Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  The carriage house had been built first to use as an on-site shop. A shiny new circular saw sat in the middle of the floor. Will opened a toolbox and found gimlets, saws, chisels, block planes, and hammers, each sharp and fitted to its handle without a wobble. Another box held squares, scribes, compasses, yardsticks, folding rulers, levels, all first quality. The next held nails and screws, assorted sizes.

  The trim pieces stacked in the corner had been planed true and smoothed to velvet. Not a splinter or knot on any of them. Nothing like the junk he’d been forced to use the past four years. If he’d had all this at the Agency, he could have really built some decent houses.

  Good enough to impress Sophia.

  Will followed Harrison out. Impress Sophia? Since when had that been his goal? He didn’t need to impress Sophia.

  But . . . he just might.

  Harrison waved his meaty hand in front of Will’s face. “Hey, you with me?”

  Will grinned. “How soon does Mrs. Spare-No-Expense want to move in?”

  Sophia awoke before the first bell, dressed, then opened the drapes. Last night’s heavy rain had ended, and the morning’s sun drew a mist from the ground. A yellow dog bounded across the rabbit field, her ears pointing upward and her tail waving in a joyous curve over her back. Goldie? Goldie!

  Sophia hurried down three flights of stairs, out the west door, and ran across the yard. A pair of doves startled from the fence with flapping wings and shrill cries. Sophia leaned on a post to catch her breath and scanned the field. No Goldie. After a moment she turned and went inside.

  Mrs. Windsor met her at the door. “Miss Makinoff, is everything quite all right?”

  Fortunately she had not followed her impulse to yell or climb the fence. “Yes, Matron. I thought I saw—” A dog? How very foolish. Omaha overflowed with canines. “Ah, someone I knew.”

  “I see.” The older woman scanned the empty field, then gave a pointed look to Sophia’s dew-drenched hem and her mud-splattered boots.

  “If you will please excuse me.”

  The woman hesitated, undoubtedly pondering the need for a lecture on ladylike behavior. “Of course.”

  Will heard a thump on the back porch, opened his door, and found Goldie. Her tongue hung out and she panted like she’d run a mile. Mud and seeds caked her paws and belly. “Where have you been? If you were hoping Sophia would give you another bath, you’re out of luck.”

  Her tail wagged and she seemed to grin. He leaned over the rail, eyeballing his lot. The gate was latched and the fence upright. “Did you jump over, crawl under, or wriggle through?”

  She looked away.

  “Not saying, eh? And not going back inside with those paws.” He moved her water bowl outside. “You’ll have to stay here. I’ll be home after work.” The young trees didn’t give her much shade, but she could crawl under the porch to stay cool.

  He left through the front gate, giving it a good rattle to make sure it latched, then headed up the street toward the Poppletons’. As he turned the corner, he glanced back. Goldie nosed the latch, went through the gate, then pushed it closed. She glanced up, realized he watched, and lowered her head and tail. Caught.

  “Come along, then.” Will patted his leg. Any dog clever enough to open a gate could keep herself out of trouble at a construction site. Goldie galloped to him.

  “Just wait until Sophia hears about you.” She grinned, and he grinned back.

  Will arrived at the work site first and unlocked the carriage house. He sorted through the wood—walnut, not mahogany—measured, and calculated out the angles. Easier to do in the quiet.

  Goldie barked a warning and Will stowed his pencil behind his ear. “No one’s sneaking up on me with you around.”

  She wagged her tail in agreement and followed him around front.

  “My crew. The tall guy’s Kjell, short one’s Preben. From Sweden and Denmark.” Both had gained weight since Will had left. Or maybe Will’s eye had gotten used to thinner people. Which reminded him to say another prayer for his friends.

  “Welcome back, boss.” Kjell pumped his hand, then nodded at the house awaiting their attention. “Just in time.”

  Preben bent to pet Goldie. “I see you brought a girl home with you. A fine girl.”

