In Need of a Good Wife (30 page)

“Let me show you,” he said. Clara crossed over to him. “Here we have a regular old butter churn.” The cask for the cream was about waist high and the churn dash, a thick piece of wood, stuck up out of the center. “But where a farm wife would have operated this with her own elbow grease, I have invented an improvement that will save time and effort.”

He pulled a tarp off the contraption standing next to the churn. There was a lever connected to the dash, and a set of gears and a conveyor made of wood slats held in line by thick rope. When the conveyor system moved, it turned the gears; the turning gears moved the lever, and the lever turned the agitator in a circle to churn the cream into butter.

Clara laughed at the idea of using so complex a system to perform such a simple task. “So you’d have the farm wife walk on this conveyor all afternoon long, walking and going nowhere? Forgive me, sir, but I don’t see how that is any better than simply churning the old-fashioned way.”

Mr. Cartwright put his hand over his heart. “It hurts, the way you underestimate me, Mrs. Bixby. But I can assure you that you aren’t the first lady to do so.” He put two fingers between his lips and whistled. A deep
woof
came from somewhere outside and a moment later, Sergeant kicked up a cloud of dust outside the barn and pranced across the hay with his strange loping limp.

“Mrs. Bixby, I have to give credit where credit is due. This whole contraption was Sergeant’s idea.”

Clara smiled and looked down at the dog. His one good ear hung properly alongside his face. The mutt tilted his head to the side where his one good eye blinked, black and round. “Can I ask you, sir—what in the world happened to this dog?” Clara crouched down in front of him and scratched his head.

“He was like this when he showed up on my porch last year. But I am almost certain he fought on the side of the Union in the war.”

The dog licked Clara’s hand, then turned to his master and sat up, waiting for instruction. Mr. Cartwright pointed to the conveyor. Sergeant hopped on and began walking at a steady pace. The dash moved in the churn.

“He’ll do this for hours,” the mayor said.

Clara clapped her hands. “A dog that churns butter— remarkable!”

Mr. Cartwright laughed and wiped his hands on a rag. “I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Bixby. How are you doing?”

“All right. Sheriff Brooks sure isn’t letting up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Sergeant glanced quizzically up at his master as he continued walking on the conveyor. Cartwright waved him off and he stepped down. The dash slowed to a stop.

“The Fourth of July will be coming around awfully soon.”

Mayor Cartwright was quiet for a moment. “Well, do you have the money?”

Clara shook her head. “We have some of it saved,” she said, patting her pocket. “But we won’t have it all in time.”

Mr. Cartwright glanced at her hand. “You carry it on your person? That seems a little dangerous.”

“Not more dangerous than leaving it alone with my husband,” Clara said. As soon as the words were out she regretted them. Bemoaning George’s flaws was second nature to Clara, but it wasn’t right to speak of them to another man.

To his credit, the mayor said nothing in response. “Mrs. Bixby, I want you to know that I am fairly close to flat broke myself. The office of mayor in Destination is a sort of honorary position—all of the work and none of the pay. And I have yet to sell any of my machines. But if I had the money, I would gladly give it to you.”

Clara colored to the ends of her hair. She shook her head.

“No, I honestly would. You are a fine woman who tried to do something good. It went awry, but it isn’t your fault. You don’t deserve all this.”

Clara couldn’t wait to escape. She kept her eyes on his shoulder, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “I thank you, sir.” She pointed to the barn’s open door. “Mrs. Healy asked me to bring your laundry. There it is.”

“Oh, that’s right—I forgot to pick it up.”

“Yes,” Clara said, nodding stupidly. “Well, I should be off now.”

He put his hand on her elbow. “It’s not just that I want to help you, Mrs. Bixby. I don’t like the sort of man who goes running to the law to solve his problems. Bill Albright is always looking for an angle, a way he can get a leg up on everybody else. And don’t start me on the subject of Jeremiah Drake. In a town of this size, we’ve all got to pull our own weight. And I certainly don’t like him bringing Sheriff Brooks over here from Fremont. That man has a tendency to turn a case into a crusade, all for the sake of his own theater.”

