In Need of a Good Wife (24 page)

“I wouldn’t be so quick to give up on the fraud charge, Mr. Albright. I have some evidence that I believe could help make your case.” She waited for understanding to dawn on his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Conversations,” Rowena said. “Conversations I’ve had with Miss Bixby, conversations I’ve overheard.”

“But why did she deliver to some of the men and not others? If it really was fraud, why didn’t she take all the money and go to California or something?”

Rowena took a breath. Even in her anger at Clara, she knew she was about to do something wrong, something that couldn’t be undone. How long would this game continue to go on? The world had put hurt into her and so she wanted to put hurt back into the world, for the sake of equilibrium, for the sake of justice. She had been waiting for someone to say it was all right, to say no one could blame her, but no one would sanction
this
. She went right on anyway, though, caught up in a dare with herself. “You see, Mr. Albright, Miss Bixby has an awfully high opinion of herself and her ability to judge the worth of men. The reason that she delivered wives to some men—like my Mr. Gibson, like Reverend Crowley and Mr. Moran and Mr. Riddle—is that she deemed them the
right
sort of men. Worthy, you see. You, Mr. Luft, Mr. Drake … well, forgive me for speaking plainly, sir, but Miss Bixby found you, in her words, ‘dim, coarse, and unlikely to be able to earn a living.’ ”

Bill’s jaw tightened. “And what of Miss Ruley?”

“A figment.”

“I
knew
it. But why? Why would Miss Bixby go to so much trouble for such a small sum of money?”

“Even a little money is no small sum for a single woman, Mr. Albright. And four brides are missing. But you have to understand that this is not really about the money. This is about Miss Bixby’s ambition. She loves the idea that she pulled one over on you. Some people even say she was some kind of crusader for the rights of women back in Manhattan City. I can’t speak to that, but …”

Rowena had planted plenty of seed now. She waited, as if there were any doubt about what was taking hold in Bill’s mind, what would soon take hold in the minds of all three thwarted men. Nothing could raise hackles faster than a rumored suffragette. They might not like to admit it, but Rowena suspected the phenomenon of uppity women was one of the things that had driven these pioneering men from the cities. They felt things were going haywire back east, the government getting involved in all kinds of things it had no business dictating. If you let women march in the street, go to college, vote in elections—what would be next? Rowena knew men like those in Destination believed a man would have a bit in his mouth and the
horse
would be sitting up on the platform, driving the cart, that’s what. That part of the country had gone crazy, and she was sure men like Bill had been grateful for a place to come and begin again.

But she also saw that Bill was no fool. He narrowed his eyes at Rowena. “And why would you be so eager to help me, I wonder?”

She turned her calculated glance on the brewer, the eyelashes, the slow smile. “Because, sir—there is an order to things and she has upset the balance. Someone has to stand up for the way things ought to be. Don’t you agree?”

Rowena went back to the house and settled in an armchair with a book. She felt all aglow with justice, then slipped into a satisfying sleep until a knock at the door startled her awake. She sat up and listened. It came again, two long knocks and three short, like the rhythm of a tune.

She opened the door to find a young man in a spotless hat and fawn-colored jacket, with boots shined to an impossibly high gloss, given the amount of dust he had had to trudge through to reach the front door.

“Hallo, my name is Tomas Skala.” The man put out his hand and Rowena stared rudely at it a moment before consenting to the handshake.

“Good afternoon,” she said warily.

“You are thinking,
Who is this man?
No?” Tomas smiled. A carefully groomed beard limned his jaw in copper-colored whiskers.

“I suppose I am.”

“I am carpenter. Your husband ask me build house for chickens?”

Rowena raised her eyebrows. “
You
are a carpenter?”

“Yes,” Tomas said, nodding vigorously. “Very good one. You not believe me?”

Rowena laughed. “It is only that you aren’t
dressed
like a carpenter.”

“This is because I always look future. Someday I am becoming man of business.”

“Oh. What sort of business?”

“I not know yet, but hey—get clothes right first, rest will follow, yes?”

She laughed again. “I see—well, it
is
said that the clothes make the man.”

Astonished delight broke over Tomas’s face. “Yes, this is
my
thinking too!”

