Beauty for Ashes (27 page)

Mary ate a forkful of eggs and wrinkled her nose. “Too much salt.”

“The boys want to go to the race tomorrow,” Carrie said. “But I’m not sure I should leave you here alone.”

“Caleb has been nagging me about it ever since Mr. Rutledge came to supper. And Joe hangs on the man’s every word. He’s very proud of the tiny scar he got from trying to mount that horse. He tells me over and over how Mr. Rutledge carried him to the porch that day.”

“They miss having Henry around.”

“Me too.” Mary’s cup clattered onto her saucer. “Oh, if only I weren’t having this baby, we could all be in Chicago by now.”

“But you wouldn’t trade this child merely for a chance to live in the city?”

Mary dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled a you-don’t-know-anything smile. “Henry told me a thousand times how much you wanted a family. But it isn’t as idyllic as you think. Of course I love your brother and my boys. But sometimes I envy your freedom.”

Freedom? Carrie almost laughed. Wasn’t she tied night and day to this farm and this frail, flighty woman and her children, responsible for their every need? “I suppose it’s natural to imagine that other people have the better situation. But I’d gladly trade whatever freedom you think I have for a husband and children of my own. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”

“Because you’ve been taught to believe it’s what you should want. Personally, I think a woman’s life should be about much more than looking out for a man and a passel of children, though of course it’s very convenient for—”

“Mama?” Joe burst into the room. “Can we go to the race? Did Carrie Daly ask you if we could go?”

Mary sighed and closed her eyes. “We were just discussing it.”

“Oh good. Wait till I tell Caleb.”

Carrie put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just a moment. Your mama hasn’t said yes yet. Why don’t you go feed the chickens. See if there are any eggs today.”

He frowned. “Jumping junebugs. We’ve been talking about it all week. How long does it take to say yes?”

Mary leaned over and squeezed his hand. “Go on, son.”

When Joe ran outside, Mary said, “I think you should take them. They’ve had a lot of bad things happen, losing their real daddy when they were only babies and then Henry leaving so soon. They ought to have some good memories of their childhood.” She set her tray aside, rattling her cup. “And you’re dying to go anyway, to see the magnificent Mr. Rutledge.”

“But we’ll be away all day. Will you be all right?” Carrie picked up Mary’s tray. “I could send word down to Two Creeks, see if Libby Dawson can stay with you.”

“I don’t want a colored girl prowling around in my house.”

“Libby is very reliable. She looked after Wyatt Caldwell’s Aunt Lillian lots of times, and the Dawsons were here for your wedding.”

“Yes, cooking and serving food. That’s different.” Mary sat up, fluffed her pillow, and fell back against it. “What if I had to vomit . . . or worse? What if I needed help getting to the chamber pot?”

In a flash of understanding, Carrie realized Mary Stanhope Bell was more terrified of looking weak, of being beholden, than she was of anything else. That anyone, even Libby Dawson, should see her as less than in total command was more than she could bear. No wonder this pregnancy was such a trial to her. No wonder she bristled so when Carrie didn’t follow her advice or her orders.

“If you can be back before dark, I’m sure I’ll be all right.” Mary gestured to the newspaper that had arrived in last week’s mail. “If I feel up to it, I may catch up on my reading.” She smiled. “It might be rather nice, having a day to myself.”

By the time Carrie rose the next morning, Caleb and Joe were already up and dressed. The wood box in the kitchen was full, as were the water buckets. On the table, three clean plates and three forks waited.

Joe tugged on her arm. “Hurry up, Carrie Daly. Let’s eat some breakfast and get going. I don’t want to miss a minute of Race Day.”

Carrie tied an apron over the dress she’d bought for Henry’s wedding. Griff had seen her in it before, of course, and it was too fancy even for today, but it suited her coppery hair and blue eyes, and she wanted to look her best for him. She sliced the bread she’d baked yesterday, set out jam and cheese, and poured milk for the boys. They downed their food like prisoners at a last meal, but her stomach was so knotted and jumpy she couldn’t swallow a single bite.

She wanted Griff and Majestic to win the race. And she wanted him to stay—but that would take a bona fide miracle.
Please, Lord. If it’s all the same with you, find a way to keep Griff Rutledge in Hickory Ridge
.

She made a tray for Mary, filled a water pitcher, straightened Mary’s coverlet, and emptied the foul-smelling chamber pot. Mary moaned and stirred, her broomstick-thin arms thrown across her face.

When Carrie finished hitching Iris, and the boys were aboard, she went inside to wake her sister-in-law. “We’re leaving now. Is there anything you need?”

Mary grunted and sat up. “Maybe my knitting?”

Carrie handed her the small ball of yellow yarn and her needles. “We’ll be back before dark.”

“Oh, and maybe another glass of milk. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

Suppressing her irritation, Carrie fetched the milk and escaped before Mary could think of other things she needed. She handed Caleb the lunch basket she’d prepared for them, climbed onto the wagon, and picked up the reins. “Well, boys, we’re off.”

“I can’t wait to get to town,” Caleb said. “I’m getting some candy at the mercantile with the dime Mr. Chastain gave me. I’ve been debatin’ all morning, and I still can’t decide between peppermint sticks or sarsaparilla.”

“Caleb made me a darn good slingshot, Carrie Daly,” said Joe, producing it from his pocket. “Last night I run off a possum with it.”

Taking a small, smooth stone from his pocket, he fitted it into the slingshot and drew it taut. The rock sailed across the road and thudded against the fence railing.

Carrie grinned. “That’s a powerful weapon, all right. But you must be careful, Joe. Don’t aim it at anything you don’t intend to hit.”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.” Joe held tightly to the side of the wagon as they left the farm behind and rounded a curve. “Carrie Daly, is your brother ever going to come back home?”

