“What matters is that he made it back.”
A warm breeze brushed against the curtains. They lived well here, as well as her in-laws in early St. Charles had. Pherne had tried to emulate her mother-in-law by keeping a good house, being involved in St. Charles society, ensuring her children could read and write and make educated choices. This decision, to go to Oregon and leave her mother behind, wasn’t an educated choice, and it surprised her that her husband would make it.
“And your brothers? What have they said, or didn’t they know of your investment in Orus’s trip either?”
“They understand. Might even venture out themselves if things get politically more strained here. Missouri is not the best place to be for someone opposed to slaving.”
“Oregon might not be either. Half the group that left earlier this year were Missourians, some taking their slaves with them into the Oregon country.”
“There are the children to think of.” Virgil’s voice purred low.
“My very thought.” She sat up. “Virgilia is of courting age. She’ll marry before long. What if her husband doesn’t choose Oregon? We’ll lose her if we leave them behind. I couldn’t take another loss like that.”
“You’re bouncing ahead. For all we know, she’d like to go. You’re the only hold-up.”
Pherne felt herself stiffen. “I’m only holding up my part of the family, creating a good palette for them to paint good lives. You could do likewise instead of smudging a perfectly fine picture with strident hues.” She brushed at a fly. “And if Mother doesn’t go, someone needs to remain with her.”
“Oh, she’s not going. As you said, Orus said no to that and his is usually the last word. But Mrs. Brown’s a good hand. She’ll tend to herself just fine.” He rubbed her back as she sat, knees to her chin, facing away from him. His voice softened. “Look, Phernie. It could be the new start we need. Oliver’s dying—”
“I knew you’d bring that up.” She threw the covers off and stood, shaking, her jaw clenched so she wouldn’t say something she’d later regret.
“It’s been years, Pherne. Life goes on.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I’ve never said it was.”
“You’ve thought it, though.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I have not. And I have grieved that you assume responsibility.”
“I need to check the children.”
He reached for her hand but she pulled free, separated herself, and wondered if that was what she’d be doing in the months ahead. It was what she’d been trying to do for three years.
What would they do, the Pringles? Virgilia had missed some of the conversation when she went for the cake. She’d taken a few minutes longer to rework the icing that the heat had begun to dribble down the sides like raindrops on a windowpane. She’d held the pewter icing knife her gramo had given her like one of her mother’s paintbrushes, admiring the icing rescue and the swirls she could put onto the buttered icing. But when she returned, her grandmother was speaking in clipped tones, Sarelia jumped about to help her up, and her own parents dropped their eyes in silence. Only later did her brother Octavius tell her what her gramo had said.
“Gramo was upset,” Sarelia said as she stood beside the washbasin. Virgilia wiped at the girl’s eyes, forehead, neck, and cheeks. Her sisters stood in their chemises, wishing for a breeze to cool them but getting lazy, warm air instead. The tepid water could help. The scent of oleander drifted through the open window.
“Yes, she was upset. But grown-ups get that way sometimes. She’ll be fine.”
“Orus says Grandma can’t go.” Emma broke her usual silence. “I’ll stay with her.”
“We likely all will. I didn’t hear Papa say we’d head west, did you?” Sarelia and Emma both shook their heads no. “Well then, let’s not put our cart before the horse.”
Emma frowned. “That won’t work, Sister.”
“Exactly. We’ll wait to see what happens. Now climb into that bed and let’s get some sleep despite this heat.”
“I’m bedding down on the balcony,” Sarelia told her. “It can’t be as hot out there.”
“Moths and bats will get you.” Virgilia grinned as she said it. Her sisters hated bats and moths. Virgilia didn’t mind flying things; it was slithering things that bothered her.
