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Downstairs, the other boarders were gathering for supper. Mrs. Mitchell was a widow like Mama, who was staying at the boarding house until her sons and their wives arrived from Pennsylvania. Mr. Martensen, a kindly middle-aged Swede from Billings, was visiting friends who had moved to town and were building a house a half-mile away. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp were passing through on their way to Seattle and thought they’d rest a few days before continuing their journey.
And of course, Mr. Bridger. “Good evening,” he said as she passed through the dining room to the kitchen.
Maisie smiled and nodded as she walked by. She was angry, but didn’t want to risk giving herself away – or biting someone’s head off.
Voices followed her into the kitchen, one of them Mrs. Whitehall’s. “Maisie dear, is she refusing to come down again?”
“You know she is,” Maisie said as evenly as she could muster. She spooned some chicken and dumplings from a pot on the stove into a bowl. “I’ll let this cool, then take it up to her.”
Mrs. Whitehall walked in and stared at the bowl. “You sure? You know she refuses to eat my cooking.”
“She can refuse it and starve. She has to stop this nonsense or she’ll drive me insane!”
Mrs. Whitehall nodded sympathetically. “I don’t know how you do it, child. You have the patience of a saint. Please don’t take that wrong – she is your mother and all, but ...”
“I know. I’m trying to be as patient as I can. I just don’t know what to do at this point.”
Mrs. Whitehall went to the stove and began to transfer her chicken and dumplings into a serving bowl. “Have you spoken with the doctor yet?”
“No.” Maisie leaned against a hutch. “Tomorrow.”
“I’ve said it before – some folks don’t do well after a loss, and your mother’s one of them. Is she still helping you with the laundry work? Mr. Martensen and Mrs. Mitchell both have some things for you to wash.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Which was true enough – she would. Her mother wasn’t helping any more, but she didn’t want to say so in front of Mrs. Whitehall.
“Have you met our newest boarder?” Mrs. Whitehall asked.
“Mr. Bridger.”
“Oh, I see you have.” Mrs. Whitehall set the serving bowl on the worktable. “He seems a nice young man.”
“I met him earlier in the mercantile. He says he used to live here.”
“Yes, I know. Wonder if he’ll settle.”
Maisie caught the woman eyeing her. “What if he does?”
Mrs. Whitehall gave a quick shake of her head. “Pay no mind to me. Doesn’t matter if he does or not.”
Maisie eyed her back. The last thing she needed was for Mrs. Whitehall to start playing matchmaker. She half-expected Abigail to say something, but they’d been too busy re-stocking the store to worry about such things. She went to the cupboard, pulled out a few of Mrs. Whitehall’s spice jars, sprinkled pinches of this and that over her mother’s meal and gave it a stir.
She was half-tempted to put it in a pot by itself on the stove to give the seasoning a chance to settle, but decided against it. Her mother was hungry, and she could eat what was available or not eat at all. Enough was enough – she had to stop catering to her and that was that. She just hoped Mama didn’t pitch a fit, but if she did, Maisie was liable to walk out and spend the evening in the parlor.
Upstairs in her room, she found her mother standing by the window. At least she was up. “Mama, I have your supper.”
Her mother glanced at her over her shoulder then returned to staring out. “I think it’s going to snow.”
Maisie noted the absence of anger and the earlier tension in her voice. “You think so?” She joined her at the window. “Feels cold enough.”
Her mother nodded but said nothing.
“Speaking of which, it sounds like Cutter’s Creek is going to get a real winter this year. We’ll need coats, Mama ...”
“Your father hasn’t made enough yet off the newspaper to purchase coats. How can you even suggest such a thing?”
Maisie’s eyes went wide. “What did you say?”
Her mother turned and looked at her, calm as could be. “Is he home yet?”
Maisie shook her head as she stared dumbstruck at her mother. “Mama?”
“I have to get the mending done before he gets home,” she went to her chair. “Where is it?”
Maisie’s eyes darted around the room. “I ... I haven’t brought it up yet.” Let’s see what the woman would do with that. Had Mama finally slipped the bounds of sanity? Maybe she ought to get the doctor right now ...
Her mother went to the bed and sat. “Well don’t just stand there, Maisie, go fetch it.”
