Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (12 page)

Before long the men returned, Carlos beaming, Henry holding his head high though a muscle worked in his jaw. “They offered you a job?” Elizabeth exclaimed, relieved. She had not dared to think about what they would do if the Jorgensens refused.

“I can start immediately,” said Henry. “Lars Jorgensen told his brother how I helped him unload the wool at the train station yesterday. Oscar hired me on his brother’s recommendation.”

“There’s more good news,” said Carlos. “Oscar said they need help around the house. There’s work for you, too.”

“I’ll take it,” said Elizabeth quickly. If she worked hard enough, the Jorgensens might never know she had been raised in the city.

“No,” said Henry. “This is my fault. You don’t have to work to pay for my mistake.”

“We’ll earn money twice as fast if we both work.” Well, perhaps not twice as fast. She doubted she would earn as much working as a domestic as Henry would as a farmhand. “Besides, what else am I going to do all day? Sit around like a lady of leisure? I doubt even Oscar Jorgensen’s wife can do that. I’d rather help with chores than die of boredom, so I might as well be paid for it.”

She could tell from his expression that he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t come up with a reasonable argument against it. After unloading their suitcases from the car, Carlos took Elizabeth around back to the kitchen door while Henry found a place to change from his second-best suit into work clothes.

A sturdy, brown-haired woman in her late sixties answered Carlos’s knock. “Yes, Carlos?” She gave Elizabeth a quick once-over but did not otherwise acknowledge her. “What can I do for you?”

“This is Elizabeth Nelson,” said Carlos. “She’s Henry Nelson’s wife. Oscar just hired him as a farmhand and he thought that you might have work for Elizabeth.”

“I could always use extra help around here.” Mrs. Jorgensen folded her arms over her blue gingham apron and studied Elizabeth. “I need a girl who’s a decent cook and can keep a house clean. Have you worked a farm kitchen before?”

“Yes, at my aunt and uncle’s horse farm back in Pennsylvania. I’ve also worked at my father’s hotel for many years.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What brings you to the Arboles Valley if you have a family farm and a hotel back east?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “My husband’s other plans for employment fell through.”

“So working for us is not your first choice. Well, at least you’re honest about it.” Mrs. Jorgensen looked past the visitors on her doorstep at the approach of the younger woman and the girl carrying the laundry basket. “Mind you keep an eye on those clouds,” she warned the eldest. “You should have had that laundry hung an hour ago. If it rains on my sheets you’ll have to do them over.”

The younger of the pair, a girl of about twelve, abruptly stopped smiling, but the elder tossed her head and laughed. “It’s not going to rain, Mother Jorgensen. Look at that sky! It’s a beautiful day. Hello,” she greeted Elizabeth suddenly. “I’m Mary Katherine Jorgensen. This is my daughter, Annalise. And you are?”

“Elizabeth Nelson.” Elizabeth shook her hand and flashed a quick smile at Annalise.

“Elizabeth and her husband have just hired on,” said Mrs. Jorgensen. “Perhaps you can show her around while I get back to work.”

Her eyes on Elizabeth, Mary Katherine said, “Have you settled on a wage yet?”

As Elizabeth shook her head, Mrs. Jorgensen said, “We don’t have time for that at the moment. We can take care of it at the end of the day.”

“Oh, let’s just take care of it now, get it out of the way.” Mary Katherine waved a hand dismissively. “What were you thinking of paying Elizabeth, Mother?”

“Twenty-five cents a day is a fair wage for a new kitchen helper.”

“I agree completely, but as soon as Elizabeth finds out that the Russells are paying fifty cents, she’ll quit and go work for them. I think we ought to pay fifty just to be safe, don’t you?”

Mrs. Jorgensen frowned. “I suppose so.”

“And if we would like her to help in the garden occasionally—” Mary Katherine touched Elizabeth lightly on the forearm. “You don’t mind gardening, do you?” Elizabeth shook her head. “Then we ought to pay seventy-five. That’s the going rate on the Kelley farm.”

“This is not the Kelley farm.”

Mary Katherine shrugged. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Elizabeth, honey, do you have a place to live?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Elizabeth.

