Lyn Cote (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

I
n the quiet amber of twilight, Kurt and
Johann stood over the outdoor wash basin, cleaning the supper dishes. As they
worked, Kurt wrestled with a question: Should he and Johann go with Gunther to
the school this evening or not? What did Miss Thurston think of his speaking up
for her after he’d held the opposite view to hers? How would she react toward
him? Would she want an explanation?

When he recalled his speaking in Miss Thurston’s defense at the
meeting, his heart flipped up and down like a hooked fish. He’d tried to
convince himself that he’d spoken up for her, but in reality, he had to admit
that he’d done it because he didn’t want Miss Thurston to leave.

The feelings he had for Miss Thurston brought back memories of
his broken engagement with Brigitte, making him recall the cause of their
breakup. He and Brigitte had been childhood sweethearts. His father’s gambling
had turned her family against him, but she had remained true.

But when his father had lost everything and then taken the easy
way out, the shame had been too great. Like a metal file, the memories scraped
against his peace, shredding it fragment by fragment, leaving him raw and
bleeding.

He was becoming enamored of Miss Thurston, though he knew he
had no business forming any attachment—spoken or unspoken—to a woman so far
above him. Overhead a crow cawed, mocking him.

I must remember who I am here and what I
am now.

But even as he thought this, something chafed at him, something
that wouldn’t let him consider the matter settled. He was a newcomer here, a
foreigner, but this land with all its freedom was loosening the old ways of
thinking in him.

Gunther stepped outside. “Are you done with the dishes?”

Kurt noted with pride and some apprehension how carefully
Gunther was speaking each word. His brother’s motivation could not have been
more transparent—he wanted to be accepted here, wanted to be American. He wanted
to court Amanda Ashford.

Kurt had tried many times to warn Gunther against this distant
hope. But why? Maybe Gunther was young enough to lose his accent, to become
acceptable to the Americans, to win the Ashfords’ approval. What was possible
for Gunther might not be possible for him
.

“Gunther,” Kurt said, his decision made. “I have things to do
this evening. I will not go with you.” Kurt looked down at Johann, denying the
cold loss this brought him. “Will you go to help with little William? Can I
trust you to know what to do?”

Johann stood very straight. “I can take care of William. I know
how to rock him and hold the bottle.” He pulled his wooden horse from his
pocket. “And he likes my horse, too.”

Kurt let the corners of his mouth rise, let his tension ease.
He had two good lads. He looked to Gunther. “You don’t need me there, do
you?”

“No, but I thought you liked to go with me.” Gunther looked
puzzled.

Kurt studied his brother’s face. Had Gunther noticed his
preference for Miss Thurston?

He shrugged as if the matter was of no importance. “I have
worked hard today. I need to sharpen my tools.” He forced himself to sound
convincing. “You are young. It is long walk. You have more energy.”

Gunther still looked puzzled but merely lowered his head as if
bowing to his brother’s decision.

Johann quickly dried the final pan and hurried to Gunther, who
had secured his books on a strap hung over his shoulder and was waiting to
leave. Kurt watched them go down the path. Part of him strained like a horse at
the starting line, strained to follow them. He clamped his lips tight so he
didn’t call out he’d changed his mind.

Instead, he dragged out a chair and began doing what he’d told
Gunther he would do. He began sharpening his tools. The shrill noise of the
small grindstone filled his ears and grated his nerves. He suddenly saw himself
sitting at home in his village using this same grindstone.

Home...

A sorrow he could never voice seized him tightly and twisted
him, as if wringing him. An image he would never be able to banish flashed in
his mind, his father’s lifeless body, hanging in their barn. He rubbed his eyes,
willing the pain away. Would a time come when thinking of home didn’t bring
piercing, wrenching pain?

The answer rushed to him. When he was with Miss Thurston, the
pain was forgotten. Her sweet voice soothed him like no other. The temptation to
be with her was a dangerous one. He must be wary or spoil the delicate balance
of their friendship. And they were friends. If anything he did or said hinted at
courtship, she would withdraw from him. He must watch himself, his words, his
manner when with her. But to deny himself the pleasure of being with her was
impossible.

