Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (15 page)

“Mary Katherine and I are accustomed to working without Elizabeth, so she can be spared as well,” said Mrs. Jorgensen as the men pushed back their chairs.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” said Oscar. “I should have thought to ask you. I suppose Elizabeth doesn’t have to go along.”

“No, that’s quite all right.” Mrs. Jorgensen rose and began clearing the table. “Only Elizabeth or Henry would know if one of their bags was missing. We wouldn’t want to make a second trip to pick up something that had been left behind.”

Elizabeth tried to conceal her relief. Ever since breakfast she had been looking forward to a respite from the seemingly endless array of farm chores. She suspected occasions when she could escape from the drudgery of housework and see more of the Arboles Valley would be few and far between, and she meant to enjoy this one. She tried to catch Henry’s eye so he could share in her pleasure, but he left the kitchen with the rest of the men without looking her way. Stung, Elizabeth vowed to speak to him as soon as they had a moment alone.

She helped Mary Katherine and the girls clean the kitchen—a mere few hours before they would make a mess of it again preparing supper—and met Lars outside the barn, where he waited with the wagon and horses. He helped her onto the wagon seat and chirruped to the horses.

“The car’s too small,” Lars said when they reached the main road.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t think all of your stuff would fit in the car. That’s why we’re taking the wagon instead, though the car’s more comfortable.”

“I don’t mind the wagon.” In fact, today she rather preferred it. It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun warm and bright in a cloudless blue sky. She was in no hurry to return to sweeping floors and peeling potatoes.

“I guess not.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice that suggested he knew what she was thinking. It occurred to her that she ought to thank him for choosing her to accompany him, although she suspected he would have preferred to go alone.

“You were right to warn us about John Barclay,” she said. “I don’t think he would had been as helpful if we had not approached him with the proper deference.”

“He was helpful?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Not very. But it’s not all his fault. There was very little he could do to help us. And…I think he might have been preoccupied with other things. His children.”

“Well, that didn’t take long,” said Lars dryly. “I guess Mary Katherine told you.”

“Annalise,” said Elizabeth, hoping she would not get the young girl in trouble.

Lars shook his head, squinting in the sunlight. “It’s a shame. Four little ones gone and no doctor can say why.”

“Yes, of course, but I was referring to the two others who have fallen ill.”

Lars gave her a sharp look. “What’s that you say?”

“When Henry and I were there yesterday, two of the children seemed ill.”

“Which two?”

His urgency took her by surprise. “I—I’m not sure of their names. Wait. Miguel. The youngest, the baby, his name was Miguel. The other was the middle girl. She sat on the steps, very weak, listless, while her sisters played.”

Lars drew in a long breath. “Ana,” he said, exhaling her name. “The middle girl’s name is Ana. The eldest is Marta, and the youngest girl is Lupita. I knew Ana had gotten sick, but I didn’t know about the baby.”

“Annalise says she isn’t allowed to play with the Barclay kids,” said Elizabeth carefully, unwilling to seem critical of his mother. “Is Mrs. Jorgensen afraid she and Margaret might come down with the illness?”

“If she is, that’s a mighty foolish fear,” said Lars. “If it was catching, wouldn’t Marta and Lupita catch it? Wouldn’t Rosa and John?”

“I suppose so.” Elizabeth hesitated. “No one knows what causes this disease?”

“Some folks say it’s bad water on their place, too much alkali. Others say…” Lars shrugged. “Some blame one thing, some another. When folks don’t have any facts, they imagine every kind of craziness.”

“Have the children seen a doctor?”

“Only every doctor between Oxnard and Los Angeles. None of them can explain it. It always starts the same way. For the first year, the baby looks as healthy as any other. Then the illness takes hold and the child just wastes away. Sometimes it might take two years, sometimes four, but the end is always the same. Another child in the ground before the age of eight.”

“Except for Marta and Lupita,” said Elizabeth.

“Lupita is young yet,” Lars reminded her. “But Marta—yes, it looks like Marta has been spared.”

