Authors: Homeplace
“Mrs. Fairfax—”
Godamighty! he fumed silently. Esther had promised she would be polite to Harriet’s mother. He didn’t care if she liked the woman or not. Mrs. Fairfax was a guest in their home and should be treated accordingly. His eyes stayed on Ana’s white face. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin so pale it seemed to be transparent. And her amber eyes, almost the color of her hair, were swollen and rimmed with dark circles.
“Come in, Mrs. Fairfax, and meet Mrs. Fields and Mrs. Schmulker. This is Harriet’s mother from Dubuque.”
“How do you do?” Ana said, full-voiced, determined now not to let Esther’s actions intimidate her.
Both women smiled and nodded, then looked at Esther who had gone to the cookstove and was busily stirring something in a black-iron kettle.
“She swears.” Hettie announced in the quiet that followed. “Esther said so.”
Ana colored rapidly. She took a quick intake of breath, her eyes going to Owen of their own accord. He didn’t appear to have heard what Hettie said.
“Esther, get a plate for Mrs. Fairfax.” Owen’s voice was low and firm.
“I can’t leave this now or it will stick to the bottom.”
“I’ll get it,” Ana said. “I don’t expect to be waited on.”
“She ain’t Harriet’s mother, either.” Hettie dropped a cup in the rinse water making a splash. “She’s just a stepmother. It means she married Harriet’s pa.”
Ana was aware that Hettie was a child in a grownup woman’s body. She waited for someone to say something to her. No one did.
“Like Esther married my pa,” Hettie continued. “Esther don’t like her none atall.”
Small fires of anger began to build in Ana. What kind of man was Owen Jamison to allow his wife’s mother to be treated so rudely? She faced him squarely, her eyes a mirror of her feelings. An odd look of strain tightened his features.
“She was going to pull all Esther’s hair out—”
“Hush, Mama!” Lily’s strangled whisper was heard by everyone.
“I ain’t goin’ to hush up and don’t you be a tellin’ me to hush up ’cause you ain’t nothing but a snot-nosed kid and I’m a grownup woman,” Hettie said all in one breath.
Shame-faced, Lily handed Ana a plate still warm from the rinse water.
“Fill your plate,” Owen said. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee and you can eat out on the porch.”
Ana took a helping of ham, a slice of bread and a spoonful of cabbage slaw. The woman named Elsie smiled and silently offered an egg. Ana held out her plate and nodded her thanks. With two cups of coffee in his hands, Owen led the way to the door, held it open with his back and waited for Ana to pass through.
The sun was warm on her face and the air smelled of freshly turned earth. Owen led her to the end of the porch where a table was pushed against the wall. It was much too nice a table to be used on a porch and Ana guessed it had been put there this morning. He set the coffee on the table, went back into the kitchen and returned with a chair. Ana sat down and he sat opposite her on a keg.
“You can see how it is with Hettie. She tells everything she hears and sees.”
“She’s Lily’s mother?”
He nodded. “Don’t mind Esther. She’s upset.”
Taking a sip of her coffee, Ana almost choked. She looked directly into his eyes. “Over Harriet?”
“And other things.”
“You mean me being here. She’ll not have to put up with me for long.” Ana looked into his calm face and something coiled painfully in her chest. “Harriet may have lived if she’d had decent care,” she said tightly. “Your sister is a cruel, hateful woman.”
He was silent for a while, then he said with a sigh, “She doesn’t mean to be. She’s had a hard life.”
Their eyes held. In his she saw intelligence and patience. She wondered what it would take to cause him to lose that patience and put his sister in her place.
In the golden depths of her eyes he saw contempt and anger. He forced himself to observe her with objectivity. Her hair was the stunning color of pale honey. It was coiled and pinned loosely to the back of her head. Wisps like silken threads floated about her face. Her eyes, golden, but just a shade darker than her hair, reflected her every mood. Now they were bright with anger. Her skin was unmarked. It was a delicate pink because she was outraged. She possessed an uncanny beauty of which she seemed to be totally unaware.
“Are you making excuses for your sister’s bad manners, or for her cruelty to Harriet?”
