Diamond Duo (14 page)

When the kettle on the stove began to whine, she shoved the crate back under the bed away from Henry’s prying eyes and tucked the new fabric in the bottom dresser drawer. Then she shimmied into her housedress and scurried into the kitchen.

In the darkest corner of the pantry sat a small red tin where she kept the last of the tea leaves given to her by Miss Susan Blow, her former mistress and teacher. Miss Susan gave the tea to Sarah during her last visit home to see Papa. The kettle came from Miss Susan, too. Sarah brought it with her when she first left the French settlement in St. Louis and moved to Jefferson.

The most precious gift her teacher gave her was an education, a prize with no value in her new hometown. It seemed the longer she stayed where people considered her ignorant, the more ignorant she became. Some days she wished Miss Susan hadn’t bothered.

Sarah picked up the tin, pried off the lid, and drew in a deep whiff of the pungent plant. The familiar smell built a bridge in her mind from Texas to Missouri. It carried her along the river, past St. Louis to the wide streets of Carondelet. There it wound through the rooms of Miss Susan’s fine house then straight to the Des Peres School, Miss Susan’s kindergarten where Sarah used to cook for the children.

She sighed and pulled a small wad of dried leaves from the can. Before closing it, she peered inside and mourned the fact there was barely enough left for one more pot. Relaxing her fingers, she allowed a few leaves to fall back into the can and dropped the rest into the steaming kettle. Closing the lid, she set it aside to steep.

Henry stepped up onto the porch, whistling and stamping the mud off his feet the way he always did when he came in from the barn. The screen door squealed behind her.

“Get yourself out of those damp clothes,” she said without looking back. “And don’t bother hanging them up. After the way you sweated today, they’ll be stinking without a wash.”

Sarah waited for him to grumble. The trousers he wore were his favorite pair, the only britches he owned without holes in the knees. When he didn’t say a word, she turned to see why. Henry stood by the door unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and gnawing on her chocolate with the other.

“Put that away now. You’re bound to ruin your supper.”

“Can’t hep it. This ain’t ordinary candy. It’s black magic.” He used the back of his hand to slide a stray piece from his bottom lip into his mouth. “Once you start in on it, you lose the power to stop.”

“Let me help you with that.” She hustled over and swiped the sweet treat out of his hand, wound the wrapper around it, and took it to the pantry–picking up the red tea can on the way. When she
came out, Henry’s gaze latched on and followed her around the room. Sarah grew fidgety under his meddlesome stare and spun around to face him. “What is it now?”

“What’s what?”

“Why are your peepers glued to me? Has my face turned blue?”

His big brown eyes, still so intent, narrowed and crinkled. “Naw, your face still dark and sweet like that chocolate but stronger magic than any old candy.”

A warm flush crept up her neck, but she kept her guard up. “Fine. Now answer my first question. Why you looking at me in such a way?”

Henry lifted one broad shoulder. “Jus’ noticed you making tea, I guess.”

She stiffened. “And what of it?”

“Means you homesick again, that’s all.”

“What you going on about, Henry?”

“Woman, I didn’t meet you yesterday. You go to making that tea, it means you thinking ’bout St. Louis and Miss Susan’s house.”

Sarah turned back to the sink. “What a fool thing to say. When I make tea, it means I have a hankering for a cup, that’s all. Don’t go readin’ things where there ain’t no writin’. Go wash for supper, now. I’ll have food on the table before you’re done.”

Henry laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “Yes’m, Missy King. I’ll do like I’s told.”

He pulled off his shirt and wadded it into a ball then started toward the hallway door. When he stopped just short of it, Sarah cringed. It would be nice if he’d just leave it be, but she knew he wasn’t about to.

“I reckon I know why you act how you do ’bout folks ’round here.”

She snorted. “I know, too. They’re cruel, narrow-minded bigots, every last one of them.”

He turned from the door, big hands busy rolling his shirt. “You seem right fond of little Bertha.”

