Authors: Rose Jenster
He stopped to give a bit of carrot to each of the horses and pet their long faces solemnly. One of the three stable hands asked him a question, and he paused to discuss the matter with the boy as seriously as if another tradesman were speaking to him, an equal instead of a subordinate. She noted the quiet way he listened, the respectful nod of understanding, as well as the way the stable boy looked up at him with awe and almost hero-worship.
Leah stood back, a bit uneasy around horses, but she admired the tidy and efficient set-up of the stable and remarked on the number of wagons and coaches he rented out to others as part of his business. A high-wheeled buggy, painted glossy black, stood in back of the other conveyances, and she walked over to it admiringly, touching its red wheels.
“Want to see the church?” he asked. She nodded.
As they made their way down the next street, she heard a stir of whispers as they passed by. She caught a comment about her dress and how she was “some uppity piece from back East”. Looking down at the new jacket and dress she’d been so proud of, the neat embroidery she’d worked on by the light of the oil lamp the night before, she felt conspicuous, blowsy, and too colorful. She blushed and made no comment.
The church was a whitewashed building with a steeple and an empty bell tower. She was reluctant to mount the steps, feeling as if all eyes were on her.
“We’re raising money for a bell maybe sometime next year,” he said by way of explanation.
“It’s nice.”
“I’ll be by to escort you to church tomorrow. Services are at eight.”
“Thank you.”
Leah vowed to sponge her black traveling dress and wear it to church. It was a plain stout woolen unlikely to cause a stir. She had thought her walking dress so smart, and now she wished she’d never seen it. They parted at the door to the boarding house and she withdrew to her room to read and reflect…and ready her dress for the morrow.
She wore her plain dress without any ornament save her mother’s locket, which she always wore, and arranged her hair in a neat bun. Leah looked sober enough to be a widow instead of a bride, but she hoped she’d be above reproach in her appearance. Henry wore a brown suit, the soft scent of starch in his shirt mingling with the bay rum. He was even handsomer in a suit, and it was hard not to stare at him.
They took a seat on the aisle about halfway up and she busied herself by leafing through the hymnal after she marked the week’s text in her Bible with a ribbon. All around them, she heard the flutter, the bustle of gossip.
“…Rogers finally going to take a wife. Thought sure he was done for after Baker’s daughter left town.”
“This one looks like she puts on airs, dressing like that with the stand-up collar done up with all that braid.”
“Never seen anything like it even in the fashion plates down at the mercantile.”
“…think he’ll marry her, or send her back because she’s so plain?”
At the last whisper, Henry Rogers turned around slowly and fixed a glare on the matron behind them who’d uttered the offending phrase.
“Madam,” he whispered. “As we are all children of the Lord it might be better not to gossip in church.”
There was a gasp of shock and renewed babbling, this time condemning his ill manners.
“Were they under the impression that I can’t hear?” Leah whispered to him
Henry suppressed a laugh of delight. Instead, he covered her hand with his and pressed it. She felt, for the moment at least, that they were in this together. Her heart soared with the memory of his defense of her, the way he had delivered a set-down to the impertinent woman who called her plain. Even if she were plain, he didn’t mind it.
The service was lengthy and the piano was grossly out of tune, but the congregation sang joyously and she joined in. After church was over, Henry introduced her to the Reverend Gibson and his wife. Mrs. Gibson took her aside and complimented her dress.
“We are a bit behind the fashions out on the frontier, I believe. Your high collar is most becoming. I may have to see if I can remake one of my own gowns to have a stand-up neckline like it. Do you sew?”
“I do embroidery fairly well. My mother taught me, and she was a deft hand at fancy work. She was consumptive and passed away before I learnt good plain sewing, though. I have regretted it often in my clumsy mending, I confess,” Leah confided.
“Perhaps you’ll join our quilting circle. We meet at the rectory next door here on Tuesday mornings at ten.”
“I’d love to try. I’ll be happy to learn,” Leah promised.
“I’ll see you then,” Mrs. Gibson said kindly, and introduced her to Becky Quinn, a young bride who had joined the circle just a few weeks ago.
