A Hearth in Candlewood (11 page)

Widow Leonard’s mouth dropped open.

Emma stared at her companions—the nest of forget-me-nots floating in the soup, the spreading stain on the minister’s shirt— and dissolved into another fit of giggles that passed from one person to the next around the table. She was still giggling when she ladled the nest of flowers from the minister’s soup and carried the soppy decoration to the sink.

After repeated apologies to the minister, Mother Garrett removed her bonnet and inspected the damage. ‘‘I’m not sure the bonnet has quite the same panache without the ornamentation.’’

‘‘We can probably salvage the nest, but I’m not sure about the artificial flowers,’’ Emma suggested, although the minister appeared too flabbergasted to be concerned with anything other than his shirt.

‘‘You’d think the milliner would have sewn the decoration more securely. Once we clean it up, I’ll do that for you,’’ Widow Leonard offered as she removed her own bonnet.

‘‘I’ll just set these aside,’’ Emma suggested, taking first one, then the other bonnet and hanging them both on pegs near the back door. When she returned to the table, she stopped by the minister’s side and made sure she did not crowd Butter in the process. ‘‘May I get you more soup?’’

‘‘No, please don’t bother. I believe I was nearly finished,’’ he replied. He tugged at his soggy shirt, removed several chunks of carrot and a pair of peas stuck to the material, and chuckled as he slid them back into his bowl. ‘‘I haven’t made a mess of myself like that since I was ten years old. Maybe I was eleven. We had little in those days, and I was so intent on finishing my porridge before my older brothers so I might have more, I knocked my bowl square into my father’s lap. Needless to say, I learned my lesson that day.’’

He rose from the table. ‘‘If you ladies would excuse me, I’ll take my leave and change into something drier.’’

‘‘Bring the soiled shirt to me so I can set it to soak,’’ Mother Garrett suggested.

He nodded and held on to the edge of the table for a moment while Butter slowly got to his feet. After he left the room, Emma took her place at the table again, buttered another chunk of bread, and polished it off in several bites.

With her cheeks still pinkly, Mother Garrett absently stirred her soup. ‘‘I’m so awfully embarrassed. I never should have worn my bonnet to the table. That’s one lesson I’ve learned well today.’’

‘‘We had good intentions,’’ Widow Leonard offered. ‘‘We just wanted to impress you, Emma dear.’’ She dropped her gaze for a moment and glanced over at the bonnets hanging on the wall. ‘‘In hindsight, I suppose we were both just a tad vain, too. Or I was,’’ she quickly added.

‘‘No, you’re right. I was vain, too,’’ Mother Garrett insisted and reached across the table to pat her friend’s arm. ‘‘There’s no greater fool than an old woman.’’

‘‘Or a pair of them.’’

Emma held silent. When she finished her soup, she set down her spoon and wiped her lips with her napkin. ‘‘I think you’re both being a bit overzealous condemning yourselves. What just happened was an accident. You meant no harm.’’

Widow Leonard brightened. ‘‘After Mr. Atkins told the sheriff he wanted to withdraw his complaint, the sheriff said the very same thing. That taking the spools of thread out of the store was just an accident.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘He lambasted that poor young man something fierce, in my view.’’

‘‘Well, no one is going to reprimand either of you now. The minister’s shirt can be laundered and the bonnet can be repaired. I would pray that neither one of you would grow morose about this incident at supper, which is more than I might hope for Mr. Atkins, who has much more regret on his plate than either of you,’’ Emma argued.

‘‘The poor man was utterly distraught when he spoke to us. He apologized profusely,’’ Widow Leonard said pointedly.

Mother Garrett nodded. ‘‘He duly accepted his punishment, as well.’’ She leaned toward Emma. ‘‘I venture to say we passed a good two dozen people when he escorted us back to Hill House, but he never faltered. Just walked straight and tall between us, even though we could all hear the twitters of gossip as we strolled the length of Main Street. I felt so sorry for him, I couldn’t help but apologize for striking him, a man as injured as he was.’’

Widow Leonard sighed. ‘‘Poor man. I suggested we might stop in at the General Store to collect you so he didn’t have to endure more, but he’d hear none of it. Insisted he’d bring us all the way home, he did, even though I tried to tell him I was partly at fault for the misunderstanding.’’

