Tomorrow's Garden (14 page)

Lawrence tried not to frown. That was all well and good, but he wanted more than an inanimate object to be his friend. He wanted Harriet. In the long hours while he’d waited for the rustlers, he had thought about his time in Ladreville. There were things he could be proud of: the arguments he’d settled, the way the town appeared to have accepted him. But the memories that circled through his head, refusing to be dismissed, were of the hours he had spent with this woman.

It was true that he had enjoyed
David Copperfield
; however, it wasn’t only the story that had intrigued him, but the knowledge that Harriet had read it. As he turned the pages, Lawrence found himself wondering what she thought of a particular scene, whether she had reacted to the characters the way he had. Wouldn’t Lottie laugh? Neither one of them had ever been called a bookworm, yet here he was, eager to discuss a long book with a schoolteacher. That was one thing he would not include in his next letter to his sister. She didn’t need to know about Harriet . . . yet.

When they finished their review of
David Copperfield
, Lawrence knew two things: he and Harriet had very different views, and yet they agreed on the most important aspects of the book. It was exhilarating, hearing her opinions and knowing that she would listen to his.

He slid off the stool and walked around the schoolroom, envisioning it filled with students, with Harriet standing in front, a small but commanding presence. To think he’d once considered her a gnat, tiny and annoying. Now he viewed Harriet as a hummingbird, beautiful, brightly colored, and bursting with energy. Like the bird, each time she entered his life, she raised his spirits.

“Tell me about your family,” he said as he returned to the stool. “Do they love books as much as you do?” He would need to know that and so many other things if he were to court Harriet.

Court Harriet? Lawrence heard his breath escape in a whoosh. Where had that idea come from?

“The food is delicious, Frau Friedrich.” No one could doubt the sincerity of Sterling’s words, for this was the second heaping plate of Wiener schnitzel and spaetzle that he had emptied.

From the opposite end of the table, Herr Friedrich gave his wife a proud smile. “My Greta is the best cook in Ladreville.”

Harriet nodded her agreement. The dinner was going even better than she had hoped. Oh, it was true that Jake was fuming, resenting the fact that he had to be at the same table as his nemesis Karl, and Ruth blushed even more than normal when she learned she would be seated between Sterling and Karl, but everyone else appeared to be enjoying both Frau Friedrich’s wonderful cooking and the company.

She smiled at Herr Friedrich. “Your wife is a marvelous cook. That’s why I’ve asked her to teach me some of her secrets. It would be good if I could make more than coffee.”

“Harriet is an awful cook.” Daniel stuffed a biscuit into his mouth and continued speaking. “Everything she makes is lumpy, even the porridge.”

“The gravy is the worst,” Sam announced. “Lumpy, lumpy, lumpy.”

“Now, boys, that’s no way to speak of your sister.” Karl leaned forward and frowned at them. “You need to show respect. And don’t talk with your mouths full.” Though his words were directed at the younger boys, Mary cringed under the force of Karl’s disapproval. Frau Friedrich had placed the four youngest children on one side of the table, with Sterling, Ruth, Karl, and Harriet on the other. Being under constant adult scrutiny did nothing to improve the youngest Kirks’ manners.

“They’re only telling the truth,” Harriet said, trying to defuse the situation. “The family is fortunate to have Ruth. We’d probably starve if it weren’t for her.” Predictably, Ruth blushed and lowered her head.

While Sterling murmured something to Ruth, Karl turned toward Harriet, approval shining from his eyes. “It’s good that you learn Mutter’s recipes. They will serve you well when it’s time to feed your husband.”

Like her siblings’ behavior, this was not a subject Harriet cared to discuss. “There’s no husband in my future,” she said steadily. Inexplicably, the image of Lawrence danced before her. It must be because she’d been thinking of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
and wondering whether he was enjoying it. That had to be the reason—the only reason—she had pictured him.

At her side, Karl stroked his beard. “Ach, Harriet, a woman like you would make a good wife.” According to Isabelle, the rumor mill had lost interest in her and no longer linked her name with Karl’s. That was excellent news and could be one of the reasons Jake had seemed almost like his old self. Harriet couldn’t let Karl do anything to change that. As she opened her mouth to deliver a retort, Sterling interjected himself. “These pickles are particularly tasty.” Harriet suspected he cared less for pickles than for peace, a supposition that was confirmed when he turned to Herr Friedrich. “Now, sir, tell me about your wheat. Gunther says it’s the finest in the state.” The awkward moment had passed.

Half an hour later, dinner was over and Harriet was helping Frau Friedrich wash dishes.

“You were right, my dear,” the older woman said as she swirled soapsuds in the basin. “Pastor Russell is a good man. Otto, Karl, and I will be in church next Sunday.”

Harriet’s heart filled with warmth. This was why she had come, to solve a problem. “Thank you. I know Pastor Russell will be pleased.” And so would Lawrence. Harriet glanced at the cuckoo clock that hung on the kitchen wall, calculating how long it would be before she could tell him the good news.

