“I’m not any more pleased at the prospect than you are, dear.” Mrs. Bingham sat on the edge of Abigail’s bed and followed her progress back and forth with her gray-eyed gaze. “But honestly, the delay gives us a very unique opportunity.”
Abigail stopped and frowned. “What opportunity?”
She smiled. A slow, complacent smile that made Abigail wish she could pinch her on the end of the nose. “To see the men’s character.”
“What?”
Mrs. Bingham sighed. “Abigail, you were sitting at the table with me when I explained to Mr. Cleveland why I invite the women who apply to become brides to reside in my home during their time of waiting.”
Abigail tightened her arms against her rib cage, wishing she could shrink into nothingness. She’d wanted to crawl under the table when her employer spoke of observing the girls and gleaning their true character. What had Mrs. Bingham determined about Abigail? She wanted to believe the woman had seen something worthwhile. After all, of all the girls in the house, Abigail was the best educated, the best groomed, the most mannerly. She knew she’d initially been given favor, because Mrs. Bingham had sent her to prospective husbands. But not anymore. Now she’d been delegated to the unpalatable task of attempting to tame untamable men. She was doomed to failure and then to expulsion. What would she do then?
She closed her eyes for a moment—allowing her cramped, unembellished surroundings to hide behind her lids—and deliberately searched her memory for images of happier times. To her chagrin, the pictures refused to rise. She popped her eyes open and glared at Mrs. Bingham. “We would have every opportunity to observe them during classes, to monitor their participation, to measure their willingness to change. A week holed up in this room while they rove from house to house and ranch to ranch will gain us nothing at all.”
Mrs. Bingham stood and crossed slowly to Abigail. A hint of determination showed itself in the firm set of her lips, but something else glimmered in her eyes. Sympathy? Or was it sorrow? She cupped Abigail’s cheek in her warm palm and shook her head. “I hadn’t intended for us to stay holed up here. I intended for us to help.”
Unease attacked. “Us?”
“Well, of course.” The matchmaker lowered her hand and smiled again, this time with humor twinkling in her eyes. “Did we not help at the church?”
“Yes, with sweeping and straightening. The damages listed on the chalkboard Sheriff Thorn brought into the restaurant will require much more than cleaning skills. My education, although well rounded, hasn’t prepared me to mend a fence or secure shutters to a barn or build a toolshed.”
Mrs. Bingham clicked her tongue on her teeth—a somewhat sympathetic tsk-tsk. “My dear, you’ve only substantiated my belief that you are unsuited to being matched with one of the rugged men residing in the West. The wife of a rancher or farmer won’t limit herself to household duties. She will be expected to assist her husband in every aspect of caring for the land and animals.”
Shame brought searing heat to Abigail’s face. How petty she must sound. How incompetent. The same crushing weight of unworthiness inflicted by Linus Hartford’s rejection returned anew. “I…You…” She had no defense against the matchmaker’s presumption. Mrs. Bingham’s words were far too true.
The woman waved her hand as if dismissing Abigail’s feeble stammering. “I don’t intend to ask you to wield a hammer, but the workers will need sustenance. Mr. Patterson has offered to supply sandwiches to those assisting in the repairs, but his duty is here at the restaurant. I volunteered to deliver the food to the various work locations, and Mr. Cleveland has given the use of his horses and wagon to do so.”
Mrs. Bingham and Sheriff Thorn had met together for only half an hour after the evening service at church. How had they managed to make so many arrangements in such a short amount of time? Abigail should have stayed in the dining room with them instead of coming up to her room to change out of her dusty dress and freshen herself. Then these plans would not have taken her by surprise and she needn’t feel so foolish and inept.
Her tone turned sharp, evidence of her inner angst. “I was not aware that you knew how to drive a team and wagon.”
“It’s been several years, but my husband used to allow me to take the reins when we went on drives through the countryside on sunny afternoons. I’m sure I shall be able to recall enough to get us safely from one place to another, if need be.”
Worry rapidly descended. “Both Preacher Doan and Sheriff Thorn warned us not to venture out alone.” She never would again. Not after her foul encounter with Mr. Hildreth.
“Which is why the preacher will accompany us on each excursion. He will ride his horse and lead our wagon and then participate in the workforce.” Mrs. Bingham folded her arms over her chest. “Pouting and bemoaning the extra days will not change the fact that the wind blew in Kansas last night. Sometimes plans must change. People who can adapt to changes are much more content than those who are rigid. Please give that some thought.”
Abigail slumped on the end of the bed. There were too many changes for her to absorb at once. First having to extend their stay and teach one subject for an entire week rather than a single day, and now being forced to delay the start of classes. Another concern struck with force.
She shifted sideways to meet Mrs. Bingham’s gaze. “What is it going to cost for us to stay here several additional weeks? Will you have any profit at all from these matches after paying for a room and lodging for such a lengthy period of time?”
The sly curve of the woman’s lips made Abigail’s flesh tingle. She considered putting her fingers in her ears to block whatever she would say next, but deliberately ignoring someone was the height of ill manners.
