Diamond Duo

by Marcia Gruver

  Jennie’s shrill laughter cut the morning stillness, sending the chickens scrambling. “Girl, he’d pass right by Longview and sail clear to Dallas.” After a giggling fit, she turned with a warm smile, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Sarah, thank you kindly for the tonic. And for breakfast. That was some fine eatin’.” She took a couple of lumbering steps. “If you ever need work, I can vouch for you in the Brooks House kitchen.”

  Sarah stared across the field where Henry struggled behind the mule. “I hope I never need take you up on that offer, considering my husband swore to care for me as long as he’s able.”

  Jennie followed her gaze. “Can’t see as you have anything to fret over in that case. Henry’s a fine figure of a man.” She turned to go with a backward wave. “I better git if I’m gon’ beat that storm back to town. Take care, now, child. And thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome anytime,” Sarah called. “To breakfast and my tonics.”

  When Jennie crossed the yard and passed from sight, Sarah gazed toward Henry and pondered the woman’s last words. She allowed herself to consider, just for a moment, how life would be without him. Startled, she pushed away the image of St. Louis that fluttered to her mind. She loved her husband too much to entertain such wicked thoughts.

  Didn’t she?

  A cold, wet nose against her ankle gave her a start. “Dickens! You old rascal–I thought you was sleeping.” Sarah nudged him with her foot. “You might warn a body before you slip up behind them.” She looked down at his droopy, pleading eyes and shook her head. “You don’t need no more to eat, but I reckon I can scare you up some breakfast scraps.”

  Feeling guilty, she glanced toward Henry and wondered if she’d have jumped so high if she had a clear conscience. Luckily, there was no time to dwell on it. A dish-cluttered table and greasy stove awaited her inside. She pulled open the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. The smell of bacon and biscuits hung heavy in the air, less enticing on a full belly.

  Life on a farm revolved around food. Sarah no sooner got breakfast cleared than it was time to start dinner. Most days she planned supper while they ate the noon meal. Hard work honed Henry’s appetite as sharp as his plow. Thankfully, she worked just as hard, or she’d be as wide as the barn door.

  She pulled on her apron and set to work on the dishes, scraping bits of bacon, egg, and biscuit in a pan for Dickens. Then she heated water and washed dried yolk and grits from the plates, milk and coffee from the tin cups. Lifting the heavy cast-iron skillet with a grunt, she poured bacon grease into a ceramic jar on the stove. Dickens would be hankering after the fresh drippings, but she had to save them for dinnertime biscuits.

  The screen door squealed and slammed behind her.

  Sarah jerked around. “Henry. You scared me out of ten days’ growth. What you doing back at the house two hours before the noonday meal?”

  He chuckled and held out his hand. “I come to get me some salve.”

  She left off cleaning the skillet and joined him by the door. “What happened?”

  “Jus’ a little cut. Me and Dandy got crossways ’bout which way to go.”

  Sarah reached for his big hand and with her apron wiped away the blood flowing from a spot between his thumb and forefinger. She held it up to the sparse light struggling through the kitchen window. “It’s a poke, not a cut, but it ain’t reached the bone.” She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. “At least he left your fingers.”

  Henry grunted. “Only ’cause I got out of his way. When that old mule reckons it’s time to quit, it’s a hard sell to turn him.”

  She ruffled his hair. “Maybe he’s smarter than you. Sit at the table. I’ll get my poultice powder.”

  She opened the pantry door and lit the lamp. She needed light to find the powder because she wasn’t sure where she’d left it. It could be on the top shelf near the cough syrup she boiled up for croup and the grippe or behind the pokeweed tonic she kept for putrid sore throat. Maybe on the lower shelf next to the last two bottles of energy tonic. She reached to move them aside and froze.

  Two bottles? She’d given one to Jennie not one hour ago.

  Her eyes shifted to the identical brown containers next to the tonic, and her heart reared up in her chest. She dashed out of the pantry and stood staring at Henry, one twin vessel in each hand.

  “We got to get ourselves to town right this minute.”

