A Hearth in Candlewood

by Delia Parr

  ‘‘No, come in,’’ the woman urged and patted the bed on her other side. ‘‘I’m sorry. I probably should have asked you to come with me in the first place. Do join us.’’

  When Mother Garrett hesitated, Emma added her own invitation and studied the pillowcase again while Aunt Frances showed the images on each side.

  ‘‘I knew you’d do a fine job, but this . . . this is far more than I expected,’’ Mother Garrett said.

  Emma blinked hard. ‘‘You knew about this?’’

  ‘‘Of course I did,’’ she teased. ‘‘Contrary to what some people might think, I can keep a secret as good as the next.’’

  When Emma chuckled, her mother-in-law huffed. ‘‘Maybe I haven’t been very good at keeping secrets in the past, but I am now. I didn’t tell you about this surprise any more than I told you about the trip I made this morning to the General Store to get more thread for Frances, now, did I? That’s because it was a secret, and not keeping secrets is one of the few things I’ve managed to overcome in my later years.’’

  Dropping her gaze, Emma fingered the embroidered image of Hill House on the border of the pillowcase and tucked her own secret about the possibility of losing Hill House deeper in her heart. She was not sure if keeping this secret from both of these two women, as well as the others who depended on her at Hill House, was fair to them or not, but she was positive that adding uncertainty to all of their lives was not right. Not when she had every hope the heir would eventually agree to sell Hill House to Emma. This was a burden she had to carry alone, at least for now.

  ‘‘You’ve also managed to keep your memory as sharp as any woman I know, too,’’ Aunt Frances insisted before she turned her attention to Emma. ‘‘She’s been a great help to me while I was stitching, you know.’’

  Curious to know how, Emma glanced up at her mother-in-law. ‘‘You helped to make this, too?’’

  ‘‘Not with the stitchery. With the designs. But not these. The ones on the bed sheet.’’

  ‘‘Here. I’ll show you,’’ Aunt Frances offered, folded up the pillowcase, and handed it back to Emma to set aside. She smoothed the extra-large hem at the top of the sheet she had already spread on her lap, but before she could turn it around so Emma could see it, there was yet another knock at Emma’s door.

  This time the knock came from the door at the head of the staircase that led down to Emma’s office.

  ‘‘Widow Garrett?’’

  Emma recognized Liesel’s voice and groaned. ‘‘As tiny as she is, I don’t think we can fit another body in here,’’ she whispered. ‘‘You’re back early. Is anything wrong?’’ she said in a louder voice so Liesel could hear her through the closed door.

  ‘‘No, ma’am. I came back early to meet up with Ditty. We’re supposed to go visiting together, but she’s not back yet. There’s a caller at the front door. It’s a Mr. Leonard. He came to see Aunt Frances, but I . . . I asked him to wait in the hall. I was wondering if I should show him to the parlor or to the office since he said he wanted to see you, too.’’

  Emma took Aunt Frances’s hand and realized she had never heard the front bell. ‘‘Is it Mr. Andrew Leonard or his brother, James?’’

  ‘‘That I wouldn’t know,’’ Liesel said. ‘‘Since I never met him, I’m not certain, and I don’t think he told me his first name. He might have, but I . . . I don’t think I heard him.’’ She sounded flustered, even uncertain, which was not like the girl at all.

  Emma turned to the elderly woman. ‘‘If you like, you can meet with your son in the parlor alone, or I can go with you. Or I can meet with him in my office first. It’s entirely up to you.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure what to do. If it’s Andrew, he must be coming back to tell me he’s done what I asked and settled this problem with his brother, and I’d like to see him alone. If it’s not, if James has come, it might be better if you were with me.’’

  Emma squeezed her hand. ‘‘Why don’t I have Liesel show him to the library. I’ll be right next door in my office. If Andrew has come with good news, you can meet with him privately. If it’s James, then you can simply call out and ask me to join you.’’

  When Aunt Frances gave her assent to the plan, Emma smiled. ‘‘Liesel, show Mr. Leonard to the library; then you can wait for Ditty and go visiting like you planned.’’