* * *

“The colonists had no representation, no member in Parliament,”
Gunther explained earnestly, sitting at the table in Ellen’s quarters. “They
believed they shouldn’t have to pay the taxes England demanded.”

Across from him, Ellen tried to keep her mind on Gunther as he
explained taxation without representation. Behind her, Johann knelt by the
cradle, entertaining William with a stream of chatter about the wooden horse.
But neither Gunther nor Johann seemed able to command her complete attention.
Why had Mr. Lang stayed away this evening? She’d been so looking forward to
thanking him properly for what he’d done.

Had she offended him? Did he regret defending her?

Why did his absence bother her?

Mr. Lang’s excuse of being tired and needing to stay home was
perfectly natural and understandable. But now she was forced to confront the
fact that she had begun to look forward to their evenings together.

I cannot allow myself to slip again. I
miss seeing Mr. Lang because we’ve been thrown together so much, that’s
all.

A jumble of emotions rioted within as she calmly asked Gunther,
“And how did England respond to the colonists’ argument?”

“Parliament, the English congress,” Gunther replied with an
eagerness she loved, “said that the colonists had virtual representation, that
Parliament represented all of England and its territories.”

Gunther’s English had improved so much in such a short time.
Though she knew he was not pleased that his accent lingered, his progress lifted
her mood. “Exactly right, Gunther. Do you think that made sense?”

Gunther paused to prepare an answer as her mind went back to
the question of Mr. Lang. Was her disappointment actually about his absence? Or
was it merely that after dealing with children all day, she looked forward to
adult conversation? Of course, she spoke with the Ashfords at supper each
evening, but she didn’t exactly count them as friends.

Mr. Lang is my friend.
A startling
idea.

“No, it didn’t make sense,” Gunther answered finally. “I think
it was just a way to make a good-sounding excuse. I don’t think the men in
Parliament thought much about the colonies. They were so far away.”

As she nodded in agreement, she wondered, could she consider a
man a friend? Single women rarely had men who were friends, not suitors.

But why couldn’t she consider Mr. Lang a friend? Just because
they were both unmarried didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends, did it?

Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, a warning bell
faintly rang. She ignored it.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Martin had come with his pony cart
and fetched Ellen and William so Ellen could help Ophelia with the fall canning.
Ellen had worn her oldest dress and an older apron. Now Ophelia and she were
outside in the quickly warming morning. With a large, long-handled, slotted
spoon in hand, Ophelia was dipping tomatoes into a pot of boiling water and
setting them to cool on the table outside. Ellen was coring the stems and then
slipping the skins off the warm scalded tomatoes and then dropping them into a
large pot in preparation for making catsup.

Several feet away on the wild grass, Johann entertained
William, who lay on a blanket, kicking his feet vigorously. Johann also kept
Ophelia’s cheerful toddler, Nathan, from crawling too far away with the help of
the Steward’s dog. Johann had walked over by himself as planned.

Ellen found herself about to ask her cousin if Mr. Lang would
be coming over, too, but she nipped off the thought. Mr. Lang had his own work
to do.

“I’m so glad you offered to help,” Ophelia repeated, perspiring
as she leaned over the boiling water.

“I can see why you needed me.” Ellen glanced at the bushels of
ripe tomatoes sitting around them. The sight inspired Ellen with a desire to lie
down and nap.

“I know it’s a lot of tomatoes.” Ophelia smiled tartly as she
had when they were girls together and up to some mischief. “But I have a bumper
crop this year and that might have to stretch over two years. One never knows,”
she said airily, “what the next harvest will bring. We might have a drought and
no tomatoes.”

Though grinning, Ellen smothered a sigh. For some reason she
couldn’t identify, her normal zest for life had diminished over the past week.
Everything she did seemed heavy like a chore.

“Ellen, are you all right? You seem down in the dumps.” Ophelia
slid another two tomatoes into the boiling water and watched them closely.

Ellen tilted her head. She could fool everyone but Ophelia.
“You know me too well.”

