“You’re never going to finish at that rate,” Malachi stated and rolled a wheelbarrow in place beside her. “And no sense walking out back with every forkful. Pick it up in big chunks and dump it in. Like this.”
She was more than willing to give up the tool and watch him wield it, but he handed it right back. She whined, “You’re so much better at it than I am. I wasn’t born for work, and it’s not fair of my uncle to make me do it.”
The depths of the boy’s eyes went black, as when he’d picked up the spoon for Zeke. “Reckon you had it coming. And breeding has nothing to do with it. Anyone can make up their mind to get a job done. But it does take some grit,” he added, as though that was a quality she sorely lacked.
Isaac strolled through the doorway and watched Emily’s pathetic attempts. “Julia will keep your supper warm for you. You may eat it when you are finished—after I’ve inspected your work.”
Emily’s heart sank. The stolen apples were long gone, and her middle echoed like an underground cavern. Her nap hadn’t been nearly long enough, either.
Then Isaac waggled a finger at Malachi. “Don’t let her hoodwink you into doing it for her. It was her own foolishness that got her into this.”
“Yes sir.” He followed Isaac out of the darkening barn, turning to call out, “See you in the morning, Emily.”
Their comments rankled like woolen underwear. Did they both think so lowly of her? She was perfectly capable of accomplishing anything she wanted—before morning—and she was plenty stubborn enough to prove them wrong. She set into the muck with a vengeance.
The work was backbreaking, and blisters began to form on her hands, even through the kid gloves. But she wiped the sweat away with the back of her sleeve and worked through the pain until the stalls were spotless. Then she sprinkled straw on the floor, just like her uncle had showed her, and even led the horses back into them. Finally, pitching the fork into the haystack, she went in search of Isaac.
Her uncle looked up in surprise as she came stomping through the kitchen door, but Julia pounced on her before she could speak.
“Out! You take dose filthy boots off ‘fore you come traipsin’ over my clean floor. And ain’t dat my apron you’s wearin’? Chil’, you don’t takes my apron without axin’ me firs’!”
Isaac’s eyes sparkled. “Would you have given it to her?”
She glared at him. “Do mules dance? Kitchen aprons ain’t fo’ cleanin’ barns!”
Emily smiled sweetly and handed it to the woman. “You can have it back.”
Isaac laughed out loud. Then he rose from the table. “You did that mighty quick, young lady. Let me go see if the job was more successful than your first mopped floor.”
Emily sank onto the bench and pushed sweaty hair out of her eyes. Too late, she remembered the gloves. She could feel wetness smeared against her cheek.
Her uncle returned a few minutes later. Malachi came in behind him holding an empty burlap sack which he hung on a nail behind the door.
“Nicely done, my dear. Julia, please fetch this child some supper.”
The woman clanked the pans together loudly. “She need a good kick in de pants, dat’s what. Skippin’ school and frolickin’ about de countryside,” she muttered, shaking her head.
But Malachi sent her a simple nod that communicated a new respect. It warmed her all the way to her stockinged toes and thawed out some of her pride. But to make it understood that she hadn’t melted completely, she lifted her chin and threw him a you-shouldn’t-have-doubted-me look.
Julia plunked down a steaming plate piled with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. Emily dove in ravenously, setting aside proper etiquette for the moment, as it didn’t coordinate with dung-splattered clothing anyway.
When clean bones sat alone on the plate, her uncle dropped an envelope in front of her. “I picked this up today. You’ll be happy to know your family hasn’t completely forgotten you.”
With a little squeal, she scooped up the letter and rushed from the room. Out on the front porch the storm had moved on, and the sleepy sun was pulling a colorful blanket around its shoulders. Emily perched on the railing and caught its parting rays on her mother’s handwriting.