It took Owen a moment to bring his mind back to their conversation. “Both, I guess. Life has made Esther what she is.”
“Life has made me what I am too, Mr. Jamison; but I’d never be rude to a guest in my home or neglect a girl because I didn’t approve of her. I’ve been so hungry that when I did eat, it made me sick. I’ve slept in an open shed when it was below freezing, put paper in my shoes to keep my feet off the hot, paving bricks. When I was eight years old, I was washing rivermen’s clothes to earn enough money so my grandmother and I could eat. Don’t tell me about a hard life. I’ve lived it.”
“Is that why you married Harriet’s father?”
“That is none of your business. I’ve done what I’ve had to do, but it hasn’t made me bitter. Harriet has been in my care since she took her first steps. She was the dearest—” Ana choked and couldn’t go on.
“I’m sorry I asked. Eat your dinner.”
Owen picked up his cup and went to stand at the edge of the porch. Ana placed her fork on her plate and massaged her temples with her fingers. A few days. She would have to stay a few more days. Then she would take little Harry and go back to Dubuque. Somehow she would manage. Her throbbing head reminded her that she had to eat. She would need her strength to get through today and tomorrow. She took a bite of food, chewed slowly, and forced herself to swallow.
When she finished, Owen came back to the table. “Would you like more coffee?”
“I can get it.”
“Sit still.”
She watched him until he reached the door and went in. He was not wearing work clothes today. His dark britches were held up with wide, white suspenders and his white, gray-striped shirt appeared to be freshly ironed. His limp was even more noticeable than it was the day before, causing Ana to wonder if he’d had any rest at all.
She found it harder and harder to believe that Owen was Harriet’s
laughing, dancing
man. But yet it was true. He had readily accepted his responsibility and married her. Counting back nine months, Ana figured Harriet had conceived in September. The baby was full term, there was no doubt about that.
Ana watched the smoke drift from the fire beneath a huge washpot in the yard. Esther was washing her mother’s
precious
sheets. Steam rose from the boiling water; the strong smell of lye soap was in the air. Lily came from the house and poked at the cloth with a large paddle.
Owen returned with the coffee and sat down on the keg.
“Don’t you have chores to do?”
“A couple of the neighbors sent their boys over to help.”
“It’s too bad this is keeping you from your planting,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
“It’ll get done.”
Ana looked up at the clear blue sky that Harriet would never see again, then toward a pasture at the side of the house where two milch cows were grazing contentedly. The cowbell fastened around the neck of one of them tinkled softly. The windmill creaked, the hogs rooted in the pen beside the barn, a chicken wandered up to the edge of the porch, flapped its wings and pecked at something on the ground. Lily carried a bucket of water from the tank beside the windmill and filled a wooden tub.
Life went on.
“The . . . burial box is ready. I’ll set it up in the parlor.”
Ana raised stricken eyes to his.
Burial box.
The words brought reality crushing down on her. She stood as if to run away from the words. The floor porch began to roll and pitch crazily beneath her feet. She sat down quickly and gripped the edge of the table.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am,” she said sharply.
“The box is made of good, seasoned walnut. It needs to be lined with something.”
“I have nothing here of my own to . . . line it.”
“You’ll have whatever you want. I’ll ask one of the women to help you.”
“Mrs. Larson has to go home. She’s the only one I know.”
“There are others.” After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you want a church service or a graveside service?”
“Why are you asking me? You’re her husband.” Ana held her back erect and looked him in the eye.
“I want what . . . Harriet would want, and I don’t know what that is.” The agonized look in her eyes tore at him. It was a mixture of loneliness, grief and desperation.
“What is customary here?”
“The Jamison’s have always had a service here at the house and a short one at the cemetery.”
“Your marriage to Harriet was legal, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“Then Harriet was a Jamison whether your sister considers her one or not.”
“All right. That’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell Esther.”
“Do you need her approval?”
“No. But arrangements will have to be made to accommodate the number of people.”
