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WITH BART’S BANDANA over her nose and mouth, ends knotted behind her head, Lena blinked back tears as she carried more of the soiled, stinking straw from the chicken coop. Bart had instructed her in the need to provide clean, dry bedding for the hens. Since Mr. Nash’s accident, no one had taken care of the job, so Lena attacked the coop with the naïve zeal of one uninitiated in poultry farming. She had quickly found out exactly why no one had 'remembered' to clean out the henhouse. Amidst the fussing hens and thoroughly saturated by the odor of ammonia-infused droppings, Evan found her.
“Miss Sommer?” Evan’s head briefly appeared in the small enclosure, then sharply withdrew with a fit of coughing.
Lena looked up through a film of tears, blinking until she could make out the details of his face beyond the doorway. “Yes?” The word came out muffled, so she pulled down the handkerchief. “Yes, Mr. Hartmann?” Lena saw the bemused expression and the smile lurking at the corners of the man’s mouth. He could think of her as he wished.
“I found something I thought you might enjoy.” He held out a small parcel wrapped in cloth.
Stepping around a particularly vociferous hen viciously pecking at her boot laces, she emerged into the sunlight. She took a deep, grateful breath, waving her hand before her face. “Oh my! That’s not a job that should be put off for so long.”
“No, ma’am.” Evan seemed determined to keep the smirk from his face.
“What was it you said?” She removed her gloves, a second pair of fine kid ones she’d sacrificed for the job, tucking them into her apron pocket.
“It’s this.” He handed the parcel to her, smiling now with genuine pleasure. “My mother’s favorite. She gave it to me before she passed. I’ve carried it with me all these years because I enjoyed it so much as a boy. I thought you might like to read it aloud to folks.”
Lena carefully unwrapped the stack of books from its silk cloth cover. The three leather volumes were lovely and well preserved but obviously old. She traced the title with a finger, trying to recall why the title sounded vaguely familiar. Turning to the title page, she gave an involuntary gasp. Sir Walter Scott! “This is a first edition!”
Evan’s smile broadened. “I think it was a gift to my mother. She tutored students at the university who were frequently bestowing her with gifts, some no more than an apple and then others like this one. I know she treasured it.”
What a delightful surprise! Here so far from the world she’d left, to find something like this, a reminder of her parents’ world, was nothing less than amazing. “Mr. Hartmann, this is Ivanhoe, a first edition copy no less!”
Nodding, Evan confirmed her observation. He knew.
“This would be a lovely story to read.” Her hand still laying reverently on the cover of the first volume, she saw his face lighten with the particular joy of giving a gift well received. “Thank you, Mr. Hartmann. Thank you, we will start it this evening.”
He turned to go, but she called after him. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way to work at the claim today, but I’ll be back in time.” He tipped his hat and strode off. A few seconds later, Lena heard him whistling as he turned the corner of the house.
Lena addressed the bothersome hen pecking at her shoe. “That man is full of surprises.”
The hen squawked. Lena interpreted it as an agreement.
That evening, Ely let the violin fall from his chin and dipped his head, sitting quietly for a few moments while the music hung ethereal in the air about them. “I like that refrain, but it always reminds me of home and therefore it also makes me a bit nostalgic.”
“There is a quality of melancholy about it, even if it does not remind one of home,” Lena conceded.
“Maybe the man who wrote it was homesick as well. Didn't you tell us many of the men who wrote these were not living in countries of their birth?” Jessie picked up Ely's case and lay it on his lap almost reverently.
“Ja, it is true. But for many, home was not the same as they remembered. Like for me, ja. The home of my memory is not the home I would find today.”
A heavy silence blanketed the room as though each were recalling the homes they too had left behind, and likely would never see again.
Lena reached her hand to her side. “We have a treat,” she began “Thanks to Mr. Hartmann, we have a new story to read. This book changed the way people thought of books for entertainment alone. Mr. Scott's writing would influence many authors to come, including Mr. Charles Dickens. Would you mind, Mr. Hartmann? Could you start the story for us?” She offered the first volume to him with an encouraging smile.
“Here, Evan, take my seat.” Ely moved to the side of the room, his violin tucked within its case at his side.
