“Silk, velvet, lace. Why ever would they give away such fancy dresses?”
“The Founders Day committee wore them when they had their photograph taken two years ago,” Sophia said. “It would never do to wear a dress everyone recognized.”
“Vanity is such a waste,” Nettie huffed. “Look at these dresses. Flimsy, gauzy, not a bit useful out here on the plains.”
“Like me,” Sophia said. “Useless.”
Nettie chuckled. “Don’t you believe it. God’s going to use you in amazing ways.”
“The problems here are enormous, overwhelming.” Sophia sighed. “The men are convinced I am hopeless.”
“They ought to know better. Especially Henry. He went to seminary. God uses all sorts of people. A murderer rescued Israel out of Egypt. A fisherman led the early church. A peasant girl became Jesus’ mother. You can count on God to put you to use.”
Nettie sorted through the dresses and went on talking in her brisk, no-nonsense tone. “No one here has a bustle, so let’s remove the trains and hand them out as they are. This one would be perfect for Julia, raise her spirits after Walking Together’s death.”
“Julia? In the house near the school?” Sophia took up a pair of scissors and began to snip away at the fabric. “Her husband was the one killed in the battle? How awful to lose a spouse so young, with an infant to raise. Will she be accepting callers? Will she be home?”
“Where else would she be?” Nettie finished removing the train and held the dress up. “Let’s take it to her now.”
“Julia’s a gem,” Nettie said as she and Sophia walked to the nearby house. “I’m supposed to be training the women of the tribe in housekeeping, but Julia teaches them things I’d never even consider, such as not peeking into the windows and knocking before you enter. And she always has a lesson for me, like what plants are good medicine.”
“All the women of the tribe? You have many students, then.”
“Somehow Julia organizes them. Every morning she sends a different woman to help. On laundry day, she’ll send one of the strong girls. On bread day, someone who’s running short on food. On sewing day, someone whose husband needs a new shirt.”
They stopped at the house where yellow flowers bloomed beside the steps. Nettie knocked and called the woman’s name.
The door opened and dark eyes peeked out. Julia wore a loose dress of uncertain color and vintage. Her hair was neatly braided and hung down her back to her waist. Nettie pointed to the ball gown draped across Sophia’s arms. “We’ve brought a dress for you.”
Julia’s eyes grew wide. She stepped back to let her guests in. The interior had been divided into two rooms. The front contained only a cookstove. Pouches tacked to the wall held cooking implements.
The back room held a pile of pelts. In the middle lay Timothy, the new baby. How practical, Sophia thought. The mother did not have to worry about the baby falling out of bed, although it could not be easy to clean. Julia knelt next to him, covered her face, and said, “Ku-ku, I see you!”
The baby kicked and giggled.
“You taught her that?” Nettie asked Sophia. “God’s already using you.”
Nettie unwrapped the sheet from the dress, a basque with embroidered velvet down the front and a skirt with five rows of fringe and a ruffle. “Now, this is awful fancy for everyday, but you can wear it to church and for the Independence Day doings Tuesday. Let’s see it on you. I brought my sewing kit, in case you need alterations.”
Both windows were bare. One had cracked glass and the other had a gap between the frame and the wall. Sophia stood in front of the one within view of the neighbors. “Perhaps we should make the trains into curtains.”
“Good idea.” Nettie helped Julia remove her dress.
The woman wore not a stitch of undergarments—no chemise, no corset, no vest. Of course not. Julia had been forced to rely on gift barrels from eastern churches. People never donated undergarments. Even nightclothes were worn until ready for the ragbag.
Sophia’s temper rose. If the government was going to insist that the Poncas dress and act like white people, shouldn’t they be provided with the basic necessities of life? Should it not be guaranteed in America to have at least a pair of drawers? The Bill of Rights did not address the issue, but then, it had been written by men.
Sophia helped Julia into her new basque and skirt. Her experience of entering in this country through Castle Gardens and the Lower East Side of New York City had led her to equate poverty with strong body odors. But Julia smelled clean. Not rank like the poor of Manhattan or overly perfumed like some Europeans, but like someone who gave careful attention to hygiene.
