“Mrs. Stacy,” she said with a lilt to her voice, “how nice to see you.”
Mrs. Stacy returned the greeting, then turned to Damaris. “This is Damaris Withers. She is new in town. Just got in yesterday. Came in with a train. Had a most impressive letter of reference—and, I might add, has more than lived up to it already. She’s working fer me—but I really don’t need her full time. Can’t really afford to pay her as much as she is worth. You said once thet there are times when you could use some help here. Is that still so?”
Damaris felt the soft gray eyes turn to her. A full smile was on the woman’s lips. Miss Dover reached out a hand and placed it gently on Damaris’s arm.
“Welcome to Dixen, my dear,” she said warmly.
Damaris liked her at once.
“Do you sew?” Miss Dover asked first.
Damaris wished she could honestly have stated that she was very good with a needle and thread—or with one of the machines used for sewing—but she could not. She shook her head slowly, concern showing in her face. “I’ve only mended, ma’am,” she admitted.
“Well, no bother,” said the woman with a pat on the arm she had touched. “I expect that you’ll catch on quickly enough when given the chance.” Then she brightened further. “Besides, mending is more than half of my business. I could sure use someone who knows how to mend.”
“Then it is decided?” asked Mrs. Stacy.
Miss Dover nodded. “Send her over whenever you run out of work,” she said. “I’ll see if I can keep her busy.”
“I was going to try Mr. MacKenzie as well,” went on Mrs. Stacy.
Miss Dover thought about it for a few moments. “That would be wise,” she said at last. “Between the three of us, we should be able to fill her days with duties.”
Damaris wished she didn’t have to extend herself all over town, but she was thankful to be working at all.
“Can you stop for tea?” asked Miss Dover.
“I would love to, but our time is limited and we must hurry if we are to see Mr. MacKenzie.”
The ladies bid each other a good-day, and Mrs. Stacy and Damaris moved on.
It was only a short distance to the large square building that sat at the end of the main street. Two wagons were tied in front of it, and a saddle horse stomped and blew at a nearby post. Damaris could not take her eyes off the lone horse. He reminded her of the horse her pa had back home.
They passed into the dimly lit building. Damaris stood for a few moments allowing her eyes to get used to the darkness. The storekeeper was busy with customers, so Mrs. Stacy passed by the counter and over to the yard goods. She fingered several pieces of material and Damaris thought she saw longing in her eyes.
“My, this is a lovely piece,” she said of a dark brocade. Then her hand moved on to another, “And look at this calico. Isn’t it soft and feminine?”
Damaris had to admit that it was. She was surprised at the good stock of yard goods at such a small, out-of-the-way town.
“People drive in for miles to shop here,” said Mrs. Stacy as though reading Damaris’s mind. “No other town for miles.”
Damaris wished she felt the freedom to let the soft materials slip through her hands, but she remembered her mama scolding and telling her that children were not to touch the store stock.
Damaris moved away from the shelves, more to resist temptation than because she was curious about the rest of the store. She had taken only a few steps when she noticed the shoes. There weren’t many styles to choose from, but Damaris spotted a pair that she would love to own. They looked so soft, so comfortable, and yet so stylish. Damaris pictured them on her own slender feet. But when she looked at the price, her breath caught in her throat. She would never have that much money.
Mrs. Stacy moved forward as soon as the last customer left.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” she began even before she had reached the counter where the man waited. “I’d like you to meet Miss Withers. She has just joined us. Came in on yesterday’s train. She is working part time for me and part time for Miss Dover, but she still has some available hours if you’d like some help now and then here in your store. She has a letter of reference—and I must say it paints a glowing picture of her ambitiousness—which I have found, in one brief day, to be quite true.”
She stopped for a breath, and Mr. MacKenzie looked at Damaris.
“Been to school?” he asked bluntly.
Damaris nodded.
“You’ll need to know yer sums if ya plan to work here.”
Damaris nodded again. She had never had trouble with sums.
“ ’Course you could do sweeping and stockin’ shelves and such. Mrs. MacKenzie never seems to find much time for it anymore.”
