Halfway Home, page 2
* * *
As summer heated up, Titus was absent from home more and more often, which made life easier in one way, more difficult in another. Noreen refused to lower herself to ride in the mule cart. With no way to get around since her son had commandeered the runabout, and her widower friend could not always be relied on, and no one but Sara to focus her spite on, the woman was fit to be tied. Sara took to spending as much time as possible either in her garden or out at the roadside stand Big Simon had set up for her to sell her surplus vegetables.
It was on a rainy Tuesday when it was too wet to work outside that the letter came which was to change Sara’s life forever.
She was in the barn, helping Big Simon mend a door hinge, when Maulsie brought it to her. Unable to read, the woman had taught herself to recognize Sara’s name on an envelope. “This done come for you, baby. Better read it ‘fore the ol’ witch wakes up.” It was a disgraceful way for anyone to speak of her employer, no matter that the woman deserved it, but Maulsie was a law unto herself. Always had been.
Sara set aside her work gloves and reached out for the envelope. “Archibald?” she mused aloud.
Silently, the old woman waited, her fists planted on her wide hips, while Sara cautiously examined the letter from all sides. “Oh, my, it looks legal,” she murmured. “A bank?”
Dear Lord, what if it was a notice to vacate the farm so that it could be sold to pay off creditors? Sweat broke out on the palms of her hands. “Oh, my mercy,” she whispered.
“You wants me to open it fo’ you?”
As bad as things were, Sara knew they could get worse. She also knew that she would be the one to bear the burden, if there was a burden to be borne.
“Best get on with it, chile. Bad news jes’ festers less’n it’s let out into the open.”
But it wasn’t bad news. What it was, was . . .
Well, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was, because of all the flowery roundaboutness. “Get to the point, get to the point,” she muttered, having always been a believer in plain talk. “I think it’s about my grandfather,” she said finally, having read through the entire epistle twice. “Maulsie, would you hang my Sunday gown out to air? I’m going to have to go into town and find out what this is all about.”
Chapter Two
Big Simon had driven her into town in the mule cart the very day after the letter had come. At Blossom’s sleepy pace, it had taken nearly all morning. When they’d finally rumbled up before the fine brick bank building on Granby Street, Sara commenced to set herself to rights. Her coal-skuttle bonnet—the one with the feather—had slipped sideways so many times as they’d jounced along the muddy road, she had finally removed it. What could the sun do to her face that it hadn’t already done?
“We’s here, Miss Sara. You wait right here while I go knock on the do’. Ain’t no use in you standin’ outside in the hot no longer’n you has to.”
So Sara waited in the “hot” on the splintery wooden bench seat in the delapidated mule cart. Several minutes later, she was shown into the building, with Simon assuring her he would be right there waiting when she came out again. “ ‘Ceptin’ if you don’t mind, Miss Sara, I’ll jes’ walk ol’ Blossom ‘round the square a time or two to keep the flies from settlin’.”
Sara would rather have climbed back up in the cart and headed home, but that wouldn’t prevent bad news from catching up with her. If bad news it was, and she’d had no reason at that time to think it wasn’t. No matter how sensible a person was, a letter from a bank in which she had never set foot in all her nineteen -years was downright scary.
*
Some forty-five minutes later, Sara, still dazed, had stepped up on the granite mounting block and swung herself up into the cart again before Simon could clamber down to help her. She must have murmured some appropriate response to his concerned question as to whether or not she was all right.
Saints alive, how quickly life could change! A single draft deposited to the brand-new account of Miss Sara Rebecca Young, to be invested for her benefit by a bank trustee, and you’d have thought she was made of gold and set with diamonds.
Was she all right? Merciful heavens, she was more than all right! She was a woman of means. Drab, scrawny Sara Young, scrubber of floors, washer of windows, hoer of rows and chopper of weeds—not to mention runner of countless errands for a lazy, demanding stepmother—was suddenly rich as Guernsey cream.