Emma looked from one woman to another. ‘‘Can I assume, since all has been forgiven, that we might not expect any further problems with Mr. Atkins or that we might go shopping a bit more carefully in the future?’’

‘‘Certainly,’’ they replied in unison.

‘‘Then I’m well pleased with the way our day has ended,’’ Emma replied. ‘‘Still, it might be better to wait awhile before venturing out to shop. Without any reminders of the incident, the gossip that remains will die out more quickly.’’

‘‘I have more than enough work to keep me home for a spell,’’ Mother Garrett announced and rose to clear the table. ‘‘As I recall, we have four guests arriving tomorrow on the morning packet boat.’’

Emma groaned. ‘‘I’d forgotten.’’

‘‘And I have a good bit of mending that needs my attention,’’ Widow Leonard insisted. Her eyes widened. ‘‘The spools of thread! I need the spools of thread to do the mending.’’ She caught Emma’s gaze and held it. ‘‘I do hope you remembered to pay for the thread and bring it home with you.’’

Emma’s heart dropped to her knees and her cheeks flushed warm. ‘‘As . . . as a matter of fact, I have the thread right here.’’ She reached into her pocket, retrieved both spools, and set them on the table.

‘‘You did remember!’’ Widow Leonard gushed.

Mortified that she had completely forgotten about the spools, Emma swallowed hard. ‘‘In truth, I didn’t.’’

‘‘Yes, you did. You just set them on the table.’’

Emma stared at the spools. ‘‘That’s true, but you see, I . . . I was so intent on resolving the misunderstanding and so surprised by Mr. Atkins’ reaction when I confronted him, by the time he returned, I forgot all about paying for the spools of thread.’’

Mother Garrett started to chuckle, then quickly coughed to cover herself. She took Emma’s plate and bowl and carried them to the sink. ‘‘I don’t think you’ll find a bonnet waiting for you at the end when you clear this up with Mr. Atkins.’’

‘‘No, I’m sure I won’t,’’ Emma gritted, more annoyed with herself than amused by the irony of the awkward situation where she had plopped herself.

‘‘I suppose you’ll just have to leave earlier than usual to meet our guests at the landing, stop at the General Store, and pay the man for the thread,’’ Mother Garrett suggested.

Widow Leonard collected the spools of thread and stored them in her pocket. ‘‘I’m sure he’ll be very understanding.’’

‘‘One might pray,’’ Emma said, not too tired at the moment to realize that by returning to the General Store, she would be taking one of many steps toward humility of her own, especially if she was forced to leave Hill House. With a sigh, she reminded herself that on the way, she would also have to pray that He might forgive her for being a little too sanctimonious . . . and she would ask Mr. Atkins to do the same.

12

D
ULY HUMBLED AFTER HER VISIT
to Mr. Atkins at the General Store to pay for the thread, Emma arrived at the end of Canal Street and entered the landing to wait for the morning packet boat carrying her guests. The air was thick with the smell of stale water, damp wood, the lush vegetation growing along the opposite side of the canal, and the hectic sounds of commerce.

She was not waiting alone.

Half a dozen men stood chatting on either side of the landing, poised to unload the cargo from the expected freight barges the moment the passengers disembarked and the packet boat continued on its way. Drivers from three wagons lined end-to-end on Canal Street waited to load their merchandise and produce onto the barge. The wagons effectively blocked the roadway and vehicle access to and from the landing. As always, the buggy she had rented on an as-needed basis from Thomas Adams at the livery— along with a driver, Adams’ oldest son, Will—sat parked just two squares away, ready to carry Emma’s guests and their baggage back to Hill House.

Dressed for the occasion in one of her finer gowns fashioned from dark gray linen, Emma shared the planked landing itself with a young man she did not know. His footsteps echoed as he paced back and forth, and she gauged him to be in his middle twenties. He was about the same age as her middle child, Benjamin, who had moved west to farm in Ohio with his wife, Betsy, their three small children, and Betsy’s family. This man’s hazel eyes fairly sparkled with the same optimism and excitement peculiar to the young, just like Benjamin’s. Sawdust clung to his work clothes, and she assumed he worked in one of the nearby factories.

He stopped pacing and acknowledged her presence by tipping his well-worn hat. ‘‘Good morning, ma’am. I’m Matthew Cross.’’

