The Springsweet (12 page)

***

Though Birdie and I had previously enjoyed the pleasure, Louella was fantastically impressed with Theo's buggy. Birdie climbed in first so Theo could deliver Louella directly into her arms. Even with the step, my little cousin was far too tiny to climb up.

"Miss Stewart," Theo said, when it came to my turn.

His gloves lay on the seat, and mine had been lost, so his bare hand smoothed over mine. Unmarred and silken, it reminded me that my Thomas' hands had been nothing of the kind. And, it was awful to acknowledge, neither were Emerson's.

Hitching my skirt, I climbed into the buggy, ignoring how directly he considered me. I didn't feel precious in his gaze; I felt guilty. As though I should be delighted that he'd noticed me at all—but did I deliberately douse a fire that was lit? I didn't; Theo was sincere enough, gentle enough—generous enough. But he was no tinder at all.

Birdie had developed a kind of telepathy, because the moment I settled next to her, she leaned in to whisper into my ear. "He's come a long way to make amends, Zora. Enough with your suffering; make the best of the bed you made."

Slapped without a touch, I corrected my posture until I sat perfect as a mannequin and no more animated.

The buggy barely shifted when Theo climbed in. As he took up the reins, he smiled and asked, "Onward, ladies?"

"Please," I replied.

"Won't this be fun?" Birdie asked Lou, clapping the baby's hands together in delight. Then she cut me a pointed look. "Don't you think, Zora?"

"Oh yes. I do like this phaeton," I said finally. "We had an old victoria at home that my mother thought was a racing model, but you can fairly fly in this."

He laughed, shaking his head. "It makes me nervous, I admit. I'm used to driving on cobble and pavement."

"But you can barely feel the ruts and bumps," Birdie said. Though she sat between us, her interjection seemed an intrusion. For someone who had so deliberately ordered me to open myself to Theo, she was hardly acting the silent, sentinel chaperone. In fact, she went on. "And what is your horse's name?"

Before he could reply, I said, "Annabel Lee, of course."

"Do you like Mr. Poe, then?" Birdie asked.

"I do. I know many consider his poetry mawkish and morbid, but I rather like the depth of it."

Birdie tangled her fingers with Louella's, playing a weaving game with their hands to keep her entertained. "I prefer Blake, myself. I like a bit of joy in my reading."

"You're both mad." I shrugged lazily, brushing a loose curl from my face. "If you're going to indulge in poetry, it should transport you at the least. 'Goblin Market,' now, that's a poem."

Considering this, Theo pursed his lips. Then suddenly, he recited, his honey voice flowing smooth, barely stolen by the wind. "
Figs to fill your mouth, citrons from the South, sweet to tongue and sound to eye; come buy, come buy.
"

He'd surprised me; I could admit that. I skipped a few lines and answered, "
'Lie close,' Laura said, pricking up her golden head: 'We must not look at goblin men.
'"

"There's a child present," Birdie said. She smoothed her hands over Louella's ears, as if a scrap of verse could slip in and poison her tender thoughts. Then she cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Have you had any news, Mr. de la Croix?"

Taking his correction far better than I, Theo kept his merry face and didn't hesitate in his reply. With a gentle hand, he urged Annabel Lee a bit faster now that we had come to open prairie, and replied, "Are you acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Bader? They're having a barn raising this Saturday, all invited."

Birdie clapped Louella's hands together, making a happy sound. "Will you be there?"

"I thought I might. I could stand learning to use a hammer and nail," Theo said. His gaze trailed toward me again. "And I understand there's a dance afterwards."

"Is there?" I said, committing myself to nothing.

"There always is," Birdie said, delight coursing through her. She actually bounced a bit, disguised as dandling Louella on her knees playfully. "Pretty girls and handsome boys dancing into the night. Won't that be gay?"

Because I was behaving, I simply agreed.

Ten

Unlike West Glory, Jubilee had a sign at the town limits. It was decorated with hand-carved scrollwork, and someone had taken care to fill the words in with gold paint:

JUBILEE
Our Chariot Carried us Home
All Free Men Welcome

The sentiment warmed me, and as Theo parked his phaeton in front of the general store, I looked around to discover the sign was rather more than sentiment. As peach and pale as West Glory was, Jubilee was every shade of brown and russet.