“Mr. Patterson and I discussed ways to minimize my bill, and he agreed to provide meals free of charge in exchange for help in the restaurant. Beginning tomorrow, you and I will keep the dining room clean and the dishes washed.”
Helena
Helena closed herself in her little room and crossed to the window. She peered out, looking at nothing, and sighed. Abigail would end up alone and bitter, just like Marietta, if she didn’t change her ways. Why was the young woman trapped in such a rigid mind-set? At times Helena wanted to take Abigail by the shoulders and shake her until her stiff spine was as floppy as an old rope.
She should ready herself for bed—it was after eight already according to her jeweled watch—but Marietta needed to be apprised of the latest happenings. So she pulled the little bedside table from the corner, laid out paper, ink, and pen, and began to write.
Sunday, October 21, 1888
Dearest Sister,
An unfortunate wind beset the little town of Spiveyville yesterday and through the night, causing much damage. To our great relief, no one was hurt in the vicious storm, but the prospective grooms must now apply themselves to repairs instead of attending the classes for which Miss Grant has so diligently prepared. The sheriff has asked me to allow a full week of attention to putting things to right, thus the proposed arrival date sent in my telegram is no longer valid.
I am aware this will disappoint the brides, who are eager to make their new start,
She paused and frowned. For the first time she realized the delay left her business in Marietta’s hands for an even longer period of time. Worry tried to nibble at her, but she pushed it aside. Marietta was capable, Helena well knew, because she’d helped raise her. Eighteen years separated them in age, and their parents had died shortly after Marietta’s twelfth birthday. It was only natural she and Howard would take her in, and Helena made certain her sister received the same education Helena had been given. When matrimony passed Marietta by, she provided for herself by serving as a nanny, the most recent position caring for a set of twins. Keeping watch over adult women was less strenuous than chasing an active pair of five-year-olds. Maintaining the accounting ledgers would be Marietta’s biggest
challenge. She had never liked anything remotely connected to arithmetic, but even so, she had the knowledge to complete the task.
Helena dipped the pen and continued.
and for that I sincerely apologize. I leave at your discretion allowing some of them to answer other requests that appear to be compatible matches as long as a sufficient number of suitable girls are available for the journey to Spiveyville when we’ve deemed the men ready to receive them.
May I again express my gratitude to you, my dear sister, for stepping into my shoes during this time. Does it not seem fortuitous that your little charges were enrolled in the private kindergarten just as I had need for a replacement? God most certainly put the elements in place, and I trust He has a purpose in keeping Miss Grant and me in this small Kansas town.
Helena gave a little start and stared at her final line. The words had flowed so easily, even without true conscious thought. God knew the men would not be able to attend the classes all at once. God knew the wind would blow and the repairs would need to be made. God knew, well in advance, the number of days she and Abigail would be in Spiveyville. God knew, and He no doubt had a purpose beyond smoothing the rough edges of these cowboys’ behavior.
With a smile, she completed the letter.
I shall write again later this week with an update on our progress here, and I look forward to receiving a letter from you with a good report of your “settling in” as the administrator of Bingham’s Bevy of Brides.
I love you dearly, Marietta. I pray for you each morning and night, and I trust my name is mentioned in your daily prayers as well.
Your loving sister,
Helena
She carried the letter and her capped inkpot to the dresser and laid them on top. Tomorrow she and Abigail would take over the cleaning chores in the restaurant, but she didn’t anticipate it taxing them overly much. All the girls took turns at chores in Helena’s house, and Abigail had proved adept—to the point of fastidiousness—despite her affluent upbringing. If she’d been unable or unwilling to perform menial tasks, Helena would not have allowed her into the program. But Abigail had demonstrated an ability to keep a neat house. Now if only she could learn to be a content companion and helpmeet.
Not for the first time, Helena pondered the girl’s inability to bond with people. From what she’d said in her entrance interview, she had enjoyed a close and loving relationship with her parents as well as a large circle of friendships. Of course, her father’s unfortunate choices had certainly affected her. Sympathy coiled itself through Helena’s heart when she considered how much it must have hurt Abigail to realize her father was not the morally upright man she’d believed him to be. Could it be she was holding all men accountable for her father’s sin? Fear of being hurt again would certainly encourage one to build a protective barrier.
Helena hurried across the floor to the dresser. She uncapped the inkpot, dipped her pen, and turned the page to add a postscript.
P.S. Please keep Miss Grant in your prayers, Marietta. She carries a deep wound that affects her day-to-day associations. She is an unhappy young woman, and I do so want her to find joy within herself. Her longing to restore her previous lifestyle cannot be honored. “Polite” society won’t allow it. So somehow she must accept a different kind of life and find contentment in it. I know, with your tender heart, you will hold her up to our heavenly Father. Thank you, dear sister.
Helena smiled as she closed the inkpot yet again. With both her and Marietta praying, surely they would see results. And putting Marietta’s focus on someone else would take her mind off her own loneliness, which could inspire joy to bloom for her, as well. She aimed a teary smile at the ceiling.
“God, I suspect You have a plan. I trust You to see it through.”
Seventeen
Mack
Mack gave the front door to Patterson’s restaurant a good yank. With the arrival of colder weather, the old wood swelled. Made a fellow work to get into the place, but at least its tight fit kept the warmth inside and the cold air outside.