“I’m not done,” Frau Friedrich said as she handed Harriet a plate to dry. “I plan to pay a few calls this week. It’s time our congregation started acting like Christians again.”

Harriet nodded. If only every problem were that easy to resolve.

11

Each day was easier. Her knees no longer knocked when she left the house, and yesterday she’d actually spoken to a woman at the mercantile. Ruth had been so excited about that feat that she had wanted to rush to the parsonage and tell Sterling, but that would not have been seemly, and so she had waited until this morning. It was unseemly enough that in her thoughts she called him Sterling rather than Pastor Russell. No one other than God knew her thoughts, but if she had visited the parsonage twice in one day, others might have noticed, and she couldn’t let that happen.

“You look happy,” he said when he opened the door and ushered her inside. That was another difference. Ruth had overcome her fear enough to enter the parsonage. Last week she had even ventured as far as Pastor Sempert’s room and had delivered the vanilla custard to him. His smile, crooked and distorted as it was, had made her feel as if she’d slain a dragon. Perhaps she had—the dragon of dread.

“I am happy,” she told Sterling, quickly recounting yesterday’s trip to the mercantile. “I know it doesn’t sound like much but . . .”

“Nonsense. Each step is important. Now, tell me what you’re planning to do about the harvest festival.”

The harvest festival was only a fortnight away, and though Ruth had cajoled, pled, and outright refused to attend it, Harriet still expected her to go with the rest of the family. How was Ruth to endure a whole evening at the festival? It wasn’t like church, where all she had to do was listen. People would expect her to join in conversation. And then there would be another meal with the Friedrichs. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of Sunday dinner with them.

The older Friedrichs were nice enough, or they would be if they didn’t expect her to converse. Unfortunately, both Herr and Frau Friedrich were outspoken in their opinions and seemed to think that everyone else should be too. But at least they were pleasant, unlike Karl. He was so gruff that Ruth wasn’t surprised Jake didn’t like him. She didn’t care for him overly much herself, especially when he looked at Harriet as if she were a horse he was considering buying. Harriet had her faults—perhaps more than her fair share—but she was not an object. If she had had more courage, Ruth would have told him that.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she admitted. “Unless I’m ill, I suppose I’ll have to attend it.”

Sterling was silent for a moment. “I think you should do more than simply attend. I think you should participate.” As Ruth felt the blood drain from her face at the very prospect, he continued. “I heard the committee needs a woman to serve punch. Why don’t you do that? A pretty girl like you shouldn’t remain on the sidelines.”

Ruth gulped. He thought she was pretty? “You think so?”

“I know so. You can do it, Ruth. I know you can.”

And so, although it had not been her intent, Ruth found herself agreeing to stand behind a table and ladle punch at the town’s harvest festival, all because Sterling Russell thought she was pretty.

“Sit down, Jean-Claude. If you tease Hilda once more, you’ll spend the rest of the day on the dunce stool.” And it would not, Harriet knew, be anywhere nearly as pleasant an experience as having Lawrence there. Jean-Claude would fidget; the other children would snigger; she would be forced to assume her most forbidding expression. Though the boy took his seat and only glowered at Hilda, Eva Lehman began to cry. “What’s wrong?” To her dismay, Harriet’s voice held more than a little annoyance. It seemed everyone was out of sorts today, including her.

Eva looked up, her face mottled by tears. “I forgot how much three times three is. Mama Isabelle and Vati will think I’m a dummkopf.” Something was definitely amiss today, for the child was more distressed than Harriet had seen her. Normally Eva was careful to speak only English, but here she was referring to her father as Vati and letting another German word slip in, all because of a multiplication table.

“Your parents and I don’t expect you to have memorized them yet,” Harriet said gently. “It takes time.” And that was the problem. Her pupils were eager to learn, but they were also easily discouraged, expecting everything to happen immediately and becoming disappointed when it didn’t. Though this was not a problem she had encountered in Fortune, Sarah confirmed that she’d noticed the same phenomenon last fall. What the students needed was patience. Unfortunately, that was not part of Harriet’s lesson plan.

It ought to be. The thought refused to be dismissed. While the children recited today’s Bible verse and chanted the times-three multiplication table, part of Harriet’s mind continued to worry, chasing the thought the way a dog might his tail and with the same predictably frustrating results. She was accomplishing nothing, absolutely nothing.

It was late afternoon when Harriet glanced out the window. The schoolyard looked the way it always did, the grass thin in the areas where the children played tag, totally missing under the two swings. And yet at one corner of the yard a small patch of goldenrod flourished, as if in defiance of the children’s activity.

That’s it
. Harriet felt a bubble of excitement rise to her throat as she considered the possibilities. The more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed. While there were no guarantees that it would work, it was certainly worth trying. “Wear your oldest clothes tomorrow,” she told the children as she dismissed class. “We have a new project.”

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” Daniel demanded at supper that night. It was the same question she had heard from half a dozen students as they’d filed out of the schoolhouse. Her brother was going to get the same answer she gave them.

“You know I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t be fair to the other pupils.”