  Will grinned. If Preben thought Goldie was so fine, he ought to see Sophia. “And we’ve got a fine job here. Let me show you what I’m thinking.” They toured the house, discussing plans for the woodwork, making a list for the lumberyard.

  Outside, Goldie growled, then barked furiously. Will jumped down the steps and ran out the back. The dog stood at the carriage house door, her hair on end, ears forward, teeth bared, making him wonder if she had a wolf in her family tree. Inside, backed into a dark corner, shivered a kid.

  “What are you doing?” Will asked.

  “Nichts.” His voice squeaked.

  “German.” Preben spit on the ground. “He said ‘nothing,’ but I think he is stealing.”

  Will figured as much. “C’mon out here.” He pulled Goldie out of the way, then motioned for the boy. The kid looked even younger in the sunlight. His clothes were too small and his blond hair looked to have been hacked by a dull knife. Toothpick thin. If he’d been dark instead of fair, he could have been a Ponca.

  “Nichts.” The kid held his arms open.

  Kjell untied the rope from a bundle of lumber. “I’ll march him down to the police.”

  “No polizei.” The boy sniffled.

  Kjell could be gone half the day if he took the kid to the police.

  Will asked, “Do you want to work?” With Preben’s reluctant help, Will negotiated terms. The boy, first name Armin, last name Not Saying, agreed to clean up the lot.

  Will gave him work gloves and buckets and wished he had shoes for him. “This.” Will picked up a bent nail from the grass and put it in one bucket. “Here. And this.” He found a four-inch splinter and pointed to the leeward side of the house, where they could safely burn trash at the end of the day. “Work done—” Will pulled three quarters from his pocket.

  The boy nodded and licked his lips. Will figured he’d end up throwing a sandwich into the deal too.

  With identical skeptical expressions, Goldie, Preben, and Kjell watched Armin work.

  “Has to be done, and I don’t want either of you wasting your time. With Goldie here, I’d rather it be cleaned up sooner than later.”

  The dog settled onto the back porch with a sigh. The men followed Will into the carriage house. Soon their worries about Armin were shelved as they focused on cutting out the trim.

  Kjell laid out the pieces on the workbench, then flipped them over and tried again. “Boss, this doesn’t go together.”

  Will consulted his sketched plan, then moved the segments around, forming the archway. “Short, short, long, short, short.”

  “Ah, now I see.”

  And maybe that was his whole problem with Sophia—she couldn’t see how they went together. So that’s what he’d pray about, that God would show her.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselles. Je suis Mademoiselle Makinoff, votre nouveau professeur de français,” Sophia said to the girls arriving in her classroom. “Please introduce yourself.” She nodded at a student in the first row to begin.

  The girl’s blond hair turned neatly in sausage curls. Her plaid dress and high-top boots showed no sign of wear. And her plump cheeks showed she ate well. Ignore the rushing water, Sophia reminded herself. These students needed her full attention.

  “My name is Henrietta, but Mademoiselle Ross gave us French names at the beginning of the term. I am called Henriette.”

  “Of course. Henriette.” She would have to tell Will that Ponca students were not the only ones who had their names changed. “So tell me, Henriette, why are you learning French?”

  “Because my mother said so.”

  Sophia smiled. “And we must obey our mothers.” Henriette’s answer was echoed by the next three students until Grace.

  �
�Graziella?”

  Long lashes fluttered over dark eyes. “French is the language of romance,” the girl said with a mock swoon, setting off a fit of giggles throughout the room.

  “The word romance has more than one meaning in regard to French.” Sophia handed the chalk to the next girl, who introduced herself as Lettie, now Laetitia. “Please write the word Romance with a capital R.”

  Was little Rosalie remembering her capital letters?

  When Laetitia lifted her arm to write on the chalkboard, her skirt rose to expose her petticoats. An all-female classroom generated a considerable amount of giggling.