  While Liesel scampered back down the steps, Mother Garrett stood up. ‘‘I can’t do much to help, I suppose, but I’ll go downstairs with you anyway. There’s plenty to do in the kitchen.’’ She led Aunt Frances out the door to the hallway, while Emma quickly set the bed linens aside, disappointed she would have to wait until later to see the rest of her gift.

  Emma rearranged her skirts and checked her hair in the small hand mirror she kept in the drawer of the table next to her bed. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped from her room and down the back staircase to her office. With one beat, her heart leaped with the joyful hope Andrew had returned with good news. With the next beat, her heart trembled with the dread of facing Aunt Frances’s eldest son.

  Her uncertainty increased with every step she took, and her heart was pounding hard against the wall of her chest by the time she reached the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘‘Be not afraid,’’ she whispered and stepped into her office to wait and to pray.

  For Aunt Frances. For her two sons.

  For peace between them all.

  For the owner of Hill House, that he might agree to let Emma buy this home again.

  And for this to be the last surprise of the day.

  17

  EMMA? WOULD YOU JOIN US, PLEASE?’’

  The walk from the office to the adjoining library was a Ematter of mere feet and gave Emma little time to prepare before she stepped into the library. With one glance at the young man standing next to Aunt Frances with his arm wrapped protectively around her, Emma stopped abruptly.

  ‘‘Come in, come in,’’ Aunt Frances gushed. She had her arm tucked about his waist as if he might suddenly vanish from sight. ‘‘This is my grandson, Harry. He’s James’s second oldest. Harry, this is Widow Garrett.’’

  Emma smiled. ‘‘Oh, your grandson,’’ she managed. Once her brain abandoned her anticipation of seeing a much older man and reconciled the image of this much younger man with Aunt Frances’s words, she was able to relax again. Harry was built tall and sturdy, and he appeared to be in his early twenties, closest in age to her youngest son, Mark. No wonder Liesel had been a little flustered. Dressed for farm work in denim coveralls, he bore a strong resemblance to his father, but his soft blue eyes glistened with the same touch of orneriness as his grandmother’s.

  ‘‘Ma’am? I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this, but me and Thomas had a load to bring in for the afternoon packet boat.’’

  Emma approached him with a smile. ‘‘You’ve grown a bit. I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were in short pants. Is Thomas coming, too?’’

  He grinned. ‘‘He’s lined up behind the other wagons on Canal Street, so I figured I could run on up here and be back again before he unloaded.’’ He urged his grandmother closer to him. ‘‘I had to see my renegade grandmother for myself, just to see how she was faring,’’ he teased.

  Aunt Frances looked up at him. ‘‘I’m missing you. And your brothers,’’ she added before she frowned. ‘‘I gather you didn’t tell your parents you were coming to see me. I hope you don’t get into too much trouble on my account.’’

  He chuckled. ‘‘When I offered to come with Thomas, I was hoping I’d have time to visit you. I wasn’t sure I would, so I didn’t bother mentioning it. I think Mother had her suspicions, though.’’ He stepped back from her, pulled something from his coveralls, and handed it to her. ‘‘Mother slipped this to me before I left,’’ he explained. ‘‘Take a look and see what you think.’’

  Intrigued, Emma stepped a little closer to get a better view.

  Aunt Frances had a round tin the size of a small appl
e resting in the palm of her hand. While she held the base with one hand, Harry lifted the lid. ‘‘Well?’’

  ‘‘Licorice root!’’ she cried, snatched the lid back from him, popped it back onto the tin, and kept a tight hold on her treasure. ‘‘Bless her, she knew,’’ she whispered.

  He hugged her closer and glanced at Emma. ‘‘Other than my grandmother, my mother is the only one at home who will touch licorice root. As soon as I saw it, I knew for sure I was coming up to Hill House. Not that I mentioned it to Thomas.’’

  He laughed again. ‘‘Thomas would have lectured me all the way to town and back again. This way, I only have to hear the half of it.’’

  ‘‘Your father will have more to say when he finds out. I’ve caused enough trouble running away as it is. You shouldn’t be deceiving your father,’’ Aunt Frances warned.

