Waiting for Spring (15 page)

His brother's expression sobered. “What if it's not enough?” Harrison always had been a worrier.

“Are you asking if I'd be destitute and desperate enough to go back to Northwick?” Though Harrison made no response, something in his expression made Barrett realize he'd considered that possibility. “I doubt that. I haven't sunk everything into the herd,” he told Harrison. “I took Pa's advice and built an emergency fund. That would tide me over for a while.” Barrett did a quick mental calculation. “It would be enough to restock, but it wouldn't leave much for a political campaign.”

“Then I guess we'd better pray this isn't a bad winter.”

“Amen to that.”

The warmth of Mrs. Kendall's kitchen was a welcome respite after Charlotte's walk in the wind. Even the heavy black hooded cape had not kept the cold from penetrating.

“Won't you have a cup of coffee, ma'am?”

Charlotte shook her head. She'd left the house later than normal this morning because it had taken her all night to complete the last dress. A wise woman would have slept, but Charlotte had been determined that Mrs. Kendall and several of her boarders would have at least one reason to give thanks tomorrow.

“I can't stay,” she said as she unwrapped the first parcel, holding up the rust-colored calico dress she'd made for the boardinghouse proprietor. Though the other frocks were
more of Miriam's hand-me-downs that Charlotte had reworked, this dress was brand-new. She had chosen the calico specifically for Mrs. Kendall, knowing that the color, although practical enough not to show stains, would flatter her.

“It's beautiful.” The older woman smiled. “It'll be perfect for Madeline, once the baby's born.”

“It's not for Madeline.” Charlotte infused her voice with determination. “This one's for you.”

A flush of pleasure rose to Mrs. Kendall's cheeks. “Me?” She touched the rows of pintucks that marched up and down the bodice. Though they'd taken hours to complete, even with the sewing machine, Charlotte had not considered eliminating them, for they would add a pleasing fullness to Mrs. Kendall's overly thin body.

“Yes, you. You deserve a new dress too.” Sensing that the older woman was on the verge of tears, Charlotte opened the other packages, spreading the dresses on the table as she had the last time. “These are the sizes you asked for.”

Her eyes still brimming with tears, Mrs. Kendall nodded. “I don't know how to thank you. The gals who live here ain't never had pretty things like this, and the ones who come for meals . . .” Her voice trailed off, as if in embarrassment. “I'm sorry, ma'am. It ain't proper, talkin' to a lady like you about them.”

Charlotte couldn't let the conversation end, not when her curiosity had been aroused. Gwen had said nothing about women who took meals at the boardinghouse but did not live there.

“Where do these other women live?”

Her face now almost as red as the velvet gown Charlotte had made for Miriam, Mrs. Kendall bit her lips. “Next door. At Sylvia's.”

The whorehouse. Charlotte flinched, remembering her own disdain for the women who'd sold their bodies to Fort Laramie's soldiers. If it hadn't been for Abigail, she might not have realized how wrong she'd been, condemning women when she had no understanding of what had driven them to such a deplorable profession. She wouldn't repeat that mistake.

“Can they use new dresses?”

Rose was cranky. The normally even-tempered three-year-old had started fussing early in the morning, and by the time Thanksgiving dinner was over, it appeared that a full-fledged tantrum was brewing. Charlotte was certain that was the reason Mr. Yates, who'd been invited to spend the entire day with them, had pleaded fatigue and returned to his apartment once dessert was served. Even David seemed affected by Rose's pouts and wails.

“She needs a nap.” Gwen mouthed the words, rather than upset her daughter further. Naps were not Rose's favorite thing. Soon after David's birthday, she had announced that she was a big girl, and big girls did not take naps. Only babies did.

Charlotte nodded. If the child was catching a cold or the grippe, sleeping would help. But that would happen only if the house was silent. “David and I will go for a walk,” she offered. “The fresh air will be good for both of us.” It might even help clear her mind. Though she had many reasons to be thankful, concerns still weighed heavily on her. Some days, she felt as if she had an entire shipment of woolens strapped to her back, and nothing she did seemed to lighten the load. Even Mrs. Kendall's delight in her new dress and Mr. Yates's
obvious enjoyment of dinner had provided only brief respites from her worries. Though she couldn't explain why, it was easier to solve others' problems than her own.

“Come, David. We need to get you dressed to go outside.” Despite a mighty protest when she took the wooden ball from him, his spirits seemed to soar when he felt the scratchy plaid wool of his coat, and he grinned at her. If only everything were so simple. But few things were simple where David was concerned, which was why Charlotte's worries persisted. He wasn't making the progress he should be, and nothing she did was changing that.

David had stood by himself two weeks ago, his legs shaky, his expression betraying fear as well as excitement. He had even taken a single step toward Charlotte before falling on his face, banging his nose against the floor. Charlotte didn't know whether it was the pain of the fall or the fact that his nose had bled. All she knew was that, despite all her encouragement, he refused to try to stand again.

Perhaps Barrett and Gwen were right. Perhaps David did need a special teacher. Charlotte let out a bitter laugh. She was like her son, avoiding pain. David wouldn't try to walk, and she refused to think about letting him go.