The ruby red silk complemented Julia’s coloring, whereas the intense shade had overwhelmed its previous pale owner. And the dress fell just at her ankles. Perfect.
“The bodice is a little loose.” Nettie made a few stitches, bringing the neckline into the realm of modesty.
“Oh!” Julia spotted herself in the pocket mirror hanging on the opposite wall. She spun around, making the skirt bell out, then studied herself again. “Oh!”
Her fingers tore the thread off the ends of her braids, then unraveled her hair into a dark sheet of satin. She patted Sophia’s coil. “Teach. Please.”
Sophia pulled out her hairpins and undid the knot. “Twist forward and wrap around your hand, then push the end through with the other hand. Pull tight, then wrap the ends and pin.”
Julia did not have any hairpins, so Sophia donated hers. The woman was a quick learner, and the effect was charming. The perfect oval of her face, her smooth complexion, and her wide, dark eyes—why, she would be the talk of any ball in St. Petersburg or Paris. “You remind me of Russia’s most beautiful queen, the Empress Elizabeth.” Sophia curtsied. “Magnificent.”
“Thank you.” Julia returned the gesture, then caught Sophia’s wrist. “Oh.”
“Mosquito bites.” Sophia pulled her sleeve down over the welts.
Nettie shook her head. “Fresh blood is their dessert.”
“I make.” Julia opened a round tin and dabbed ointment on the bites.
The itching stopped. “Ah. How wonderful.” Sophia sniffed the medicine. “What is in it?”
Nettie put her nose to the question. “I’m guessing some plants.”
“Plants. Yes.” Julia handed Sophia the tin. “You keep.”
Sophia thanked her. They helped her out of the dress and said their good-byes.
“What a great way to introduce the new teacher,” Nettie said as she closed the door behind her. “Let’s go see how Little Flower looks in that green dress.”
“But, Nettie . . .” Sophia rolled her lips together, unable to find the words.
The older woman linked arms with her. “I know—Julia has so many needs. But did you see the look on her face?”
Smoke Maker’s cow had scratched her back against his house, pulling off the corners and splintering half a dozen clapboards. Will pried off the damaged pieces, then measured and sawed a patch.
Smoke Maker squinted at the end of the board, then waved his hand over the diagonal cut. “Why is it like this?”
“Straight cuts open up.”
“This will stay?”
“Until the next time your cow has an itch.”
Smoke Maker nodded and nailed the board into place. As they worked, Will watched Sophia and Nettie shuttle between the agency house and others in the village, carrying bundles of clothing. It reminded him of how his sister used to dress up her doll in handkerchiefs and scraps.
Girls. They might grow up, but they still—
Whoa. Sophia had her hair down.
Will’s hammer slid from his grasp and thudded to the ground, missing his foot by an inch.
Smoke Maker grinned and lifted his chin toward the women. “Girls playing. Gives boys something to watch.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
James sprawled in his seat, his elbows on the table and his head propped up with one hand. His
skin appeared yellow in the lantern’s glow. “Well, Teacher, any spelling errors? Misplaced commas?”
“Your handwriting is beautiful. Perhaps you could teach penmanship to my students.” Sophia read from a ledger sheet, at the top of which he had noted No Funds. “Padlocks, lime, linseed oil. What is ‘bail of oakum’?”
“Caulking. Oakum is made out of rope fibers, hemp. It’s used to seal the linings of ships, but it also is useful to stop up gaps in the walls, of which we have many.”
Sophia hoped the oakum was substantial. Her room was rife with gaps. “‘Tar paper, pump, ponies, sulky, reaper, rope, sash—glazed.’ So what did you receive?”
“Ax handles.”
Each of the agent’s letters began, “I have the honor to report . . .” even when the news was grim. She closed his file. “You write a thorough, factual account. All requests are well justified. But, as no action has been taken, I shall cast a wider net. Appeal to the public, to men of influence. Speak out for justice and mercy. Speak the truth.”
