Wildwood Creek

by Wingate, Lisa

  “I’ve never known her to have any,” he remarks and smiles then, and I am again surprised by him. He is at least a decade older than I, perhaps made to look more so by the scar beneath his eye and his thick head of hair gone early gray, but his smile suddenly seems that of a young man. A man who was playful once.

  A laugh pushes up my throat, despite the bad manners of it, and I stifle it into my glove, pretending to cough.

  Beside me, Maggie giggles straightaway. “She steals the bread off our plates, and says we ate it, and then she feeds it to her daughters.”

  “Maggie!” I reach across and grab her arm hard.

  Mr. Hardwick is surprisingly charmed. I’ve never supposed that he could be. He leans close to Maggie, touches a fingertip to her chin, and says, “Could be because her daughters aren’t near so pretty as you, Maggie Rose.”

  I tug Maggie’s arm, shifting her away slightly as she favors him with a smile. I’ve come to be leery of the sort of men here in Wildwood. Though none have offered any trouble to Maggie and me, they are rough-cut and many in want of a woman. Mrs. Delevan will not allow saloons and the like in her town and insists that the bathhouses do only respectable business, but just down the spring creek in Red Leaf Hollow lies a place where gamin’ and drinkin’ and all manner of debauchery is said to happen. The girl who ran screaming through the street had come from there.

  Mr. Hardwick straightens to his full height and looks over his shoulder toward the wagon. “Reckon I’ve got some of your books and slates in the crate there. I’ll deliver them up to the schoolhouse after I’ve taken the mail bag to Unger’s.”

  “I could help you,” Maggie offers, and her forwardness is surprisin’. Perhaps being here in this strange place has made Mr. Hardwick’s face seem more like that of a friend than it should be.

  Even more surprisin’, Mr. Hardwick appears somewhat agreeable to it. Before I know what’s happened, he’s taken the mail pouch from his arm. “Reckon you could trot this in to Mrs. Unger, and I’ll walk up to the smithy to see about new shoes on my red mule? Then we’ll take the books down to the church house.” He turns to me, finally. “Reckon you’ll be hankering to see what’s in the crates as soon as they’re opened too.”

  His gaze darts toward the wagon and then to his hands, almost bashful. It’s a bafflement. Does he mean to invite me along? Of a sudden, he seems nothin’ of the hard-edged man who delivered us here. I find myself blushing and tripping over my words. “I’ve been called up the hill for tea. There’s never any telling how long it’ll be.”

  He nods without looking at me, seeming unsurprised that I’ve answered in the negative.

  “But I suppose it will be well enough if Maggie goes along.” I’m stunned to find myself saying it, and it surprises Maggie as well. She catches a breath, smiling for the first time in a fair bit. She’s happy to escape the big house today.

  It’s just as well not having her there, I decide. Essie Jane has learned far too much from the slaves in the kitchen house, and she shares her new knowledge. Maggie’s been privy to more than she should know about that place in the wood at Red Leaf Hollow and what sort of sinful behavior happens there. Even the women slaves don’t go that direction along Wildwood Creek when they’re out gathering mushrooms, nuts, and herbs for cooking.

  I turn to Maggie. “But no slipping off to the wood or around town when you finish helping Mr. Hardwick. Are you understanding me, Maggie May?” She has a wicked curiosity in her mind about that place, Red Leaf Hollow. I’ve seen it in her eyes when she whispers about what Essie Jane has told her. She’s wonderin’ after it, even though Essie Jane and the kitchen women’s purpose was to warn the young girls never to stray near.

  “Yes’m,” she answers, then bounces on her toes as she clutches the mailbag to her chest. It’s no small thing that Mr. Hardwick is trusting her with it. She dashes for the store, and Mr. Hardwick takes his leave of me. I’m wishing I could share their afternoon, rather than partake of the one assigned me.