Dearest daughter,
I hope this letter finds you fully recovered from your trip and doing well. We miss you too, but your father and I think it is best that you remain with my brother for a while longer. He’s a good man and may yet succeed in areas we have failed you. Keep a stiff upper lip and try to make the most of your visit…
She set the letter in her lap and looked out over the skyline of the city. She would not be going home to her beautiful Ella Wood as she had hoped. She was stuck in Michigan indefinitely with a man as unmovable as Lake Huron. She was disappointed, but not as devastated as she thought she might be.
She finished her letter, devouring news of Sophia and her latest antics. Lizzie was well, as was the rest of the household. Her father had bought a new field hand that was causing some problems. He had also purchased a filly that her mother was certain Emily would just adore. Aunt Margaret had come for a visit and sent her love.
Emily tucked the communication back into its envelope. The evening chill was beginning to penetrate her sweat-dampened body, and a hot bath sounded heavenly. Perhaps she could persuade her uncle to fill the tin washtub for her even though it wasn’t Saturday.
But she couldn’t find him anywhere.
“Yo’ uncle had an errand to run tonight. You kep’ him busy half de day wid yo’ shenanigans. When do you ‘spects him to get his work done?” Julia asked.
There was always Zeke, she figured. Julia was simply pushing hot air around with all that talk of him being free. But soon after she climbed into her muddy nest of a bed to wait for the old slave to answer her call, she didn’t care much about anything.
~
Emily awoke feeling rested, albeit a bit sore, but she soon learned her riding incident wasn’t behind her quite yet. Still dressed from the evening before, she swung her feet over the bed where they met the floor with a shocking chill. She hustled to the kitchen, stumbling through the predawn darkness to the promise of warmth and to try again for a bath.
“That’s an excellent idea,” her uncle agreed. “Malachi, would you set some water on the stove to heat? Emily should look presentable when she meets Mr. Thatcher.”
Malachi cast her a sympathetic look before fetching the tin bucket to the pump in the backyard.
“Who’s Mr. Thatcher?” she asked.
“William Thatcher and his daughter, Melody, live in that beautiful Victorian home up the road. Mr. Thatcher owns a textile mill by the river. He also owns Coal Dust,” he said pointedly.
Emily looked up in alarm. “He doesn’t know I took her, does he?”
“No—”
Emily breathed a sigh of relief.
“—which is why we are paying him a visit this morning. You are going to tell him what you did. And apologize.”
Her face whitened. “I will not! The horse is home. She’s not even hurt!”
“I’m sorry, Emily, but you need to learn to take responsibility for your actions. We’ll go before school.”
Julia looked on with complete satisfaction. “And after school, you gonna wash dose nasty sheets on yo’ bed.”
Emily groaned.
~
The Thatcher house was large and highly ornamented, with steep gables and pointy turrets. Every eave, every angle, every window and door was decorated with carved moldings of various designs and painted in pastel colors. Porches and walkways were railed with black wrought iron, and the overall effect was of bright, airy lightness; a house made of lace.
Emily moved up the concrete walk with no small measure of trepidation, her uncle pushing close behind to ensure she went through with her task. Her knock was answered by a pleasant, round-faced maid who greeted them with enthusiasm. “Why, Mr. Milford, what a pleasure! Come in!”
She ushered them into a parlo
r off the main hall. “Mr. Thatcher is still at breakfast. He must have his coffee, you know,” she smiled. “I’ll send him right in.”
Isaac remained standing, but Emily sat down on one of the floral sofas, trying her best to shrink into the cushions.
At that moment, a beautiful young woman floated down the stairs in the foyer. She was about twenty years old, slender, with thick dark hair that swooped up under a dainty hat and cascaded in ringlets down her back. She had a parasol tucked under one arm and was just pulling on a pair of gloves when she spotted Isaac.
“Why, Mr. Milford!” she beamed, rushing to his side and clutching his arm. “How lovely of you to come calling! How did you know I just returned from visiting my grandmother? You’re the very first gentleman to welcome me home.”
Isaac bowed low, “It is my honor, Miss Thatcher.”
