Beyond All Measure (12 page)

“I’m surprised there
are
any unionists this far south.”

“This part of the state was heavily divided—and feelings still run strong on both sides. It’s as if folks have forgotten Appomattox ever happened. I keep my distance.”

Ada nodded. “I suppose old hatreds die hard whatever the cause. In Boston—”

He got to his feet. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for my meeting.”

Without waiting for her, he turned and headed back to the rig.

Stunned at his abruptness, Ada hurried after him. “Mr. Caldwell, did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head, handed her into the rig, and clicked his tongue to the horse.

When they passed the orphanage, Ada looked for Sophie. But recess was over; the children were marching back inside. She stole a glance at Wyatt. He seemed disinclined toward conversation, lost in his war memories perhaps. What had she said to upset him?

All the joy had gone out of her day. Ada sat quietly until he parked the rig in front of the bank.

“I shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He retrieved his leather pouch. “Why don’t you look around, do your shopping, and when I’m finished we’ll eat at Miss Hattie’s.” At last, he smiled again. “She makes the best fried chicken this side of Fort Worth.”

Ada nodded, relieved at his change of mood. “That sounds good.”

He headed into the bank. Ada slipped her bag over her arm and set off down the main street, grateful for the opportunity to explore the town on her own. She found the post office and mailed her letter and supply list to the ancient Horace Biddle in Boston, hoping his memory of her mother would induce him to extend the credit she needed. At the mercantile, she purchased a length of ribbon for Mariah’s hat and another packet of needles. She stared longingly at a display of stockings. She needed a new pair to replace her old, holey ones, but she didn’t dare spend the money. It might be months, a year even, before she could afford even the basic necessities. She’d never before realized how taxing it was to live in fear of running out of cash. She thought of her father. Had he felt this same sense of hopelessness?

Outside Norah’s Fine Frocks, she stopped to admire a sky-blue silk dress displayed in one window. Another window showcased fringed parasols and embroidered shawls. A hand-lettered sign urged customers to look for the latest styles in the
Hickory Ridge Gazette
.

Ada remembered an evening with her father when they had discussed his most recent undertaking, an investment in the future manufacture of horseless carriages. When she ventured her opinion—that people would never give up their reliable horse-drawn conveyances for something new, unproven, and possibly dangerous—he’d simply laughed and patted her hand. “You’ll see, Ada. Never underestimate the public’s appetite for the latest thing!”

The latest thing
. Her father’s investment had failed to pay off, but perhaps his advice could help her now. With a final glance into the shop window, Ada headed for the newspaper office.

TEN

The bell above the door jingled as Ada entered the small cluttered newspaper office. Sunlight filtered through a single window facing the street and illuminated several full pages of newsprint preserved behind glass. The air was thick with the smells of coffee and ink. Behind the desk sat a young, freckle-faced woman in a faded blue calico dress, a pair of gold spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. A thick braid of dark hair lay across one shoulder. She chewed her bottom lip as she pounded away on a typewriting machine, oblivious to Ada’s presence. Through an open doorway Ada saw an older man setting type and a couple of young boys surrounded by stacks of newspapers.

“Begging your pardon!” Ada called at last.

The woman looked up and peered at Ada through her glasses. “Hello! May I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of taking advertisements.”

“That would be me.” The woman rose and drew Ada to a chair beside her desk, speaking in staccato sentences that matched the cadence of her typewriter. “I’m in charge of adverts. Also, reporting, editing, and circulation.” She grasped Ada’s hand and pumped it. “Patience Greer. Everyone calls me Patsy.”

“Ada Wentworth.”

“I figured as much. Bea Goldston was in here last week and mentioned you’d arrived. I take it you want to place an ad?”

“Yes.” Ada fingered the clasp of her coin purse. “If it isn’t too expensive.”

“Do you have the copy?”

Ada frowned. “Pardon?”

“Have you written down what you want the ad to say?”

“The idea just came to me, and I haven’t had time to give it much thought.”

Inserting a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter, Patsy said, “Talk to me.”

“I’m starting a millinery business. I have one customer so far. I hope to get more by advertising.”

Tap-tap-tap
went the keys.

“My hats will be of the finest materials and in the latest styles, like the ones from Europe.”

