by Mari Collier
“And I've never been completely sure she wasn't a bit mad when Mac took her out of there.”
“Does that justify what y'all are doing?”
Once more Margareatha subsided into silence, her mind churning. Why, why, why, was all she could think, and why were both Lorenz and Daniel here? Was this some sort of joke God was playing on her? Was she supposed to heal the breach between her two brothers? She couldn't heal herself.
Finally Lorenz drove behind a hillock of earth and stone and pulled the reins back.
“We're here.”
“There is nothing here.” Scorn stressed Margareatha's words.
“Look again. I pulled the brush and rocks over the opening. I just prayed I wasn't gone too long. Someone might think I was hiding pay dirt diggings.”
Daniel rode up to collect the reins and to tie his horse onto the back.
“Are you intending to hoof it all the way back to Texas, little brother? I thought you had a way to leave this country.”
Lorenz's face lit with eagerness. “We're not walking. Watch this.” He strode over to the brush and began pulling it away. Daniel fought with the horses that started taking offense at the noise and sudden movement.
“You could give me a chance to turn this rig around.”
“And y'all could give a hand here if y'all are in such a hurry to see me gone.”
Margareatha stood watching the two of them her arms crossed below her bosom. She knew them too well. Lorenz had the Justine ability to mindspeak and possessed two hearts, while Daniel was entirely Earth. Physically they resembled each other, except Daniel's extra three inches, but Lorenz had adopted some of Mac's body training and his arms and legs were bulkier.
Within minutes the golden gleam of a metal dome was seen. Then what looked like tinted glass followed by more golden metal. Sleek and streamlined, no doors showing, but a craft large enough for four people. Daniel whistled.
“What is that?”
“It's a scouting craft from the Golden One. Papa taught me to fly it years ago. We'll be home in less than an hour once we've lifted.” Lorenz's grey eyes gleamed. He felt at home in this vehicle where he could soar above the clouds and go beyond anything that man had contrived or yet dreamed. It was power he could use unlike his mind which must lie hidden from the world.
Daniel's face had gone grey and he turned his back. He refused to look at anything that shouted of his biological father's world.
“How did you explain all of that to Antoinette, or did you even bother?”
The hate in his voice was a living force that slammed into Lorenz's sensibilities.
“It took most of one night and then a visit to the Golden One. Just like Mama, she went where y'all wouldn't go, big brother.”
Daniel whirled on him, his hands balled into fists.
Her mother's admonishments rang in Margareatha's mind. “Du must not let the boys fight vhen I am not there.” The thought jarred her into action.
“You two stop it right now. Mama will be mad.”
They stared at her, then at each other, a sick look coming over their faces. Up until now, neither had really acknowledged the fact that Margareatha had lost touch with reality. Lorenz drew a deep, ragged breath. He could feel the light breeze tugging at his hat. For some reason Daniel's hat showed no signs of moving. By pausing, he had time to consider. Rity was right. They were behaving like boys. Were they little, Mama would be mad and lambaste the two of them. He turned back to Daniel.
“Rity is right, Daniel. We're behaving like kids. I had no right to imply you were or are a coward. My apologies, if y'all will accept them.”
Daniel looked at him, his grey eyes like slate. “We end this now if you promise to see that she is cared for.”
“It's why I'm here.”
“I do not need to be cared for, and I know full well Mama is dead; dead and cold in the ground like my babies.” Margareatha turned her back on them and stalked toward the buckboard.
Lorenz caught her by the arm. “Rity, we're going in the Scout. Daniel will take the buckboard back to town.”
“I'm hungry.”
Her lips were beginning to crack, and the heat made the stench from her clothes worse.
“Sure y'all are, but we'll be where there's food faster if we take the Scout.”
Her eyes lost the hardness for a moment as though puzzling over what he said. “Will there be brandy there?”
“No, but it's only a couple of hours away. Come on, Rity, y'all ride with me and as soon as I can, I promise I'll pour y'all a glass of brandy.” He caught the bundle of clothes Daniel tossed in their direction.