“Miss Bertha’s different, her and Magda both. They speak to
me no matter who’s watching. They don’t wipe their hands on their skirts if our fingers touch. Least not where I can see them.”

“You act like Bertha and Magda the only good folks in this town. They’s jus’ as many good apples in the barrel as bad.”

Sarah feigned shock. “Where they hiding the good crop, then? All I come across are sour and wormy.”

Henry’s face puckered like sun-dried corn. “Like I said, I know why you act how you do. I reckon you’re jus’ mad all the time. But it ain’t the people ’round Jefferson you’re mad at.”

She dropped her dishrag on the sideboard and propped one hand on her hip. “It ain’t, huh?”

“No, ma’am, it ain’t.”

“Well, who am I mad at?”

“Me.”

He might’ve said Dickens and made more sense. Sarah waited to see if he meant the witless words. He stood not moving a muscle, his face a blank wall. She cocked her head. “Why would you say so foolish a thing?”

He uncoiled the shirt ball and slung it across the kitchen. “Weren’t it me what took you away from St. Louis? From your papa, Miss Susan, and the schoolhouse?”

“Henry, St. Louis is over and done. Jefferson’s my home now.”

He challenged her with a look. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss it every day.”

Now he’d sashayed too close to the truth, his prying words plundering near that place in her heart she kept all to herself. She picked up the rag again and went to work cleaning the stove. “Quit spewing nonsense. If you don’t let me get supper done, you won’t eat tonight.”

He closed the gap between them and grabbed her arm. “You told me I’m reading what ain’t wrote. Well, now you wiping up what ain’t spilt.” He took the rag from her hand and tossed it in the corner along with his shirt. “Stop all this dancing around the truth. You wish you’d never left St. Louis. I know you do.”

The pigheaded man had stumbled right onto it–the only place
in her heart he didn’t belong–and his blunder made her mad enough to tell him.

She jerked her arm free. “You want to know so bad? Well, here it is. Miss Blow treated me like a person. Like I mattered in this world. She taught me to read and write, cipher numbers, to talk like a lady, not the child of a slave.” Sarah glared up at him. “I don’t miss St. Louis. Or Carondelet, or my house, or the school. Not even Miss Blow, though I love her with all my might.” Pushing his hands away, she backed into a tight wad. “I miss feeling good about myself, Henry King. I miss walking proud along the street instead of slinking like a hang-tailed dog.”

Henry pressed her to the stove and pulled her struggling body close. “Hush, baby girl,” he cooed against her hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you hurt this bad. God, help me, I jus’ didn’t know.” Shame masked his face. “You was happy in St. Louis, and here I come along and take you away from there. You followed me to Jefferson without a peep or a mutter, and look at what a sorrowful trade you done made. A broken-down farm and two sorry old mules for your trouble.”

Sarah sniffed. “Two?”

He nodded toward the barn. “One out yonder with his face in a feed bag and the other right in front of you.”

Her stomach lurched. She unfurled from the wretched place she’d allowed herself to go and took hold of his face with both hands. “Don’t you say that, you hear? I could do without Dandy, but my life would be a wearisome mess without you.”

Henry tried to pull away, but she held him fast. “Look at me, now. Don’t you know I can survive any sorrow as long as you’re by my side?”

He looked down at her, the challenge back in his eyes. “Anything?”

She stilled. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

“I reckon it’s a good day for airing things out.”

Sarah pressed her forehead to his bare chest and ran the palm of her hand down the back of his head. Stopping at his neck, her
fingers lingered there and caressed the smooth, warm skin. “There’s no way of knowing why we haven’t had children, Henry. It could just as likely be down to me.”

She raised her head and sought his eyes. “Mama always said these things are best left to the wisdom of the good Lord, and I agree. It’s only been four years. We could still–”

His finger on her lips stifled the rest. “Don’t say no more. Four years is enough time to give it. I ain’t wasting no more hope. But I can’t help thinking you’d have settled in better if we’d had a child.”

Seeing his tears flooded her eyes. She pushed away and wiped her cheeks with her palms. “How’d we get back on this same old tired subject?”

