27
“Any mail for me, Mrs. Jorgensen?”
Lark waited for the proprietress to check, breathing deeply of the spiced scent from the apple turnovers on the mercantile counter. So wonderful to be up and about again.
“Here you are. One from your brother Anders.”
“Thank you.” Lark took the envelope with a smile. “Maybe he’ll have news on when we can expect our seed catalogs to come in.”
Mrs. Jorgensen tallied Lark’s purchases. “Well, let us know. I’ve already had folks ask about your seeds.”
“Really? That’s good to hear.” Their Leah’s Garden dream was drawing so close she could nearly taste it—yet still so much to do before they would know if their business could really fly as they hoped. Getting the catalogs, sending them out, waiting to see if orders came in . . . Lark shook her head at herself and paid her tab. She wound her scarf tighter and carried her bundles to the wagon, squinting against the wind’s bite on her eyes and nose. They’d only had intermittent snow since Thanksgiving, but today’s thick gray cloud blanket promised more.
She tucked the letter from Anders inside her coat and hupped to the horses. Prince and Nell stepped smartly, as eager to get to warmth and home as she was. The sky gradually darkened as she drove across the prairie, the first flakes falling as she pulled into the machine shed and unhitched the team. She stabled and fed them, grateful to see Lilac had already done the rest of the chores. Bless her.
Hurrying into the soddy, she found Lilac straining the milk.
“How much did we get tonight?” Lark shed her coat and shivered in the warmth beaming from the stove.
“Not much, Buttercup’s about ready to go dry again. You didn’t get yourself too chilled, did you?”
“I’m fine. I promise. Quit worrying.” Lark gave her a side hug, then dipped hot water from the stove reservoir to wash up. “We got a letter from Anders.” She laid it on the table as they sat down to eat. “Think it’s all right for us to go ahead and read it without the other girls?”
Lilac scrunched up her face, then shrugged. “Seems harder and harder to get all four of us together in one place these days. We can pass it on to Del and Forsythia when we see them.” She extended her hands for grace.
After the prayer, they dug into their bowls of beans flavored with salt pork.
“Mmm.” Lark savored her bite. “Just right for a snowy night. Thanks for finishing supper off, sister.”
“Anytime.” Lilac passed the still-steaming corn bread. “Enjoy the butter and make it last. We won’t be able to make much more.”
Lark finished her piece and wiped the butter from her fingers before slitting open the envelope. “Let’s see if our big brother has any news on the catalogs.” She withdrew two letters folded separately and examined the names scrawled on each. “Interesting. One for all of us, one just for me.”
Lilac cocked a brow. “You aren’t secretly sending off submissions to newspapers now, are you?” Last year Lilac and Anders had held a private correspondence as she tried to find a market for her drawings—and eventually did.
“Certainly not. I’ll see what that’s about later.” Lark set hers aside, then unfolded the letter for all of them.
Dear sisters,
We are well and trust you are too. Praying Lark has made a full recovery. Jonah tries to walk farther each day, though Josephine begs him to be careful on the icy streets. He has made it up to a mile and a half each way, showing his leg strength is indeed returning. So much to be thankful for.
I wanted to let you know I was informed that the catalog shipment will be delayed till after Christmas, but hopefully you will receive them by mid-January, still in time to send out for spring orders. I have requested two hundred as you asked. Let me know right away if you want that adjusted.
We missed you at Thanksgiving as always but had a nice time with Josephine’s family. One bit of news from us is we are expecting another little one, Josephine thinks around May or so. She tires easily but is doing well and sends her love, as do Marcella and Greta, and Jonah, of course.
Ever your brother,
Anders
Lark and Lilac exchanged grins.
“Another baby on the way.” Lark shook her head and folded the letter. “This next Nielsen generation sure is growing by leaps and bounds.”
“Maybe Anders will get a boy this time.”
“And maybe the next baby in our clan will be yours.”
Lilac’s cheeks pinked, and she ducked her head. “Maybe.”
Lark chuckled, then stifled a sigh. If she hadn’t been so stubborn over Isaac, would she have had a chance at being a mother one of these days? But that possibility seemed past. She’d barely seen Isaac for weeks, let alone spoken. RJ said he’d been spending long days working at the Hoffmans’, and at church he slipped in late and left early. As was his wont.
“I will never leave you.”
