He swallowed, feeling caught like a rabbit in a snare. His daughter’s face shone in anticipation and he didn’t have the heart to deny her wish. His glance strayed to Mrs. Keller. She was looking at him but he didn’t have a clue how to read her thoughts. Was she disgusted by the idea of dancing with a lumbering farmer? She’d turned down everyone else who’d asked her to dance. Would it be disrespectful, seeing she was still in mourning?
“It’s all right, Lizzie. Let your father be,” Mrs. Keller said quietly.
“But Pa is a good dancer. Don’t you want to dance, Mrs. Keller?”
“My dancing days are over,” she said with a smile which seemed sad to Gideon.
“But you don’t look old, Mrs. Keller.”
She chuckled. “Thank you, Lizzie. Perhaps I feel old inside.”
Gideon knew exactly what she meant. The deepest sadness that a person carried was the one least visible to the world. Perhaps she mourned her late husband the way he mourned Elsie.
As the strains of a new waltz drifted out the window, he took a step toward her, holding out his hand. “If you’d do me the honor of this dance, Mrs. Keller?” he said with a bow.
Mara couldn’t tear her gaze from Mr. Jakeman’s. He looked at her so straightforwardly and so…kindly. But no! She couldn’t trust how a man looked at a woman. Her husband, Klaus, had looked at her so charmingly when he’d courted her.
“I—”
Before Mara could refuse the honor, Lizzie spoke up. “Aw, come on, Mrs. Keller, I bet you’re the best dancer. Please let me see you dance.”
“I— Very well,” she finished instead and with a trembling hand, reached out to the farmer.
He was a tall, large man, and she felt like a piece of fragile porcelain being embraced by a clumsy giant. But as they began moving to the music, she was surprised at how deftly he led her. She thought of his fiddle playing. The man certainly was musical.
Now his hands held her surely by the waist and hand. Her other hand rested lightly on his broad shoulder, her fingertips feeling the slight roughness of his wool coat. Her other hand was ensconced in his, her palm against the smooth calluses of his, her fingers brushing against the sparse, springy hairs on the back of his hand.
Klaus had been a much smaller man. Around him, she had felt like the stronger one. But now she felt protected, as she hadn’t been since her father was alive.
The thought brought her up short and she almost stumbled. She gripped his shoulder. He must have felt it because when she looked his way, he inclined his head toward her. She quickly looked away. She couldn’t quite see over his shoulder so she fixed her gaze on the dark weave of his suit. Everything was a blurry darkness anyway.
The fiddles played a Viennese waltz.
Little by little, she began to relax as she allowed the music to fill her. All the cares of her present life faded and only the music existed. It brought back happier times, when life was joyous and…fun.
Her partner led her so surely, she hardly felt the uneven ground beneath her feet. His hand on the small of her back was like a steady support.
Suddenly, a boy’s cry rent the night air. She stopped in midstep. “That sounded like Dietrich!”
Mr. Jakeman didn’t let her go immediately. Instead, gripping her lightly, he looked beyond her to where the cry had come. Then loosening his hold, he took her by the elbow, guiding her in that direction. As they approached the area, a boy’s angry cries rose amidst the sound of laughter and jeers.
They rounded the house and in the darkness made out a ring of boys circling a smaller boy.
As soon as she saw it was indeed Dietrich, she broke away from Mr. Jakeman’s hold and rushed forward.
“What is going on here?”
They all stopped at the sight of her.
Dietrich ran up to her. “Mama, they’re making fun of my na-name!”
She put her arm around him and surveyed the boys, who stood silent. Before she could decide what to do, Mr. Jakeman approached, looming over the semicircle.
“Hey, Tom, is that you?”
The biggest boy replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Evening, Willie,” he said to another.
The boy tugged at his hair. “Evenin’, Mr. Jakeman.”
“Hello, Edgar.”
He went around the circle until each boy was forced to greet him. Then he said, “Have you been making Dietrich here feel welcome to our community the way Reverend Grayson asked us to?”
No one answered.
“He’s come from far away and has never been to a Maine village. I hope you’re making us proud by showing him the fun he can have with Down East boys.”
“Yes, sir,” a few of them mumbled, shifting their feet.
“His name is a little different from any you’ve heard, since he was born in—uh—Germany.” He turned to Dietrich for corroboration. “Isn’t that right, Dietrich?”
“In Austria,” he answered, squaring his shoulders.
Mr. Jakeman gave a soft laugh. “See, boys, you all are probably better’n I at geography. Have you studied about Austria in school?”
“A little,” one of the boys answered.
“You know, they speak a different language in Austria.” He paused. “Do any of you speak any language except for English?” He waited until they’d shaken their heads or mumbled, “No, sir.” Then he turned to Dietrich. “Why don’t you tell us something in one of the languages you speak?”
Mara squeezed him by his thin shoulders. “Say good evening in German, dear.”
“Guten Abend.”
“See there, can any of you understand that?”
Another round of denials. “Can you say that in any other language, son?”
Dietrich nodded.
“Say it in French,” Mara suggested.
