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Mid-November 1860
“What do you mean we’re not going to Mamaw and Papaw’s for Thanksgiving?” Bertha shoved several rose-patterned sofa pillows to the side and plopped down on the couch. “We always go there.”
Mrs. Jorgenson didn’t bother glancing up from the letter she was writing, but continued scratching the quill across the paper, dipping it into the inkwell, and writing some more. “It’s not hard to understand, Bertha Mae. We’re not going to the farm.”
“But . . .”
“There are no buts about it. This year we’re hosting the festivities here.”
“How can they leave the farm to come here? And what about the aunts and uncles and my cousins?”
“When I issued the invite, Mamaw said they’d be happy to come. There’s a nearby family named Anderson who have three boys. They will take care of the animals while Ma and Pa stay here for a few days.”
Bertha’s heart lurched at the Anderson name. What did Sy think about them not coming to the farm? Did he care? He still hadn’t answered any of her letters. Had he found another girl to kiss?
“What about Christmas?”
“Your father and I haven’t decided yet, but I doubt we’ll go for Christmas, either.”
“But why?”
Mrs. Jorgenson wiped off the tip of the quill with a stained handkerchief and set it down on her desktop. “I don’t have to give you a reason, young lady. Unless James can accompany us, we’ll not be going.”
Not daring to say what she wanted about the situation, she left the room and, with a heavy heart, trudged up the stairs to her room. When and if she ever had children, she’d make sure to include them in decisions. Let them decide who they were going to marry.
At least Mamaw and Papaw were coming here. She missed them dreadfully. And she enjoyed her aunts, uncles, and cousins. All the social events she’d mostly attended with James couldn’t fill the hole in her heart.
She pulled aside the curtains. Snow drifted down, blanketing the ground in white. The weather had turned cold enough to freeze the ground so this snowfall probably wouldn’t melt. A fat flake landed on the window, giving her a good view of the intricacies of the lacy flake. Another one took its place beside it. Comparing their differences momentarily took her mind off Sy.
Children across the street burst forth from their house, dancing and chasing each other in the accumulating snow. One young sprite stood still, sticking out her tongue, letting the snow land and melt, just as she had done as a child. Two older boys started a snowball fight. When they accidentally knocked over their younger sister, they picked her up and dried her tears. All so reminiscent of playing with her cousins at the farm. But those days were gone.
She rested her head against the window frame. It wasn’t that she didn’t like James. She did. He was kind, funny, and smart. He treated her gently like a rose waiting to open. Goodness. Now she was using roses as a comparison. Was she turning into her mother? Heaven help her if she was.
James was a good dancer and had a nice voice when he sang along while she played the piano. His kisses were becoming more insistent but were still relatively enjoyable. What she was still waiting for was the spark. Like the spark Sy’s kisses had ignited inside her.
Even though James hadn’t proposed, it seemed to be a foregone conclusion with her friends and her parents’ circle that they would marry. Her mother had even started a trousseau for her and was giving her more roles in the running of the household. While her mother didn’t come right out and say it, she knew what the conclusion would be—marriage to James. Could she do the things with him that Mamaw had told her about this summer? Like the snowflakes melting their way down the windowpane, her heart slid somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.
“Bertha Mae.” Her mother’s voice and the click of her heels came down the hallway. After a rap on the wood, her mother opened the door. “There is so much to do to get ready for our guests and not much time to do it in. I’ll need your help, and it will be good practice for when you have your own home.”
Holding back a sigh, Bertha dropped the curtain and faced her mother. “What needs to be done?”
“Here, I have a list.”
Bertha frowned. “All this for Thanksgiving?” Change linens in all the rooms, which was crazy since no one ever slept in them. Clean the silver and make sure the best china is clean. Beat the rugs. Design place cards for the dinners. Hire extra help. Well, here was one item she’d at least enjoy—help Cook prepare food.
“Of course.”
“How do I find someone to hire?”
As if she were going on a world tour, the excitement in her mother’s voice and eyes brought some excitement into Bertha. It would be fun having everyone here, but not as fun as skating on the pond at the farm, sliding down the hill behind the barn, or smacking her eldest cousin in his face with a snowball. Wait, she was seventeen, almost eighteen. Mother wouldn’t approve of her doing those activities anymore.
Her mother took her hand. “Where are we going?”
“To teach you how to run an ad in the paper. Once we get responses, you’ll help me interview them.”
Bertha retraced her steps down the stairs and into the stuffy drawing room. Could she talk her mother into getting rid of some things to make room for extra women to visit after dinner while the men had their cigars? Probably not. She enjoyed showing off her treasures too much.
“Now sit down at my secretary.”
