A Hearth in Candlewood (20 page)

‘‘One day at a time,’’ Diane replied. ‘‘I . . . I’m afraid I haven’t a chair to offer you.’’

‘‘I can’t stay long. A seat on one of the benches would suit me just fine. Please don’t let me keep you from your work.’’

‘‘At least give me your gloves and bonnet. I don’t think a dusting of flour would be considered very fashionable.’’

Emma chuckled as she removed her gloves and bonnet, along with her canvas bag and reticule, and handed them to her. ‘‘You might be surprised what passes for fashion these days.’’

Diane slipped into one of the bedrooms to store away Emma’s things and quickly returned. She ushered Emma to one of the benches and brushed off the flour with the hem of her apron before she went to the opposite side of the table to resume her work. She started kneading one final lump of dough. ‘‘You had a good long walk to get here. Oh, I’m sorry. I never offered you something to drink.’’

‘‘I’m not thirsty, but thank you. On my way, I met an old friend coming from town, and he gave me a ride. He was passing right by your cabin.’’

‘‘As much as I appreciate our new home, it would be easier if it were closer to town, especially for Mr. Cross,’’ Diane gritted as she worked the dough, pressing side to middle and top to bottom in a soothing rhythm of form and motion. She paused to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. ‘‘This old place is sorry to look at now, but we’re fixing to change that. Matthew promised to clear the front path, but he’s badly tired at the end of his day.’’

‘‘What about his brother?’’ Emma asked. She was curious to know if he had found work and she had come in vain, although she certainly needed to get to know the young man better before she recommended him to Mr. Atkins.

‘‘Steven?’’ She frowned. ‘‘The days he finds work unloading the freight barges, he’s tuckered out, too, but there won’t be any work when the canal closes in November. The other days, when he’s looking for steadier work, he’s been coming home so restless he’s got almost all of the backyard cleared so I can put in a winter garden. That’s a whole lot more important than the front path.’’

‘‘I thought Matthew said they were hiring workers in town.’’

Diane shrugged. ‘‘Gossip and rumors were more wishful thinking than anything else. There may be jobs come spring. I’m not sure what we’ll do if he hasn’t found work by then, but I’m certain the good Lord will provide. He always does. There!’’ She gave the dough one final swat and covered it with a cloth.

‘‘I didn’t bring something as a welcome gift,’’ Emma ventured. ‘‘I thought instead you and your family might like to come to supper at Hill House.’’

The woman’s smile was immediate but quickly disappeared. ‘‘That would be lovely and it’s very kind of you to invite us, but . . . after traveling with the Sewells and seeing how fine they were dressed, I doubt we’d be . . . We’re just plain people,’’ she murmured, pausing to look down at her homespun gown that appeared very plain, even when compared to Emma’s brown calico day dress.

Though similar in style, with a high neckline and full skirts, the fabric of Diane Cross’s gown easily separated the two women’s stations in life. Given Mrs. Sewell’s preference for silks and brocades, however, Emma clearly understood Diane’s reluctance to wear simple homespun to supper at Hill House.

‘‘At Hill House, we’re as formal or informal as our guests prefer,’’ Emma countered. ‘‘In point of fact, the Sewells are leaving this afternoon. A couple of very special guests are arriving tomorrow, but I can promise you there won’t be more than two ordinary homespun gowns between them. Please say you’ll come. I seem to know so few people who have come to make Candlewood their home in the past few years. I’d like to change that.’’

‘‘I’d have to speak to Mr. Cross first,’’ Diane said as a smile tickled the corner of her lips. ‘‘Even if he’s having a good day, I’m not sure he’d be up to walking that far. Maybe Matthew can think of—’’

‘‘I have a buggy ordered to meet my guests. They’re coming in tomorrow on the afternoon packet boat. If you can come for supper tomorrow, I can have the driver stop here to pick you up, too. If the packet boat’s on time, they wouldn’t get here much before four-thirty. It would be later if the packet boat’s late. If we don’t plan to have supper until seven, that would give us time to chat, and both of your sons would be able to come after work, as well, as long as they don’t mind the walk.’’

‘‘I’m not sure you should go to all that bother.’’

Emma waved away her objection. ‘‘It’s no bother at all.’’

Diane’s smile deepened into a grin. ‘‘Matthew and Steven are young. They can walk to Hill House together.’’