  “Thank you,” Sophia told the student, then addressed the class. “The Bible tells us to be kind to one another. We will not make fun of or embarrass each other.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, what you saw is a blessing. Do you realize how fortunate you are? You are eating well enough to grow out of your clothes. And you have clothes to grow out of. My last class had neither blessing.”

  The girls blinked at her. Florence, called Florentine, raised her hand. “Who did you teach before?”

  “The Ponca Indian tribe.”

  Several girls gasped. “Wild Indians?”

  She thought of the gentle people herded into wagons. “No, they were not wild. They have families like you. They had farms and houses. Many are Christian.” She must steer the lesson back to French. “When I first arrived at the Agency, I did not know Ponca, their language. And they knew little English. So which language did we converse in?”

  Florentine asked, “French?”

  “Trés bien! How did the Ponca tribe learn French?” Sophia was met with blank looks. “This is not a test. It is acceptable to guess. Did they vacation in Paris?”

  Could there be a bigger contrast in material riches? Although the Poncas’ emphasis on good manners and their quiet ways were quite Parisian.

  “Are they close to Canada?” asked Margaret, now Margaux.

  “It is a good thought.” Sophia pulled down the US map, another blessing. “Here is Canada. Until last week, the Poncas lived here, on the Missouri River, on Nebraska’s northern border.”

  Henriette’s hand shot up. “Fur traders!”

  “Mais, oui. The French sent fur traders throughout this area. And who else? Someone who told them about Jesus . . .”

  “A missionary?”

  “Oui.” French Jesuits, to be precise, but best not wade too deep into theological morass on her first day. “And before the US government purchased this area, it belonged to—”

  More hands shot up. “France!”

  “The Louisiana Purchase!”

  “Trés bien!” A glance at the clock—each classroom had its own!—showed her the bell was about to ring. Sophia gave a brief explanation of Romance languages. “Tomorrow you will greet me and each other in French. And we will assess your skill levels and determine where to go from here. Au revoir.”

  As the class filed out, Sophia compiled a mental list of everything she had to tell Will.

  What was she doing? This was giggling schoolgirl behavior at its worst. Had she, at this grand age of twenty-nine years, fallen in love?

  Surely not. They had simply been through a trial together, and she wanted to share her reflections with him and hear the thoughts from his deep well of spiritual wisdom. As she would with any other member of the agency staff.

  Well, not Henry. Definitely not James.

  Perhaps with Nettie.

  No. She must be honest. She desperately missed Will. But did he miss her as well? Doubtful, after their last conversation.

  Sophia bowed her head and asked God to give her the opportunity to repair her friendship with Will. And to show her if, as Nettie thought, they might be more than friends in the future.

  A round face circled by ringlets peered in the doorway. Wide blue eyes studied her without blinking. “Is it true? You lived with Indians?”

  Time, once again, to ignore the rushing water.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sophia’s slippers made no sound on the heavily carpeted hallway. The supporting floor did not issue even the slightest creak. Which is why, even with her mind focused on Will, she easily heard the sound of a child crying.

  Moonlight through the windows showed the girl in the fourth bed shaking. “Laetitia?”

  “Mademoiselle. I’m so sorry to wake you,” the girl whispered. She blinked back the tears. In the moon’s dim light, this girl bore a striking resemblance to little Rosalie.

  “You did not wake me.” Sophia sat on the wool rug near the head of the bed, so they could whisper without disturbing the others. She blotted Laetitia’s tears with the corner of the sheet. “Are you still upset about the girls’ teasing?”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I know you said to be thankful we’re growing, but I don’t have any larger clothes.”

  “Perhaps your—” Sophia stopped. Did the child have a mother? “Perhaps this summer, when you return home . . .”

  The tears, rather than subsiding, intensified. “Our house burned down. We lost . . . ev-ev-everything.”

  Sophia stroked the child’s head. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s foolish of me.” Laetitia gulped. “I’m far too old to play with dolls and she was packed away and . . .” The deluge resumed.