  Henry looked up, and his eyes bulged. “What happened, Sarah? You look like you seen a spirit in there.”

  Dazed, she shook her head. “Not yet, but I might get the chance. I’ve done killed Jennie Simpson.”

  Bertha opened her eyes to a darkened room. She thought she’d awakened early until distant thunder pealed, and she realized stormy weather still lingered over Jefferson.

  She reached with her big toe to push aside the tasseled shade. The roiling black sky promised rain, but the threat had yet to come through. No new raindrops sprinkled the windowpane, no fresh puddles dotted the path, and Papa puttered with his roses near the trellis, though he wore a heavy coat.

  The chill in her room made her loath to give up her quilt, and in her head were memories of Thad she wanted to linger with a bit. He’d been so tender on the ride home, so mindful of her feelings. He even tried to explain away Annie’s rebuke in an effort to lift Bertha’s spirits. When they arrived on her porch, she knew he itched to tell her his important news. Instead, he pressed his lips to her forehead and insisted she get some rest.

  But rest hadn’t come easy. After tossing all night on her cotton mattress, she wound up encased in a blanket cocoon. In the early morning hours, she finally surrendered to drowsy lids and fell into a fitful sleep where she and Annie skipped arm in arm through town dressed in nightshirts and corsets, chased by a menacing Abe.

  “Bertha Maye!”

  She cringed. The tone of Mama’s voice meant she’d found Gerta Hayes’s boots–Bertha’s boots, now–and would require an explanation.

  Last night Mama had been so busy scolding her for coming home late, she never noticed her feet. Though Bertha preferred getting all the fussing done at once, she hadn’t the heart to rekindle Mama’s ire once she finally settled down. So she left the boots on the porch and hustled to her room without mentioning her trade with Mrs. Hayes.

  She would pay for it now.

  The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Mama stood on the threshold holding the boots away from her with two fingers, as if afraid they might bite.

  Bertha took her stature from Papa’s pocket-sized family. Emeline Biddie, a foot taller and pounds heavier than Bertha, struck an imposing figure hovering in the doorway.

  “Bertha Maye Biddie, did you hear me call?”

  She swung her feet to the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “I was about to.”

  It would do no good to explain that between Mama’s call and her appearance, there hadn’t been enough time to come. If Bertha had tried, she’d be crumpled in a heap between the door and Mama’s prized William Morris wallpaper in the Daisy pattern. Such logic generally escaped the woman’s notice.

  Mama held the scruffy black boots higher. “Would you care to explain?”

  Bertha pointed. “Those are boots.” Not a wise response.

  Indignation swelled Mama to twice her size. “I know what they are, Bertha Biddie. What I don’t know is how they came to be in your possession.” She widened her eyes as a warning. “Don’t try to deny them. Not even your papa’s feet are this small. You’re the only one here who could wear them.”

  She hadn’t planned to deny them but decided not to mention it.

  “I’ve tolerated your old lace-ups because Papa said you need them for chores. But I won’t abide a second pair.” She took a closer look at the footwear dangling from her hands. “And these are even more horrid. Where on earth did you get them?”

  “They were a gift.”

  Disbelief shaped Mama’s posture f
rom tilted head to jutting hip. She took advantage of the protruding hip and rested her free hand on it. “Do you intend to sit there and break three of God’s commandments at once?”

  Bertha drew back in shock. “How have I managed that?”

  Mama ticked them off on her fingers. One finger. “Your answer is clearly not the whole truth, which makes it a lie by default.” Two fingers. “I believe your attitude toward me in this matter is far less than honorable.” She shook the boots at Bertha and held up the third digit. “Your evasive answer about these monstrosities gives me cause to believe you stole them.”

  Bertha grinned and nodded. “That’s three, all right.”

  “Don’t be fresh, Bertha Maye.” She tossed the boots in a corner and lifted a rigid shoulder. “I never imagined a daughter of mine would have such an aversion to shoes.”

  It seemed a cruel twist of fate on both their parts. The fashionable shoes Mama loved to the point of obsession, Bertha considered instruments of torture. In the past she’d tried to conform but had never found comfortable footwear that pleased her finicky mama.

