CHAPTER 7

DARCY WHITT ADJUSTED the window shade. The glare was giving her a headache. Frowning, she maneuvered another piece of pattern on the material laid out across the kitchen table. If she worked it right, there should be enough left over to make a new bonnet to go with the dress. Cara had been easy to fit; she was tall with broad shoulders but slender. She’d fallen off a lot since Dimmert’s trouble, and her clothes hung on her like a scarecrow’s. Next time she came over, Darcy would take her skirts in.

It had been fun to have her spend the night, Darcy mused while marking bust darts with a sliver of Fels-Naptha. Laying the soap aside, she picked up her dress shears and bent over the fabric. Darcy loved this part of dressmaking —the first snick of the scissors, fitting the dress form, pinning and basting —the anticipation of the finished garment. It was like painting a beautiful picture. Truthfully, she should be finishing the order for Mrs. Upchurch, an evening dress of velvet and lace trimmed with velvet roses. The roses lay completed on the sideboard waiting to be handstitched to the gown, one at the shoulder and several trailing down the side of the skirt. Personally, she didn’t think pink complemented Mrs. Upchurch. Lavender or perhaps dusky green would have been a better choice.

Mrs. Upchurch was her best customer, though, and Darcy meant to please. Another thing to thank Miz Copper for. Five years ago Miz Copper had sent Darcy to Lexington to train under a dressmaker there. Now she could barely keep up with the orders from Mrs. Upchurch and her high-society friends. She’d make more money if she moved her business to Lexington, but that was no place for Mammaw.

She had enough money to keep herself and her grandmother fed and to have a few nice things —hand-finished underwear, rustproof corsets, and fine-milled soap —but someday she wanted a reason to wear corsets and fancy gowns like she made for others. She felt herself blush. Maybe that reason was Henry Thomas. It didn’t hurt to dream. Dreams kept life from being so ordinary.

Fishing a straight pin from the corner of her puckered mouth, she secured a piece of pattern to the fabric. If Mammaw slept another hour, she could finish cutting Cara’s dress and start on the roses. The evening dress needed to be in the post to Lexington no later than the end of the week if it was to arrive in time for the ball Mrs. Upchurch was attending.

Tap-tap-tap. Someone was at the door.

Spitting out the pins, she hurried to open it. “Dylan?”

“Hey, Darcy.” Dylan smoothed a shock of yellow hair from his forehead. “Look what I found.”

“Oh, pretty,” Darcy replied, standing in the half-open door. “I’m surprised daffodils are already blooming.”

“Over on Troublesome,” he said. “Daffodils and flags, but the flags are still furled.”

“Too bad. Irises are my favorite flowers.”

Dylan smiled. “My mom’s too. She says they smell like summer.”

Darcy knew she should ask about his mom, perhaps invite him in for a cup of coffee, or at the very least pour him a glass of water, but Dylan didn’t need encouraging. He was as hard to get rid of as a stray cat with a litter of kittens. “Well,” she said instead, “thanks for showing me the daffodils.”

“I meant for you to have them. I thought you and Miz Fairy Mae would enjoy them.”

Darcy took the flowers. “Thanks,” she said again.

“Would your mammaw like some company?”

“I’m sorry. She’s sleeping, and I’ve got work to do.”

“All righty then.” Dylan stepped off the porch and walked backward across the yard, keeping his eyes on her. “See you soon.”

“Soon,” Darcy said and wagged her fingers before closing the door firmly behind her.

“Was that Jean Foster’s boy?” Mammaw called from her room.

Darcy sighed, resting her bowed head against the closed door. Mammaw was awake; she’d have to put her sewing aside. She took a breath and went to Mammaw’s room. “Yes, it was. And just look what he brought you.”

Mammaw stuck her nose deep into the yellow bouquet. “Don’t they smell pretty?”

“Let me get some water. You can keep them on your bedside table.”

“I think Dylan meant these for you.” Mammaw’s eyes twinkled. “Looks like somebody’s stuck on you, Darcy.”

Darcy plopped down on the side of the bed. Butter yellow blossoms drooped from her hand. “Oh, Mammaw! Dylan’s just a boy.”

“He’s a year older than you, Darcy Mae Whitt. Twenty-two’s hardly a boy.”