“Then we’ll have to provide room and board as well. And Sundays off.”

“Of course she’ll have Sundays off,” said Mrs. Jorgensen, indignant. “But room and board will have to come out of her wages. Ten cents a day.”

“Very well,” said Mary Katherine. “Sixty-five cents a day plus room and board and Sundays off. But Elizabeth can’t live in the bunkhouse with the men. We’ll have to make other arrangements for her and her husband. How about the yellow room off the parlor?”

“You can’t mean the guest room,” said Mrs. Jorgensen.

“Why not? It’s rarely used.”

“I can’t ask guests to sleep on the sofa because two hired hands have the only spare bedroom. We can fix up the quarters over the carriage house.”

“It will take weeks to make that place habitable.”

“Then I suppose they can have the cabin.” Mrs. Jorgensen drew herself up and looked Elizabeth squarely in the eye. “It’s small, but it has a kitchen and a front room and two bedrooms. There’s no running water, but the well has a pump. Will that do?”

“It sounds fine. Thank you.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Jorgensen turned to go. “Change into more suitable clothes and meet me in the kitchen.”

“Just a moment,” said Mary Katherine. “Let’s shake on it.”

Mrs. Jorgensen halted and peered over her shoulder at her daughter-in-law. “What?”

Mary Katherine’s eyes were wide with innocence. “Isn’t that what Oscar does to seal a business agreement?”

Her mouth pressed in a sour line, Mrs. Jorgensen thrust a hand toward Elizabeth, who shook it. “Thank you,” Elizabeth added for good measure.

“When you’ve changed, I’ll take you through the house,” Mrs. Jorgensen replied. She returned inside, the screen door banging shut behind her. When they could no longer hear her footsteps, Annalise let out a nervous giggle.

Mary Katherine gave her a warning look, but it quickly melted into a grin. “Go help your sister in the garden. I’ll catch up,” she said. As Annalise ran off, to Elizabeth she added, “Don’t let Mother Jorgensen intimidate you. She likes to think she’s still the lady of the house.”

Elizabeth nodded. “My suitcase is outside. Could you show me where I can change?”

“Of course.” Mary Katherine accompanied her outside for the suitcase and then showed her to a modest bedroom with yellow roses on the wallpaper and a yellow-and-white Grape Basket quilt on a bed with a cherry headboard. After Mary Katherine departed, Elizabeth swiftly changed from the traveling suit Aunt Eleanor had sewn for her into a cotton housedress and sturdy shoes. She was grateful to Mary Katherine for negotiating a higher wage and better room and board, but it was not lost on her that Mrs. Jorgensen had made the final decision—or that Carlos had taken Elizabeth to the elder Mrs. Jorgensen to ask for work, when it would have been easier to go to Mary Katherine, who was already outside. Perhaps Mrs. Jorgensen retained the role of lady of the house despite what Mary Katherine thought.

She met Mrs. Jorgensen in the kitchen, where she had time for a quick look around before her new employer sent her running downstairs to the root cellar for a bushel of potatoes, which she washed and sliced in preparation for lunch. Mrs. Jorgensen spoke little as they worked, issuing directions or asking for assistance, but not indulging in friendly chat. Elizabeth supposed that was just as well. She could not bear to be forced to explain how she and Henry had ended up in this state. She still could not believe they had fallen so low so quickly, although she had the waterlogged hands and frying oil splatters on her apron to prove it was no dream.

Henry came in at lunchtime with the men, as sunburned, tired, and hungry as they were, but with a stunned, disbelieving look in his eyes that set him apart. Lars Jorgensen offered her a nod of recognition and welcome, but said nothing to indicate that he thought it odd for the Nelsons to be respected guests of the Grand Union Hotel one day and hired hands the next. The men ate swiftly, barely pausing between bites to discuss the condition of the fields or to plan for the afternoon. Oscar Jorgensen did most of the talking, consulting his brother, who sat at his right hand at the long, redwood plank table that took up most of the kitchen. Despite his thinning blond hair, Oscar resembled his mother—sturdily built, serious, and direct of expression—and seemed years younger than weathered, somber Lars. His face broke into a smile whenever his gaze fell upon his daughters, and Mary Katherine regarded him affectionately as she served the meal. He grinned up at her as she passed the plate of fried chicken, and Elizabeth suspected he might have pulled her adoring face toward his for a kiss if there hadn’t been so many people watching.