“Of course he is—when your new sister or brother is born. Then I suppose you’ll all be moving to Chicago.”

“I hate Chicago,” Caleb said.

“How do you know? Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I’ve seen pictures. All it is, is a buncha big ol’ buildings. There’s no grass or cows or trees.”

“Their city parks are full of grass and trees,” Carrie told him. “And there’s a big lake for boating. And a train station that’s a hundred times bigger than the one in Hickory Ridge. I think it sounds pretty exciting.”

As they passed the country church, the wagon jostled over a stretch of rutted road, nearly upending their lunch basket. Joe set it to rights.

“I don’t care if they have a million trains,” Caleb said. “They’s no mountains or hollers or fishin’ creeks or nothin’. No sir, I’m stayin’ right here.”

“But we don’t even have a school here,” Joe said. “I want a school. Mama says if we stay here we’ll always be poor as church mice. She says we’ll never become men of quality.”

“Becoming a man of quality has everything to do with character and very little to do with where one lives,” Carrie said. “We have plenty of men of quality right here in Hickory Ridge. Dr. Spencer and Mr. Chastain are two of the finest men I know.”

“And Mr. Rutledge,” Joe said.

Carrie blushed. “Yes. Mr. Rutledge too.”

At last they arrived in town. Wagons, horses, and rigs of all descriptions lined the main road. Crowds of people moved along the sidewalks, admiring the displays in the store windows. A knot of people crowded into Nate’s bookshop. Through the window, Carrie spotted Nate and Rosaleen talking to a customer. She caught Nate’s eye and waved. He smiled and nodded before going back to his customer, but she watched him a moment longer. Had his reservations about his new wife been resolved? She drew up next to a fancy rig and tethered Iris.

“Can I go to the mercantile?” Caleb jumped off the wagon, landing with a thump.

The owner of the rig parked next to her appeared, carrying a tripod and camera. He placed a set of glass plates into the rig and tipped his hat. “Morning, ma’am. That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing. How about a picture of you and your handsome boys? It’d make a nice souvenir.”

He handed her a business card. “George Platt’s the name. Just off the train from Buffalo, New York. Portraits are my specialty.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think—”

“She ain’t our mama,” Joe said. “She’s ain’t no real kin at all.”

Tears sprang to Carrie’s eyes. She thought of Henry, so far from home and most surely lonely for his new life and his new family, which had been sundered almost as soon as it began. She couldn’t really afford a portrait, but . . .

“It’s only a dollar,” the photographer said. “And if you aren’t completely satisfied, your entire fee will be cheerfully refunded.”

Carrie felt her resolve weakening. So what if they had nothing to eat but bacon and beans for an extra week? The sacrifice would be worth it if the photograph served as a peace offering to Henry. A way back into his good graces. “Very well, Mr. Platt.”

“Splendid.” Mr. Platt lined them up next to the wagon, the boys flanking Carrie. He prepared a slide, draped the cloth over the camera, and admonished them not to move. Caleb stood unsmiling and ramrod straight, but Joe looked up at Carrie just as the flash went off.

The photographer handed her a stub of a pencil and a printed form. “Write down your name and address, and I’ll send your photograph as soon as it’s done.” He waved a hand to indicate the crowded street. “Might take awhile. I’ve been busy ever since I got here. Lots of folks in town today.”

“We’re havin’ a horse race,” Joe told him. “Our friend Griff Rutledge is going to win.”

“You don’t say.” Mr. Platt scanned the crowd, looking for his next customer.

Carrie scribbled on the form and paid the man.

“Thank you kindly,” he said, pocketing the form and his fee. “I hope you enjoy the race.”

“Can I go to the mercantile now?” Caleb asked.

Carrie smiled. That dime certainly was burning a hole in the boy’s pocket. “All right. Take Joe with you.”

“Do I have to?”

“Absolutely.”

Caleb jerked a thumb at his brother. “Come on then. But don’t do anything stupid.”

“Meet me outside the bank by noon,” Carrie said. “We want to get a good seat for the race.”

The boys headed for the mercantile. Carrie took her time browsing the shop windows, listening to the conversations going on around her. Race Day had drawn a bigger crowd than she’d expected. Outside the dress shop, Mariah stood chatting with Molly Scott. Carrie waved. Mariah returned the wave briefly and resumed her conversation. Stung, Carrie crossed the street. She spotted Daniel and Deborah Patterson, a large picnic basket between them, making their way to the far end of the street, where Sheriff McCracken supervised a small army of young boys. Shovels flashing, they worked to deposit a thick layer of dirt over the brick street.

“Cover those bricks good and proper, boys.” The sheriff raised his voice to be heard above the sawing of fiddles and the twang of banjoes coming from an impromptu band near the Hickory Ridge Inn. “We can’t have those fancy horses slipping on the bricks and hurting themselves.” He looked up and touched the brim of his hat. “Morning, Miz Daly.”

“Sheriff.”

The train whistle shrieked. Carrie looked around for Griff and Majestic, praying the colt had overcome his fear of the sound. Through the burgeoning crowd, she glimpsed a couple of the other riders leading their horses past the bank to the starting line, even though the race was still two hours away. She pictured Griff off somewhere calming Majestic, preparing him for the race, her excitement muted by the knowledge that after today Griff would have no reason to remain in Hickory Ridge.

Carrie rarely asked God for anything simply because she wanted it. Granny Bell had always said true faith didn’t work that way. People were supposed to pray for the gifts of the spirit—grace, compassion, forgiveness—and usually she did. But now, making her way toward the bank, she couldn’t help herself.
Lord, if it’s all the same to you, give me just a little more time with Griff. A few more moments of happiness
.