The Marriage Bed (12 page)

"He's a damn sight smaller than you, Liv. He's a puny runt for a boy his age. Hardly much bigger than Peter was for all the extra years he's had."

Livvy tried to hide her surprise at the reference to Spencer's son. The name, like the loft, was forbidden.

"Can you take him to Zephin's now, first thing?" he asked quickly, as if he were afraid that Livvy might suggest that perhaps Neil could wear Peter's shoes. Did he think she'd really suggest that? After all this time?

"What about the girls? And breakfast? And my chores?" she asked, slipping behind the screen and hurrying to get dressed, her bladder nearly bursting.

"Louisa can make breakfast and take care of Josie. Lord knows she keeps saying she can. Let her prove it. And I'll get the milking done and have Louisa do the rest. That hayloader could cut our work time in half and get Henry off the farm if he's a mind to try his luck elsewhere."

Livvy came out from behind the screen, still working on the buttons of her shirtwaist. "For heaven's sake, Spence, Henry's just a boy. And the girl is eleven years old. She can't . . . "

Spencer was watching her fingers as they nestled between her breasts trying to get the little pearl buttons through the holes. Why couldn't he look at her like that at night? Why now, with a house full of children, two fields of hay waiting to be raked and loaded, and all her nephews on their way over, along with her brother?

"Livvy, I—"

There was a knock at the door. Spencer padded over in his bare feet and opened the door a crack while Olivia turned away and finished fastening her buttons.

"I'm ready," Neil said. "And I got my arrowheads to trade Philip, too." He proudly held up two arrowheads he had found while helping to turn Livvy's garden.

"Aunt Liv's gonna take you to town and get you some boots, boy. Slap some jam on a slab of bread and you can eat it on the way."

"Yes, sir," Neil said, scooting from the door.

"And don't let Philip take advantage of you none. You be sure you get something worthwhile for those arrowheads," Spencer shouted at the boy's back.

"Yes, sir," Neil said again.

"I'll hook up Curly George," Spencer said, slipping his workpants over his longjohns. "It'll save you the time of walking."

"Are you going to put him and Peaches together in the corral again today?" she asked.

'Less you have some objection. George is getting on and it sure would be a shame for him to go out of this world without leaving something of himself in it."

Like it would be for Spencer, Olivia thought sadly. In a world of
if onlys
, that was her most cherished one. If only she could give Spencer a child of his own.

"You don't want me to?" he asked, not knowing what it was that troubled her.

"It's just that Louisa's home today, and never living on a farm, I don't think she'd be too accustomed to seeing spring in the barnyard."

"Well," Spencer said over his shoulder as he hurried for the door. "Glad to see that those kids aren't gonna be any trouble. I gotta hook up George, you gotta run to town and spend good money on shoes that the boy'll outgrow before we've got the field planted, and now
Miss
Louisa's sensibilities are gonna be offended if I let the damn horses behave like horses." He yanked open the front door and shouted back, "And that little one's crying again, Liv. But don't worry because I don't even know they're here, just like you said."

Then the door slammed with enough force to rattle the dishes in the kitchen and set Josie off on a howl that Spencer could no doubt hear all the way in the barn.

And with all the chaos, and all Spencer's yelling and Louisa burning something at the stove, how come, she wondered, all she could think of was Spencer staring at her when she woke up, her hair in his hand?

Chapter Eight

"Boys' boots, Miss Zephin," Livvy said as soon as she and Neil crossed the threshold to Zephin's Mercantile. "As fast as you can find them and fit them. This young man has a field to plant and his city shoes aren't going to do the trick."

"Yes, ma'am," Emma said, her voice unusually chipper. "And what size would that be?"

Livvy stared down at Neil, who seemed younger in the midst of a store full of adults instead of a house full of children, and put a gentle hand on his head, sliding the cap he wore backward until he realized that etiquette demanded he remove it. She leaned down and quietly asked if he knew his shoe size.

"Size two last time we got any," he said, his eyes studying Emma Zephin. "Ma'am," he added, respectfully.