“Tap into their vein of sentimentality.”
“It is necessary.”
Footsteps echoed in the front room. Sophia watched the carpenter exit, bound down the steps, and stride off on his long legs into the evening. Where was he going this late? The village lacked any of the usual entertainments distracting men on a Saturday night. She curbed an odd impulse to call him back. Will was not in a position of authority, did not know those who were, and showed no inclination to eloquence.
“Miss Makinoff.” James leaned toward her, exuding a cloud of whiskey fumes. His hand shook as it reached toward hers. “I perceive you are quite independent.”
“And I perceive you are a bit dependent.” She studied his reddened eyes, his pallor. He had been a handsome man once. She gentled her tone. “Are you not concerned about the example you set?”
“I never imbibe outside the house.”
Which, Sophia suspected, did not disguise his problem from anyone in possession of a working nose. “Do you not care about your health?”
“None of us is here for our health.” He grimaced and withdrew his hand. He lowered his eyelids and dismissed her with an indulgent smile. “We’ll see how long you tilt at windmills before you realize no one cares one straw if these children learn. Maybe you’ll turn to drink too.” He pushed to his feet and staggered off to his room.
Fool, Will thought. He was seven kinds of fool. Just because he’d found her first. The picture of Sophia and James in the pool of lamplight burned behind his eyes. Sure, they’d be a good match. Both with a bent toward being in charge, using fancy words, speaking out. They’d do well together.
But with James filling her head with the Indian Office’s schemes, who would tell her the truth about the Poncas?
Will climbed to the top of the bluff and surveyed the surrounding territory. No Brulé, no prairie fires, no storm clouds. Wind rippled through the tall grass. A red-tailed hawk stretched his wings high overhead. The sun headed for the horizon, turning the sky red and the hills purple. Sophia probably knew fancy names for all these colors.
He plopped down on the grass. Dear Lord, help me . . .
But what did he want help with? Letting go of Sophia? She had never been his, anywhere other than his foolish imagination. Still, he repeated the prayer: Lord, help me—A white head appeared at the edge of the bluff. Lone Chief. The elderly man turned slowly, moving as if he searched for something. Lone Chief, Will knew, was near to blind.
Will stood. “Are you looking for me, Grandfather?”
The man nodded and said, in English, “Let us pray.” He raised his arms toward the sunset.
Will waited, not wanting to disturb Lone Chief. No words, no thoughts, came to him. No prayer beyond the plea for help. The colors in the sky deepened. Rays of light shot upward. A cool wind rippled the grass. Will’s heart filled and the tension in his shoulders eased.
“Amen.” Lone Chief took Will’s hand and placed it on his shoulder. The chief’s old bones creaked and ground as they walked.
“You do not come here every day at this time, Grandfather.”
The elderly man chuckled. “No. Only in the morning. Unless someone wanders up here and needs help getting down.”
Oh yeah. Lone Chief was right. He would never have found the path without a lantern. He’d have been waiting until sunrise, shivering without a blanket, hoping no storms popped up to shoot him with lightning. Either that, or risk falling a hundred feet straight down.
Without hesitation, Lone Chief led him to the edge of the bluff, to a narrow trail hidden in the tall grass.
“How did you find this? They told me you cannot see.”
“My eyes no longer work, but my heart knows the path.”
Lone Chief had lived here all his life, however many years that might be. No doubt he knew every pebble, every blade of grass.
When they reached the village, the elder squeezed Will’s hands. “With your eyes on the beauty, you lost your path.” Then he shuffled toward his house.
So the whole village knew Will was moonstruck over Sophia.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Oh my word.” The rev scowled out the window, fists on his hips. “I knew that teacher was nothing but trouble.”
Will looked over Henry’s shoulder. Out of the Sunday morning fog came five women in fancy dresses. They flocked in front of the church, holding their skirts out of the mud from last night’s storm. Lone Chief’s black-and-brown dog guarded them. “Don’t blame Sophia. This was your mother’s idea.”
