“I have to get up early tomorrow and it’s been a very long day. You must be exhausted.”
Michelle took in a deep breath as she looked at the fire. “Actually, I’m not tired at all. I think I’ll just take this back in the kitchen,” she said and gestured to the tea set.
“As you wish.” Anthony cleared his throat as he stood and nodded. “Sleep well, Mrs. Chandler.”
The flicker of the flames cast shadows on his face, and she noticed once again the sadness in his eyes. She imagined his heart was heavy--but she was Mrs. Chandler now, and she wanted to help make his heart lighter.
Mrs. Chandler. She liked the sound of that.
Chapter 13
She watched as Anthony walked up the stairs and turned at the landing. Her eyes fell on the portrait in the stairwell of the young Anthony and Adelaide.
The wooden clock on the mantle ticked slowly as she watched the flames die out, the embers glow and beginning to fade. She brushed her hand over the smooth, dark wood of the coffee table, inhaling deeply of the lemon scent the hung in the air as the fire died.
She picked up the tea tray, the silver cool in her hand as she walked slowly toward the kitchen. Anthony had said that it was his mother’s favorite, and she stopped to glance up at the portrait in the stair well as she heard Anthony’s door click shut in the hallway upstairs.
Her eyes fell on the portrait in the stairwell of the young Anthony and Adelaide. She set the tray down on the small table in the foyer and took two steps up to look at the portrait more closely.
Whoever had painted the portrait must have known the children quite well. From what Anthony had told her so far, Adelaide was a bit of a pistol, and Mattie took after her--and in the portrait, Adelaide had the same mischievous look in her eye that her daughter had.
In the largest portrait, Adelaide sat on some steps, a puppy in her lap and a pink ribbon in her hair. Anthony stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder as he held a puppy of his own. The lush, green grass was surrounded by brightly colored flowers, the trees overhead heavy with green leaves.
Her eyes fell on Anthony. She gazed into his eyes in the portrait and saw a much different Anthony than the one she’d married earlier. The Anthony she’d met at the train station was kind and seemed genuinely concerned for his nieces and his family home.
But the Anthony in the portrait had a twinkle in his eye, too, just as his sister did. Maybe not the mischievous look, but definitely a twinkle. A much happier Anthony.
“She was a wonderful artist, Mrs. Chandler.”
Michelle jumped as she heard Mable’s voice behind her. She turned, her hand at her throat, tugging her eyes away from the portrait--and Anthony’s eyes. “You startled me. I thought you’d retired for the evening.”
Mable sighed. “Not quite ready.”
Michelle squinted at the portrait. “Their mother painted this?”
Mable walked over to the portrait and pointed to the signature in the bottom. “She sure did. Signed and everything.”
Michelle stepped back and took in the steps that the children sat on and the huge white columns on each side of them. On each side of the brick stairs were azalea bushes, ablaze in pinks and whites, and she recognized the front of the Robbins’ Nest.
“Oh, goodness. It’s right out front where they were sitting.”
Mable reached for the tray and turned toward the kitchen, shaking her head as she walked slowly. “They sure did love this house. Everything about it.”
Michelle turned and followed Mable into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her. She’d not been in it yet as Mable had insisted on serving her, and she looked around with wide eyes.
The large, white enamel stove in the kitchen was at least three times bigger than any she’d ever seen, with six places for pots on top. Copper pots hung from a rack attached to the ceiling, and a large ice box stood next to a pantry big enough to walk inside.
“Careful. You’re gonna get flies in your mouth if you leave it hanging open like that,” Mable said, laughing as she set the tray down on the long, wooden counter and began to put things back in their places.
Michelle flushed as she reached out for the sugar bowl on the silver tray. “I’m sure I appear silly. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She looked down at the silver bowl in her hand, gleaming in the low light. “The silver or the house.”
Mable looked around the room and up at the pots and pans. “It sure is a fine kitchen. Not surprised you think so. Most folks don’t have houses quite like this here in Corinth, but we have our fair share of fine ones.”
“I think most people in most cities don’t have houses like this. At least they didn’t where I came from.”
Mable leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. “No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Where should I put this sugar bowl?”
Mable reached for the bowl. “Here, I’ll set it back to rest. You don’t need to be worrying about things like that.”
Michelle frowned as she handed the bowl to Mable. “I do want to help, Mable. May I, please? I need something to do while Anthony goes to work every day.”
Mable smiled. “You don’t think you’ll have enough to do with Missy and Mattie? I have a feeling you’ll wonder where all your time went here shortly. But follow me. I’ll show you around.”
She opened a narrow door on the side of the kitchen and grabbed the tray, nodding for Michelle to follow her. Michelle peeked down dark stairs as Mable disappeared down them, the scent of moisture tickling her nose.
“Grab that candle and follow me, Mrs. Michelle,” Mable said from somewhere lower, maybe the bottom of the stairs.
Michelle grabbed the candle and followed, lifting her skirts as she felt with her foot for the next short, narrow stair of the winding staircase.