  My mind remains with Maggie May and the new schoolbooks as I make my way to the Delevans’ kitchen house and proceed to change into finery that must be pinned up at the back, as it’s too large in the middle and the breast for me. Asmae, the eldest of the kitchen women, finishes the task by arranging my hair in curls atop my head and securing a green wool felt hat with a pin that comes just short of drawing blood from my scalp. She’s impatient with the silly task, and I don’t blame her in the least. When it’s all finished, the only things I’ve left of my own are my gloves, unmentionables, and the locket I wear on a thick length of ribbon coverin’ the scars. I am careful always to hold it in place during the dressing and the undressing so none of the other women can see what hides underneath it. Coming to tea today, along with me, are four others whose husbands operate businesses in town.

  We make our way ’round to the front to be presented properly to Mrs. Delevan, me lagging behind, as the slippers are too snug on my feet. I feel as if I’ve got my toes caught in the blacksmith billows, and Big Neb is pushing down with each step. I long for my ankle boots, which wait in the kitchen house.

  We’ve barely made our way inside the house and to the ladies’ salon before there’s the sound of someone new coming in the door, and in a wink, Harland Delevan himself stands in the entry, observing the tea ladies. He’s dusty from travelin’, but his mother seems to mind not a bit. His aunt Peasie smiles and claps her hands together, and Mrs. Delevan’s eyes fill with her son as he moves across the room, then bends to kiss her cheek. He greets the rest of the ladies properly, before calling for me to leave the room with him.

  “Pardon, sir?” I say, a fierce heat under my skin. I’m already imagining what the ladies will be thinking.

  “I’ve something for Miss Rose to see,” he explains to his mother, not to me. She excuses me straightaway, and I rise from my chair. My passing through the room echoes, no other sound to disturb it but the ticking clock on the mantel. The regard of the ladies follows me until I’m gone, and then Mrs. Delevan resumes the conversation about whether a periwinkle should be sewn from a shade of blue thread or a shade of purple, or both.

  In the entryway Mr. Delevan says to me, “I trust you’ll forgive me for removing you from the afternoon’s festivities.” I flutter a glance at him, half expecting a wry twist of his lips, like that of Mr. Hardwick earlier on, but there is not a hint of his humor at the moment.

  I merely nod and say, “Certainly.” I find myself looking up and down the hall, wishing for the kitchen women to come with teacups and trays, but there’s no one. Again, I wonder what it is about this man that sets me so ill at ease. He’s shown us nothin’ but kind treatment thus far.

  He leads me to the door and opens it, and it is a relief when we step onto the porch. On the street below, people move about. It’s clear that Mr. Delevan means us to walk down the hill, and it’s crossing my mind that I’ve the silk slippers still on my feet. My toes are hemmed up like tube sausages, and aside from that, the slippers will be soiled, should I wear them below. We’ve had a bit of rain yesterday and the milk-colored caliche streets are damp yet. I’m afraid to make mention of this, not knowing whether it would be better to delay Mr. Delevan’s plan or risk the slippers.

  Finally I merely walk along beside him. He seems in a rush. I hope the kitchen women will wash the slippers before returning them to Mrs. Delevan’s collection of tea clothing.

  “My mother is most pleased with you,” the man says to me as we move single file along the stone path leading down the hill, myself in front of him.

  “I hope it, sir.” I can’t help wonderin’ what he thinks of the eccentricities of his mother and his aunt, and if he has lived all his life under such behavior. What an odd thing to be strapped with womenfolk who’ve not a bit to occupy their minds but their own frivolous entertainment. Perhaps this is the reason he’s come so far from civilization to make his living? Perhaps this is the reason he has no wife in his home?

  If he’s bothere
d by it, he doesn’t say. His mood seems fine enough today, though I wouldn’t know for certain, havin’ only spoken to the man’s face the day he hired me to my position. These past weeks, I’ve seen him once at a distance, and then he was gone away again. Even in his absence, he has made certain we were looked after, and I am grateful for that much.

  “And how do you find our town of Wildwood?” He steps up beside me now, as the path grows wider near the head of the street.

  “Quite well.” So many things I yearn to mention, but I sense I should not do it. “Though I’ve found little time to spend about the community, truly. I’ve been quite occupied working to bring the school to order. Not all of the children are warm to the idea, nor are their parents, but they seem to be slowly coming around to it.”