"What a nice young man you have there, Mrs. Williamson," Emma said, bending forward to examine him nearly nose to nose. "Very well mannered."

"He's too young for you, Emma," Charlie Zephin said from behind the counter where he had been kneeling out of sight. "By the time he's ripe for marrying, you'll have one foot in the grave."

"Papa!" Emma said, straightening and making sure her shirtwaist was well tucked into her waistband. She stuck her nose in the air and glared at her father. "Make all the jokes you want, Mr. Zephin. One day soon I'll be leaving here and you'll be in a fine mess without me, you know you will."

"Leaving?" Livvy asked, but Emma just raised her eyebrows at her father and then muttered something about boots starting at size three before disappearing into the back room.

"Leaving?" Livvy repeated to Charlie Zephin. "Is Emma going somewhere?"

"Oh," Charlie said with a heavy sigh and moved closer to Olivia and Neil. "She's got it in her head that Waylon Makeridge fellow is gonna come sweep her off her feet and take her for his wife." He shook his head with a look that at once pronounced the notion foolish and pathetic.

"Someone's gonna marry
her
?" Neil said incredulously, then "covered his mouth as if he hadn't meant for the words to be said aloud.

"Not likely son, is it?" Charlie said, ruffling the boy's hair. "Too bad she don't look like your aunt here, or she'd a given me a grandchild or two by now."

"Not necessarily," Olivia said, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. "And who's this Mr. Makeridge? I don't think I've ever heard that name before."

"Waylon Makeridge is the railroad surveyor," Emma said, emerging from the curtain that separated the storeroom from the main room of the mercantile. She was carrying two boxes and a pair of loose boots, as well, and the smile had most definitely returned to her face at the mention of Mr. Makeridge's name.

"I like trains," Neil said, sitting on a bench and working at the laces to his banker's shoes. "We came on a train from Chicago most of the ways here. Papa mostly played cards and stayed with some dandy, but me and Josie and Louisa went up and down the cars, and there was a man selling muffins and another with drinks. And a whole car that was set up just like a restaurant with fancy linens and all."

"Well, boy, if these here women can conjur up some magic, we just might have a train stop right here in Maple Stand, we might. Now what would you think of that?'' Charlie crossed his arms over his stock apron and looked very pleased with himself.

"I thought, Charlie Zephin, that all this railroad talk was just so much stuff and nonsense." Olivia shook her head at him. "You aren't trying to tell me—" she started.

"Well, Mr. Makeridge is coming to Maple Stand to do some surveying," Emma said, then blushed furiously. "I've been having a correspondence with him ... in that regard, of course."

She had put the boxes of shoes next to Neil and had been untying the laces so that he would be able to try them on. Now one boot hung limply from her hand as she stared off into space.

"Papa will have to fetch him from Milwaukee."

"Milwaukee?" Livvy's ears picked up even as she took the boot from Emma and helped Neil push his foot into it. "You're going all the way to Milwaukee, Mr. Zephin?"

"It's kinda big," Neil said, clomping around the store, one foot still clad in his old shoe and coming down softly, the other smacking and slurping against the wooden floor. "You got anything smaller?''

"Boy's gonna grow," Charlie said, rifling through some boxes behind the counter and coming up with a pair of thick woolen socks. "Try these on and see if, with 'em laced up good, they'll do. Don't want you outgrowing 'em before lunch."

Livvy looked at the big clock on the wall. Lord, this had taken longer than she'd figured already, and she hadn't even started trying to get Mr. Zephin to lower the price any. Spencer would be fuming in the fields by now.

Spencer. His rejection still burned her eyes and closed her throat.

"Boy, she's ugly," Neil whispered when Emma went into the back to see if there were any smaller boots.

Olivia shot him a look that said she wouldn't tolerate such talk, but she couldn't help wondering if Neil thought the same of her. Was she ugly? Is that why Spencer didn't want her?
So beautiful
, he had said that night.
So beautiful
. And while she knew she certainly wasn't beautiful, not Kirsten-beautiful, or Marion-beautiful, she didn't really believe she was Emma-ugly, either.