Uh-oh, when Mammaw called her by her full name, that meant she was aggravated. Mammaw liked Dylan and made no bones about it. Now Darcy was leery of telling her Henry Thomas was coming to call on Sunday after church. She could wait, just let him show up. When Mammaw saw how handsome he was —chiseled cheekbones, perfectly straight nose, and hair black as midnight —she was sure to warm up to him. Not to mention he was educated. My, my, such a catch wanting to court her.

Darcy fingered the buttons on her blouse, one after the other telling her fortune: Doctor. Lawyer. Merchant. Chief. Doctor. Lawyer. Lawyer —the very last one! That settled it; she was meant to marry a lawyer.

“Darcy,” Mammaw said, “you’re smashing the jonquils.”

“Sorry. I’ll just get that water.”

Soon the flowers sat prettily in a tall blue vase and Mammaw was up in her invalid’s chair. “Is it warm enough to take in some air? Those daffodils make me want to be outside.”

“I think so,” Darcy answered. “Let me fetch your shawl just in case.”

It was pleasant outdoors. Darcy spread an old quilt on the porch floor and sat there with her needle and thread. Mammaw, parked in a patch of sunshine, held the fabric roses on her lap, handing one to Darcy when she was ready. The ball gown was lovely with its skirt spread out across the faded glory of the quilt.

“I made that quilt you’re setting on when I was first married,” Mammaw said.

“How old were you?” Darcy asked, snapping a thread with her teeth.

“Fifteen,” Mammaw said with a chuckle. “I thought I was a grown-up.”

“Were you happy? Did Papaw Whitt make your heart flutter?”

“Through the first four babies I reckon he did —early on. Here’s a truth for you, little gal: when hard times come through the door, young love goes out the window.”

“Oh, Mammaw, I hate to you think of you unhappy.” Darcy placed her sewing aside for a moment, laying her head on her grandmother’s knee.

Mammaw stroked her hair. “I don’t reckon anybody gets through this life without some hard times. Faith ain’t true unless it’s tested.”

Darcy took up her sewing. It was Mammaw’s much-used thimble that rested on her finger. “Tell me a story. Tell me how your faith was tested.”

“Law, I haven’t talked about this for fifty years, though I’ve thought of it every day.” Mammaw handed Darcy another rose and a small green felt leaf. “It was dead of winter. I had a new baby that year —Donald, your daddy. There was four other young’uns —Tad, Elwood, Perry, and Amanda. She was the nearest to your daddy. Your papaw was off somewheres. I can’t rightly recollect where. He was always working. . . .”

Darcy’s flying needle paused. She looked up to see a cloud cross Mammaw’s eyes. The twinkle that was nearly always there was replaced by the shimmer of tears.

“I took it in my head to mop the floor while Herbert was gone working. Seemed like every day he tracked in something for me to clean up. The baby cried, and I set the mop bucket under the kitchen table so the boys wouldn’t knock it over.” Mammaw covered her eyes with her hand. Darcy knew something bad was coming.

“She was a pretty little thing, Amanda was, golden curls and round blue eyes . . . Merky favors her. The kids all settled at my feet in front of the fire. I was in the rocker, the baby nursing. I guess I nodded off but surely not for long. I always watched my young’uns close.”

Darcy’s hand closed over Mammaw’s.

Mammaw shook her head as if she could change the outcome of her story. “Perry was there. And Tad and Elwood. But Amanda, my little toddling girl, was not. I remember stopping the rocker, laying the baby down by Elwood, rising up from the chair. I knew before I turned around what had happened. In my mind’s eye, I saw her blue face and her curls wetly plastered to her head. I thought to sit back down, take up the baby, and turn back time, but the icy fear that walked my spine told me it was too late.”

Darcy choked back sobs. Tears stored a long, long time, she figured, washed down Mammaw’s weathered cheeks.

“I reckon I could have stood it if when I turned around, I hadn’t seen her tiny feet, still pink, rising up out of the mop bucket. Those feet gave me false hope.” Mammaw sighed, long and deep, and shook her head again. “Herbert said when he got home, the kids were still huddled at my feet, quiet as mice, Elwood holding the baby. There was no light to greet him except what issued from the fireplace. He sent Tad to fetch a neighbor lady whilst he pried Amanda from my arms.”

Darcy hugged her grandmother tight. “Oh, Mammaw, I’m so sorry.”