Henry shrugged. “Don’t we always?”

“I guess we do.” Lifting on her toes, she kissed him on the cheek. “Will you kindly go wash for supper now? You’ve stirred enough trouble for one day, even for you.”

He swatted her behind, the old Henry once again. “If I clear my plate, can I have me some more of that chocolate?”

Sarah went back to her stove. “I believe you’ve had quite enough. Besides, I might like one more little taste before it’s all gone.”

“I reckon Dandy would, too.”

She glanced back at his too-innocent face. “What did you say?”

“I said Dandy might want him one more bite. That old mule sure liked it.”

She swiped at him. “You ain’t fed my candy to that no-’count critter!”

Henry laughed and dodged. “Jus’ a taste. But he sure was hankering for more.”

“Well, I hope he enjoyed it, because neither one of you sorry mules will see another morsel of it.” His words from moments before came back to her, and she wanted to whack off her tongue. But he still grinned like he didn’t notice, so she hit him with the towel.

“Git on, now. And don’t come back until you’re fit for the table.”

Smiling, Sarah watched him leave the room. Their talk had lifted some of the weight from around her heart. They should try it more often.

She turned back to the stove and gasped.
The tea!

Lifting the pot, she raised the lid to peer inside at the oily dark brown liquid.

Ruined.

It had been left to steep far too long, and the result would be a bitter, distasteful brew. Given the way the day had gone so far, it seemed a fitting addition to scorched beans and crumbly, dried-up corn bread.

T
had tried hard to turn away. His mama would expect no less of him. But it wasn’t every day he saw two grown women–though the scene before his eyes made him question that estimation–standing in a bucket of water. There they were, Magda and his own little Bertha, up to their calves in a washtub. They clung to each other, inching their way in a tight circle and laughing like addlepated loons.

Gerta Hayes reacted as if miles of skin were showing, instead of the two inches of bare leg above the line of the pan. “Girls! Vot on earth? Cover yourselves!”

The two froze and looked her way, but the hilarity didn’t leave their tear-streaked faces until they spotted Thad. Then the jostling in the pail increased tenfold as they worked their way around to their stools and sat down hard. The visible skin disappeared to the point where Thad knew their hems had gone under.

Mr. Hayes, evidently content to let his wife fend for their modesty, never flinched. But his curiosity proved less restrained. “What y’all doing, Magda? Ain’t never seen that jig danced before. Least not in a tub of water.”

The red-faced girls, still feet-first in water like a pair of wading ducks, watched owl-eyed as their audience drew near.

“Answer your papa, Magdalena, and be quick about it.”

Magda averted her eyes and lowered her head. Bertha, cute as a newborn calf even with her mouth agape, gawked at Thad.

When Mr. Hayes cleared his throat, Magda dared to raise her eyes. “Sorry, Papa. We were turning, see?” She twirled her finger in the space between them. “To opposite sides.”

Bertha awoke from her daze and pointed behind her. “The fire. It got too hot on the one side.”

Magda nodded. “So we turned.”

“Yes, to the cooler side.”

Thad groaned at the manner in which they had stumbled into Mr. Hayes’s web. Innocent lambs to the slaughter.

The older gentleman stepped forward, nodding his head. “Oh yes, I see it now.” He glanced behind him, his expression sincere. “Don’t you see it, Thad?”

Thad could only grin and wait.

“So, girls. . .what you’re saying is you were done on the one side, so you flipped over to roast the other’n.” He fell forward, clutching his knees to stay upright, and laughed at his own joke. He pointed at the pan and all but shouted as he delivered the kicker. “I see you saved some time by sitting in your own basting sauce.”

Mr. Hayes’s laughter turned out to be more contagious than his smile, and Thad felt his good breeding start to slip. His own grin turned to a chortle then a full-blown howl. He leaned into Magda’s papa to stay upright, and the two braced each other while they laughed. The girls pouted at first, but a quick glance at each other’s faces set them off, too. The only sane person in the house stood scowling from the stove.