A Hearth in Candlewood

by Delia Parr

  Four unexpected guests arrived—two at a time, but several hours apart—on Saturday morning while the Mitchell sisters trudged back and forth from the terraced gardens to the house. Emma spoke with Ditty’s father when he came to pick up his daughter and had reassured him of closer supervision when he agreed to let the young woman return to work on Sunday evening.

  Sunday itself was a blur. Mother Garrett, who was on her own in the kitchen, needed help serving breakfast. Tidying guests’ rooms rather than stopping to eat kept Emma busy until Sunday services, where she nodded off twice during Reverend Austin’s sermon. Then back to Hill House to more work.

  By the time Liesel and Ditty reappeared Sunday night and Emma took to her bed, she fell asleep listening to the young women in the room next door comparing punishments they had each received from their parents.

  Monday morning, Emma woke up shivering. Overnight, autumn had arrived to chill the air as well as the floorboards, promising an early frost. ‘‘Exactly as Opal and Garnet claimed,’’ she muttered, donning her robe and hurrying across the cold wooden floor to the trunk at the foot of her bed to find her slippers.

  Once she had her slippers on her feet, she knelt, said her morning prayers, and went to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and glanced down at the gardens. The terraced display of roses that had been a glorious feast of color all summer was gone and would not return until late next spring. The bronze roof on the gazebo did not glare under the gentler autumn sun.

  In the seasons ahead, however, nature had other gifts in store for her when she glanced out her bedroom window. A delicate etching of frost on the terraced hill would quickly give way to winter ruffles of snow, and later, a patchwork of budding spring greenery. The gazebo would soon wear a lace cap of frost until winter arrived, covering the roof with a bonnet of snow and adding a necklace of glistening icicles that would last until warm spring breezes melted it all away.

  A knock at her door pulled her from her reverie. Emma tightened the sash on her robe and answered the door that opened into the upstairs hallway. ‘‘Yes, Liesel?’’

  ‘‘Aunt Frances sent me to tell you she’s on her way to the garret and to meet her there so you can find something for her to alter.’’

  ‘‘Already? Oh dear.’’ She paused. It might be easier to try on the trousers without being fully dressed. At this hour, her guests should still be abed and she could slip up to the garret and back again without being noticed. ‘‘Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I wash up and re-braid my hair.’’

  The young woman’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’ She looked about, as if making sure they were alone, and leaned closer. ‘‘Is it true? Are you really going to wear men’s trousers like Miss Opal and Miss Garnet?’’

  Emma’s eyes widened. ‘‘Who told you that?’’

  Liesel grinned. ‘‘Aunt Frances did. She came down early and had breakfast with Ditty and me.’’

  Emma chewed the inside of her cheek. Defying convention might not be the best way to prove she was offering proper guidance to Liesel and Ditty, and she did not dare consider what might happen if the legal owner of Hill House arrived unexpectedly and caught a glimpse of her. ‘‘You must have misunderstood. Aunt Frances is going to help me go through some of the apparel our guests have left behind, but . . .’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t tell a single soul if you did. Ditty wouldn’t, either,’’ she promised and scampered back down the hallway.

  ‘‘You’d be the only two in all of Candlewood who wouldn’t relish telling that tale,’’ Emma grumbled. Mindful of her lawyer’s admonition to avoid scandal and gossip of any kind, she set aside her urge to challenge convention and wondered how she might tell the Mitchell sisters she had changed her mind about wearing trousers.

  With nothing suitable of her own to wear riding, however, she washed up, dressed her hair, and hurried up to the garret. As anxious as she was about getting something appropriate to wear riding, she was just as pleased to have some time alone with Aunt Frances. With all the commotion of the past few days, they had not really discussed James’s visit or the plan that both James and Andrew would be coming to Hill House in two weeks to try to resolve their problem.

  When she reached the garret, Emma saw that the trunk containing the former guests’ possessions lay open. Aunt Frances sat on a crate in front of the trunk and pointed to a wooden box resting along the narrower side, swinging her sewing bag in the process. ‘‘I thought if we had an early start, I’d be sure to have enough time to alter the trousers to fit you, but don’t worry. I waited. I didn’t want to go through the trunk without you.’’