‘‘Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll arrange for the buggy. If by chance Mr. Cross isn’t having a good day, just tell the driver and we’ll have supper together another time.’’

‘‘Fine, but we’re only coming if you’ll let me bring something for supper.’’

Emma shook her head. ‘‘That’s not necessary.’’

‘‘It’s a special receipt. Mr. Cross says my rye bread is fit for the president’s table.’’

Emma’s mouth began to water. ‘‘Did you say rye bread?’’

‘‘With a crust as thick as the blade of a knife and a center that melts in your mouth faster than butter.’’

‘‘We’d probably need two loaves to have enough for everyone,’’ she cautioned and moistened her lips.

Diane laughed. ‘‘I’ll bring three. There might be too much soup or too much meat or too much dessert, but there’s never too much bread.’’

Emma grinned. ‘‘Never.’’

21

L
ATE WAS LATE.

Emma could walk, skip, hop, or run the rest of the way up the brick lane to Hill House, but she would still be late for dinner. Even if she could sprout wings and try to fly up the hill, her skirts and shoes were so heavy with caked mud and dirt, she probably would not have been able to get off the ground.

She hurried up the brick lane. She should not have been late; her visit with Diane Cross had not been any longer than she had planned, and her walk home had not taken longer than she expected. But she could hardly have anticipated the row on Main Street, the crowd of people who thronged the street as well as the planked sidewalk, or the mishap that had forced her to zigzag around them, going from one side street, back to Main Street, then on another side street just to get home.

‘‘Simpletons!’’ she muttered as she made her way to the wrought iron gate and let herself into the front yard. She glanced down at her soiled skirts and rolled her eyes. There was no chance she could waltz into dinner looking as if she had fought a battle with a mud turtle and lost—which was an excuse Benjamin had tried to use once when he had come home late for dinner and caked with mud—any more than she could explain the disturbance that had delayed her.

Not at the dinner table.

She frowned. The whole affair was distasteful. Certainly not the sort of tale to share in polite company. Definitely not in front of the two Sewell girls. And decidedly not in front of Reverend Glenn.

Even if the tale was oddly humorous.

She giggled in spite of herself, then sobered at the dismal prospect of soothing Mother Garrett’s ruffled feathers, even if she did have a gift from Mr. Atkins as a quasi–peace offering for being late.

‘‘Late is late,’’ she mumbled. She hurried up to the house and around the porch, let herself into her office, and slipped up the back staircase to her room. She heard the grandfather clock chime two o’clock and groaned. She was terribly late. But if she hurried, she might not be late at all . . . for dessert.

————

Emma’s entrance into the dining room caused less of a stir than she expected, and she noted that all the dishes had been cleared away. She was indeed too late for dessert.

In fact, everyone was so preoccupied giving and receiving accolades about the gifts given to the Sewells, that Emma managed to slide into her seat next to Mother Garrett without much more than a stern look for a reprimand.

‘‘I’m deeply sorry for being so late,’’ she offered. ‘‘Main Street was blocked and I had to take another way home.’’

Mr. Sewell smiled and patted his vest pocket. ‘‘You missed an excellent meal, not the least of which was the amazing apple crisp we had for dessert—and I have the recipe right here.’’

‘‘But you’re not too late to see our gifts,’’ Mrs. Sewell countered. Her smile quickly dropped into a frown. ‘‘Unless you’ve seen them already.’’

‘‘No, I haven’t, except for the tins of pretzels Mother Garrett made for your journey home,’’ Emma suggested and caught a glimpse of Madeline and Miriam comparing the gifts they had been given.

Mrs. Sewell held up a dainty white handkerchief with both hands so it hung like a picture in front of her. ‘‘Widow Leonard made each of us one of these. See? There’s an
HH
stitched in the top corner in white that looks exactly like the sign on the front of the house, and a long-stemmed rose in the opposite corner. My embroidery is white, but the girls have different shades of pink. The handkerchief she made for Mr. Sewell is bigger but doesn’t have a rose, of course.’’

Emma caught Aunt Frances’s gaze and held it. ‘‘What a lovely idea. Thank you.’’

The elderly woman beamed. ‘‘I thought it might be a nice memento for your guests so they wouldn’t forget what a lovely time they had and so they’ll come back to Hill House for another visit.’’

‘‘Miriam and I have crosses, too,’’ Madeline murmured and passed hers down the table to Emma. ‘‘Reverend Glenn made them for us.’’