Lark blinked the words away. They only hurt, knowing they were not memory but her own wishful thinking.
They did the dishes, then sat around the lamplit table for a while, Lilac sketching her next installment for the New York Weekly, Lark working on a list of places to mail their catalogs. The fire crackled in the stove, Scamp lying at Lilac’s feet.
At a quarter to nine, Lilac yawned. “Think I’d better turn in, or I’m going to mess up this drawing. You coming?”
“Soon.”
Lilac gave her a look.
“Really soon, I promise. Goodness, how long are you going to hover over me?”
“Till I’m sure you’re not going to nearly work yourself into an early grave again.”
“I really am almost finished.”
“Fine.” Lilac came behind her and hugged her shoulders. “Night.”
“Night.”
Lark added a couple more addresses, then closed her books. She reached to turn down the kerosene lamp, then hesitated, seeing Anders’s letter to her lying near. It would only take a few minutes. Drawing her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, she leaned closer to the flickering light and opened the single, closely written page.
Dear Lark,
Ever since my visit this fall, I can’t get something off my mind. So I’m writing to you, though you may think I’m interfering. If so, then what are older brothers for?
It’s Isaac McTavish. Lark, that man cares for you—I’d be willing to wager he loves you. You’ll wonder how I know. Well, I talked with him a bit. Not much, and he said even less. But it was enough to see how he feels and that he’s convinced you want nothing to do with him.
Trouble is, I’m not sure that’s the case, just that you’re too stubborn to admit it. I know you’re used to doing things yourself, Lark, carrying the weight of the family on your shoulders—even more than I do, for all I’m the eldest. But I wish for once you’d have the humility to listen to others and even to your own heart.
You’ve got a good man there, and he cares for you. Heaven knows he showed it enough taking over the farm while you were ill. And if I were a betting man I’d wager you care for him too. So you’re throwing all that away because of what? Pride? Fear? Neither one’s worth beans in this life or the next.
At least think about it, little sister. (I’m the only one who can call you that, you know.) Even better, pray about it.
With love from your brother,
Anders
Lark folded the letter, then sat rubbing the folds between her fingers for some time. Her heart ached. Anders, you don’t know the whole. Yes, I was a fool, but it’s too late. I told Isaac no, and now I don’t think he wants me anymore. If he did . . . why would he hardly even speak to me?
Have you tried talking to him?
Was that the Lord’s voice or her brother’s? Or merely her own continuous inner debate? Snorting at herself, Lark blew out the lamp.
The snow set in for good over the next few weeks. Caleb Hoffman, now living back with his family again, came out to help them finish winterizing the barn and string a rope between the barn and soddy for safe passage in case of blizzards. And before Lark knew it, it was almost Christmas.
After snowfall all week, Christmas Eve dawned clear, and they drove the wagon, with sled runners attached, over a snowy white world crusted like a sugar loaf. The sky blazed with evening gold and rose as they headed into the church for the Christmas Eve program.
Lark squeezed Lilac’s hand beside her in the pew as several lamps lit up the “stage” at the front of the church. Robbie, cast as the lead role in Sam’s new play, stood garbed in a shepherd’s robe, a gangly-legged lamb in his arms.
“Someone had an early lambing,” Lark whispered to her sister.
“The Webers, surprised them too. Sam says they’ve been keeping it in the house and hand-feeding,” Lilac whispered back.
Bethany Kinsley, also dressed in shepherd’s garb, entered the stage and glared at Robbie.
“Joel, when are you going to stop coddling that lamb? It’s got to learn to join the flock.”
“But it’s mine. He trusts me.” Robbie held the lamb tighter and lifted his chin, determination in his eyes.
Lark’s heart swelled as the little play unfolded, catching her up in the story and bringing tears to her eyes and laughter to her lips. Sam had a gift with words as surely as Lilac did with a pencil, and the children threw themselves into their parts wholeheartedly.
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stem the tears when Robbie knelt on the stage near the end, mourning for his little lost lamb.
“Please, Lord,” he cried. “I know you probably don’t care about one little lamb . . . but you’re the only one who knows where he is. Please, help me find him.”
And just then came the flooding light of the heavenly chorus—or more correctly, a bright lantern and a half dozen children in white robes, including a beaming Sofie. But teary laughter rose in Lark’s throat as she watched the young shepherd be lifted out of his troubles by the news of a Messiah born that day in the city of David, a Savior, Christ the Lord. And when he hurried along with the other shepherds to the manger, he found not only his lost lamb lying there, warm and safe, but the Lamb of God bringing good news for all people.
