by Danni Roan
***
Rupert rubbed the dough from his fingers, clapping them softly to let the floured residue drop in little puffs onto his work bench, and looked up at Prissy where she stood sautéing onions in a pan.
Her curvy figure was eye catching, and her bubbly personality sparkled as she spoke with Martha, who was busy preparing for the evening rush.
They’d been discussing the plans for a harvest celebration and open market. There would even be a dinner and dance.
For a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to hold Priscilla in his arms and twirl her around the dance floor.
Biders Clump had celebrated several weddings since he’d arrived to work at the Grist Mill, but so far he’d resisted the temptation to gather the voluptuous Miss Pris into his arms. He had nothing to offer her but sorrow and shame, and was determined to shield her from his own weakness. Still, sometimes it was nice to imagine the two of them moving to a lively tune in their own little world. For now, he would have to be content with what friendship he could garner.
He rubbed the old spot, once more reflecting on a past best left forgotten.
The sound of children chattering in the dining room made Rupert cringe. No doubt the scarecrow was back for a good meal.
With everything in him he smiled, expecting to see Prissy exit to serve the familiar guest, but instead Lucinda picked up her pencil and pad and move to the front.
It wasn’t that Rupert disliked Willem Druthers; he wanted Prissy to be happy. But his rebellious heart resisted seeing her with someone other than himself.
Surely with a good measure of hope, a dash of perseverance, and a scoop of faith, it would get easier to tame his fickle heart.
Turning back to his work bench, he punched his fist into the already rising dough he’d prepared, then pulled the large ball of goo from its pan, tossing it onto the work bench harder than was necessary.
Martha, Tate Peterson’s sister, raised a brow but didn’t comment as she carried on preparing the evening meal.
Rupert smiled to himself. The woman had been a godsend and was a very competent cook.
It did mean that Prissy spent slightly less time at the Mill, though.
Chapter 12
“Yes Toby, this is exactly what I wanted; sorrel and wild mustard. You did very well.”
Prissy pulled the silver dollar from her pocket, handing it to the boy who was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“How did you know what they were?” She smiled down at him, placing the fragrant herbs in her basket.
“My Pa showed me a long time ago,” Toby said, his voice flat.
“Mine too,” Prissy commented, touching the boy on the shoulder. “He took my sisters and I traipsing through the woods when we were small, showing us all the things we could eat or cook with.”
“That’s what Pa did with me, but Sasha was too little yet before…"
“Are you going to the festival?” Prissy asked, changing the subject.
“Yes, Uncle Willem’s bringing in his onion crop.”
“Would you save a dance for me then?” Prissy smiled, her green eyes full of teasing light.
“Dance! With a girl?” Toby looked at her askance. “I don’t know, how many cooties you think you got?”
Prissy rubbed her nose to cover her smirk. “Who says girls have cooties?” she asked in mock affront.
“Everyone knows girls have cooties, but my friend Billy reckons some girls don’t have so many as others.” Toby’s eyes were serious. “He even considered gettin’ married a while ago, but decided he was too young.”
Toby studied Prissy for a moment longer. “I reckon you’re alright anyway, since I’ve been eatin’ your cookin’ so much. If I was gonna get cooties from you, I’d already a’ got them.”
Prissy barely suppressed the giggle rising from her middle. “Then it’s a date,” she offered, even as her eye caught Rupert helping Bruno load more bread into his buggy.
“I wish Uncle Willem’d find a girl who could cook like you,” Toby said, scuffing his boot in the dust of the road. “All he can make is onion soup.”
Prissy drew her attention away from Rupert, who was chatting with the one-time shepherd and focused on Toby.
“Onion soup?” she queried.
“Yep, that and the bread he buys from the store.” Toby wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes me and Sasha open a can of beans just to change things a bit. Even cold beans is better than onion soup.”
“Is that why you like to come to the Grist Mill?” Prissy asked, her heart warming toward the boy.
“That and all them nice desserts the English fella’ makes,” Toby grinned. “I spend everything you pay me on them treats for me and my sister.”
Prissy outright giggled this time. “Well as long as it goes to a good cause,” she laughed. “Now you’d better get along home before your uncle starts looking for you. Maybe next week you can find me some wild sage.”
“Yes Ma’am!” Toby agreed, turning and dashing off toward home.
Facing the restaurant, Prissy hesitated. She didn’t feel up to putting on a happy face for Rupert right now. It was times like this she missed her father. He always seemed to be there for her, waiting patiently in the background to see what she needed.
She could turn and head into the General Store, perusing the various items the Bentleys kept on the well-stocked shelves. Only a few steps up the street, Prissy could see Polly Esther, sitting quietly on her front porch mending something, and her grin returned. With a jaunty step, she headed for the boarding house.
“Hello, Prissy,” Polly sang out as the young woman approached. “What goodies do you have today?”
Prissy giggled out loud this time. “Herbs,” she finally replied through her mirth. “I was actually hoping you might have a few treats to share.”
Polly grinned, pushing herself from her chair. “I think a nice pot of tea and a few cookies are called for today.”