“About how many days would you need her?” said Mrs. Stacy.
“Two. Part time. Two—part time—should do. I’ll let you know when I figure it more closely.”
They left for home then, Mrs. Stacy feeling quite good about their outing.
“Well,” she said with satisfaction. “Looks like it will work out just fine. Mr. MacKenzie will take you a couple days—part time—an’ he’ll put your wage on account. You ought to be able to buy some shoes come winter an’ maybe even a piece of yard goods. And Miss Dover will take you a couple days—part time. You’ll sew for her in exchange for a wage. An’ you’ll have your board an’ room with me in exchange for your help there. That should work out just fine.”
Damaris supposed it would. She knew she should be truly thankful, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just been pieced out here and there. She wondered if she would ever have anything at all to say about her own life.
Damaris hadn’t thought much about Christmas until she heard Mrs. Stacy make references to “celebrating” it. The idea frightened Damaris, though she didn’t dare say so. In her mind were vivid memories of how her father had “celebrated” any event that gave him an excuse to drink.
On Christmas Day Damaris worked hard, hoping that if she finished all her chores she would be free to escape to the safety of her own room.
But Mrs. Stacy did not let her go so easily. “Slip into your prettiest dress, Damaris,” she suggested. “Folks will soon be here for our little Christmas celebration.”
Damaris grew weak and pale. She placed a trembling hand on the table for support. Mrs. Stacy noticed, and she watched Damaris a moment with concern on her face.
“What is it?” she asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
“I—I don’t think so,” mumbled Damaris.
Mrs. Stacy placed a hand on the girl’s forehead.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.”
“I—I just feel—” began Damaris.
“Perhaps you should go lie down. I can manage things. If you feel better you may join us later.”
Damaris crept off, relieved to be released from attending the celebration.
Later she heard voices and laughter and even some singing, but she stayed curled in a ball, huddled under her blankets. Her ears were attuned to hear glass breaking, the banging of chairs being overturned, or shouts of anger, but those sounds never came.
And then everything was quiet. Mrs. Stacy came to her room and knocked gently on the door.
“Are you sleeping?” she whispered, opening the door a crack. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Water or cold buttermilk?”
Damaris would have given anything for a glass of cold water, but she licked her dry lips and shook her head.
“I’ll be fine,” she managed.
Mrs. Stacy bid her a Merry Christmas and closed her door.
———
It seemed to Damaris that she was always on the run. She would just be settled into a task at Mrs. Stacy’s when word would come that she was needed at Mr. MacKenzie’s store. Or she would be hanging up the broom at the store and Mr. MacKenzie would say, “You can hustle over to Miss Dover’s now. I won’t need you anymore today.”
She tried to convince herself that she really didn’t mind. That it kept her from boredom. That it acquainted her with the people of the town. That she was young and the exercise did her good. But in spite of all the reasoning she did with herself, Damaris longed for a sense of actually belonging—somewhere.
The little jobs here and there, which often turned into big jobs before the day was over, were slowly paying for the new shoes on her feet and the two new dresses in her closet. Damaris had found it hard to wear her precious dresses for her working duties, so Miss Dover had altered, free of charge, two of her own old ones for Damaris to wear for daily tasks.
Damaris was thankful. She admired her two new dresses and wouldn’t want to soil them—but with working seven days a week, she really had little occasion to wear them.
Her days often stretched from early breakfast preparation to late-night dishes, with many, many errands and tasks in between. Every night Damaris fell into bed so weary that she seldom dreamed about Edgar or ached for his little arms around her neck.
She did not visit as she worked. “A quiet little thing,” Mrs. Stacy would say. And Mr. MacKenzie told his wife, “At least she’s not always yammerin’ at ya.” Only Miss Dover felt concern about her silence and tried to draw her out as they sewed and mended together.
At first Damaris was reluctant to reveal anything about herself—her past, her thoughts, or her feelings—but little by little Miss Dover was able to piece together a few bits of information.
