Hometown Cinderella: Hometown CinderellaThe Inn at Hope Springs

by Patricia Davids

  He glanced at her, wondering if she were just comforting him or speaking from experience. “I don’t know. Young people tend to marry early around here…seventeen, eighteen or thereabouts.”

  She shook her head with a smile. “Well, if she ever seeks my advice, you can rest easy that I shan’t counsel her to tie the knot quite so young.”

  “I would like her to attend the academy in town next year.”

  She tilted her head toward him. “Yes, she told me. I think that’s a wonderful idea. But she seems loath to leave you. I understand the sentiment, having gone through the same myself at that age.”

  “I’d hate for her to be stuck keeping house for me until she gets married.”

  “Perhaps between the two of us, we can convince her to spread her wings a little before she settles down.” Mrs. Keller smiled.

  The smile felt conspiratorial to him and he couldn’t help but return it. It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of partnership with someone over his child. Sarah was the closest he had, but she was busy with her own daughters. This was different; this felt more like having Elsie to consult with.

  He stopped that thought short in its tracks. He’d better not be getting presumptuous notions in his head.

  To change the subject, he hunted about for a topic that wouldn’t be too personal. “You come to town often?”

  “I come in on Thursdays now.” She indicated the satchel at her feet. “I’ve started giving piano lessons and—” she laughed with a self-deprecating note “—deportment. I was looking for some work, and the lady at the dry goods store was the one who helped me. She said there were several families who would be interested and helped spread the word.”

  He was still puzzling over the fact that Mrs. Keller was looking for work and didn’t hear too much of the rest. “So, you’ve got some students now?”

  “Yes, four, which fills up one afternoon a week very well. If I get more, I’ll just have to come in twice a week, since the children can only come by after school.”

  Thursdays. He filed away this piece of information. Perhaps, if he arranged his own schedule, he could fix his trip to town for Thursdays. He hated to think of Mrs. Keller’s having to make this walk once a week, let alone more. It was bearable now, but he didn’t want to think of the long winter ahead. He wondered why Mrs. Blackstone didn’t give her use of the buggy.

  “Maybe you’ll be able to get some students from the hamlet, closer to home,” he began.

  “Perhaps. Only, they’d have to have their own pianos, since it would be difficult to have them come to the house.”

  He remembered her playing. “Don’t you have a piano there?”

  “Yes. That was the piano my father gave me when I was twelve.” She paused. “But I don’t want to impose on Mrs. Blackstone, you know, having to hear children practicing scales and such.”

  “I see.” Trying to draw out more information without seeming to, he said, “I imagine you must miss living in some of those European cities. You certainly had Lizzie impressed.”

  “I don’t miss boardinghouse living, no matter how quaint the city was.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Boardinghouse?”

  “Well, yes, that and hotels. My husband and I, and then Dietrich, lived a very nomadic life while Klaus—my husband—was a concert player. It would not have made sense to settle down in a house when he was traveling all the time. At first we stayed in hotels, but later, it was boardinghouses.”

  It didn’t sound too romantic. “I guess it’s nice to come back home then.”

  She didn’t say anything but looked straight ahead. He sensed a tension in her straight back and folded hands. “Well, I guess it wasn’t really your home, if you lived down in Massachusetts with your father.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “This never really became home,” she said softly. Then she took a deep breath. “But my father left me half the house when he…when he passed away. It came as a shock to me when I received news of his death. I so wished I could have been here.” She fell silent and Gideon waited, hoping she would continue.

  She slowly resumed her story. “But I wasn’t able to. My husband was ill by then—he had been for a while, but he grew worse last year. Consumption,” she added with a quick glance at him.

  He wished he could say or do something to comfort her. Her slim shoulders seemed too young and fragile to carry the weight of a sick husband with a lingering disease and a young, rambunctious boy.

  “I didn’t expect to return home. But after Klaus passed away, and I found out the terms of my father’s will, I realized I had little choice but to return home.”

  Little choice. That spoke of financial straits to him. “Your husband’s family?” he ventured.

  She shook her head. “They lived in Germany. I…I wasn’t close to them.”

  It didn’t sound as if she wanted to talk about them. It made him wonder all the more about the kind of life she’d led over in Europe. Life of a nomad…living in boardinghouses…not close to her husband’s kin.

  It didn’t sound to him like a very enviable life. He thought of his life in the hamlet. Sunup to sundown it was hard, but satisfying work, and winters gave him ample time to rest. He’d had a good life with Elsie and they’d been blessed with a wonderful daughter. He no longer missed Elsie—not in that sharp, daily way he had in the beginning—and his daughter was a blessing in more ways than he could count. But beyond that, he felt thankful to live in a community where he had family and neighbors he could count on in a number of ways.

  What must it be like for Mrs. Keller, a still young, single woman with a small child—with no relatives or ties to any place?

  He felt instinctively that Mrs. Blackstone was no support. He couldn’t believe Mrs. Keller was obliged to go out and earn her keep. Her father must have left a comfortable amount—he was quite renowned as a painter when he’d died, and Mrs. Blackstone certainly seemed to live well enough.