  Emma sat down and rubbed her arms. ‘‘It’s chillier up here than I’d hoped. Maybe we’ll just find something quickly and take it back down to my room where it’s a little warmer. And feel free to take anything that suits your fancy. No one’s ever written to me asking for something they’ve left behind,’’ she added and lifted the old sheet protecting the contents of the trunk.

  Working in tandem, Emma would lift one item from the trunk after another, from women’s and men’s nightclothes to an assortment of mismatched slippers, a lady’s broken hair comb, and several hat pins, and pass it to Aunt Frances to set aside. Half the trunk was empty before Emma lifted out a dark brown cotton gown, unfolded it, and laid it across her lap. The bodice was badly stained, but the skirts were relatively unscathed. ‘‘It’s a bit large for me, but this might do.’’

  Aunt Frances frowned. ‘‘There’s more than enough fabric, but it’s awfully dark, like most of what you wear. Don’t you want to look through the trunk some more to find something else a bit prettier for your trousers?’’

  Emma shook her head. ‘‘I’m happy with the color, but instead of trousers, I was thinking a split skirt might be more appropriate. I’ve seen several women wearing one to ride, including the midwife, Mrs. Sherman, and she’s still held in high regard,’’ she suggested. She explained her concerns about having a proper influence on Liesel and Ditty—keeping to herself her worries about what the legal owner of Hill House might think—and waited to hear her companion’s opinion.

  ‘‘They’ll be disappointed, you know.’’

  ‘‘Who? Liesel and Ditty?’’

  Aunt Frances chuckled. ‘‘Them too, but I was thinking of Opal and Garnet. They’re both quite excited you’ll be wearing trousers like they do.’’

  Emma pursed her lips and hid her own disappointment. ‘‘Maybe we should compromise and make the skirt not so slim as trousers, but not so full as regular skirts. Can you do that?’’

  Aunt Frances smacked her knees with her palms and stood up. ‘‘The sooner we get you fitted, the sooner I can get started.’’

  ‘‘Did you see anything you liked?’’ Emma asked as she handed over the gown.

  Aunt Frances eyed the pile of left-behinds, shook her head, and grabbed her sewing bag. ‘‘Not a thing for me.’’

  Once Emma had shoved everything back into the trunk, she shut the lid and followed Aunt Frances back down the steps. Once they were both in Emma’s room, Aunt Frances went straight to task. Though gnarled and sprinkled with age spots, her fingers were sure. With a few quick snips of her scissors, she had the bodice separated from the skirts and set it aside. With more than a few careful snips, she had opened one of the side hems on the skirts. ‘‘Slip off that robe and let me fit this to you,’’ she suggested.

  Emma removed her robe and laid it on the bed next to where Aunt Frances was sitting.

  ‘‘Stand right in front of me. That’s it,’’ she crooned and worked one end of the fabric around Emma’s hips to the other side and handed both ends to Emma. ‘‘Just hold on to that for a moment,’’ she offered and reached into her sewing bag for a pincushion that looked older than the woman herself.

  ‘‘I’m so pleased you’ve a gift for sewing,’’ Emma murmured. ‘‘If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have the job done before next summer.’’

  Aunt Frances chuckled and
set pins in a row at Emma’s still-trim waist. ‘‘My mother used to say I was born with a silver needle in my fingers rather than a silver spoon in my mouth. In my much younger days, I was hoping to have a daughter so I could make her pretty things to wear, even teach her to sew and embroider.’’ She paused and patted Emma’s thigh. ‘‘Turn a bit. Perfect. Naturally, I had boys. First James, and then Andrew,’’ she continued. ‘‘Later, in my younger days, I was hoping to have a granddaughter. It’s a pity Andrew and Nora haven’t been blessed with children, but James and Sarah have given me four good grandsons. Now at least I’ve got Liesel and Ditty to teach to embroider.’’

  Emma tried not to think about all she was missing by having her grandchildren live so far away, looked down at the skirt pinned in place, and wrinkled her nose. ‘‘It looks awfully full.’’