Rowena stepped outside next to him, feeling the heat of the sun on her bare head, and felt suddenly cheered. “Come with me around back,” she said. “I’ll show you where I would like you to build it.”

“Ah. You want it should be big?”

“Not too big. I plan to keep eight or ten chickens. But it should be well insulated for the winter months.” Rowena stopped about twenty feet away from the house on a patch of scrubby dirt on which nothing would grow, and spread her arms. She wouldn’t want to walk much farther than that on chilly mornings to gather the eggs. “Right about here should be fine.”

Tomas nodded and his gaze lingered on her for a moment. His eyes were a surprising green under the brim of his bowler. “What is your name?”

Rowena gave him a confused look. “Why, it’s Mrs. Gibson, of course. My husband is the butcher, the one who hired you?”

Tomas shook his head. “Yes, I know. My meaning is, what is your
Christian
name?”

Rowena’s amusement with this man’s impervious confidence was starting to fade. “Pardon me, sir?”

Tomas pointed at his chest. “My name is Tomas. What is yours?”

“I
know
what you are asking, but don’t
you
know it is impolite to call a woman you just met by her Christian name?”

Tomas shrugged and smiled broadly. “Who say I polite?”

Rowena found she was fairly speechless just then, had to force her mouth closed. Was this how the help talked to their employers in Nebraska? When she spoke her voice was hard. “Will there be anything else? I have work to do in the house.”

“You come from New York, yes? I hear about this. They call you—Bixbybelle?”

Rowena nodded. “Yes, I came here with Miss Bixby.”

“In New York you have money, yes? Fine house with servants, bring your food?”

“Well, at one time I did.”

Tomas nodded. “In New York, I work in factory. My wife sew clothes. We have nothing. Here, I can have land, build things. You know what change?”

Rowena shook her head.

“In New York, you different from me.” He pointed at the ground. “Here we are same.” Tomas turned back toward the front path. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or making a joke. “I go buy wood now and come back few days.” After a moment he snapped his finger, then turned back. “Rowena.”

She stared at him, her hand at her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright sun. “How did you—”

“I know it already. I want only to see if
you
tell
me
.”

“Listen here, Mr. Skala. I won’t be disrespected in my own house. And my husband won’t stand for it either.”

Tomas glanced up at the sky. “We are not inside house.”

Rowena’s eyes flashed and she turned on her heel and stomped toward the door.

“Rowena,” she heard him say to himself as he walked away. “This is pretty name.”

Rowena stayed angry all afternoon, whipping through her housework.
Here is a coarse Bohemian
, she thought, as she hacked at an onion on the chopping block
. He may not look it,
but that changes nothing. He has set his sights so far above his station as to make a mockery
.
Why, he barely speaks English!

Rowena had worked herself into such a state she could not remain in a chair. She passed the hours beating out all the rugs, scouring the already clean pots. The house was aired and sweet-smelling by the time Daniel walked through the door to find his wife pacing back and forth. With each turn she made an aggravated little squeak.

He gazed around and a slow smile spread across his face. He put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Now this is what a man’s home should look like when he walks through the door.”

“
Mr.
Gibson,” Rowena said, marching in his direction and planting herself only a foot away from where he stood. Her diminutive stature made her seem like an overexcited child. “Wait until you hear what sort of disgrace took place here today.”

Daniel’s smile faded. “What is it, my dear?” Rowena squeaked again and held up her finger to correct him. “I mean,
Rowena
?”

“Tomas Skala, the carpenter. That is what happened. Need I say anything else?

Daniel laughed. “Ah, he
is
known for humbugging. Did he have a laugh on you?”

“That insufferable man insulted your wife. I ask you, who does he think he is? And will you tolerate it?”

“Now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Tell me what happened.”

She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. In truth, it wasn’t that bad. So Tomas had found out her Christian name, somehow. Had he stolen from them or cheated them out of money? “He was—he was very rude.”

“Oh, you must know, Rowena, the man has a peculiar sense of humor. No one here holds it against him. He is well loved for it, in fact.”

“Well, I don’t want him coming back here.”