Daniel looked at them with disgust written on his face and climbed into the buckboard. As he picked up the reins, he saw a cloud of dust in the direction of the town they had left. He looked back at his siblings walking towards the machine in the depression.
“I think the town has sent someone after us. I suggest you leave immediately.”
He snapped the reins and headed out. At the top of the draw he looked back. Lorenz had managed to put Margareatha into one side and was hurrying back around to enter from the other side. He waved at Daniel.
“Thanks, Daniel. If that posse sees a golden streak, tell them it must have been ball lightning. I'll let y'all know how she is.”
“Don't bother,” Daniel muttered. That Margareatha would eventually return to normal was possible. All he wanted was to get back to his town, his job, and never see either of them again.
Chapter 25: Christina in Exile
Mrs. Brewster smiled at the two Texan matrons and their respective daughters as they entered her office. The taller woman had black, curled hair perfectly arranged. Her clothes, a muted summer violet suit trimmed with darker velvet, were elegantly cut, draped, and accessorized with matching hat, gloves, and (she judged from the bulge on the woman's fingers) jewels. The girl behind her was slightly taller, moved without the awkwardness of most young ladies, and was equally outfitted in blue. The very type Mrs. Brewster had often tried to attract to her school for young ladies but failed. She envied them and therefore hated them.
The other woman was clad in a tight fitting two piece suit of gray and trimmed with black rickrack. She was perspiring freely and the wet was creeping downward and outward. Her hat was of some grey material trimmed with black netting that looked ill-at-ease on top of the straight blond hair, braided and pulled into a bun at the back. If she wore any jewels, they were well hidden. The girl behind her sported the same hair-do, the same type of dress, and walked with a clumping gait. Her face was tanned from far too much sun for a lady, and the blue eyes lacked the intelligence that the other girl and woman possessed. These two, Mrs. Brewster perceived as dull, uncouth, creatures with far more money than she would ever possess and she despised them.
“Mrs. Rolfe and Mrs. MacDonald, welcome to St. Louis and to our school. I hope your young ladies will be very happy here and acquire the necessary arts to function as skilled housewives. Won't you be seated while we go over the contracts?”
“There's seems to be a misperception here, Mrs. Brewster. As my letter stated, it is Miss Christina Rolfe who will be attending, not my daughter. Miss MacDonald will be attending a boarding school in the East preparing for college.” Antoinette's drawl came through as sweetly as ever. She smiled and seated herself as the rest did the same. “As ah explained in my letter, ah simply handled the correspondence for Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe.”
Mrs. Brewster's smile remained fixed. “I'm sure we could accomplish the same thing.”
Toni smiled gently at such an absurdity. “Why, no, ah don't believe so. Miss MacDonald needs some advanced coaching in math, French, and Latin before college. Your school's specialties are sewing and culinary arts.”
“Such studying can often harm a woman's nervous disposition. We've found it far better to stress the social graces. If perhaps you change your mind during the year, I'm sure we could accommodate her.” She turned to Brigetta.
“Di
d you find everything satisfactory during your tour of our school?”
Brigetta's face reddened. The tour had consisted of seeing the dining room, kitchen, brief glances into one of the schoolrooms, and one of the bedrooms that four students would share. All of it looked rather sparse to her, but she nodded yes as Antoinette spoke again.
“In your letter, y'all mentioned riding classes. Ah'm afraid we didn't see anything resembling a stable or horses on your property.
Mrs. Brewster's smile was becoming forced. “We have one quarter devoted to teaching young ladies to ride properly. We utilize a stable not far from here. Too many of our Western students are unfamiliar with the sidesaddle.”
“A very sensible solution ah'm sure. Ah do have one more question as the issue wasn't raised, but ah'm sure y'all will understand. Miss Rolfe's father was very reluctant to let his daughter travel so far from home and he does worry about security in such a large city area. Y'all know we hear about such dreadful crimes.”