All Sara had ever known about her maternal grandfather was that he had lived in Boston and had disowned his daughter when she’d married a Virginian with too much charm and too few prospects. Nearing death, the old gentleman had evidently repented and left his granddaughter a sum of money that, carefully managed, would keep her in fine fettle for the rest of her days.
She wasn’t aware that he’d even known of her existence.
Big Simon hummed tunelessly on the way home while Sara tried to come to terms with her sudden change of fortune. After considering her stepmother’s probable reaction to the news, she decided it would be wisest not to say anything right away.
What Sara hadn’t counted on was the young clerk in Mr. Wallace’s office who had yet to learn discretion. Within days the whole area was buzzing about the young woman in Norfolk County who had inherited a small fortune from some old moneybags up north who had disowned his own daughter when she’d run off end married a man who had later frozen to death in the Dismal Swamp on his way home from a cockfight at the new Lake Drummond Hotel.
In all charity, Sara supposed it was too good a tale to be kept under wraps. All the same, she would have preferred to have had a bit more time to get used to her new status. While hanging clothes and collecting eggs or yanking up handfuls of chickweed from between the rows of early collard sets, she considered various ways of keeping Titus and Noreen from squandering the entire fortune before she could even get used to having it.
But once the news leaked out, things quickly changed. Noreen turned sweet as molasses overnight. Suddenly, boys Sara hadn’t seen in years—boys who were now men—started coming around to call. Some went so far as to bring flowers. Even in her old gown, because she hadn’t yet got around to having a new one made, you’d have thought she was the belle of Norfolk County.
Right away, Noreen insisted on taking her shopping. “My lands, daughter, you’ve not had a new frock in years.” Daughter? “Time you learned how to make the most of your looks, such as they are.”
So Sara had a new frock made. Had two of them, in fact. Of course, Noreen had bought material for her own five gowns, for which Sara willingly wrote out a bank draft rather than argue right there in the middle of Miller Bros. Dry Goods and Fashion Emporium.
Over the following weeks, in her new finery, Sara entertained all the young men who came calling. In her old gray, of a morning, she weeded her collards, because as she told Maulsie, she was the one who had set them out. They were her responsibility. Besides, while things might be rosy at the moment, she had learned at an early age that life could change at the drop of a pin. Whatever riches a body could possess might be just as quickly lost. A good stand of collard greens would feed them through the winter and into the spring.
It was through Big Simon that she learned that Noreen had sent for Titus soon after the news had come out about her inheritance. “Sent word all the way down to Carolina,” the old man said, as if Pasquotank County, North Carolina were at the ends of the earth rather than a mere day’s ride away.
Three days later, looking as if he’d slept in his clothes for a week, Titus arrived home reeking of rum, stale cologne, and his own unwashed self. In a foul mood he lit into Sara right off. “Where the hell is that damned old darkie? If you know what’s good for you, brat, you’ll find him and see that he takes care of my horse!”
Blue had been her father’s horse, not Titus’s, but it wasn’t a point Sara cared to argue. Not when her stepbrother was in this frame of mind.
“Simon’s gone on an errand for your mother. I’ll look after Blue.” She had been picking beans under a blistering August sun. Unhitching and rubbing down the gelding in the shade of the big sycamore would be a blessed relief.
“Check his hooves while you’re at it. Damned old rack of bones has been limping ever since I set out this morning.”
“And it never occurred to you to find out why?” Sara planted her grimy hands on her hips and glared up at the handsome, dissipated young man in the red and black runabout. “Some folks aren’t worth turtle bait,” she muttered, and jumped back before he could catch her with the tip of his braided whip.
Titus slept all afternoon, waking only when his mother marched into his bedroom and twisted his ear. Maulsie, gathering up his stinking clothes from the dressing room to wash the next morning, was witness to the scene.
“Wake up, you lazy scamp! Now listen here to me, we’ve got to—”
“Oww, Ma—quit that!”