They drove along in silence the rest of the way to the Barclay farm. From a distance, Elizabeth spotted John Barclay plowing his fields. Marta and Lupita played in the shade of three live oaks near the house, but Rosa and the other two children were nowhere to be seen. Lars pulled the horses to a stop, jumped down from the wagon seat, and crossed the dusty yard to the front door. Rosa answered his knock, baby Miguel in her arms.

“I came to collect the mail,” said Lars gruffly, his gaze fixed on Rosa’s careworn and exhausted face. “And my mother would like to mail these.”

Rosa shifted the baby and took the letters. “I’ll give them to John when he comes in from the fields. There’s no mail for your family this time.”

“I hear Miguel has taken ill.”

Rosa nodded and looked away. Elizabeth thought she saw tears in her eyes.

“Rosa—” Lars reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but let his hand fall back to his side. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“But you have no one to help you.”

Rosa straightened and regarded him almost defiantly. “I have Marta. She is a great help to me.”

“But she’s just a girl. What about Carlos and Lupe?”

Rosa gave a bitter laugh. “My brother and his wife want nothing to do with us. You know that.” She glanced past his shoulder. “John is coming. You’d better go.”

When Lars did not budge, she disappeared inside the house and closed the door. John shouted to Lars as he approached, crossing the newly plowed field at a fast pace. Reluctantly, Lars left the house and met him halfway.

“What’s your business here?” demanded John, panting.

“Just mailing some letters for my mother. I gave them to Rosa.”

John eyed him, squinting, then turned his attention to Elizabeth.

“I got a couple of letters here for an Elizabeth Nelson at Triumph Ranch. There’s no such place, so I wasn’t sure what to do with them.”

Elizabeth felt color rise in her cheeks. “I’ll take them, thank you.”

John Barclay grinned, enjoying her embarrassment. “You might want to tell folks to address your mail correctly or it might get mis-directed.”

“Don’t be a fool, Barclay,” said Lars. “She’s the only Elizabeth Nelson in the Arboles Valley.”

John scowled and spat into the dirt. “I’ll get your letters,” he told Elizabeth, and sauntered off to the house. Lars climbed back onto the wagon seat and took up the reins while they waited. From inside the house came the sound of raised voices, John shouting while a child cried. Lars stiffened and wrapped the leather reins around his fist. Another few minutes passed before John returned and placed two envelopes in Elizabeth’s hand. Her heart lifted when she saw the Pennsylvania postmarks and the return addresses, one from her parents in Harrisburg, the second from Elm Creek Manor.

She thanked John, but he waved her off and headed back to the fields. Lars started the wagon and turned down the road toward the western edge of the valley. When the Barclay farm was well behind them, Lars said, “Triumph Ranch?”

Elizabeth could not look at him. “It’s hard to explain.”

“You didn’t get taken in by that Rancho Triunfo scam, did you? Your Henry seems too smart for that.”

“Don’t tell anyone, please,” begged Elizabeth. “I don’t know what Henry would do if Oscar or your mother found out. It’s such an embarrassment to end up working as hired hands at the farm we thought we owned.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Lars assured her. “But you’re not the first to be swindled. You ought to swallow your pride and contact the police. Maybe they can help you get your money back.”

“As far as we know, the man who cheated us is on the other side of the country.”

“Maybe so, but it’s worth a shot.”

“What did the others do, the others who were cheated? Did they go to the police? Did they get their money back?”

“No. They mostly slunk off with their tails between their legs the moment they found out they’d been swindled. You and Henry are the first to stay more than a day afterward.”

Elizabeth sighed softly, fingering the precious letters from home. What did that say about her and Henry, that they had stayed when the others had departed? Were the Nelsons more resilient or simply more foolish?