“I would think you would be happy now that it’s been decided
you can keep William.” Ophelia turned the tomatoes and then scooped one up,
letting water drain through the spoon.

“I would think so, too.” Ellen didn’t look up from the basin in
her lap where the red skins fell. “Sometimes I can’t believe I won. I don’t
know. Maybe it’s the letdown after all the turmoil over my effort to keep
him.”

Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen Mr.
Lang since the meeting,
a voice whispered in her mind.

Ellen ignored it and forged ahead. “Does that make sense?
Perhaps a reaction to all that stress?”

“Perhaps.” Ophelia flexed her shoulders but didn’t look up.
“You never told me why Randolph came north.”

Yellow-and-black finches twittered and flew from branch to
branch, as if gossiping about the two women. “You guessed, didn’t you, that
Alice sent him?”

Ophelia glanced at Ellen, her face twisted with apprehension.
“What did Alice want?”

“Me. She’s expecting and has managed to get such a bad
reputation that no Irish girl will work for her.”

Ophelia made a hissing sound of irritation. “That woman. So you
told him no?”

“Of course I did.” Ellen went on to reveal how Alice had tried
to blackmail her into returning to Galena.

Ophelia was suitably shocked and aggravated. “That woman! Makes
me remember why we would never play with her when we were kids. Spoiled
crybaby.”

Ellen agreed with a nod and then shooed away a fly. “Well, I
haven’t heard anything since from my brother so we’ll just have to wait and
see.”

At that moment, Johann made a neighing sound as he held his
wooden horse above William’s face, and the baby gurgled in excitement. As Ellen
watched the two, her question about Mr. Lang simply slipped right out of her
mouth, as if she had no say in the matter. “Johann, what’s your uncle doing
today?”

“Harvesting corn with Gunther, miss,” Johann called politely
while running after Nathan, who was crawling fast toward the surrounding
forest.

Of course Mr. Lang was harvesting corn—every man and many women
were. She vented her irritation at herself on the tomato in her hand, squeezing
it until it spit seeds up onto her cheek.

Ophelia chuckled and handed her a clean rag. “What’s that? The
tomato’s revenge?” she said.

Grinning ruefully, Ellen wiped her cheek and shook her head,
frustrated at her foolishness. She remembered such foolishness all too well from
when she’d allowed feelings for Holton. She wanted no part of it now.

But the trouble was, it seemed that she no longer had any say
in the matter. Mr. Lang refused to leave her mind.

As the morning wore on, the women continued their work. A few
times the Stewards’ dog rose to its feet and barked. Once it started to head
toward the fields, but halted when Ophelia told him to stay. He whimpered on and
off, staring toward the distant field where Martin was picking corn. Maybe he
just missed his master.

When the first batch of tomatoes was finally simmering outdoors
in a large pot, Ophelia glanced at the sun directly overhead.

“I wonder why Martin hasn’t come for lunch. He knew I’d be
serving a cold meal.” She turned to Johann. “Will you run and tell Mr. Steward
that I’m going to put out our lunch?”

Johann nodded and jogged away, the dog racing after him.

“He’s such a nice boy,” Ophelia said, leaning backward,
stretching her spine.

Ellen tried not to let her mind drift to his uncle, who was
nice, too. She had barely washed her hands and taken off her tomato-smeared
apron when Johann came running back.

“Mrs. Steward! Your husband needs you. He can’t get up!”

Ellen flew to William, and snatched him from the blanket as
Ophelia scooped up Nathan. The two women pelted after Johann toward the farthest
edge of the cornfield.

Martin was lying at the end of a row, flat on his back. A large
muslin bag filled with corn lay beside him, its contents scattered.

Despite the noon-high sun blazing on her shoulders, the sight
of Martin on the ground chilled Ellen.

Ophelia dropped to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong? What
happened?”

Martin panted. “I don’t know. I was picking corn. I heard a
noise and turned too fast, I guess. Something snapped in my back. The pain... I
couldn’t stay on my feet. I fell. I must have lost consciousness. When I came
to, I tried to get up, but I can’t get up by myself, Ophelia.” Fear shuddered in
each of the last few words. “I tried to call out but couldn’t.”