It was, in all ways imaginable, a western town, exact in content to West Glory, down to the post office. It was simply that everyone I saw was black-—the two dusty cowboys who tipped their hats at us as they rode past, the shopkeepers peering from windows, a little girl in pink calico chasing a hoop with a stick.

It was as if someone had split Baltimore's rainbow and I had finally found both halves.

Theo let the step down, and I clambered from the buggy, followed in quick succession by my aunt and cousin. Birdie fished through her pockets, handing me another notice to post. "Come inside, duck, I need to talk to Mrs. Franklin."

Louella pointed to the girl with the hoop. "Play?"

"You may
ask
to play," Birdie told her, brushing the dust from Louella's skirts. "When you're done, you come right back."

With a nod, Louella bounded off, and Theo moved to open the door for us. He didn't follow us, though. When Birdie looked back to him, he said, "I'm just going to stretch my legs a bit."

The general was warm inside, and a little dark. But it smelled like heaven, of anise and cinnamon and cocoa. I inhaled deeply, then sighed aloud in pleasure. A trembling passed beneath my feet, and I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep in a laugh. I had been gone so long from civilization that the wealth in a general had undone me.

The woman at the counter—Mrs. Franklin, I imagined—shook her head at me, seemingly both curious and amused. Brushing past me, Birdie went directly to the counter, explaining me in an offhand way, "That's the niece I was telling you about."

"Pretty girl," Mrs. Franklin said.

"Exactly," was Birdie's reply.

Whatever conversation they were continuing about me, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to hear the rest of it. So I scuttled away to explore the bounties the general had on offer. My pockets were entirely empty, but dreaming was free.

Fifty-gallon barrels stood in neat lines, the lids open to present their riches. Dry beans and peas, flour and cornmeal—then, nearby, nails and laundry pins and one barrel piled tantalizingly high with white soap flakes.

I picked one of the laundry pins up, rubbing its smooth head thoughtfully. If only we had a tree or a post at Birdie's—hanging the wash to dry would speed that chore by hours.

But as we had no trees, and line was expensive, I returned the pin to its barrel and regretfully moved on. Sniffing at a box of black and orange tea, I shivered at the richness. Then I raised a box of coffee beans, enjoying the way they whispered when jostled.

As I replaced the coffee, a man's voice caught my attention. "Let's take a look at what you've got, Birch."

With a tentative step toward it, I did my best to disguise spying as window shopping. Though I had no need of pipe tobacco, I nonetheless went to study the many varieties available. Through a swinging door in the back, I saw Emerson's wavy, sun-streaked hair.

"This one's irregular," Emerson said. Through the door's slats, I caught small glimpses of his trade—an impressive collection of pelts, in shades of gray and brown, spilling out like silk. "But the rest are good."

Returning the tobacco to the shelf, I walked ever so casually toward the feed bins. From that angle, I saw both Emerson and, I assumed, Mr. Franklin. It only made sense. He wore a city-cut suit, and Husband and Wife Herrington ran the general in West Glory. But the more I thought on it, the more I hesitated. This man seemed rather older than Mrs. Franklin—his black curls were streaked with silver. Perhaps he was a father-in-law?

And as I stood there making up stories and family trees, guessing at who might be related to whom, the door separating me from the back room glided open as if by magic.

"I thought," Emerson said, tipping his head slightly to meet my gaze, "that you could eavesdrop more readily if it were open."

Since he wanted to make me blush, I refused. I walked right in as if I belonged there, and with much cheek, I said, "Thank you, Mr. Birch." Turning, I offered my hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr.—"

"Gibson," he said, shaking my hand.

"This is Miss Stewart," Emerson said. "She's counting her days until she can go back home to Baltimore."

"Mr. Birch is given to fantasy, as I'm sure you know."

Mr. Gibson laughed. "I'm too smart to get caught up in your affairs, children." He piled the pelts in a basket, then told Emerson, "Let me go tot these up; I'll give Sal your credit slip."

