Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

Waltzing In Ragtime (25 page)

BOOK: Waltzing In Ragtime

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Farrell left Olana’s side to hitch the horses to the wagon. She’d said her good-byes to everyone, except the two women. And Matthew, of course. He hadn’t returned.

Vita came from the side of the house. She ran to Olana and took her hands. “Wait. Don’t go until I come back.”

Olana nodded. Vita disappeared in the soundless glide of her skirts. Another ten years at finishing school would not give her that much grace. Vita returned with Annie Smithers at her side.

“We’re beholden,” the old woman, prompted by her daughter’s elbow, declared.

“I was glad to earn my keep.”

“We didn’t keep you,” she snapped, then sighed. “Look here, child. You sure you two can’t talk this out between you?”

“Quite sure.”

A small sob erupted from Vita, which touched Olana to a degree she didn’t expect. Annie Smithers continued talking for them both. “We know now we got him spoilt something awful. We don’t know how to fix it. We were counting on your help in that.”

“Spoiled?”

“On account of he’s our only child left, and our heir. His nature’s
good and true — you know that, down in that part of you pure of manners, that part that’s like him.”

“I am nothing like him.”

The old woman’s jawline tightened, like her grandson’s had right before he hit her. But she took in a deep breath that freed her voice of anger.

“If you feel the least affection for us, know this. You’re leaving a parcel of troubles on our hands if you leave us now.”

“The Amadeos understand enough English —”

“It’s your understanding that troubles me, Olana Whittaker.”

“Mama, don’t.” Vita Hart’s voice cut through the tension. She stood between them, offering something. Olana was circled in the women’s cinnamon scent, their soft brown eyes. They put in her hands the folds of Vita’s wondrous cloth, Annie’s sewing. It was the gown she’d worn on the night of the birth. Don’t look at it, Olana told herself.

“Please,” Vita Hart entreated. “It’s the only way we’ll have to touch you. Remember we’re your friends and here, waiting if ever you need us.”

“Got nothing to do with him, you hear?” Annie said. It’s ’mongst the three of us.”

Olana turned to Farrell and the waiting carriage. She didn’t look back.

Matthew Hart watched the friars leave the fields for evening vespers. The older ones ruffled his hair as if he were still fifteen as they put their hoes in his hands. He wanted to follow them into their adobe mission church, and give himself up to a religion of mysteries and obedience. But he needed Olana’s forgiveness first. He hoisted the hoes to his shoulder and headed toward the shed.

“She’s gone. You can come home now.”

He turned to see Farrell. “Gone?”

“I’m just getting back from the train station.”

“I never hit a woman before in my life Farrell, I swear it.”

“You hit her?”

“Didn’t she say?”

“She didn’t say more than two words together at a time, even to the women. But I didn’t like the look about her. What possessed you, Matty?”

“It was like watching someone else do it. I wanted to kill whoever’s hand —”

“Easy, lad. I’m fond of the girl, but you’re not the first man who’s lost his temper with a difficult woman. Some even feel it’s a good thing to give them a regular —”

“I ain’t one of those!”

“No, no, and me either. I’m just saying the urge is human nature, poor blighted souls that we be. I suspect even ladies like Miss Whittaker understand that. I don’t suspect that was all turned her homeward, neither.”

“What?”

“Not used to feeling outnumbered, I think.”

“Outnumbered?”

“By doting women. You’ve got yourself a paradise here my friend. You must know that.”

Matthew turned west, to the open sea. “I know that blizzards and tall trees can be more peaceful company.”

“But you have a family. And a fine woman.”

“I don’t have any woman. I don’t want any woman!”

“Why not, son?”

The evening wind, the vespers, the bell turned Farrell’s voice into his grandfather’s. Under the spell of that voice, he couldn’t lie, even to himself. He drew in a breath that rippled under the strain of the truth. “Because it hurts too much when I lose them.”

“Miss Whittaker is a young, strong woman, Matthew. What makes you think —”

“If I love them, they die.”

“That’s foolish.”

“Hasn’t been.”

“What would your mama, your grandma do under the burden of such thinking?”

“Do?”

“They’d have to disown you.”

“Why?”

“On account of all them pictures on their mantle. All the husbands, fathers, brothers. You’re the last of their men, ain’t you?”

“I … suppose.”

“Well, don’t they worry about you dancing with heiresses and grizzlies all in one season? But nothing keeps them from loving you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You think you’re the only one whose life’s been touched by misfortune? Why those women put up with —”

“Don’t you go badmouthing my family, Farrell!”

“There, you feel something for them, that’s a relief. They’re more than your handmaids.”

“Handmaids? The way they badger me?”

Farrell laughed. “You foolish enough to prefer peace to these women? That being so I’d gladly take your place.”

Matthew Hart slammed the last hoe into its pegged place on the wall, then joined Farrell walking to his grandmother’s farm. In the grove of apricot trees, at almost the spot he’d cuffed Olana, Farrell did something Matthew had never seen him do in the three years he’d known him. He removed his hat when he wasn’t anywhere near inside.

