by Delia Parr
‘‘Good. A woman’s entitled to an honest mistake now and then. How was I supposed to know the girl was sensitive to strawberries? Silly twit. She should have said something or turned down eating my dessert instead. She was covered with hives before she even left the table. Catherine has better sense all around.’’
Emma grinned. ‘‘Yes, she does. And as far as Mr. Atkins is concerned, right now I’m only asking for you and Aunt Frances to keep one thing in mind, and I’ll not interfere. Agreed?’’
‘‘I suppose that depends on what it is.’’
Emma cocked a brow.
‘‘Well then, agreed. What is it you want?’’
‘‘Liesel and Ditty are not, I repeat, not to be part of your plans. Aside from the fact that they’re only sixteen and far too young, Liesel is irreplaceable—’’
‘‘Agreed.’’
Emma paused and looked around to make sure they were still alone, then lowered her voice to guarantee she was not overheard. ‘‘And until Ditty ‘grows into her feet,’ as you put it, even thinking about having her work alongside Mr. Atkins in the store would be like . . . like not storing your foodstuffs in the larder—’’
‘‘And not expecting trouble? Even I know Butter better than to do that,’’ Mother Garrett teased.
Reminded of her blunder yesterday, Emma bristled. ‘‘H-how did you know?’’
‘‘I was watching Ditty sort the laundry earlier this morning. I’m not surprised to see most anything staining our aprons, but I couldn’t imagine how mulberry jam stained your skirts. Once I recalled the way the Sewells raved over the snack you’d prepared for them while I was out taking Mr. Atkins a bit to eat, and remembered seeing the empty butter crock Liesel had filled just that morning, I knew something had happened.’’
She smiled, sat back down, and started snapping beans again. ‘‘I’d give you back that land you sold me, just to hear the real tale.’’
‘‘Land you haven’t paid for,’’ Emma countered. ‘‘You still owe me fifty cents.’’
‘‘I put that amount on your account at the General Store just the other day. My offer stands,’’ Mother Garrett teased.
‘‘I’m still not interested,’’ Emma huffed and left by the back door. She rounded the house with the very uncomfortable notion she might indeed need that parcel of land back and quickened her steps. The thought of entertaining Mother Garrett with the details of that disastrous experience was one step toward humility Emma would seek to avoid at all costs. If the heir decided to keep Hill House for himself and she was forced to leave here, however, she would very well be humbled beyond all measure.
————
Emma sat across from Zachary Breckenwith and gazed about his office, which ran front to back along the side of the house he shared with his widowed Aunt Elizabeth. Though spacious, it was nevertheless cramped with hundreds of books left by his predecessor. Journals, newspapers, and legal papers sat in piles that zigzagged the floor and littered the top of his desk; it offered visible evidence of the differences between the two lawyers, since Alexander Breckenwith had been neat and organized to a fault.
Though surrounded by the clutter Zachary Breckenwith called ‘‘the organized chaos of an overburdened attorney,’’ Emma was focused only on the one concern she needed to address with him. ‘‘I stopped by to see if you had had time to register the sale of land to Mother Garrett, amended as we discussed,’’ she began.
Framed by a pair of elaborate but dusty sconces on the wall behind him, he smiled and started rooting through the papers on the floor next to his chair. ‘‘For that, I needed the final signatures. Yes, here’s the paper work,’’ he murmured.
He sat back in his chair, skimmed the paper he held in his hand, and frowned. ‘‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding. I apologize. Jeremy?’’ he bellowed.
The young man charged into the room, skillfully avoided disturbing any of the papers on the floor, and stopped at the side of his mentor’s desk. Emma was far too taken with the color of the man’s bright red hair to notice any other of his features.
‘‘Widow Garrett has come for the paper work you prepared. As I recall, we were going to merely draw up an amendment to the original bill of sale; instead, this is an entirely new agreement.’’
‘‘Yes, sir. I thought that’s what you wanted.’’