She offered him her gloved hand. ‘‘Yes, it is, Mr. Cross,’’ she said. ‘‘My name is Emma Garrett. Widow Garrett. I own Hill House, and I came to meet my guests. They’ll be staying with me there.’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am. I know the place.’’ He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. ‘‘Sits high up, right over there, but I can’t see it from here.’’

‘‘No. There are too many warehouses and factories,’’ she noted. She recalled a time, years back, when Hill House was visible from any given place in the center of town. ‘‘I assume you’re meeting someone from the packet boat, as well?’’

His smile stretched across the full breadth of his narrow face, and his chest puffed with pride. ‘‘I’m meeting my family.’’

She cocked a brow.

‘‘I finally saved enough working at the piano factory to send for them.’’ He stared nervously down the towpath that ran alongside the canal. ‘‘I hope the travel won’t be too difficult.’’

‘‘I’ve traveled on a packet boat many times. Traveling by water is a whole sight better than bumping your way overland in a carriage or a wagon.’’

‘‘Faster too,’’ he offered before he resumed pacing with his gaze locked onto the towpath.

Hopeful she might help the time to pass more quickly and prevent the young man from wearing a path of his own on the landing, she kept their conversation going. ‘‘By family, did you mean your wife and children?’’

With his back to the towpath, he braced to a halt and paled. ‘‘Me? No. I’m not married. Not yet. I’m expecting my parents and younger brother. My father has been ailing for some time. He hasn’t been able to work much for the past two years. I didn’t have much luck finding work that paid well back home. Then I saw the advertisement in the newspaper. That’s why I came out here—to get a job. I’ve been living at Mrs. Grealey’s boardinghouse, but that’s no place for my folks, even if Mrs. Grealey would let a room to anyone other than the factory workers.’’

‘‘Have you found a place for them?’’

‘‘Just last week. It’s not much more than a couple of rooms, but it’s a good, sturdy cabin. If anyone can turn it back into a home, my mother can. You might know the place. It’s just south of the town, where the road forks and the toll road begins.’’

‘‘That would be the old toll collector’s cabin. Miller Flynn used to live there until they abandoned the toll gate. I believe he’s living with his daughter now.’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am. So I understand. The cabin’s walking distance to work for me, and I’m hoping my brother can work at the factory, too. If not, I heard a rumor they might be adding another shift at the boatyard and the matchbox factory soon.’’ He paused and checked the sky and frowned. ‘‘Packet boat’s late. I hope nothing bad . . .’’

‘‘The packet boat is on time less often than it’s late. I wouldn’t worry,’’ she offered.

He nodded. ‘‘I’m guessing it’s close to ten-thirty. I told the foreman I wouldn’t be gone much longer than an hour or two, and every hour I’m not at work means that much less I earn.’’

She reached into her reticule, checked the pocket watch her mother carried most of her life, and smiled. ‘‘It’s only five minutes past ten.’’ When she heard the familiar sound of hooves pounding against dirt, she nodded. ‘‘If you turn around, I believe you’ll see the packet boat momentarily.’’

Within a heartbeat, a pair of mules with a driver walking alongside appeared in the distance on the towpath. The packet boat,
The Promise,
which followed some seventy odd yards behind, was barely visible yet slowly made an approach.

She waited and watched with him in silence as the driver and mules came down the towpath, cleared the landing without tangling any of the lines attached to the packet boat, and continued. With the packet boat now in clear view, she took a few steps back for a better vantage point to observe the passengers gathered on the flat roof above the sleeping cabin in the center of the vessel.

She recognized the four figures sitting on the far side as her guests, John and Abigail Sewell and their two daughters, who had stayed at Hill House just last fall. Emma’s gaze, however, was locked on the bonnet the woman was wearing. The color of the bonnet looked remarkably similar to the one Mother Garrett had gotten from Mr. Atkins, although she could not make out the details of the bonnet itself. Mother Garrett must have been right about the color being all the rage. The other passengers standing at the front railing—a man, a woman, and a younger man—she assumed to be the Cross family.

Her companion confirmed her assumption when he removed his hat and started waving to them. She half expected him to leap onto the packet boat to greet his loved ones, but the flurry of men who went into action to secure the packet boat to the landing before the walking platform could be dropped forced both Emma and young Mr. Cross to move back out of the way.

From past experience, she knew it would take some time for the Sewell family to disembark. They were lovely, good-natured people who were relatively easy to please, and she was looking forward to their stay at Hill House from now until Friday.