“He seemed quite impressed with himself, that is certain.”

Cartwright gave her an amused smile. His gaze lingered on her face for a long minute. “I have no doubt you’ll figure out something,” he said finally. “You are very resourceful.”

“Only because life has given me no other choice. Let’s see … perhaps you can build me a press that prints banknotes?”

“I would in a heartbeat, if it weren’t for that old tattler right there.” He pointed at Sergeant, who lay in the dust on his back, waiting for someone to rub his belly. “I just know he’d go straight to the sheriff, and then we’d be in it up to our necks.”

Rowena burned the letter, without ceremony, on Monday. She woke up still ruminating on the idea of her life without it, and as she passed the hearth on the way out to the pump for wash water, she cast it in the fire. She didn’t pray or say good-bye—just dropped it in. The weight of the act pressed down on her, disguised as the oppressive heat, which was unbearable even at dawn. The sky was wide and a washed-out blue; clearly it would be another day without rain in Dodge County. It was done now. She waited to feel something— remorse, relief—but felt nothing but weariness and hunger, as she did most mornings.

The bill for Rowena’s father’s care at the Wards Island asylum was again due. She lit the morning fire and prepared breakfast for Daniel and the children: a porridge of barley and salt pork, and stale bread with a jam of gooseberries Elsa Traugott had rescued from the shrubs before they shrank in the heat. Rowena had a vague notion that Ully had been spending time in the afternoons with that woman, Mr. Schreier’s housekeeper. She had seen Daniel talking to her after church, wondered what he thought about their strange friendship. Certainly Rowena had no intention of giving the child that sort of attention. She and Daniel seemed to have come to a truce; he was asking less and less of her each day.

It was clear he no longer held out hope that their connection would grow into anything more than an exchange of funds for labor. The pack of children and the dearth of privacy in the one-room soddy had prevented more than a handful of moments when they found themselves alone. Daniel had tried, once, to kiss her, but his determination to win her affection withered beneath her cold gaze. Occasionally he touched her hand, or simply stood near her, hopefully, but she never yielded to it. Though Rowena supposed he was well within his rights to do so, to Daniel’s credit, he never once attempted to take his liberties with her in the night. If he had insisted, Rowena knew she would have given in. She was his wife, after all. He occasionally mentioned a “cousin in Omaha,” though, curiously, he was never gone long enough to have traveled there and returned in one afternoon. In any case, when he disappeared on such ventures, he seemed to return with his urges sated.

Daniel rose now from the bed and nodded to her as he slung his suspenders up with his thumbs and shuffled to the privy. The spring on the door slapped it closed when he emerged a few moments later. He then stuck his head under the well bucket for a brief splash. They had been told during announcements at church the day before to conserve water as no one knew how much longer they would have to wait for rain. It wasn’t just the farmers who were worried. There would be less of everything—meat, milk and butter, tobacco, ale—without healthy crops and verdant pastures. After meeting, Rowena had overheard some of the men talking about leaving town, going east, where the weather was less severe, to find work.

She poured Daniel some coffee when he came back inside and sat down at the table. Water dripped from his beard and he wiped it on his sleeve. “Good morning,” he said.

Rowena nodded. “Good morning.”

The children were up and moving with their usual commotion. They filed one by one through the kitchen and out to the privy, then back inside to stand near Rowena as she dished the porridge into bowls. They had long since stopped calling her
Mother
but did not like
Mrs. Gibson
, either, and so said nothing at all. The two older boys, Sigrid and Gustav, seemed to have decided something about her, she saw, perhaps that she was not the sort of woman of whom their sainted mother would approve. Rowena had only speculation to imagine the first Mrs. Gibson’s appearance as there were no images of the woman anywhere in the house. But she imagined someone sturdy and plain and openhearted. The boys found Rowena pretty, she knew, for she had caught each of them watching her with that furtive look they believed concealed their thoughts, when in fact, the content of those thoughts was as plain as day. She was closer in age to them than she was to their father, so she knew they must notice her. They scraped their chairs up to the table. After all, they were only a few years younger than Radek and Tomas.

