by Rose Jenster
She hustled Jeremiah into the rig with the baby while the doctor directed Frank. They had to lay out the father’s body on the kitchen table for when they returned with the wagon to get it for burial. She didn’t want either child to see Billy Coulson’s body being moved around like it were only an object and not the remains of the man both boys loved above all others. She caught Jeremiah trying to peer around her and she shuffled the baby onto his lap.
“Here, will you hold Ben? I have to get something from my pocket and I’m afraid I’ll drop him. I’m not at all used to babies, you know,” she said, distracting him with the child.
From her pocket, she produced lemon drops, her favorite treat from Wilford’s mercantile. Frank had brought them to her just that morning and, unthinking, she had stuffed the packet into her dress pocket, only to be terribly glad for them now.
“Would you care for a lemon drop?” she asked Jeremiah, who shook his head.
“Nah. Thank you just the same.”
She popped one in her own mouth and made a show of how delicious it was.
“I might try one just to be friendly,” he conceded and she passed him a candy.
“One for Ben?” he ventured.
“He’s too small. Babies can't have small items. He’d choke,” she said.
“I thought you wasn’t used to babies,” Jeremiah said suspiciously.
“I’m not used to holding them. I’m not entirely in ignorance though.”
“I knew he couldn’t have it. I was just testing you,” he said.
She smiled at him. “I’ll have to keep on my toes with you around. It’s wonderful that Ben has you to look out for him.”
“Mr. Barton says we’re to go to your house.”
“Yes, we’d like that. Is it all right with you?”
“No!” he burst out, his face going red. “I want to live with my Pa! He's all we've had.” Jeremiah wanted to see his dad's smile and to help him with the animals.
“I know you do,” she said softly, a lump in her throat. She reached for the baby because she was afraid Jeremiah, in his distress, might jostle or drop him. Jeremiah shook his head when she tried to take Ben.
“I got him. He’s MY brother!” he shouted.
Tears stood in her eyes as she watched Jeremiah struggle with this horrid new idea of his parents both being gone, of riding away from his home with strangers to go live at their house and to not live in his old house anymore.
“Yes, of course he is. I want to help you take care of him, and take care of you some, too. When we get back to our house, we’ll talk with the minister, Mr. Gibson, about having you live with us. You said there are no relations Missouri. I want to have you and Ben with Frank and me. Ben is your brother and you’re the one to decide where you think the two of you ought to stay,” she said carefully, her voice a raspy whisper because she was trying not to sob.
“I want to stay here where my dad raised us, ” he said, a stubborn set to his chin.
“You can’t,” Frank said, stepping up into the rig. “Sure enough you’re a smart boy, but it’s more than you can do to keep up the place and care for your brother and go to school.”
“I don’t go to no school,” the boy said defiantly.
“You lived too far out before. Now you’ll be able to start school. Not tomorrow, but soon,” Frank said.
“This here is my house. It belongs to my brother and me.”
“It’s a homestead. Your father didn’t live to prove up on the claim so it belongs to the government. Your brother belongs to you, just like Charlotte and I belong to each other. We’d like to belong to you as well and give you a home. I know this is a very sad day for you.”
Charlotte wanted to hug and kiss Frank for putting it so gently, for acting like the child had a choice. There were not many childless couples in Billings, nor many with children who could afford to care for more. Unless the pastor and his wife decided to raise a young family of children now that their own had grown, the Bartons were their only option since because there were no living relatives.
Charlotte longed to soothe him, to tell him to go ahead and cry his heart out over his parents, to go ahead and grieve but to try to accept a new home as well. It would take time and patience and understanding, she knew. But already in her heart, she wanted these children.
She loved them and hurt for them in their sadness. She wanted to cry bitter tears for their mother who passed away before she could raise her sons to adulthood. She wanted to cry on Frank’s shoulder for the world of misery she saw in Jeremiah’s eyes. He was trying manfully not to weep but he needed to cry, and refusing to let himself cry was just hurting him more.
Once the long drive back to Billings was complete, they took the boys in through the newspaper office that fronted the street. Jeremiah tried to insist upon carrying Ben, but Frank told him sternly that Charlotte would take the baby.
“You help me with the cradle,” he said to the boy.
Charlotte set to work on some porridge for the baby, setting him on the rug with a dishcloth to play with. He promptly dropped it on his face and squealed with glee. Smiling at him, she kept up a lively chatter narrating what she did as she fried eggs for her husband and Jeremiah. She hoisted the baby onto her hip once supper was ready, wondering where Frank and the boy had got to.
Stepping over to the workroom at the newspaper office, she found them both crouching over the printing press as Frank pointed out some cantankerous bit of machinery and Jeremiah nodded in solemn agreement.
“You’ve got the makings of a mechanic, boy. And I need one around here. Let’s head in for supper. I can see that Charlotte’s come to find us. You’ll discover soon enough that you have to keep to a schedule with women,” he said, but there was a smile on his face.
