[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek (37 page)

Read [Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek Online

Authors: Jan Watson

 
What Simon was thinking as he headed his horse across Troublesome Creek startled him. He wanted her. He didn’t even know her, but he wanted her. He had a vision of himself and Pard racing up Lexington’s main street while she—barefoot, wild, and lovely—clung to his back. He was a foolish man, thinking a beautiful young woman like Laura Grace Brown was going to fall in love with him virtually overnight. Best to put some distance between them or he was lost. He’d have plenty of time to get his heart straight when he got home. Plenty of time to deconstruct the trap he’d laid for himself.
He leaned forward in the saddle and patted Pard’s long neck. “Let’s go home, old friend.” He sat up straight and squared his shoulders, full of resolve. “Take me home.”
 
“Who is this grown-up lady on my front porch?” Will asked as Copper posed for him, ready to attend the church social. His eyes teared to see her there, so similar to Julie. Yesterday his little girl . . . today a young woman, her hair dressed, held in place by tortoiseshell combs, high-heeled slippers on her feet.
“Oh, Daddy, please take this basket. I can barely walk in these shoes. How’s a body supposed to get about without breaking her neck? How am I supposed to eat chocolate pie with this corset on?” She tugged at the offending garment.
“Laura Grace,” Grace scolded, “do not be indelicate. A lady never mentions her undergarments. Let Willy take those shoes and scuff the soles for you. Careful, Willy, just the soles!”
“Hey, Sissy, want me to break in that corset for you too?” Willy giggled and rubbed the bottom of the shoes against the bark of the apple tree. “Do you think John Pelfrey will let me have some pie if you can’t eat your piece?”
“Who says John Pelfrey will bid on my pie?”
“I do,” Willy said, “’cause I know he’s sweet on you.”
“Yeah, Sissy,” Daniel chimed in. “Me an’ Willy heard him tell Silas Parker he’s gonna walk you home after the pie supper an’ he’s gonna steal a kiss!”
“Sounds like I’d best load my shotgun,” Will said. “Willy, get that box of buckshot from off the pie safe.”
“That will be enough of such foolishness.” Grace’s stern voice cut through the teasing. “There will be no kissing, thus no need for buckshot. Will, please get everyone into the buggy.”
“Okay, darlin’, but there better not be another bidder for that lemon pie in your basket, and I can’t promise not to steal some of your sugar tonight.”
“Will! Little pitchers. Sometimes I don’t know what to think of the lot of you.”
“Let’s go!” Willy called. “But, hey, did somebody forget something? What are me and Daniel s’posed to do for pie tonight?”
“Don’t worry,” Will replied. “There’s sure to be an old maid there with some mincemeat left over from Christmas.”
“You and Daniel will eat with Laura Grace and whoever buys her pie,” Grace instructed as they assembled themselves in the buggy. “You will be excellent chaperones.”
“I’m not quite sure what a chaperone is,” Willy pondered, “but if it’s got anything to do with eating pie, then we’ll be excellent for you, Mam. That’s for sure. Here, Daniel, put that sore leg up on my lap. We don’t want you getting bumped. Go real slow, Daddy.”
Will watched a smile spread behind Grace’s gloved hand. Daniel’s accident had made them both more aware of the fragility of life. God loaned children to you for only a short time. You were sure to lose them one way or another. He reached across the seat to take her other hand.
Ah, such blessings. Thank You, Lord. I’m one lucky man.
CHAPTER 25
 
