Diamond Duo (30 page)

Monday, January 22

B
ertha laid her needlework aside. A good thing, really, considering the mess she’d made of it. Tiny stitches were hard to see with tears in her eyes.

She sat with her mama in the parlor, a basket of sewing between them–Bertha huddled in a corner of the settee, Mama perched in a straight-backed Windsor chair. The fireplace crackled beside them but did nothing to warm Bertha’s heart.

She raised her head and met Mama’s sorrowful gaze. “Stop watching me, please. I’m all right.”

Her mama flushed. “How did you know with your chin on your knees?”

“I feel your eyes on me like twin brands. They’ve seared holes in my head.”

Mama poked her needle into her pincushion. “Well, you don’t seem all right to me, dear. You hardly touched your dinner, even after sleeping straight through breakfast.”

Bertha grimaced. “I wasn’t sleeping. Hardly slept all night.” She rubbed her midriff, fighting tears. “And food makes the ache worse.”

Mama winced and ducked her head. She’d tiptoed around the house since yesterday morning, shamefaced and apologetic. “Try to drink something, then. Let me steep you a cup of chamomile tea. It’ll ease your stomach and relax you.”

Bertha stood, her bleary eyes going to the window again. She couldn’t stop searching the lane for Thad, though she knew he was long gone.

“Gone, I must be gone. . . .”
The words sounded so final.

She moved behind Mama’s chair and patted her shoulders. “I know you mean well, but tea won’t help. Nothing short of Thad’s return will make me feel better.”

Reaching back, Mama squeezed her hand. “I’m responsible for all of this. Can you ever forgive me?”

A catch rose in Bertha’s throat. “There’s nothing to forgive. I know you didn’t realize how much it meant. I would’ve told you, but–”

She paused so long that Mama twisted around to look. “But what?”

“You’ll think me fresh.”

Mama waved her hand. “You go right ahead and speak your mind.”

“It’s just that you’re so different now. I don’t remember you ever apologizing to me before.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Or allowing me to speak my mind, for that matter. If you’d been like this that night. . .” She couldn’t finish. The boldness of her words sealed her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

Mama sighed. “You’re free to say it. It’s only right that I hear what I’ve done to you.”

Bertha pressed the backs of her fingers to her mouth. “I can’t,” she whispered when she could speak.

Mama took her wrist and guided her around in front of the chair. “Let me say it for you. If I’d been approachable, as I am now, you’d have come to me, told me about Annie and Thad, and together we’d have worked things out. But I was rigid and inconsiderate instead, and I failed you.” Her voice broke on the last three words.

Bertha knelt and pressed her forehead to Mama’s calico-covered knee. “It doesn’t matter. Please don’t cry.”

With a trembling finger, Mama lifted Bertha’s chin. “It matters. So I ask you again. Will you forgive me?”

Despite the fact they belonged to her mama, Bertha stared into warm, caring eyes she’d never seen before. “Of course I will.”

Bertha rose up and fell into the first real hug she could remember them sharing.

When they parted, both smiling and wiping their eyes, she stole a long look at her mama’s serene face while Mama fished a hankie from her waist pocket. Drying her cheeks, she shifted her gaze to Bertha. “Now you’re staring.”

Bertha giggled. “I’ve been wondering what Papa did to, well. . .”

“To change me?”

Speechless, she nodded.

“Simple. He threw the Bible at me.”

Bertha clutched her lace collar. Throwing the Holy Book seemed extreme, even for her feisty papa. Mama tittered and waved her hankie. “Not literally, dear. He merely pointed out the scriptures directing a wife to submit to her husband and a husband to love his wife.” Her eyes lost focus. “Funny how a verse can be right under your nose, or in this case right before your eyes, yet you can’t see it. I must’ve read those passages a dozen times and never recognized it as the formula for happiness I’d been seeking.”

Mama shook herself from her daze and motioned for Bertha to sit across from her. “So we struck a bargain.” She stared at the ceiling and smiled, as if reliving the moment. “Francis promised abundant affection from here on out if I promised to honor his place in our home.” Her slender white throat worked with emotion. “That silly man’s devotion is all I’ve ever wanted. I just never knew how to get it.”

Bertha leaned forward, confused. “I don’t understand. Papa’s such a loving man.”

Mama nodded and delicately blew her nose. “Of course you’d perceive him that way. Besides the fact he adores you, when I built
a wall to shut him out, he still had you to lavish attention on. Your father confessed that he’s longed to show me the same love, but my rigid insecurity and lack of respect held him back.”

