Читать книгу A Child's Christmas Wish - Erica Vetsch - Страница 12
ОглавлениеEverything...gone. Kate could hardly wrap her mind around the fact. Her clothes reeked of smoke, and if she closed her eyes, she could still see the merciless flames, the showers of skyward-rushing sparks, hear the crackle and roar. It was so hard to believe.
Away from the fire, the night was black and cold, the moon barely a sliver and the stars remote. The wagon rattled up the drive toward Oscar Rabb’s house, and Kate kept her arm around Grossmutter. Neither had said a word since climbing onto the high seat. What was there to say? Words weren’t enough to describe her sense of loss.
Oscar’s house sat atop a small hill, facing south. Two-storied, white clapboard, with lots of windows. A porch stretched along the front. The overall design was more compact and less flamboyant than the house Johann had built, but the porch was similar. How many evenings had Kate and Grossmutter sat on the porch shelling peas, snapping beans, while Grossvater and Johann had sat on the steps, talking over the day’s work, planning for the future? A hard lump formed in Kate’s throat.
Oscar Rabb’s house, porch notwithstanding, looked dark and forbidding with not a single light shining from any of the windows.
Ahead of them, Oscar drove his wagon down the slope behind the house toward his barn. Kate knew Oscar hadn’t wanted to offer hospitality, that he’d been on the verge of refusing, but he had been too well-mannered. And Mrs. Tipford had practically coerced him into it. Well, they didn’t want to have to accept hospitality, either, but what else was there? Pastor Tipford had been right. Oscar’s place was the logical, if reluctantly given, choice.
Grossvater directed the horses, Schwarz und Grau—Black and Gray—after Oscar’s wagon, drawing up in front of the immense red barn with its gambrel roof and sliding doors.
A large dog leaped from the bed of Oscar’s wagon, his tail a bushy plume and his breast glowing white in the darkness. Every bone ached as Kate forced herself to stand and climb down over the wagon wheel. The dog came over, friendly and sniffing, nudging her hand with his broad head for a pat.
“Rolf, come.” Oscar snapped his fingers, and the big dog bounded to his side. “He can be a nuisance sometimes.”
Kate and Grossmutter stood out of the way as the horses were unhitched and turned out into a small pen. Oscar forked some hay over the fence and then went to his wagon. He scooped up a blanket-wrapped bundle, holding it to his shoulder. Kate spied small, stocking-clad feet peeping from under the hem of the blanket.
This must be Oscar’s daughter. Liesl, wasn’t it? Kate’s mind was so muddled she hadn’t even thought to wonder where the child had been during the fire.
“This way.” Oscar led the way up the curved path to the back of the house. “Watch your step.”
“You go ahead. I’ll follow.” Kate let Grossvater take Grossmutter’s arm and fell in behind them, lifting her skirt and the hem of Johann’s heavy coat, weary beyond words. All she wanted was a quiet, warm bed, some place to curl up and sleep...to forget what had happened for a while.
They gained the porch, and Oscar held the door open. “I’ll light a lamp.”
He laid his daughter down on a bench beside the door and rattled the matchbox on the wall. A scritch, and light flared, illuminating his face. He touched the match to the wick of a glass kerosene lamp on the table and replaced the chimney. Light hovered around the table and picked out objects around the edges of the large room.
He’d brought them into the kitchen rather than through the front door, but the room seemed to have a dual purpose, one end for cooking and eating, while the other, through open pocket doors, appeared to be the sitting room. Chairs and a settee grouped around a massive fireplace. In the kitchen, beautiful wooden furniture filled the room—a sideboard, a bench, a table and chairs, all decorated with intricate carving. Oscar Rabb must be better off than most of the farmers around Berne if he could afford such fine furnishings.
The dog’s nails clicked on the hardwood floor as he went to his water dish, lapping noisily and scattering droplets when he raised his head.