  ‘‘I gotta go. Thomas will be apoplectic if I’m not back by the time he’s unloaded.’’ He planted a kiss on top of her head, set her back, and grinned down at her. ‘‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell Father I was here. But after supper, just in case. And don’t stay away too long— we miss you, too.’’ He looked up at Emma. ‘‘Thanks for letting me visit, Widow Garrett,’’ he said and bounded to the doorway.

  He charged out of the room and into the hallway but returned in two heartbeats to poke his head back inside. Eyes twinkling, he offered them both a wink. ‘‘I’ll be back on Friday,’’ he promised before disappearing again.

  Emma pressed her lips together to keep from chuckling but gave up the effort when Aunt Frances started laughing. ‘‘That boy came into this world twenty-two years ago as quick as a tornado can fell a tree twice as old as I am. He hasn’t let much stop him from doing anything he’s wanted to do ever since.’’

  ‘‘He’s got your sparkle,’’ Emma noted.

  Aunt Frances shook her head. ‘‘That ‘sparkle’ has gotten him sent to bed without his supper so many times, it’s a wonder he’s grown as big as he is. I’m thinking he’s taller than Thomas or Nathan or Paul, although it might be that I haven’t seen my grandsons for a spell.’’

  Longing to be with her own grandchildren, Emma slipped her hand into her pocket and quickly realized she had left her keepsakes under her pillow. The opening of the front door and the sound of female voices announced the return of her guests from their day of shopping. ‘‘I should probably go and help them. They’re bound to have packages that need to be taken upstairs.’’

  ‘‘Would you like to take a piece of licorice root first?’’

  Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘‘I’d hate to see you waste it on someone who doesn’t appreciate it. Mother Garrett favors it, though,’’ she offered and hurried out to the center hallway.

  The front door stood wide open, but the three figures of Mrs. Sewell and her daughters blocked any view of what sort of purchases might be waiting on the porch to be brought inside.

  Mrs. Sewell was the first one to notice Emma approaching. ‘‘What a day, what a day, what a day!’’ she gushed, wearing yet another fine gown made of lavender lawn that had more ruffles on the skirts than all of Emma’s gowns combined.

  Emma braced herself to hear the worst, starting with the walk to the center of town and ending with complaints about the miserable weather.

  Instead, while her daughters finished storing their bonnets on the hat rack, Mrs. Sewell launched into a litany of glorious experiences they had shared on their outing, save for one disappointment she shared with Emma in a whisper. ‘‘I so wanted to expose Madeline and Miriam to some of the finer points of etiquette by dining at the hotel, but the food . . .’’

  When she shivered, every ruffle on her skirts shook. ‘‘I’m afraid after enjoying the meals Mother Garrett has prepared for us, we’ve been spoiled. We barely touched a thing. I know your two girls are off today, but I wonder if you could implore Mother Garrett on our behalf and have her make us a light snack, perhaps something sweet, to help us make do until supper?’’

  ‘‘In truth, I believe she’d be rather pleased to do that for you. Would you like to take your snack on the patio or the dining room?’’

  ‘‘Upstairs in our room would probably be better. That way we could have something to eat while we’re looking over our purchases again.’’ She paused, looked around the hallway, and frowned. ‘‘I thought you might have added a bit of stenciling or a mural to add a bit of interest to the entrance by now. Then again, I suppose you don’t often have itinerant artists travel this far, even with the canal.’’

  Accustomed to Mrs. Sewell’s unsolicited advice, Emma merely smiled. ‘‘No, we don’t. Why don’t I help you take up your things before I see about your snack.’’

  ‘‘Ma’am? Mrs. Sewell?’’

  Emma looked up when she heard Will Adams’ voice, but she could not see past everyone to get him in sight.

  ‘‘He’ll take care of the packages for us,’’ Mrs. Sewell insisted.

  ‘‘Then I’m off to the kitchen to find Mother Garrett,’’ Emma replied and hurried on her way. When she got to the kitchen, the room was empty. No sign of Mother Garrett, Aunt Frances, Reverend Glenn, or even Butter, for that matter.

  She checked the patio. Empty. She went to the gate in the stone wall and scanned down the garden steps to the gazebo. Empty.

  She rolled her eyes, sighed, and returned to the kitchen. She stood very still for a moment and cocked an ear but heard only the muted sounds of her guests’ voices as they chattered their way to their rooms. She grabbed a fresh apron, tied it into place, and tried not to panic.

