Love Lies Bleeding (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Ithaca, New York
June 1916

“
I
tell you, trying to decide how much to bale when the hay comes in… I’m not one for math, and having to take the number of bales and multiply it by their average weight…it’s a challenge. It’s never been my strong suit, averages. Pa says that we can bring in a good haul if we just…”

The voice faded away as if Hiram wasn’t even talking. The first time that Tom Estabrook saw Libbie Morgan, he was struck dumb. Right there on State Street. It was the darnedest thing. She was strolling with a friend down the sidewalk, her pleated white shirtwaist a startling contrast to her silky black curls and extraordinary blue eyes. A bright blue sash topped an ankle-length navy lawn skirt. And her hat was adorned with an assemblage of ribbons and flowers in various hues of blue.

Tom had met up with his friends Hiram Gordon and Jimmy Devenport, who were in Ithaca buying some farm implements and leather goods at Hedden’s. Or what had been Hedden’s. Old Aaron Hedden had moved to Idaho years ago but had sold his business on State Street. It still offered bridles and harnesses for sale. Until the last year, it had also been a busy livery stable, but that business had been falling off.

As she exited the milliners around the corner on Cayuga Street, the girl seemed very pleased with her new purchase. Not a little vainly, she cocked her head to and fro, trying to catch her jaunty reflection in the surrounding shop windows. She and her friend giggled over a joke, and her eyes flirted with half the boys as she walked.

“And the bumper crop of berries we’ve got now. You wouldn’t believe it! Pa thinks we can fetch a pretty penny at market for these doozies,” Hi said.

Hi and Jimmy were oblivious to the thunderbolt that had struck their friend. They ambled along, thumbs tucked into suspender straps.

After a moment or two, Hi and Jimmy realized that Tom had not kept pace with them. They turned to find him standing dazed on the sidewalk in front of Smith’s Bakery, a tentative smile spreading across his earnest features.

Hi followed the direction of Tom’s gaze and discovered it had locked on the girl with the hat full of blue flowers. Tom wasn’t alone. The girl had turned heads up and down State Street, that was for sure.

She and her friend whispered confidences and shared a laugh, enjoying the sunshine and the light June breeze. The girls stopped in front of Birdie’s Café, and the boys knew it was time for a bite. They knew right where they were going.

“Let’s get some lunch,” Tom said, right on cue.

Hi smiled and followed Tom to the restaurant, but Jimmy stopped for a moment.

“Aw, hell,” he remarked, smacking his forehead. “Ma wanted me to check on some other stuff and I plum forgot. A bridle, and she wanted me to price a new saddle. Let me see how long this will take me. I’ll catch up with you.”

They were aware that Jimmy dreaded the pricing and having to find out if he could buy on credit, but there wasn’t much help for it. The Devenports were broke.

Hi and Tom entered the little restaurant, the tiny bell letting out a cheery jingle as the door shut behind them. Hi and Tom and Jimmy had been best friends since birth, eighteen years ago in Newfield, southwest of town. The boys had always been together—playing or working, it was just understood. Tom’s father and mother had died within months of each other during a typhoid outbreak two years earlier. Tom’s older sister Della had already married, but their place was too small to take in her brother, since she had just given birth to twin baby girls. Tom was in a bad spot until Hi’s parents, affectionately called Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke, had taken him in. Their clapboard farmhouse in the area of Newfield called Trumbull’s Corners had become home to him for a year and a half. When he was old enough, he had moved to Ithaca to make a life for himself, finding a job at the clockworks. Tom visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke as often as he could nowadays, and Hi and Jimmy made the trip to Ithaca when time permitted, but chores could be prohibitive. Most often the milking. “Twice a day for the rest of your life,” as the joke went.

All as different as night and day, the three were still as close as brothers. Hi was tall and ginger-blond, raw-boned and ruddy cheeked from his Scottish roots, a farm boy through and through. Jimmy was red-haired and green-eyed, betraying his Irish origins. No one was sure where the Estabrook name had come from, but Tom’s dark hair, high cheekbones, slight build, and nickelodeon good looks always got him the girl.

Hi and Jimmy were used to it. In Newfield, plenty of farm girls were ready to settle down, but Tom wanted more. He wasn’t a farmer, and he knew it. Just like Tom knew he couldn’t stay in Newfield, Hi knew he could never live in Ithaca. There was too much bustle, too much noise, and no nature. At first, Hi had been a bit insulted that his sisters had not been good enough for Tom, but seeing him tripping over his own feet trying to work a plow or annoying the cows with his milking technique, it became obvious. This was his life, not Tom’s. The boy would never be a farmer.