  ‘‘I’m not close to being finished,’’ Aunt Frances argued and removed several pins to let the fabric fall to the floor.

  Emma managed to step out of the fabric without pricking herself on a pin and slipped back into her robe. ‘‘We haven’t really spoken together privately since James’s visit. He seemed willing enough to settle the problem,’’ she ventured before picking up the fabric and handing it very carefully to Aunt Frances.

  ‘‘James said he was willing to sit down and listen,’’ the older woman cautioned. ‘‘I’m not holding out much hope beyond that, assuming Andrew even agrees to come here.’’

  Emma sat down on the bed next to Aunt Frances. ‘‘James said he might consider selling out in a few years. If that’s true, and if Andrew can make his case, why wouldn’t James sell out now, especially if it means that much to Andrew and keeping peace? Or if James can make his case about holding on to the land or convinces Andrew not to sell the land they own together, why wouldn’t Andrew simply try to find another buyer for just his land?’’

  ‘‘Because James and Andrew . . .’’ She paused and looked up at Emma. ‘‘You have three sons, don’t you?’’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘‘All alike, are they?’’

  Emma snorted. ‘‘Hardly.’’

  ‘‘If you had to describe each of them in, say, three or four words, the way I described James and Andrew to you the other day, could you?’’

  ‘‘I suppose.’’

  Aunt Frances nudged Emma with her elbow. ‘‘Try. Just to satisfy an old lady’s curiosity. Try, starting with the oldest and ending with the youngest.’’

  Emma moistened her lips. ‘‘Warren is steady and reliable, like his father. Benjamin is, too, but he needs adventure and constant challenges to keep him happy. Mark . . . Mark is a quiet, reflective young man who prefers the books he sells in his store to most anything else, other than his family, of course.’’

  ‘‘I’d say that took you all of a minute. Maybe less.’’

  ‘‘They’re my sons!’’ Emma argued.

  ‘‘Exactly my point. You know them better than anyone in this world, don’t you? Their good qualities as well as their faults.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  Aunt Frances smiled. ‘‘I know my boys, too. Andrew will come here and plead his case—hard. James will listen, if only to please me, but he won’t change his mind. James and Andrew have been playing tug-of-war all their lives. As the oldest, James has always had the advantage, and Andrew has spent his whole life trying to catch up to his brother, which in turn makes James try all the harder to do even better.’’

  She sighed and shook her head. ‘‘If James helped his father put up twenty feet of fence, Andrew had to help put up thirty. If James brought home a deer from hunting, Andrew would stay out until he either had a bigger deer or two of them. And on and on. I couldn’t stop them while they were growing up any more than I seem to be able to stop them now. If James plants four acres of corn, Andrew plants six and hires men to help him. If James buys a pair of mules, Andrew buys horses.

  ‘‘At this point in time, James has three times the rope his brother has in their foolish game, and Andrew’s yanking hard on the little he has left. It’s not just about the land. Not anymore. It’s about settling their ridiculous battle over which one of them is the better man, the smarter man, the more successful man, once and for all. I’ve talked about it at length with Opal and Garnet. Maybe because they’re twins, they understand what I mean better than most people.’’

  She folded her hands together. ‘‘I keep praying those two boys will make peace, but I’m also praying for the grace to accept that they maybe never will, even if you try to help. In the end, I truly believe God will do what’s best for all of us.’’

  Surprised by the acceptance evident in the elderly widow’s words, Emma laid one hand atop the other woman’s. ‘‘If there’s one thing that might encourage James not just to listen but to actually consider doing what Andrew wants and sell the land, what would that be?’’ she asked, desperate for some hint to guide her as the referee.

  ‘‘Winning. Being right and winning the argument.’’

  ‘‘And what about Andrew?’’

  ‘‘The same. Being right and winning.’’

  ‘‘Then if they don’t settle their differences on their own, I’ll try to find a way for that to happen,’’ Emma promised and prayed that she might do just that long before the owner of Hill House arrived, putting all of their futures in jeopardy.

  26

  AS MOST ADULTS COME TO REALIZE later rather than sooner, life can have a perverse notion of justice and a quirky sense of humor, especially when it comes to doing what is right.