“I just hope you haven’t got yourself in too deep with any of those women you’ve been chasing.”
“Wha . . .”
Titus sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes. Sara had it from Maulsie, who could hear well enough when she wanted to, especially when neither speaker bothered to lower his voice, that Titus was none too pleased with his mother, who was none too pleased with her son.
“Just how well off is this girl you told me about last time you were home? Is her money free and clear?”
“Which one, Louisa? She ain’t no girl, I can tell you that much. Must be thirty if she’s a day—plain as a mud fence.” Titus hawked and spat in the chamber pot. “Might be worth it if the place was good as it looked from a distance, but it ain’t. Besides, it all belongs to the brother. She just lives there, but she can’t keep it up. Roof leaks and word is the fields don’t yield more’n seed money anymore. Something about drainage. Anyhow, forget Louisa. I’ve already dumped her. Got my sights set on this widow over near—”
“Forget all that and listen here to me, you lazy good for naught. The brat’s come into a fortune. I don’t know how big it is—couldn’t get a word out of that pinch-purse banker, but talk around here is that one of her Yankee kinfolk on her mama’s side died and left her enough money to buy her way through the pearly gates.”
“Sara?” Titus gawked. “Our Sara’s got money?”
“Yes, our Sara’s got money! Didn’t you hear a word I said? Why do you think I sent for you? Now get out of that bed and either bathe or douse yourself with Bay Rum—you smell like you’ve been sleeping in a chicken pound!”
“Stopped off at a cockfight, that’s all,” he grumbled. “Would’ve won, too, but somebody was cheating.”
Sara wondered on hearing the conversation repeated just how anyone could cheat at a cockfight. She decided she didn’t even want to know.
“Damned woman’s got a filthy beast of a dog, anyhow,” Titus mumbled.
“Sara?” Noreen squawked.
“No, not Sara,” Titus retorted. “Louisa. Big old bastard bit me last month, nearly tore my best coat right off my back. She had to lock him in the barn every time I come around, which is one more reason why I quit . . .” He yawned.
“Don’t you dare go back to sleep, Titus Smithers!” his mother screeched. “Forget all your other women, you’ve got one right under your nose. I’m not about to let all that good money go to waste, so you can just get yourself cleaned up and set to courting before the brat walks off with one of those stupid clods that’s been sniffing around her skirts ever since word leaked out. if she up and marries Joe Baker or that Culler boy, you and me’ll be singing for our supper, I can tell you that. And right now, the way you smell, I wouldn’t blame the twit if she won’t even have you.”
According to Maulsie, Titus had that “greasy” look about his eyes, which usually meant he was either planning mischief or had already accomplished it.
*
The next few weeks were like a bad dream as far as Sara was concerned. Titus was one step behind her everywhere she went, holding her chair, smirking at her, bringing her lemonade when she so much as remarked on the heat, and plastering her with compliments that would have made her laugh if she hadn’t been so irritated.
She wasn’t really worried, even though she knew very will what he was up to. No man, Sara assured herself, could force her to do anything against her will. She might not know all there was to know about everything in the world, but she did know Titus. And she knew the strength of her own backbone.
Noreen was constantly reminding her of what a fine-looking man Titus was, and how he could have had most any woman he wanted for the asking.
Well, then why hadn’t he? Sara wanted to ask.
But she took it all with a grain of salt. Her stepmother seemed to forget that she had heard all about his women, not a one of whom would have him when push came to shove. Sara hadn’t a doubt in the world that Titus would have married an elephant if it had a trunk full of gold.
But then Noreen started in on Sara’s conscience, telling her that poor dear Titus needed someone who understood him, and that Sara’s dear departed papa would rest so much easier for knowing his family would always be together.
As Sara told Maulsie later on that evening, “As if I gave two hoots of a night owl how Papa is resting. He buttered his bread; now let him lie in it.”
