They Called Her Mrs. Doc. (12 page)

It was an old rambling house, tacked and held together with bits of this and pieces of that. It had never known paint, nor had the yard ever been raked or trimmed. One scraggly tree stood near the door, dragging pitiful branches dangerously close to one’s head upon entrance. Even Cassie had to duck in order to avoid having the pins torn from her bonnet in passing.

They were welcomed by a reed-thin woman with a sharp chin and sharper eyes. She seemed to look right through Cassie, and the younger woman wondered if the older woman was studying her soul and finding it wanting.

Mrs. Clement clicked loose false teeth when she talked—and she talked often and profusely.

“Expected ya last night. Had the bed all ready,” she began, making the words sound almost like an accusation.

“We had hoped to be here but a storm held us up,” explained Samuel.

She eyed Cassie sharply, seeming to put all of the blame on her. “Locals woulda jest kept travelin’,” she observed.

“It was too hard on the mare to pull the buggy through the mud,” said Samuel, and Cassie was pleased that he did not allow her to be held responsible.

“Where’d ya bed?” clicked the woman as she led them down a dark hall and pushed open a creaking door.

“Stayed with a fella by the name of Hank,” replied Samuel.

The woman’s sharp eyes brightened. “Hank, eh? Never could turn one away, ol’ Hank. Take in any stray.”

Cassie wasn’t sure she liked being called a stray. Particularly in the way that Mrs. Clement had spoken the word, but she made no comment.

Mrs. Clement turned to look at them as she held the door open, her eyes snapping, her teeth clicking. “Heard ya had red hair,” she said to Cassandra. “It sure is red all right. Got the temper to go along with it, I ’spect.”

Cassie could feel her cheeks beginning to flame. She also felt Samuel’s soft touch on her arm. With great difficulty she decided to prove the woman wrong. Her chin came up and her green eyes snapped but she held her tongue.

She passed by the woman through the door and looked at the room that was to be theirs for the next several days.

It was small. Barely big enough for them to pass each other. The bed was small, too, but it took most of the space. Hooks lined the walls, and Cassie knew that they were to suffice for a wardrobe. An old dresser stood against the wall under the single window and on it sat a cracked blue pitcher in a chipped cream bowl. One worn towel hung limply from a peg over the bed. Cassie realized she was seeing her bedroom, bathroom, and parlor all in one brief glance.

“Put fresh water in the pitcher jest a couple hours ago,” the woman was saying. “You can wash up if you’ve a mind to. Jest throw the used water out the winda. Dinner will be in ten minutes or so.”

And with those words she left.

Cassie did not turn to look at Samuel. She was afraid he might see what she did not wish to reveal. Surely, surely, Samuel would realize now that they couldn’t possibly stay in this wilderness town. Surely he would tell her not to bother to unpack her cases, that they would just climb aboard the buggy, flick the reins over the mare and head straight back to Calgary.

But Samuel was not speaking. He crossed the torn linoleum on the floor and leaned to open the window.

“A little breeze would feel good,” he said cheerfully as he hoisted the single unit. But not a breath of air stirred the limp flour-sack curtain.

“You go ahead and wash,” he invited Cassie, pouring some of the tepid water into the basin.

Cassie washed, then dried on the scant towel. Samuel did not even change the water but proceeded to wash after her, sharing the same towel she had used. Then he did exactly as bidden and leaned from the window to throw the basin of water into the yard beyond.

The dinner was good. Cassie had to admit that. Though it was simple fare, Mrs. Clement was a good cook. But the older woman chattered and clicked and asked candid questions the entire meal. Cassie ate hurriedly, wishing to return to their room—their tiny little room.

“You didn’t get much sleep last night,” Samuel encouraged her. “Why don’t you lie down and have a nap? I’m going over to see where I will start on the house.”

Cassie nodded, only too glad to comply.

But the room was stuffy warm. If she opened the window the flies came in, and if she shut the window and killed off the flies, she suffered from the heat.

At last she stretched out, exhausted, and slept in spite of herself. When she awakened it was well into the afternoon. She debated whether to stay where she was and try to read in the intense heat, or to escape the little room and walk down the street to see Samuel.

She moved to the window and looked out on the sultry day. A dust devil twirled a sandy cloud round and round before depositing it on a stretch of broken sidewalk. In the distance the bare plains seemed to dance with the haze of heat waves. A few scraggly chickens scratched fruitlessly in the dust of the path. Cassie turned from it all with a lump in her throat.

“So much for bringing culture,” she whispered, fighting back tears that threatened to come. “These people wouldn’t understand it. They are more concerned with keeping the dust out of the flour bin.”

Cassie went back to bed.

“How does one make contact for household help?” Cassie asked their landlady innocently one day while the two of them sat on the back porch sharing a pitcher of lemonade.

The lady looked at her with a puzzled frown. She clicked her teeth once or twice but said nothing.

“Where does one find one’s help?” Cassie repeated, thinking that the woman might not have heard or understood her question.

“What ya meanin’?” said Mrs. Clement. “What ya wantin’ help fer? Thought yer man had him all the help he needs.”

“No. No. I mean for housekeeping. Cooking. For me, after we are settled.”