She swatted playfully at his arm. “Oh, you’re such a charmer. But I’m afraid I have a prior invitation that I positively cannot break.”
Isaac assumed an expression of deep regret. Miss Thatcher disentangled her arm with a peal of laughter. “Mr. Milford, you keep yourself entirely too preoccupied, tucked away in your little hotel. You simply must come visit me again.”
“I’m afraid my business does keep me quite busy,” he admitted.
“No excuses,” she admonished, moving toward the door. “If you don’t call soon enough to suit me, I may show up at your hotel for dinner.”
Isaac followed her into the entryway and opened the door for her. “I will save you the seat of honor,” he stated with another bow.
She giggled as she stepped outside. “I won’t forget now!”
“She’s pretty,” Emily prompted when the girl was gone. “And wealthy.”
Isaac nodded. “And silly. And spoiled.”
“Milford!” a voice boomed out before Emily could reply. A stomach showed at the doorway ahead of the rest of the man. When he appeared in full, Mr. Thatcher looked more like a swollen rain barrel than a man, and all the hair from the top of his head had gravitated to the bushy mustache above his lip. “You son of a rascal! What brings you here? That mare of my daughter’s giving you trouble?”
“Hello, William. Actually that is why we’re here. Emily?”
Mr. Thatcher raised his eyes and glanced around the room, finally spotting the girl. “I say, Milford! I didn’t know you had a cub.”
Isaac waved her over and Emily reluctantly complied. “This is my niece, Emily Preston. Emily, Mr. William Thatcher.”
“How do you do?” Emily mumbled, dropping a small curtsy.
“Well, well,” Thatcher muttered, looking her up and down. “Bit runty, ain’t she?”
Emily fixed him with a steely glare. Isaac did his best to swallow his amusement. “Er, we’re working on that. Emily does have something to tell you, though.” And he pushed her to the front.
Emily coldly took note of Mr. Thatcher’s fine velvet waistcoat, the watch chain that spanned it, and a fine pair of soft leather boots. He was as unsophisticated as a backwoods farmer, but he obviously had money.
“I ain’t got all day, missy,” he grumbled.
She lifted her chin. “I admire your riding mare very much, Mr. Thatcher. She’s a fine animal. High-spirited and intelligent. But I noticed she’s tending toward corpulence. A family trait, I see,” she added with a glance at his middle.
“Wha’s that?” Thatcher asked, looking to Isaac.
Her uncle shot Emily a stern look. “She says your horse is getting fat.”
“Ah, well, Melody doesn’t get out to ride her like she should.”
“Which is why I took the liberty of exercising her for you yesterday,” Emily finished.
His eyebrows shot upward and he glanced from Isaac to Emily. “Then, I suppose I should thank you for it.”
Emily smirked triumphantly at her uncle.
“But,” Isaac interposed, “she should have asked your permission first, and she should have gone after school hours, and she should have notified someone as to where she was going.” He was looking hard at Emily. “She seems to have forgotten this is not her father’s plantation. And she has come to apologize.”
Emily clenched her jaw. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thatcher.”
But the man seemed not to hear. “She your Southern kin?”
“Yes, my sister’s daughter from Carolina.”
“They grow cotton?”
“Some. Rice, primarily.”
He nodded, forgetting about Emily altogether. “I want to contact them. Been having trouble with a supplier and I need some new sources to keep running at capacity.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Isaac said. “In the meantime, Emily would like to make her mistake up to you.”
Emily froze. Thatcher looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. “Well,” he considered, “she could work a few shifts in the mill.”
Emily cut her eyes over to her uncle. He had to be joking!
Isaac pretended to consider the suggestion. “Perhaps it would be wiser to make the punishment fit the crime. What if she took over the care of your daughter’s mare? She could feed and water it, keep the stall clean, and with your permission, make sure the horse received regular exercise.”
Emily caught her breath as Thatcher scratched at his bushy mustache. She hardly dared believe what she was hearing!
