Mud Creek (3 page)

Throughout Mildred’s protracted decline, she’d been kind enough not to gloat over Helen’s silly opinions, and they’d definitely changed. At the moment, she would give anything to be married, to have a husband who could guide her, who could help to save her home, who could slip her a few dollars to pay the maid so she wouldn’t quit.

“One other topic”—Mr. Wainwright interrupted her pathetic musings—“if I may, Miss Pendleton?”

“What is it?” She braced, wondering how much more she could endure.

“It’s about your sister.”

“What about her?” Helen snapped.

“Since you have no parents available to counsel you, I could advise you regarding her difficulty. If you’d like to discuss it, that is.”

Helen’s cheeks flushed bright red. Rumors over Violet’s latest imbroglio had the whole town scandalized, but Helen would die before she’d let Mr. Wainwright note any upset.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she claimed.

He nodded, polite enough to drop the mortifying subject. “Very well then. If I may be of service to you in the future, please contact me.”

It took her a second to realize she was being dismissed. “I will and thank you. I appreciate your candor.”

“I’ve found it best not to sugarcoat things. It’s best to get the details out in the open.”

“Yes, it is,” Helen agreed, but she didn’t mean it.

She wouldn’t have been averse to his hedging and fibbing a few more days. If he had, she could have continued to hide in her cocoon, where she’d only had to deal with the reality of two deceased parents and the fact that she and her sister were orphaned. Instead, she had to devise a way to maneuver as the world disintegrated around her.

Wainwright stood and went to the door, which left her no alternative but to do the same. She pushed herself to her feet and staggered out of his office, down the long hall, the flights of stairs, and out to the sidewalk.

For a lengthy interval, she morosely dawdled, watching people hustle by. Everyone was busy but her. She felt invisible and insubstantial, as if she was connected to the ground by a thin tether. If it was cut, she would simply float off into the sky.

Up ahead, an old school friend and the girl’s mother were coming directly toward her, and she cringed. She couldn’t avoid them, and she wasn’t in the mood to chat or suffer their pitying expressions.

However, she needn’t have worried. The mother peeked up, nudged her daughter, and they scurried across the street, pretending not to have seen Helen. It was the most infuriating, degrading episode of her life.

After her father’s funeral, she and Violet had been besieged by acquaintances, delivering food, delivering condolences, extending offers of assistance. But recently, the visits had stopped. Neighbors didn’t wave or call hello, and Helen had been perplexed by the change.

Their maid, Jane, had bluntly explained it: the spring fair out on the outskirts of town; Violet and a handsome carnival barker; a wild and inappropriate evening complete with drinking of alcohol and too many witnesses.

Helen had confronted Violet, but Violet had sworn the story wasn’t true, and Helen wasn’t sure what she believed. Violet had been so earnest in her denials, and the fire of gossip had spread so rapidly. Had Violet been unfairly smeared? How could Helen find out? She could hardly rush out and quiz passersby.

Suddenly, Helen wanted to weep, and she was so distraught that she barely made it home. She stood in the yard, gazing up at their fine house, her mother’s rose garden along the fence, her rocking chair on the porch. In three short weeks, they would have to leave it all behind. The appalling prospect didn’t seem real.

As she forced herself inside, their maid, Jane, emerged from the kitchen. There was an awkward moment, where they silently stared, but then, the last few times they’d spoken had been awkward. Jane had been employed by the Pendletons for eight years, hired when Helen was eleven. She was practically a member of the family.

She hadn’t been paid in months.

“What did the lawyer have to say, Miss Helen?” Jane asked.

“Nothing good.”

“Lawyers never do.”

Helen snorted at that. “Were you aware that my father was bankrupt?”

Jane shrugged and glanced away. “There’s been talk.”

“Does the entire town know?”

“Could be.” Jane shrugged again. “You shouldn’t be shamed by it. Lots of men were caught in the crash. He wasn’t the only one.”

“We’ve lost the house,” Helen stated, merely to hear the words come out of her mouth.

“I’ve been afraid that you might have.”

“Three weeks.” Helen sighed. “Three weeks, then we have to be out. We can’t even take the furniture.”

“I’m awfully sorry.”

