A Promise for Spring Page 3
A half dozen scrawny chickens pecked in the dirt in front of the house, but they scattered when Geoffrey drove the wagon onto the grassless yard. Geoffrey wrapped the reins around the brake handle and hopped down, calling cheerfully toward the house, “Is anyone home? Tildy?”
Before Emmaline could alight, the warped plank door of the ramshackle house opened, and a large black woman emerged into the sunshine. At first her hands rested on her beefy hips in a pose of aggravation, but when she spotted Geoffrey, her broad face broke into a huge smile. “Why, Geoffrey Garrett, as I live an’ breathe!” She threw her arms open wide. “Git on over here, boy, an’ give ol’ Tildy a hug!”
Geoffrey obliged while Emmaline remained on the wagon seat, watching in disbelief. This was Geoffrey’s friend? An elderly Negro woman? While the woman continued to hold Geoffrey in her massive embrace, she rolled her chin sideways and bellowed, “Ronald! Ronald Senger, git yo’self out here! We gots comp’ny!”
The clang-and-ring stopped, and a tall, rail-thin man stepped out of the barn. His dark brown face glowed with perspiration, and his white smile stretched as wide as Tildy’s. He ambled across the yard, forcing the sleeves of his long johns above his elbows.
Geoffrey disengaged himself from Tildy’s hug and lifted a hand to direct her attention to the wagon where Emmaline sat perched. “Tildy, this is Miss Emmaline Bradford, arrived from Yorkshire County just this afternoon.” He took two steps toward the wagon, his hand extended to help Emmaline down, but Tildy pushed past him and reached her man-sized hands up to Emmaline.
“Oh, what a purty li’l thang,” Tildy gushed in her low-pitched voice. “You come on down from there, honey, an’ let Tildy git a good look at you.”
Emmaline, her stomach roiling with apprehension, stepped from the wagon while Geoffrey and the man named Ronald shook hands. Tildy grasped Emmaline’s wrists and held Emmaline’s arms outward. Her gaze roved up and down unabashedly, and she clucked her tongue. “Lawsy, chil’, but you’s a spindly thang. Don’t they got nothin’ bigger’n nubbins at that there England country? You don’t look hardly half growed!”
Emmaline remained silent, uncertain as to whether or not she should be insulted by the other woman’s straightforwardness. Tildy carried the odors of her cook stove—ham and cabbage and bread. The good smells reminded Emmaline that she hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and—much to her embarrassment—her stomach growled.
Ronald stepped near, his long, gangly limbs reminding Emmaline of a giraffe she had once seen in a traveling circus. “Let me git a look-see at Geoffrey’s Emmaline.” He pronounced her name with “lion” at the end. He, too, gave Emmaline a thorough once-over that made her neck feel hot. Nodding in approval, he said, “You chose yo’se’f a right purty li’l gal, Geoffrey.”
Where Tildy sounded as if she had a throat full of gravel, Ronald’s voice flowed like honey. The pair were opposites in every sense of the word, yet it was clear to Emmaline that they had one thing in common—they both held Geoffrey in high esteem. How, she wondered, had this unlikely trio formed such a friendship?
Turning back to Geoffrey, Ronald added with a lazy smile, “Yup, ever’thang you’ve said ’bout her ’pears to be true.”
Emmaline wondered what Geoffrey had said, but before she could ask, Tildy wrapped a thick arm across her shoulders and herded her toward the sad-looking little house.
“She be purty, awright,” Tildy said, “but she’s near black as me under all that soot! An’ you’s fixin’ to get hitched yet today? Mm-hmm, gonna need a goin’-over wit’ some soap an’ watuh ’fore you can stand front o’ the preacher-man an’ ’cite them vows. You jus’ come wit’ Tildy, honey, an’ we’ll git you sparklin’ clean.”
Emmaline had little choice but to obey.
Tildy glanced over her shoulder. “Ronald, fill the washtub an’ haul it in here. Geoffrey, you fetch this li’l lady’s trunk. Cain’t have a bride what looks like she’s been rolled through Ronald’s cinders.” She gave Emmaline’s back such a hearty pat that Emmaline feared it would leave purple marks behind. Then, to Emmaline’s horror, Tildy announced, “I’s givin’ you a bath, Miss Emmalion!”
