Diamond Duo

by Marcia Gruver

  Bertha stood up in the pan and leaned to wrap her arms around Magda’s neck. The awkward angle of her feet, still curled on each side of Magda’s, rendered her bent and bowlegged, but she didn’t care. “I’m sorry, sugar. I never meant to hurt you. Can you ever forgive me? I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I swear.”

  “Don’t swear. You know you’re not supposed to.”

  “Promise, then. I promise on my life.”

  “You don’t have to go that far. I’ll just take your word that you’ll never do it again. A mite less costly than your life, don’t you think?”

  Bertha laughed and nodded. “Just a mite.”

  “But you have to mean it, Bertha. If I know you mean it, I’ll forget it completely and not hold it to your account.”

  Bertha drew back to look her in the eye. “I mean it. On my honor, I mean it.”

  Magda gave a solemn nod. “All right, then.”

  Bertha leaned to kiss her ruddy cheek. On impulse she kissed her cheek again then twice more on the other side.

  Magda squealed and pushed her away. “You don’t have to get me all soggy. And speaking of soggy, kindly sit down before you land bottoms-up in this bucket.”

  The words had barely left her mouth when Bertha lost her footing, and her toe slid hard against Magda’s side of the pan. She squealed in pain and thrashed wildly to regain her balance. Magda caught both her hands and held on while she lowered her backside onto the stool.

  She picked up her foot and scowled down at the throbbing big toe. “Look what you made me do. If this thing puffs, it won’t fit into my shoe.” She looked up at Magda and found her smiling. “Stop it, now.” She held her toe higher. “This hurts to beat all.”

  Magda’s grin turned to a belly laugh. “I imagine it smarts, all right, but I’m not laughing at your toe. I’m laughing at your ruckled-up face.” She pointed at Bertha’s shoes drying in front of the fire. “It’s about as puckered as those poor things, which, by the way, will never fit you again, swollen toe or not.”

  Bertha followed Magda’s gaze to the crumpled brown shoes on the hearth. “And that will be a bother to everyone but me. Those things were fashioned in the pit of perdition.”

  “But what will your mama say?”

  “Oh, she’ll be scandalized. She’ll pester and fuss for days and make me work off their cost with chores.” Bertha winked at Magda. “And it will be a small price to pay to never have them on my feet again.”

  H

  He had found her.

  Thad knew the deeper ruts meant Mose had stopped long enough for the weight of the wagon to sink the wheels a bit in the soft mud, and there were marks on the ground from restless hooves. They’d stopped, all right, and the lone set of footprints that led to the swollen ditch in front of Magdalena Hayes’s house meant Bertha would be inside.

  Runoff rain poured into the trench, causing it to crest. Bertha had jumped it before it filled; otherwise she’d never have made it across the rushing surge. And the lane was completely gone, swallowed up by standing water. She may have walked up to the house, but she’d never make it out on foot.

  He turned his horse, jumped the ditch, and rode across the pasture to the house. Magda’s parents came out of the barn and picked their way across the higher ground in back of the property. Thad waved and they waved back; then he rode up to where they waited on the porch.

  Tall, potbellied Mr. Hayes wore the same wide grin on his face he had plastered there the first time Thad ever saw him. According to local legend, he was born with it and couldn’t change expressions if he tried. The man pushed back his hat with two fingers and beamed in Thad’s direction.

  Thad worked hard not to look straight at him, because the infectious nature of the jolly gentleman’s smile made it impossible to keep a straight face. He returned the wife’s nod instead. “Good day, folks.”

  “Thad,” Mr. Hayes said, as if apprising Thad of his name, “what you doing way out here on a day like today?” His brows, raised in twin peaks over laughing eyes, told Thad he already knew.

  Thad squirmed in his saddle and pointed back over his shoulder. “Me and Charlie–Charles Gouldy, that is–were over yon way, fishing.”

  “Catch anything?”

  “Not this time. Seems we were the ones caught. Out in the storm, I mean.”

  “Where’s Charlie now?”