Frank brushed off his trousers as he stood and laid a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. They lifted the cradle and carried it into the living quarters where he let the boy position it just so beside the pallet she’d made for Jeremiah. She smiled, knowing the brothers would want to be close together. Charlotte also knew she’d be up ten times that night to check on them both. It would not be an easy night for Jeremiah.
They sat down to supper after Frank reminded the boy to wash his hands. They joined hands and Charlotte said grace, thanking the Lord that their family was home to share a good meal together. She held the baby on her knee and fed him porridge and a bite of egg, looking with joy and disbelief from one to the other of their new sons. With patience and love, they would become a happy little family, she knew. They would help Jeremiah and Ben heal. It felt meant to be, and when she met Frank’s eyes over the dinner table, she knew he felt the same way.
Mail Order Bride Verity
Montana Mail Order Bride Series, Book 5
Chapter 1
Syracuse, New York
Verity Kemp smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her perfectly pressed collar and eyed her reflection critically. It was not out of vanity, although Verity was quite pretty, but out of a natural care that she took with everything. Not a single strand of her dark hair was out of place. It was drawn back smoothly into a tidy bun.
Despite the plainness of her dress—a pale gray dress with only the addition of a white lace collar to ornament its simplicity—she looked attractive. There was a bloom to the curve of her cheek and her blue eyes were alert and missed nothing. Still, she looked at herself almost sharply in the mirror. She had, after all, been summoned by the headmistress of Vaughn Academy and wanted to be above reproach in every particular.
Verity had been teaching literature at Vaughn, an elite boarding school designed to turn the daughters of prosperous families into fine young ladies with impeccable manners, accomplished young ladies perfectly suited to making a good marriage. Under her instruction, the students developed an understanding of the principal poets, playwrights and novelists, without being exposed to any troubling or radical ideas. Verity had decided opinions on any sort of ‘modern’ or ‘political’ writing, fe
eling that the classics were always best for a young lady. So it was with this modest, even prim attitude that Verity rapped on the headmistress’ office door.
“Miss Kemp, do come in.” Miss Debenham invited her to enter.
Verity stepped forward, closing the door behind her softly. She stood with hands folded before her until Miss Debenham took her seat and nodded to a chair for Verity. Once she was seated, she waited silently to be told the purpose of this interview. She had learned enough in her years of teaching at Vaughn to know that Miss Debenham disliked being hurried or questioned.
“You have been an instructress here for how long, Miss Kemp?” Miss Debenham inquired.
“Four years in the spring term, ma’am.”
“In those four years you have been responsible for all instruction in English literature as well as French literature in translation. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Verity said, feeling a flutter in her pulse. She paused. growing concerned that there might be some problem with her teaching.
“You have done a perfectly adequate job in that post.”
Verity felt only slight relief at this statement. There was a sense of dread about what would follow.
“However, you will be reassigned for the coming term. You will now instruct our first and second year students in basic composition and orthography.”
Verity barely kept from gasping in dismay. She was suddenly, terribly unhappy. As much as Verity Kemp loved literature, loved the romance of reading old, important books, she despised the mechanics of writing as well as the tedious composition and correction of paragraphs and essays. It was as if she had been gliding along a lovely crystal lake in a comfortable boat, only to have her companion tilt the vessel so sharply that she was plunged into the slimy, fishy depths of it. It was an inner struggle not to scowl and bite her lip.
“I see, Miss Debenham. If you feel I will be more effective in that position, of course I bow to your superior judgment as our headmistress.” Verity chose her words very carefully.
“I’m pleased that you see this as I do. It is an opportunity for you to grow as an instructress and experience a different aspect of your subject. We have been fortunate enough to hire a Miss Emily Law from England to assume your former responsibilities. She is not only an expert on the writings of her countrymen but also a fluent speaker of French so now we will be able to offer French literature in its traditional form. As you know, our students learn to converse in French and German, so it is highly best that they avoid the translations.”
Verity knew exactly what that meant. She herself had not been educated at Vaughn Academy or any other school like it. She was not accomplished in languages or needlepoint. Verity had only been a poor girl who was very clever and did well in her classes at public school.
She had none of the refinements a teacher at Vaughn should possess. It humiliated her to be made to feel it. She went to such great pains to have the best manners, a well-groomed appearance and to look and act like she belonged there. Now she was being demoted from the job she loved, only to teach classes any green girl in a public schoolhouse could manage.
“How nice,” Verity said faintly.
“I shall have a copy of the class text delivered to you soon, so you can refresh your memory about some of the finer rules of spelling and punctuation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Verity replied softly.
“Good evening, Miss Kemp. I trust you’ll do your very best in your new post.”
“Indeed. Good evening.” Verity felt frozen inside as she spoke.
Verity managed to walk calmly and slowly out of the offices, down the path to the teachers’ dormitory. She made it into her small, white room and sank down to sit on her narrow bed. Overwhelmed, she set her trembling hands on her knees and choked on a sob. Pressing a hand over her mouth to still her noisy weeping, she got hold of herself. Dashing cold water from her chipped pitcher and bowl onto her face and toweling it off, she shook her head at her reflection once again,. This time she gazed in the small spotted square of mirror above her washstand.
