[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek (12 page)

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Authors: Jan Watson

BOOK: [Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek
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“For heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, shifting in her chair and clutching her dressing gown at her throat. “Give a body a moment’s notice!”
“I figured you’d been up since daylight milking cows and gathering eggs.” His smile was quick and warm and dimpled his cheeks.
She saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Do I look like I milk cows?”
“No, ma’am, you surely don’t. But wouldn’t you like to?”
He took a chair and turned it around. He straddled it and sat facing her, his dark brown eyes taking her measure. Despite her misgivings, she enjoyed his visits. He was a spark of excitement, and she found herself responding to his warmth. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at her like she was needed.
“It’s like this,” Will said. “The baby needs you. You’re the nearest to a mother she could have now. You’re her kin. You owe it to us.”
He’d struck a nerve. He was much too close to the truth as Grace knew it. She covered her face with her hands. When he’d written and told her of the circumstances surrounding Julie’s death, she nearly died herself, for she was guilty in a way she would never admit. Her mind ticked off all the gifts she’d posted, all the letters she had written, none offering the love and forgiveness she knew her sister longed for. When she had discovered her sister’s shameful condition, she had made plans to send her away to a home for unwed mothers. Julie had cried and pleaded to keep her baby, but Grace was not moved by her histrionics. Julie would not be allowed to bring shame into their house. They would say that Julie was away at school; then she could come back and no one would be the wiser.
These were things Will didn’t need to know. He was right about her debt, but she owed
him
nothing. Her balance due was to her sister and the baby, Laura Grace. For, after all, Grace had sent her sister to her grave. She’d given Julie no choice but to run away.
She’d cocked her head and considered the man in front of her. Will Brown was not the stammering boy she’d banned from her property five years ago when he’d shown up to claim Julie. He was a man—determined and persuasive. She couldn’t help but notice his face was handsome, even in ragged grief. And he was charming. He was a man on fire, and his love for his daughter consumed him.
“Give us a year of your time,” he had pleaded, “and then if you can stand to leave Laura Grace, so be it. You’re the nearest person to her mother, and she needs a woman’s touch. I don’t know what I’ll do if you won’t help me.”
Her mind churned with thoughts of what she’d lose if she did his bidding. She was a single woman—how could she leave town in the company of a man? She could never come back to Lexington once her reputation was ruined, and she fully intended to come back.
After some thought, she devised a plan, a mock wedding. They would marry in name only; she would give him his year, just long enough for her to persuade him to let her leave with the baby. Then she could raise her niece as she saw fit, in the proper way and in the proper place. It made perfect sense. She would keep her father’s house, and with her inheritance she would turn it into a girls’ school. It mightn’t be perfectly proper—she would be a woman who’d left her husband after all—but as long as there was no divorce she could function once again in polite society.
She’d told him her terms, if not all her plans, and he agreed. He’d not even given her time to buy a new hat. They married at the Fayette County courthouse on their way out of town; the janitor and his wife were their only witnesses. Then he’d whisked her away to a place where people lived without libraries, without concerts and plays, without education, and—to her mind—without the hope of anything better.
Oh, that was a dreadful time. One day she was teaching music at the Finishing School for Young Ladies, the next she was no better than a servant living in a run-down cabin, surrounded by the boxes of books she’d had shipped, her piano, and a baby to raise. She lived on hope—the hope of escape.
It didn’t turn out the way she’d planned, of course. When did things ever turn out right for her? Will was so good to her, so respectful and kind, and she had never known a man so tender toward his child. It was as if her heart had a mind of its own. Against her dearest wish to leave and take the baby with her, she stayed. How could she have been so weak?
Grace knew Will would never love her the way he had loved Julie. She wished that it were different, but every time she looked at Laura Grace she remembered Julie and she knew it would never be. How could she compete with a ghost? She never meant to fall in love with him, but she did. And in the dark of night, she would think about her sin against her sister. Out of pride she’d turned her back on Julie when she needed her most, and then out of weakness Grace had fallen in love with the man who would always love her sister best.
Often Grace would take out Julie’s letters. One she had written soon after she ran away still broke Grace’s heart.
Dear Grace,
I am so sorry for leaving you and Father the way I did. You
know why I had to do this. Just know and accept that it is for
the best. I am happy, and Will is good to me. Please be happy
for me, and, dearest sister, please forgive me.
 
Grace had answered her sister’s letters, but Julie never received her forgiveness. Julie went to her watery grave without knowing how much Grace loved her.
Grace had kept her resolve against Will for nearly a year. To the outside world they lived as man and wife, but behind closed doors he had his bed and she had hers. He never forced the issue.
But that one time . . . he’d found her in the springhouse. . . . It was so cool there, a relief from the summer heat, and the fresh clean smell of mint from her herb garden drifted in from the open door. She’d glanced up from her work and caught his look of need. She could have left; he wouldn’t have stopped her. Instead she welcomed his embrace.
He’d murmured, “Ah, Grace . . .” against her neck. . . . Then there was no turning back.
The thin gold ring on her finger gave him rights, but she still held herself apart. To do otherwise would be to betray the sister who looked over her shoulder every time Will held her close.
And so the years passed, and she found herself settled on the creek with little hope of ever leaving. If she had thought Will might let her take Laura Grace, that hope was dashed when their twins were born. He loved them to distraction, and they adored their father.
And now, fifteen years after she first came to Troublesome Creek, sometimes the work was enough. Sometimes she was almost happy: well, content anyway—content to be in the same room as Will, content to be his wife, even if by default. Until memories of Julie lodged in her heart and made her feel like the substitute she knew she was. She’d never be better than hand-me-down clothes to him, never more than second best. Her stomach churned, and her head began to pound in its familiar rhythm of resentment.
 