  “Well, sir, he rode on home.” In his nervous state, Thad allowed his gaze to linger too long on the older man’s face and right away felt his mouth begin to twitch.

  “And you didn’t?” Mr. Hayes found so much humor in Thad’s discomfort, the tops of his cheeks reddened from the strain of overtaxed muscles.

  Thad lowered his head. “No, sir, I didn’t. I came out here to see about–”

  Mr. Hayes held up his hand. “Don’t tell me, now. Let me guess. You started out this day a-fishing, and now you’ve come a-hunting.” He pointed back toward the house. “A mighty fine tracker you are, too, since your prey sits cornered inside that door. Get on in there, boy, and flush her out.”

  Thad looked to Mrs. Hayes for help but found no comfort in her toothy smile.

  “Ja, go inside, Thad. A bowl of venison stew should sit vell on such a day.”

  Thad tipped his hat. “I won’t likely turn down such a fine offer on a good day, ma’am, much less on this dreary afternoon. If you’re sure there’s enough. . .”

  “There’s more than plenty, son,” Mr. Hayes boomed. “And I can smell it from here. Get down from there and come on in.”

  Thad dismounted and tied his horse to the porch rail. By the time he made it to the top step, Mr. Hayes had opened the door. From somewhere past the entrance came shrill laughter and a spate of uproarious giggles.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hayes exchanged a look.

  “What them gals up to, Gerta?”

  She gave him a vacant stare. “I couldn’t say, Yacob.”

  Grinning, Mr. Hayes led the way past the entry with his wife on his heels. Thad, burning with curiosity now that he’d recognized Bertha’s laugh in all the glee, brought up the rear. When Jacob and Gerta Hayes parted before him like the Red Sea, Thad smiled every bit as widely as Mr. Hayes.

  It started to rain in earnest as Sarah and Henry pulled past the gate. They barely got Dandy inside the barn before the sky opened all the way up. Behind the rain came a chill, blustery wind that rattled the wide doors and raised the hair on Sarah’s neck.

  She left Dandy in Henry’s care and hightailed it to the house to kindle a fire. When the flames blazed high and hot, she put the kettle on and ran shivering to their room, pulling the gift from Henry out of the saddlebag as she went. Dropping the wet leather bag on the floor outside the bedroom door, she stepped inside and carefully placed the wrapped parcel in the middle of the bed.

  She peeled out of her blue gingham dress and threw it over the door to dry, certain she’d never changed in and out of the same garment so many times in one day. The square of linen cloth she pulled from the bar on the washstand to blot her wet hair reminded her of her new fabric, so she crossed to the bed where the package lay. Wiping her hands on the linen rag, she laid it aside to open the end of the wrapper and shake the material out onto the quilt.

  She wondered at Henry’s choice. Not that the sight of it didn’t set her heart racing and make her limp with joy. But she couldn’t imagine where in their dusty country house she might store it, much less where in their dusty Texas town she might wear it. If they were still in St. Louis, it would be different.

  Sarah smoothed one finger over the glistening white weave. The cloth was truly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, much less owned. What a lovely dress it would make.

  And I know exactly which one it should be.

  She dropped to her knees and reached under the bed, using the feel of the boxes against her fingers to find the right one. When she had hold of it, she pulled it out into the light. The wooden crate held every favorite gown that ever belonged to her or her
mama. Of course they weren’t really garments anymore, just the cut-out parts. The tied-up bundles resembled stacks of puzzle pieces more than clothes–an arm here, skirt there, a bodice and back. Whenever Sarah got ready to make a new frock, she’d choose from one of the old fabric puzzles and cut out a pattern. Sometimes she mixed and matched just for fun.

  Near the bottom of the box she found the right one and slid it from under the rest. The dingy pieces were wrinkled and smelled of camphor, but no matter. She’d wash and press them before she started. The pattern would fit her too small now, but she would adjust for that when she traced.

  A tender smile stole over her face when she held up the stack of cloth pieces that had once been a sassy white dress, the same one she wore to Lawetta Draper’s house the day she first laid eyes on Henry. It might need a touch here and there to make it more stylish, but she’d chosen the perfect pattern.