Emma laid the simple wooden cross in the palm of her hand. Though no more than an inch long, the cross had clearly been whittled by hand and dried by the fire to seal the sap, and she now understood why he had been collecting the branches of wood the day he had fallen. With his weakened left arm and hand, such a task should have been impossible for him. When she looked more closely, she saw the slight indentations where the wood had been held steady, which explained his need for the vise Mr. Atkins had mentioned.

‘‘It’s made of candlewood, and Reverend Glenn told us all about it—how it burns for hours and hours and how his mother used to burn candlewood instead of candles because they were too poor to afford them,’’ Miriam explained, clearly anxious to steal the limelight from her sister.

‘‘And what else did Reverend Glenn tell you, Madeline?’’ Mrs. Sewell prompted.

Madeline smiled. ‘‘That God loves us and . . . and that God’s love is like a light shining on us to show us how to be good.’’

‘‘And since there’s lots of candlewood here, that’s why the town is called Candlewood,’’ Miriam added, not to be outdone.

Emma passed the cross back to Madeline. When she looked at Reverend Glenn, his eyes twinkled. ‘‘I told the girls you helped me gather up the candlewood from the woods behind the gazebo.’’

‘‘All I did was carry it back for you. You did the rest, although you kept what you were doing a secret. The crosses are beautiful. Thank you for making them for the girls.’’

‘‘I’m just pleased to have something to offer to earn my keep a bit,’’ he murmured, and his voice carried a note of confidence she had not heard before.

She was humbled by the gift of having this man as part of her family at Hill House. She was also awed by his ability to continue a ministry of sorts with his whittling, and her heart was deeply troubled by the thought that his time here, as well as her own, might come to an end should the legal owner refuse to sell Hill House to her.

‘‘Do you have a gift for us, too, Widow Garrett?’’ Miriam asked.

‘‘Don’t be rude,’’ Madeline scolded. ‘‘Widow Garrett’s gift is Hill House and all the nice people who live here.’’

Mother Garrett slipped her hand over Emma’s and squeezed gently. ‘‘Amen,’’ she whispered.

Emma blinked back tears and prayed Madeline was right and that Emma might be given the chance to continue operating Hill House for many years to come.

————

After waving one final good-bye, Emma waited until the packet boat disappeared from view before hurrying back to Hill House to keep her promise.

Not seeing Steven Cross among the workers at the landing, she did not know if that meant he had found another job or if he simply had not been hired for the day. She decided tomorrow would be soon enough to find out. Fortunately, the disturbance earlier this afternoon had long been resolved, at least to the extent that Main Street was no longer blocked, and she rushed back to Hill House without incident.

By the time she reached the patio, she was breathless and nursing a stitch in her side. She charged past Mother Garret and Aunt Frances and went directly to the north wall. ‘‘You haven’t seen the packet boat pass by yet, have you?’’ she asked as she scanned the length of the Candlewood Canal in the distance, just above the tree line.

‘‘Not from here,’’ Mother Garrett replied. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I promised Madeline and Miriam that I’d do my best to get back and wave good-bye from Hill House.’’

‘‘Standing on tiptoe like that, you’re likely to lose your balance and fall over that wall,’’ Aunt Frances warned.

Emma dropped back to the soles of her feet, even though the wall was wide enough that standing on tiptoe did not pose any sort of risk.

‘‘The packet’s probably passed by already. Besides, you won’t see much more than specks, and neither will they. It’s too far,’’ Mother Garrett added.

‘‘No. There they are,’’ Emma said, removing her bonnet and waving it until the forest eclipsed all view of the boat.

When she turned around, Mother Garrett patted the seat of the empty chair she had pulled between herself and Aunt Frances. ‘‘Sit and tell us about this so-called disturbance that kept you from dinner.’’

Emma took a deep breath, sat down, and played with the ribbons on her bonnet. ‘‘I didn’t invent a tale. There really was a disturbance on Main Street.’’

‘‘Then, what happened?’’ Aunt Frances asked.

Emma looked around the patio to make sure they were alone and kept her gaze on the door to the dining room.

‘‘We’re going to hear about it anyway,’’ Mother Garrett prompted.

‘‘That’s true, but I don’t want Reverend Glenn to appear in the middle—’’

‘‘He’s napping,’’ Aunt Frances offered.