"And Waylon, that is, Mr. Makeridge, will be staying here with us when he comes," Emma said as she handed a box to Olivia that contained shoes that looked very small. ''And he's looking forward to my cherry pie, he says."

"That's real nice," Olivia said, showing the shoes to Neil and watching him shake his head at even trying them on.

He had put the heavy woolen socks over his own and was trying on the second pair of boots, ones that looked a lot like the type Spencer wore, while keeping one eye on the grownups.

"Would you be willing to take a couple of passengers with you to Milwaukee, Mr. Zephin?" she asked. "Maybe Mrs. Sacotte and I could go along, if Mr. Williamson and Remy don't mind. Bess hasn't been all that well and I'd sure like her to see a good doctor. That is, if you're planning on only staying one night. It's not easy for either of us to get away for too long."

"Why, Mrs. Williamson, I'd be happy for the company. Even considered closing down the store and letting Emma come with me, but this is so much better." He bowed slightly at the waist. "I'd be delighted if you'd do me the honor. And looks like he found the boots he wants."

Neil stood in the heavy boots like a proud peacock, his chin raised, his hands on his hips. "These are the ones, Aunt Liv. They fit me great."

"You're sure?" she asked, never having bought shoes for a child and having no way of knowing whether they were half a dozen sizes too small or too large, only knowing that Neil wanted them because they looked just like Spencer's.

"They'll be fine," Charlie said, bending over and feeling through the shoe for Neil's toe. "Enough room to grow but not so much that he'll leave 'em in a pile of muck. And they're a bargain, too. Only a dollar and eighty cents. Less than the catalog, like always."

"A dollar eighty," Olivia said, checking the clock again. She wished Philip were here to close a deal for her, as she wasn't very good at bargaining even when she had all the time in the world. She was too honest to make a good haggler, so she said what was on her mind. "Mr. Williamson's gonna ask if I paid your first price, Mr. Zephin, and you know how I feel about lying."

Mr. Zephin laughed. "I suppose I could take off another nickel and make it one seventy-five."

"Olivia, your pie won that blue ribbon last year didn't it?" Emma asked, absentmindedly packing up the shoes that Neil had tried and rejected. "The cherry one, didn't it?"

"Well, it was a good year for cherries at Sacotte Farm," Livvy said. "The fruit really should have gotten the ribbon."

"Aunt Liv is a real good cook," Neil said. "Even Uncle Spencer says so."

"About the recipe for that pie, Olivia," she said, looking plaintively at Livvy.

"About the price of the shoes, Mr. Zephin," Livvy said in turn.

"About the ride to Milwaukee,, Mrs. Williamson," Charlie said and the three all waited for a moment while no one threw another favor into the pot.

"Can't go lower," Charlie finally said. "But I could throw in an extra set of laces and some polish."

"I'll copy down that recipe tonight," Livvy said to Emma. "And I hope it beats the Dutch out of Mr. Makeridge."

"She'll need real good cherries," Charlie said, sensing an opportunity. "You could bring 'em when you come for your ride to Milwaukee."

Livvy laughed and nodded her agreement. "If it turns out that we can go, then with pleasure, Mr. Zephin."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mrs. Williamson."

"Could I wear them home?" Neil asked.

"I don't know," Livvy said, looking skeptically at the enormous boots on her spindly nephew's feet and then throwing one last glance at the clock. "Can you run in them?"

"Course I can," Neil said, his chest puffed out like a peacock before he tripped on the way out the door.

"Well," Livvy said with a shrug. "At least we've got Curly George to carry us the rest of the way!"

Spencer and his nephews had tried out the hayloader and had a row and a half of corn turned and planted by the time he saw Olivia and Neil in the wagon coming down the dirt path from town. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, sending his wife to get the boy shoes. Lord knew what he'd wound up with, for Livvy was so soft-hearted she'd get the child whatever he asked for. And Neil, while he was quick to catch on, came as natural to farming as a chicken came to puckering up and whistling.