“Matty? I mean it. About taking a place with you here.”

“What?”

“I’d like your permission to court your mother.”

Matthew’s stride broke, and he almost tripped over his own feet. The Irishman stopped, hit his hat against his leg.

“You quit making this so hard on me! I know you got troubles of your own, and my timing’s not the best, but hell, I can’t wait any longer to let that woman know my feelings toward her fine and glorious person.”

Matthew struggled to keep his voice even. “My mother is happier here than I’ve ever seen her. She’s Gran’s only surviving child and partner. And she’s the only mother Possum’s had since she was a baby.”

“I know that. I don’t want to change any of it. I’m not looking to divide your family, son. I’ll even adopt little Possum as my own if that would —”

Matthew cut off his friend’s air before he could utter another syllable.

“Possum’s mine,” he said between his teeth.

Farrell yanked himself free. “You’re telling me you want your peace, your solitude. You can’t have both! Miss Whittaker might decide she does or don’t want that piece of you you’ll part with, but that child needs a daddy! She’s only got herself a seasonal gift-bringer, as I see it.”

Matthew’s arms felt suddenly strange, as if the bones inside them had turned to iron and would not bend. “Get out. You and your two-bit philosophy.”

“That ain’t for you to say, Matty.”

“Goddamn you, Farrell.”

“Maybe he will. But not before I do all I can to make your mama feel some affection back for me. I’ll be going to San Francisco with the Amadeos, see what I can do for them in their fruit business. But I’ll be writing your mama regular. And I’ll be back to check on you and your mood, and hers as well. I aim to wed her, son, with or without your goodwill.”

Farrell scuffed his worn hat against his leg again and placed it on his head. Both men turned toward the lights of the house.

Vita Hart was waiting on the porch. Matthew could see her clearly, even in the settling dusk. There was a smudge of cinders on her cheek. She nodded her thanks to Farrell, then walked to where Matthew felt riveted, quarantined outside the circle of light cast by his grandmother’s house.

“Mama —” he tried, but was startled by the harsh, distant sound of his own voice.

She smiled. “It will keep. Supper’s on, darling.”

“Won’t keep. Mama, I hit her.”

The shock in Vita’s eyes changed to grief. No anger. Where, he wondered, was her anger? “Supper’s on,” she said again.

From his grandmother Matthew got what he was after — punishment. By the woodshed. She’d never struck him. She always waited until he’d chopped enough winter wood to feel good and pummeled by his own effort. Then she yelled.

“You shamed me and this house!”

“I know that.”

“You ain’t fit to carry on the looks, the life of your granddaddy!”

Matthew laid down the ax. “I ain’t him.”

“You’re his heir!”

“But not him. So don’t talk to me like your Georgia friends, woman! I ain’t your outlaw saint come back!”

She looked stung. He had her. Was he winning a battle with his grandmother? He didn’t want to win. He only wanted her to understand. He followed her into the dark shadow of the woodpile, touched her back.

“I won’t bear that burden, Annie. I got plenty enough of my own.”

Matthew’s grandmother sighed. “You didn’t kill Seal Woman, Matthew.”

“Good as did,” he whispered. “Wearing her down until she’d leave the island with me. Thinking I knew what was best for her, for all of us. Not knowing, even on the island …”

“Not knowing what, Matthew?”

“How happy I was. Always was a late bloomer, wasn’t I, Gran?”

She smiled a wan smile. “Excepting for that quick-to-sprout length of you. Which caused its own bit of wreckage some years back. Did you tell your lady about that, Matthew?”

“She ain’t my lady, and opening my mouth at all’s got me in my present state!”

“No. Not your mouth,” she turned away from him, “the back of your hand. You ain’t raised toward such, Matthew. Where’d it come from?”

He saw his mother appear again on the back porch. “Ask her,”
he whispered, surprising himself with his own bitterness. What was he doing? Blaming her for loving his father? Stupid. Unmanly. “Mama?” he called.

She turned. There. Forgiveness had joined the grief in her eyes.

“Is Possum asleep yet?” he asked.

“In bed, but not asleep.” She smiled. “Go on. One more story won’t do her any harm.”

He entered the softly lit home and climbed the stairs. Matthew looked at Possum as she slept on her back, her arms outspread. The moonlight made a shadow dance across her face, her deep copper skin, her blue-black lashes and hair. Had he anything to do with this child’s beauty? Did Seal Woman make her in some way that had nothing to do with him?

The tranquility left Possum’s face suddenly. “All broken!” she cried out, sitting up, then blinking him into focus. “Daddy?”

“Yes. What’s broken?”

“The Dumpty — in the book.”

“Humpty Dumpty?”

“Yes, the round man.”

“Not a man. An egg. An egg with a face painted on.”

“Egg?”

“Sure. Like we break, eat all the time. Like tomorrow, for breakfast.”

“Will you be here then?”

“Yes.”

“Not with the friars? Not with the trees or bears or the Yankee lady?”

He sat beside her on the bed. “We could gather the eggs together, if you’d like.”