“Bonsoir.”
“That’s pretty good, don’t you think, boys?” Mr. Jakeman asked, again waiting until the boys were forced to admit it. “Just think if you could say something no one around you understood. It would be sort of a code only you and another person knew. I bet Dietrich and his mother can talk about things no one else can catch.”
“It’s like a secret,” Tommy suggested, a smile breaking out on his face as he eyed Dietrich, impressed.
“Maybe he can teach you a few of the code words, eh, Dietrich?” Mr. Jakeman smiled and winked at her son.
Dietrich looked at all the boys and then began to nod.
“Maybe you can all get together sometime. But first you have to learn to respect Dietrich’s name. All right? It might be a little different than any you’ve heard, but if you went to some of the places he’s lived in, your names would sound unusual. Would that be a reason for someone to laugh at them?”
Again there came a chorus of “No, sirs.”
“Well, good then.” Mr. Jakeman turned to Mara and her son. Before he could speak, she said, “I think it’s time we got going home. Let me see if Mrs. Blackstone is ready to leave.”
He nodded. “Very well. Come along, Lizzie, I think we’ll take our leave as well.”
They left the boys and trooped silently back to the house. With a quick “Excuse me” and a smile she hoped conveyed the gratitude she felt, Mara hurried off to locate Carina. Too many thoughts whirled through her head, from the memory of Mr. Jakeman’s arms around her to his deft defense of her son.
“Well, it’s about time! Where on earth did you go off to? I’ve been waiting an age to tell you it’s high time to leave. I am really not feeling at all myself. I don’t think Mrs. Matthews’s baked beans agreed with me. She always puts too much salt pork in them.”
Mara said nothing as she followed her stepmother to the hallway to retrieve their wraps, longing for the moment when she’
d be alone in her room to reflect on all that had happened this evening.
When she emerged outside once more, she found their wagon waiting at the door. Mr. Jakeman held the reins.
She stopped short at the sight of him. “Oh, thank you. How thoughtful of you to bring it around.”
“Good evening, Gideon.” Mrs. Blackstone considered him through narrowed eyes. “Fancy seeing you here with the wagon. Are you leaving, too?”
“Yep. Got an early day ahead of me.”
Lizzie stepped forward with a shy smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Keller, for teaching me to waltz.”
On an impulse, Mara leaned over and gave the girl a quick embrace. “You’re most welcome. Perhaps we can have another lesson soon.”
“Oh!” The girl looked more pleased than ever, her cheeks turning bright pink in the lamplight.
Mara allowed Mr. Jakeman to help her into the wagon and took the reins he handed her. Before he went to the other side to assist Carina, she held out her hand. “Thank you, sir, for all you did for Dietrich.”
He gave a shrug and didn’t quite meet her eyes. “It was nothing. Boys’ll be boys, I guess.”
“Yes, but you certainly knew how to handle them.”
With a quick nod, he backed away from her and went to her stepmother.
They exchanged good-evenings and then he waved to Dietrich. “Come to me if those boys bother you again, you hear, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
With a wave and some final good-nights, Mara started the wagon. She gave one look back, watching father and daughter standing there.
Her heart felt warmed by the kind act of the large, silent man, so different from her temperamental, high-strung husband, who cared more about himself than he did about his son.
What kind of childhood would Dietrich have had if he’d had a father like Mr. Jakeman?
Mara sat at her old piano, the one her father had bought for her twelfth birthday. She touched the elaborate carvings on the music stand of the Brazilian rosewood cabinet before setting some sheet music upon it.
At the time, it had been a great extravagance on her father’s part to buy her such an instrument. The Civil War had recently ended and the country was still in an economic decline. She doubted her father had sold many of his paintings.
But her mother passed away that year, and by the time Mara’s birthday arrived, her father insisted her mother would have wanted to celebrate it in this way. In her childish innocence, Mara didn’t think then about the economic hardships her father had doubtless undergone to provide her with the piano. He had smiled at her and said her only repayment was to learn to play pretty pieces to soothe away his sadness—a promise she gladly made.
From a heretofore enjoyable activity, music had become a consolation and gradually developed into a passion in the ensuing years until she turned eighteen. By then, her father’s artistic abilities had begun being recognized and they became comfortably well-off. Her father had purchased this farmhouse on the Maine coast, wanting a place to retreat from the hustle and bustle of Boston and pursue an interest in painting the wild coastline.
She had never expected that it would be in this small village that her father would remarry. She found her new stepmother a cold and exacting woman. A few years older than her father, Carina was nothing like Mara’s warm, joyful mother. But her father seemed comforted by his new companion, so Mara had gracefully retreated to a new life at the Boston conservatory rather than cause her father any grief.
Mara ran her fingers lightly over the ivory keys now, not pressing on them yet. She had not played her old piano since her return home. Since Carina did not encourage it in the house, Mara had felt easier in letting it go.
Thinking of the few short visits she had made to her father’s home after his marriage, she wondered if perhaps the lack of welcome she had felt on her stepmother’s part had been a reason Mara had decided to pursue her music studies in Vienna. She’d been barely twenty when she’d met Klaus there. Perhaps if she’d had a home and family to return to, she would not have been so quick to marry the first young man who had evinced an interest in her.