“So am I.”

Another embarrassing silence ensued, as Jane fiddled with her apron, and Helen wished the floor would open and swallow her whole.

Finally Jane said, “I was wondering if you stopped by the bank. Have you brought me my wages?”

“No. The accounts were all closed.”

“I see…”

Jane fumed, then spun and went to the kitchen. Seconds later, she reappeared, with her hat in hand and having shed her apron.

“What are you doing?” Helen asked her.

“I quit.”

“Must you?” Helen felt betrayed and abandoned.

“I can’t keep on for free, and your situation isn’t likely to improve any time soon.”

“I understand.”

“You couldn’t possibly,” Jane rudely replied. “Some of us have to work for a living. Some of us
need
the money, but I expect you’re about to learn plenty on the topic.”

She stomped out and shut the door behind her with a determined click.

“Goodbye,” Helen muttered to the empty space. Sarcastically, she added, “Thank you for your devoted service.”

She headed into the parlor and dropped down on the sofa. She sat like a statue—stunned, paralyzed with indecision—and she had no idea how long she dawdled. Certainly long enough for the afternoon to wane and the sun to shift toward the western horizon.

She was hungry and briefly flirted with the notion of going to the kitchen and cooking something to eat. But she knew very little about domestic chores, her only trips to the room made to enlighten Jane as to what she’d like to have prepared.

My lord, but she was a helpless, incompetent creature! Would she starve?

She noticed the mail on the table in the hall, and she trudged over and grabbed a stack of what turned out to be bills. She couldn’t pay any of them and threw them on the floor. At the bottom of the pile, there was a letter from Albert, and for once, she wasn’t aggravated to see it.

He’d written regularly, as he’d promised he would. Helen had been regaled with tales of the west, the beauty of the scenery, the rugged characters he’d met, the rich farmland he was tilling and fat cattle he was raising.

She suspected some of it was exaggerated, but she was happy that he was prospering.

He hadn’t mentioned his marriage proposal again, but he’d kept her posted on the house he’d constructed for his parents, on the cozy cottage he’d finished for himself. Clearly, he’d proceeded with her in mind, and the cottage could be hers if she wanted it, but her opinion hadn’t changed.

She flicked at the envelope, and as she read what he’d hastily penned, her pulse began to pound, her palms to sweat. She laid down the letter, paced, then picked it up and read it again.

My Dearest Helen,

It is with heavy hearts that we received the devastating news about your father. For months now, my parents have been aware of his dire predicament, and we have been worried about you and Violet. At my mother’s urging, I tender another proposal of marriage. I realize that you were opposed when I was still in Maywood, but since then, you have suffered several drastic setbacks.

The house I built for you is ready, and with your affirmative reply, it can be yours and your troubles solved.

My brother, Arthur, is constructing his own house, and it will be completed in a few weeks. He, too, finds himself ready to wed and asks that you send his regards to Violet. If she so wished, she could come with you and become a bride, as well.

I hurry to post this and apologize that I have no time to write more. With your positive answer, I can immediately wire train fare to purchase tickets for both of you. I eagerly await your response.

Your most humble and faithful friend, Albert Jones.

Helen huffed out a weighty breath, folded the paper, and stuffed it into the envelope. His offer was a talisman, tempting her to reach out and grab for it, but she was extremely conflicted.

For three years, she’d pompously snickered whenever she recollected Albert and his fervid desire to wed her. Yet she wasn’t a girl any longer, wasn’t free to choose from frivolous options. She was an adult woman—with no parents to advise her and no money to soften the blows.

She had to buckle down and make tough decisions, had to select from numerous bad alternatives. She’d always scoffed at steady, reliable Albert, but how could she ignore his suggestion? In light of her current dilemma, it would be insane to pass up such a chance.

Still…could she…should she…

There was Violet to consider. Helen didn’t see any good future for her sister in Maywood. Violet was frequently swept away by a riotous gaiety that lasted weeks, then she’d fall into deep despondence, where she would be too drained to crawl out of bed for days at a time.

Her condition was worsening, and Helen had no idea how to help her. If they moved to the Dakotas, if Violet married Arthur and lived quietly in the country and away from the temptations of town, surely she would benefit.