A festive air met the Brown family as their carriage rolled onto the church grounds. Small boys holding bugs chased squealing little girls. Old men sat under the eaves pontificating about the weather, while mothers jostled squirming babies. Young men peered into baskets pretending to size up the best-looking pies, though everyone knew it was the bakers—not the sweet treats—that really drew their interest.
Copper had quite a following as she strolled across the yard to the auctioneer’s stand in her green linen dress, her new shoes kicking up puffs of dust. John Pelfrey and Henry Thomas argued over who would carry her basket.
“You might as well give it up, John,” Henry sneered. “You ain’t got the funds to outbid me.”
“Says who?” John tugged at the basket in Copper’s hands. “I got the same pay from old man Smithers for grubbing roots as you did.”
“Tell me you didn’t give half your pay to your ma.” Henry jerked the basket his way.
“What if I did? Don’t you help out your family?”
Henry stopped. “Why should I?” He rubbed a scabbed-over scratch on his jaw and glared at John. “Ma never gives me anything ’cept the back of her hand.”
“For heaven’s sake, you two.” Copper clutched the basket to her chest. “I can carry it myself.”
She was miffed that Henry thought he had any right to her pie, but she suspected he did have the funds to outbid John. Rumor was that someone had snaked under Brother Isaac’s henhouse fence a couple of nights ago and stolen two fat baking hens. From the scratch on Henry’s face and the jingle of coins in his pocket, Copper surmised he was the thief and had sold the chickens to get more money for tonight.
They reached the flatbed wagon. John hopped up on it, and Copper handed him the basket. He put it last in line, the place of honor.
“I can taste that chocolate now,” Henry said.
“Henry, I’ll bust your nose if you don’t shut up.”
Brother Isaac laid a hand on John’s arm and shot a stern look Henry’s way. “Settle down, boys. We’ve plenty of pies for the both of you.”
“It ain’t the pie, Preacher,” Henry said with a laugh as he walked off. “It ain’t about the pie.”
The crowd hushed as Brother Isaac blessed the meal the ladies had prepared. Everyone rushed to the sawhorse tables spread with ham, fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, all manner of vegetables, and breads still warm from the oven. They’d have supper on the grounds before the desserts were sold.
It took a few minutes to restore order as some recalcitrant big boys broke into the front of the line, only to be reprimanded by their mothers and sent to the very back. You couldn’t blame them, Copper thought, for everyone wanted a piece of Ma Hawkins’s fried chicken. It was the best and sure to go quickly.
Soon they all were in their proper places. The preacher was served first, followed by the men, then the women and girls with the babies and children in tow. Last were the newly humbled big boys, who teased that by the time they got to the platters nothing would be left but gizzards and necks. Joe Amos said he’d never had a piece of chicken but the neck. Copper thought that must be why he was so skinny.
Families settled together on bright quilts or tablecloths spread on the ground, trying not to spill their heaping plates, calling greetings to other folks as they ate.
Copper was having difficulty just breathing, much less eating. “Mam,” she whispered, “this corset does not bend. Everything I have is pushed up under my neck! Can’t I go to the outhouse and take it off?”
Mam sighed. “Mimic me. Imagine a straight line from your tailbone to the top of your head. Do not slump. Fold your legs to the side. Take tiny bites.” She paused, her eyes taking Copper in. “There—isn’t that better?”
Copper nibbled potato salad and nodded at Mam. No sense in arguing. She needed all her breath to keep from swooning anyway. Feeling like a stuffed goose, she glanced about the crowd of neighbors and friends, hoping against hope to spot Dr. Corbett, although he’d told her plain enough that he wouldn’t be here. Surreptitiously, she tugged at the offending garment that dug into the soft flesh of her waist. What was the use of all her finery if he wouldn’t see how grown-up she looked? It would all be wasted on Henry and John.
Sighing loudly, she dropped her fork onto her plate and shifted her weight from one hip to the other, seeking comfort.
This corset is nothing but torment,
she pitied herself.
Why does Mam tolerate such a thing when it’s obvious that no other woman here has one on? I much prefer the look of a loose housedress covered by an apron. Then I could have two helpings of potato salad with room left for more of Aunt Emilee’s spoon bread.
 
When nothing was left on the serving plates, the crowd slowly filed to the auctioneer’s stand. Preacher Isaac held aloft a double-crusted blackberry pie. Isaac was a good hand at auctioning. He could sell salt at a salt lick. “Shell out, folks,” he boomed. “We need to swell the church coffers.”
The first offering was quickly dispensed as Joe Amos bought the blackberry pie for fifteen cents.
People chuckled when Joe blushed as red as a beet as he claimed the proud baker, Jane Elizabeth Combs. Jane grinned and curtsied when Joe offered her his arm. Her red face matched Joe’s when some children started the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song.
There were twenty pies in all, and the bidding went quickly. Will paid a high price—one dollar—for the pleasure of eating Grace’s pie.
A titter went through the crowd when Willy questioned, “Daddy, why don’t you just give that dollar to me? There’s a pie just like this one at home in the pie safe.”
The bidding continued. Pastry fairly flew off the wagon, and then Silas Parker gave in to temptation and plunked down twenty-five cents for the honor of sharing a delicious-looking apple tart with Martha Miller.
That left just one pie—chocolate, with slightly droopy meringue—and just one pie baker—anything but droopy—Copper Brown.
The preacher held the pie aloft. “What am I offered for this good-looking treat?” his voice rang out in a rich singsong. “Ten cents? Fifteen? Now a quarter to John Pelfrey. . . . Thirty-five? I’ve got thirty-five pennies from Henry Thomas. Thirty-five . . . thirty-five, now forty . . . forty-five, fifty . . . sixty cents?”
John turned his pockets inside out, and the crowd sighed—everyone had bet on John. Brother Isaac’s gavel hung in the air as he called, “Sixty once, sixty twice—”
Henry shoved his way to where Copper stood, hands on her hips, murderous that she’d suffered a stupid corset for the likes of Henry Thomas.
“Sold! Sold to—”
But before the mallet could hit the auction stand, a masculine voice rang out from the back of the crowd. “Ten dollars! I bid ten dollars!”
A collective gasp went up from the assembly. Ten dollars? That was more than a week’s wages.
“Well, now,” Brother Isaac said. “Ten dollars once, ten dollars twice—” his gavel slammed against the wagon bed—“sold to the man in the back!”
Surprised, Copper turned with the crowd to watch as Simon Corbett strolled to the auctioneer’s stand and claimed his prize. “Sorry, young man,” he said to Henry, “but this one is mine.” He held out his arm to Copper and tipped his hat to Mam. “With your permission?”
“Of course, Dr. Corbett,” Mam said, relief palpable on her face. “It is good to see you once again. Daniel? Willy?” she called the twins to her side. “Go with your sister.”

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