"Much obliged," Emerson said, holding the door open for him as well. When it swung closed, it brought a draft of the perfumed air from the front of the store.

I hadn't realized how starved I was for novelty until that moment, when I drew another long breath to savor the scents. Puffed up with luxury, I suddenly realized that I stood there alone—with Emerson. Composing myself, I said, "How is your well?"

"Fine as your garden, I expect."

"My aunt thinks it finally caught up with the season."

He raised an eyebrow, because it
was
ridiculous to think that an entire plot could come to its senses overnight and start to bloom. But he put no words to the truth and instead said, "And what finds you in Jubilee?"

"My aunt's trying to hire me out as a—a springsweet."

His word felt silver and slick on my tongue, a connection that hummed like a harp string. I could in no way be sure that he felt it, and yet I was certain he did. It shone in his eyes, swirling there among the green and the amber and blue.

Then it ebbed away and he said, "Probably good money in that."

"I hope so." Though I owed no explanation, I gave one anyway. "We'd like to buy a cow before winter."

Emerson nodded, curling and uncurling his fingers on the top of the swinging door. It seemed he weighed a thought, measuring it before deciding finally to share. "Folks'll turn on you quicker than you think."

Stilled by hesitation, I nodded. I remembered well how glad strangers were to have their futures from Amelia, as long as their futures pleased them. When that pleasure turned, it had become vicious. Rubbing my hands together, I admitted, "It's dire, or I wouldn't consider it."

Emerson glanced past me, then skimmed his fingers down my arm. "Be careful."

His whisper was almost as intimate as his touch. Softly, I reassured him, "I will be. I'm promising them nothing."

"That's what
you
think." He pushed the door open, then added, "And that's not dramatics, Miss Stewart. Hope's hard to come by out here. If you go around telling people you can find water, and they don't have any to find..."

My throat closed. Because this time, Emerson wasn't barbing me or begging for a retort. He warned me in earnest, and I had a feeling he had some kind of experience to inform it. Sadly, so did I.

"I'll be careful," I said.

Nudging me out of the back room, the temper between us changed. He said, almost conversationally, "Did you know there's a creek round about two miles from your back door?"

That question prickled on my skin, a sheen of awareness rising to the surface. Had he seen the silver gleaming I made, when he dug into our garden? Had he memorized my ghost map of the plains, the one outlined with elemental magic?

Rather than ask, I answered. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"There's a stand of trees nearby," he said. "Sometimes I like to rest Epona there, on the way back from Enid Station. There's sand plums out that way, if you know where to look."

Though he drifted away from me, our eyes still met. "Our hens aren't laying yet, so I've been stealing eggs from the prairie chickens near there. Do you often go to Enid?"

"Often enough. I might tomorrow, to see what the 3:15 train brings in."

The harp string sang again-—it was an invitation.

I selected a box of sassafras filé from the shelves to sample. The vibrant spice burned pleasantly, but not as much as the tilt of Emerson's brows when I nodded.

He'd asked and I'd accepted, come what may.

***

"This should be it," Birdie said, consulting a scrap of paper, then shielding her eyes to look into the distance. Louella dozed in her lap, and Birdie stroked her curls smooth with a steady touch.

A weathered wooden stake marked this plot as 443. Mr. Gibson had said its owners might receive us. Nothing stood near the stake, however, and considering that each citizen who'd claimed land in last year's run had taken 160 acres, the front edge may have been the farthest point from the house.

Theo slowed Annabel Lee and pointed to a dark spot in the field. "Perhaps there?"

Considering the distance and the babe in her lap, Birdie weighed her options. Finally, she turned to Theo. "Would you mind if I stayed here? She's so peaceful."

"Not at all," Theo said. He twisted the reins in the footboard rail. Then he stood and hefted the canopy, unfolding it to cast a deep shade over Birdie and Louella. "How's that?"

Birdie graced him with a smile. "Lovely, thank you." She handed me the introductory note Mr. Gibson had written. "Unless you've got a flair for showmanship, keep to the letter."

Though I wanted to, I didn't roll my eyes at her. Tucking the introduction into my pocket, I let Theo help me from the carriage but declined his arm as we started toward the dark spot.