David looked up, startled by her laugh. “I'm sorry, David. I didn't mean to frighten you. Come on. We're going for a ride.” She scooped him into her arms and carried him down the stairs to the backyard. “Into the wagon now.” Once he was seated, she placed his arms on the side rails. “Hold tight.”

When she reached the front of the building, Charlotte hesitated. Normally she turned right and headed south, but today something drew her in the opposite direction. The streets were almost deserted, perhaps because it was a holiday,
perhaps because the afternoon was colder than normal, even for late November. As David exhaled, Charlotte saw puffs of white emerge from his mouth. An ordinary sight, and yet one he would never experience. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her erratic pulse, wondering if it would always be like this, feeling that her heart was being cut into tiny pieces. She couldn't send David away. She couldn't. That couldn't be the right decision for him.

“We're going by the school now,” Charlotte told him as they turned left onto 18th Street. Perhaps it was silly. He would never attend classes here; she was only torturing herself by imagining him entering the doorway, books clasped under his arm, and yet she could not stop praying for a miracle. That's what it would take for David to join the throng of children who climbed those stairs each day. A miracle. Though Papa had told her that miracles happened every day, there had been none of them so far.

As she pulled him past the school, David smiled, then twisted his head to let the sun warm his face when they reached the corner of Ferguson again.

How foolish she had been! Charlotte swallowed deeply. “You're right, David. The sun is shining.” Papa had been right too. There were miracles every day, if you took the time to look for them. They might appear insignificant to others. They might not seem like the answer to prayer. But they were real. It was late November. The sun was weak, and yet Charlotte's miracle was sitting in a small wooden wagon, smiling at the warmth of a celestial body he would never see.

Oh, Papa. I wish you were here to see your grandson. You'd love him as I do.
But Papa would never hold David, and when Abigail and Elizabeth learned the truth, they might
be so angry at all that Charlotte had hidden from them that they might refuse to see her again. That prospect haunted her almost as much as the thought of taking David to a special school and leaving there without him.

“Charlotte.”

She turned, startled by the familiar voice calling her name. If there was anyone who could dispel her somber mood, it was Barrett.

“I thought I was the only person outside this afternoon,” he said as he reached her side.

Charlotte almost giggled with happiness. This was what she needed, an ordinary conversation with this man. Her friend. “David and I wanted some fresh air. We walked around the block and were trying to decide where to go next. Weren't we, David?” Her son nodded, as if he understood all that she'd said.

“May I join you?”

Charlotte couldn't think of anything she would enjoy more. “Certainly.”

Though she kept a grip on the wagon handle, preparing to cross the street, Barrett shook his head. Crouching next to David, he said, “Remember me? I'm Mr. Landry.”

A grin split David's face. “Baw.”

Barrett's face sported a matching grin as he stood. “That's right. Ball.”

Though the sun snuck behind a cloud, Charlotte didn't mind. The day seemed warmer simply because Barrett was here. “That's become David's favorite toy,” she explained. “He insists on taking it everywhere, even to bed.” She gave her son a fond smile, recalling his earlier protests. “We had a small disagreement when I wouldn't let him bring it outside.”
Charlotte nodded toward the wagon, hoping Barrett would understand that David needed to grip the sides while she pulled it. “Gwen tells me that tantrums don't start until children are two, but I thought I was going to experience one today.”

“You were a good boy, weren't you, David?” Barrett laid his hand on David's shoulder and gave him a light squeeze. To Charlotte's relief, her son giggled. She hadn't been certain how he would react to being touched by someone who was almost a stranger.

“Do you suppose he'd like some c-o-c-o-a?” Barrett's blue eyes sparkled more than the piles of snow that still lined the street.

She nodded, recalling how David had savored the beverage at Mr. Ellis's shop. “David never turns down chocolate in any form. We both enjoyed the candies you gave me, but c-o-c-o-a is a special treat.”

“Then I hope I can persuade you to come home with me.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. As a widow, she had more freedom than many women, but Barrett could not afford to be touched by scandal.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Barrett gave her a quick smile. “We'll be properly chaperoned. All my servants are there, and so is Harrison.”

Charlotte nodded. This was Wyoming. Life was less formal here. Still, she'd be causing extra work for Barrett's servants. Surely they deserved a respite, especially on a holiday.

She started to refuse when Barrett said, “You wouldn't want to disappoint my cook, would you? Just the other day she complained that the house needs children to bring it to life. Having David there will make her happy, and her hot chocolate will make him forget all about tantrums.”

Barrett's argument quenched her last concern. “Mrs. Melnor is very different from my first cook. She threatened to leave because she didn't like my puppy.” The instant the words were spoken, Charlotte realized her mistake. She'd given Barrett another glimpse into the life she had tried to keep a secret.

But Barrett did not appear to be troubled or even curious that Charlotte had once had a cook. “I don't know how she'd react to a dog, but Mrs. Melnor likes children. Please say you'll come.”

She couldn't refuse. Visiting Barrett would mean that she and David would be away from their house longer, giving Gwen a chance to get Rose to sleep. They would be out of the cold, and David would have a treat. And yet . . .

“Will Mrs. Melnor . . . ?” Charlotte broke off, unwilling to put her thoughts into words. She knew she ought to be used to it by now. She ought to have perfectly phrased questions, but she did not.