  “I’m sorry.” Bertha stood up and walked around the end of the bed. “I didn’t lie or steal, and I never intend to dishonor you. It just happens.”

  Mama jabbed her finger toward the corner. “No more nonsense, then. Tell me where those came from.”

  Bertha steeled herself and plowed ahead. “Magda’s mama gave them to me in exchange for my shoes.”

  It took a full three seconds for the news to sink in before Mama turned around and stared in disbelief. “Your beautiful bronze pumps?”

  She held up both hands. “Before you bust a gut, just listen. They weren’t beautiful when I gave them.”

  Mama sagged against the door frame. “What do you mean? They were brand new.”

  “Yes, they were, but not anymore. I got caught out in the storm and wound up tramping through muddy floodwater.” She nodded at the boots on the floor. “Those look better than the shoes did when I finally made it to high ground.”

  Mama cringed but didn’t speak, so Bertha went on.

  “The boots don’t fit Mrs. Hayes, so she offered them to me. And they’re ever so comfortable, as if made for my feet.” Mama scowled, so she ducked her head. “Mrs. Hayes took a liking to my shoes, though I can’t imagine why.”

  Mama crossed her arms and raised one dubious brow.

  “They were puckered and ruined, I promise. When she offered the boots, I suggested an even trade. It seemed only fair.”

  This brought Mama ramrod straight. “So the lovely pumps I saved weeks of egg money to purchase–shoes in the latest fashion, I might add–were an acceptable exchange for. . . for. . .”

  Papa, who had come to stand behind Mama without her knowing, started to mimic her stiff posture and wild gestures. When he broke into a jaunty Irish jig, Bertha plastered both hands over her mouth. Laughing would be the ruin of them both.

  Still oblivious to Papa, Mama stopped waving her arms and glared. “What are you doing, Bertha?”

  Papa tugged his twisted vest into place and stepped forward with a poker-straight face. “The girl’s speechless with remorse, my dear Emeline.”

  Mama whirled. “And well she should be. I’m glad you’re here, Francis. You need to deal with this girl. I’ve reached the end of my tether.”

  “Ah, me lady, surely there’s an inch or two left. What dastardly thing has the wee snippet done?”

  “Ask her yourself. I’m taking leave of the situation before I lose my temper.”

  If Mama hadn’t already lost her temper, Bertha would just as soon see her go.

  Papa put on his pious face. “It can’t be that bad. Can’t we afford her a bit of Christian charity?”

  Mama waved off his suggestion. “Francis, I fear your daughter has depleted my ration of Christian charity for the day and with the sun barely over the horizon.” She shoved past him and started down the hall then turned for one last remark. “This time see to it you’re not overly lenient, Francis, or you’ll answer to me.” She left in a huff, still muttering.

  Papa raised his hands to his throat and mimicked strangling himself, causing Bertha to erupt in stifled laughter. He waited until the angry clack of heels faded toward the kitchen before he winked and grinned at Bertha. “Stretch out on the bed so I can beat you, daughter. I’m getting too old for the chase.”

  She clutched her head and moaned. “Can’t you do anything with her?”

  His cheeks reddened. “Been trying for years. Haven’t made much headway. It’s my penance for marrying a city girl.” He sighed. “Let’s get your punishment over and done.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “If you want to save me hide, we do.” He touched the end of his chin. “Let me see, now. Can you live with adding Mama’s chores to your own until the Sabbath?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Not so easy, me girl. Sabbath next.”

  She winked. “Can’t fault me for trying.”

  “You would, you rascal. Do we have a bargain?”

  She nodded. “We do.”

  He raised both shaggy brows. “You’re sure? It’s not too late for a beating.”

  Bertha laid her cheek on his shoulder, one of the few shoulders she could reach. “The extra chores will do nicely, thank you.”

  He patted her back and gave her a tight squeeze. “Fine, fine. Now squeal a bit or work up some tears–else you’ll land me in trouble, too.”

  She giggled and pulled away. “Stop it, now. And kindly take leave of my room. I have to dress and get started on all those chores.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m going, lass. I have to get dressed meself.”