Lacking a better idea, Maisie did just that. She went downstairs and headed straight for the kitchen. Everyone looked up as she passed through the dining room and several called out greetings, but she didn’t answer – she wasn’t even sure who spoke, her brain was so muddled with her mother’s behavior.
She went to a pair of baskets near the kitchen worktable where boarders put things for her to wash and mend. She grabbed the smaller one, the mending, and headed back. This time she caught Mr. Bridger’s eye and held it a moment before going into the front hall and up the stairs. She wondered if Mrs. Whitehall had told him about her mother’s behavior – hopefully not, as it wasn’t any of his business. The woman meant well, but sometimes gossip was tempting.
“Here’s the mending, Mama,” Maisie said as she re-entered.
Her mother was in her chair again, her bowl of food untouched. “Well, don’t just stand there, give it to me!”
“Aren’t you going to eat your supper first?” Maisie asked, cringing at what her answer might be.
Her mother stared at her a moment. “What is it?”
Maisie glanced at the bowl on the small table. “Chicken and dumplings.”
Her mother’s eyes lit up. “Your father’s favorite. Won’t he be pleased?”
Maisie felt her stomach tie itself into knots. “Yes, I imagine he would ... will be.” Mercy, should she be encouraging her? Didn’t she remember Papa was dead? Maybe not – she might’ve gone completely ‘round the bend. Her grief had driven her as far as it could. She sighed heavily at the thought.
“What’s the matter with you?” her mother asked. “Why aren’t you tending to the laundry?”
It was as good an excuse to leave as any. “I’ll see to it right away.” Maisie once more left the room, now even more glad to be doing so.
* * *
JONATHAN WATCHED MISS Woodhouse pass through the dining parlor for the third time that evening. Does the woman not eat? he wondered. He really was concerned – he’d heard her shout at whom he assumed was her mother, but didn’t know what the argument was about. Not that it was his business, but the look of despair on the poor girl’s face when she came down the first time was hard to miss.
Her phony smile was a dead giveaway – he’d seen Aggie fake one hundreds of times when she’d lived with his family. Ma and Olivia had made poor Aggie’s life hell for five years. He remembered the day she told him she was leaving and how he’d helped her – she’d deserved to escape, to find a better life, and she did find one. He wished he’d done the same ages ago, but he’d felt a certain loyalty at the time. They were his family, all he had. Besides, he’d been only fourteen.
Mrs. Mitchell set down her fork and shook her head in dismay. “That poor girl.”
Mrs. Whitehall shot the woman a warning glare across the table. “Leave it be, Cora.”
“But day after day that girl works and her mother doesn’t lift a finger to help.”
Mr. Martensen sat back in his chair and patted his belly. “Mrs. Whitehall’s right, y’know – we shouldn’t be poking our noses into other people’s affairs. Though I worry about Mrs. Woodhouse too, sure.”
Jonathan saw his opportunity and took it. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Woodhouse?” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “If I may ask, that is.”
“You may,” Mrs. Whitehall said. “She’s ... not herself. Hasn’t been since they lost Mr. Woodhouse.”
“Yes, I heard down at the mercantile that Miss Woodhouse lost her father.”
“And no sooner than they got here,” Mrs. Mitchell added.
Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, they came to Cutter’s Creek and he died, just like that?”
Mrs. Whitehall rolled her eyes. “Well, you might as well know, seeing as everyone else does. Yes, the poor man died of influenza within days of arriving in town. Left that poor woman upstairs a widow, with a daughter who thankfully was old enough to look after her and see to things. Girl got a job right away taking in laundry, and a good thing too.”
One of Mr. Martensen’s eyebrows rose. “I’d say that about covers it, ya. Not that we liberally share other people’s business, y’know.” Mrs. Whitehall had the decency to blush.
Jonathan hid a smile. “I met Miss Woodhouse at the mercantile earlier today while visiting with the Smiths.”
“Did you know them too?” Mrs. Mitchell asked. He’d already told everyone at the table that he was getting reacquainted with old friends in town and planned to see Eldon and Aggie as soon as he could.
“Yes. What’s this about laundry?”
“The Woodhouses take in laundry,” Mr. Martensen volunteered.