Her anger pulled her back from her memories, back to the barn. She smacked her arms against her sides, then walked to the window and watched as Will climbed the mountain beyond the meadow.
He’s going to the cemetery,
she thought.
Julie claims him even from the grave.
A taste as bitter as green persimmons puckered her mouth.
I never stood a chance.
She stood there trapped in guilt, a martyr to her own cause.
 
The next morning dawned hot and muggy. The brief respite from the heat generated by yesterday’s rain dissipated rapidly as the sun rose into the hazy August sky.
Copper ran her hand beneath her thick red hair and cooled her neck with a church fan. She stood on the porch and watched the twins play beside a mud hole, shaded by the leafy branches of a runty apple tree. Later she’d have the boys gather the knotty green apples that lay scattered on the ground; then they could feed the fruit to the pigs. That was all it was good for anyway. That tree could never hold its fruit until harvesttime.
Copper longed to join in their fun as Willy patted out mud pies and Daniel decorated them with bits of leaves and small twigs.
“Sissy, Sissy,” Daniel called, “come and play! You can make a chocolate cake in this old pan.”
“Yeah,” Willy replied, “then Daniel will eat it!” He laughed so hard at his joke that he tumbled into the water.
Daniel giggled and splashed Willy.
“I sure wish I could,” Copper said, “but I’d best finish the breakfast dishes. I’ll save the rinse water for you little pigs. Mam will whip us all if she catches you covered with mud.”
Leaving the door open, she entered the large front room of the cabin. Colorful and spacious, decorated with finery seldom seen in mountain homes, it served as both kitchen and parlor. One wall held two large bookcases separated by an upright piano, and the polished wood floor was covered by a worn Turkish carpet, its once bright red faded to a rusty brown. Starched white curtains crisscrossed the sunny windows.
Copper poured hot water from the heavy iron teakettle over the dishes in a large white enamel pan. Daddy had bought it off a gypsy tinker just last week. It had one little rust spot up near the rim that the tinker had repaired. No telling where he’d gotten it. Folks all said gypsies were thieves, but Daddy had simply declared, “There but for the grace of God . . .”
Her fingers traced the cheery-red rim of the pan.
It’s too pretty for such an ugly job
. Dried egg clung stubbornly to the plates and forks, and coffee stained the cups. “Ouch,” she said under her breath as a splash of boiling rinse water hit her hand. She hopped in place, a quiet little dance of pain, and reached for the butter to soothe her burn.
Without a pang of guilt, Copper stacked the dishes to dry on one of Mam’s monogrammed tea towels. She’d have plenty of time to put them in the cupboard before Mam discovered that they weren’t dried by hand. Mam didn’t cotton to shortcuts.
Once Copper sized the inside of the cast-iron skillet with a dollop of lard from the yellow lard pail, she hung it on a nail by the stove. Copper saved the dirty dishwater in the slop bucket for the hog, but she left the rinse pan on the table.
She checked on the boys. They were laughing and flinging mud at each other. Crossing the room, she eased the bedroom door open, holding her breath against its creak. Mam lay with her eyes closed, enduring one of her sick headaches, a rag across her forehead. Copper peeled off the warm rag and soaked it in the bowl of water that sat on the bedside table. The sharp tang of vinegar stung her nostrils as she wrung the rag out with her good hand. She massaged Mam’s temples and whispered, “Are you feeling any better?”
Mam drew the rag over her eyes. She waved Copper away. “Too loud. Keep them quiet.”
Copper carried the little basin Mam had retched in outside and emptied it by the fence row. She rinsed the basin and carried it back to the bedside, then fanned Mam for a few minutes, barely stirring the humid air that drifted in from the only window in the room.
A single sheet of stationery fell from the nightstand to the floor. Retrieving it, Copper shook her head. She should have known. Mam often took to her bed after receiving a letter from her friend Millicent. Reading about that woman’s
wonderful
life in faraway Philadelphia always stirred up trouble. A shriek from Willy sailed in through the screen. Mam moaned and turned to the wall.
Copper straightened the sheet around her shoulders. “Should I take them for a walk?”
Only Mam’s soft grunt acknowledged her, so she slipped from the room.
She pushed the screen door open with her hip and carried the heavy pan of rinse water out. The boys stood on one end of the porch, their clothes in a soggy pile. They shivered as she poured cups of water over their heads and washed them clean with a bar of lye soap. Willy giggled when she rinsed them with dippers full of warm water from the rain barrel. They stood in the sun to dry as she scraped mud from their overalls with an old butter knife. Once that was done, she draped the overalls over the porch rail. It was two days ’til washday. Copper knew the clothes would sour if left in a wet heap. She’d put them with the rest of the laundry when they dried.
“Boys, would you like to scout for locust shells?” she asked softly. She grabbed at Willy, who hopped wildly across the porch, one leg in, one leg out of his clean overalls. He was impulsive, strong-willed, and always busy—a little whirlwind with his blond hair sticking straight up and his eyes dancing. He stood a head taller than his twin and was built like Daddy with broad shoulders and wiry muscles.

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