The Carousel Painter (9 page)

Augusta’s fingers tightened around Tyson’s hand, and several drops of water dribbled from the tea towel. “No need for concern. My parents will be delighted you’ve arrived early. Mother was extremely pleased you’d be here for the housewarming.”

“Does your early arrival mean you’ll depart soon after the housewarming?” I asked.

Augusta pinched my arm with agonizing intensity. If I hadn’t clamped my bottom lip between my teeth, I would have squealed in pain. The most I could do was force her fingers from my arm and attempt to maintain a snippet of restraint and demure composure.

He lifted his shoulders into a straight line. “I haven’t decided when I’m going to leave. What about you, Miss Brouwer? Any plans for the future?”

“None that I care to discuss at present.” I pointed to the dripping cloth. “Looks like the ice needs to be replaced.”

My comment wasn’t well received, but I didn’t care. I had successfully avoided Tyson’s interrogation.

Last evening, before Mr. and Mrs. Galloway returned home from their visit with the neighbors, I had retreated to my bedroom. In retrospect, it was a cowardly act. Yet I knew I couldn’t bear Mrs. Galloway’s scrutiny. While Augusta hadn’t held me responsible for her bruises, I wasn’t certain Mrs. Galloway would be so generous—especially if the bruising hadn’t disappeared in time for the housewarming.

When I arrived at the breakfast table, Mrs. Galloway offered a terse greeting. I cringed when Augusta entered the room. The bruise had darkened and some of the swelling still remained. She looked like she’d been on the losing side of a tavern brawl.

Mrs. Galloway reached across to examine her eye. “You need to dust additional powder on your cheek. And take care to choose a hat with a full brim that will drop across your forehead.”

I lowered my eyes and pretended to examine the pattern of the tablecloth. By tomorrow I’d be moved out. I knew the timing would please Augusta’s mother even more than me. I uttered a silent thank-you when Mr. Galloway entered the dining room.

“I knocked on Tyson’s door. Seems he’s not feeling well and asked to be excused from church services.”

A likely story. I didn’t believe for a minute that Tyson was sick. However, both Augusta and her mother were overwrought with concern. I expected one or both of them to rush upstairs, sit by his bedside, and offer to hold his hand. Ridiculous. He had been perfectly fine last night. The chameleon wanted to sleep late and avoid the Sunday sermon. I would have preferred avoiding church, too, but not for the same reason.

I swallowed a forkful of scrambled eggs and envisioned my introduction to the Galloways’ acquaintances:
Hello, this is Augusta’s friend
Carrington Brouwer, who recently returned from France. Carrington is the
one responsible for those nasty bruises on Augusta’s face. She pushed our dear
Augusta down a flight of stairs last night.
My appetite disappeared.

I continued to chase pieces of egg around my plate until Mrs. Galloway announced we must finish up and be on our way. After I helped Augusta pat another layer of powder on her swollen cheek and choose a hat that I hoped would mask the bruise, we descended the stairs—with me in the lead. Whenever approaching a flight of stairs in the future, I resolved never again to follow behind Augusta. My father would have considered the decision silly and useless—akin to closing the barn door after the horses had escaped. That saying had been one of Papa’s favorites. I felt weepy at the remembrance. Holding a fisted hand to my lips, I coughed to hold back the unbidden tears.

Because we arrived at the church somewhat late, our entrance required only one or two introductions before we arrived at the Galloways’ pew. I could only hope we would escape as easily. From all appearances the added face powder and hat were working well. Augusta wasn’t receiving any gaping stares, but I doubted whether anyone could gain a good view of her. She’d been squished between her mother and me.

After the Scripture reading the preacher announced his sermon topic: forgiveness. I prayed Mrs. Galloway would hearken to the preacher’s words and the remainder of my time with the family would be somewhat bearable, but Tyson’s presence would surely add to the awkwardness of the afternoon.

While the preacher opened his Bible and looked out over the congregation, I settled against the back of the pew and prepared for the sermon. It was sometime during the beginning of the preacher’s message and the final amen that I convinced myself Tyson was primarily responsible for Augusta’s fall. If he hadn’t unexpectedly arrived at the front door, she wouldn’t have plummeted down the stairs. In all likelihood, church wasn’t the proper place to be mitigating my guilt, but it eased my conscience to assign at least a portion of the fault to him.

After church I used the ploy to advantage. When Mrs. Galloway pointed to me as the culprit responsible for Augusta’s bruised face, I didn’t hesitate to add Tyson’s unexpected arrival into the explanation. After that, an accidental fall was the only explanation given. Mrs. Galloway didn’t appear willing to assess any responsibility to Tyson.

Augusta pulled me aside while her parents visited outside the church. “Don’t be offended by Mother’s comments. She’s embarrassed by my appearance and fears someone might believe Father inflicted my bruises.”

My stomach plummeted at such a thought. “I never considered such an idea. How could anyone think your father would—”

“There’s cruelty in more homes than you might believe. Even among the folks who show up at church every Sunday. Of course that’s not true of my father, but Mother always believes people will think the worst.” She grasped my arm, and we walked toward the carriage. “She thought I should remain at home this morning, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.”

Augusta released my arm and hoisted herself into the carriage. Her face had tightened into a grimace.

“You’re hurting much worse than you’ve been letting on, aren’t you?”

“I’m a little sore, but it will pass soon enough. Don’t say anything to Mother. I’m hoping Tyson is feeling better and the three of us can go out for the afternoon.”