  “And it was a comfort knowing your doll was home, while you are here. I understand. What did you name her?”

  Laetitia’s blush could be seen even in the dim light. “Oh, mademoiselle. My silly brother named her, because he liked to pull off her head—”

  “Marie-Antoinette?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “No. I played with her too much. Her stuffing was coming out of her body in lumps like warts. And I’d cut off her hair when I was little, so she was bald in spots. Mother tried to glue it back on, but it came out uneven.”

  “And you kissed her so much her cheeks turned brown.”

  “How did you know? Were you a little girl once? I mean—”

  “Well, I was never a little boy. Yes, I had a doll. Her name was Roza, not quite so important a name as yours.”

  Laetitia looked over her shoulder, toward Sophia’s room. “Do you have her still? Can I see her?”

  Sophia shook her head. “We had to leave Russia quickly, so Roza was left behind.” Even now, thirteen years later, the smells returned to her. The bite of vodka when her father whispered the one word that would compel movement from a vain sixteen-year-old: Siberia. The musty peasant cloak used as her disguise. The choking reek of the fishing boat that had spirited them away from St. Petersburg, past Kronstadt’s Forts, to the uncertainty of freedom. And overriding all, in her father’s sweat, a smell she would later realize was fear.

  “Did you go back for her?” Laetitia whispered.

  “No, I am sorry to say, we could not.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Certainly. Great rivers of tears. My father read to me the story of Job in the Bible. Are you familiar with it? Job lost everything, but all was restored, given back to him. But I thought Job probably missed his first family even when he got a new one. And of course I only wanted Roza.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “Ah, Miss Laetitia. A wonderful question. My father said a new family would move into our house. And their daughter would love Roza.”

  Laetitia greeted that idea with as much suspicion as the young Sophia had. “Do you think so?”

  “No. No one could love Roza like I did. Besides, she looked so dreadful, with her stuffing lumpy like tumors, her hair chopped to bald, her cheeks brown. Who but me would want her?”

  “Just like Marie-Antoinette.”

  “Exactly.” Sophia stroked Laetitia’s hair. Her mother must be so proud to have such a daughter. “Close your eyes and I will tell you what I think. Perhaps, when we get to heaven, we will find Marie-Antoinette and Roza.”

  The big eyes popped open again. “Maybe they’re
already in heaven. Maybe they’re playing together. And they have perfect skin again. And perfect hair.”

  “After all, it is heaven.” Sophia raised her hands. “Close your eyes again, sweet Laetitia, and dream of Marie-Antoinette.”

  “And Roza.” Her eyes finally closed. “Did you ever get another doll?”

  “No. I received something much better,” Sophia said slowly, pacing her words to the child’s breathing. “I learned that no matter what happens—losing my doll, leaving friends, moving far away—God is always with me. As He is with you.”

  As He is with the Poncas . . .

  “As close as a prayer.” She paused and listened to Laetitia’s breathing. “And we know we can trust Him with our future.”

  Whether or not that future included Will . . .

  Laetitia slept.

  Sophia returned to her bed, praying she did not dream of little girls without dolls, without shoes, without a home.

  She read her evening prayers, then closed her prayer book and poured out her worries for the Poncas. And as far as what happens with Will . . . She took a deep breath. Please let my heart and mind be Yours.

  Perhaps if she needed another bookcase in her classroom—

  No, the school was more than adequately equipped, and classroom furniture at Brownell Hall was not Will’s responsibility. If Sophia asked him to walk with her after Sunday dinner, Tilly and Harrison’s children would insist on accompanying them. If . . .

  The congregation rose for the final hymn. Had she missed the entire sermon?

  Tilly’s friend, the one she had introduced in the milliner’s, greeted her. “I’m curious about your time with the Indians,” the woman said. “Did you live in a tepee?”

  Sophia forced her attention back to the woman. Rather than blame others for their ignorance, she needed to take the opportunity to educate. Certainly this time last year she had no concept of the Ponca Agency.