They seated themselves at a table in the corner of Birdie’s, not far from the window. If they looked outside, they could see the tables of the ladies from the Women’s Christian Temperance Union across the street. The head WCTU lady, Mrs. Philomena Armstrong, waved her arms and attempt to foist her pamphlets off on passersby while calling out slogans and cautionary statements about keeping oneself pure of the evils of John Barleycorn. Tom was distracted by the girl in blue and took the seat facing so he could watch her without being obvious. Then they waited to be served. In the meantime, the girls had ordered consommé and tea sandwiches.

Birdie’s was one of the most popular restaurants in town, its owner one of the more beloved townspeople in Ithaca. Sophronia Montgomery was a big-boned lady who’d led a hard life. She’d lost three husbands, the last to diphtheria in 1908. In the midst of such sadness, the small bit of good news was that each had seen to her welfare by leaving respectable sums in their wills, and the last had also left a paid-off mortgage. Having raised six children, she’d capitalized on her cooking and baking skills, which had won her numerous awards at surrounding county fairs. Because of her love of birds, someone had bestowed the nickname “Birdie” upon her as a girl, and she had never gone by anything else. The reproduction Audubon prints on the walls added to the avian theme of the place, which served homemade favorites to everyone, from politicians to farmhands. The smell of home cooking drifted down the block, attracting everyone in for roast chicken, blue-ribbon pies, and bread fresh out of the oven.

“What’ll it be, boys?” Birdie wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a small writing pad from it. “The ham is real nice today. Got it decorated up with cloves and brown sugar.”

“I think we’re gonna have some fish and fried potatoes, Miss Birdie,” Hi said, tucking his napkin under his chin and grinning. “You know it’s our favorite.”

“Everything’s your favorite, Hiram Gordon,” she said, placing a maternal hand on his shoulder. After collecting their menus, she waddled off to the kitchen.

As Tom looked around after handing over his menu, he and the girl caught each other’s eyes. When she flashed him a coy smile, he thought he might pass out on the spot; his heart was beating more rapidly than he had ever felt it do before.

“Why hello, Hiram, Thomas. How are you boys doing this fine afternoon?”

Tom and Hi glanced up to see Reverend Savercool, their former minister at the Newfield Methodist Episcopal church, rocking on his heels in front of their table. He had accepted a post at the First Episcopal Church in Ithaca several months before and seemed to be in good spirits on this pretty summer day. Though the reverend was young and green, he was beginning to bald a little too soon. The snug fit of his cassock around a developing paunch spoke of his special fondness for parishioners’ baked goods. Still, he was enthusiastic about spreading the word of the Lord.

“Good afternoon, Reverend!” Hi stood and shook the minister’s hand. “It’s been some time! How is your new ministry?”

Tom waited a moment, then did the same.

“Splendid!” Reverend Savercool said with his usual enthusiasm. “The congregation here in Ithaca has been most welcoming. Why, just this past week, Mrs. Julia Whitcomb baked a fine peach pie for those of us at the parsonage. It was such a Christian gesture.”

At his recommendation of the locals’ hospitality, a bell-like voice from a few seats away called, “Why, Reverend! How are you?!”

Tom turned to see the beauty calling to the clergyman with a slight wave of her hand. His heart beat a crazy rhythm like those ballroom-dancing partners, Vernon and Irene Castle, performing an out-of-control turkey trot. The reverend knew her. Now he had to find out who she was.

“A member of your new flock?” he joked to the clergyman, attempting to hide his anxiety.

“Why yes! That’s Miss Elizabeth Morgan and her friend, Miss Olive Rumsey. Shall I introduce you?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Tom stammered. “We wouldn’t know what to say. The young ladies must be very busy this afternoon.”

“Piffle,” the reverend said, gesturing the girls over.

They approached with their plates, and although it was imperceptible at first, the spicy scent of lilacs arrived at Thomas’s side.

“Hello,” the dark-haired girl said. “I’m Libbie, and this is Olive. You also know the reverend?”

Tom nodded. “We’re happy to meet you. Won’t you sit down?”

Hi gestured to the other chairs at the table.

“Pleased to meet you,” Olive said, taking a seat opposite Libbie. Where Libbie was all day and night, pale and dark juxtaposed, Olive was a study in warmth. Her ash blond hair was tucked under a straw hat aflutter with silk daisies and daffodils. Her pale yellow shirtwaist and rust-colored linen skirt further accented a pink-cheeked, healthy complexion. And her eyes twinkled, a shade somewhere between gold and hazel brown. “Are you from Ithaca? We haven’t seen you around much,” Libbie asked and took a bite of her sandwich.

“I’m Thomas Estabrook, and this is my friend Hiram Gordon,” Tom said. “We’re from Newfield.”

“But Tom moved up here to work at the clockworks,” Hiram finished for him.

“I’ve heard that is a good job,” Libbie said, making conversation, glancing from one to the other. She and Tom locked gazes once again.