  When the kettle on the stove began to whine, she shoved the crate back under the bed away from Henry’s prying eyes and tucked the new fabric in the bottom dresser drawer. Then she shimmied into her housedress and scurried into the kitchen.

  In the darkest corner of the pantry sat a small red tin where she kept the last of the tea leaves given to her by Miss Susan Blow, her former mistress and teacher. Miss Susan gave the tea to Sarah during her last visit home to see Papa. The kettle came from Miss Susan, too. Sarah brought it with her when she first left the French settlement in St. Louis and moved to Jefferson.

  The most precious gift her teacher gave her was an education, a prize with no value in her new hometown. It seemed the longer she stayed where people considered her ignorant, the more ignorant she became. Some days she wished Miss Susan hadn’t bothered.

  Sarah picked up the tin, pried off the lid, and drew in a deep whiff of the pungent plant. The familiar smell built a bridge in her mind from Texas to Missouri. It carried her along the river, past St. Louis to the wide streets of Carondelet. There it wound through the rooms of Miss Susan’s fine house then straight to the Des Peres School, Miss Susan’s kindergarten where Sarah used to cook for the children.

  She sighed and pulled a small wad of dried leaves from the can. Before closing it, she peered inside and mourned the fact there was barely enough left for one more pot. Relaxing her fingers, she allowed a few leaves to fall back into the can and dropped the rest into the steaming kettle. Closing the lid, she set it aside to steep.

  Henry stepped up onto the porch, whistling and stamping the mud off his feet the way he always did when he came in from the barn. The screen door squealed behind her.

  “Get yourself out of those damp clothes,” she said without looking back. “And don’t bother hanging them up. After the way you sweated today, they’ll be stinking without a wash.”

  Sarah waited for him to grumble. The trousers he wore were his favorite pair, the only britches he owned without holes in the knees. When he didn’t say a word, she turned to see why. Henry stood by the door unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and gnawing on her chocolate with the other.

  “Put that away now. You’re bound to ruin your supper.”

  “Can’t hep it. This ain’t ordinary candy. It’s black magic.” He used the back of his hand to slide a stray piece from his bottom lip into his mouth. “Once you start in on it, you lose the power to stop.”

  “Let me help you with that.” She hustled over and swiped the sweet treat out of his hand, wound the wrapper around it, and took it to the pantry–picking up the red tea can on the way. When she came out, Henry’s gaze latched on and followed her around the room. Sarah grew fidgety under his meddlesome stare and spun around to face him. “What is it now?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Why are your peepers glued to me? Has my face turned blue?”

  His big brown eyes, still so intent, narrowed and crinkled. “Naw, your face still dark and sweet like that chocolate but stronger magic than any old candy.”

  A warm flush crept up her neck, but she kept her guard up. “Fine. Now answer my first question. Why you looking at me in such a way?”

  Henry lifted one broad shoulder. “Jus’ noticed you making tea, I guess.”

  She stiffened. “And what of it?”

  “Means you homesick again, that’s all.”

  “What you going on about, Henry?”

  “Woman, I didn’t meet you yesterday. You go to making that tea, it means you thinking ’bout St. Louis and Miss Susan’s house.”

  Sarah turned back to the sink. “What a fool thing to say. When I make tea, it means I have a hankering for a cup, that’s all. Don’t go readin’ things where there ain’t no writin’. Go wash for supper, now. I’ll have food on the table before you’re done.”

  Henry laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “Yes’m, Missy King. I’ll do like I’s told.”

  He pulled off his shirt and wadded it into a ball then started toward the hallway door. When he stopped just short of it, Sarah cringed. It would be nice if he’d just leave it be, but she knew he wasn’t about to.

  “I reckon I know why you act how you do ’bout folks ’round here.”

  She snorted. “I know, too. They’re cruel, narrow-minded bigots, every last one of them.”

  He turned from the door, big hands busy rolling his shirt. “You seem right fond of little Bertha.”