She glanced at Bertha with grief-stricken eyes. “I shut you out, too. I don’t know how I allowed it to happen. Now we’ve lost so much time.”

Bertha rushed to embrace her. “Just think. We’ll have a fresh start. It’s never too late for love, you know.”

Mama caressed her cheek. “Bless you, daughter.” She kissed her then held her at arm’s length. “And that’s what you must remember about your Thad. It’s never too late for love.”

Bertha straightened and peered at the window again. “I do hope you’re right. But we have a long wait to prove it. Thad won’t be home for months.”

“You’ll see him soon. He’ll come back to Jefferson on breaks and holidays. The time will pass quickly–you’ll see.”

Bertha stood, hoisting her basket and the frock she’d been hemming to her hip. “May I be excused? I can’t sit in this house moping for another second.” She walked around and rested her hand on Mama’s shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ride into town to try to see Annie. I left her in such a terrible state.”

Mama took Bertha’s basket from her hands and placed it on a side table. “I hate to see you go into town alone. Wait and let Papa take you.”

“I don’t need to trouble him.”

A stirring at the door caught their attention. “When in time have you caused me a mite of trouble, me girl?” Papa boomed. “I’ve a matter or three to see to in town meself. Let me fetch an overcoat, and we’ll be off.”

He disappeared, returning to peek around the corner at Mama. “Be ready to warm me supper then warm me bed, Mrs. Biddie. I’ll be back in a trice.”

Mama blushed like a girl. “Francis! Not in front of Bertha.”

He winked and went away chuckling.

Mama busied herself with a sock and darning egg, her red face
almost in her lap.

Bertha tried hard not to laugh. She turned away and covered her mouth with both hands.

Behind her, Mama let loose a small titter. They both giggled softly until Mama stood and gathered her sewing. “The man is scandalous,” she announced.

“That he is.”

“I can’t do a thing with him.”

Bertha grinned. “He may be a lost cause.”

Mama beamed back and pinched Bertha’s cheeks. “Yes, but in the most charming fashion.” She cupped Bertha’s chin in her palm. “Don’t forget your wrap, dear. It’s cold out.”

Her papa, small in stature with a giant’s presence, filled the doorway again. “Ready, me girl?”

Bertha pushed past him, planting a kiss above his scruffy beard on the way. “As soon as I fetch my shawl.”

Papa stood by the wagon when Bertha came out, ready to lift her aboard. “Where to, young’un?”

“Brooks House. I need to see that Annie’s all right.”

He nodded. “I’ll take you right to her doorstep. Just let me swing by the livery on the way.”

“Isn’t Mr. Spellings coping any better with losing Miss Carrie?”

Papa looked grim. “He’ll be fine if loneliness and grief don’t kill him. We just need to rally ’round him and keep him in our prayers.”

Bertha sat silent for a moment then cleared her throat and sought his eyes. “I don’t mean to show disrespect, but it’s been awhile since Miss Carrie passed. Shouldn’t he be getting on with it by now?”

Papa studied her with a somber look. “I’m afraid husbands don’t fare well after losing a wife.” He nudged her with his elbow. “If you ever tell I said this, I’ll deny it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Womenfolk are far and away stronger creatures than men. It’s how the good Lord fashioned you because of all you’re required to endure.”

“Like what? You seem stout enough to endure anything.”

He drew back and made a face. “Can you see me birthing a babe?”

She blushed and grinned. “So you reckon we’re stronger, do you?”

He gave a solemn nod. “Without doubt. You’re the glue that binds us together. Thankfully, Sol’s not yet forty, so youth is on his side. We older men don’t last long after our wives pass. I think over time we forget how to care for ourselves.”

She sat back and pondered his words. She had to admit she knew of many elderly widows but hardly any widowers. She stole a look at Papa, chewing on his mustache while deep in thought, and tried to imagine him alone, fending for himself. They rode the rest of the way in silence, Papa distracted and Bertha fighting tears.

When Mr. Spellings limped out of the livery to greet them, Bertha saw him with new, more compassionate eyes. He waved and lumbered their way, dodging mud holes and scattered piles of manure. Just before he reached them, he took off his battered Stetson and beat it against his leg, sending hay straws flying. “Francis Biddie and little Bertha. To what do I owe such a pleasure?”