She discovered that Damaris loved to read. Miss Dover also loved to read and possessed a number of books of her own, so she was quick to suggest that Damaris might like to take a book or two home to read in the evening. Damaris could not hide the sudden light that flashed in her brown eyes.
Reading provided an opening for conversation. As Damaris returned each borrowed book, Miss Dover would smile and say, “How did you like it?” or “Who was your favorite character?” or “What did you think about” this happening or that statement?
At first Damaris answered with one or two words, but gradually she was able to express some of her thoughts and feelings about the books.
Before her first winter in the West reluctantly surrendered to a slow but tempestuous spring, Damaris had learned that whenever the words “Run on over to Miss Dover’s” were spoken, her heart beat just a little bit faster. She felt comfortable and yet stimulated in the presence of the older woman.
One May afternoon Damaris ran across the street and entered the door that set the little bell to jingling. Miss Dover looked up from her sewing, her strange little glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Hello,” she said with a smile as she watched Damaris shake the spring rain from her shawl before hanging it on the coat tree. “So you got caught in the rain?”
Damaris smiled in response. “I don’t mind—really. It’s almost fun—like being a kid again.”
Miss Dover laughed at the comment. Damaris was still little more than a kid.
“And how old are you now?” Miss Dover asked kindly.
“Goin’ on sixteen. I had my fifteenth birthday on my way west.”
“Have I ever told you about my trip west?” asked Miss Dover, tucking away the information about Damaris’s age.
Damaris shook her head and seated herself on a stool next to Miss Dover. She reached for the mending basket that held her task for the day.
“It was a long time ago—it seems like eons. I was seventeen at the time—not much older than you. Though my eighteenth birthday was coming close.
“I had met and fallen in love with this wonderful, wonderful man. He had asked me to marry him—and Papa had given his permission. Things looked just wonderful and we had the date all set for a September wedding. And then that spring—just as the leaves were coming out—the leaves that I expected to be turning to gold and red by my wedding day—the army sent him out West. He was an army man—though he planned to settle and go into law as soon as his army days were fulfilled. But my …” Miss Dover stopped her needle and looked off into the distance. She sighed, then smiled at Damaris. “My, he looked handsome in his uniform,” she said without embarrassment.
Damaris felt her own cheeks flush at hearing such an intimate secret.
“Well, he went on west as bidden and I stayed at home. But the closer and closer we got to that September date, the sadder and sadder I felt. Finally my papa said—my mama had already been gone for three years—‘Katherine—we have two alternatives as I see it. We can have you wasting away day by day in your longings for that young man—or we can pack you up and send you west to marry as you had agreed.’ I could have hugged my papa. In fact, I did.
“So it was decided. We wrote letters to Andrew and he arranged everything for my trip. Then I climbed aboard a wagon train that was taking supplies to the fort. I was the only woman in the whole train. At first I felt very uncomfortable—but I kept reminding myself that I was going to Andrew.
“It was a horrible trip. One day would be so hot that you could hardly breathe and the next would pour rain from the skies until the wheels of the wagons would be buried in the mire.
“At last we reached Fort Collins. It was wonderful to see Andrew again. He had lost weight—was very tanned. But he still looked just as handsome in his uniform. We planned our wedding all over again. We knew there would be no lovely church—no gowned attendants—no wedding feast or wedding gifts. But we didn’t care. We had each other.”
She stopped and looked out the nearby window as though picturing the scenes again.
“I met a nice lady who was married to one of the officers. She agreed to attend me, and Andrew had many friends among the army men, and he picked his attendant from among them.”
Miss Dover roused herself in her chair before continuing. “Well, three days before the ceremony Andrew was sent out on patrol—and—well—he never came back.”
Her last words tumbled out on top of one another, and Damaris wondered if she had heard correctly.
“You mean—?” she began.
Miss Dover nodded her head. “He was killed in some skirmish. I—I never asked for details.”
All of the color drained from Damaris’s face. She couldn’t imagine going through such a terrible experience. She stared at the face of the woman before her, her thoughts in a whirl.
“And—and you never went home?” she whispered.