As much as Emmaline hated to admit it, the bath felt heavenly. The washtub only accommodated her if she scrunched her knees beneath her chin, but submerging herself in water after only having cursory rag washes for the past several weeks was a real treat. A rather improper question—how did Tildy bathe in this minuscule tub?—flitted through her mind, but she dared not voice it.
The water was tepid from the start, yet it felt soothing against her sticky skin. The layer of scum that floated on the surface when she had finished appalled her, and she apologized.
Tildy laughed. “Ooh, chil’, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what I clean up after that man o’ mine, so jus’ don’t be gettin’ all pink-cheeked on my account!”
Emmaline would have preferred a private bath—her modesty had never allowed a servant into the washroom—but Tildy insisted on washing Emmaline’s hair. After Emmaline got over the initial embarrassment, she found that Tildy’s strong hands were infinitely gentle, and she relaxed, enjoying the soapy massage on her scalp.
Once the bath was finished, Tildy discreetly disappeared, leaving Emmaline alone behind the hanging canvas that had allowed her to bathe in concealment. She sighed as she rubbed herself dry with a rough length of toweling. It felt so wonderful to be clean! She wrapped the toweling around herself and reached for the clean drawers and camisole lying across a stool next to the washtub. After peeking around the edge of the canvas to be certain she was completely alone, she dropped the protective towel and scrambled rapidly into her underthings.
Her thoughts raced ahead to this evening when she would need to undress and climb into her nightclothes. Would Geoffrey be in the room when she clothed herself for bed? How would she find the courage to allow him to see her clad so scantily?
Standing barefoot in only her lacy cotton underwear, she wondered what Tildy had done with her trunk of clothes. Tiptoeing forward, she pulled back the canvas and peeked out again. Her trunk waited in the corner, near the quilt-draped bed. To her dismay, she realized she would need to come out completely from behind the canvas to reach it.
Panic rose in her breast—she dare not venture forth in such a scandalous state of undress! Where had Tildy gone? In a whisper, she called, “M-Miss Tildy?”
No response.
A bit louder. “Miss Tildy?”
Still no answer.
Taught that a lady should never speak with excessive volume unless in an emergency, she contemplated her present state of undress. Her situation qualified as an emergency, albeit a small one. Drawing a great breath, she called, “Miss Tildy!”
The front door opened and Tildy entered, a huge smile lighting her dark face. She chuckled. “You ready to put on yo’ weddin’ dress?”
Emmaline nodded and then ducked back behind the canvas. Tildy joined her moments later carrying a creamy yellow dress of lawn. She held the dress at arm’s length and looked it over. “Lawsy, chil’, you gonna be as purty as a posy in this. You got so many purty thangs in that box.”
At Tildy’s words, an image filled Emmaline’s mind—of her mother carefully folding the new dresses, placing them in the trunk, and then smoothing the fabric the way she used to smooth Emmaline’s hair. Tears sprang into her eyes as a longing for dear, quiet Mother overwhelmed her.
Tildy reached out a rough hand to cup Emmaline’s cheek. Her sandpapery fingers stroked Emmaline’s clean skin. “Here, now, chil’, no time for tears. You’s too purty to be red-eyed on yo’ weddin’ day. What would yo’ mama think of you bein’ unhappy and teary-faced on such a ’portant day?”
Emmaline sniffed, bringing the tears under control. Tildy was right—Phoebe Bradford would want her daughter to be a joyful bride. Joyfulness meant nothing to Father, however; he would merely expect obedience.
Suddenly, Tildy’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Better git t
hat hair outta the way.” Very gently she laid the dress on a sideboard. Placing her hands on Emmaline’s shoulders, Tildy lowered her onto the stool beside the washtub. With long, steady strokes, she brushed Emmaline’s hair away from her face.
“You got a good head o’ hair, chil’,” Tildy commented in her gravelly voice. “Thick as molasses an’ the color o’ cinnamon. A crownin’ glory to take pride in . . .” Her fingers were amazingly nimble, and Emmaline’s scalp tingled pleasantly as Tildy worked the damp lengths of hair into a twist on the back of her head.