Upon closer inspection, the large room was...rather untidy. Not filthy, but definitely cluttered. Boots and shoes were piled by the door, and it appeared someone had taken apart some harness on the table. Straps and buckles and bits lay everywhere. At least there weren’t dirty dishes, but Kate could tell it had been a long time since the room had received a thorough scrubbing.
Battered children’s books and blocks lay on the rug in front of the settee, a rocking horse stood in one corner and what looked like a pinafore hung from his ear. A stack of newspapers stood beside a large wooden rocker. Was that where Oscar sat each night, reading while Liesl played? She categorized what she saw without really caring, observing only, too tired to do much else.
Oscar shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Bedrooms are upstairs. I can carry some water up for you as soon as I get Liesl settled. I imagine you want to wash some of the smoke off.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. Her coat—Johann’s coat—reeked of the fire, and she knew her hair did, too. She’d love a hot bath, but she’d settle for a cold basin of water and a bit of soap.
Their host shucked his black, wool coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He lifted his daughter into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. Kate spied glossy, dark hair, and rounded, sleep-flushed cheeks. Long lashes, limp hands, a pale nightgown. Her heart constricted. There was something so sweet about a sleeping child, especially one held in a parent’s embrace. Her hand went to her own baby, sleeping there under her heart.
“If you’ll get the lamp?” Oscar looked at Kate and inclined his head.
She lifted the glass lamp and followed him toward the staircase. Grossmutter and Grossvater followed behind. At the top of the stairs, a hallway bisected the house. Four doors, evenly spaced, two on each side of the carpeted runner, and a window let a small amount of light in at the far end.
“You can sleep in here. And the older folks across the hall. Liesl’s room is next to yours, and mine’s across from hers.” Oscar opened the first door on the right. A stale, closed-up smell rolled out. Starlight hovered near the windows, and the lamp lit only half the room as she stepped inside. The bare mattress on the bedstead had been rolled up and tied, and a sheet draped over what looked to be a chair. “There’s sheets in the bureau. Sorry the bed isn’t made.”
He really hadn’t been expecting company. Kate pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, forcing down a weary sigh. “It’s fine. We’ll take care of things.” She set the lamp on the bureau, found another lamp there and lit it for her in-laws. “Get your daughter settled back into bed. We’re sorry to inconvenience you like this.” She was barely hanging on, willing herself not to cry. How soon could she be alone?
Grossvater took the second lamp. “Come, Inge. We will get some rest. As Mrs. Tipford said, perhaps things will look better in the morning. Thank you, Oscar, for a place to stay tonight.” He put his arm around his wife and led her across the hall.
Oscar stood in the doorway, frowning. He lifted Liesl a bit higher in his arms, appeared about to say something and then shrugged. Finally, he turned away. “I’ll be back with that water.”
Kate left her coat on. She was chilly, though she wasn’t sure if it was because the house was cold or from shock.
The rope binding the mattress roll was rough on her hands, but the knots came loose easily enough. With a couple of tugs, the feather-tick flopped open. She nudged it square on the bed frame. Searching the bureau—another hand-carved beauty—she found a set of sheets and a pair of pillows in the deep drawers.
Across the hall, she heard some rustling and bumping. Peeking through her door, she saw Grossvater spreading a sheet across a wide bed while Grossmutter slid a pillow into a case. They were speaking to each other in German, soft, gentle tones. Kate smiled as Grossvater called his wife “liebchen.” There was so much love and affection in his tone it made Kate’s heart hurt. In spite of all they had lost, they still had each other.
Boots sounded in the hall, and Kate returned to making up her bed. She had just finished spreading the top sheet smooth when there was a tap at her open door.
“I brought you some blankets.” Oscar stood in the doorway, a bucket dangling from one arm, the other full of quilts.
“Thank you.” She came to take them, careful not to touch him. The sharp tang of cedar drifted up. The blankets had been in a chest somewhere. “I’ll share them across the hall.”