The woman looked at Cassie as though she couldn’t possibly be hearing right. “Ya havin’ a baby?” she asked candidly.

Cassie flushed. “Of course not,” she quickly countered. “We’ve just recently been married.”

“Only folks I know who have house help are the ones sick abed, having new babies where things ain’t quite right, or they got ’em too many little ones to handle alone,” said Mrs. Clement.

Cassie refused to blush.

“Every woman I know has household help,” she said with a hint of defiance.

“Well, it ain’t done here,” went on Mrs. Clement, her teeth clicking noisily. “Folks would all wonder jest what was wrong with ya.”

Cassie did flush then, but before she could make any defense Mrs. Clement spoke again. “Ya don’t know how to cook or keep house?” she asked without embarrassment.

“Of course I know,” said Cassie with a slight lift of her head. “My mother saw to it that I learned all of the arts of—”

“Then why ain’t ya aimin’ to do it?” asked the good woman.

Cassie swallowed hard. Her green eyes met the sharp smoky blue eyes of the woman before her. “I will be doing it,” she responded almost coolly.

The woman nodded, clicked her teeth, and stood to her feet. “Guess I gotta git those potatoes peeled fer supper,” she said, and left Cassie alone on the porch. Cassie never mentioned the idea of household help again—not even to Samuel.

Cassie knew she should be interested in the little house Samuel said was taking shape nicely. She supposed that he expected her to walk the short distance daily to see for herself the progress being made. But for some reason, Cassie could not bring herself to do that.

She found a quiet, almost cool spot behind the house where the breeze sometimes teased her hair and the sun did not beat down with the same vigor. There she busied herself with hemming new curtains from some material she had brought along. Her excuse seemed to be sufficient to keep prying eyes and wagging tongues from condemning the new bride.

For several days she saw Samuel only at mealtime and at the end of long, busy days when he was almost too tired from his labors to even bring her up-to-date on his doings. Anxious to be in their new quarters, he had hired some help, and from the pounding that Cassie heard as she hid herself away on the sagging back porch, it seemed indeed that progress must be taking place.

Then one day as Cassie stitched her last curtain hem, a grinning Samuel appeared and announced joyfully that the little house was ready for occupancy. Cassie braced herself for the worst and allowed her things to be loaded in the buggy. Then she stepped up, Samuel’s arm giving her aid, and sat stiffly aboard while the little mare bore them down the dusty street to their first home.

Cassie was unprepared for the change of its appearance. The fence had been mended and the walk cleared. The white painted exterior had been restored, the windows fixed and the tattered curtain gone from view. Proudly Samuel helped her from the buggy, then whisked her up into his arms and carried her across the threshold as he had promised. Cassie could feel the tears forming droplets in her eyes. She didn’t know why she was crying. She only knew that something deep within her was responding in some way to the man whom she loved.

He placed her on her feet and grinned broadly. “Our parlor,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Cassie looked about her at the simple furniture. Two rockers sat before the fireplace and a sofa covered with a bright quilt graced the far wall. In the background a bureau stood, new and unscarred, before a staid white-painted wall. No rugs, no curtains, no pictures yet softened the bareness. Cassie let her glance slide over everything Samuel had provided, and suddenly the woman in her flamed into life. She had a house. Simple—yet clean. She would make it into a home for Samuel. Not elegant—not even pretty—but a home nonetheless. She turned to her husband and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Thank you,” she choked out, unable to say more.

But even then her inner being whispered, “I’m sure I can be fine here—until you decide it’s time to move back to Montreal.”

Chapter Eleven

Adjustments

Cassie quickly busied herself with adding “touches” to their little frame home while Samuel set up his practice and became too busy almost at once. On some days, Cassie felt as if she had been deserted. Samuel was gone from daybreak to past sundown, and after her daily chores had been completed, there was really nothing for her to do.

She refused to sit idly on her back porch, but finding enough to fill the hours of the day was difficult. She knew no one of her own age with similar interests and, worst of all, Samuel still had not breathed one word about returning to the East.

The townsfolk had been friendly enough, but Cassie felt a bit strange with them. Unconsciously she held herself apart, feeling that they could not possibly understand her background, her breeding—thus, her thoughts and feelings.

One day as she went to the store for a few items, she happened to pass a cluster of women. They were unaware of her presence until she was well within earshot.

“She’s a bit high-hat,” she heard Mrs. Clement click. “But the West will take thet outta her quick enough.”

Cassie bit her lip and hurried on. But she knew the woman had been speaking of her—and another wall was built.

So Cassie stayed at home in her own little kitchen as much as she could. And even though she detested household chores of any sort, she soon learned that they were one way she could pass the time.

She grew more and more lonely and did not know where to turn for friendship. She had to get out. She had to. Yet where could she go? What could she do?

One morning as she strolled past the little community church, the thought came to her that maybe here she could find something to do. Without a pause, she turned up the walk to the parsonage.

“Oh my dear,” said the kind elderly wife of the pastor. “We do need help—in so many areas. What would you be interested in doing?”

Cassie hardly knew. She had attended church all her life, but she had never really been involved in any active role. She had left the many tasks to others.

“I—I’m not sure,” she responded with a flush. “Do—do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, we do need a teacher for the children.”

“I—I have never taught, but I—I guess I could try.”