“Eeeeh.” Sarelia instead crawled into the high bed, pushed her sister over, and made room for Virgilia. But as soon as soft snores came from her sisters, Virgilia eased her way to the balcony herself. She pulled her shawl around her slender shoulders. She could put up with the night flyers. She wanted time alone to think about what she wanted. If her parents didn’t go, she still could. With her cousins. Aunt Lavina could use help with her many children. She’d be under the thumb of Orus, but she’d have the adventure. But could she leave her gramo? Her parents and those snoring sisters? She’d missed the nuances of what occurred while she was artfully saving her cake. She was always one step behind. Some people didn’t know what they wanted, boys especially, that’s what Gramo told her. “So you’ve got to know what you want.” She guessed she’d have to answer that question first before trying to convince her parents or Judson Morrow of what he might want. This living was complicated. But here, on Hickory Farm, things were familiar, predictable—until Uncle Orus came back. Was that what she wanted though, unsurprising days? This had not been one of those. She wanted adventure. Oregon promised that. But St. Charles promised safety. What to do? She’d put her wishes to poetry in the morning, her special kind of prayer.
6
Considerations
“I behaved poorly,” Tabby told Beatrice the next morning. “I’ve set a bad example for the children for when things didn’t go my way. I acted like you during molting, being all cranky.” The Rhode Island Red squatted in comfort with Tabby’s strokes. One needed to find a new route rather than sulk and grumble. The thing to do was to trot as best she could right over to Orus and apologize. And then plan a trip to Vibbard and talk with Manthano. She couldn’t see herself living on alone here.
Manthano lived over a hundred miles away. Well, if she couldn’t make that trip, however would she make it all the way to Oregon?
“Pherne said almost nothing.” Tabby continued chattering to Beatrice while she fixed her tea and stirred hot water into cornmeal she’d have for breakfast. “That surprised me. I thought she’d say for sure that I could go with them. I mean, I assume they’re going.” She stopped her stirring. Maybe they weren’t. She tried to remember how Virgil had taken all the western news. Well, then, all this fuss about having to visit Manthano and lay herself open to that wife of his (who kept him from spending time with his family) might be letting the cat out of the bag before it even got put in. The thought lightened her mood.
Sarelia arrived at Tabby’s cabin as though the girl had a sixth sense when Tabby was ready to head out, walking stick in hand. “What’s your papa say about all this Oregon talk?”
“Nothing.”
“He hasn’t said a word?”
“He and Mama talked till late. We heard the rumblings rising up the stairs.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders.
Again, she was asking a child something she shouldn’t have. Mercy me, what is wrong with me! “This morning I’m headed over to Orus’s. I think I’ll walk. It always puts me in a better mood.”
“Mama says to come by to break your fast.”
“Already finished but I’ll stick my head in and say hey.”
Tabby loved soft, misty Missouri mornings. She could find a way to stay. If she wanted to. She made a quick stop at Pherne’s, telling her she was going to apologize to Orus “for making such a fuss about not being asked along. Not a good example for the children.”
“You were only expressing your upset, Mama.”
“Yes, but a good example finds a way to move forward, not set her heels in and revert to childhood. Isn’t that right, Sarelia?”
“What? I mean, excuse me? I don’t und
erstand, Gramo.”
“Not necessary.” Tabby tugged at the child’s braid. “Anyway, I’ll find a way to stay and I will make the best of it. I wouldn’t want to hold any of you back worrying about an old woman.”
“Maybe not all of us want to go.” Pherne fingered her locket.
“Virgil having second thoughts, is he?”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of hungry children as Pherne put porridge on the table, sliced slivers of brown sugar from the cone, and let each child stir until the sugar melted. “We’ll talk later, Mama.” Pherne turned back to her stove, a recent purchase Virgil made to ease her days. The stove wouldn’t be easily taken west, nor would that dining room table and set of chairs they’d paid dearly to bring by steamship down the Ohio. Pherne did love nice things.
Tabby thought of what she might take with her—if she had a chance to go. It kept her quiet as she and Sarelia walked down the boardwalk streets toward Orus’s farm on the outskirts of town. Tabby tugged at her crocheted collar. She had few things to take with her. She’d learned to live frugally. A widow with children had to. And besides, memories were easily packed.
Once at Orus and Lavina’s, Tabby sought out her son, finding him at the edge of the field, tin cup in hand, surveying his crop.