BILLINGS, MONTANA, 1884
Leah wrote to Jane that she had arrived safely and thanked her for the parcel. She described the town and the boarding house but mentioned Henry very little. Their relationship felt fragile as a butterfly just then, precious and delicate, and she feared talking about it lest something go wrong.
At times Henry was the perfect companion of his letters, warm and open, but then a gloom seemed to take hold of him and he became quiet and formal. She wondered why he withdrew, and if he did not trust her. He had taken pains to assure her, in Mrs. Hostleman’s wholesome presence, that he would be a perfect gentleman and safeguard her virtue on their short carriage rides. In the city it would not have been permitted, but out West, since he’d declared his intention to court Leah, it was allowed. She was astounded by this freedom, having never been alone with any man besides her father or her brother.
On Monday evening he took her for a buggy ride out into the countryside so she could enjoy a better view of the river and mountains. When she admired the shiny new buggy, he admitted he had ordered it with a view to taking her driving. Flattered, she asked boldly if she could drive it. Henry passed her the lines and closed his hands over hers to guide her. The horses, a spry pair of bays, sprang forward; he helped her draw back on the reins to slow them, and soon they were trotting along smoothly.
The wind made her cheeks rosy while her smile made her eyes sparkle. Henry had all he could do to keep from kissing her right there in the buggy. If driving the bays made her happy, he’d see to it that she got to drive that buggy every day until the snow flew. He had brought her his copy of Twain’s
Roughing It
to read in hopes that they could talk of it soon. It rested between them on the buggy seat, and he began to resent the book for the space it occupied.
He talked of his business, of how many buckboards he had rented out in the last week and the one he had sold for a profit. He also spoke of the Jane Austen novel he was reading, and found that she shared his low opinion of Marianne Dashwood as an impetuous and thoughtless creature. It was strangely thrilling to talk to someone of his books and business, and have her answer with interest and share ideas. He kissed her hand again. It was the only liberty he would allow himself, and he was taking full advantage of it.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Kiss my hand. It’s very nice, but I never thought I was the sort of girl who got her hand kissed…it’s like something out of a play.”
“I don’t mean it to be a theatrical gesture. To tell you the truth, it’s because it’s the closest thing I can have to a proper kiss until you’re my wife,” he said, looking at her hand as though he were studying it.
“No, it isn’t,” she said, shocked by her own courage.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve come two thousand miles with all my books and tablecloths and I’d like a proper kiss now, please,” she said with a giggle.
Henry looped the reins on the dash to stop the horse and turned on the seat to face her. He looked at her in disbelief for a moment, surprised that she would offer him this favor, that she trusted him this far. He set his hands on her shoulders and then changed his mind. Reaching for her chin, he untied the burgundy ribbon there and her bonnet fell back, no longer shading her face. Blinking at him, Leah smiled encouragingly. He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips and kissed her on the lips. She felt warm and happy, and had to stifle a laugh of pure joy as her arms went around his neck. When she smiled, he nipped at her lips until she gasped in surprise. She had no idea that people kissed like this, that her breath would come so fast and her pulse would race. Henry caught her in his arms and held her as her head fell back over his arm, her mouth ready for his kiss. Henry drew back, remembering himself.
“I’m sorry. I got carried away, Miss Weaver,” he said.
“You can’t call me Miss Weaver after you kissed me like that,” she protested, blushing.
“I took liberties you didn’t intend. Forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll kiss me again,” she said, astounded by her own wantonness.
“I think that’s a bad idea,” he told her with regret. “I’m trying to be a gentleman and I’m not doing a very fine job of it. It would be best if I get you back to Mrs. Hostleman’s now."
He took the reins and turned the buggy around. Shortly, they were back on the good woman’s doorstep, and Henry kissed her hand.
“Now you see why I do this,” he said with a wry smile. She nodded, smiling herself.
Henry lit the oil lamp at home and took up the book of sonnets she had lent him. Reading over it, he set it aside, finding that every line, every word reminded him of Leah. He was reluctant to commit, he knew, because his heart had been broken before. The last time he was so taken with a woman, the last time he allowed himself to dream of a wife and a family, he had been cruelly rejected. It was difficult, even after all these years, to let himself trust any woman.