Mrs. Brewster smiled. “I can assure you that our staff locks all the doors in the evenings and I check them personally since Mr. Brewster passed away. One can't be too careful. Now there is a small matter of payment.”
Brigetta opened her purse and slowly counted out the money. She did not dare look at Christina or she would burst out crying. Both she and Martin had given thanks when there was no sign of an impending birth, but the strain of keeping Christina home and safe was becoming too much. Perhaps being with young people her own age that weren't as smart as the MacDonald children or her own siblings was the answer, and people at home would have other things to talk about with Christina away. Christina could be happy here.
“Study hard and pray your Papa will let you stay home next year,” Brigetta told Christina in German when they hugged farewell. “I think you will be happy here.”
Instead, Christina was miserable. She hated the school, the lessons, and the other students. At first they tried to be friendly, but Christina's bad handwriting, her inability to figure any kind of sum, or her slow, halting reading soon produced giggles. The girls vied to be among those that managed to draw, write with a fine hand, or produce an exquisite piece of hand embroidery. To Christina, the place was sheer drudgery.
Early in the morning, Christina would slip into the kitchen and beg the staff to let her help. At least here she could be comfortable and listen to the women chat away without making fun of her. She even took to helping them bring in the vegetables from the garden, and later the produce, grain, or poultry from the back of the farmer's wagons. It was the only time she felt less than forsaken. Her pleas to come home in the two letters she wrote to her parents were ignored. Her mother's letters to her were in German, and she could not read them. Brigetta never believed that Christina wasn't able to learn German. Christina began spending every moment she could in the kitchen.
Mrs. Brewster's reports to the Rolfe's were short and to the point. There was an improvement in Miss Rolfe's deportment. She had been able to teach the young lady how to walk properly. She left out the part about banging the heavy stick on the toes if the young lady did not comply. Mrs. Brewster also wrote that she had decided that a stint in the kitchen would help Christina understand the “running” of the household and would include learning menu planning and horticulture. She did not state that Christina was too dense to learn anything else.
Christina was delighted to spend the hours in the kitchen and the garden. It was away from the hated classes where letters and numbers were jumbled, and most of all, away from the snickering girls. One of the farmers that came every morning was pleasant to her and smiled at her. His build was stocky and he looked about the same height as her father. His clothes made him look like what Papa would call a dirt farmer, but he had nice teeth and brown eyes that lit up when he saw her. He refused to let her carry anything heavy, but would talk about how many chickens he had. That Bill Price was almost as old as her father never occurred to her. Something in his shy nature appealed to her and she loved to talk with him. Christina missed her father and her brothers more than her mother, and here was a man she could talk with, who listened to her and made her feel wanted.
“Don't y'all have horses to ride?”
“No, miss, I don't. My horses are working horses.”
His answer puzzled Christina. People rode horses in Texas, but they were used for ranch work.
Price felt he had insulted her. “I'm sorry, miss, but I'm not rich like your folks.”
“Oh, la, who cares about money? Papa keeps it all. And please, call me Christina. Nobody else will.”
They were nearing the door and she opened it for him as he was carrying a wooden cradle of eggs and a pail of milk. He set them inside the delivery porch, picked up the empty egg cradle and empty pail, and went back to the wagon for the box of live chickens. These would be put in the pen and appear on the dinner table throughout the week. As they walked away from the door, their conversation resumed.
“I can't use your first name. It wouldn't be proper.”
Christina pouted. “I don't know why not. I like you, and everyone here calls me Miss Rolfe. Y'all aren't help here. Y'all own your own farm, and I'm so sick of this place. Everybody laughs at me.”
He hefted the crate of chickens and walked toward the pen. “I can't imagine why, Miss Rolfe. If it gets too bad, you let me know. You promise?”
Christina's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, thank you.”