She steered the wagon to within afew yards of the barn and then stopped, said something to Neil, and fixed the brake. The boy jumped down and headed for Spencer, kicking dirt on the way with what looked to be good sturdy work boots.

"Aunt Liv wants to know where you want Curly George," he said when he was within shouting distance of his uncle.

"Hey, Neil," Henry said at his cousin's approach. "You owe us four rows of work."

"It'll go faster now that I'm here," Neil said, and Spencer stifled a laugh. If there was a way for Neil to foul up the work and make it take twice as long, quite unintentionally, the boy would find it.

"I'll just go unhitch George," Spencer said to the boys and sauntered toward the wagon.

Olivia was making her way down from the buckboard, one foot searching for the hub of the wheel, her fanny sticking out roundly behind her. He stood behind her, paralyzed. He didn't dare reach for her waist, knowing he couldn't help but skim her bottom on his way toward that slim waist that he thought his hands could probably span. How was it he still didn't know that after they'd been married so long?

Because he'd kept his damn hands to himself, and that was surely what he ought to be doing right now, instead of lifting her skirt enough to find her ankle and guide it onto the wheel hub. Because the little voice in his head warned him that taking her into his arms was just one step away from taking her into his heart.

"Oh!" she said, nearly losing her balance when she felt his hand on her ankle. Her foot missed the hub and continued down, her leg running through his hand until it tightened just under her knee. How could a leg be so soft, so smooth? If he let go now, she'd fall. If he held on much longer, he'd never let go. With his free hand he scooped her up and deposited her firmly beside the wagon.

Recovering her balance and catching her hat as it tumbled from her head, she stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Much more of this and he was sure he would. Kids everywhere, his wife in wet shirtwaists, her cheeks always flushed . . .

George stomped and snorted, rattling his harness as if he were in a hurry to either go somewhere or be unhitched. Unhitched. He and Curly George had too damn many desires in common.

"I didn't know if you wanted the horse in the barn or the corral," Olivia said, squinting at him in the sunshine and looking like she'd been set aglow.

"The horse is here to work," he said. "Put on this earth to work, just like me." What on earth was he talking about? Couldn't he simply say
I need him in the field?
All this chaos had rendered him incapable of talking sense.

"Oh, of course," she said, appearing slightly embarrassed. "You're using Peaches for plowing, anyway. I don't know what I was thinking."

If she'd been a man he'd have guessed she was thinking about the horses mating. She'd have been thinking about Spring and a young man's fancy or whatever it was that poet had said. She'd have been thinking about the smell of a woman and what it did to a man's brain even in the middle of a sunny morning in May when there was planting and plowing to be done and a field full of children waiting on him.

"I guess I'd better check on the girls," she said, so shyly he could swear she had been reading his thoughts. For a minute he wished he could read hers, but then he knew he did every time he looked into her face. And it was a book he didn't want to read again. Never again.

Neil wished there was a mirror where he could watch his aunt as she cut his hair. It wasn't that he was stuck up or anything, but she seemed so distracted that he was afraid he might wind up bald for the Petition to the Blessed Virgin. And he could see that her eyes weren't on his hair but on the white dress she had bought for Josie at Zephin's.

"Watch what you're doing," his uncle said, sitting on the sofa and reading a newspaper as if there weren't a houseful of chaos around him.

"Oh, Spencer," his aunt said, her voice all dreamy. "Did you see the little veil for her? Won't she look just like an angel?"

His uncle made some kind of noise that was more a choke than a laugh and took off his glasses to wipe his eyes. "She won't fool the Lord," he said. "Under all that white stuff will be the same black-hearted little beggar who nearly broke your nose and keeps sharpening her teeth on my ankles."

"He doesn't mean that," Aunt Olivia said under her breath so that only Neil could hear. He wasn't so sure. Neither of his sisters was doing anything to endear themselves to their relatives.