He held the small cloth-bound book in his big hands and looked at it seriously. This woman had brought poetry back into his life, had given him her friendship and patience. She deserved to know where she stood with him and if she should expect a proposal of marriage. Still, he hesitated. If she were not what she seemed, if, like Melody, she turned out to be a woman who could not respect him, could not truly love him—he wasn’t sure if he would survive a second heartbreak.
He could see himself becoming a bitter, lonesome man who trusted no one, a misanthrope who chased the neighbor kids away from his garden. He had a choice and this one chance. Henry knew he would have to be stronger than his doubts, his fears, if he were to claim this woman for his wife. What good was this life and all he had achieved, without a good woman to share the burdens and joys?
* * *
Leah wrote to Jane, a letter full of her love for Henry and his goodness and honor. She detailed the inn, the stables, even the hunting dog, and told of their buggy ride and the talk of books they shared. She did not mention the kiss but she felt like singing at the memory of it. What would it be like, she wondered, to know she had a whole lifetime of those kisses ahead of her? She asked Jane confidentially for advice. How might she make him comfortable, help him overcome his reserve and seeming hesitation? Was there some womanly way to encourage an engagement without being forward or immodest?
She knew that the decision must be made before the letter even reached her sister-in-law, and any reply would be far too late, but it comforted her to write to Jane. She and Henry had agreed to a three-week trial period to become acquainted. When that time had elapsed, they would have to decide if they had a future together. She both longed for and dreaded that day.
The next morning at the quilting circle, she joined Mrs. Gibson and four other ladies in the tidy sitting room of the rectory. The minister’s wife took out the quilt top they were piecing and each woman fell to work. Leah looked over the pattern and took up some cut pieces. Threading her needle, she made laborious, crooked stitches that were far too wide. Becky Quinn leaned over and helped her remove her row of pitiful efforts, and suggested that she hold her needle differently.
Even with Becky’s help, Leah felt she was hopeless as a quilter. As the talk drifted to a letter from one of the ladies’ married daughters, Leah took her embroidery out of her sewing basket and set to work on some French knots to add dimension to the vivid red and pink geraniums she was crafting on the tablecloth from Jane.
“Oh!” Becky Quinn exclaimed. “That’s so beautiful! Look, Mrs. Gibson. I never saw the like!”
“Truly, Leah, that is lovely handwork. You said your mother taught you some embroidery but I had no idea. Delia, isn’t that exquisite?” Mrs. Gibson addressed Delia Wilford, whose husband owned the dry goods store in town.
“Certainly. I noticed in church, if you’ll forgive the fact that my thoughts were not on higher heavenly things, that you had some embroidery on your reticule. Did you do it yourself?”
“Yes, I netted the purse and also embellished it with the vine pattern. I did a similar trim on my walking dress. I had it made up plain and I added the embroidery myself,” Leah said.
“Do you think a vine embroidery would look nice on this quilt? Just here and here on the pattern?” Delia asked, indicating the area of the quilt block. Leah nodded and began to stitch a simple stem stitch and some couching for texture, with leaves in satin stitch.
“Like so?” she asked. The women all nodded in unison.
“Could you show me how to do that?” Becky asked, and Leah smiled.
“I was a schoolteacher back in Albany. It would be a joy to teach you, and even better to share something my dear mother taught me to do,” Leah said warmly. Becky beamed.
“Are you busy tomorrow?” Becky pressed.
“Tomorrow would be fine. Can you come to Mrs. Hostleman’s? I believe she will let me use her sitting room."
“Yes. I will. Do I need to bring anything special?”
“I have embroidery silks we can use to start with. What about tatting? Do you know how to make lace with thread like that?”
“Make lace? No. Lace comes very dear. I’ve never had any, though I have a cousin who had some on her wedding gown,” Becky said.
“You use a little metal tool called a shuttle and make knots. There’s a knack to it but I’d be glad to show you. It makes a nice lace collar or even lace for cuffs, and it’s better than paying the prices they ask for point lace,” Leah said knowledgeably.