Mammaw leaned into Darcy’s arms. “You’re a good girl, Darcy Mae. God sent me the best granddaughter to replace Amanda, I reckon.”

“I’m glad,” Darcy replied. “I’m so glad to be yours.”

While Mammaw took her afternoon’s rest, Darcy finished Mrs. Upchurch’s gown. She folded it into a sturdy pasteboard box tucked all around with white tissue paper. As a surprise she slipped a lady’s fan made of clipped, white faux ostrich feathers into the folds of the skirt. The ostrich feathers had come from New York City. She’d ordered them herself. Cara had carved the fine wood handle. Next she thought she’d try peacock feathers trimmed to size. It was amazing what a body could order through the mail.

All the while Darcy worked, she thought of Mammaw’s story. She wondered if this was the selfsame table little Amanda had drowned under. Poor wee thing —it was too sad to think on. When she had babies, she’d name her first daughter Fairy Amanda, for Mammaw and the little lost one. She tried it out, “Fairy Amanda Thomas,” then blushed at her own conjecture.

But Henry was real and his attention to her was not false. She could tell by the look in his eyes. After finding a pencil, she settled at the table and began to sketch a wedding dress. Darcy had been designing her wedding ensemble ever since she attended Cara and Dimm’s wedding. She always knew her prince would come, and she wanted to be ready. Now maybe he had. As the pencil glided over the paper, a beautiful gown appeared. Hat or veil? Bustle or modified train? Hat and bustle, she decided, nothing too fancy for the church on Troublesome Creek. But then again, if she and Henry were to marry, she needed something stylish. Mrs. Upchurch’s husband was a banker, which Darcy fancied was the next best thing to being a lawyer, and Mrs. Upchurch always dressed as if she were receiving visitors any moment.

Before Darcy knew it, an hour had passed. Time always slipped by quickly when she designed. The high-necked, long-sleeved frock was only pencil on paper at the moment, but Darcy imagined it in pale lavender satin brocade overlaid with ecru lace. The full skirt would be edged with ecru fringe, but to keep the outfit from being too sophisticated, she’d wear a simple pouf of lavender netting instead of a hat.

Goodness, she’d better wake Mammaw and rustle up a little supper. Milk toast would do, easy for her to make and easy for her grandmother to swallow. She stood and stretched. One leg had fallen asleep and it stung like fire. Hobbling around, she gathered up her sewing. The dress design she secreted under a quilt in the corner cupboard with the others. Mammaw wasn’t ready to see that.

Later, over supper, Mammaw was still in a pensive mood. “I don’t have much of an appetite,” she said, pushing half of her milk toast aside.

“Can’t you eat just one more bite?”

Mammaw speared one piece of the toast Darcy had cut up for her; the bread hung from the tines of the fork like a fish on the line. “Someday soon this will all be yours, Darcy.”

Darcy squirmed in her chair. “What do you mean?”

Mammaw swept the air with her one strong arm. “Why, this house, child, and the land that goes with it. All the hills and the hardwood trees and the coal seam buried underneath will belong to you and you alone. I wonder if it will be a blessing or a burden.”

“I don’t understand. What about the other grandkids?”

“Dance has got her share and Dimmert also. You know I deeded them property when they married. My other grandchildren have moved away. You and Dance and Dimmert are the only ones that stayed. The land was meant to have Whitts living on it.” Mammaw shrugged. “That’d please Herbert, I suppose.”

Darcy dribbled honey on Mammaw’s milk toast, then lifted the fork to her grandmother’s mouth. “You’re still trying to please Papaw,” she teased.

Mammaw’s face was hard to read. “That wasn’t an easy job.”

Darcy was taken aback. She’d never heard her grandmother say a word against Papaw. “How so?”

“Herbert Whitt was a rambling, gambling man. That doesn’t make for the easiest life for a woman.”

“Did you ever want to leave?”

“And go where with them young’uns?” Mammaw swallowed a bit of toast. “I made my bed. Besides, ain’t no man is perfect. They’ve all got warts.”

That made Darcy laugh. “You’re a sight, Mammaw.”

“A woman never gets over her first sweetheart, and Herbert Whitt was my first and last. There were as many good times as bad, I reckon.”

Darcy poured more buttermilk into Mammaw’s cup. “Tell me a story about the good times.”