Chapter 26: Escape
Mrs. Brewster allowed Christina to spend more and more time in the kitchen. The girl could not learn, but she could cook and bake, sparing her the expense of another salary. Her December letter to the Rolfe's extolled Christina's homemaking skills. This arrangement was proving quite profitable.
Christina didn't mind. The kitchen was warm and Mrs. Reilly, the cook, let her make biscuits and cookies. Mrs. Reilly would even compliment the results. Christina hated the cold schoolrooms and everyone in them. Her two letters to her parents pleading to come home had not worked. Fall slipped into winter, mild and rainy. Then came the first of December and the ground froze solid. Bill Price came less and less often, only once a week now. She found herself standing on the back stoop waiting to catch sight of his team pulling into the back yard and then running to greet him.
Christina was faced with the fact that she would be here until spring when her mother would arrive to take her home again. It would mean that Christmas would be cold and miserable. There would be no gingerbread, no Nurnberg cookies with almonds, and no spicy zimsternes. In her mind she saw the little star cookies glistening from their tops being brushed with frothy egg whites and her mouth watered. She wouldn't be at home for the Christmas songs and bible readings around Aunt Olga's organ. There was no mother or father to wish her well on Christ's birthday. She did not know if these people would even have a tree. Gradually the idea formed in her mind that Bill Price would be her escape from here. Her father and Uncle Lorenz were too far away. They couldn't catch her this time.
Price thought of her as something untouchable. She was a daughter a wealthy Texan rancher, but he was often lonely; a man that did not drink and tried to live by the principles of his Baptist religion. He had married once when he returned from the War at age 17. His Eleanor and their child had died from scarlet fever and his nights and days had been long and cheerless for fifteen years. The other women in his church were either married or too clever for him and he desperately needed a helpmeet (as God's word called woman). Christina's blue eyes and welcoming smile warmed him. He banished the thought of ever having a strong, young wife like her. She would never accept him.
Two weeks before Christmas, he pulled into the school yard bearing his eggs, milk, and chickens. He had hoped for an order for geese or ducks, but none had been proffered. Christina came running to greet him, her plain, grey muffler flapping on both sides.
“Oh, Mr. Price, this place is just terrible. I won't be allowed to eat Christmas dinner with even the
staff. I'll be the only one here. Everyone else has a relative living here or their homes are close by. I'll be all alone with that horrible, snooty Miss Winthrop, and she only wants soup and bread. Mrs. Brewster is mad at me because I can't learn to spell right and my writing is always wrong. She claims I can't even have soup if I don't turn in three neatly written pages. Can't I just sneak in your wagon and hide?”
“Where would you go? They'll arrest me for kidnapping.” The thought of breaking the law was beyond him.
“Not if we get married. I can cook, and sew, and keep house.”
The man was stunned and stood there in his dirty overalls, heavy Macklin coat, green plaid winter cap pulled over his ears, and high buckled overshoes splashed with farm mud and barnyard muck. His mouth opened and closed a few times.
“Miss Rolfe, I ain't rich like your folks.”
“I don't care. Papa never gives me any money anyway. Oh, please, please…”
She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek and began to sob. “I can't bear it here. I'm so lonely.”
“Miss Rolfe, I must put the eggs up now. You must never talk of this again.” He gave her a quick hug and hurried to the back entrance and stepped inside.
His voice had been gruff, but his face had blushed red. She ran behind the outhouse to watch for him when he returned for the chickens. Price lifted the crate with the chickens, walked to the henhouse, and stepped inside. Christina ran to the back of the wagon, climbed in, and crawled up against the headboard under the wagon seat. This was always his last stop. She knew he never looked in the wagon when he returned. He just set the crate over the sideboards and climbed up into the seat.
Price returned to the wagon, dumped the crate inside, and climbed up into the seat. “Up now, Buster, Molly, gee-up.” The wagon jolted off onto the rutted roads. Christina remained very quiet and very still. She smiled to herself. What a nice surprise she had in store for Bill Price.