“The payment for your father is in the drawer,” Daniel said, pointing to the battered writing desk that stood in the far corner. “Would you mind arranging the postal order and sending it off today?”

Rowena had been looking for a way to bring up the subject of the money, but Daniel had saved her from that indignity. She couldn’t say a thing against this man, really. He was kind and honorable, both in his business and at home. He loved his children. He was a man of his word, unwavering, and he trusted someone as unworthy of trust as Rowena. He was a much better person than she was, much better by far, she knew.

“Thank you, Mr. Gibson,” she said, and meant it.

When Daniel and the children had cleared out for the day, she composed a letter to accompany the payment, listing her father’s name and the period of time for which the funds were intended, then tied on her bonnet and walked down the lane toward the main road and the depot to post it.

She made it as far as the town hall when a little man accosted her in the road.

“Mrs. Gibson?”

“Yes?” she said, startled.

He was even shorter than Rowena. He tipped his hat. “Sheriff Brooks.”

Rowena felt dread tighten in her chest. “Hello, Sheriff.”

“I’ve been wanting to speak to you about a conversation you had recently with Mr. William Albright, at his place of employment.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other with her hand on her hip, then glanced down the length of the road. The sun was so bright she had to squint. “All right.”

“Well, ma’am, I need to confirm the statements you made to him, regarding the activities of Mrs. Clara Bixby.”

Rowena sighed. “Could you please save us both some time and tell me what it is that you want?”

Sheriff Brooks cleared his throat. “You told Mr. Albright that Clara Bixby never intended to find brides for him and some of the other men who paid for them. And that you know this information because she told you herself of her plans to defraud them. Do I have that right?”

This whole thing had gone too far, and Rowena knew down in her bones that she had to do something to stop it, that she was the only one who
could
stop it. She had maligned an innocent woman. What these men had was bad luck. That was all. And yet, when she glanced down at the envelope in her hand, she hesitated. What if Daniel learned what she had done and cast her out? What if he stopped sending money to help her father?

“Well?” the sheriff asked. “Did you tell Albright these things? Or not?”

Rowena couldn’t bring herself to say the words, so she simply nodded once, then a few more times until she was sure he understood.

The sheriff raised his eyebrows, his penchant for intrigue ignited. “I see.” He glanced around. “Perhaps you are afraid that someone will hear you.” He put his hand on her elbow. “I can assure you, Mrs. Gibson, that I will protect you. No harm will come to you on my watch.”

Rowena had to press her lips together to keep from laughing at the thought of this runt defending anyone. All she could do was nod again, sealing Clara’s fate and the fate of her own miserable soul.

“I thank you for your honesty, Mrs. Gibson. It feels good to tell the truth, doesn’t it?”

She turned away from him then and strode toward the depot, sick to her stomach.

Stuart Moran nodded sleepily from his chair in the corner when she came in. He filled out the form for the money order and she folded it with the letter in the envelope, and set it in the basket of outgoing mail that would travel east on the afternoon train.

When she turned to go, Mr. Moran called her back. “Mrs. Gibson, I almost forgot—you have a telegram. I was just getting ready to bring it down to you.”

Rowena pursed her lips. “I’m sure. Well, let me have it, then.”

He nodded and stepped behind the ticket counter without looking at her. She had never bothered to be friendly to one person in this town, and they had all responded accordingly.

Mr. Moran passed the paper facedown across the counter to Rowena. She held it by the corner and walked out of the depot without saying good morning to him. Her first thought was that the telegram was from Richard. All this time he had been wandering the demolished towns of the Virginia countryside, sleeping on the bare floors of abandoned homes cleaned out and half burned by Union raiders. He had been living on what he could get selling objects he found along the road: a silver candlestick that fell from a fleeing plantation woman’s rucksack, a gold tooth from a dead body. Rowena didn’t want to know about the things he had had to do to get by. But all of it was behind him now because once he got his strength up, Richard had walked and hitched his way back to Manhattan City, back to the row house. Only, where was Rowena? Why was there a tenant sleeping in his bed? And when would she be coming back? Burning Richard’s letter had summoned this telegram. She felt sure of it.