Mr. Breckenwith’s frown deepened. ‘‘Where’s the original bill of sale?’’
Jeremy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘‘I . . . I . . . that is, I believe I destroyed it. You’ve been quite adamant about not accumulating any more paper work than necessary lately. There didn’t seem much sense to keep it.’’
Her lawyer glowered at the younger man. ‘‘Not unless one understood that by destroying the paper before a new bill of sale has yet to be executed, the ownership of the land remains in one name instead of another, thereby negating the sale entirely,’’ he countered and tossed the paper onto his desk.
Jeremy blushed. Even the tips of his earlobes turned nearly the same color as his hair.
‘‘Oh, please don’t be upset. This is good news. At least, I think it is,’’ Emma quickly said. ‘‘Tell me if I understood correctly. Because there is no longer an existing bill of sale, the land is still mine. In order for me to sell the land in question, I’ll have to sign the new agreement.’’
‘‘And so will your mother-in-law,’’ Jeremy added. When he received another glower from his mentor, he stepped back in silent surrender.
‘‘I’m afraid he’s right,’’ her lawyer said and promptly dismissed his nephew.
Gladdened by the news she would have the land back without having to tell Mother Garrett the details of her kitchen disaster, if not by the opportunity to witness her lawyer being less than supremely competent and efficient, she smiled. ‘‘I was right. This is good news.’’
‘‘Good?’’ he asked, and his brows knitted together into a single line of frustration. ‘‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about selling the land?’’
‘‘Perhaps.’’
‘‘It’s not in your nature to equivocate, especially in your business affairs,’’ he commented. ‘‘Nevertheless, I’m at your complete disposal. I will personally draw up the papers for whatever you decide to do, but there’ll be no charge. Not after the way this matter has been bungled. If there’s anything I can do to make amends . . .’’
Relishing her superior position in their relationship for once, she smiled. ‘‘I was wondering if I might ask a question.’’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Proceed.’’
‘‘Once a person dies and the heirs receive their inheritances, I believe the will becomes part of the public record. Anyone interested in the will can read it.’’
‘‘Correct. Although if it’s Hughes’s will you want to see, I can save you the trouble. I’ve already read it and confirmed that not only was Spencer the duly named executor, which gave him the legal right to sell Hill House to you, but also that there is indeed only one heir who now has a legal claim to Hill House.’’
‘‘Actually, I have two favors to ask of you, neither of which concerns that particular will. First, I’d like you to hold on to that paper work until I decide whether or not to sell that land.’’
He rooted through the papers to find the one he had tossed to his desk, folded it, and stored it in a desk drawer. ‘‘Second?’’
‘‘I’d like you to find out everything you can about Enoch Leonard’s will,’’ she said firmly.
He tightened his jaw. ‘‘Despite my advice otherwise, I believe you’re venturing well beyond getting overly involved.’’
She grinned, knowing full well he did not approve of her request on one level yet understood on another. ‘‘Yes, I believe I am.’’
————
Emma’s second errand, at the General Store, went nearly as well as her visit to her lawyer.
After posting her correspondence, she handed over the foodst
uffs from Mother Garrett and folded up the canvas bag while Mr. Atkins quickly stored the two containers behind the counter. ‘‘I have something I set aside for your mother-in-law,’’ he whispered, keeping his gaze locked on several customers milling about the store waiting for his assistance. ‘‘Would it be a great imposition to ask you to wait a few moments until I’ve taken care of my customers?’’
‘‘Not at all. I’ll just wander about a bit and see if there’s anything I might recommend to make operating the store a bit easier.’’
‘‘I shouldn’t be long,’’ he insisted and proceeded to the customer waiting at the far end of the counter.
She chose to wait for him at a table display of bolts of fabric. By standing on the side facing the counter, she could watch him interact with the customer, a middle-aged woman Emma did not recognize, and keep watch for arriving customers by checking the small, round mirror she had re-hung for him in the corner of a shelf behind the counter.
