[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek (36 page)

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Authors: Jan Watson

“Here’s a fine one for Daniel to add to his collection. The tip’s not broke or nothing.”
With a hand up from Dr. Corbett, Willy mounted Pard and they headed back. The slow motion of the horse soon lulled Willy to sleep, and he slumped over the saddle horn. Dr. Corbett stopped Pard by a little copse of trees. Coming around to Copper’s side, he took her hand once more. “Laura Grace . . .”
“Dr. Corbett?” she said, staring at her feet.
“Please call me Simon.”
Carefully, she raised her eyes, staring at a spot just over his shoulder. “All right, if you want me to, Simon.” She could hear the beat of her heart in her ears. “You have a beautiful name.”
“As do you, Laura Grace.”
“Most folks call me Copper,” she replied shyly, unwilling to tell him how much she disliked the prissy Laura Grace.
“A nickname for a girl, but Laura Grace is a woman’s name. Would you look at me?” he asked, his voice husky.
“I . . .” She dropped her eyes again. Pulling her hand away, she smoothed the front of her dress.
He leaned forward so they breathed the same air. “Are you afraid of me?”
Pard shook his head, jangling the reins, and Willy stirred.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I think I am.”
He tipped her chin so she had to see that fearsome look again. What did it mean? His eyes seemed to pull her in, as if that look was all there was in the world.
He only brushed her cheek with his thumb, but it was enough. She felt she’d lived the whole of her life for just that touch.
The sun was going down, the whip-poor-wills tuned up along the creek, and a dove sent out a mournful call. “Mam will be looking for us,” Copper said and started forward, her hand resting against Willy in the saddle, and then, “Simon.” His name felt good upon her tongue.
CHAPTER 24
 
Saturday came, and with it Dr. Corbett. He was early enough to take breakfast with the family before disappearing into the woods with Daddy and Willy. Daniel was content to stay behind and supervise the pie baking. Copper gave him the leftover dough, and he rolled out small crusts to fill for himself and Willy.
The kitchen was a mess, but finally Copper put her chocolate pie on the windowsill alongside Mam’s lemon meringue. Her mouth watered at the sight as she cleaned up the kitchen. When she’d wiped up the last spill and scrubbed the last dish, Copper hung up her chocolate-stained apron and pulled her dress off. “Can you help me with my hair?” she called out the screen door to Mam.
As Copper bent over the outdoor wash bench, Mam poured a kettle of rainwater over her head. “Is that warm enough?” Mam asked.
“It’s just right,” she spluttered as water streamed over her face and shoulders. She shampooed with a bar of Mam’s fine-milled rose soap, then gasped when Mam dumped a finishing rinse of cold water laced with vinegar on her hair to bring out the shine.
Finished, she sat on the porch floor, her petticoat pulled down over her knees, while Mam tugged a wide-toothed comb through her tangles. Daniel played scout, watching the woods and the road, ready to sound a warning if any man appeared.
Sitting in a spot of sun, she waited for her hair to dry. Her mind wandered back to the creek bank and the touch of Simon’s thumb against her face. Why had his touch felt so different from John’s?
John!
His open, honest face swam before her eyes. There was no mystery there. In her mind, he looked at her accusingly.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I haven’t even done anything to feel sorry for.
Things were sure getting complicated.
Mam fashioned Copper’s dried hair into a twist secured with pins and then pulled finger curls loose to frame her face. “Why, Daughter,” she said, “you’re every bit as pretty as the ladies in the fashion magazine I got in the mail last week. Now I have a small surprise.”
Copper followed her into the bedroom, where Mam pulled a dress from the walnut chiffonier. “This was your mother’s,” she said gently. “I’ve saved it all these years, and I’ve altered it to fit the fashion. You can wear it to the pie supper tonight.”
Copper sank down on the bed, the apple green linen dress draped across her lap. “My mother’s?” she asked, shocked. It was unbelievable to think her mother’s dress had lain tucked away in the wardrobe for years, and she never knew. “You mean your dress, Mam?”
“No, Laura Grace. This was Julie’s.” Mam sat down beside her with a faraway look in her eyes as she fingered the sleeve of the dress. “My mother—your grandmother—had it made for Julie to wear to a luncheon on the day of her debutante’s ball.” Mam’s hand fell away. “Unfortunately, mother fell ill and died,” she said sadly, “and we were in mourning when the time came, so Julie never got to be presented to society. I had thought you might wear this when we toured boarding schools but since—”
“Let’s not talk about that now.” Copper stood abruptly and held the dress in front of her, staring at her reflection in the wavy full-length mirror of the chiffonier. “Why do you never talk about her?” Laying the dress across the bed, she turned to confront Mam. “Why have you never told me about my mother?”
“The time just never seemed right, Laura Grace. It’s all so very sad. . . .” She grimaced and put her fingers to her temples in a gesture Copper found all too familiar.
“It’s all right, Mam. Do you need some headache powders?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just . . . here,” Mam offered, as she pulled a pasteboard box from deep within the chiffonier. “I ordered these for you to wear with the dress.”
The top fell away and revealed a pair of black patent-leather pumps. “Forevermore!” Copper exclaimed. “There’re no buttons or laces. How do you keep such flimsy slippers on?”
“Try them,” Mam replied.
Copper wiped her bare feet on the faded Turkish rug, then shoved them into the shoes. This was not right. She didn’t like the way the pumps left the tops of her feet sticking out, and her ankles wobbled dangerously when she walked. “Mam—” Suddenly she was overwhelmed: first her mother’s dress and now high-heeled shoes! Her mind was a swirl of conflicting emotions, and her throat filled with tears. “I can’t wear these.”
“You sound hoarse, and your face is flushed.” Mam placed her cool palm on Copper’s forehead. “I hope you’re not getting the quinsy. Maybe I should get the tonic.” She was out of the room in a flash and back with a small brown bottle and a silver tablespoon before Copper could find a place to hide.
Copper shuddered just thinking about the nasty stuff. “I’m not sick, Mam.”
Mam pinched Copper’s nose. “Better safe than sorry. Open up.”
Copper gagged as a vile concoction of red pepper, vinegar, salt, and pulverized alum slid down her throat. She wheezed and coughed and clomped around in the hateful shoes. “Ouch,” she squeaked, her throat on fire. “These don’t fit, Mam.”
“They will when you have stockings on,” Mam said, setting the bottle on the dresser and casting a critical eye over Copper. “Walk lightly—you’re not going to milk the cow.”
Copper kicked off the fancy slippers and sat down on Mam’s bed. “Tell me about the dances. Tell me about society.”
Mam sat down beside her with a sigh. “I’ve been away so long, Laura Grace—it seems like another life. But when I was young, there were socials and parties nearly every week. All the ladies dressed in splendid gowns.” Her eyes glittered as she continued. “We were laced into tight corsets that made for tiny waists and full bosoms, and the men wore long jackets and cravats. There was wonderful music and dancing.”
Copper watched a wistful smile transform Mam’s face; she could almost picture Mam young again as she went on in a dreamy way. “I wish you could have seen us, my friends and me, twirling around the dance floor, barely resting for a moment before another gentleman claimed us. We had so many suitors it was hard to keep them all straight. We had such fun.”
“Sure, Mam.” Copper was unable to imagine being twirled about in an uncomfortable gown and shoes that made your toes scream in protest. “That sure sounds like fun.” She glanced at the dress on the bed. “I don’t need a corset with this dress, do I? Seems like it’d be hard to eat pie with a corset on.”
“Not one so confining as the ones we wore in my day.” Mam rummaged in the chiffonier, pulled out a buckram-stiffened, front-buttoned, lightly-boned corset with laces in the back, and waved it at Copper. “Just a light foundation. A dress will not fit properly without the proper foundation.”
Copper couldn’t help but wonder what other torture devices Mam had in the bottom of her innocent-looking clothes closet.
Mam hung the dress on the outside of the wardrobe door. “You do need to remember your manners though, young lady—” she shook her finger at Copper—“and have only a very small piece of pie tonight. Now you should iron the linens to line the pie baskets with. I think that small piece you finished last week will be perfect. Don’t you?”
 