“Reverend, you transferred here from Newfield, didn’t you?” Olive offered.

“I did indeed,” the reverend said. “And Hi and Tom’s families were loyal parishioners for some time. ‘Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and their faith in Jesus.’ Revelation 14:12.”

The teenagers nodded. They attended Sunday school, of course, but the latest beauty magazine or
Tarzan
serial was far more apt to gain their attention these days than the teachings of the prophets.

“Boys, is Jimmy Devenport joining you today? Whenever I see the two of you, I know to expect him along any minute,” he said with a chuckle.

“Oh, we were just at Hedden’s, and he forgot something. He should be joining us soon.”

“Aha. Well, you must give him my regrets if I don’t see him when he arrives. Tom, how is your sister? I must know about those little girls of hers. What a darling pair.”

“She’s good. And so is my brother-in-law. The twins are growing like weeds.” He smiled the smile of a proud uncle. Every time he saw his nieces, he craved children of his own. He wasn’t sure if he was ready yet, but he knew from Della that children caused you to grow up faster than you ever thought you could.

“That’s marvelous,” the reverend said. “Excuse me, if you please, boys and girls,” he said, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. “I must try to finish my sermon, as I’m running behind this week.” He moved to a table nearby, ordered a filet of sole and creamed peas, and pulled his Book of Common Prayer and fountain pen out of the pocket of his cassock. Then he proceeded to make notes in the margins.

Back at the youngsters’ table, lemonades were ordered all around.

“Are you girls from here in Ithaca?” Tom asked.

“Yes, we are,” Olive said. “We graduated from the high school last month. My father teaches at the college…” she said, gesturing in the direction of “The Hill,” where Cornell lay. “Libbie’s father is an attorney over on Seneca Street. We both live on the Hill.”

Tom gulped as the implications hit home. As if their clothing weren’t enough of a giveaway, these girls were far and above his station.

“That’s a very becoming hat,” Tom ventured, looking over at Libbie. He was so intimidated, it was all he could think of to say. But she was so beautiful, he had to say something.

A lovely flush crept over her fine features before she murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Estabrook.”

Tom surprised himself. He was usually so quiet, but this girl made him bold. She made him want to do something important. Something to impress her. He knew girls were drawn to his shyness, but for the first time in his life, he felt confident, almost cocky.

He could tell she was happy with the attention.

Taking another sip of her lemonade, she smiled and said, “It’s new.”

“I told Libbie that the blue sets off her eyes nicely. Don’t you think?” Olive asked.

“Very well indeed,” Tom said, gazing at Libbie, not even glancing at the hat. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

“So, Mr. Gordon, what do you grow on your farm down in Newfield?” Olive asked, restarting the conversation.

“Corn, onions, cabbages, some berries,” Hi said. “And we have some orchards. So we make lots of cider. Say, are you kin to the Rumseys in Newfield?”

“Why, I believe I do have some cousins down there,” Olive said. “A bit distant, though. My father was from Cobleskill. Do you know it?”

“Aways east of here, yeah?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said. Then she and Hi looked back over at Libbie and Tom. “We’re some kind of cousin to that millionaire Morgan fellow,” Libbie said, chuckling. “Not that he ever remembered us at Christmastime.”

She’s very casual about it, for being related to a millionaire
, Tom thought.

“Papa’s a self-made man, but he loves to brag about being related to the old vulture,” she continued. “Mother and Father were both from Connecticut, but Father attended Cornell and opened his practice here. He’s the Morgan in Morgan and LaBarr, you see. I was born here. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, could you? I mean, it’s so beautiful here, with the lakes and the mountains and waterfalls.”

He shook his head, knowing what she meant. He loved his home and could never even consider leaving.

“One of our friends had to move with her parents out west,” Olive began. “To Oklahoma. Can you imagine? She hates it. She says it’s hot, and dusty, and it doesn’t rain very often. But when it does rain, it never stops. The rivers all flood, and they almost have to build an ark every spring! It’s dull and flat, and they have these horrible cyclones there that can pick up an entire house….” She shuddered. “I’m staying right here.” She leaned back with a thump in her chair, as if to illustrate the solid fact of her immobility.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing Texas myself,” Tom said. “You know…the last home of the frontier, cows, horses, covered wagons and chasing after Pancho Villa. Almost like a Tom Mix short. It would be nice to be able to buy a piece of property for pennies of what it’s worth here. But I hate the heat. And my farming skills are a bit, well, inadequate...” He grinned.

“That’s for sure!” Hi said, slapping his knee. The boys shared a belly laugh.

The girls glanced at each other, not in on the joke but taking Tom’s word about his lack of agricultural acumen.

“So what are your plans, Mr. Estabrook?” Libbie asked him.