  She looked him over. “You are dressed.”

  “Aye, for the barn, not for town.”

  She widened her eyes. “You’re going into town?”

  “Right after breakfast.”

  She clutched his hand. “Oh, Papa, I need to go with you.”

  He screwed up his face. “I don’t know, lass. What about your work?”

  “I’ll do all I can before we leave and the rest when we get back. I promise.” She grabbed both of his arms and pleaded with her eyes. “I need to see about a friend of mine.”

  Concern creased his forehead. “Is your friend ill?”

  She looked away. “She needs my help with a problem.”

  “I see.”

  She put both arms around his neck. “Oh, please. It’s very important or I wouldn’t ask.”

  His staunch resolve crumbled before her eyes. “This will get us both a lashing, but very well. We’ll slip away after we eat.”

  She kissed his ruddy cheeks. “You’re a wonderful papa.”

  His rosy face turned crimson. “So it’s flattery you’re up to, is it? Save yourself the trouble, lass. No bit of trickery or slip of the silver tongue can sway Francis Biddie.” At the door, he spun on the ball of his foot. “Ah yes, and those extra chores can wait. You may start them Monday morn.”

  She tried to hide her grin. “Thank you, Papa.”

  He winked and turned to go.

  “Papa?”

  “Yes, wee girl?”

  “Why are shoes and such so all-fired important?”

  He cocked his head and squinted both eyes. “Ah, Bertha, me love. One barefoot day spent dealing with the trials of those too poor to buy shoes and you’d be begging to wear them. Trust your old papa on this one. Now ready yourself for breakfast and be quick about it.”

  Quick she was, with chores and with breakfast, and in no time they were ready to leave. Mama scowled when Papa announced Bertha would join him on his trip to town, but she held her tongue. Bertha slipped out of the house fast when he pulled the horse and buggy to the door, before Mama decided to make her stay home.

  In the two hours since daybreak, Jefferson had come to life. Nearly all of the locals shopped and ran errands on Saturday in preparation for Sunday rest. Lone riders on horseback and families on outings swarmed the st
reets, and the boardwalks teemed with farmers, merchants, laborers, and backwoodsmen. Gentlemen planters stood in clusters bemoaning the price of cotton and lamenting the decline of trade brought on by the dwindling steamboat traffic.

  The ladies, unmindful of their husbands’ woes, pranced about in high-dollar duds. Not the elaborate gowns reserved for balls and garden parties or the chaste and unassuming frocks set aside for church–these colorful dresses were their town clothes, topped off by matching parasols and feathered hats.

  The carriage from the Commercial Hotel rumbled past, and the toothy driver tipped his hat at Bertha. Papa frowned at the young man then shook his head and winked when Bertha grinned. He reined in the wagon in front of Rink Livery Stable and set the brake. “Won’t be a minute, sugar. When I come back, we’ll head over to Sedberry’s Drugstore.” He patted her hand. “I’ll let you pick out some nice penny candy.”

  Bertha pulled her hand free and placed it over his. “I hate to tell you this, Papa, but I’m not ten years old anymore.”

  He leaned nose to nose with her and scrunched up his face. “Is that a fact? When did it happen?”

  She swatted his arm. “A good while ago. A detail you’d notice if you paid better attention.”

  He pulled her close and chuckled. “Daughter of mine, a man can’t see what he ain’t looking for.” He leaned back and regarded her from a distance. “So that’s why the young upstart driver’s eyeballs popped?” He stretched his arms out in front of his face. “Out to here, they were.”

  Her face flushed with heat, and she lowered her head. Papa chuckled and lifted her chin. “You turned into a right bonny lass while me head was turned.”

  His words flooded Bertha’s soul with warmth. “Thank you, Papa.”

  He kissed her cheek and climbed down then peered up from the ground, scratching his head. “So you’re not ten years old, you say? Funny how you never grew.”

  “Oh, go on with you,” she sputtered.

  His laughter rang out in the morning air. “Sit tight, then. I’ll be back directly. I just need to check on Sol.”