Lilac jumped to her feet at the conclusion to start the applause, and Lark followed suit to stand along with most of the congregation, clapping till her palms stung.
“Robbie, you were wonderful.” She clasped him close amid the milling chatter afterward. “You made me cry.”
“I did?” He craned back, brows drawing together. “I didn’t mean to, Tante Lark.”
“I just mean you touched my heart, Robbie boy.” She smoothed his hair. “The play was beautiful.”
“Oh.” He beamed. “I’m glad you liked it. Oops, I need to go get Mikael.” And he ran off after his busy little brother.
Lark hugged Sofie next, assuring her she’d been a beautiful angel. Then Jesse and Climie came over, and she embraced Climie, smiling to see her friend’s blooming face and figure.
“We need to have a sewing circle for some baby clothes for you.”
“That’d be nice.” Climie glanced up at her husband, who hovered at her side, his gentle face wreathed in a smile. “Jesse’s already near finished with the cradle.”
“I’m sure it’s a beautiful one.” Jesse had such a gift with wood.
The young couple headed over to see Del and baby Lily, and Lark glanced around at the various happy knots of conversation. There were Lilac and Sam talking with some of the students, their faces animated. The Caldwells visiting with Forsythia and Adam. And William deep in some discussion with Isaac.
Lark drew a steadying breath. Would her heart always catch so at the sight of him? Though something did seem different about him tonight. But she needed to get over this—they lived in the same small town, after all. And at this point, it would seem Isaac had every intention of staying.
A fine time for him to decide on that.
Well, she couldn’t avoid him forever. She’d been raised better. And best to confront a problem straight on. When William moved on toward Jesse, Lark strode up to Isaac, never mind that her insides wouldn’t stop trembling.
“Merry Christmas, Isaac.” She ordered her lips to smile.
He quirked a brow, then gave a courtly nod. “Merry Christmas to you, Miss Larkspur.”
A dreadful silence hung then, despite the merry hum around them.
Say something, Lark. “You and William looked deep in conversation.”
He nodded. “He was tellin’ me about his progress with tryin’ to locate his brother.”
“Oh.” Lark’s heart lifted. “He’s made progress?” It had been too long since she asked.
Isaac tipped his head. “Well, might be I overstated a touch. But he’s at least learned through the Freedmen’s Bureau where his brother was before the war’s end. Now he’s writin’ more letters, seein’ if he can track down where he headed after.”
Lark bit her lip. “I can’t imagine. If I didn’t know where one of my sisters was for years on end . . .”
“Hard to figure, ain’t it? Though come down to it, I don’t know where my sisters are either. Best I can learn, they married and moved elsewhere. That’s a sight different than not knowing whether they’re dead or alive after bein’ enslaved.”
Lark swallowed. So much she took for granted. And so much she still didn’t know of Isaac’s story, let alone William’s. Regret pinched her throat. “Isaac . . .” Suddenly it struck her what was so different. “You got a new suit.” She nearly clapped her hand over her mouth, so abruptly did the words blurt out.
Isaac chuckled. “So I did. Courtesy of Mrs. Jorgensen.”
“I beg your pardon.” Her ears burned. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’ve just never seen you in . . . except for that suit you wore at the Valentine party last winter.” Where he’d first danced with her, setting her heart to winging in a way she’d refused to process at the time. Lark averted her eyes, the heat traveling to her cheeks at the memory of their second dance at the celebration last summer. A mercy he couldn’t read her mind.
“Ah yes, borrowed that ’un off one of RJ’s crew to look halfway decent for the occasion.” Isaac shrugged. “I liked my old uniform well enough, but seems it didn’t feel the same way. ’Twas fallin’ to pieces from my shoulders.”
“Well, I’m glad Mrs. Jorgensen was able to assist.” Lark drew a breath. “Isaac . . . would you join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow? We’re meeting at Forsythia’s again since they have the most room.”
He cocked his head, brows raised. “You want me there?”
“I do.” She pressed on a smile she hoped he could see was sincere. “Why, you’ve been with us every Christmas since our first in Salton. It wouldn’t seem like Christmas without you.”