  With Liesel and Ditty confined to Hill House indefinitely, the easy way to get errands done on Monday would have been to rescind that part of their punishment. Turning Mother Garrett and Aunt Frances loose on Main Street together was not an option, any more than asking Reverend Glenn to attempt such a long walk. Instead, while Opal and Garnet finished the last of their gardening, Emma hiked to town to do the errands, something she could have done after seeing her guests off on the morning packet if she had thought of it. Since she was alone, however, she bought some small gifts as a surprise for everyone back at Hill House and finished the errands at the same time.

  Emma trudged down Main Street on her way back to Hill House in late afternoon. Thoroughly convinced she had punished herself along with Liesel and Ditty—not an uncommon feeling she had while raising her boys—she tried to keep Reverend Glenn’s advice in mind: the easy way was not usually the right way.

  When she reached the end of the planked sidewalk in front of the businesses, she descended the steps and stopped at the bottom to shift the bags she carried from one hand to the other. As she did, Sheriff North crossed from the other side of the roadway, and he headed straight toward her.

  Her heart leaped against the wall of her chest and pounded with fear that yet another disaster had taken place. She tightened her hold on her bags.

  When he approached her, he tipped his hat. ‘‘I’m heading your way. Let me carry those bags for you.’’

  ‘‘My way? You were coming to see me?’’ she managed.

  He chuckled and eased the bags from her hands. ‘‘Don’t get all flustered. I’m only heading up Main Street a ways; then I’m afraid you’ll have to manage these on your own. There was a bit of a problem at Mr. Henderson’s yesterday, and I promised him I’d stop back today.’’

  She sighed with relief. ‘‘You weren’t going to Hill House?’’

  ‘‘Not this time,’’ he noted with a decided twinkle in his eyes before they started walking along the side of the roadway.

  ‘‘I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .’’

  ‘‘There’s no need to apologize. When most folks see me coming, unless they’ve sent for me, they usually think I’m about to deliver bad news. I’ve gotten accustomed to it over the past few years, but I must admit I never thought much about it before I got elected.’’

  ‘‘I don’t suppose I would have, either,’’ she admitted and increased her pace a bit to keep up with him. �
��‘I hope the problem at the Hendersons’ isn’t serious.’’ Although anxious to change the topic of their conversation away from her erroneous assumption, she was just a tad curious as to what type of problem Mr. Henderson would be having that required the sheriff ’s attention this time.

  A pompous, fussy man by nature, Mr. Henderson’s duties as the local tax collector did little to make him the most beloved man in town any more than the ridiculously ornate carriage he used every Sunday—to travel less than a mile from his home on Palmer Avenue to attend services, no less—created envy in anyone who noticed.

  When the sheriff glanced down at her, he was smiling and his dark eyes were twinkling again. ‘‘You heard about the chicken episode the other day?’’

  She caught a grin. ‘‘Actually, I got to Main Street right after the wagon overturned.’’

  He tried to assume a serious expression but failed to extinguish the humor in his eyes. ‘‘Apparently, some of the chickens that escaped decided to roost in Mr. Henderson’s shed.’’

  Her eyes widened so much her lashes touched her brows. ‘‘Not the shed where he keeps his carriage!’’

  He laughed. ‘‘As far as I could see, he’s only got one shed, and that carriage of his with the pale blue velvet seats is what the chickens claimed as home. Between the droppings and the feathers and the eggs, the upholstery is ruined.’’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth to hold in bubbles of laughter but lost the battle. ‘‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny. . . .’’

  He laughed with her. ‘‘The poor man is threatening to sue everyone involved: Mr. Schindhaus, the worker at the piano factory, Mr. Caulfield—he’s the man who was shipping the chickens—the drivers of both wagons . . . Fortunately, Mr. Breckenwith is up to the county seat on some legal business.’’

  ‘‘So I heard. I stopped to see him just a bit ago, hoping to invite him to dinner with some of my guests,’’ she said but did not share her hope that the lawyer was gone to research Enoch Leonard’s will on her behalf. ‘‘Maybe by the time Mr. Breckenwith gets back, Mr. Henderson might have a change of heart.’’