A Woman so Bold (13 page)

“If you think you’re going in the house like that, you’ve got another think coming. Your mother would sail all the way down here from Massachusetts to give you a piece of her mind. Edith is changing to take you and Esther hunting.”

He began bouncing around like a cricket at this, and I stilled him with a hand.

“Now listen! You do just as she tells you. She is a fine shot and very quiet in the woods. If you pay attention you can learn quite a lot from her.
No horseplay around guns.
That’s how people get killed. Remember Otis Green?”

He nodded.

“Good. Don’t end up like him. Or Todd Harmon—two eyes are better than one in most cases.”

Edith came out tucking a cotton shirt into an old pair of Eric’s riding breeches.

“Try to bring home at least six,” I told her. “We can fry two and put the rest in the smokehouse.”

Esther wrinkled her nose. “Smoked squirrel?”

“You’ll change your tune come February and not even two beans to boil for a soup,” said Lily from the stove, where she was stirring succotash. “Put your shoes on.”

“I’ll bring back twice as many, Landra. They’re running wild this time of year.”

True to her word, Edith brought back a dozen squirrels, so I skinned and fried four and put the rest in the smokehouse. It wasn’t the best meal we ever had, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. I was grateful Colleen wasn’t there to complain about eating rodents.

The next morning, I saddled our plow horse and rode into town to send a telegram. It read:

Corn crop bad STOP Three cows and sow dead STOP Going to be a hard winter STOP Daddy says will send for you in the spring STOP Stay in Concord STOP All of our love STOP

The next cold snap meant hog-killing time. Every knife in the house was honed to dreadful sharpness, and I warned the children away from them until they lived in dread of losing a finger. Lily and I scrubbed the kitchen table, and every other inch of space including the countertop, butcher block, and cutting boards. All of Daddy’s hands and tenants came to help, as did a few men from neighboring farms, Will among them.

The hogs had to be kept cool and quiet in their pen, given water but no food the day before they were to be butchered. They were strung up by one foot and stuck, then left hanging to bleed once beheaded. Once they had drained, they were split with a sharp knife, and cleaning and butchering began. It was a messy, nasty business, but hog-killing time meant sausage in the smoke house, salt pork curing in barrels in the root cellar, and bacon sizzling in the pan. It meant fried pork chops, sugar-glazed ham, and ham hocks in greens. All in all, it meant meat for winter.

Every year when we slaughtered the hogs, I was reminded of an autumn day when I was fifteen and had visited the Miller farm to find Henry washing at the pump, stripped to the waist and covered head to foot in blood.

“Here, I’ll pump while you wash,” I said.

“Don’t wanna ruin you dress,” he said, but he cupped his hands as I worked the lever and brought them to his face, then laved his neck, chest, and arms with soap.

“I didn’t know you were killing hogs today,” I said, “or I’d not have come calling. But I can help your mama and sisters with the butchering and salting.”

He shook his head. “Go back to the Mondays, Landra. You ought not to come round here no more.”

I stepped back, aghast. “Why ever not?”

“Thangs have come to a pretty pass around here. That was my last hog I just kilt, and you know the place was mortgaged to the bank by Pa.”

“Henry, my daddy is a farmer. I can work.” I removed my flower-trimmed bonnet and lace mitts to show him that I meant business.

He paused, squinting up at the pale gray sky. “I know you can, but I can’t give you the things you want.”

“Don’t you care for me?”

“Yes. That’s why I want you to go. Marry some rich fella you meet over there and leave Willowbend. You’ll be happier for it.” He turned away from me, wiping his brow with a forearm.

I left weeping that day, but it wasn’t long before he came calling on me again and we began to go about with one another as we had before. Henry had been right about not being able to give me what I wanted, but Della had given him all he desired, and then some.