  She was known to be a bit tight in the community, but she didn’t seem to stint herself on her own pleasures in town, where she was a member of a few groups like the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Eastern Star.

  Gideon wished there was some way he could assist Mrs. Keller, but didn’t want to do anything to offend her. From the little he’d seen, she seemed an independent sort, which he admired.

  But in this world, one also had to know when to accept a helping hand.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning after she’d had breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, Mara brought the kerosene lamps in from the parlor and bedrooms to clean and fill.

  She heard the rhythmic thwack of an ax outside and drew back the lacy curtain to make sure Dietrich was out of harm’s way if Paul was chopping firewood.

  She drew in her breath, surprised at the sight of Mr. Jakeman, his back toward her, his arms raising an ax high over his head. The next instant he brought it down in a mighty arc to land atop an upraised length of wood. The piece split in two, each side falling off the stump it had stood upon and landing on the grass beside him.

  Not pausing, he hefted one of these still thick pieces back on the stump and brought his ax down once more, splitting the piece in two. When he finished, he had four nice-size sticks of wood for the stove.

  Reassured to find Dietrich at a safe distance, Mara debated going outside and admonishing him not to get in Mr. Jakeman’s way.

  She bit her lip. She didn’t want Mr. Jakeman to think she didn’t trust him to take care of her son. Casting about for a sight of Paul, she breathed a sigh of relief to see him emerge from the barn, another ax in his hand.

  Yet, if both would be chopping wood today, they wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Dietrich. And they didn’t know how easily Dietrich coul
d get into trouble.

  As she went over these things, she couldn’t help but watch Mr. Jakeman. He’d shed his jacket and stood in his shirtsleeves and vest, the way she’d seen him at his farm the other day.

  The man was powerfully built. He must be at least six feet tall, she estimated, and the breadth of his shoulders was wider than most men’s. But despite his large size, there was no excess fat on him. Her eyes traveled the length of his back to his trim waist.

  So different from Klaus, a man of medium height and slim build. Klaus had probably done very little manual labor in his life. He’d come of a good family, aristocratic, she’d often heard when she was among them. In time, she realized that many Germans boasted of highborn lineage, when in reality it meant very little—just an excuse for doing no work, the majority of them impoverished, lamenting ancient kingdoms and principalities that had been stolen from them over generations of war.

  She continued to admire the smooth rhythm of the wood chopping. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Jakeman had a pile of scattered pieces on the ground around him. He stopped for a moment and wiped his brow with his forearm. That’s when she realized the work was not effortless.

  “What are you so busy looking at?”

  Mara whirled around at Carina’s voice.

  Before she could move, her stepmother came to stand beside her and pushed the curtain aside wider. “Humph! It’s about time he came by.”

  Mara walked away from the window, but the words arrested her. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been promising all fall to chop my wood.”

  Mara removed the glass cover from one of the kerosene lamps and took it to the dishpan. “I’m sure he’s been busy.”

  Carina only harrumphed again and said no more as she went about preparing herself a cup of tea. She sat at the kitchen table and watched as Mara scrubbed the lamp covers and set them on the drainboard to dry. “I suppose we’ll have to give him some dinner.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Gideon.”

  “Oh—” For some reason, the sound of his first name caused the color to rise in Mara’s cheeks. It seemed intimate, putting him on too familiar a footing with her, something she was not ready for. “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t know what you folks in Europe did, but it’s the custom around here with a workman.”

  Mara pressed her lips together, not liking her tone and use of “workman.” Mr. Jakeman was probably doing them a favor, and Carina was treating him as someone beneath her. She said nothing, proceeding with her chore of trimming the lamps’ wicks.

  “If you played your cards right, you could snare him, you know.”

  Mara’s gaze flew to Carina’s. She’d hoped Carina would have forgotten that notion.

  “He’s been widowed many years now. Most folks don’t stay single so long. I guess you’d have to win over his daughter, though. She’s probably the one keeping him all to herself.”

  Mara remembered how it had been between her and her father. She had been hurt when her father had abruptly announced he was engaged to Carina, after only a few meetings in church or so. Their marriage had taken place even quicker, and Carina had made sure Mara hadn’t remained around long afterward.

  Mara set down the scissors. “Since I am not looking for a husband, I don’t think Lizzie need have any concerns.”

  Carina eyed her over the rim of her teacup. “A woman in your state, without two sticks to rub together?” She gave a harsh laugh. “I think you have little choice, my dear.”

  “I do have half this house.” She hated herself as soon as the words were out. How she wished her father hadn’t left things the way he had. But he’d probably had very little choice. Yet, why not leave her a few of his paintings? Or a legacy of money? She could hardly believe there had been no money left. Could they have spent it all? Or had Carina hoarded it away somewhere so her husband’s only child and grandchild could have none of it?