Papa raised his derby and let it settle back onto his head. “The pleasure’s ours, Sol. Stopped by to see if we can do anything for you today.”

Mr. Spellings’s cheeks rose in a warm smile. “Can’t think of a thing. I take most of my meals over at Kate Woods’s restaurant, and I hired a girl to see to my wash. Much obliged, though.”

Bertha leaned past Papa. “Are you certain, Mr. Spellings? What about sewing? Do you have any clothing in need of repair?”

He scratched his head. “Now that you mention it, I do have a bag of tattered duds at the house. Some things Carrie never got around to.” Tears clouding his soft brown eyes, he peered up at Bertha. “I’ll bring them by the house, then. If you really don’t mind.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat so she could speak. “I’ll be proud to do it.”

He swiped his eyes with his sleeve and tucked his hat on his
head. “Thank you kindly, Bertha.”

Papa propped his boot on the side rail. “How’s business, Sol? This weather must be pinching your purse.”

A look of disgust came over Mr. Spellings’s face. “Nothing to brag on, that’s for sure. Folks don’t much care to ride around in the rain.” He raised one finger. “Except I did rent out a few horses on Saturday to some fellows just off the boat. And a man came in that day inquiring about a rig for Sunday. But when he came back for it yesterday, I decided not to let him have it.”

Papa frowned. “Didn’t like the color of his money?”

“Never saw his money. Didn’t want no part of it, whatever the shade. Something about him I didn’t trust.”

Papa propped his arm on his knee and leaned closer. “Local fellow?”

Mr. Spellings shook his head. “Out of Boston, I think. Staying a few days over to Brooks House.”

A sensation of dread wriggled fingers in Bertha’s belly. “Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt, but what did he look like?”

Mr. Spellings took off his hat again, as if he couldn’t think with it on. “What’d he look like? Well, let me see.” He rubbed the top of his head as though he was trying to coax the memory back. “Sort of a fancy dresser, with a high-blown manner. Tall but not too thin. Had an overlarge mouth, if I remember right. A surly mouth, at that.”

Her stomach lurched.
Abe Monroe.
“Did he say why he needed the rig?”

“Claimed he wanted to take a lady around town.” He widened his eyes and curled his top lip. “In this weather, if you can believe it. I asked him to put up collateral, and he offered very little. Didn’t like it a whit when I insisted he’d have to do better.”

Papa smiled. “What’d he say to that?”

Mr. Spellings mimicked a haughty voice. “He said, ‘I guess, then, that we can walk,’ and took off down Polk Street.”

She scooted forward on the seat. “Was the woman with him, sir?”

“No, darlin’, she weren’t. I asked who his lady was, thinking
she might vouch for him. He told me I wouldn’t know her, and anyway he left her over at Kate Woods’s place.”

For some reason the news unsettled her. If Abe knew Saturday evening that he planned to take Annie around town on Sunday, why didn’t Annie know about it on Saturday night?

What was it she’d said? She hoped Abe would be sick from drinking and rest in bed all day. Obviously, Annie had no idea Abe planned to take her anywhere on Sunday. Why hadn’t he mentioned it?

Bertha scarcely heard the rest of Papa and Mr. Spellings’s discussion. She squirmed like a netted fish until Papa finished his business. When they finally said good-bye and pulled out of the muddy yard in front of the livery, a mixture of relief and worry weakened her knees.

“Can’t we go faster, Papa?”

“What’s the hurry, love?”

“Nothing really. Just anxious, I guess.” She bit her lower lip. “There is one thing I haven’t yet mentioned.”

He swiveled to face her. “Well, mention it.”

“I won’t be able to see Annie if her companion is there.”

Papa scowled. “What are you saying?”

“Just that we’ll have to make sure he’s nowhere around the hotel.”

His eyes popped. “And why is that?”

She bit her knuckle and searched for the right words. “Abe won’t allow Annie to see me. He doesn’t let her have friends.”

He swung his head back and forth. “You can forget it, then. Sneaking behind a man’s back was never my style, and I won’t start now. We’ll walk up and knock on the door like proper guests or not at all.”

Fear crawled up her spine. “You don’t understand, Papa. We can’t. Abe Monroe is mean to the core.”

His hand shot up. “Stop right there. What sort of person speaks ill of a friend’s spouse? It’s not how we raised you, Bertha.” A crop of blotches sprouted on his cheeks. “What were you thinking,
coming between a man and his wife?”