Really? She was never allowed to sit at nor even touch the precious piece of furniture. Only once when she was a child had she sat at it. As a five-year-old, the temptation to open all the little drawers and cubbies had been too much. Now she couldn’t even remember what was hidden in them. The attached, glass-fronted bookcase held books she’d itched to read and had left her fingerprints behind when she’d opened it. Being an only child, it hadn’t taken much for her mother to figure out who dared touch her belongings.
Her mother smiled at her. “Now, don’t look so surprised. You’re old enough.” She giggled and winked at her. “You even have my permission to open all the drawers.”
Had she just told a joke? Well, wonders never ceased. “That’s all right, Mother. Maybe another time.” Another time when she wasn’t being watched over her shoulder.
“This is where I do all my household accounts.” The metal handles rattled against the oak when she opened the drawer beneath the desktop and pulled out a journal-like book. “After Thanksgiving, I’ll show you how to balance the accounts. You’ll need to know how when you have your own home.” She put the book back and closed the drawer. “Now be seated and take out a sheet of paper and write down what I tell you.”
****
The next two weeks flew by as Bertha checked off item after item. The worst was interviewing potential helpers. Her mother handled it as if she did it every day of her life. How would she ever be able to hire help for her own home? Either they were too young and had no experience, or older than her and acted as if she were a ninny. Her mother had said finding the right combination of experience and maturity was an art.
So was giving orders to the new help. It had to be done in a way to not sound like an authoritarian or queen, but also not like a person was asking the help if they wanted to do a chore. And here she’d believed she knew how to run a household. Who was she kidding? There was so much more than talking with Cook about meals and making sure the laundry was done properly and to her father’s specifications.
Thanksgiving Day arrived with all the excitement, scents, and love that came with the holiday. Everyone had arrived the day before. Being in charge of making sure the servants knew where to put everyone’s belongings, that supper was ready on time, and then overseeing breakfast this morning for twenty-five people had her nerves wound up tighter than piano strings.
The best part was seeing Mamaw and Papaw and being wrapped in their hugs.
“My, look at you.” Mamaw stepped back and eyed her. “You look so grown up. I hear you did most of the work planning this event and what a wonderful job you’ve done.”
“Mother told you that?”
“Yes, she did.” Mamaw winked at her. “And yes, I was as surprised as you are.”
Bertha frowned.
“Oh,” Mamaw laughed and gave her another hug. “I wasn’t surprised you’ve done a wonderful job, only that Frieda complimented you.”
Leaving her father to visit with Papaw, she and Mamaw walked arm-in-arm to the parlor. “Goodness, this room always makes me think of a bomb hitting a garden of roses.” She shivered. “Now, are we the first to arrive?”
“Yes.” Bertha sat and patted the seat beside her. “I’m glad so we can have a chat before chaos ensues.” She took her grandmother’s hands. “Now tell me all the news. Did Corabell have her calf? Did you get all the vegetables out of the garden before the frost? Did Snickerdoodles have another batch of kittens? Have you seen Becky in church? Are she and Les still a couple?”
Mamaw answered all her questions, then gave her a small smile. “Now why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, heavens, girl.” She patted Bertha’s hand. “You know darn well you want to know all about that Anderson boy who kissed you.”
“Well . . .”
“What with all the harvesting, butchering and so on, I didn’t see more than a flash of him at church before the family rushed back home. But he did ask about you yesterday when he and his brothers came to find out what they needed to do while we were gone.”
A shiver of excitement spiked through her. “And? What did he ask?”
“Why, he wanted to know why you never wrote him.”
“What?” How could that be? “I wrote him several letters, but he never answered, so I stopped. I was hoping to see him when we came for Thanksgiving, but Mother insisted we hosted it here this year.”
“Hmmm.” Mamaw tapped her lip.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just seems strange he never received your letters.”
Bertha stared at her hands in her lap. “Yes. I was a bit disappointed in that.”
Mamaw lifted Bertha’s chin. “But you can see him at Christmas.”
“But Mother said we weren’t coming for Christmas this year.”
“She did?” Mamaw glanced at a noise outside the parlor door. “We’ll see about that.”
“So, you think there’s a chance we can come to the farm? I’ll miss the Christmas party.”
“I can’t guarantee it, but I’ll do my best.” Mamaw rose and faced the door. “Whoever is out there, may come in now.”
“Why, Ma.” Her mother came into the room. “I didn’t know you and Pa had arrived.”
“Hmmm. Yes, a short bit ago. Bertie and I were catching up on all the news.”
Mrs. Jorgenson frowned at Mamaw. “Would you please refrain from calling her that awful nickname while you’re here?”