“For shame, Verity,” she said aloud to herself. “It isn’t as if you’ve been cast out in the snow with nothing to eat and no coat. You only had your classes taken away from you. You still have a job.”
Sighing, she knew she should be thankful for the job she had,. But it was hard to remember to feel grateful for being demoted to teaching spelling and how to use a comma when before she had scaled the heights of Shakespeare’s sonnets and Chaucer’s tales with her students.
Not all of Chaucer’s tales were read of course, as some of those were quite rude, But, she taught the tame ones and the Pilgrim’s Progress. These stories taught meaningful lessons about virtue and honor and faith. Verity would miss it so much, getting to share her excitement for great stories and ideas. She didn’t feel that kind of passion for punctuation marks and other mechanics.
Verity hadn’t any appetite for dinner, so she settled down to brush her good dress for the morrow and look at the post. She had receive a letter earlier in day. But when she was summoned to Ms. Debenham's office, she had laid it aside and forgotten it until now.
She broke the plain seal and unfolded the paper. It was a letter from her cousin Charlotte. They were close in age and had been pen friends growing up, as they had not lived in the same city. Verity’s late mother, Iris, had been a sister to Charlotte’s father. Iris had been raised very differently, however. Charlotte and her brother Roger had been brought up in a parsonage near the church where Reverend Conners was the minister, Verity had lived with her parents and brothers in a tiny house in Rochester where there was never enough food and never enough coal to heat even the meager rooms they kept. Charlotte's life was also a struggle after her dad had passed away.
Verity Kemp had been the clever one in her family. She had started taking in wash when she was eight years old, to save money for her high school fees. All the children attended primary school at no cost, but to continue one’s education, the family had to pay a yearly tuition. With that goal in mind, little Verity had woke up early each morning to scrub other people’s laundry on the washboard over the cracked washtub out behind their house.
Her hands were chapped and cracked from the cold water and the lye soap, but each day she hung the wash up before school. After school, she would collect it and press it with the heavy iron she heated on their cookstove. As they had no coal to spare, she had to heat her iron and do her pressing while helping her mother get supper for the boys, because they couldn’t afford to heat the stove at any other time. After supper, she would give her oldest brother, who was a year younger, a penny to walk with her and help carry the basket as she delivered the wash to her customers. At that time they collected what they needed for the next day.
In this way, she saved enough money in to attend the public high school. There, she excelled in composition, won at spelling bees and history contests with her fine memory for facts. As her brothers, one by one, left school to take jobs, Verity finished high school and passed her teaching exam. It had been at the final history bee of her schooling that a man from the board of the Vaughn Academy who was sitting in the audience heard her answer each question correctly and offer a Shakespearean quote in her acceptance speech when awarded the prize.
She would make a lovely addition to the girls’ school. So he and the others on the board wrote to Verity on the occasion of her commencement, offering her a position teaching literature. She accepted gladly, and had promptly taken a small bit of the advance cheque to purchase a fine gray wool and a lighter gray lawn for her professional dresses. Verity made them herself, well cut but plain, with no trimming. She gave the rest of the money to her parents and kissed them goodbye. This was not easy to move away from them, but she knew it was a rare opportunity.
Verity had escaped the cold and the poverty of her childhood and was going to teach at a fine academy. Proud of herself and her sophisticated gray dress and the pair of white gloves her
mother had turned and mended for her, Verity set off for the Vaughn Academy.
She had planned to go home for the Christmas holiday that first year, but she was offered a stipend to stay on at the academy and tutor the girls who lived too far away to travel home for the break. So she had sent money and a fond letter home and promised to visit in the spring. But before that spring came, both her parents had expired of a fever that swept through the town, claiming one of her brother’s as well. It turned out Verity had returned to Rochester only to help her younger brother Paul clean out their parents’ rented house and sort through the poor belongings. Inside she felt so sad and broken, missing her family very deeply.
There was little enough to go through at the home. Verity scrubbed all the clothing and linens herself in the hottest water she could stand, pressed it as she had for other people in the old days, and folded it all into a bag to donate to the parish along with the pots and pans.
For herself, she kept her mother’s apron and the copy of Pilgrim’s Progress and the reading glasses that always sat beside it. Her mother had read it front to back and started it over again many times without ever putting it aside. Paul had taken the family Bible and a pair of their brother’s boots. They were mended and not good for wear, but Paul wanted them for a keepsake.
Together they had cleared away all those belongings in the space of a day. Paul introduced his sister to the girl he had been going around with, and confided that he planned to become engaged as soon as he received a promotion at the seed nursery. Verity had kissed him on his cheek and wished them well.
She hadn’t much intention of going back to Rochester now that her parents were gone. Although she didn't grow up with much money, there was love in their home and Verity knew her parents were good, loving people. She loved her deceased brother so much, but found it too hard to think of his short life cut off so early.