  “It is my mother’s desire, the school. To bring a measure of culture to the town.” He clasps his hands behind his back as he walks, his chin turned upward, taking in the hard line of buildings against sky. I’m conscious of the sound of hammers striking wood, the clink on the blacksmith’s anvil, a barking dog, and many eyes turning our way as we walk. Embarrassingly so, though Mr. Delevan seems not aware or bothered by it.

  Mrs. Unger watches from the store window as our reflections melt over the glass, mine like a brightly colored bird, all pinks and purples and the green of the hat. But it isn’t the reflections I see—it is the grave look on the Unger woman’s face. I wonder what is meant by it. She’s been kinder to Maggie and me than most.

  “I will make a success of the school with time. I remain confident of it,” I say, fearing Mr. Delevan might become discouraged with the idea, as it is apparently his mother’s and not his own. “What is worth having is worth the investment of hard work.” It’s a quote of Da’s, the sort of determination that enabled him to start again in a new country.

  The man turns then, his eyes resolute beneath the brim of his fine black silk hat. “Yes,” he agrees, his lingering gaze raising color in my skin. “I find that it is.”

  Two women step aside into a horse alley and watch us pass. I’ve been with both of them at Mrs. Delevan’s tea parties, but neither one offers up a greeting.

  It remains likewise as we move along the street, and I’m more than uneased by it. I feel their eyes over us, sense their whispering. It must be the schoolhouse we’re headed to, down the hill on the high side along the spring creek. Perhaps he’s bringing me here to show that the books have come.

  He speaks of his plans for the town as we move along. An opera house here, a smelter there, another hotel, a waterworks eventually. “More housing, of course, at some point. But they’re a lazy lot, these Irish. Will live in tents and dugouts in the woods forever if I’ll let them. Beggars and vagabonds. Most of them little better than gypsies, really. Not with the sensibilities to appreciate the hallmarks of culture in a town, certainly. Not given to thinking for themselves or advancing themselves. Drones. Much like worker bees in the hive, wouldn’t you say?”

  I cannot bring a word from my throat. Inside, there’s been a torch lit to the pitch pot, and it’s boilin’. My hands grip Mrs. Delevan’s borrowed skirt so tightly it’ll likely be returned with scorch marks in it.

  He leads me up the steps to the schoolhouse, not seeming to notice I haven’t replied to his question.

  The room is empty when he opens the door to admit me in. Where could Maggie May be now? Still about town with Mr. Hardwick? There’s no sign of the crates with the school books—just the room as it was when I ended class and sent my students home a full hour early, as I’m forced to do when I’m called upon for ladies’ tea.

  I pause to check the street, yearning to catch a glimpse of my sister. I hope she’s not gone wandering the woods while Mr. Hardwick busies himself at the blacksmith shop. I hadn’t thought to look on the way past, to see if the man was still there with Big Neb.

  “Come,” Mr. Delevan says and traverses the center aisle of the schoolhouse. I’ve no choice but to follow him to the door behind my desk. Until now, it’s been closed and sealed over with an oilcloth to keep out the dust and noise made by the workers constructing the room for Maggie and me.

  Mr. Delevan pulls the latch and the door falls open, and he smiles at me for the first time. I’m caught in it for a moment. His smile is a bit of rain in the heat of summer. Something you’re aware won’t come often or be long-lastin’.

  “Come and see, Bonnie Rose,” he bids me again.

  I do as he says, and when I cross the threshold into the room, the air catches in my mouth. I taste wood dust, fresh linen, and whitewash. The room is small but lovely. Everythin’ inside is clean and new. White beds with turned posts for Maggie and me, feather mattresses, and linens and quilts on each one. A table and two chairs for dining, a corner cabinet to house our foodstuffs, an indoor stove for cooking, which is more than so many here have. Along the back wall is a small door with a four-paned window in it. Soft light shines through the lace curtain, revealing the path to the spring creek, the privy, and the stone face of the mountain not forty yards beyond. A fine breeze will slip through the room when the door is open. We’ll plant our starts of Ma’s roses there by the porch, Maggie May and I, and enjoy their scent comin’ in once they’ve grown. The roses have taken root in a pot already.