Helen didn’t know what was best, and it dawned on her that she should visit Mr. Wainwright and seek out his opinion. He’d offered his assistance. Why not accept the aid he’d so gallantly tendered?

She’d just resolved to call on him in the morning, when the back door opened and Violet stormed into the kitchen. She was cursing, stomping her feet, and banging something on the cupboard. Whatever it was, it shattered, the sound of broken glass hitting the floor, but the banging didn’t cease.

Helen had been so absorbed in her afternoon of misery that she hadn’t once wondered about Violet. She’d assumed Violet was upstairs napping or reading a magazine. It hadn’t occurred to her that Violet might have gone out—Helen had insisted she not—and instantly, Helen was in a panic.

It was the exhausting state of her life: fretting about Violet, quarreling with her, Violet’s promises of better conduct, which she quickly forgot, then the cycle starting over again.

Helen was so weary, she felt ill with fatigue. She rushed to the kitchen, and the sight that greeted her was alarming.

Violet had taken a coffee cup and smashed it, but she still held the cracked handle, and she kept bashing it over and over so it had cut her hand. She didn’t appear to notice her injury, and blood dripped from her fingers, flowing down her arm and staining her dress.

“Violet!” Helen cried, but her sister didn’t hear. “Violet! Stop it.”

Helen dashed over and seized Violet’s wrist so she could pry the cup away. Violet seemed bewildered, as if she didn’t understand how she’d wounded herself, and Helen guided her to a nearby chair.

As Violet eased down, she was mumbling what sounded like, “He left…he left…”

“What, dear? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Violet blinked twice, and her vision cleared.

“Helen?”

“What happened, Violet? Tell me.”

“Oh…oh, nothing.”

Helen wrapped a dish towel around Violet’s hand and pressed tight to staunch the bleeding. They couldn’t pay the doctor, so she hoped it wouldn’t need to be sewn.

Shaken, she pulled up a chair of her own and asked, “Where have you been?”

“I walked out to the fair.”

“Violet”—Helen clucked her tongue like a mother hen—“I warned you not to.”

“It’s such a nice day. I couldn’t bear to be trapped in my room.”

“You can’t fuel the flames of gossip. Otherwise, the rumors will never die down.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t speak to that man, did you? The one who caused all this trouble?”

“No, I didn’t speak to him,” Violet hastily claimed, but she glanced away.

“Swear it to me.”

“I swear. I didn’t speak to him! He wasn’t even there.”

Which indicated that she’d gone to check.

Helen sighed with fury and disappointment. “Violet…what should I do with you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It was Violet’s constant lament. She never intended any harm, but she hurt others anyway. Helen might have discounted her apology and sternly scolded her, but Violet began to cry, a flood of tears dripping down her pretty cheeks. Helen couldn’t stand to see her sister so out of control and unable to restrain herself.

“I don’t feel right, Helen,” Violet wailed. “I feel all jumbled inside, as if I’m broken to pieces.”

“I’d fix it if I could.”

“I’m so unhappy.”

“You shouldn’t focus so much on the negative. You should focus on what’s positive, on what’s good in your life.”

“I’ve wrecked everything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You made a mistake out at the fair. That’s all it was. It will blow over.”

“I hate this town and these snobbish people.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”

“You’re upset. You don’t mean it.”

“I wish I could die!” Violet dramatically hurled, and she laid her head on the table, her face buried in her arms, as she wept and wept.

At a loss, Helen sat with her, stroking her back, murmuring words of solace and encouragement. Occasionally, she went to the drawer in the cupboard to fetch a new towel. She’d tie it around Violet’s hand, and gradually, the bleeding stopped.

Evening waned and night fell, and still, Violet mourned. Her melancholy seemed like a deep ocean, that she was plunging down and would never reach the bottom.

Helen eased away to light a lamp. She stared out into the rear yard, watching the shadows darken. She was tired and heartsick and afraid.

Violet was so dejected, and Helen hadn’t yet mentioned their father’s bankruptcy, the foreclosure, the fact that they had no money. With Violet already in such a reduced condition, how would she react when she learned the actual state of their affairs?