What an innocent, naive young woman she had been—hoping for a marriage as happy as her mother and father’s had been.
Mara pressed her forefinger down on middle C and the subsequent three keys with her other fingers and listened to the tones echo in the silent parlor.
Thankfully, her stepmother had taken the buggy into town today to visit some lady friends, so Mara felt safe in playing, for a few hours at any rate. She’d finished the morning’s chores. Time enough in the afternoon to begin the preparations for winter. Dried beans to be shucked, the flower heads and herbs to be gathered for drying, more windfall apples to be picked up, leaves to be raked for banking the sides of the house.
But after her foray into town a few days ago, in a vain attempt to find work at the various stores and hostelries, a woman at the local dry goods store had suggested she offer music lessons. She’d been present in church, Mara had found out, so she knew of Mara’s musical abilities.
When Mara had mentioned deportment lessons, she’d given Mara a good up-and-down, nodding. “Plenty of mamas would pay to have their daughters acquire a bit o’ that refinement you have along with music lessons. Make’m more marriageable when they get that age.”
Mara had wondered aloud if there would really be such a demand in this remote, rural area of the country.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” the woman had added, “since the railroad come to town, we’ve been getting more and more visitors. Rusticators in the summer months—some from as far as New York, imagine that. And, o’ course, we got plenty of well-off folk of our own, the mill owners, the bankers and shopkeepers, some lawyers and doctors. Oh, I think there’d be plenty of work for you, if you’re of a mind. You can put up a few advertisements around town.”
She indicated a board near the counter. “Right there for starters. And I’ll tell those I know with daughters o’ the right age about you and your abilities. I could tell right off when I saw you in church that you had some real ladylike qualities.”
So, after returning home, Mara had thought over her words and decided she had little choice. If she wanted to begin to earn her keep—and a way to leave her stepmother’s residence—she had better exert herself to let people know she was available to teach music and deportment. She couldn’t help a smile at that last, grandiose term.
She certainly didn’t consider herself any more ladylike or refined than any other woman. When she’d first arrived in Europe she’d been intimidated by the fine ladies and gentlemen she’d met as Klaus’s star had risen.
But in the latter years, as he’d squandered his money, and their lodging houses had grown meaner and meaner until the final one where he’d lived his last days, she’d seen how little all the fine manners meant. He’d received no help from the important people who’d flocked to him in years past and who’d been so eager to lead him astray to the gaming houses and other, worse places.
She shook her head. No use revisiting those memories. They were over and she had more pressing needs now—Dietrich’s future. Taking a deep breath, she began to go through some scales to warm up her fingers before turning to the music on her stand.
Gideon set down the bushel basket of cranberries in front of Mrs. Blackstone’s woodshed and opened the door. Paul, his cousin’s oldest son, who worked as a handyman here, wasn’t around, so Gideon hefted the basket up again and walked through the shed to the kitchen door. If no one was home, he’d leave the basket and go.
He knocked on the door. Hearing the muffled sound of piano music through the panels, he knocked louder. After waiting a few minutes and knocking a few more times, he hesitated then opened the door to the kitchen.
It was empty. He left the basket in the woodshed
, where it would stay cool, and entered the kitchen, drawn by the music coming to him more clearly now. It was beautiful and sounded much more complicated than anything he’d ever heard since a long-ago chamber concert in town.
His thoughts going at once to Mrs. Keller, he was hardly aware of his boots on the floor as he made his way across the kitchen and into the hallway and finally to the threshold of the front parlor.
The room was dim, its windows shaded by a roofed verandah that wrapped around the house. Gideon’s gaze went immediately to the piano at the end of the room.
Mrs. Keller sat straight on the wide bench, her fingers moving over the keys, her head bent slightly down and to the side as if she could hear which key was to be played next. Her fingers seemed to fly across the keyboard at times and at others linger as if caressing the keys.
She had not heard him and he dared not move, too captivated by the music created by her mere fingertips.
Then the music slowed and her fingers came to rest on the last keys. As the final notes reverberated in the room, she slowly lifted her fingertips.
Gideon made a slight sound—hardly aware that he did so and she whirled around on the piano bench, bumping her knees against the piano. She winced but recovered immediately.
He moved into the room, an apology already on his lips.
Her hand on her chest, she said, “I didn’t know anyone was there.”
He cleared his throat, his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked on the kitchen door but no one answered. Y-you probably didn’t hear me over the sound of the piano. Mrs. Blackstone’s not in?” He finally stopped to draw breath.
Mrs. Keller stood, smoothing down her skirt as she did so. “No, she’s not. She drove into town this morning.” She advanced toward him, her calm, dignified manner clearly restored, but a smile dissipating any notion that she might be standoffish. “I took advantage of her absence to practice a little. I’m quite rusty as you probably noticed.”
Hometown Cinderella: Hometown CinderellaThe Inn at Hope Springs Page 5
