The Gift of Seeds (A Montana Sky Christmas Novella)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

W hen she reached home, bent against the frigid wind, Hester was too disheartened and shivering with cold to even think about baking the strudel for Mr. Marsden. After greeting Lucy, who jumped around and whined as if she’d been gone for years, she stirred up the banked coals of the stove. Although only the faintest of embers remained, she added wood shavings, kindling, and then wood over the small flames in the firebox.

She pushed the kettle of water to the front of the stove top, along with the frozen chicken she’d cooked and shredded two nights ago and, today had left on the back of the stove top, hoping the banked fire would partially thaw the meat.

Still in her outerwear, she pulled over a wooden chair as close to the stove as was safe and practically collapsed into the seat. She sat there until the temperature rose enough for her to shed her cumbersome overclothes.

Feeling too drained and frozen, she couldn’t even muster up the strength to step away from her chair and into the chill of the rest of the house to hang her things up properly. Instead, she dropped everything in a heap onto the floor.

Outside the windows, the sky darkened. Hester wearily stood to let Lucy out the front door to do her business, trusting the dog would stay close. She waited inside by the door until hearing Lucy bark and let her in.

Soon, the wind rose to an audible swishing sound, driving snow against the windows. The kettle shrilled steam, and she poured herself a cup of chamomile tea, adding a spoonful of honey.

She picked up the two bricks she used to warm the bed at night and placed them on the front surface of the stove to heat.

Sitting back in the chair, she held the cup in her hands, inhaling the herbal scent and feeling the heat finally ease the aching stiffness in her hands.

Lucy nudged her leg.

Hester set her cup on the saucer and stood. “I know, you’re hungry, girl.” Grabbing a wooden spoon, she stirred the chicken, picking up a sliver to test. No longer frozen, but not warm, either. Still, they could both survive on cold chicken for supper.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve day. Please, Dear Lord, tomorrow will be better.

When Dale awoke, for a few seconds he couldn’t remember why he felt different, until he recalled the Swensen girls and the sweet miracle they’d created in his life. His gaze swept the kitchen, the early morning light bright through the snow-bedecked windows. The storm must be over.

The room was bitterly cold, and his nose stung. He settled deeper under the covers of the daybed he’d moved into the kitchen in November. At this time of year, he seldom used any other room. Balefully, he eyed the black iron stove. The heat source was too far away—all of ten feet—to navigate before he’d fully braced himself to venture from under the bedding into the cold of the room.

Instead, he lay, trying to pinpoint what physical change in his body matched his emotional shift. Finally, he realized that his chest didn’t feel heavy from those years of pulling in his shoulders to protect his heart. Experimentally, he wiggled his shoulders up and down, and then tried to ease them back.

The bones didn’t really move. Dale mentally shrugged figuring, without much concern, he’d remain stoop-shouldered for the rest of his life.

After a few minutes, his stomach growled. He wrinkled his nose, smelling the faint fish odor from the trout he’d fried for supper the night before. The cast iron pan sat unwashed on the stove, next to a teacup and saucer and one fork, for he’d stood at the stove and eaten directly from the pan like a savage.

Even his great-grandmother wouldn’t have approved. As kind as she was, she’d been a stickler for proper manners and clean bodies and neat surroundings. So, she’d have given pointed glances to the clothing draped over the back of a wooden chair, the outerwear tossed on the round table, and the stockings and shoes tumbled on the floor.

For the sake of her beloved memory, Dale made himself get out of bed, sliding his feet into his worn-down slippers and pulling the top blanket around his shoulders. He hastened over to stir up the banked embers and add wood shavings and some newspaper. A flame kindled. He waited until the fire grew and added wood.

Because the handle chilled his fingers, he practically chucked the frying pan into the sink, wincing at the clanking sound, and then tossed in the spatula. Something else Great-Grandma Ada would disapprove of.

Not at all in the mood to cook, he pulled a cold piece of bread from the larder and spread on his favorite saskatoon jam while waiting for the hot water to boil. He poured some for tea, and more into the wash basin in the sink, pumping in water that was a bit slushy, to combine into a soothing temperature for his ablutions.

Once finished with practicalities, still wrapped in the blanket, Dale stood at the corner of the room that had back and side windows. He liked to stand here in the morning, admiring his garden and planning his day, while watching birds and squirrels and other small creatures going about their lives.

Today, there wasn’t anything he could do in his garden. A foot of snow must have fallen last night, a pale blanket smoothing over the slight bumps of his buried plants. The boughs of the trees—his evergreens and his bare-branched fruit trees—were draped with white.

One hand clutched the blanket closed. With the other he ate his bread and drank the tea, thinking about his day—Christmas Eve day—one like any other, except for the church service tonight.