“I’ve decided to apologize, Son. I’m so happy you’re back and I confess I forgot to be grateful that you were safe and sound before I snapped my lips about your thinking me too old to go with you.”
“The girls are out by the spring, Sarelia, if you want to find them.” Sarelia skipped away. Then to Tabby, Orus said, “I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses, Marm. Your staying really is for the best.”
His easy acceptance stung, but she plodded on with her latest plan.
“I’ve decided I’ll go visit Manthano and see if I can appease his wife into having me live with them. I really can be a helpful soul despite my foot lagging.”
“And tongue wagging.” Orus grinned.
“That too. The older I get, the more I realize I need to be more helpful.” Visiting Manthano before the leaves turned would tell Tabby if she and her second son could set aside old irritations, smooth salve over old wounds, and live together. But more, it would interrupt the image she feared her children held of their mother and grandmother as an old, lame woman in her hickory chair, living through their lives rather than finding a purpose of her own. “But Catherine isn’t so taken with me, I’m afraid.”
“Not taken with many, I’d say. I can’t take you this week.” Orus scanned his fields. “September, I can go with you then.”
“I can do it alone.” He really did see her as a cripple. “I’m no little waif seeking refuge.” She laughed when she said it.
“You’re no waif, but harnessing a wagon and—”
“I’ve done it before, I can do it again. I didn’t come to seek your permission, Orus. I came to say I was sorry for acting the child. I understand why you don’t want me. I’d be a burden to you and I’ve never wanted that.”
“It’s for your safety, Marm. Wait until next month. I can go with you then.”
She let him think she’d consider waiting.
They walked back into the house, where Lavina brought hot tea to the table. Tabby took a seat, breathing hard. Walking on the uneven ground of fields strained her foot more than she wanted to admit. Walking at all was a struggle, but she needed the motion to keep that limb limber. She mentioned her plan to visit Manthano.
“Orus said he and Dr. White stopped at Manthano’s on the way back and Catherine was with child. She might welcome an extra pair of hands.” Lavina removed the tea caddy, shaking it once over Tabby’s cup. “A new mother always needs extra help.”
“Yes. Midwifery is worthy work.”
“It’s settled then. We’ll go next month.” Orus pressed both hands on his thighs and stood.
“I go this month and without you, Orus. You have things to tend to here, I know, so let me be on my own. Get used to the changes before they happen.”
“Mama, I won’t—”
“Let her, Husband. A woman needs to have some say in her direction, not always be a weather vane pushed by a son.”
“I don’t like it.”
“We Browns have lots of things we don’t like, but we make do,” Tabby said. “And I will too, Orus Brown. There’s a limit to your bossing your marm. I’ve just reached it.”
With that she took her stick, lifted herself from the chair, and limped out, shouting for Sarelia as she made her way down the steps. She’d come with the best of intentions to hold her tongue, get her relationship with Orus back on track. Then in an instant she’d acted the child again. What was she trying to prove?
Virgilia liked the idea when Tabby broached the subject of taking Virgilia with her on her sojourn to Manthano’s, but her mother said no. “But, Mama, I can be helpful to Gramo. And I haven’t seen my cousins in forever.”
“Surely you’re not worried about me making the trek, are you, Pherne? You know I can go that far.” Her grandmother held her arms out for the wrapping of yarn. Emma and Sarelia sat in the corner, reading a James Fenimore Cooper book, though they seemed young for such fare as The Pathfinder. Still, the subject was appropriate with all the talk of traveling.
“Oh, I suspect you can do whatever you set your mind to, Mother. It’s a Brown trait. But, well, if you do talk Manthano into taking you in, I’ll lose my last argument with Virgil about needing to stay here to care for you.”
Her grandmother blinked. “You want to stay?”
“Mama doesn’t want to go.”
Pherne scowled at her daughter, sending Virgilia to check on a venison stew she’d put on while her mother and grandmother sat at the table tending yarn.
“And you know this because?”
“Because I heard you and Papa last evening, talking.”