“Woo!” Patsy looked up and grinned. “Fancy hats. Might be a good name for your business.”

“I
have
thought about that. It’s to be called Wentworth’s, after my mother.”

“That’s real sweet. But just so you know, the undertaker one stop down the rail line is named Wentworth. He does most of the burying for folks around here.” Patsy leaned across the dusty desk. “The way I see it, women buy hats when they’re in a good mood. Or when they’re in a bad mood and need something to make them feel better. Thinking about the undertaker might put a damper on things.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ada swallowed her disappointment. She had so wanted to keep her mother’s name alive.

“So, what are we left with here? ‘Fancy Hats,’ ‘Hats by Ada,’ ‘Hats of Distinction’?” Patsy leaned back in her chair. “Now that I think about it, you don’t want to get too highfalutin with the ladies around here. They appreciate nice things, but they’re practical too. I think ‘Hats by Ada’ may be the way to go.”

Ada felt a headache building behind her eyes. “If you think that’s best.”

“I do. How can folks get ahold of you?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. The post office, I suppose.”

Patsy nodded. “That’ll work. You can ship your hats from the railway office. Our station agent is very reliable.”

“Excellent.” Ada hadn’t anticipated having to make so many decisions so quickly. “I’m grateful for your help.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” Patsy lifted the paper carriage. “Hold on a minute while I check for mistakes.” She patted her typewriting machine, a tall black box embellished with a painting of pink roses. “This newfangled contraption makes my work more efficient, but the problem is that you can’t see what you’ve typed without lifting up the carriage.”

She scanned her work. “I’ll get this typeset, maybe add a drawing of a hat to catch people’s eyes. I’d recommend running it the week after next in my special Founders Day edition. All the local merchants run specials for that week, and more folks buy the paper so they won’t miss out on anything.”

“I’m sure you know best.” Ada opened her coin purse, praying she had enough to cover the cost. Besides the ad, there was one more essential purchase she needed to make. “How much?”

“My usual rate is a dollar a month, payable in advance. But since you’re a new customer, why don’t you wait until I get the ad ready? You can come by and take a look before we run it. If you like it, you can pay me then.”

“That will be fine.”

Patsy nodded. “You might want to set up a charge account at the mercantile. That way you can get supplies when you need them and pay the bill at the end of the month. Jasper Pruitt is the one you need to talk to.”

Ada left the newspaper office and returned to the mercantile. A few farmers and mill workers filled the aisles, buying everything from molasses to chicken wire. In the back, beneath a high, dusty window, a group of women pored over bolts of yellow flannel and brightly printed calico. A young man who had not been there earlier in the day sat on a wooden stool, adding up a long column of figures.

“Pardon me.” Ada set her bag on the counter. “Are you Mr. Pruitt?”

He looked up and blinked. “No ma’am. I’m his clerk. Hold on a minute. I’ll get him.”

He disappeared into the back and came back with a grayhaired, bushy-bearded man dressed in denim pants and a stained white apron. “This here’s Mr. Pruitt.”

He left to help another customer.

Ada offered her hand. “Good morning. I’m Ada Went—”

“I know who you are.” The storekeeper’s eyes were small and round. Pig’s eyes. He shuffled a sheaf of papers lying on the counter. Half of his index finger was missing. The stub quivered when he spoke as if it were somehow connected to his voice box.

“Yes, well, I want to open a charge account, please. For my new business.”

“You want me to let you buy on credit?”

“Yes. Miss Greer at the paper said—”

“You buy from me, you’ll pay cash.”

“But I don’t understand. I can pay my bills. I have a position, working for Wyatt Caldwell. Looking after his aunt.”

“I know all about that, but it don’t change my mind one iota. Plain and simple: I don’t give credit to the likes of you.” He let go a spurt of tobacco juice that narrowly missed her face before landing in a copper spittoon by the door. “You Yankees think we’ve forgot how things was down here during the occupation? You think now the war’s over we can let bygones by bygones, let the Nigras take over everything?”

Ada stiffened. “It’s true that I am a Yankee, but you, sir, are the most offensive boor I have ever had the misfortune to meet!”

“A bore, am I? Mebbe so, but my customers don’t come here for the entertainin’ conversation.” He turned and walked out.