The ghost of Great-Grandma Ada reminded him of the needed straightening up. Mentally, Dale tipped a hat to her and went to wash and dry the dishes and straighten up the room. He hung the frying pan on a hook, and returned the cup, saucer, fork, and spatula to the hutch holding some books, mismatched china, and drawers of silverware and utensils.

After making the bed, he dressed in the comfortable winter clothes he wore in the house and hung his outerwear on pegs near the back door. Once the house was a little warmer, he carried the more-presentable-going-to-town clothes upstairs to store in his wardrobe. He ignored the pile of books on the steps and the basket of clean laundry that needed to be put away.

As he hung up his vest, he heard the crinkle of paper in the pocket and remembered Annabelle’s letter. Feeling ambivalent, nonetheless he returned to the kitchen to read. Today, he still felt raw, in a good way, and wasn’t sure he wanted his equilibrium further disturbed.

Dale settled into his comfortable leather chair and held the envelope in his hand. Usually, he would skim the contents, and then dismiss any cut or sour remark from his mind. But Annabelle’s missives were the best of the bunch.

Still, it was odd she’d written him now when her Christmas parcel, which was sure to include a card and drawings from her children, had already arrived two weeks ago.

Letting out a sharp breath, he opened the letter and began to read.

Dear Dale,

To my shame, this is a long overdue letter. To be truthful, you owe this correspondence to my beloved husband. Over the years, Ambrose’s gentle but firm, guidance has slowly altered my perception of my (our) upbringing and gradually shaped me into a better, kinder woman. This has not happened without mule-stubbornness, many sharp words, undue recriminations, and some bouts of tears, all on my part, in case you were imagining my dearest husband indulging in such behaviors!

Frankly, my dear brother, I was despicable to you. Not, perhaps, cruel like Clarise, and certainly not by hitting or whipping you like Mother. More so indifferent. Uncaring. Focused on my own concerns. Struggling to navigate the briar patch of our family life. “Survive” is the word Ambrose uses. “Snake pit” is another.

But I could have tried to protect you. Certainly, I should have consoled you after a beating. I could have snuck you food the many times you were sent to bed without supper. Once I married, I could have invited you over for long visits.

You’ve had good reasons to forsake our family, Dale. I’ve stayed connected on a limited basis, and more and more through correspondence, because I knew no one would ever hurt our children with Ambrose present. Indeed, everyone acts charming in front of him, although I see through them. To be sure, even as a young mother, I wouldn’t have let anyone physically harm my little ones.

I did, however, have much to learn about being a loving mother and supportive helpmate. Every day, I thank the Almighty for my patient husband. As a silly, young woman, I certainly wasn’t capable of selecting a good man, instead focusing on wealth, status, and handsomeness. Only through God’s grace did I end up with my Ambrose.

His mother has also been my wise counsel, through my observation of her loving relationships with her children and grandchildren, as well as her good advice, her steadfast support, and her placid demeanor.

All this information is to assure you I have, indeed, changed.

I watch my children’s interactions and feel pride. They are not without the normal sibling squabbles, so my mother-in-law assures me. But they can play together, be kind to each other, and the elder ones are, mostly, patient with their younger brothers and sisters.

So, my dear brother, I’m asking for your forgiveness. I understand that forgiveness can happen in little increments and doesn’t have to be a grand, sweeping statement. So maybe someday….

I hope you’ve been on your own journey of healing, Dale, and if not, that you’ll begin.

With much love,

Annabelle

Dale’s chest tightened again, pulling in his shoulders. Annabelle’s letter stirred up too many feelings—not all of them bad—for him to process. What he did know and would write her was that she too had suffered in the “snake pit” of home.

For today, he chose not to dwell on the past. To escape the memories, he rose and went to the hutch, lifting out Les Liliacees , one of his plant books, to study the beautiful illustrations.

Then he opened the book, turned the pages, and deliberately dreamt of the future—of spring and summer in his lovely garden.

In the morning of Christmas Eve, Hester lingered in bed as long as Lucy allowed. She sent a fond glance at the pup, curled up under the afghan at her side.

Pearly light filtered through the frosty windows, outlined with snow, on the ledge, making it difficult for her to figure out the time. Not that the time matters.

Hester could see her breath fog and was grateful for the knitted nightcap keeping her head and ears warm, but her nose was cold. She pulled the covers up to shield her face from the chilled air.

How she missed the radiators at Mrs. Ransome’s house. She’d even had a small one in her room.

Lucy stirred but didn’t show signs of needing to get up.

Hester still felt lethargic from yesterday’s ordeal of going to town and tried to give herself encouragement to rise, with a reminder that baking strudel had always been so fun. But the bed was so warm and comfy….

Lucy poked her nose up and glanced at Hester, as if wondering why her mama wasn’t moving.