Her hair secure, Emmaline stepped into the skirt of the dress, and Tildy buttoned it up the back. Emmaline pressed her hands against the smooth skirt front while Tildy fluffed the layered flounces across the back. Each flounce sported a row of lace, and matching lace ran from the shoulders to the waistline in the front as well as around the wrists of the tight-fitting sleeves. The dress was hopelessly wrinkled from its ride across the ocean in the trunk, but it would have to do.
Tildy circled Emmaline, fingering a bit of lace at Emmaline’s shoulder. She released a rueful sigh. “Too bad we don’t have no orange blossoms to put in yo’ hair.”
“Orange blossoms?” Emmaline touched a hand to the heavy twist of damp hair.
“Yup. Symbol o’ fertility an’ chastity. Most o’ the brides in the East put orange blossoms in their hair as a way o’ giftin’ their grooms.”
The words made Emmaline’s face blaze. Tildy, apparently unaware of the discomfiture her words had caused, gave Emmaline another once-over and said with a nod, “You’s gonna be the purtiest bride ever ’cited vows in the Congregationalist Church.”
Emmaline managed a polite “Thank you,” but the word “bride” sent her heart into wild thumping.
Tildy balled her fists and rested them on her ample hips. “Now, lemme give you a li’l advice, chil’, since your mama ain’t here to give you a talk. Bein’ married is a good thang when it’s to a good man, an’ you got a good man out there. Now, he done tol’ us how you ain’t seen him since you was a young girl, but me ’n’ Ronald— we seen him ’most ever’ week since he come here from ’cross the ocean, an’ we know he be a good man. One o’ the best men. So you got no cause for fret.
“Somethin’ else . . . You wanna make this marriage work good, you just gotta ’member that marriage takes compermize. When both people is willin’ to give a li’l, and both people puts the needs of the other one just a li’l bit higher’n the needs of themselfs, thangs have a way o’ fallin’ into place. So you ’member that, Emmalion, you hear?”
Emmaline wondered if Ronald was having the same conversation with Geoffrey right now. The thought carried a bubble of humor that erupted into a grin.
Tildy leaned forward, her face only inches from Emmaline’s. “You hear?”
Emmaline gave a start and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I hear.”
Tildy’s broad face relaxed into a smile. “Good.” Her eyes drifted shut as she released a sigh. “This be a good land for buildin’ a life. A body’s got freedom here—an’ this land’ll grow you stronger’n you knew you could be.” Opening her eyes, she gave Emmaline’s cheek another rough caress. “Now, let’s feed you.” She yanked down the canvas and pointed to the table in the middle of the room. Emmaline seated herself, glancing around the simple planked house while Tildy dished up a plate of ham, some kind of stewed greens, and a large chunk of yellow, mealy bread dripping with butter.
Emmaline pointed to the yellow square. “What is this?”
Tildy’s eyes widened in shock. “Why, that be corn bread, honey. Ain’t you never had corn bread?”
Emmaline decided not to inquire about the greens. Instead, she offered a weak smile and carried a bite to her mouth. The flavor was not unpleasant, and she eagerly forked up a second bite. Tildy, apparently satisfied, moved to the stove and hummed to herself.
Emmaline let her gaze rove over the small house as she ate and wondered if the house Geoffrey had constructed was similar to this one. This house had only one room, plus a lean-to that held the iron cook stove. A rope bed lay in one corner, a pine sideboard holding kitchen utensils stood near the lean-to, and a rough-hewn table and chairs dominated the middle of the room. Two trunks squatted along the west wall, and a row of hooks above the trunks held serviceable clothing. The floor was simply hard-packed dirt.
Tildy and Ronald owned very little, it seemed, but everything was clean and very well cared for.
As soon as Emmaline finished, Tildy snatched up her plate. “Chil’, you scoot outside an’ git back in that wagon so’s you can go ’cite those vows afore the sun sets.”
Emmaline wished she could ask to stay here with Tildy and forget about reciting those vows. Tildy’s humble dwelling with its pleasant smells of supper had become a secure haven in the short amount of time she had been there.
She and Tildy stepped from the shadowed house into the May day. The sun still hung brightly in a cloudless sky, but it had inched its way toward the horizon over the course of her time with Tildy. Evening was approaching, and Emmaline had no idea how much farther they needed to travel to reach Stetler and the minister.