Nodding his head to Ely, Evan settled himself into the chair across the hearth from Lena and took the book, their fingertips touching for half a breath. For a full minute, he thumbed through the first pages, as though reacquainting himself with the characters before introducing them to those gathered expectantly about him. He looked up once, an audience of eager expressions before him.
“Maybe I should tell you a little about the story before I begin. When my mother first read this to me as a very young boy, I was caught up in the whole story of knights and swords, fighting for honor, and the exciting medieval times of England. But as I grew older, reading it the second and then the third time, I knew it was about more than what they called chivalry.”
How could he explain the themes of this little book that had so defined his perspectives of life? This was not the tale of Tom Sawyer. He knew that there were one or two similarities in the author's loathing of prejudice, but Ivanhoe . . .This was a man of uncompromising principles, a man who lived for justice. Seeing Bart's face, mouth slightly agape, anticipating the tale, he reconsidered that the simpler story, daring and dangerous as it was, might be enough. It certain had been for him. And as much as he'd like to share the deeper lessons to be taken from the story, he decided that this might not be the place or the time.
Evan lifted the book from his lap. Sinking deeper into the cushions, he began, taking his time with each phrase to capture the beauty of the author's prose. “In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.”
Lena quickly changed into her sleeping gown and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the upstairs bedroom. She stood by the window looking out on the moonlit peaks while Jessie jumped into bed.
The younger girl pulled the quilt tight beneath her chin, sitting up with her back propped against her pillow. “Sure is cold tonight. Bart says there’ll be frost on the ground tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Lena replied absently.
“Lena, Bart wants to take me out to the lake tomorrow. He says it’s real pretty and that we should see it now before it freezes over. Won’t you come along as a chaperone? Evan said he’d come too. Since he’s providing the horses and all.”
Lena turned from the window to look at the girl’s face alight with enthusiasm. “You want me to ride a horse? But I don’t ride well at all, Jessie. You’d be spending your time trying to keep me from being thrown off.”
“Evan said he has a real gentle mare he can pony for you. It isn’t that hard. Just hang on to the saddle horn and he can lead you. Oh, do say you’ll come. It would be so fun for the four of us to go. We can take a picnic, and Evan and Bart can fish.”
Too chilled to stay out from under the covers any longer, Lena crawled in beside Jessie. “You’re sure that Mr. Hartman agreed to go, knowing I’m just a... What do they call me? A greenhorn?”
“Bart said he didn’t have to do much convincing. Evan was more than willing to go.” Jessie snuggled up to Lena’s arm for warmth, waggling her eyebrows. She whispered conspiratorially, “I think he might be sweet on you.”
“Jessie, you are such a romantic. I fear reading Ivanhoe will only encourage such fanciful imaginings.”
“Why shouldn’t he be sweet on you? You’re a fine-looking woman, kind and generous, not a bad hand with a rolling pin.”
“Jessie, I’m not a young woman anymore. Not like you.” The direction of this conversation was not one Lena wished to follow.
“Age hasn’t anything to do with it! Besides, you aren’t that old. I had an aunt who lost her husband in...”
“Jessie, I’ll go with you, but please don’t try to play matchmaker with me.” Lena hoped that would stop the girl from pursuing her notion.
“Oh, you will? Thank you!” Jessie threw her arm over Lena and hugged her. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”
Lena replied tersely, “If I don’t break my neck.”
As Jessie’s breathing deepened into the slow, gentle rhythm of sleep, Lena lay with eyes wide open. In her head, the sound of Evan’s voice reading, soothing and expressive, continued to waylay her sleep. The puzzle of the man became more complex each day. He looked every bit the part of an uncouth cowhand in his dress and physical appearance, but when he read aloud, there was no mistaking the education and training he’d received somewhere in his past. Surely the tutoring of his mother alone could not account for it.
She couldn’t deny that he was an interesting man. No one else she’d met since leaving Chicago seemed to possess quite so many complicated, beautiful layers. Surely that was all this was, not a romantic attraction. Most of their exchanges had ended in a bristling reaction from one or both. Besides, how foolish of her to even entertain such notions.
Still, she lay with eyes wide open thinking of the man. Curiosity, that's what it was. However, that curiosity stirred some peculiar feelings.