  Although Emma much preferred to be behind a counter or her desk, she could stand in front of a larder and pull together a mere snack if she had no other options. Since Mother Garrett had seemingly disappeared, Emma had no choice but to make it herself. She scanned the contents of the larder and sighed. Finding nearly a bare supply of foodstuffs, especially when guests were in residence, was as uncommon in Mother Garrett’s larder as discovering a field of daisies poking through a winter snowdrift. To be fair, however, the Sewell family’s healthy appetites did surpass most guests.

  ‘‘I promised Mrs. Sewell a snack, and a snack she shall have,’’ Emma said. Undaunted, she pulled several crocks and tins to the table and set out two trays and some utensils. After unfolding two crisply ironed napkins, she placed one on each of the trays before going into the dining room. She chose two oval china plates from the pieces left by the original owners that Ditty had not broken yet. Before she left, she grabbed the tin of doughnuts stored in the opposite side of the sideboard, nearly knocking over a vase of roses on the top in the process, and returned to the kitchen.

  Rather than stand to do her chore, she took a seat at the table after removing the lid from the tin of doughnuts. Dismayed to find only two crullers sitting in a thick bed of crumbs, she quickly scanned the items she had brought to the table and did the best she could to improvise.

  With scarcely any room to work, she started with the crullers. After slicing the fried dough lengthwise, she layered a thick coating of apple butter on top and cut them into bite-sized pieces she arranged in the center of each oval plate. She set the tin onto the floor to give herself more room, then lined up rows of wafer-thin crackers. She topped half of them with mulberry jam, then set the crock of jam on the seat of the chair next to her. She spread creamy butter on the other half and drizzled honey on top. Inspired, she got up to retrieve a stick of cinnamon and a scraper, dusted cinnamon on top of the butter, too, and stored the scraper in the sink for the time being.

  After setting the cracker tin down next to the empty doughnut tin and the crock of butter next to the jam, she alternated each type of cracker in rows encircling the crullers.

  ‘‘Pretty,’’ she murmured and wiped the sticky residue from her fingertips. There was still room on the plate for more, but she had run clear out of ideas, if not ingredients.

  Inspired yet again, she returned to the dining room and carried the vase of roses back to the kitchen. Sh
e managed to remove enough leaves from the stems to encircle the tidbits she had prepared without pricking herself on the thorns more than once or twice. After snipping off four of the smallest but fullest roses, all white, she placed two at the widest point of each oval and added a pale pink rosebud at the top.

  ‘‘Beautiful!’’

  With a tray in each hand, she left the kitchen to take her efforts to her guests. By the time she had delivered the snacks and headed back down the center staircase to return to the kitchen, she was floating. Despite the challenge, she had outdone herself, and the Sewells’ glowing compliments had lifted her from being self-satisfied to being overjoyed, even though she faced cleaning up the awful mess she had made of Mother Garrett’s kitchen.

  She took but a single step into the kitchen before she rocked to a halt and gasped. What mess she had made was nothing compared to the disaster in front of her.

  ‘‘Butter! Butter, no!’’ she cried. ‘‘Scoot, dog.’’

  He pulled his nose from the crock of mulberry jam sitting on the seat of the chair and plopped down on the floor, upending the doughnut tin, which spewed crumbs as it rolled across the room.

  Sidestepping the crumbs, she picked up the now-empty butter crock from the floor near the cupboard and carried it along with her as she approached the dog. ‘‘Mangy mongrel! Look what you’ve done to Mother Garrett’s kitchen,’’ she grumbled.

  He belched and closed his eyes.

  She glared at him. ‘‘I hope you enjoyed your snack.’’

  He opened his eyes and struggled to his feet.

  When he nudged at her skirts, he touched the one tender spot her annoyance had not reached. ‘‘Poor fella. You must have felt like a puppy again, and here I am yelling at you. I guess I’m not blameless. I left everything where you could reach it.’’

  She glanced around the room and rolled up her sleeves. ‘‘I don’t suppose there’s any real harm done, provided I can clean this up before Mother Garrett gets back. I gather you’re going to be mum about where she is and where Aunt Frances and Reverend Glenn might have disappeared to?’’