Читать книгу The Substitute Bride - Janet Dean - Страница 13

With the sleeping arrangements settled, Elizabeth walked toward the house with a light step, suddenly curious about her groom’s home. At the back door, a whiff of lilac greeted her, transporting her to the ancient, mammoth bush behind the Manning carriage house. To the gigantic vases Mama filled to overflowing, giving off the heady fragrance of spring. Home.

Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. Refusing to dwell on what she could not change, she whistled Tippy inside. She’d found a friend and had no intention of leaving him behind.

The door led into the kitchen, a huge room that ran the entire depth of the house, from back to front, cozy, if not for the chill in the air. A stack of newspapers all but covered the faded blue cushion of a brown wicker rocker.

In front of the chair, Elizabeth spied dried mud in the shape of a man’s boots. Didn’t Ted shed the footgear he wore in the barn before entering his house? Well, if he expected her to clean, that would have to change.

A large table, legs sturdy enough to support an elephant, dominated one end of the kitchen. Its porcelain castors sat in a sea of crumbs. “Come here, Tippy.” The dog made quick work of the tidbits. Elizabeth patted her personal broom.

A high chair was set off to one side of the table. A spoon was glued to the wooden tray with oatmeal and, from the smell of it, soured milk. On the back of a chair, a garment hung haphazardly.

“Oh, how cute.” Elizabeth picked up a tiny blue shirt that stuck to her fingers. “Uh, maybe not.”

She put the oatmeal-painted apparel back where she found it. Tippy sat on his haunches watching her every move, as if he wanted to oblige her by licking her hands clean.

At this preview of marriage to Ted, her knees wobbled and she slumped into a chair.

She should leave. Maybe Reginald Parks wasn’t so bad after all. Well, no, he smelled like sour milk. Far worse.

She surveyed the smudgy oilcloth covering the table. Over the center Ted had tossed a blue-checked square, covering whatever lay underneath. Hide it and run—a cleaning plan she could relate to. She lifted the corner of the lumpy cloth, exposing a sugar bowl, a footed glass filled with spoons and one nearly empty jar of jam.

In the sink, a pile of oatmeal and egg-encrusted dishes filled a dry dishpan. As if waiting for her. Welcome home, little wife.

Obviously Ted needed help. Well, she might not know the first thing about housekeeping, but she could handle this clutter better than Ted. Couldn’t she?

A mirror hung over to one side of the sink. An odd place for it. She unpinned her hat and then couldn’t find an uncluttered spot to lay it.

Carrying her hat, she climbed the two steps leading to the living room. Nothing fancy here—two rockers around a potbelly stove, a kerosene lamp in the center of a round table stacked with Prairie Farmer magazines. On either side of the table a navy sofa, chair and ottoman looked comfy. A sloped-top desk stood under the window with a ladder-back chair tucked beneath. Not so much as a lace curtain to soften the glass.

Nothing like their parlor at home with its lavish velvet curtains, brocade sofa, wing chairs and prism-studded chandelier. Well, that room had been stuffy and suffocating.

Now it stood empty.

Shaking off the maudlin thought, she walked to the four-paned side door that opened onto a covered porch. The shadow of some kind of a vine blocked her view of the lawn and sheltered a wooden swing at the far end. A pleasant place to read. Though farmer’s magazines hardly interested her.

Well, she’d see about changing that on her next trip into town. Surely New Harmony had a library.

She crossed the room and opened a door. A small rumpled bed clung to one wall. A crib hugged another. Anna and Henry’s room—the place where Ted would sleep tonight. He’d surely be uncomfortable curling his massive frame onto that small space.

A bureau filled the niche between the beds. Tiny clothing dangled from three open drawers. Elizabeth stuffed the garments inside. As she pushed the drawers closed, her gaze rested on a framed photograph on top of the dresser.

She recognized Ted immediately. Wearing a suit, face sober, he looked vaguely uncomfortable, as though his collar pinched. In front of him sat his bride, her dark hair covered by a gauzy veil, gloved hands clasped in her lap. Rose. Elizabeth studied the mother of Ted’s children. She read nothing in her expression but quiet acceptance.

Along the opposite wall a rocker was positioned next to a washstand. A cloth floated in a bowl of scummy water and a still-damp towel hung from the rails of the spindled crib. Her new husband couldn’t be accused of fastidiousness.

When her father no longer had the money to pay servants, Martha had gladly taken over all the duties in their house. She’d be in her glory here. Elizabeth cringed. Now she’d have to play Martha. Well, she’d spiff this place up in a matter of hours. Show Ted she could handle the job of wife.

Back in the kitchen, she shivered. How long did it take to bed down a pair of horses? She should start a fire. She bent toward the black behemoth. Home Sunshine in raised letters on the oven door hardly fit her mood. She took hold of a handle and opened a door. Ah, ashes. Must be where the fuel should go.