An answering smile glimmered beneath his beard. “Then I’ll come. And thank ye.”
Christmas dinner passed the next day with less awkwardness than Lark had dared hope, thanks in large part to the children’s welcome distraction. Their glee over Jesse and William’s gift of a wooden barn with real working doors, stalls, and even milking stanchions for their carved animals kept smiles on everyone’s faces through the evening. Lilac’s gifts also brought oohs and ahs as she handed out enlarged drawings from Farfar Nielsen’s journal: families crowding the ship’s rail to sail into the New York harbor for Forsythia and Adam, the log cabin being built for Del and RJ, the brave little sloop sailing the Atlantic for Lark.
“These are treasures, Lilac.” Lark hugged her hard. “Thank you.”
The only tricky part came when Isaac left. He asked her to follow him to the door, then held out a slender package, simply wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“’Fraid I don’t have anythin’ for your sisters.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “But I hoped you might could find a use for this.”
She unwrapped the package, her fingers suddenly clumsy. And swallowed hard at the graceful curve of the cast-iron ladle in her hand. It had even, delicate scrollwork on the handle, and her initials were stamped on the underside, LGN. How had he known her middle name?
“Thank you. I love it.” She glanced up to see a look in Isaac’s eyes that stole her breath as quickly as an icy wind.
“Merry Christmas, Larkspur.” His voice husky, he made a hasty bow and hurried out before even buttoning his coat, the door banging behind him.
Lark pressed the cool handle of the ladle to her chin, her eyes blurring. Oh, Lord . . . is Anders right? Does he truly still care? But if so, what am I supposed to do about it?
She barely saw Isaac over the next weeks, a January blizzard hunkering everyone down and even stopping the trains for a few days. At last a milder spell cleared the tracks—and brought the Leah’s Garden seed catalogs.
“They’re beautiful.” Del smoothed her hands over the covers again, as they all sat gathered at her table to pore over the catalogs. “Lilac, you outdid yourself.”
“So did the printer Anders found. I didn’t know he was going to do the cover in color.” Lilac shook her head. “Anders must have paid the extra himself, bless him.”
“And I love the logo you designed.” Forsythia let a wriggling Nils slide off her lap and crawl over to the rug to play with Sofie. “All our namesake flowers entwined under Ma’s name . . . it’s perfect.”
“All that remains is to mail them out.” Lark glanced around the table and held up her list. “I’ve got the addresses here. If we all work together, we should be able to get them out soon. We’re already running a bit behind for when people start to order seeds.”
“Well, let’s have at it, then.” Lilac extended her hands.
All that week they packaged and addressed, readying the catalogs to arrive at every mercantile and general store within the surrounding territory, and a number back east as well. At last, on a sunny morning the first week of February, Lark laid the last labeled catalog atop the stack with a sigh.
“There. I think that’s all of them.”
“Let’s pray over them, shall we?” Forsythia extended her hands to her sisters.
Leave it to Sythia. Lark bowed her head, a sudden pricking in her eyes.
“Father, we thank you for our beloved mother and her dream of a flower seed company to bless others with the beauty and joy of your creation. Thank you for taking us this far in bringing Leah’s Garden to life. Bless each catalog as it goes out and guide them into the hands of each person you want them to reach. Make our seeds a blessing, Lord, and sow them as far and wide as you will. In Christ’s name we ask it, amen.”
“Amens” echoed with hands squeezed around the circle.
Lark headed into town, the stacks of catalogs beside her in the trap. The bell jingled on the mercantile door as she pushed through, arms piled high.
“Land sakes, Miss Lark.” Mrs. Jorgensen clucked. “Would those be your catalogs at last?”
“They are.” Peeking around her load, Lark made her way to the counter and set them down with a sigh of relief. “Do you have time to help me post them here, or shall I take them to the station?”
The bell jangled behind them again, bringing in a gust of cold air. Lark turned to see Mr. Owens, the telegraph operator, hurry in.
The wiry little man’s eyes sparked when he saw her. “Thank goodness. I was just coming in to ask if Mrs. Jorgensen might know where to find you.” He held out the unmistakable slip of yellow paper. “Telegram for you, Miss Nielsen. From your brother.”
Her heart quickening, Lark took the paper and read.
Slate Ringwald reported to be on his way west STOP Folks say still talking about revenge STOP Don’t know details please be careful STOP Praying STOP