A huge sigh shook Ana’s entire body. Her hand shook as she picked up her coffee cup. The last twenty-four hours had been the most unbearable of her life. The pain and the pressure seemed endless. She desperately wanted to despise this man that Harriet had loved, but he was trying to be kind. Ana studied his face while he looked toward the open fields. He was sorrowful, but he was not grieving as she was. His was not the gut-wrenching grief of a man who had just lost the woman he loved—his bride of less than a year.
For that she could hate him!
“I’ll have to stay here until it is reasonably safe for the baby to travel. Mrs. Larson seems to have found the right formula to feed him.”
He tensed and stood. “We’ll not speak of that until this is over and things have settled down.”
“I’ve no intention of breaking my promise to Harriet,” Ana said firmly, getting to her feet. She still had to tilt her head back to see his face.
“Nor do I. I promised her that we’d work something out, and we will if you’re reasonable.”
“There is nothing to
work
out except transportation for me and the baby back to Lansing.”
For a long moment, Ana held his gaze with amber eyes as hard as agates. His mouth tightened and an unreadable look came over his face. When it appeared he would say nothing more, Ana stepped off the porch and went down the path toward the outhouse.
* * *
The eulogy was brief. Not much had happened in Harriet’s short life. Reverend Larson had come to the farm the night before and spoken at length with Ana. She stood beside Owen at the gravesite and wept silently while the gathering of the Jamison’s neighbors and relatives sang, “Shall We Gather At The River.” The coffin was lowered while they sang “Nearer My God to Thee.” The faces of the people gathered around the grave were sorrowful, and a few of the women squeezed a tear or two from their eyes; but Ana knew that she was the only true mourner. She felt as if her heart had gone down with the coffin and remained there when the grave was filled in.
After the service, the mourners filed by to shake Owen’s hand and then Ana’s. He had introduced Ana to some of them when, quietly and solemnly, they had arrived at the house in the forenoon. Because there were so many guests, dinner had taken a long time. They ate in the kitchen and on the porch—the men first, then the women and children. After eating, the diners stood and clasped hands while the minister said a prayer. The table was then cleared quickly and set for the next group. Before and after her turn at the table, Ana had sat in the parlor alongside Harriet’s coffin so numb with grief that she neither saw nor heard much that went on around her.
It was early evening by the time they got back to the farm. Ana had ridden in a buggy with Owen to the cemetery behind the wagon carrying Harriet’s coffin. He offered his hand to help her down and she accepted. He looked and acted like a different man from the one who had met her in Lansing. His dark serge suit was old-fashioned, but well cut and fit his large frame perfectly. His black, square-crowned hat was much newer than his suit. Ana had to admit that he was far more mannerly than any of the other family members she had met.
Esther and her family pulled into the yard behind them. Owen went to the buggy to speak to them and Ana went to the house. Mrs. Hanson from a neighboring farm had stayed with the baby; she was in the kitchen putting food on the table. Ana looked at the laden table with dismay. Heavens! Didn’t these people do anything but eat?
“The baby is sleeping like a lamb.”
Ana nodded. The woman was kind, but Ana felt a desperate need to be alone. The cradle had been brought down to the room across from the parlor so that the mourners could see the baby. Ana went there, picked the sleeping child up in her arms, and went up the stairs to her room. After changing from her funeral clothes to a washdress of striped calico, she sat in the rocking chair beside the window and rocked the infant.
Harriet was gone. She had to accept that. Mama, Papa, Granny, Mr. Fairfax, and now Harriet. She was alone except for this precious mite she held in her arms—so tiny, so dependent. Harriet’s son. Somehow Ana couldn’t think of him as being Owen’s son.
She wished with all her heart that she and the baby could leave this place tomorrow. It was an impossible wish. She would have to stay here for at least two weeks, she thought now, trying to think sensibly. The long ride to Lansing would be risky for the baby even two weeks from now. The infant needed clothes. He had practically nothing at all to wear. It occurred to Ana that she could spend this time crocheting booties, a cap and a long warm cloak.
The yarn she had brought with her was the dark yarn she used to knit heavy stockings and caps for the merchant in Dubuque. Besides being dark, it was too coarse and heavy for baby things. If the merchant in White Oak didn’t have yarn, she would unravel and use the white yarn in her shoulder cape. On second thought, she’d not wait. She needed something to keep her hands busy.