Mamaw’s frown mirrored her daughter’s. “Whyever not? We’ve been calling her Bertie since she was born, and I imagine everyone else will too. Hard to break good habits.”
“Hmph.” She gave her mother a glare. “Bertha Mae, would you please check to make sure Ma and Pa’s bags got to their room and their clothing properly aired?”
Her mother closed the door after her, nearly catching her skirt in the process. Why was she in such a hurry to make her leave? Well, if her mother could eavesdrop, so could she. It was difficult with the door closed, but if she eased it open without them hearing, she’d know what was going on. If they saw her, she could always say she’d forgotten something in the room. What, she had no idea, but she was a quick thinker and could come with something.
“Frieda Jane, what’s this I hear about you not coming to the farm for Christmas?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea this year.”
If a voice could hold coldness, her grandmother’s was icier than Minnesota in January. “And why this year of all years? You’ve been coming for Christmas ever since you were married.”
Bertha turned the doorknob and eased the door open, using the crack between the door and hinged frame to spy. Arms folded over her chest, Mamaw stood nearly nose-to-nose with her daughter. Her mother retreated a step and shrugged.
“Things are different this year, that’s all.”
“I want an explanation, and I want it now.”
Her mother hung her head. Evidently it didn’t matter how old you were, when a mother gives a command, a child must obey.
“All right, Ma. If you insist on knowing. I heard you and Bertha Mae talking about this Sy person while we were at the farm. And the way she showed up looking like a wild woman for James to see, made me realize this . . . this farm boy is a bad influence on my daughter.”
Her mother made being a farm boy sound like the lowest form of human to ever exist. Farmers worked hard and were every bit as smart as . . . well, as a banker for instance. Bertha held her breath and shrunk back when her mother took a step toward the door as if she were leaving the room. Thankfully, she moved back into the room.
“If we go the farm for the holiday, she’ll want to go to the party like we do every year. If we go to the party, she may meet up with this boy and my plans for her to marry James will be crushed.”
“Your plans? What about your daughter’s plans?” Mamaw picked up a small statue of a woman holding a parasol, frowned, and set it back down. “Why are you so all-fired set on her marrying this man you’ve picked out for her? You seem to forget I didn’t say anything when you set your cap for Donovan, did I?”
“Well, no.” Her mother disappeared from view. “But I want more for Bertha Mae than to spend her life slaving on a farm.”
Mamaw tightened her lips. Her glare could stop a raging bull in its tracks. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing all these years? Slaving on a farm? Do you think I’ve felt like a slave to your father?” She pointed a finger in the direction her mother disappeared to. “I’ll have you know I love being on the farm. I love being a farmer’s wife.”
“But that’s you, Ma.” The edge of her mother’s skirt came into view. “That wasn’t me.”
“Exactly, and I understood. Just as you need to understand how much Bertie loves spending time with Pa and me. She loves the animals. Loves the country. And if she should fall in love with a farm boy, it’s not up to you to deny her that love.”
The grandfather clock’s ticking filled the silence. Would her mother finally understand what Mamaw was saying? She crossed her fingers. Not that it would help, but she needed all the luck she could get to have her mother let them go to the farm for Christmas.
“I know you’re right, Ma, but you had more than one child. I only have one, and I want the best for her.”
Mamaw shook her head and sighed. “Frieda, let me put it this way. You and Donavan and Bertie will be at the farm for Christmas. Everyone else is coming home, which hasn’t happened in a long time. And,” Mamaw paused. “We will all be going to the neighborhood party. Have I made myself clear?”
Bertha pressed her fingers to her lips to hide a giggle. Her mother had to obey Mamaw.
“Yes, ma’am. Just don’t expect me to enjoy it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less. But mark my words, Frieda, you’d better not do anything to ruin Bertie’s enjoyment.”
A swish of skirts came closer then stopped when Mamaw spoke again. “By the way, Bertie tells me she’s written to Sy Anderson several times, yet he hasn’t received her letters. He also says he’s written her, but Bertie hasn’t received one letter. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Frieda?”
Sy had written to her? But what happened to his letters and why did he say he hadn’t received any of hers? She held her breath waiting for her mother to respond.
“Honestly, Ma. How could I possibly know what happened to their correspondence? Why, the post office probably lost them.”
“All of them?”
Good question, Mamaw.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” Her mother’s voice came closer. “I had no idea they were even writing to each other.” The door handle wiggled.
Bertha jumped back and raced down the hallway to the kitchen, where her cousins were enjoying cookies and milk. She joined them, and by the time her mother entered the room she’d caught her breath and was biting into a sugar cookie. Without saying a word, her mother sent a glare her way and left the room.