably different from anyone he’d ever known and he was rapidly becoming more certain he’d made the right decision in placing the ad in the Grooms’ Gazette for a wife.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Laurel sat on the step at the back porch and accepted the water Griffin offered. The liquid was wet and cool and delicious, and she drank it right down. “Thank you.” She wiped her chin, smiled, and handed him the empty dipper. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”

  “Yeah.” He raised his eyebrows and gave her a grin. “I’ve heard wrangling cattle can really dry you out.”

  “Not to mention chickens.”

  “What happened with the chickens?”

  “They hate me,” she stated, glancing out to the yard in the direction of the coop. “I tried to be nice and pet them, but they flew at me and pecked me. They stalked and surrounded me . . .”

  “They’re birds, Laurel, that’s what they do. Did they hurt you?”

  “No, but they frightened me. I’ve . . .” She’d almost said she didn’t know when she’d been more terrified, but she did know. She lived with those terrors every day. “I’ll work on getting better with them.”

  “I’m not worried . . . yet,” he said, grinning again. “How about we go together this evening and again in the morning? Would that help?”

  She supposed this was his way of apologizing for throwing her to the wolves, so to speak, so she answered positively, “Yes, it would.”

  “Good.” Standing, he reached down for her hand. “Come on, let’s go in. We had a package delivered while you were cavorting with the livestock.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Chuckling, he pulled her up. “I’m just teasing you, come on.”

  When they entered the house, the first thing she saw was a large wooden box sitting on the table. Griffin handed her an envelope from the top addressed to her. She took it and considered reading it later when she could do so in private with her glasses. She’d always felt ugly and embarrassed when wearing them, so she rarely wore them in public.

  She quickly gave herself a stern talking to. The man just found you with your hand covered in cow manure, how much more humiliated could you be? Reaching into her skirt pocket, she retrieved her reading glasses, put them on, and began reading the note.

  “This is from, Sam and Edna Tate?” Laurel glanced over at Griffin with a question in her gaze.

  “They’re our neighbors from over the ridge. I’ll take you to meet them in a day or two.”

  “I’d like that very much.” She continued reading, even as tears welled in her eyes. Removing her glasses, she said, “She wanted me to have time to get used to my new home, so she sent a meal, with a loaf of bread and a cake.”

  “Edna’s good people. She’s thoughtful that way.” He lifted a large tureen from the box and picked up the lid. Sniffing the aroma, he said, “Umm, I think we need to have a bowl of this stew before long to see if it’s worth eating.”

  “It certainly does smell delicious,” she agreed. “I need to get out of this filthy dress, though, before I can eat a bite. Will you set the table for us?”

  “Sure.”

  She changed clothes as quickly as possible, noting the ease with which he’d agreed to set the table. Her father had never done a lick of housework in his life, and why would he? He had servants, a wife, and three daughters to handle those chores. Griffin Benning, on the other hand, had been on his own for a while and was used to doing things for himself. He would likely revert back when she settled into a normal routine.

  Finally, looking more presentable, she re-joined him in the dining room. He’d set out the food, but only two bowls and spoons, and two glasses of water. “What about Clem and Otto? Won’t they be hungry?”

  “Probably, but I’ve sent them into town for a few days.”

  “Oh? How come?”

  “They can be a handful, and I thought, after the morning you’ve had, they might be too much for you to deal with.”

  “They aren’t that much trouble, but I appreciate the consideration.” She opened the drawers of the buffet and found assorted napkins and tablecloths. Sitting in her chair, she handed him a plaid-patterned napkin. “Would you like to say grace or shall I?”

  “I might be a bit rusty, but I can manage a few words.” He bowed his head and said, “We thank you, Lord, for this food we’re about to eat. Please bless it and sanctify it to the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.”

  “I didn’t notice much rust there, but I guess it does bring up a question.” She took a bite of the stew, closed her eyes in approval, and asked, “What religion are you?”

  “My ma raised me in the Church of Christ, but I haven’t been to church in a while. I get there as often as I can.” He sliced the loaf of bread and set it on her plate. “You?”

  “Methodist, with a poor attendance record, as well.”

  “Is the denomination important to you?”

  “No, as long as you believe.”

  “Good.” He used the handle of his spoon to make an imaginary check mark mid-air. “Me next.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Since we haven’t had the time to get to know each other in the traditional way, I knew we’d get around to this eventually.” He put more stew into his bowl and, with elbows on the table, said, “I believe it’s my turn.”

  “All right, what do you want to know?”

  “I got the feeling you were holding back when I asked you where you were from originally.” He finished his stew and pushed the bowl to the center of the table. Pinning her with a direct look, he said, “No diversion tactics this time.”

  Laurel returned his stare with one of her own. She realized she didn’t have to hide her past from him, they were married now. She could live her life without having to worry her father would come and take her back.

  “Laurel?”

  “You’re right.” She took a sip of water from her glass. “As I said at the café, I was born and raised in Philadelphia to Adelaide and Peter Weidner and I have younger, twin sisters, Emmeline and Adeline.”

  “Three daughters. Your father must be very proud.”

  She noted his smile and knew he must be thinking of his own daughters. “Well, one would assume so, but Peter Weidner isn’t you. He wanted, at least, one son. You know, a male with a head for business to carry on the family legacy and fortune.”

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head in apparent confusion. “Wait a minute, I understand wanting a son, every man wants a son, but to be disappointed when you’re given daughters instead? Ridiculous.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly. “My father loves us, he simply feels, and I quote, ‘Women and business don’t mix.’”

  “Now, I understand some businesses need a man at the helm.” He leaned back in his chair taking on a matter-of-fact posture and attitude. “Take logging for instance, now that’s a man’s job.”

  “So you agree with my father that women don’t belong in business?”
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  “No, I’m only saying some businesses require brute strength and women can’t do that. Do you disagree?”

  “All right, I’ll give you that one, but you’re not saying a woman couldn’t run the office, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well good.” She raised her finger, made a checkmark in mid-air, and then smiled at him. She stood and reached across the table to pick up his empty bowl along with hers and took them into the kitchen.

  He followed her carrying the box of food and set it on the countertop. After emptying the contents, he said, “At the risk of raising your hackles again, what business is your father in?”

  While she truly enjoyed a good verbal sparring session, and Griffin seemed to be an equal partner, she chose to back down for now. “He owns and runs Weidner Car Supplies.”

  “You mean the millionaire trolley car owner?”

  “No, as far as I know, we’re not related, although father insists they’re cousins somewhere along the way. Father’s company makes and sells parts for trolley cars. I think the similarity in names has helped the business do well.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t hurt.” He stepped to the back door and looked out into the backyard. “It’s just about dusk, do you want to go with me to close up the coop?”

  She wanted to say no in the worst way. Going willingly into a flock of aggressive feathered stalkers wasn’t her idea of a fun evening, but she knew they had to prevent predators from killing the chickens.

  “All right, I’ll go with you, but I’m taking the broom to shoo them away.”

  “They’ve probably already gone to roost,” he said with a grin. “But I like a woman who’s prepared.”

  ***

  Forty-five minutes later, Griffin stood the broom by the wash tubs. He’d shown Laurel how easy it was to collect the eggs after the hens had gone to bed, and then, after he closed the door to the coop, they secured the barn for the night. He shut the back door behind them, after she’d gone into the house, and when he turned around, she stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hands clasped together.