His body gave an involuntary shudder as he stepped over the threshold. Orange glowed between the slots in the iron door of Athol’s stove. He moved directly to the stove and held his hands toward the warmth. A sigh eased from him. The heat sure felt good. He glanced around the quiet room. No customers sat at any of the tables, but dirty plates and displaced chairs let him know the restaurant had been busy already.
The door to the kitchen swung outward, and Mack aimed a smile in that direction, expecting to tell Athol he’d take an order of ham and eggs. But Mrs. Bingham, followed by Miss Grant, came from Athol’s hallowed space. Mack drew back and stared at the pair. They both wore stained aprons over their dresses. Mrs. Bingham’s sleeves were rolled partway up her arms, and Miss Grant’s apron bore damp splotches. Why were they working in the kitchen? Had something happened to Athol?
He took one step toward them. “Is everything all right?”
“Right as rain.” Mrs. Bingham pointed to a table that had been recently vacated, and Miss Grant scurried over to it. She began clearing the plates, cups, and silverware, stacking it all as skillfully as he used to stack his toy blocks.
Mack followed Mrs. Bingham to a second table. “Where’s Athol? Is he sick?”
“No, he isn’t sick. He’s at his stove, his favorite place to be.”
“Then why…” He gestured to Miss Grant and the table in front of him.
Mrs. Bingham clanked forks and spoons onto a plate. “Abigail and I have agreed to lend a helping hand in the restaurant for the duration of our stay in exchange for our meals.” She smiled. “A mere business agreement that benefits both of us.”
“Ah, I see.” Considering they’d be stuck here in Spiveyville for longer than they originally planned, they’d been smart to work a barter. “So do I tell you what I want?”
Miss Grant breezed by, amazingly graceful considering her full hands. “Absolutely not. We clear the tables. We do not act as servers.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Mrs. Bingham chuckled. “Miss Grant holds to the convention that ladies do not wait tables, so we are leaving that duty to Mr. Patterson. But please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She headed to the kitchen with her armload.
Mack settled at a table closest to the stove. Moments later, Athol bustled out, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Hey, Mack. Most ever’body was in an’ out early today—wantin’ to get busy at the Rockin’ E. They all decided gettin’ Norm a coop built for the chickens folks’re plannin’ to give him would be the best place to start.”
Guilt pricked. Mack wanted to help at his friends’ places, but the preacher and the sheriff had convinced him having his store open would be the best help. Folks making repairs might need the stock from his shelves. “Norm will appreciate it, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yeah. ’Specially gettin’ some new chickens. Him an’ his critters…” Athol shook his head. “Whoever marries up with him better have a fondness for animals. Whatcha wantin’ this mornin’?”
“You have any ham and eggs ready to fry? That sounds pretty good for a cold morning.”
“Comin’ right up.” Athol bustled off.
Miss Grant entered the dining room and began collecting dishes from the remaining dirty table. With no one to talk to and nothing else to watch, he turned sideways in his chair and observed her careful stacking. Midway through, her hands started to tremble, and she shot him a wary look. “Am I doing something wrong?”
He scratched his cheek. “Not that I can see. Appears to me you’ve helped in a kitchen before. Am I right?”
She lined up the forks like a row of soldiers on top of the plates. “I’ve never held a position of servitude in a place of business. But during the last two years of my mother’s life, I did the cooking and cleaning in our home.”
He sense
d a story underneath her brief explanation. He leaned forward slightly. “Because she wasn’t able to do it anymore?”
Her brows pinched together. “Because our kitchen staff departed and Mother was too delicate for manual labor. If we intended to eat, someone had to cook, so I taught myself.”
He was pretty sure he didn’t have the whole story, but she’d given him enough to draw some conclusions. And he’d asked enough questions. He was getting close to being pushy. So he smiled. “I’m sure your mother appreciated your efforts.”
She picked up the stack and left without a word, but her pursed lips and furrowed brow spoke volumes. Somehow he’d hit a nerve. Once again he wished he could be pushy. She stirred his curiosity.
The dining room door banged open and a tall man in dirty, rumpled clothing stumbled inside. A string of smelly catfish hung from his hand. He scanned the room, and his dark gaze landed on Mack. “Where’s the owner?”
Mack raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t seen this fellow in Spiveyville for quite a while. Hadn’t missed him any either. Elmer Nance wasn’t the friendliest sort. “In the kitchen.”
“Fetch him.”
Before Mack could rise, Athol sauntered into the dining room. He came straight at Mack, carrying a plate hidden beneath a slab of ham, fried eggs, and biscuits. He plopped it on the table. “I need to make another pot of coffee, Mack. Sheriff Thorn took my last one with him out to Norm’s. Said he’d need it to keep everybody warm. As soon as it’s ready, I’ll—” He wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air. He turned, seemed to notice Nance, and immediately prickled. “What’re you doin’ in here?”
The rough-looking man advanced, holding out the string of fish like a prize. “Sellin’ these fish. Figgered you could serve ’em up for lunch or dinner.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 14