“How are you, Polly?” Prissy asked politely as she followed her host down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Fair enough. This place is hoppin,’ but so far between us we keep up pretty good.”
“We’re feeding the men from the dig in shifts at dinner time now,” Prissy said, taking the chair Polly Esther offered. “On Sunday we make up a big stew and serve it with bread, and that’s their meal for the day.”
“How’s the new cook working out?” Polly asked as she busied herself putting on the kettle.
“You mean Martha?” Prissy set her basket on the floor and breathed in the heady aroma of the kitchen.
“Yes, Tate’s sister.”
“She’s a godsend,” Prissy admitted with a sigh. “I enjoy the cooking and keeping everyone fed, but three meals a day with barely a break was too much.”
“I’ve got snickerdoodles today. I had a hankerin’ for them,” Polly offered, kindly laying the soft, butter-gold cookies on a plate.
“The arrival of Martha and Lucinda was truly fortuitous,” Prissy smirked, biting into a cinnamon-crusted disk.
Polly’s laughter bubbled as the kettle began to steam. “I know your mother’s glad you got a break. She’s been missing you a bit.”
“She truly is,” Prissy admitted, watching Polly carefully swill the teapot. “I was so relieved when I could stop making breakfast.”
“It’s a good thing that Harlan’s got the time to ferry your mother about these days.” Polly placed the teapot on the table, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Who would have guessed we girls would end up so busy?” Prissy shook her head. “Mother’s been wonderful about the whole thing at the Mill.” She picked up another cookie. “Mother even made me three new dresses just for cooking.”
“Is that one of them?” Polly examined the brown dress with the rather short sleeves.
“Yes, they’re all quite plain and dark.” Prissy nodded. “I have this one, a dark green, and a deep gray. She made the sleeves short because it gets
terribly warm in the kitchen and I just roll up my sleeves anyways.”
Polly smiled. “Maud always has been very practical.” She sipped her tea, her bright blue eyes sparkling.
For a few moments, the two women sat in companionable silence, each enjoying the time to sit and enjoy a sweet treat.
“That young Rupert certainly is busy now,” Polly commented, catching Prissy by surprise.
“He’s been baking two batches of bread a day. It’s a good thing Tate has two large ovens.”
“I have him baking for my guests as well,” Polly admitted, not reacting at all to Prissy’s startled gasp. “I refuse to make that much bread at my age.”
Prissy laughed. “Polly, you’re a clever woman.”
“I do my best. That young man is might handy with a pastry,” Polly added, softly noting the way her guest’s eyes fell.
“Some fellas are just special,” she finished, letting her words fall into the now silent kitchen.
“Did you always know that George was special?” Prissy asked, her voice quiet.
“Yes, though I resisted it for a while.”
Polly’s words caught Prissy by surprise.
“I was seventeen when I met George,” Polly began. “He came to a show I was in.”
“A show?” Prissy leaned forward. She’d never heard how Polly and George had met.
“Yes, a show. My parents had a traveling show and I performed on the stage.”
Polly’s eyes were full of a distant light as she recounted the tale and Prissy felt herself being drawn in.
“We were performing Cymbeline and I was playing Imogen, young and head-strong and in love.”
Polly swirled the tea in her cup, letting it draw her back to that day.
“George was in the audience.” The soft smile on Polly’s face reflected in her eyes. “He was horrid. Heckled, jeered, and even whistled during the whole play.”
“You must have hated him.” Prissy insisted.
“No, he’d managed to get my attention, or at least draw my ire, and when he approached me after the show, I was determined to give him a piece of my mind.”
“And did you?” Prissy found herself sitting up straighter, her tea and cookie forgotten.”
The smile that spread across Polly Esther’s face was sly. “No, I asked him to explain himself. He blushed redder than the drapes in the theatre.”
“George?” Prissy was stunned.
Polly chortled. “George. He stumbled all over himself, sputtering and hawin’.”
“Then what happened?”
“He stood up straight, a gleam in his eye, and told me I was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and that he had needed a way to meet me.”
“Oh, how romantic.” Prissy couldn’t help but be impressed.
“I thought so, too, but I didn’t let him know. I made him chase me around a while before I let him know I’d completely fallen for him.”
“Did you get married right away and settle here in Biders Clump?”
“Oh my, no,” Polly stated firmly. “We married about a year later, George joined the troupe as a stage hand.”
“Once Althea was born, though, we decided we were ready to settle down.”
“Did you miss the stage?”
“Not at all,” Polly said sincerely, “The best act had just begun. Remember my dear, ‘All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.’ Don’t you see?”
Prissy dropped her eyes again. “I’m afraid life isn’t scripted.”
“No, but our lives are written, if we’ll only believe in the author.” Polly laid a hand on Prissy’s hand. “Do you know how an actor enters the stage, my dear?” she finally asked.
Prissy shook her head, feeling all the confusion of the past few months.
“One step at a time,” Polly said, rising.
The clatter of dishes being collected from the table told Prissy her respite had ended and she rose, taking her basket with her.
Chapter 13
“I’m not sure you should be going to the festivities,” Cameron grumbled as he walked slowly at his wife’s side. “Doc said it could be anytime now that the baby’s dropped.”