The thought of spending an afternoon with Tyson held no appeal, but I didn’t argue. I’d wait and see how he was faring when we got home. If Augusta’s plan took shape, I’d find some way to excuse myself.

The ride home was surprisingly pleasant. The churchgoers had accepted the explanation given for Augusta’s bruises, Mrs. Galloway was in good humor, and the weather was surprisingly warm for an early spring day in northern Ohio. Augusta would have added Tyson’s arrival as another reason for the pleasant mood. And I suppose it was. For everyone but me.

Augusta was careful to hide any sign of pain as we walked up the steps and into the house. Frances stood in the foyer waiting to relieve us of our wraps. Augusta removed her lightweight cape and handed it to the maid. “Has Tyson come downstairs?”

Frances nodded. “He has. He said to tell you that he is feeling better.”

“Where is he?” Augusta raised on tiptoe and peered down the hallway. She obviously hoped to see Tyson emerge from the dining room.

Frances scrunched her brow. “He said to tell you that he decided to return home and see his parents for a short time.”

“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” Augusta’s voice had taken on a shrill tone.

Frances looked toward the ceiling and tapped her index finger against her lips. “Oh. Yes. He said he’d be back in time for the housewarming.”

Immediate disappointment clouded Augusta’s eyes, and I squeezed her hand in a show of support. Although I had harbored no desire to spend the afternoon with Tyson, his disappearance was the cause of my friend’s pain. At that moment I disliked him even more.

I couldn’t help but wonder what had precipitated such a hasty departure. Not for a minute did I believe he’d gone to visit his parents. Only last evening he’d told me they were off traveling. Tyson’s behavior left me to draw only one conclusion: He was up to no good.

CHAPTER
7

I
would have preferred to leave the Galloways’ house quietly on my own the next morning, but Augusta vehemently disagreed. She insisted upon eating breakfast with me, instructing Frances to pack a lunch for my noonday meal, and riding along in the carriage with Thomas and me. Her company would have been appreciated had she not been so gloomy.

From the time we sat down in the dining room for breakfast until I bid her good-bye at the carousel factory, Augusta lamented Tyson’s departure as well as my move to The Bottoms. Had I not been resolute in my refusal, she would have followed me into the factory to watch me paint. She’d avowed her father wouldn’t mind in the least. Though I didn’t doubt her claim, I’d shuddered at the idea. Being the only woman in the factory would be difficult enough. But if I arrived with a friend in tow—especially when the friend’s father was the owner—the workers would never accept me.

When Augusta bid me farewell, it was with a promise that she and Thomas would deliver my trunks to Wilsons’ Boardinghouse before they returned home. She offered to have the driver call for me after work so that we could eat supper together at her home. I declined. The sadness in her eyes was almost enough to make me change my mind. Instead, I promised to join her another evening. Although obviously unhappy, she mumbled her agreement. Thomas had stopped the horses a short distance from the factory. I didn’t want the workers to see me arrive in a fancy carriage.

Once Augusta departed, I squared my shoulders and strode toward the factory door. A stiff wind caused an unexpected chill, and I pulled my cloak tight around my neck. Had I realized what a drop in temperature the breeze would create, I’d have tucked a pair of gloves into my pocket. Bending my head against the wind, I continued onward. But the closer I got, the slower I walked. A number of men brushed past me and hurried toward the door, obviously eager for the warmth inside the factory. If I dallied much longer, I’d be late for my first day of work. So I inhaled a deep breath, forced one foot in front of the other, and pulled open the door.

I took a quick survey of my surroundings. Now that I was an employee rather than a visitor on a brief walking tour, the place looked different, although the pungent smell of glue remained. A man with graying hair and stooped shoulders stood near a desk not far from the entrance. I decided he must be Josef Kaestner. Mr. Galloway had told me Mr. Kaestner would be expecting me.

The workmen entering the factory stared at me as though I’d grown a second head. My heart slammed against my chest and hammered a reverberating beat that ascended and pulsated in my head. There really was no reason for apprehension, yet I could barely swallow as I closed the short distance to greet the older man.

“Good morning.” My voice squeaked like an untrained bow being drawn across taut violin strings.

The man appraised me with wary brown eyes and a single nod of the head. “Morning.”

“Mr. Kaestner?”

“Nope.” He continued to sift through the papers on the desk.

“Nope?” I hadn’t meant to mimic him, but his response had taken me by surprise.

He tilted his head to one side and gave me a hard look. “That’s what I said. Nope.” Lifting a pencil from the desk, he pointed to the area where I’d seen men carving on my previous visit. “He’s back with the carvers. He expecting you?”

“Yes. Should I go back there?”

The man dropped the paper work onto the desk and shook his head. “I’ll go get him. Name?”

I pointed my index finger at my chest. “My name?”

“Unless you want me to give him someone else’s.”

“Carrington Brouwer,” I croaked. My arch enemy, the ever persistent and unmanageable giggle, rippled at the back of my throat, begging for release. I tightened my lips together and fought against the threatening laughter. For a moment I thought I might explode. It wasn’t until the man turned to walk away that I released my breath. Before I could clasp my hand over my mouth, a snorting guffaw escaped.

The man stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You say something?”

I held a hand to my mouth and forced a cough into the gurgling laugh. “A tickle in my throat,” I sputtered, silently condemning myself for my lack of control.