Whether it was apprehension about facing the minister or just a reaction to the heat of the day, Emmaline broke out in a sweat. She stretched the snug collar of the dress away from her neck, hoping the breeze might dry some of the moisture from her skin. The lightweight lawn was appropriate for the Kansas heat and humidity, but all the layers and the snugness of the bodice and sleeves left Emmaline feeling stifled. The clean, fresh feeling of the bath departed with the prickle of perspiration.
Tildy used her full-throated voice to locate the men. In moments, Geoffrey was at Emmaline’s side. His gaze swept from her toes to her face.
“You look beautiful, Emmaline,” he whispered, taking her hand.
Fire filled her face at the approval shining in his eyes. She jerked toward the wagon. Her limbs quivered as she allowed him to assist her into the seat.
Ronald ambled from behind the house. He clutched a thick cluster of lavender flowers heavy with jagged leaves on deep green stems. With a dapper bow that belied his rough appearance, he presented the bouquet to Emmaline. “They’s jus’ wild flowers, Miss Emmalion—called rose verbena—but they make a right purty li’l nosegay for you to carry.”
Her throat tightened as she looked at her wedding bouquet. “Th-thank you.” She gave Ronald a wavering smile, her vision suddenly blurred with a spurt of tears. The gesture was so unexpectedly touching, especially from this angular black man in his soot-stained long johns and suspenders.
“I’ll git yo’ trunk.” He headed into the house and returned quickly, the trunk balanced against his lean belly. His biceps bulged and he released a grunt as he swung the box into the back of the wagon. The wagon bounced with the weight.
“We need to be heading on to Stetler now,” Geoffrey said. “Thank you, Tildy and Ronald, for your hospitality. We—”
Tildy held up a thick finger. “Wait!” She picked up her skirts and waddled back into the house while Ronald looked after her, his long fingers toying with his suspenders. Tildy came out holding a bulky, folded bundle. She thrust the bundle into Geoffrey’s arms. “A weddin’ gift for you an’ Miss Emmalion. Me an’ Ronald is wishin’ you nothin’ but the very best.”
Geoffrey offered the bundle—some sort of heavy fabric—to Emmaline, and she took it gingerly. The wind flipped the top layer over, revealing a variety of patches painstakingly sewn together to create a crazy-quilt pattern. Emmaline recognized the quilt from Tildy’s own bed.
“Oh, Miss Tildy—”
Tildy thrust her pink palm in the air. “No arguin’. Come winter, you’ll be thankful for that kivver.” She chuckled, a low, rumbling sound like the purr of a great cat. “It don’t stay hot like this year round, you’s gonna learn.”
Geoffrey put a hand on the quilt and gave Tildy a smile. “We thank you, Tildy. Emmaline and I will treasure this gift.” His voice sounded tight.
“ ’Cite them vows. Then you be happy, hear?”
Geoffrey laughed. “Yes, ma’am, we will do our best.”
Emmaline twisted in the seat as Geoffrey aimed the horses back toward the road. She watched Tildy lift a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, then place her face against Ronald’s chest. Ronald wrapped his arms around her.
Emmaline glanced at her husband-to-be. Geoffrey held the reins between his fingers and leaned forward, a slight smile tipping up the corners of his lips. He looked so different from the young man who had run in and out of her house all during her growing-up years. The Geoffrey who boarded the ship for America five years ago had been a smooth-faced boy compared to the chiseled, mutton-chop-whiskered man seated beside her.
Tildy’s claim that Emmaline had a good man in Geoffrey had raised a desire to find out if Tildy was right. Oddly, she yearned to turn her face to Geoffrey’s chest and feel his arms coming around her as Ronald’s arms had around Tildy. How had Tildy known Ronald would not push her away? In all the years of her parents’ marriage, she had never seen Mother and Father behave in such an intimate manner. She felt certain Father would have reprimanded Mother had she made such an overture of affection in the light of day with others looking on. How would Geoffrey respond if she leaned against his arm?
Geoffrey turned his face toward her and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I would imagine you are quite tired from your travels, are you not, Emmaline? We are less than a mile from Stetler. Reverend Stanford is expecting us, so we will be able to proceed with the ceremony immediately. And then I will take you home to the ranch.”
A shudder raced through Emmaline. What would Geoffrey expect of her then?