“Phooey,” Aquila growled. “I’m fine, just huge, ungainly, and out of breath.” She turned her green gaze on her handsome husband. “I’m not missing all the fun.”
“Alright,” Cam grinned, “but promise me you’ll tell me if you get too tired.”
“I promise,” Quil acquiesced, a softness overriding her irritability at how much love and care radiated from the man.
“You need a hair cut again,” she mused, lifting her hand toward his dark locks.
“It can wait and I’m sure Rock won’t mind playing barber again.” He smiled wickedly, thinking back to their wedding day.
“Oh there’s Prissy.” Quil called, waving to catch her sister’s attention. “What’s that she’s pushing?”
“Prissy!” Cam called, hoping his sister-in-law would slow down to accommodate his wife’s waddle.
“Hello,” Prissy called, setting the legs of the small cart she was pushing on the ground and waiting for the couple.
“What do you have there?” Quil asked, studying the contraption.
“It’s a pie cart, or at least that’s what Rupert said. You sell pies from it.”
“What kind of pies?” Cameron leaned forward to inspect the contents.
“Strange ones, if you ask me.” Prissy said wrinkling her nose. “Steak and kidney, liver, and even venison with wild turkey.”
“They’re kind of small for pies, aren’t they?” Quil asked.
“They’re supposed to be, you can buy one and eat it out of your hand, see.” Carefully wrapping a bit of butcher’s paper around a neatly stacked pie, Prissy lifted it and inspected the light, golden crust.
“If you ask me though, no pie should be savory, sweet is what a pie should be.”
“Hello, hello.” Rupert Rutherford caught up with the assembled party. “I see you’ve discovered my pies.” He smiled politely.
“They should be sweet pies.” Prissy said, shaking her head. “Who wants to eat meat pies?”
“The diggers,” Rupert replied. “Since the Mill is closed for the festivities, I thought they might want to purchase a few of these for later, after the main feast.”
“I’d still rather have a sweet pie,” Prissy persisted.
“I’m afraid I have to agree with Priscilla on this one,” AQuila said.
Instead of taking offense, Rupert smiled brightly. “As a matter of fact, I have five different kinds of pie already on the dessert table.” He laughed good naturedly, making the others smile.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll shift this lot to a more convenient spot,” he finished, lifting the handles of the cart and trundling away.
“He’s a strange little man, isn’t’ he?” Quil asked. “Perhaps I’ll put him in a book.”
“Rupert is not strange,” Prissy bristled. “He’s just different.”
“No need to get all defensive,” Quil shot back. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, he’s my friend,” Prissy managed to push the word past her heart, “and besides, he’s English.”
Suppressing a smile, Cameron began guiding Quil toward the church and the grove behind it.
Throughout the afternoon and evening there would be all manner of activities and then a big meal prepared by all the members of the clump.
Harlan Dixon, more generous than usual, had provided a whole steer which had been roasting over an open pit since the night before.
A relative newcomer to Biders Clump, Cam relished the opportunity to strengthen relationships.
“There’s Sara,” Prissy called, pointing in the direction of a tall, red horse with high white socks.
“Rafe must be nearby, then,” Cam offered, guiding the girls toward their sister and her horse, Spice.
He’d been working more closely with his brother-in-law of l
ate and was finding him to be a true friend.
“There you are,” Sara chimed, striding toward them. “Rafe’s just adding Chester to the pony walk.” She grinned.
“He says more kids will want to ride his spotted horse than Ty’s mean old paint pony.” Her green eyes twinkled with mischief, making her sisters laugh.
“What did you bring for the meal?” Prissy asked, always hopeful.
“Not much,” Sara admitted. “Harlan has his crew cook preparing the beef and beans, so I only brought fudge and cake.”
“Fudge,” Prissy sighed with delight. “I can’t wait.”
“There’s Rafe,” Cam said, letting his wife catch her breath as they waited on the sandy-haired cowboy.
“So what have you done so far?” Sara asked, looking at her sisters.
“Nothing yet, though I know the baking competition and best produce judging has all but finished.”
“I’m just looking forward to the dancing,” Rafe spoke up, sliding in beside Sara, wrapping an arm around her, and falling in to step with the family as they moved into the larger crowd.
Pastor Dalton climbed to the top of a make-shift pavilion, signaling that the competition and judging had ended and that meal time was quickly approaching.
Excited chatter bounced around the grove as vegetables, baked goods, quilts, and crafts received awards to the loud applause and friendly cheering of neighbors.
After all awards were given, the portly preacher lifted his voice once more in a prayer of thanks for the bountiful harvest, abundance of friendship, and hope for a peaceful winter. He also blessed the food and called the children in to eat.
“I haven’t had such a pleasant evening in as long as I can remember.” Harlan Dixon said, escorting Maud to the tables where here children were preparing plates.
Maud smiled, pleased at her old friend’s words, and having her daughters with her.
“Perhaps you’ll grant me a dance or two tonight.” Harlan asked, seating her next to Quil.
“Seems like everyone will be dancing but me tonight,” the young woman grumbled.