Guiltily, she reminded herself that her papa couldn’t help being weak anymore than Noreen could help being greedy and spiteful. Any more than she herself could help being quick-tempered, stubborn and intolerant of other people’s weaknesses.
For Titus, she made no excuses. The man was vicious as a weasel and every bit as sly, and if there was one thing Sara couldn’t abide—and actually, there were several—it was slyness. He knew precisely where she was most vulnerable and never failed to make the most of it.
Her biggest weakness was Simon and Maulsie. Titus was forever watching Simon struggle to do his work. The poor old man seemed to move slower each day, and to make matters worse, he always seemed to be working somewhere nearby whenever Titus was home. It was almost as if he was deliberately taunting the younger man.
Or watching over Sara.
Titus would shake his head and mutter something about old fools who ate their heads off but couldn’t pull their weight any longer. And then he would say something to Maulsie in a voice that was little more than a whisper and swear at her when she didn’t jump fast enough to fetch whatever it was he wanted fetched.
It was plain as day what he was up to. Both Maulsie and Simon were outgrowing their usefulness, but they were all the family Sara had left. If Titus ran them off, they would have nowhere to go. Worse still, a word in the proper ear and he could have them both taken up as runaway slaves, even though they weren’t. Such things happened all too often.
Viciously, Sara chopped at a strangling growth of morning glory vines that had invaded her squash hills. Frowning, she thought about her troubles, mopped her sweating forehead, chopped some more, and thought some more. For all the good it did.
If only she could get away. If only she had somewhere else to go. Anywhere! She could afford to pay off the mortgage now, but there was no way she could force Noreen and Titus to move out.
It never even occurred to her that she might look for a small cottage of her very own, where she could take care of Simon and Maulsie while they took care of her. Unlike men, a woman couldn’t simply go out and buy herself a house. Legal or not, no man would deal with her. There had to be a father, a brother, an uncle, or a husband to act as a go-between.
A husband.
Merciful saints alive, but it was tempting. There was Joe Baker. He had brought her flowers from his mama’s garden. If only he weren’t so slow-witted. The poor boy wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she wasn’t sure she could tolerate a lifetime of Joe’s lengthy silences interspersed with his self-conscious giggles.
Theo Culler wasn’t so awfully boring, but there was something a bit off-putting about the way his gaze always seemed to settle on her bosom and linger there until she felt like wrapping herself in a blanket.
Besides, he smelled like lard. Especially on a hot day. She was almost sure he used it to dress his boots, and probably his hair as well. He had certainly left a big enough grease stain on the antimacassar of the only good parlor chair they had left.
Leaning on her hoe, Sara stared out over the distant woods, hazed with the smoke that had hung over the entire area since lightning had set off another peat fire somewhere in the nearby Dismal Swamp. Like all the other peat fires as far back as she could remember, it would likely burn just beneath the surface for years. She was so used to the smell and the haze that she hardly even noticed it now.
No, not Joe Baker. And not Theo, either, nor any of the others who had snickered at her for years when she walked into church, puffing and red-faced from her three-mile walk. Not a one of them had been interested in courting her when she was poor; otherwise they could have collected her in their buggies and driven her to Sunday service instead of making fun of her for being all sweaty and dusty and out of breath when she finally arrived.
Being poor wasn’t easy, but neither was being rich. Both took some getting used to. It occurred to Sara for the first time that she could afford to buy her own buggy, as well as a horse to draw it. A matched pair, in fact.
The trouble was, she would have to buy three. One for Noreen, and a new one for Titus. And two more horses, and there would be constant squabbles about who would get which one.
Mercy, she’d be better off marrying Archibald. At least she would have his big wagon to get around in and a house where she could take Maulsie and Big Simon.
Which might be worth considering, because unless she had misunderstood Mr. Wallace at the bank, it would take the largest portion of her inheritance just to pay the mortgage on her father’s property. Where would that leave her when Titus and Noreen spent them into the poorhouse again?
Decisions, decisions . . .