“I don’t suppose you could go make a fire for us?”

Lucy just cocked her head.

Hester let out an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe we’ll just lie here for a while and the room will magically heat up.” She snuggled deeper under the covers.

I can lie here all day, if I want.

She proceeded to half-doze. Her thoughts kept straying to yesterday, and she resolutely banished them, trying to fully succumb to sleep.

Finally, the urgent need to use the chamber pot, drove her to sit up. She fished her quilted dressing gown and crocheted slippers from under the covers, where she kept the garments warm with her body heat. Shivering, she pulled the robe on over her nightgown and the slippers over her stockinged feet, and then used the chamber pot in the corner.

Lucy sat up, looking comical with the afghan draped over her like a hooded cloak.

“Come on, girl, your turn.” Carrying the chamber pot, she led the dog down the back hallway to where she’d spread a thick layer of newspapers over a rectangular piece of brown linoleum placed in front of the door. She kept a metal bucket near the door for both of their bodily wastes when the temperatures dropped too low to use the outhouse.

Crouching, she patted the floor. “Do your business here.” In the previous snowstorms, she’d worked on training the dog to use the newspapers, so neither one of them needed to go outside.

After Lucy did her business, Hester held her breath at the smell, balled up the newspapers, and placed them into the bucket.

Then she rushed to the kitchen, her hands already numb with cold. Shaking, she fired up the stove and pushed the kettle toward the front of the top, wanting hot water for tea and to wash up.

Since it was Christmas Eve day, Hester decided to be lavish with wood, so she went to the fireplace and lit a fire. Lingering in the scant warmth, she smoothed the doilies draped over the backs of the two chairs.

Once she heard the water boil, Hester washed her hands and face in the basin, dried them, and quickly moved back to the stove, preparing a cup of tea and stirring in some honey, another holiday extravagance. Taking the cup and saucer back to her bedroom, she set the tea on her nightstand and crawled under the covers.

Lucy jumped up on the foot of the bed.

Hester flipped open the bedding so the dog could pad over to lie next to her. “We’ll have to keep each other warm. But this is our secret, you hear? No telling people I’m allowing you to sleep in my bed.”

She cuddled with Lucy, relishing her relaxed state and thinking how this time of year had always been so busy. Mrs. Ransome liked to throw a lavish holiday party. Beforehand, Hester cooked and baked for several weeks, starting with fruitcakes so they had time to age in rum.

Hester never liked the taste of fruitcake, and she was glad to be shed of that chore. Thinking of baking made her remember that if she was going to keep two fires burning today, she would have to haul in more wood.

Later , she promised, not wanting to leave her warm nest. But she did bestir herself to sit up enough to sip her tea.

The dog whined, a feed-me sound.

Hester stroked the sleek head. “I don’t suppose you’ll make us breakfast, either?”

When no offer for cooking came from her companion, Hester forced herself to rise again. “I’m not getting dressed yet,” she told the dog. “Maybe I’ll even go back to bed a third time, my Christmas Eve indulgence.”

Lucy wagged her tail and looked expectant.

Because today was special, instead of her usual oatmeal, Hester scrambled eggs and fried bacon for them, sprinkling grated cheese over the eggs.

Her silent prayer of thanksgiving before the meal was extra appreciative.

Although the orphans had been well fed, their food was basic and cheap. The days they could put berries or honey or cinnamon in their oatmeal seemed like a real treat. Scrambled eggs and especially bacon, were rarer, still. Even all her years at Mrs. Ransome’s, with plenty of expensive food, hadn’t lessened Hester’s gratitude for the blessing of eating a meal she loved.

Unlike Lucy, who devoured her breakfast, Hester ate slowly, savoring every bite. Then she cleaned up, and, without any more excuses to dawdle, retreated to her cold bedroom to get dressed.

Once finished, Hester went to her traveling chest, in which she’d stored all the linen, and lifted the stack of neatly folded sheets to reach the one on the bottom. Jimmy’s sheet, graying, worn in places, with big cross stitches awkwardly mending long rents. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to cut it up for cleaning rags.

Now, she was glad of that decision. When she rolled the strudel dough thinner than a dime and spread the sweet contents across the top, she’d need to lift the sheet to help slowly roll the dough into a log.

Not wanting to take the time to light the lantern, she propped open the cellar door, climbing down to retrieve a bushel of apples. She deliberately kept the space tidy and organized so, in the dim light, she could quickly grab what she needed without tripping over anything, and then escape up the stairs before too much colder air filtered into the house.

Hester set the basket on the side of the wash basin to clean the red apples. As she donned an apron, she recalled Micah stopping by several weeks ago, pulling a shiny red wagon with this basket from the elder Nortons. He blithely informed her his grandmother insisted the apples were flooding his grandfather’s study, so Miss Smith must accept another basket, lest the minister drown in fruit.