Coming back from leaving more than half the blankets with her in-laws, she found Oscar flinging open a patchwork quilt over the bed. He’d poured water into the pitcher on the washstand, and he’d raised the wick on the lamp.
He drew the covering sheet off the chair, setting the rocker in motion as he wadded the muslin up. Standing there in the glow of the lamp, he waited, watching her.
What did he want? She drew her coat around herself. “Thank you. I hope we won’t be too much of a bother. I’m sure we’ll get something sorted out tomorrow.” Though what, she couldn’t imagine right now. “We’ll need to be up early to tend the cows. If you wouldn’t mind knocking on my door when you wake up?”
He nodded. “I’ll say good night, then.” He crossed the room and closed the door behind himself.
Kate opened her coat and let the heavy garment slip down her arms. Laying it over the rocker, she reached up and began unpinning her long, brown hair. It tumbled in waves about her shoulders. She had no brush, so she finger-combed the locks, separating them into strands and forming them into a less-than-elegant braid. Pouring water from the pitcher into the basin, her lips trembled. The water was warm. He must’ve drawn it from the reservoir on the stove. That was thoughtful of him.
Looking into the mirror, she grimaced. Soot streaked her cheeks, and her eyes were red from smoke and unshed tears. She looked as if she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. What a sight.
Dipping the corner of a towel into the water, she scrubbed at her hands and face and neck. Patting herself dry, she considered her options for the night. No nightgown. Only a smoky dress with a let-out waist. Wrinkling her nose, she shed her dress and decided to sleep in her chemise and petticoat. She hurried to spread her clothing out over the footboard of the bed, hoping they would air overnight.
After all, they were the only clothing items she owned now.
Sliding under the covers, she curled up, wrapping her arms around her unborn baby. Loneliness swept over her, loss and sorrow crashing into her chest. She reached for the second pillow, burying her face in the feathery softness, letting the tears she’d been holding back flow.
The baby rolled and kicked, bumping against her hand, warm and safe in her belly. Which was just as well, since she had no home for him or her at the moment.
* * *
Oscar closed the damper on the stove, checking that the fire was well-banked and letting Rolf out for one last run before he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The clock on the mantel said it was already tomorrow, and he needed to be up early. Familiar with his house in the dark, he didn’t bother with a lamp.
His boots sounded loud on the stairs, and he wished he had remembered to take them off in the kitchen. Liesl, once asleep, could slumber through a brass band marching through her bedroom, but his houseguests probably didn’t sleep that soundly.
Light snoring came from the old couple’s room. He was glad someone was getting some rest. They were in the room his wife had reserved for her parents when they came down to visit from Saint Paul. Those infrequent visits had always made Oscar uncomfortable. His in-laws had wanted their daughter to marry someone from town, a doctor or banker or lawyer, someone who could provide an easy life for her in the city in which she was born. But she had married him instead, a farmer and woodworker. It had been on one of his trips to the city to deliver his hand-carved furniture that he’d met Gaelle. One look and he’d been a goner. Three happy years of marriage, one daughter and a baby on the way...and now nearly two years of emptiness...except for Liesl. If he hadn’t had that little girl to look after, he didn’t know what he would’ve done.
He shook his head, letting go of the banister to start toward his own room. A sound to his right made him pause. The muffled sound of a woman crying. It seeped under the door and into his chest.
The widow.
Helplessness wrapped around him, and his own grief, never far below the surface, rose up to engulf him. He shifted his weight and a floorboard creaked.
The crying stopped, and he walked down the hall, feeling guilty at intruding upon her sorrow. Grief was a private thing, and it must be wrestled one-on-one. He knew from experience. Well-meaning outsiders weren’t welcome.
He peeked into Liesl’s room one last time to make sure she was still under the covers. His daughter often slept like a windmill, throwing aside blankets and pillows and apt to be sideways in the bed before dawn. A sound sleeper, but an active one.