“They’re not fair to us.” Though normally possessed of a sunny disposition, tonight Sam was frowning. “They all think we’re your favorites.”

“Of course you are, but only at home.” To Harriet’s surprise, Ruth spoke before she had a chance to reply. “You know Harriet can’t play favorites at school. But she could tell me.”

Harriet intercepted the mischievous glance her sister gave the boys. Something was different about her tonight. Ruth seemed calmer, almost serene, and it wasn’t like her to become involved in the family’s squabbles. Though Harriet was curious about the reason, right now she needed to deal with her brothers.

“I could tell Ruth,” she admitted, “but I won’t.”

Mary scrunched her face into a grimace. “You’re mean. Ruth would have told us.”

Which was precisely the reason Harriet would not confide in her. “You’ll find out tomorrow, along with everyone else.”

Thomas tried not to groan as he dragged himself to his feet. The man Herb Allen had sent to deliver his message had made sure there was no misunderstanding.

“Mr. Allen don’t like cheaters,” the man had announced as he landed a punch to Thomas’s ribs. “No, sirree, he sure don’t like folks who don’t pay.” Another blow. “You got one more week. Seven days.” Seven kicks accompanied the statement. “If you ain’t got his money then, you’ll be sorry. Real sorry.”

Thomas was sorry now. Sorry he’d had the misfortune to lose money in one of Herb Allen’s establishments. Sorry he’d let this miscreant catch him unaware. And sorry—oh, so sorry—that his letter to Harriet had been lost. That had to be what had happened. It was the only explanation. If she’d received his letter, she would have returned to Fortune. He knew it.

His gait unsteady, Thomas made his way back to the parsonage. There was no other choice. He’d have to ask Uncle Abe for the money. The old man had started locking up the offering, but surely once he understood the urgency, he would agree.

He did not.

“The Bible warns us that we will reap what we sow.” Leave it to Uncle Abe, Fortune’s esteemed parson, to quote the Bible. Thomas almost spat in disgust. “It’s unfortunate you’ve gotten yourself into this predicament, but . . .”

“It wasn’t my fault. The other guy cheated.”

Uncle Abe seemed unimpressed. “Be that as it may, you brought it on yourself. Gambling is wrong, and you know it.”

There had to be a way to convince him. Repentance. That was the trick. Uncle Abe was always talking about people needing to repent.

“You’re right,” Thomas said, though the words threatened to choke him. “I was wrong. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never gamble again.” At least not in a saloon Herb Allen owned. “All I ask is that you help me this one time.”

“No.” His uncle looked at Thomas as if he were a piece of dirt. “The only way you’ll learn the lesson is to face the consequences. The full consequences.”

But Thomas couldn’t, not when the consequence might be death. “Please!” Oh, how it hurt to grovel.

“No. And don’t ask again. I won’t change my mind.”

He had to get the money. He had to. Thomas grimaced as he hoisted himself out of the chair. There had to be a way to get that money, but he could think of only one. Harriet. He grimaced again. There was no time to waste. As painful as it would be to mount a horse, he had no choice. He would go to Ladreville, and when he returned, he would have Harriet . . . and her money.

“But it’s October, Miss Kirk.” Jean-Claude stared at her as if she’d lost her mind when she announced their project. “No one starts a garden in October.”

“We do,” Harriet countered, struggling to contain her grin. Children were so predictable. Though most of them approached anything new with enthusiasm, Jean-Claude could be depended on to complain.

Harriet looked around the classroom, nodding slowly at the pleasure she saw on most faces. “Now, let’s practice our orderly exit as we go outside.” Despite Jean-Claude’s skepticism, the pupils were soon squealing with delight at the prospect of playing in the dirt rather than being quizzed on spelling. At the end of the morning, Harriet smiled as she surveyed what they’d accomplished. It had been dirty work, digging the bed, pulling out grass, raking rocks, but no one had complained, not even Jean-Claude.

“Excellent progress, children. We’ll have the finest flower garden in Ladreville.”

Eva’s knit brows telegraphed her confusion. “How can we? We didn’t plant anything.”

“We’ll do that tomorrow.” There was plenty of time to sow the seeds today, but Harriet wanted them to wait. This was, after all, a lesson in patience.

As the afternoon progressed and she found herself glancing at the clock dozens of times, she realized it was a lesson she also needed. Today was the day Lawrence would return
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, and she—silly Harriet—was counting the minutes until he arrived. She never felt this way when she and Isabelle planned to meet. As much as she enjoyed conversing with her friend, anticipation never sent frissons down her spine. Seeing Lawrence was different.

It was only because she wanted to hear his reaction to the book. There was no other reason why Harriet found an hour with him more exciting than her visits with Isabelle. And it was only because she enjoyed discussing literature that she wished she and Lawrence could meet more than once a week. She wouldn’t suggest that, of course. It would be highly improper to impose on him, for Lawrence was a busy man. Besides, Harriet would do nothing to give the rumor mill any more grist. Once a week was seemly. Anything more frequent would provoke comments.