Ada stared after him, torn between anger and laughter. Heavenly days, what an ignoramus!

“I hate him,” said a voice at her elbow. She turned to find a familiar-looking youth packing up his purchases.

The boy’s shaggy hair was falling into his eyes. His knobby wrists poked from the frayed sleeves of his work shirt. Something about him evoked her sympathy.

“You’re Jacob Hargrove, aren’t you?”

He looked up in surprise. “Yes ma’am. Do I know you?”

“I’m Ada Wentworth. I saw you at church last Sunday. Mrs. Willis told me about your mother.”

“It’s awful hard, being without her.”

“I know it is. My mother died when I was thirteen.”

Jacob nodded. “Ma might have lived longer if we could’ve got the tonics she needed to build up her blood, but Mr. Pruitt cut off Pa’s credit just when we needed it most.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He’s a terrible man.” Jacob hoisted his box onto his shoulder. “I should be going. Pa’s waiting for these nails.”

They went outside. Jacob set the box in his wagon and climbed up.

“I saw your girl, Sabrina,” Ada said. “At church. She’s very pretty.”

“Yes’m, she sure is.” Jacob blushed to the roots of his hair. “I’m thinking of marryin’ her one day when I can take care of her proper.”

He looked so vulnerable and so full of hope that Ada felt moved to encourage him. “I imagine a girl like that expects a lot from her beau.”

“Ma’am?”

“She’ll want someone steady, with a good future ahead of him. Someone she can depend on. A man who doesn’t quit when a job proves difficult.”

He looked sheepish. “You mean the mill.”

“I’ll bet Mr. Caldwell would take you back if you asked.”

“Maybe I will, if Pa and me ever get caught up. On the farm, there’s always something that needs doing. Plus, in winter, I got my trap lines up at the riverhead. For catching foxes and muskrats mostly, sometimes a mink. I sell the fur.” He flicked the reins. “’Bye, ma’am. And don’t worry none about what Mr. Pruitt said. He don’t like nobody who’s not from around here.”

He started down the road. Ada waved after him, then crossed the street to the bookshop. At the sound of the bell, a gray, yellow-eyed cat blinked awake and jumped up to wind itself around her ankles.

The shop owner, a middle-aged man with side whiskers and gold-rimmed spectacles, sauntered to the counter, his pipe in his hand. “That’s India,” he said, smiling. “I hope you like cats.”

“I love cats.” Ada bent to stroke India. “I had a Persian when I was growing up. Her name was Athena. She lived to be almost seventeen.”

“I’ll remember that next time this one has a litter.” The man puffed on his pipe, and a thin stream of smoke curled toward the ceiling. “I’m Nathaniel Chastain, but everyone calls me Nate. Welcome to my shop.”

She extended her hand across the polished pine counter. “Ada Wentworth.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. Was there anything in particular that you’re wanting?”

“Many years ago my mother had a book,
The Hatmaker’s Manual
. It was published around 1830, I think. I realize that’s a long time ago, but I was wondering if you might have a copy. I’m beginning a millinery business, and I need to refresh my memory on certain points of construction.”

Nate puffed on his pipe and shook his head. “That far back, it’s probably long out of print, but I seem to recall a similar book that came in a couple of years ago.” He set his pipe down, opened a thick sheaf of papers bound with a leather thong, and ran his finger down the pages. “Yes, here we are. I ordered it for Norah over at the dress shop, but then she changed her mind. I’m sure it’s still around here somewhere.” He smiled. “Not a lot of call for hatmaking books in these parts.”

“Splendid. I’ll take it.”

“Might take me a few minutes to locate it, though.” Nate indicated the jumble of books spilling from every shelf, nook, and cranny. Books were piled on the partner’s desk at the rear of the shop and stacked knee-high beneath the windows overlooking the street. “Take your time and look around. I’ll see if I can scare it up.”

While he searched for the book, Ada browsed the shelves, reading random passages from new works and old favorites. Holding the pages to her nose, she breathed in the smells of paper and ink. Of all the things she’d given up for auction to settle her father’s debts, she felt most keenly the loss of his vast library.

“That’s a good one.” Wyatt stepped up behind her. “I love the part where Becky Sharp finally gets her due.”