For once, her head lay on the pillow, the blankets tucked to her chin where he’d placed them upon their return to the farmhouse. Her journey out into the night air didn’t seem to have done her any harm. Of course, she’d been well wrapped up and had Rolf curled up beside her, sharing his warmth. The dog followed him into the room and flopped onto the rug beside her bed, his tail softly thumping the floor. Oscar smiled and smoothed Liesl’s nut-brown hair, his hand engulfing her little head. She looked just like her mother and chattered like a chickadee from dawn till dusk. He’d do just about anything for her.
He shut her door and entered his own room. The weak moon had long set, and faint starlight was the only illumination, but there wasn’t much to worry about knocking into in here. A single bed, washstand, and armoire, all made by him, were the only furnishings.
He eased his suspenders off his shoulders, loosening his shirt where it had been pinned by his braces. Letting the suspenders fall against his thighs, he poured water into his washbasin. Washing quickly, Oscar got ready for bed.
Once in bed, he couldn’t sleep. Stacking his hands under his head, he looked up at the ceiling and thought about the Amakers. He’d known Johann for years. They’d gone to school together, loaned one another horses and equipment when in need, been members of the same congregation, but they weren’t close friends. Oscar wasn’t particularly social, and since his wife’s death, he’d stayed to himself even more.
Still, it bothered him that Johann’s widow was crying down the hall, alone and grieving.
And pregnant.
Every time he thought about that, it was like a fist to his gut. He didn’t want to be responsible, even in a small way, for an expectant mother. Too much could go wrong. He’d have to find another place for the Amakers soon. Maybe even tomorrow. By tomorrow afternoon, he was sure a collection would’ve been taken up, and maybe they could rent a place in town until a new house could be built.
He rolled to his side and willed his eyes to shut and his mind to stop thinking about the woman across the hall.
It seemed he’d only been asleep for a minute when something patted his face. He squinted through his lashes, pretending to still be asleep as the light of a new dawn peeped through the window. Liesl stood beside his bed, her hair tousled, cheeks still flushed from sleep.
“Daddy, the sun is waking up.”
She said the same thing every morning. She’d always been an early riser, and he’d been forced to teach her that she couldn’t get out of her bed until the sun was up. So she waited, every morning, and at the first sign of dawn, she was in here urging him to get up and start his day. He lay still, eyes closed, playing the game.
“Da-a-a-dddyyy!” She patted his whiskers again. “You’re playing ‘possum.’”
He grinned, reached for her with a growl and grabbed her, wrapping a knitted afghan around her. “Brr, it’s too chilly to be standing there in your nightdress. Is it time to milk the chickens?” He rubbed his beard against her neck, careful not to scratch too hard.
She giggled and squirmed, kneeing him in the belly as she twisted in his grasp. “Silly Daddy, you don’t milk chickens.” Liesl took his face between her little hands, something she did when she wanted him to pay particular attention to her. “Daddy, I had a dream last night.”
Which was nothing new. Liesl was an imaginative child who had dreams, both night and daydreams, that were vivid in color and detail.
“What did you dream this time, punkin? That you were a princess?”
Her brown eyes grew round. “How did you know?”
He gave her a squeeze, tucking her head under his chin for a moment. “It might be because we read the princess story again before bedtime last night.”
Liesl giggled and shoved herself upright. Her hair wisped around her face, and she smeared it back with both hands. “I did dream I was a princess, and you were there, and we had a picnic, and I had a pink dress, and there were beautiful white horses and sunshine and cake.”
“So, it’s a pink dress now, is it? Yesterday it was blue. I thought blue was your favorite color.” He sat up and wrapped the blanket around her again, scooting up to rest his back against the headboard.
“I like all the colors, but today I like pink best.” She fingered the stitches edging the blanket. “Pink, with blue flowers? For Christmas?”
He laughed. “Pink with blue flowers. Got it.” Somewhere along the way, she’d latched on to the idea of presents for Christmas. He must’ve mentioned it to her once. That’s all it took with Liesl. Say something that interested her, and she grabbed it with both hands and ran with it. But he’d told her she could only expect one thing for Christmas, so she must be very sure what she decided upon. As a result, the wish changed every day.