As she reached the bottom, she glanced around the small room--more like a root cellar than a room, really, with shelves on all sides. Sacks and boxes were marked with things like potatoes or onions. Some of the other shelves had writing on them, things like Christmas ornaments, Grandmother’s china or Great-grandmother’s silver.
Mable carefully wiped off the silver tea set, gently placing it on one of the shelves--the one marked Great-grandmother’s silver--and wiped her hands on her apron.
“It’s really a beautiful set of silver, Mable. Thank you for getting it out for us,” Michelle said as Mable set the last piece on the tray and covered it gently with a piece of black velvet, tucking the sides of it under the tray.
She stepped back and nodded, turning to Michelle. “It is. Like I said, it was Mrs. Chandler’s favorite, and it’s the last...”
Michelle cocked her head to one side, waiting for Mable to finish. Instead, she gestured around the small room and said, “This is the root cellar, and a bit of storage. I’ve been canning for months, and we should be good all winter.” She pointed to the shelves of clear, glass jars holding all sorts of different fruits and vegetables, from what Michelle could see.
“You certainly are prepared,” Michelle said as she crossed to one of the jars and picked it up, squinting at the contents. “What is this?”
“Oh, that’s okra. One of Mr. Anthony’s favorites.”
She laughed as Michelle licked her lips. “I like everything. I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like. I look forward to trying it.”
Mable grabbed her hand and pulled her back upstairs. “Not only can you try it, but I’ll teach you how to make all of Mr. Anthony’s favorites later, if you like. Right now, it would be a load off of Mr. Anthony if you could take care of the twins.”
“Oh, I’m anxious to.” Michelle dropped her skirts as she reached the top of the narrow stairs and turned to close the door behind her.
Mable sighed. “I’m grateful. I been with the family a long, long time, Mrs. Michelle, and there never was a time where they needed help more than now.”
“It must be so difficult for all of you, losing Mr. And Mrs.
Chandler and the twins’ parents so close together.”
“Oh, yes. That, too.” Mable looked up at Michelle after untying her apron and hanging it on a hook by the back door.
Michelle’s stomach flipped. What could possibly be worse than such loss in a family?
Chapter 14
Anthony took his scarf that Mable held out for him and wrapped it tightly around his neck. He peered out the window at the dark clouds gathering in the sky and reached for an umbrella at the last moment.
“Gonna be a cold one today, Mr. Anthony. Good idea,” Mable said as she handed him his warmest gloves. He shrugged on his overcoat and reached out for them, smiling at Mable. She always took such good care of him and he sighed with gratitude.
Mable handed him a cloth bag which he assumed was his lunch. He’d long ago stopped closing the shop for an hour and heading down the street to get something to eat. It was more expensive--much more--than having Mable pack some small leftovers from the previous evening’s meal.
The porridge she’d made for breakfast for him warmed his stomach and he opened the front door, again frowning as the sky threatened above. Judging from the bite of chill on his nose, he guessed it might be snow rather than rain when the time came.
“It was mighty nice of you to let Mrs. Michelle have the buggy today with the girls and offering to walk.”
He looked over his shoulder at Mable. “Hm? Oh, yes. She said she wanted to go to the park. But please tell her what the weather might hold. She’s not used to Mississippi weather. We all know how unpredictable it can be.”
“Yes, I certainly will, Mr. Anthony. But from what I can tell of Miss Michelle so far, she can handle herself.”
He looked up at her and was greeted with a wink. She and Michelle hadn’t spent any time together as far as he knew, and he shrugged his shoulders and stepped outside, Mable closing the door behind him.
He clapped his hands together as he headed down the drive, glancing at the barn. His hands hadn’t warmed up since he’d come out before dawn to feed the horses and muck the stalls. He rubbed his eyes, wishing he’d had time for another cup of coffee. Between the nanny leaving and having to let the yard boy go, he’d had to do everything himself, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep.
He sighed as he walked. Last night, with Michelle by the fire when she’d told him she’d grown up in poverty would have been the perfect time to inform her of his predicament. He kicked himself that he’d not had the courage to do it. She had a right to know, after all. She was his wife now, and he’d never imagined he’d have a wife, let alone a wife he instantly kept secrets from.
Shaking his head as he inhaled the crisp autumn air, he thought of his conversation with Mr. Banks the day before, and his heart lifted a bit at the possibility of what he’d mentioned. Maybe everything would work out and he wouldn’t have to tell Michelle. No reason to worry her if things turned about as he hoped they would.
He warmed as he walked as quickly as he could down Taylor Street. A distant train whistle blew and he glanced quickly at his pocket watch. The arrival of the trains was surprisingly consistent, and he quickened his pace even more as he realized he would be late to open the shop and at the same time saw the first raindrop of the day.
He hurried past the courthouse, its bricks darkening with the increasing rain and glanced up as a woman, herding three children down the steps, moved quickly toward the street. He stopped and watched her pick up her gray skirts, holding onto two of the children’s hands while the oldest held the hand of a toddler.
She looked up at the sky and crouched down beside the toddler, buttoning his coat up to the top and pulling his cap down more securely on his head. “Button your coats now, boys. It’s a bit of a walk and the rain will be coming hard soon.”