Copper put the heavy sadiron on the cookstove and unrolled a dampened dresser scarf onto the padded, wooden ironing board.
She smoothed the embroidery, admiring her handiwork. Blue-birds flew among roses and daisies on each end of the piece that had taken her a month to finish. Grasping the iron with a folded tea towel, she tapped the bottom with a wet finger, watching the spit sizzle. Copper loved the smell of starch released by the heat of the iron. And seeing the stacks of crisp clothing on the kitchen table was a joy. It was like hanging out the wash—you could see the result of your labor, even if only for a little while. She finished her piece, pressed her dress and some dark green ribbon, and then ironed Mam’s latest work of art, with its perfect stitches as well.
“Hey, Sissy, can I have a piece of this pie?” Willy called through the window. He stuck a dirty finger into the sugary-sweet meringue.
“Willy, you rascal! You get your hands off my pie before I crack your head.” Copper ran from the kitchen brandishing a wooden spoon. She burst through the screen door and gasped in shock when she collided with Simon Corbett.
“Oh, Dr. Corbett . . . Simon,” she stammered. “I didn’t realize—that is, I would have put my shoes on had I known . . . I mean, I wouldn’t be chasing Willy with a spoon if he had told me you were . . . oh, dear. Please excuse me. I left something burning on the stove.” Copper backpedaled into the kitchen, slapping the screen door in his face, and fanned herself with the skirt of her apron.
“Laura Grace?” She could hear him from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”
“Um, just a minute.” She searched frantically for her shoes. Where had she left them? They must be on the porch. She grabbed the high-heeled pumps and quickly put them on. Managing to stagger as far as the kitchen table, she put out a hand to steady herself. “Come in,” she said in a tone as sophisticated as someone on the point of collapse could be.
“I only have a minute,” he announced, “and I want to tell you good-bye.”
“Good-bye!” She stood by the table, afraid to take a step toward him for fear of falling. “But I thought you’d come to the pie supper tonight.”
“I would like to, but I’ve stayed longer than I intended already and I have patients who depend on me.” Quickly he closed the space between them. “Please don’t be upset. I’ll be back late fall or early winter, before the snows get too deep.”
“Oh,” she said, finally able to meet his eyes without dissolving. Reaching deep to find some pride, she held her head high and said, “I’m not the least upset. My goodness, you must see to your patients.” She wanted to walk away, but she couldn’t very well do that in her wobbly shoes, could she? Obviously she had misread the doctor’s intentions. Maybe it would be better for him to leave. Maybe then she’d be able to breathe.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you come winter, Simon,” she said, her voice as friendly as a dog’s wag, though she was careful to let it say nothing more than “let’s be friends.”
“I’ll see you then, Laura Grace. Take good care of Daniel.” And he was out the door.
She peeked from the kitchen window as he checked Daniel’s wound, tipped his hat to her mother, and shook hands with her father. Willy followed him all the way to his horse, lugging the doctor’s bag. When Simon looked toward the window, she ducked behind the curtain, but she could still see the back of him as he rode off.
Her reflection stared back from the window. “Well, I am a ninny, letting a stranger turn my head.” The reflection of her mouth worked in the glass, making her laugh. Thrusting the miserable shoes under the table, she took her pie from the sill and began packing her basket.
Simon Corbett wasn’t going to ruin her pie supper.

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