“Well,” Thatcher mused, “Melody is often gone visiting. Perhaps that would work out just fine.”
Isaac moved toward the door. “Very well. Then if we’re agreed, Emily needs to be getting on to school. Thank you, William.”
The big man grasped the doorknob in his meaty hand and let his guests out. “Good day, Milford,” he boomed. “And if you ever need to let the girl out to work, the offer at my mill stands.”
~
A few days later, after a quiet Sunday supper in the kitchen, Isaac leaned back with a satisfied stretch. Julia and Shannon had finished serving guests and had taken their own supper at the table with Isaac and Malachi and Emily. Zeke puttered with the dishes. He would not eat until Isaac had finished no matter how the younger man tried to persuade him to join them.
“I do love this season of the year,” Isaac said, reaching for a small volume on the table beside him. “It puts me in mind of Longfellow.”
Emily watched him riffle through the pages. He was often in mind of the poet—his favorite, she had learned—and was in the habit of quoting him at odd times, or of reading aloud, as he did now.
“…Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees…”
“Why doesn’t he just say what he means,” Emily interrupted with some impatience, “that he wants to walk through the woods in the fall. It’d be simpler.”
Isaac met her eyes. “Where’s the music in that?”
She dismissed the question with a shake of her head. “You have to dig through all those extra words. Nobody really talks like that. Novels, on the other hand, are easy to understand because they say just what they mean.”
The women politely continued their meal, but Malachi’s eyes followed each speaker.
“The beauty of poetry is in the cadence and in the rhyme,” Isaac countered.
“It’s forcing words to follow rules.”
“Ah, rules.” Isaac exchanged an amused glance with Malachi. “Don’t novelists also conform to some guidelines when they craft their words into a story?”
But Emily backed her opinion firmly. “With poetry, you have to twist and manipulate the words to make them fit exactly. It’s unnatural.”
Isaac pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps achieving beauty inside boundaries is what makes poetry an art.”
He closed the book and set it on the table, changing the subject with a simple announcement. “The state fair opens this Tuesday. Shannon and I will be going, an
d we wondered if Emily and Malachi would like to take a day off school and join us?”
Malachi’s wide grin was all the answer he needed to give.
The suggestion awoke Emily’s indomitable curiosity, but she answered coolly, “I suppose it’s better than a day with Marbliss.”
“Mr. Marbliss,” her uncle corrected. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”
Chapter 9
Tuesday dawned warm and breezy. After feasting on Julia’s ham and eggs and hashed potatoes, Isaac hitched up the team to the open carriage and they drove out of town to a farm on the east side of the city where an eighty-acre field served as provisional fairgrounds. On one side, booths were set up in rows and plastered with broadsides that advertised everything from yard goods to livestock remedies. The meadow beyond had been flattened by two dozen large agricultural machines that now slumbered in ragged rows. And farther still, a series of temporary shelters and corrals housed all manner of farm animals.
Horses and buggies were parked along the perimeter fence and spilled into the open field adjacent to the festivities. Isaac drove past them and set the brake in an unoccupied corner. Then he helped Shannon down from the carriage. “Need a hand?” he asked Emily, but she had already scampered out after Malachi.
After tethering the team on short leads, Isaac led the foursome to the gate where he paid each twenty-five cent admission.
“You two stick together now, you hear?” he told the children. “I don’t want to lose either of you in the crowd.”
Malachi stopped to answer, “Yes sir,” but Emily was too busy gawking at the sights. She didn’t even bother to pretend indifference.
The very first booth held a variety of new kitchen gadgets which Shannon stopped to admire. “Wouldn’t Julia just love to see these?” she commented, spinning an odd-shaped spoon.
Emily couldn’t work out any use for the strange utensil, nor did she care. She craned her neck to see the daguerreotypes displayed in the next booth. They were mostly images of families and stern-faced individuals looking head-on at the camera. A fellow from a local studio was sitting behind the table taking appointments.
The Candle Star Page 6