“Eavesdropping is—”
“You don’t want to go to Oregon? Oh, Pherne, it’ll be such an adventure.” Tabby reached across and patted her daughter’s hand, interrupting an eavesdropping lecture, something her grandmother did all the time. “Oh, the experiences of new places, new ways. Adapting. It keeps a person young, it does. And nimble.”
“You’d leave your mama’s grave? My Oliver’s?” Pherne shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You can. I left your father’s grave and my child’s and my father’s grave too. Their coffins are holding places, Pherne. Their spirits aren’t there. They live here.” She tapped her heart. “We take them with us. If your husband wishes you to go, you must go.”
“Our roots are deep here, Mother. Don’t you feel that?”
Virgilia listened, stirred with a wooden spoon smooth in her hand.
“Roots spread. And we’ll spread our family tree across the continent,” her grandmother said. “Or rather, Orus will. And you and Virgil. Mine too, I suppose, through each of you. But I’d love to plant a few roots in Oregon country. Each time your father moved us, I wondered if I should stay, be separated. But then I realized that I left behind experiences only. Memories I took with me and I still have all of those, made sweeter through the years.”
Virgilia could see tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.
“Look, Sweet Pea, I know you have to make it your own choice, not do it because Virgil insists. If you go for him, when things get tough—and they will get tough—you could become spiteful and carry misery that’ll last a lot longer than whatever is the current trouble. You’ll blame him for the problems, and frankly, a blaming woman is not very attractive. It’s harder to find fault in others if you’ve chosen a route for yourself. That’s what I’m trying to do here, having Manthano take me in, though I’ll keep making my own way too. I’ll find something to do there. Start a school, maybe.”
Pherne blew her nose in the handkerchief Virgilia handed her.
“It’s only for a week or so, Mama. Gramo and I will have a fine time of it. Please can’t I go?”
�
�I’ll speak to your father. If he says yes, then all right.”
“Maybe Judson would come with us.” Virgilia slapped her hand over her mouth.
“Judson Morrow? Your beau, is he?” Her grandmother picked right up on things.
“Oh, no, ah. Never mind, Gramo.” Virgilia could have kicked herself for her outburst. “I just thought we’d need a driver, wouldn’t we?”
“Virgilia.” Pherne clucked her tongue at the idea.
“He’ll be a huge help, Gramo. We won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Or a foot, I’ll wager. We’ll have to talk, girl, about your beau,” her gramo said, “but since we’ll be taking the stage, I doubt his services will be needed.”
“Feet or wings: My foot. I know you’ve asked before what happened to make me lame and it’s a sad tale, Sarelia. I don’t like dwelling on sad stories. It mixes up so much pain and later trials, now overcome. No need for it, but I suppose in a memoir one must write not only about the happy things that turned out well but also about the harder things, failures.”
“That’s what I want to hear about, Gramo. The hard things.”
“Hmm. Well, we’d gone skating. My papa had taken me along with Alvin, my brother. Mama came too, but she didn’t skate. Alvin could swirl rings around me. Papa too. Papa was a fine figure of a man, standing on one foot and spinning to my applause. The lake had been swept as smooth as a baby’s cheek, but still there were nubbins of ice that rose up to surprise, like pimples on a chin. It’s not unlike life, Child, when things go smoothly for a time and then we stumble. There’s nothing to do but get up, decide if we were wise to be on that lake in the first place, and maybe choose to never go there again. But often, life just happens to us, and it will, over and over again.”
Sarelia blinked, keeping her attention like the dog’s nose to a bird in the bush. “Did you break your leg, Gramo?”
“Here’s what happened. On that December day, I wore my pair of wooden skates. They were made by a craftsman in exchange for money owed my father for a difficult delivery of the craftsman’s twin sons. I wobbled and lurched, forward and back, until I got the rhythm of it. Lean to the right, then left and back again in order to go forward, hands flailing and then eased behind my back, elbows out. The cold bit my face and I loved it. My mouth froze open with the joy of the sensation and my smiling, smiling. I can feel that cold air sucked into my lungs even now. How does that sound, Sarelia? Can you picture the lake and me on it?”
This Road We Traveled Page 4
