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Dear Diary,
The judge continues to confuse me at every turn. I can understand neither hide nor hair of him. He is cold one minute and hot the next. Why, just yesterday morning in his study, he kissed me so that I thought my brain my melt. Then he suddenly pulled away and I felt a great chill instead. If something does not change soon, I fear I shall lose my mind altogether.
Harriet shut her diary and watched the children play in the grass. She was gratified that she had somehow convinced Judge Foster—Theodore—to stay in Helena. She had no idea how she'd finally done it but between that and his kiss, she hoped it might be the start of something new and exciting. Perhaps love? She feared that was too much to ask. There were times when the judge acted as though he did not even like her, much less love her.
His behavior was erratic. At times, she wondered whether he might have some mental aberration. Then he would speak whatever was on his mind and she would realize that he was not mentally ill; he was only a fool. Perhaps they were not so very different from one another.
She sat on the porch, watching the sun shine upon Minnie's hair. It fascinated her. It was so dark and straight that at times she looked almost Indian. Had it not been for the light color of her skin, she might have been mistaken for one. Issie was spending the day with Sarah. She had wanted to spend some time with her niece. Harriet suspected she was hoping it would help her once her own child was born, and Harriet had not objected. Sarah would return her later this evening near supper time.
Edward was flapping his arms in the air like a bird. He danced around Minnie, bringing his knees up to his chest. Minnie sat there laughing. Harriet rose from her chair and went to join them.
"Might I play, too?" she asked. Edward looked up at her and she realized that he had much the same coloring as Minnie. His hair was black and straight, though it was cut short at the bottom and sides. In the sunlight, his skin seemed darker than she'd realized.
"Yay!" Edward cried. "Play with us."
"What are you playing? I'm not sure I know this game."
"It's the dance game," Edward said, moving around Minnie again in a circle, demonstrating it for her.
"Where did you learn it?" she asked him.
"Mommy."
"Your mother taught it to you?" He nodded. "Do you know where she learned it?"
Edward's face scrunched up. "Her mommy."
He began his slow dance again, only now he included sounds with it. It almost sounded like he was chanting. Something about his movements struck her as familiar. She couldn't quite place it. Edward's dance reminded her of a story she'd written. Something from long ago, before Issie was even born.
Edward took her hand. Harriet began to dance around Minnie with him until he tired.
"Harry," Minnie cried, delighted. She clapped her hands together.
Harriet smiled down at her. The sun caught her eyes just right and Harriet saw they were not just brown, they were nearly black. She stared at them, captivated, until it finally came to her. She snapped her fingers.
"The Littlest Indian!" she cried.
Minnie and Edward looked at her, not understanding. She kneeled so that she was eye level with them.
"When I was a little older than you," she said to Edward, "I wrote a story called The Littlest Indian."
"Can you read it to me and Minnie?" he asked.
She frowned. "I don't have it anymore. It... it burned up in a fire." She left out the part where the fire had also taken the lives of both her parents, leaving her four brothers and sisters to fend for themselves.
"Do you remember it?" Edward asked.
"Harry," Minnie said, never failing to be delighted by the misuse of Harriet's name. She stroked the girl's hair.
"I remember bits of it," Harriet said. "I remember that there was a little Indian boy with eyes nearly as black as yours, Edward." She bit her lip. "And yours, Minnie." She bit it harder, studying their faces.
"What did he do?" Minnie asked, her voice a tiny squeak. She was all giggles.
"He went to play in a snow bank and got frozen."
"Did he die like Mommy?" Edward asked.
"No," Harriet said, biting back her tears. "His mother came and melted the ice and he escaped."
Edward laughed. "That's good."
She felt sorriest for Edward. She knew how hard it was to lose a parent that you had known and loved. At least Minnie did not suffer such heartache but then, perhaps that was even worse. She would never know even a small amount of what her mother had been to her.
Harriet would not let that happen, she decided on the spot. She would make sure that Minnie and Edward both remembered her.
"Do you want to write a story about your mother?" she asked them.
Edward looked at her. "I can't write," he said. Minnie just shook her head.
"Yes, but you can tell me what you want me to say and I'll write it for you."
"About Mommy?" Minnie asked.
"Yes, about Mommy."
"You're Mommy now," Edward said. "Father said so."
"Well," Harriet said, thinking, "that's true but, well... I'm a different kind of mommy."
"You're not dark," Edward said.
Harriet blinked. "You mean my hair?"
"Yes," Edward said. "And your skin."
Harriet wasn't sure if she should allow her thoughts to continue on the path they were going. She did not care what parentage their mother had come from but she had the sinking feeling that Judge Foster had been withholding things from her.
"Father is sad a lot," Edward said. "Maybe a story about our first mommy will make him happy."
"Come, let's write the story then," she said. "It will be a present for your father when he arrives home."
The children each took a hand as she led them back to her table on the porch.
This would make a good article, she thought to herself as she sat down to write with the children. All of this.
"What are you thinking?" Edward asked, his small hand pressing against her face.
"I was just thinking that women in the country might like to read about a woman who's done some of the things that I have done."
"Like what?"
"Well, like marrying your father and meeting both of you."
The more she thought about it, the better her idea seemed. An article about what it was like to be a mail order bride, with all the trials and tribulations included. There was a ladies’ periodical she knew of that might like just such an article. She would write to them this evening and inquire. For now, she would concentrate on the story she was writing with Minnie and Edward. If they finished it by tonight, they could give it to Judge Foster at dinner. Perhaps he would even smile for a change.
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