“Mama, I’m cold,” the toddler said, stamping his worn boots on the ground.
Anthony couldn’t move--none of the children had gloves, nor did the mother. He thought of the twins’ warm coats, scarves and gloves tucked in their wardrobe.
The mother stood, startled as she ran into Anthony. Her cheeks flushed as she said, “Oh, excuse me, sir. Didn’t see you there,” and started down the street, her brood in tow.
He looked down at the brass handle of the umbrella he held over his head, his hat nice and dry. The brass handle would have been cool in his hand had he not been wearing gloves, and he remembered when his father had given it to him when he was a young boy. He hesitated for a moment, but Adelaide popped into his head. Even as a young girl, she’d always said, “There are so many less fortunate than we are, Anthony. We must help. It is our responsibility.”
“Excuse me, madame. Please, take this. It should begin pouring soon,” he said as he caught up to the mother in two long strides.
Her eyes wide and her mouth open, she looked from Anthony to her children and back up again, both gratitude and embarrassment radiating from her shy smile. “Thank you, sir. It’s mighty cold today. Wasn’t near as cold yesterday.” She reached for the umbrella and nodded as she looked down at her boys.
Anthony crouched down, unwrapping his scarf and wrapping it around the toddler’s neck. He placed his hat on the head of the middle boy, and shrugged off his gloves, handing them to the tallest.
“You’re welcome. Have a safe trip home.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and watched as the family walked quickly toward the heart of town and he turned toward his shop.
His hands were almost frozen by the time he reached it, and he fumbled getting the key in the lock. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it quickly behind him.
He leaned against the door and turned the sign on the door to “open” just as the heavens opened and the rain poured. He shivered, hoping that the young family had reached their destination safely and warmly before now.
Looking around the shop, he wondered if there would be many customers today with this weather, and he walked slowly behind the counter. He looked around at the merchandise--formal clothing for both men and women. He’d worked in the store with his father for many years, and watched the sales--and the clientele--dwindle year after year.
“Father, people just don’t want fancy clothes as much as they used to. Besides, the train can bring all of this in much cheaper, and we’re not selling near as many items as we used to.” Anthony couldn’t count how many times he and his father had had that very conversation before his parents died.
“Poppycock, son. Things like this never go out of style.”
Anthony shook his head slowly as he walked around the store, fingering the velvet dresses and wiping the dust off a black top hat.
His father had remained steadfast. He’d been a social bastion of the community his whole life, and after the war ended, he’d maintained that things were as they always had been. Anthony couldn’t remember how many grand, southern houses he’d been to where silver tea sets were placed on nearly every table in the winter, and porcelain pitchers filled with sweet tea in the summer--while everyone had worn clothes like these.
He peered out the window of the store. If his father had been there, he would have said, “Maybe they’ll never go out of style, Father, but the people who mostly want them--and will pay for them--are not in Corinth. And the people who are here need something different.”
Chapter 15
Michelle sat in her room, watching the stars out the window as the moon rose. While she sat, she couldn’t stop thinking about Anthony, certain that he’d wanted to tell her something but hadn’t. It was early, though--she’d only arrived the day before last, and she imagined that it took a while to learn to trust each other, even if the two had married for love.
She’d eventually stretched and changed into her nightdress, falling in to a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. So deep, in fact, that when she woke, she wondered if it had all been a dream. As she looked around the room and pulled the warm comforter up around her ears for a moment before she hopp
ed out of bed, she realized that it all was, in fact, real. Very real.
She’d gotten dressed in a hurry, splashed her face and brushed her red ringlets as best she could. She twirled them on her finger, pinning most of them in a chignon at the nape of her neck with a few left out to frame her face. She frowned at her freckles for the thousandth time and sighed. She didn’t have time any longer to worry about things she couldn’t change--freckles and red hair being two of them.
She stepped out of her room and ran her hand along the gleaming banister as she paused to look out the window on the landing. Branches danced in the wind and it seemed as if overnight, all of the leaves had fallen, the bare branches reaching into the dark sky which, if she had been in Lawrence, she would be sure held rain. She reached out and placed her hand on the window, drawing it back quickly as the cold pierced her skin. Maybe it was more like snow. Did it snow in Corinth?
Michelle smiled as she neared the top of the stairs, pausing for a moment to listen to the giggles of Mattie and Missy in the kitchen.
“Michelle,” Missy said as she pulled her thumb from her mouth and ran to Michelle, burying her face in her skirts. She’d put on an extra petticoat under her wool dress, the warmest she’d brought.
“Missy, you’re going to get syrup on her dress,” Mattie said as she dug her fork into the pancake on her plate as Mable cleaned the pans from making breakfast.
“You two mind your own,” Mable said as she pointed to a plate at the end of the kitchen table, steaming with flapjacks that smelled like buttermilk to Michelle.
Missy pulled her head up and took Michelle’s hand, pulling her to the table and pointing to a chair.
“Thank you very much. This smells delicious,” she said as she reached for a fork.
Mattie held out a small pitcher and scooted a plate of butter in her direction. “They’re better with these.”
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