The men had barely cleaned their plates when Oscar gave the order for them to return to the fields. Elizabeth could not get Henry alone long enough to ask about his morning or offer encouragement. In the few words they managed to exchange in passing, he said stoically that the field work was no worse than back home in Pennsylvania, and that he hoped the Jorgensen women had been pleasant company for her. Elizabeth assured him that everyone had made her feel right at home, although that was not entirely true. Mrs. Jorgensen was not unkind or short-tempered, but she kept her thoughts to herself, making Elizabeth long for the warmth and cheerful banter of the kitchen at Elm Creek Manor, where her grandmother and aunts teased and gossiped and laughed as they prepared meals for the family.

After lunch, she washed the dishes while Mrs. Jorgensen dried them and put them away. Later Mrs. Jorgensen took her through the house, instructing her what to clean and how often. Elizabeth’s spirits faltered as she learned about the house that she had meant to call home. She imagined her wedding quilt spread on the four-poster bed in the master bedroom. A smaller bedroom beside it would have made a perfect nursery. The comfortable chair by the window in the front room would have been a lovely place to sit and quilt after the day’s work was done. On holidays, Henry could have sat at the head of the walnut table in the dining room. If little cousin Sylvia visited, she could have slept in the yellow guest room off the parlor—although she probably would have crawled into bed with Elizabeth in the middle of the night and nudged Henry farther and farther aside until he gave up and retired to the guest room himself. But it was not to be, none of it.

After the house tour, Mrs. Jorgensen sent Elizabeth out to help Mary Katherine, Annalise, and a younger daughter, Margaret, in the garden. The girls were so cheerful, their mother so friendly, that at last some of Elizabeth’s heartache began to ease. She told them about her family back in Pennsylvania, Elm Creek Manor, and her parents’ hotel in Harrisburg, but provided only vague answers to Mary Katherine’s probing questions about how she and Henry had ended up in the Arboles Valley. Perhaps when she knew them better, if Mary Katherine became a friend and not just an employer, Elizabeth would confide in her. For now, she was too ashamed of their gullibility and foolish optimism to tell them about the reckless gamble that had cost them every cent they had to their name.

Later, Mrs. Jorgensen called Elizabeth back inside to help prepare supper. The meal passed much as lunch had, with ravenous men eating too quickly to allow for conversation. Afterward, Oscar instructed Lars to show Henry around the farm, to let him know how things were done on Jorgensen land. When the men left, Mary Katherine took her daughters off to play while Elizabeth stayed behind to clean up the kitchen.

When she had finished the dishes, Mrs. Jorgensen said, “You’ve put in a good day’s work. If this is how things are going to be, and not just a show for your first day, you’ll work out fine here.”

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth.

Mrs. Jorgensen nodded, opened the kitchen door, and called for Annalise. “You have your own place to fix up,” she said as her granddaughter came running. “Annalise will show you the way. I’ll expect you here tomorrow morning, five o’clock sharp, to start breakfast.”

“Five o’clock,” Elizabeth repeated, hoping the cabin had an alarm clock.

“Wait. Before you go—” Mrs. Jorgensen disappeared around the corner and returned with a mop, broom, and a bucket full of clean rags, a scrub brush, and a box of soap powder. “You’ll need these.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jorgensen. I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

“There’s no need. We have others.”

Annalise chattered happily as she helped Elizabeth lug the two suitcases and the cleaning supplies a half mile east of the farmhouse to the cabin. “It’s been here forever, even before my great-grandfather came to California from Norway,” she said proudly as they climbed a low hill from which Elizabeth first caught sight of her new home. “No one’s lived in it for ages, not since Nana was a little girl. Sometimes my sister and I play there, but not so much anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Elizabeth, wincing as the suitcase banged into her shin.

“Margaret doesn’t like spiders.”

“Well,” said Elizabeth uneasily, “one could hardly blame her. Are there…many?”