He chucked her under the chin. “There’s something I need to tell you. We have visitors.”
Her little brows arched. “Where?” She looked around the room as if expecting them to pop out from behind the door.
Laughing, he dropped a kiss on her head. “They’re sleeping down the hall. Last night their house caught on fire, and they didn’t have anywhere else to sleep, so they came home with us.”
“A fire in a house?” Worry clouded her brown eyes. “What house?”
Pressing his forehead to hers, he wished he didn’t have to expose her to such harsh realities as house fires. “They are the Amakers, who live next door.”
“With the brown cows?” she asked.
“Yes, with the brown cows.” The Amaker pastures bordered Oscar’s land, and from the top of the hill, he and Liesl could look down and see the herd of Brown Swiss as they wended their way to the milking barn each evening. Speaking of which, he needed to get up and wake his guests as Kate had asked last night. There were chores to do, cows to milk and decisions to be made.
“Scamper back to your bed, Poppet, and I’ll be in to help you get dressed in a minute.”
“I can do it myself, Daddy.” She gave him a look that reminded him of her mother. Bossy, but sweet about it.
“I know, but I like to help.” And she still needed him, even if she didn’t think so, if only to fasten her dress up the back and button her little high-topped shoes.
He dressed quickly, ran his fingers through his unruly hair and went to Liesl’s room. She sat in the middle of her bed, leafing through one of the storybooks they read each night. She stopped on the picture of the princess. “See, pink.”
“I see.” He gathered her clothing. It was time to do laundry...again. It seemed he barely had the last washing put away before it was time to get out the tubs again. He would be the first to admit he wasn’t much of a housekeeper. The farm took so much of his time, the housework usually got a lick and a promise until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. “Well, it’s going to be a green dress today because that’s what’s clean.”
“I can do it, Daddy.” Liesl was growing more independent by the day, always wanting to be a bigger girl than she was. Oscar would do anything to hold back time, because he had firsthand knowledge of how fleeting it was, but that was something you couldn’t explain to a four-year-old.
He handed her the items one by one and she put them on. When it was time for her stockings, he got them started around her toes and heel and she pulled them up. Then the dress. She turned and showed him her back to do up the buttons. He laid her long, straight hair over her shoulder and fitted buttons to holes. Then her pinafore over the top, with a bow in the back.
“Time to do hair.” Oscar reached for her hairbrush on the bedside table.
“I don’t like doing hair. It tugs.” Liesl handed him the hairbrush, a scowl on her face.
“Can I help?”
The question had both Oscar and Liesl turning to the door.
Kate Amaker, dressed and ready for the day.
Oscar sucked in a breath, his heart knocking against his ribs, staring at her rounded middle that the voluminous coat had covered last night. He was no judge, but was she ready to deliver soon?
Liesl looked their guest over, and Oscar waited. The little girl could be quite definite in her likes and dislikes.
Evidently, Mrs. Amaker fell into the “likes” category, for Liesl smiled and handed her the hairbrush.
“What happened to your tummy?” She pointed at Mrs. Amaker’s middle.
A flush crept up her cheeks, and Oscar cleared his throat. “Liesl, that’s not polite.”
His daughter looked up at him with puzzled brown eyes. “Why, Daddy?”
“It’s all right.” Mrs. Amaker smiled, her face kind. “I’m going to have a baby. He’s growing in my tummy right now, and when the time is right, he’ll be born.”
Liesl’s face lit up. “A baby. In your tummy? When will the time be right? Today?”
Mrs. Amaker laughed. “No, sweetling. Not for a couple of months. Around Christmas.”
Oscar’s gut clenched. He’d lost his wife and second child around Christmas.
Liesl had a different reaction. She clapped her hands, bouncing on her toes. “That’s it, Daddy. That’s what I wish for this Christmas. A baby. Can I have a baby for Christmas?”