Jonathan nodded sagely. So she not only worked at the mercantile but took in washing to make ends meet. Poor girl. But clearly she was resourceful, determined and responsible – things his sister didn’t have a clue about or didn’t want to, he wasn’t sure which.
“Enough gossiping,” Mrs. Whitehall said. “Everyone ready for dessert?” There was a murmur of yeses around the table as she got up and headed for the kitchen.
Jonathan watched her go and wondered if Miss Woodhouse was still in there, or if she’d gone out back. He’d taken a walk around the boarding house earlier and noticed laundry on the line in the backyard. She’d best take it down before nightfall – considering the weather, they might still be damp, which meant they could well be frozen in the morning. Curious, he excused himself from the table, declaring, “I’ll go lend Mrs. Whitehall a hand.”
In the kitchen Mrs. Whitehall was slicing up a cherry pie. “Do you need me to carry anything into the dining room?”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Bridger – you can take the coffee in if you’d like.”
“Certainly.” He peered out the kitchen window, and sure enough, Miss Woodhouse was taking laundry off the line. “It’s a pity she missed supper.”
Mrs. Whitehall followed his gaze. “She’ll take a small bowl when she’s done with her work. She always does.”
“A small bowl?” He glanced around the kitchen. “Shouldn’t we save her some biscuits?”
“I’ll set some aside, don’t worry.” They both watched the girl a moment longer. “She loves her mother very much,” Mrs. Whitehall mused. “But the woman’s becoming harder and harder to deal with.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well if you ask me, she’s losing herself in her grief. It’s been a year ...”
“I see. And she’s getting worse?”
“And making that poor girl’s life miserable,” she added with a frown. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m not sure what Maisie’s going to do. I know it’s none of my business, but ...” She didn’t finish.
Jonathan watched a shivering Maisie pull down the laundry. “Poor thing, indeed.”
“Here, use this for the coffee pot.” Mrs. Whitehall shoved a rag into his hands. “It’s mighty hot.”
Back in the dining room, Jonathan busied himself pouring everyone a cup of coffee. He’d gotten so used to serving his own family that it was an easy habit to fall into. But he didn’t mind serving his fellow boarders – it made the evening feel more homey. The boarding house itself had a lot to do with that. Mrs. Whitehall owned old but comfortable furniture – in good condition, but one could tell the chairs and sofas had seen better days. A fire crackled and popped in the parlor hearth, adding a peaceful charm to the evening.
After dessert, Mrs. Mitchell sat in a chair opposite Mrs. Whitehall in the parlor and the two women chatted while knitting. Mr. Martensen sat on the sofa and read a book in his native language while the Kemps played cards on the other side of the room.
Jonathan perused a nearby bookshelf for something to read himself, but was too distracted to read. At no time did Miss Woodhouse pass through the dining room to go upstairs, and he was beginning to fret over her. She hadn’t been wearing a coat or shawl when she went to remove the laundry. She couldn’t still be out there, could she?
He slipped into the kitchen and found her there, ironing a man’s shirt. “Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She set down the iron and wiped her brow. “You’re not interrupting. In fact, I’m almost done.”
Jonathan noticed shirts and trousers hanging on coat pegs near the back door. “Yes, I see.” He looked at her. “Are you hungry?”
She lifted the iron from the shirt and stared at him, as if surprised he’d bothered to ask. “I’ll get something when I’m done.” She returned to her work, moving the iron over the fabric faster than before.
“You’re going to leave a crease,” he commented.
She stopped again. “Excuse me?”
“A crease. The shirt’s uneven. Here, let me show you.” He went around the ironing board and snatched up the shirt.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Here, like this.” He positioned the garment differently on the board. “Trust me, I have years of experience.” He pointed to the iron. “May I?”
She stared at him as if unsure of what to do, shrugged and handed him the iron.
“Now watch.” He got to work.
After a moment or two she made a tiny sound – not a sigh, not a gasp, but a mix of the two. He wasn’t sure if it meant, “oh, so that’s how you do it” or “no one has helped me in years.” Maybe both. “See, if you move the iron over the fabric this way, with the shirt lying so, you don’t run the risk of creasing.”
“I do see,” she said as if it was some great revelation. “How did you get so good at ironing?”
Jonathan set the iron down with a sigh – definitely a sigh. “How much time have you got?”