She grabbed a couple of small logs from a large, rough-hewn box, then squealed when a bug crawled out of one of them. She tossed the infested firewood into the stove.

Where were the matches? Her gaze settled on a metal holder hanging high above little hands. A flick of the match against the side and it flared to life. She tossed it on the wood and stepped back in case of sparks.

The match went black. She needed something smaller than that log, something more flammable. She crumbled a big wad of newsprint, lit another match and tossed the whole thing into the stove. The paper lit and blazed. Soon the log would ignite.

She glanced at the dog. “See, nothing to it.”

Tippy whined.

Elizabeth shut the stove’s door. “You’re a worrywart.”

Once the fire took off, she’d heat water and wash these dishes. That would show Ted his new wife could carry her weight, and his, by the looks of this place.

The acrid odor of smoke reached her nostrils. Tippy barked. Elizabeth dashed to the stove and flung open the door. Black smoke poured out of the gaping hole, enveloping her in a dark, dirty, stinky cloud. She coughed and choked, waving at the smoke hanging stubbornly around her, stinging her eyes.

The screen door banged open. Ted raced to the stove, tossing his suit coat on the rocker as he passed. He turned a knob in the pipe and slammed the door shut. “Didn’t you know to open the damper before you lit the stove? You could’ve burned the house down!”

She sniffed and swiped at her burning eyes. “Are you going to yell at me on our wedding day?”

The sour expression he wore turned troubled. “No, I don’t suppose I should.” He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He yanked up the windows over the sink and opened both doors, then cleared the smoke with a towel. She watched the muscles dance across his broad back. When he turned around, he caught her staring.

“Ah, thanks for taking care of the smoke,” she said weakly.

With a nod, he inspected the kitchen, as if trying to get his bearings. “As soon as the fire gets going, we can have a cup of coffee. Or tea, if you’d prefer.”

“Tea would be lovely.”

He swiped his hands across his pants, and then filled a shiny teakettle with water. “Sorry about this mess. I wanted the place to look nice.”

“It’s, ah…homey.”

“I meant to get the dishes done before we left, but things kept happening.” Ted set the teakettle on the stove. “Henry spilled his milk. Anna tried to wipe it up but slipped and bumped her head on the high chair. They both needed holding before it was over. Everything takes more time than I expect.”

Elizabeth smiled at the look of dismay on Ted’s face. This father cared about his children, loved them. Like Papa loved Robby and her. A nagging unease settled over her. Could Papa love her when he’d tried to use her to discharge his debts?

But of course he did. Hadn’t he always told her so?

“What’s the dog doing in here?”

Tippy hung his head, appeared to shrink into himself. “Doesn’t he live here?”

“Not inside, he doesn’t.” He opened the back door. The dog gave one last pleading glance at Elizabeth. “Out you go, boy. You know better than to come inside.”

“I don’t see why he can’t stay.”

“He’s a working dog, not a house pet. And the way he sheds and attracts mud, you’ll be glad of it, too.”

“Then that must be his mud in front of the rocker?”

He harrumphed.

She smothered a smile.

The teakettle whistled. Ted gathered two cups and a blue willow pot, then rummaged through a cabinet, mumbling. His broad shoulders filled every inch of space between the wall and table. Elizabeth squeezed past him as if she thought he would bite, then pulled a container marked Tea from behind a bag of cornmeal.

Her gaze lifted to his. She swallowed hard. “Here it is.”

He reached for the tin, his fingertips brushing hers. “I…ah.” He blinked. “Thanks. I spend half my time searching for things.”

She smiled, remembering Papa’s inability to find something right in front of his nose while she could spot a sale on gloves from three stores away. She picked up the kettle and filled the teapot with water, dividing the rest between the two round pans, then added dippers of cold. She chuffed. And Martha said she didn’t have a domestic bone in her body.

Ted waved a hand at the mess. “They’ll wait till morning.”

“No time like the present.” She sounded smug even to her own ears. But keeping busy meant avoiding her new husband.

The sink hung in a wooden counter supported with two legs at one end and a cabinet at the other, the space under the sink skirted. What an odd arrangement.

“What’s the mirror for?” she asked.

“I shave there sometimes. And it helps me keep track of Henry.” He smiled. “Like having eyes in the back of my head.”

In no time, Elizabeth worked up some suds by swishing a bar of soap in the pan, then dipped a plate through the bubbles, but dried yellow food still clung to the plate. She scrubbed with the dishrag. Still there. Running her thumb over the hardened mess, she crinkled her nose as the nasty stuff filled the space beneath her nail. Well, she wouldn’t let dried-on egg yolks defeat her. She rubbed harder. Her thumbnail gave way and tore. She dropped the plate into the pan. It hit bottom with an ominous clunk.

Ted stepped up behind her. “What was that?”