My favorite part of December was always when Eric came home for Christmas. It was certainly one of the brightest things to happen to us that year. Lily and I bundled ourselves into coats, shawls, and scarves and took the wagon into town to meet him at the depot. When he stepped off the train with his brown curls shining in the pale winter light and his eyes brimming with cheer at the sight of us, Lily and I threw ourselves into his arms, giddy with happiness. He lifted us off our feet and swung us around before everyone, and I laughed, carefree as a little girl. He had grown a pair of fashionable muttonchops, and we teased him about them.

Eric was everything our father was not—patient, gentle, and most of all, jolly. He was a born leader, noble and wise by nature. When we were children, the other boys in our gaggle of friends—Henry Miller and Ida’s brother Clyde—followed his lead with little to no opposition. Daddy never truly appreciated Eric’s good heart and sharp brain, and it never occurred to me to be jealous or resentful of him, only thankful that he was there as a bright spot in the darkness of our motherless childhood. I mimicked and admired him, wore his old clothes, scuffled with him, and rejoiced when he taught me to ride and shoot.

“Aren’t you both so pretty!” he said. “What a dandy shawl, Lan.”

“
William
gave it to her,” intoned Lily. Eric narrowed his eyes but said nothing until we had reached the wagon.

“Who is this William Cavendish?” he asked, helping me into the front seat and lifting Lily into the back. “Lily mentions him in her letters, but you never do.”

He sprang up beside me and took the reins.

“I’m certain I’ve mentioned him.”

“Is he your beau?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose?”

“William is not one to waste words on something that needs no declaration. But if you must have a yes, then there it is.”

“Well,” Eric glanced at me from the corner of his eye, “it’s good to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“It’s not something one can really put into a letter.”

“Do I get to meet him?”

“He’s invited to Christmas dinner.”

“Good!” Eric chirruped to the horses and leaned back comfortably, holding the reins with one hand and placing a wad of tobacco in his cheek with the other.

“Still doing that?” I asked with disgust.

“Can’t seem to kick it.”

“It seems particular unbecoming for a lawyer to chew ‘baccy,” said Lily.

“What a spittoon’s for,” said Eric around his chaw. “How’s Ida Monday?”

“Don’t you get letters from her?”

“On occasion. You know Ida. She keeps busy. You two still thick as thieves?”

“They’re stuck together like flies in molasses,” said Lily, leaning over the front seat from her place in the back of the wagon.

“You’re not going to meet up with her are you?” I asked.

He gave me a searching look. “She’s been invited to a Christmas ball at the governor’s mansion and means for me to go with her.”

“Well, aren’t you
high society
?” teased Lily.

“Shall you?” I asked.

He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon.

“Of course. It’s white tie, but she says I may borrow Clyde’s tails. He’s out in Texas now.”

Ida’s elder brother Clyde was as mad as a March hare. He’d killed someone in a bar room brawl, lit out to Texas, and with his father’s money had managed to become a reputable, albeit crazy, cattle rancher. Anytime Ida mentioned his name, I imagined him drunk in a saloon, shooting anyone who looked at him wrong. I was glad he no longer rampaged about Willowbend with his parent’s money to fuel his madness.

“I’d be glad to see her,” Eric murmured, more to himself than to us. “Been a long time.”

I shook my head. If anyone had ever asked me to name Eric’s shortcomings, the one thing I’d have been certain of was his love for Ida. She might have been my best friend, but I knew the havoc she wreaked on hearts. He had been taken in by her beauty and charm when we were little more than children, and apparently leaving Willowbend for four years had done nothing to cure him of it.

“You ought to let her go with someone as wild and unprincipled as she is,” I said. “You’re too good for her, and everyone but you knows it. Even Mrs. Monday wonders why you let her string you along like she does.”

“Nonsense,” said Eric, but he blushed bright red to his hairline. “Ida strings everyone along. We’re friends, you know that.”

Christmas dawned unseasonably warm that year. We opened the windows and drank iced tea and lemonade as we opened our gifts. William showed up after breakfast and remained beside me throughout the ritual. Lily and I had made the trek to Granny’s with a basket of goodies the evening before and begged her to join us, but she was not interested in making the long walk and was content to kiss us each in turn and wish us a Merry Christmas.