Before long they reached the row of shops and offices that made up the town proper nestled in the Santa Monica foothills, and soon the wagon was clattering along the cobblestone road leading to the Grand Union Hotel. Carlos stepped from the carriage house at the sound of their approach. He called out a greeting to Elizabeth, a question in his eyes. No doubt he wondered how things had gone at the Jorgensen farm after he had deposited the Nelsons there. Elizabeth returned his greeting with a smile to assure him all was well, but when Lars acknowledged the welcome, Carlos gave him only a wordless nod and quickly disappeared back into the carriage house.

Lars did not seem surprised by the curt welcome, so Elizabeth pretended not to notice it. As Lars helped her down from the wagon seat, it occurred to her that if John Barclay was the most unpopular man in town, Lars seemed to be a close second. She remembered Rosa’s words, her despondent claim that Carlos and his wife wanted nothing to do with her. Elizabeth had seen for herself that Carlos had stayed in the yard instead of holding his sick nephew or comforting his sister. Perhaps Carlos, like Mrs. Jorgensen, feared contagion. If Lars’s opinion that it was foolish to shun the Barclays was well known, that might account for the lack of friendliness between him and Carlos.

Lars waited with the horses while Elizabeth entered the hotel. She found Mrs. Diegel in the kitchen, which smelled of roasting chickens, cilantro, and orange. They expected a large crowd that evening, Mrs. Diegel said cheerfully, explaining her early start on preparing the meal. Both Mr. Milton and Mr. Donovan had parties of prospective homeowners spending the night at the hotel. Dinner promised to be lively, with both men and their clients gathered at the same table extolling the virtues of their own developments and pointing out the flaws in their competitor’s.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Mrs. Diegel asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I promise it will be entertaining.”

“I wish I could, but I have to get back to work. I just came by to pick up our luggage.”

“I suppose I don’t have the space at the table tonight anyway.” Mrs. Diegel led Elizabeth to the storage room. “It’s none of my business, but I’m curious where you’re staying tonight.”

Elizabeth had been prepared for this. She forced a smile and said, “Our original plans fell through, but Henry and I were fortunate to find work on the Jorgensen farm. We have a quaint little cabin all to ourselves on their property.”

“Not that ramshackle old place,” said Mrs. Diegel, aghast. “That’s not fit for human habitation. Oscar should have torn it down long ago.”

“It has seen better days,” Elizabeth admitted, “but we’ll fix it up nicely.”

“With what? Did you pack tools? Supplies? How will you furnish it? You can’t possibly have beds and tables and chairs packed away in these trunks.”

“There was some furniture in the cabin already. Whatever else we need can wait until payday.”

“Oh, my heavens.” Mrs. Diegel clasped a hand to her brow and shook her head. “I admire your fortitude, but you need to pause a minute and think. How far do you think your paycheck will stretch if you have to furnish an entire cabin, even one that small? That place doesn’t even have indoor plumbing. Where do you bathe? How will you cook for yourselves?”

“So far we’ve eaten all our meals with the Jorgensens,” said Elizabeth. “If we want to dine alone sometime, we do have a cookstove.”

“Yes, but do you have any coal? Any pots and pans?”

“No,” said Elizabeth. Triumph Ranch was supposed to come furnished. She and Henry had assumed that included kitchen implements, and if not, they had planned to buy what they needed after taking inventory. Now their inventory included three old beds with worn and soiled mattresses, a chair and a stool, and two worn and faded quilts, and they had neither the money nor the credit to buy what they lacked.

Mrs. Diegel gestured to the Nelsons’ luggage. “And all this? The wedding trousseau, I assume. Finery rather than the practical things you really need.”

Elizabeth nodded, although that was only partially correct. She and Henry needed the quilts, bed linens, and dishes as much as they needed cooking pots and coal. But the wedding gifts were more meaningful to her than the sum of the practical roles they performed. They were the comforts of home, tangible reminders of loved ones so far away, relics of a time when they had been full of confidence and hope and promise. Elizabeth needed to surround herself with these souvenirs of a different age or she feared she might forget how she had felt on the train west as Henry’s bride. Worse yet, Henry might forget.