  “Miss Bertha’s different, her and Magda both. They speak to me no matter who’s watching. They don’t wipe their hands on their skirts if our fingers touch. Least not where I can see them.”

  “You act like Bertha and Magda the only good folks in this town. They’s jus’ as many good apples in the barrel as bad.”

  Sarah feigned shock. “Where they hiding the good crop, then? All I come across are sour and wormy.”

  Henry’s face puckered like sun-dried corn. “Like I said, I know why you act how you do. I reckon you’re jus’ mad all the time. But it ain’t the people ’round Jefferson you’re mad at.”

  She dropped her dishrag on the sideboard and propped one hand on her hip. “It ain’t, huh?”

  “No, ma’am, it ain’t.”

  “Well, who am I mad at?”

  “Me.”

  He might’ve said Dickens and made more sense. Sarah waited to see if he meant the witless words. He stood not moving a muscle, his face a blank wall. She cocked her head. “Why would you say so foolish a thing?”

  He uncoiled the shirt ball and slung it across the kitchen. “Weren’t it me what took you away from St. Louis? From your papa, Miss Susan, and the schoolhouse?”

  “Henry, St. Louis is over and done. Jefferson’s my home now.”

  He challenged her with a look. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss it every day.”

  Now he’d sashayed too close to the truth, his prying words plundering near that place in her heart she kept all to herself. She picked up the rag again and went to work cleaning the stove. “Quit spewing nonsense. If you don’t let me get supper done, you won’t eat tonight.”

  He closed the gap between them and grabbed her arm. “You told me I’m reading what ain’t wrote. Well, now you wiping up what ain’t spilt.” He took the rag from her hand and tossed it in the corner along with his shirt. “Stop all this dancing around the truth. You wish you’d never left St. Louis. I know you do.”

  The pigheaded man had stumbled right onto it–the only place in her heart he didn’t belong–and his blunder made her mad enough to tell him.

  She jerked her arm free. “You want to know so bad? Well, here it is. Miss Blow treated me like a person. Like I mattered in this world. She taught me to read and write, cipher numbers, to talk like a lady, not the child of a slave.” Sarah glared up at him. “I don’t miss St. Louis. Or Carondelet, or my house, or the school. Not even Miss Blow, though I love her with all my might.” Pushing his hands away, she backed into a tight wad. “I miss feeling good about myself, Henry King. I miss walking proud along the street instead of slinking like a hang-tailed dog.”

  Henry
pressed her to the stove and pulled her struggling body close. “Hush, baby girl,” he cooed against her hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you hurt this bad. God, help me, I jus’ didn’t know.” Shame masked his face. “You was happy in St. Louis, and here I come along and take you away from there. You followed me to Jefferson without a peep or a mutter, and look at what a sorrowful trade you done made. A broken-down farm and two sorry old mules for your trouble.”

  Sarah sniffed. “Two?”

  He nodded toward the barn. “One out yonder with his face in a feed bag and the other right in front of you.”

  Her stomach lurched. She unfurled from the wretched place she’d allowed herself to go and took hold of his face with both hands. “Don’t you say that, you hear? I could do without Dandy, but my life would be a wearisome mess without you.”

  Henry tried to pull away, but she held him fast. “Look at me, now. Don’t you know I can survive any sorrow as long as you’re by my side?”

  He looked down at her, the challenge back in his eyes. “Anything?”

  She stilled. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

  “I reckon it’s a good day for airing things out.”

  Sarah pressed her forehead to his bare chest and ran the palm of her hand down the back of his head. Stopping at his neck, her fingers lingered there and caressed the smooth, warm skin. “There’s no way of knowing why we haven’t had children, Henry. It could just as likely be down to me.”

  She raised her head and sought his eyes. “Mama always said these things are best left to the wisdom of the good Lord, and I agree. It’s only been four years. We could still–”

  His finger on her lips stifled the rest. “Don’t say no more. Four years is enough time to give it. I ain’t wasting no more hope. But I can’t help thinking you’d have settled in better if we’d had a child.”