He had a demeanor that was both attentive and respectful. Now that he had recovered from his injuries, he moved with an ease that evoked a quiet confidence. Impressed, she wandered from one table to another and noted that he had stored away most of the stock to help reduce the temptation to shoplift. Overall, the store had a neater, more organized appearance, although she wondered if he had had a chance to do anything about clearing the crates and boxes she had seen while walking back to the storage room.
In the far left corner of the store, however, he still had open barrels of coffee and tea, and he had not hung the mirrors she had suggested. She watched as a young boy standing next to a woman she assumed was his mother scooped handfuls of coffee beans and slipped them into a bag his mother had hidden beneath the cape she wore.
Emma turned just a bit and saw Mr. Atkins approach the woman, who then waved him off. ‘‘Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be back for coffee next week,’’ she murmured and ushered her son out the door.
When Mr. Atkins did not protest, she followed him back to the counter. ‘‘You do realize the boy stole coffee for his mother, don’t you?’’
He narrowed his gaze. ‘‘No, I . . . I was busy wrapping up a parcel. I couldn’t really see what they were doing,’’ he admitted, then held up one hand. ‘‘I know, I know. I need to rehang the rest of the mirrors, and I intend to do that, just as soon as I find a free moment.’’
‘‘Would that be before or after you hire someone to help out at the store? Contrary to what Mother Garrett may have in mind, I believe you might find time to hire someone before you’d have the time to find a wife.’’
He blew out a long breath. ‘‘I’m so relieved to have someone take my side. I’ve been holding off your mother-in-law and Widow Leonard as best I can. Choosing a wife is not something I can do right now. I can’t even entertain the notion until I get the General Store operating like I should. I’ve even been too busy to think beyond needing to hire someone, but I’m not certain I trust myself to know whom to hire. You wouldn’t happen to know someone needing a job, would you? Or be willing to help me find someone? I could really use your help.’’
She laughed. ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’
‘‘I’m perfectly serious,’’ he said. ‘‘If I trusted you enough to leave you in my store with the key to my cashbox, why wouldn’t I trust you with finding someone to work for me? I don’t need more than someone who is honest and willing to work hard unloading and loading shipments so I have more time for my customers.’’
‘‘And have more time to sleep and to eat?’’
He smiled. ‘‘That too.’’
She let out a sigh. ‘‘Let me think on it,’’ she said, then suddenly remembered Mr. Cross at the boat landing and meeting his family, including a younger brother who needed work. ‘‘Actually, I may know someone. I’m not sure if he’s found work yet or not—’’
‘‘He’s hired!’’
She laughed. ‘‘You’d make a poor bluffer,’’ she teased.
He cocked his head. ‘‘But a good shopkeeper?’’
‘‘I believe you will,’’ she murmured, and she meant it. ‘‘I believe I have the time right now to see if the young man I have in mind is still looking for work. Unless you have more questions.’’
He ushered her to the door.
Emma made it half a block down the planked sidewalk before he caught up with her and pressed a small package into her hands. ‘‘Tell your mother-in-law this is for her. She mentioned needing one. Oh, and tell Reverend Glenn that if he needs help with the vise to let me know. I can stop by after services on Sunday to lend a hand,’’ he offered and left her standing there on Main Street with two nagging questions.
She could probably guess what was in the parcel for Mother Garrett. From the feel of it, the parcel probably contained some sort of kitchen tool or utensil, and she quickly stored it inside Mother Garrett’s canvas bag. The answer to the second question was far more elusive. What possible use would Reverend Glenn have for a vise?
20
EMMA WALKED ALONG A DIRT ROADWAY on the outskirts of town past a string of small wooden structures, home to a growing number of factory workers and their families. Women were setting out clothes to dry in the sun, while children raced about. A light breeze carried the aroma of dinners simmering inside the tiny homes and the sound of workmen hammering on more new construction somewhere nearby.