  Turning to check if the lamp globes were dry, she chided herself for the direction of her thoughts. She must trust these things to the Lord and not seek after earthly wealth. The Lord had taken care of her and Dietrich up to now; He would continue to do so. She would not lower herself to fighting Carina over personal property.

  Just then she heard a muffled cry. Dietrich!

  Dropping her dish towel, she ran to the door.

  She arrived in the yard to see Mr. Jakeman bent over Dietrich, who was crying.

  “What is it? What happened?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Mama, I hurt my hand.” He was clutching the fingers of one hand with the other.

  “Let me see, son.” Mr. Jakeman tried to gently pry them apart.

  Dietrich only huddled over his hands, sobbing. “It h-hurts.”

  “What happened?” she repeated, her glance going from her son to Mr. Jakeman.

  “I put him to stacking the wood inside. His fingers must have gotten in the way.” There was a twinkle in his gray-blue eyes.

  She couldn’t see the humor. “Let me see, honey.” She took her son’s hand in hers.

  He allowed his mother to touch him. His hand was red, but it could also have been from the cold. She felt his fingers. “Nothing seems broken.”

  Dietrich sniffled. “I was setting down the logs and they smashed my fingers.”

  “Come inside, dear, and we’ll put them in some cold water. That will help the pain go away.” She wrapped her arm around her son’s narrow shoulders and ushered him toward the house.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Keller.”

  She did not acknowledge Mr. Jakeman’s sincere tone, too intent on her son’s pain. She shouldn’t have let him remain outside with men chopping wood.

  Inside, she led Dietrich to a chair and hurried to pump some cold water into a bowl. “Hush now, dear, and set your hand in that for a few minutes. The pain will soon go away.”

  “What did he get into now?” Carina asked from the opposite side of the table.

  Mara glared at her stepmother but kept her tone even. “He smashed his fingers between some logs, as he was helping stack wood.”

  Carina shook her head and tsk-tsked but thankfully said nothing more.

  “Did you do as Mr. Jakeman told you?” Mara asked her son when his cries had dissolved to mere sniffles.

  “Yes, Mama. He told me where to carry the wood and how to stack it.”

  “Were you wearing some gloves?”

  He shook his head.

  “That would have protected your fingers. You know that happened to me when I was your age and would help my papa stack wood.”

  Dietrich’s eyes rounded. “Did it really?”

  “Yes, and I’d go crying to him, too. But the pain didn’t last. But you have to learn to be more careful. It happened to me when I was careless and hurried with the task.”

  Dietrich nodded. “I just wanted to stack all the wood they were chopping and show them I could stack as fast as they could chop.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure you needn’t have rushed to prove to them you were a good helper.”

  Carina sniffed. “Underfoot, I’d say.”

  Before Mara could think of a good retort, the kitchen door opened and Mr. Jakeman appeared with Paul behind him. He wiped his feet on the doormat and entered a few feet, sufficient for Paul to do the same. “We just came to see how Dietrich was doing. How do your fingers feel now?” he asked with a smile.

  “All right.” Dietrich took his hand from the dish of water and went over to show them.

  Mr. Jakeman took the boy’s hand in his and turned it around. “Looks good to me. What do you think, Paul?”

  “Looks better. How do they feel?”

  “A little better. They still hurt some,” he s
aid, bending his fingers.

  “Well, it’s painful to get them caught between two heavy logs. We’ve done it a time or two ourselves, haven’t we, Paul?”

  Paul grinned. “Sure have.” The youth extended both his hands for Dietrich to see. That made her son laugh. She looked toward Mr. Jakeman to find his glance on her, a twinkle in his eyes. She couldn’t help but smile back.

  Then remembering Carina’s words about hooking a widower, she quickly looked away.

  Carina stood. “It was so nice of you to come by to see to my wood. I hope you stay for dinner.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, ma’am. I brought a lunch pail.”

  “Well, then if you’re here at suppertime, you may join us then.”

  “I don’t like to leave Lizzie by herself.”

  Mara spoke before thinking. “If you’d like, I could bring her.”

  Mr. Jakeman’s expression softened as his eyes once more met hers. “That’s kind of you. Well, if she’d like to come, then I’d be pleased to stay—if you’d honor us with your company some evening.”

  She knew her color was deepening, and she dreaded how Carina might construe the invitation. “Very well.” She addressed herself to Dietrich, wanting to draw the attention away from herself. “I think you’d better stay away from the wood for now, don’t you think so?”

  “Oh, no, Mama. I feel better now.”

  “I thought I’d bring over a small ax I have and teach him to split wood. But it’ll wait for another day, all right, son?”

  Dietrich’s eyes lit up, his injury forgotten.

  “I don’t know…” began Mara.

  “But for today,” Mr. Jakeman continued, “why don’t you collect the small pieces for kindling? You can rake them up until you’re sure your fingers are better.”

  Mara let out a breath of relief. Giving Mr. Jakeman a look of gratitude, she addressed her son. “Be careful out there and do what Mr. Jakeman tells you.”

  “Yes, Mama.”