“You take things too hard, woman. You have to learn the ways of people out here. This isn’t a parlor in a Manhattan mansion. We aren’t
refined
.”

“
I’ll
say.”

“But there is a freedom in it, don’t you think, my—I mean, Rowena?” He took her hand and led her to the sofa. “We can say what we think, don’t have to worry so much about the mincing rules of etiquette. A man can be himself.”

“Well, Mr. Skala
certainly
was that.”

“He means no harm, I promise you. Did you know he lost his whole family on the journey here?”

It irritated Rowena that Daniel wasn’t taking her side. Richard always listened to her frustrations and complaints, never questioning her perception of an exchange in which she felt she had been wronged. He was tender with her, vowing to take action on her behalf. Why was Daniel making this day’s events about Tomas, when they was so clearly about
her
?

“He came with his parents and his wife and her brother,” Daniel said. “When they were en route from Detroit, the train was robbed by bandits and Tomas’s parents and wife were shot in the confusion. Only her brother and Tomas survived. Another man was killed too, Al Healy. His wife runs the tavern now.”

“Oh,” Rowena said, her hand at her throat. “That’s terrible.” She knew all too well how quickly the world could take away the thing you loved.

“It was Tomas’s father who wanted to come to Nebraska and claim land, not Tomas. But he decided, even after everything that happened, to stay on. To try to make a life for himself.”

Rowena clutched her hands in her lap.

“So you see,” Daniel said. “Not everyone is what he seems. Not Tomas. Not me.”

Or me
, Rowena thought, but she held the words between her lips.

At seven o’clock in the evening Elsa heard the squeak of the pump handle and then the sound of Mr. Schreier’s boots. He stepped into the kitchen and placed his hat on the hook, then made his thumping way across the floor.

“Evening, Elsa,” he said as he eased himself into the chair and swung his bad leg under the table. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Smells good in here.” Even with the sun as low as it was, the air inside the house was sweltering. And that wasn’t the only thing that had her on edge. The second Sunday in June had passed and Elsa still hadn’t been to church.

“Evening,” she said. She filled a plate with pork left over from dinner, then set it down in front of him, along with a glass of ale.

Elsa stood respectfully still while he prayed. He drank the ale down in one long gulp, then took a bite. She watched him chew, his expression stern, the muscle that ran from his jaw up the side of his face moving beneath his skin. His bare head was deeply browned from the sun, speckled pink in places. A fine whisper of yellow-gray hair grew in a horseshoe shape around his scalp.

“How is your work going, sir?” It was her first attempt to make conversation at the end of the day.

Mr. Schreier started, as if surprised to learn anyone else was in the room. He spread a forkful of the meat on a piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth. He grunted, nodding.

“Mr. LeBlanc says that ewe could drop her lamb any day.”

He nodded again. “Mm-hmm.”

“Seems like it’s getting late in the season for her not to have gone yet. My grandfather had a farm, near Deggendorf. He always called on us children to help when there was a calf or some piglets coming. I was so frightened of the way the mothers cried through their labor. All that time they were in their travail—it just seemed like so much suffering. I understood about Adam and Eve, and why a woman was charged with knowing that pain. But why a poor old sow, who couldn’t sin?”

Elsa shook her head, turning to the sink as the blood rose in her cheeks. She was talking just to talk now. All that time working in the Channing laundry she had hardly talked at all. But she had had plenty to listen to. The other laundresses—especially the young ones who thought they were just biding their time until they found a man to marry—gossiped incessantly. They talked about hair arrangements, slippers with silk ribbons, the benefits and drawbacks to corsets with whalebones, the new collapsible crinoline. As if any of them would ever in their lives own such a thing. They wondered aloud what would happen when one of their friends found out her husband’s jacket had been seen hanging on the doorknob of a room at Libby’s, whether she would throw all his belongings into the snow, whether they should tell the minister and let him sort it out. Elsa had never realized that in a strange way she looked forward to the talk. It was the frivolous, vapid music of the work. It made the hours pass. Here at Mr. Schreier’s it was absolutely silent all day long. There was a peace in it, certainly, but she found herself longing for something to listen to. Her talk rattled on. “But then those sweet little piglets came and she forgot all about her pain.”