In the far distance, mountaintops stretched high into the clouds huddled together across miles of gorgeous blue sky where a brilliant sun hung high, bathing the forests and farmlands with warmth.
As she left the town behind her, she considered how much the landscape of her life had changed. The General Store. Her courtship and marriage. Birthing and raising three children. All were mountains that rested securely on love and her faith in God, which washed the deep valleys of life’s troubles with hope.
In all but a whisper of time, each of those mountains had disappeared into the mists of yesterday, leaving but a path she thought had led her to Hill House, a place where she still hoped she could build the mountains of her future.
With that future now in doubt, she concentrated on the present. Change had also altered the land she passed by to such an extent she had a hard time remembering exactly where Mr. Stengel’s apple orchard had once stood, stretched along this roadway for miles. In her mind’s eye, she could once again see the endless parade of apple trees, their branches bent low this time of year with luscious red fruit.
Whether from goodness of heart or necessity, Mr. Stengel used to tie a ribbon of burlap to the trees closest to the roadway to signal that those trees were open for passersby to plunder at will. She and Jonas used to bring their three boys here every autumn to pick apples, but the boys invariably spent more time climbing and chasing one another from tree to tree than actually picking apples. The rest of the orchard was reserved for Mr. Stengel, and he fiercely protected his bounty each fall from folks too greedy to be satisfied with what he had set aside for them.
She sighed and plodded forward. Mr. Stengel was long gone now. When he finally passed, some years after his wife, his sons had sold out and moved west, but this was well before the Candlewood Canal had been built.
When she heard an empty wagon approach from behind, she stepped back to avoid being engulfed in road dust and turned toward the wagon. With her eyes shaded by her bonnet, she studied the driver, smiled, and waved when he drew near.
A longtime customer at the General Store, Paul March was a bit older than Emma, and his trim beard was as white as the hair on his head. He had bought his farm some years ago and still lived there with his second wife and their several young children. ‘‘Mr. March! Hello!’’
He slowed the wagon as he approached. ‘‘Greetings to you, as well, Widow Garrett. May I offer you a ride?’’
She hesitated, thought about the time it would take to cover the mile or two to the Cross cabin and back again to return to Hill House in time for dinner, and nodded eagerly. ‘
‘Thank you, yes.’’
Once the wagon had completely stopped, she waved for him to remain seated. After putting her reticule and the canvas bag containing the parcel for Mother Garrett on the seat, she turned just a bit for modesty’s sake, hitched up her skirts with one hand, and managed to climb aboard with her dignity still intact. She got herself situated on the plank seat, braced her feet, and held on to it with both hands. ‘‘I’m ready.’’
He chuckled and flicked the reins. ‘‘You’re as spry as you were years back.’’
She laughed. ‘‘Only on a good day. You’re also looking well,’’ she offered.
‘‘Raising three boys, all under the age of ten, will do that for a person. You did the same once.’’
‘‘That was also years back,’’ she teased and held tight as he maneuvered through several deep ruts in the roadway. ‘‘How are Sally and the boys? All well, I hope.’’
He grinned. ‘‘The boys are growing faster than summer hay, and Sally’s teeming again. Come spring, I’m hoping we’ll have that girl she wants.’’
‘‘And if she has a boy?’’
‘‘Then Matthew, Mark, and Luke will have a new brother, John, and we’ll be finished with the Gospels,’’ he teased. ‘‘Where are you headed?’’
‘‘Not far. You remember the old toll collector’s cabin?’’
‘‘Pass it every time I come into town. It’s just ahead, around the bend. There are new folks living there now,’’ he offered.
‘‘The Cross family. I met them a week or two back. They seem to be good people. I thought I’d stop in to see how they were faring.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘The new factories are drawing so many workers, I don’t know half the folks in Candlewood anymore.’’
‘‘Makes me glad there are a good ten miles between me and the town. Any less, and I’d be tempted to sell out like Stan Oliver and move west.’’