  “It is a lovely home for us.” The words are followed by tears as I step past him to better see the place. We’ve a dresser with a mirror and a cabinet for our clothing. Not since the loss of Ma and Da and baby Cormie have we had a place of our own.

  “I am most pleased that you find it to your liking.” He advances a few steps farther into the room, and I’m conscious of his coming close behind me. Of a sudden, I feel everythin’. The scratching of the pins at my waist, the binding of the slippers, the dampness where the mud has seeped through, the rustle of his breath.

  A mockingbird flies off a tiny tree near the porch. The poor creature sails hard into the glass, and I jump.

  “It hasn’t yet learned where the walls stand.” His voice is low, but not soft. “Some will beat themselves against the windows until it is best just to snap their necks and do away with them.”

  There’s a turnin’ in my stomach. “I’m certain the poor thing will learn it in due time. It’s one of God’s creatures, and it was the bird who made his home here first, after all.”

  “Of course,” he agrees, and he is closer behind me now. I feel his breath on my skin. “Forgive my mentioning something so . . . unpleasant. This color is most becoming against your hair. Emerald green. I suppose it should be. Mother selected well for you.”

  A racket comes then, unexpected. The front door in the schoolhouse blows open and strikes the wall, as it will do if one doesn’t remember to catch it first. Maggie clatters through it, her voice echoing to the rafters as she enters. Another set of footsteps follow hers, adding a long, heavy, labored sound.

  “I can put this on her desk, and then I’ll help you,” she chirps, cheerful as a summer day.

  “Reckon I’ve got it.” Mr. Hardwick’s voice. A cool rush of relief strikes me. “Put that where your sister will find it, and then we’ll try our hand at unpacking these for her.”

  I gather myself, turn, and smile at Mr. Delevan. “They’ve brought the books.”

  The man holds for a moment, as if he’s of a need to show me that it’ll be his say when we leave this room, no matter who’s come in the schoolhouse door. Finally he steps aside, and there’s little choice but for the two of us to depart together.

  Mr. Hardwick lowers the crate, and then spies us leavin’ the boarding room. His look is first one of surprise, and then of emotions I cannot read. Dismay, anger, accusation, or disappointment—or some mixture of all. I feel the stain of shame, so familiar in my skin. Regardless of how far we travel, it discovers and rediscovers me. The past is never gone. There is always someone who knows, and Mr. Delevan knows. I fear that fact will be the undoing of this new life of Bonnie Rose.

  He gives an impatient tip of his hat my way an
d proceeds toward the front door. As he passes along the aisle, he pauses only slightly, long enough to say to Mr. Hardwick, “I will expect you when you finish here. Come to my offices, not to the manor house. As much as Aunt Peasie may find you fascinating, I’m afraid that mother considers many of my . . . business associates . . . distasteful. I trust that you’ve made it through with my shipment intact this time. No missing kegs of powder?” He walks on, not waiting for an answer.

  “I trust that I have,” Mr. Hardwick replies in his long, slow drawl. An eyetooth flashes at Mr. Delevan’s back as the man strides off into the sunlight.

  Mr. Hardwick’s friendliness of earlier is vanished when he turns my way again. I know what he thinks of me. There’s not a thing I can do to help it.

  Maggie May remains unaware of the currents in the room. She takes something from the desk and shakes it, disturbin’ the air with the clear sound of a bell. It is heavy and made of iron, and she holds the polished wooden handle in both fists.

  “Big Neb made it for you. We helped him finish it,” she tells me with a smile, then wags it once more. The bell speaks so loudly that it seems to be rattling the windows all about the room. “For calling the students in. Big Neb says he’ll make you a larger one when he’s able.”

  She extends the gift to me, and I touch its smoothly polished surface through my glove. “It is lovely, to be sure.” The bell is crudely hammered from scrap, with a length of chain and a bolt as a striker. I hope that Big Neb hasn’t overstepped his bounds by crafting it. Iron is in short supply here.

  From the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Mr. Hardwick looking me over, and for the first time I notice I’m still dressed in the borrowed clothes. I’ll be forced to return up the hill to reclaim my own. Maggie makes mention of it, then, and I’m desperately wishin’ she’d hold her tongue.