Unable to resist Mrs. Norton’s funny message and the boy’s cheeky grin, Hester graciously accepted the gift. When she complimented his wagon, Micah’s eyes twinkled, much like his father’s, and he shrugged. “ Grandpere’s birthday present. He told me it was about time I earned my keep.

Hester chuckled at the memory. Then, more soberly, she contrasted Micah’s lighthearted repetition of his grandfather’s teasing with the very real pressure that all the orphans had felt to ‘earn their keep.’

By the time the older children were twelve, they were sometimes allowed to work outside the orphanage. The girls minded children for mothers who were ill or recovering from childbirth, or they drudged as kitchen maids or house cleaners when a hostess needed extra help for a party. They usually earned two cents a day. One penny went to the orphanage fund. The other they were allowed to keep.

Hester always made sure to save, so she could buy Lovie and Jimmy Christmas presents. For her brother…a slingshot one year. A handful of marbles another. When he was older, to remind him to have ambition and use his mechanical abilities and interests to pursue a profession, she’d gifted him a wool scarf, almost as fine as those the gentlemen wore.

How I wish he’d followed my advice. But with a university education out of the question, and few engineers or mechanical-type tradesmen willing to apprentice an orphan, her brother had naively thought to become a logger to make “good money.” In hindsight, his earnings weren’t much better than he could have done elsewhere. And the danger took him from me.

Tears pricked her eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Hester forced herself to focus on happy times—making the strudel and remembering the children’s laughter, sneaking bites of the filling, competing to see which group would make the thinnest layer of dough with the fewest holes.

For Christmas Eve dinner, instead of soups or stews that only had scraps of meat, they enjoyed turkey and the next day, ham for breakfast. Best of all, they ate the strudel for both meals, and sometimes Christmas dinner, too.

How they looked forward to that first bite—the strudel still warm from the oven. The crunch of the outer layer and almost custardy fruit layers. The tang of the apples and the sweetness of the sugar and cinnamon.

Her mouth watered. Maybe I’ll make a small strudel for myself.

As Hester immersed herself in her memories, her hands stayed busy with the strudel preparations. She cut apples into tiny cubes, soaked the raisins in hot water for ten minutes, mixed sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl, and, in a larger one, combined flour and salt to start the dough. She took down the wooden bread trough, which hung on the wall.

Sometimes, Hester heard the chime of harness bells when people drove by in their sleighs. The first time, she glanced out the window to watch a couple drive by in a big black sleigh. After that, she focused on her baking.

Almost without her awareness, she started to contentedly hum “Coventry Carol,” one of her favorite Christmas hymns, which emerged into singing, the words keeping company with her childhood memories of the holidays.

Since she was making the pastry Mrs. Holtz’s had taught her, she continued with the German carols the children had learned from the matron, “ Stille Nacht ,” “ Oh, Tannebaum ,” and “ Ihr Kinderlein Kommet .” She sang each in German, and then again in English. “Silent Night,” “Oh, Christmas Tree,” and “Oh, Come Little Children.”

She remembered on Christmas Eve day, how she and Lovie would curl each other’s hair in rags after their evening baths, so in the morning, they could wear their hair long and pulled back in a big bow, instead of their usual braids. They’d found the material to make their bows in a box of fabric scraps donated for quilts. They’d proudly worn those bows for years. Hester still had hers tucked away in her trunk—faded and a bit frayed. We had good times.

After mixing flour and salt, Hester stirred in water, oil, and a small amount of vinegar until she made a rough-edged dough ball. She continued kneading, adding a little water when it became too dry.

Once she finished kneading, Hester greased her bread trough with butter and placed the ball into it. She turned the dough to coat the whole surface with butter. Then she set a towel over the bowl to rest for an hour. Because this dough didn’t contain yeast, it wouldn’t rise. But the vinegar would ensure that it became stretchy.

After finishing her preparations, Hester washed her floury hands and dried them on her apron.

I probably should take Lucy outside. Bring in more wood, too.

She glanced out the window, surprised to see how bright the day was, quite a contrast to yesterday’s purple-blue clouds. Moving closer to view the outside, she gasped at the beauty before her. This wasn’t the first snowfall she’d witnessed in Montana. Several had occurred. But each had been light, the layers building on each other.

Sunlight sparkled on the snow and glittered in lacey patterns on the branches of the trees. A red cardinal flew to land on a branch, and she wondered how the owl she often heard at dusk had fared in the storm.

She glanced down at the dog, patiently sitting at her feet. “What do you say, girl? Shall we go outside?”

A “rrruuff,” a bounce, and a tail wag were her answers.

Hester smiled down into Lucy’s eager brown eyes. “Let’s go play.”