When all of the children had opened their meager stockings of fruit and molasses taffy, Lily presented them with the gifts we had knitted. There was a chest warmer for Edith, a scarf for Ephraim, a pair of mittens for Ezra, and for Esther a set of hand-crocheted doilies to place in the hope chest she maintained with such care.

Colleen’s mother had sent the children a picture book, and a copy of Tennyson’s poems for me and Lily. Lily’s face lit up when she opened her gifts from Aunt Maude: a silk fan and a tortoise shell comb. My parcel contained a silver-handled brush and mirror, much finer than Colleen’s scratched resin ones. I held them carefully, for I owned few pretty things.

Maude had sent a set of wooden blocks painted in bright colors for Ezra, a sling shot for Ephraim, tin lockets for Edith and Esther, and a silver rattle for the baby. She had also sent a pound of white sugar and a bushel of lemons. With no children of her own, she never spared any expense for us at Christmas. My mother’s elder sister, I knew she was of the opinion that my father was good-for-nothing white trash, and perhaps it assuaged her feelings to gift us with finery every year.

As I was clearing away the mess the children had made of wrapping paper and ribbon, William slipped something into my hand, a small box wrapped in brown paper. I tore off the wrapping to reveal a small wooden box that opened with a sliding catch. Inside was a silver thimble nestled in a bed of cotton.

“Oh, William . . . such a fine gift. I received so many lovely things this year!”

He shrugged, smiling. “I know you hate mending, but I thought if you had a proper thimble you might prick yourself less often.”

I glanced over my shoulder to see if Daddy was looking. He was watching the twins play with their toys and drinking a mug of eggnog. Satisfied, I stood on my toes to kiss Will’s cheek.

“Is that a proper way to thank your sweetheart on Christmas?” he teased. “Where’s the mistletoe?”

“My brother is here, and he doesn’t know you,” I whispered, but I pecked him once on the lips for good measure. As I turned away, I noticed Eric regarding us, his brow furrowed. When I went through the breezeway into the kitchen, he followed me.

“Are you engaged to him?” he demanded.

I stared, surprised by his forthright tone. Eric’s philosophy was generally live and let live.

“No, not yet,” I said, tying on my apron.

“Then why in the Sam Hill is he giving you such a gift? It’s forward.”

“It’s only a thimble, Eric.”

“And why’d you kiss him before everyone?”

“I
barely
kissed him. He’s my beau. I don’t see it as terribly improper.”

I took a pot of potatoes that had been boiling off the stove and drained the steaming water into the sink.

Eric settled himself at the table, taking up a molasses cookie. “You kissed him on the mouth.”

I poured the last of the coffee from breakfast into a mug and handed it to him then splashed some fresh cream into the potatoes and began to mash them.

“You never kissed anyone on the mouth?” I asked pertly.

He rolled his eyes. “I just think he ought to make his intentions clear before giving you such a gift.”

“The fact that one man treated me unkindly in the past does not give me reason to expect an indiscretion from every gentleman who comes to call. And you don’t know anything about his intentions because you don’t live here or know him!”

“If he’s buying you trinkets and kissing you in the parlor, I daresay he’s more than a caller. Landra, you don’t know the first thing about men!”

“I am not an ingénue, Eric!”

“You don’t need to tell me
that.
”

I wheeled on him. “How dare you! I know
everything
about how you and Ida have behaved since you were little more than children. Yet you’re a man, in a man’s world, and you can look down your nose at me.”

Eric was shamed into silence by this. We rarely fought, and it cast a darkness over the proceedings of dinner, but by the time the dishes were done we had forgiven one another and were talking and laughing like old times. After Christmas dinner, the thermometer on the front porch read seventy-seven, and I changed out of my brown calico and into my white tea dress, stained and patched by that point beyond any evidence of its former glory. Ida showed up after dinner as I had predicted, driving her two-wheeled open trap behind a fat pony.