James stepped out onto the porch for a better view. “Besides, Sophia didn’t choose what her college friends sent.”
Nettie sailed into the kitchen, a satisfied smile on her face. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Vanity. Vanity,” Henry muttered.
“You’ll notice Crescent Moon and Buffalo Woman are present this morning. They’ve never attended church before.”
“So we’ve lowered ourselves to bribery now?”
“No, we’re making straight a road in the wilderness.” Nettie frowned at her son. “I should have had a sister for you. Then you’d understand.”
Will’s sister had nearly burned off her fingers using the curling iron on her hair Sunday mornings. “They look . . . fine.”
Sophia hurried down the stairs, wearing another dark-blue dress, smoothing gloves over her fingers. Her Bible slipped from her elbow. Will retrieved it for her. She nodded her thanks, lowering her eyelids and smiling at the same time. He got all hot inside and had to look away.
The rev gave her a head-to-toe scowl. “No ball gown?”
“I am woefully underdressed.” And not the least bit intimidated. She nodded over Henry’s shoulder. “Although, to be precise, none of those is appropriate evening wear. Julia’s crimson silk faille is a visiting dress, formerly worn by the teacher of Mineralogy. The violet foulard is a walking suit belonging to the teacher of English Rhetoric. The mauve piqué is a reception dress, Elementary Drawing and Perspective. The rose percale is a watering-place costume, Musical Theory. The green cretonne is a carriage dress, Ancient History.”
Will clamped his hand over his mouth to hold in a laugh. Henry muttered something about keeping their minds on heaven.
Nettie took her son’s arm and they led the way across the yard to the church. Henry motioned for Sound of the Water to ring the bell.
After a rousing rendition of “O Worship the King,” the reverend read Psalm 30. It was the lectionary text, and he used the “weeping at night, joy in the morning” in his sermon of consolation for the latest raid. Will wasn’t one to tell another his business, but he figured the message would go down a mite easier if Henry would smile once in a while.
The psalm had a verse about putting off sackcloth to be clothed with joy. Nettie and Sophia beamed at each other. Henry shot them a cranky look, the kind of expression Will’s sister warned would freeze on his face if he wasn’t careful.
So was it wrong to get dre
ssed up for church? Ma always said the Saturday night bath and Sunday-best clothes honored God. No telling what the Ponca women thought.
The reverend wrapped it up, announced the doings for Tuesday’s Fourth of July celebration, and gave the blessing. The five women clustered around Nettie and Sophia, thanking them for their dresses. They wore their best moccasins, the ones decorated with beads and quills.
Walks in the Mud’s wife sent her daughter to tug on Sophia’s skirt. “Teacher?”
Sophia shook her student’s hand. “Good morning, Martha Jefferson.”
“Good morning, Miss Makinoff.” The little girl tipped her head up and, for a moment, looked in her teacher’s face. Then her gaze cut to her mother, who hid at the corner of the building. She wore a loose sack of faded calico Will recognized—the fabric had come up the river with him. “Mama wants a dress too.”
Sophia glided over to the woman and took her hands. “I am so sorry. I want nothing more than to give you a beautiful dress, but only five were in the barrel and I have given them all away. But I promise you, I will write to the churches in New York and ask for a dress for you. For you and the other ladies in the tribe. Next time. I promise.”
Walks in the Mud’s wife wasn’t getting any of this. Will figured he’d better step in, lest the poor woman drown in Sophia’s flood of words. In a low tone, so Henry wouldn’t hear, Will explained as best he could. He didn’t make any promises. The Poncas, having been disappointed so many times, didn’t expect much.
“I am so very, very sorry.”
The woman accepted the news without tears. Given all the other tragedies in her life—losing her house to the river last spring, most of her family dying the winter before, and that German farmer stealing her cow—the loss of a dress was just another day at the Ponca reservation.
Prairie Flower, Bending Willow, Mariette Primeau, and Angelique Gayton circled, wanting—no surprise—new dresses.
Through Rushing Water Page 8
