Read Online After the Frost by Megan Chance - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Megan Chance
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fields and Lillian to the garden.
Yes, now that she was safely in the house, maybe it would be better to wait and face them on her own terms. Later this afternoon perhaps.
She frowned at the door, inadvertently glancing at the portrait sitting in judgment nearby. Belle stiffened. She had almost forgotten about him, had forgotten how much she hated him. Her father had died when she was two, and the painting had hung in her room since, a constant reminder. Not that she stood a chance of forgetting him, Belle thought resentfully. His spirit had been a living, breathing presence in her Aunt Clara's house in Columbus—the small home where she and her mother had lived until Lillian married Henry Sault. And even if it hadn't been, Lillian would never have let Belle forget her father or what a paragon of virtue he'd been.
"Your father would be so ashamed of you . . .""Oh, Belle, what would your father say?" Her mother's words rang in her mind. Even after all these years the painted face of John Calhoun still filled Belle with the urge to get down on her knees and atone for her sins. It was that more than anything else that made her push aside the blankets and get out of bed. If nothing else, she didn't want to have to look at him all morning, didn't want to hear the imaginary sermons coming from a mouth permanently painted closed.
Hurriedly Belle combed out her hair, braiding it again before she slipped into an old brown calico work dress, and shoved her feet into a worn pair of boots. Then, steeling herself, she started down the stairs. The old wood creaked and groaned under her footsteps.
"There you are." Lillian stepped from the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on the heavy twill of her apron. "So you haven't decided to lie abed all day. Good. There's work to be done."
Belle paused on the bottom stair and gave her mother a sarcastic smile. "Good mornin' to you, too, Mama. You didn't have to wait around just to tell me that."
"I didn't." Lillian turned, walking back into the kitchen. "I want to talk to you."
Belle's smile faded. She felt the telltale tightening in her neck, her jaw. Still, after all this time, the anticipation of talking with her mother made her edgy. Her steps were wooden as she went down the hallway into the kitchen, and the bright morning sun and the cool air from the open back door only increased her tension. The room was cheerful, though she felt anything but. The familiar scents of sour milk and yeast nearly choked her.
Lillian began scrubbing the dishes. Breakfast was over; the only thing left was the coffee steaming on the stove and part of a buttermilk pie.
Belle forced herself to relax. "Nice of you to leave me some breakfast," she said, pulling out a chair. "Pie looks good."
Lillian didn't spare her a glance. "If you want to eat, be up when the rest of us are."
"I'll remember that." Belle went to the stove, easing past her mother without touching her, and poured coffee into a thick yellowware cup. The pottery was hot, nearly burning her hands as she hurried back to the table and set it down, taking a seat herself. At least there was a place setting there for her, she noted, grabbing a spoon and pulling the cream and the sugar bowl toward her. That was something, anyway.
She shoveled three spoonfuls of the coarse brown sugar into her coffee and a healthy pour of yellow cream and stirred it, clanking the spoon noisily against the cup. "Where's Sarah?"
"With Rand." Lillian plopped a dish into the tub with such violence, it sent water splashing up her arms. "Doing chores."
"Isn't she a little young for that? Hell, I didn't have to feed the chickens at Aunt Clara's till I was seven."
This time Lillian did look over her shoulder, though her eyes were expressionless. "Don't sass me, Isabelle. If you think I've forgotten about yesterday, let me assure you I haven't."
"Why, Mama, I don't think you've forgotten a thing." Belle took a sip of her coffee and pulled the pie tin toward her.
Yes, now that she was safely in the house, maybe it would be better to wait and face them on her own terms. Later this afternoon perhaps.
She frowned at the door, inadvertently glancing at the portrait sitting in judgment nearby. Belle stiffened. She had almost forgotten about him, had forgotten how much she hated him. Her father had died when she was two, and the painting had hung in her room since, a constant reminder. Not that she stood a chance of forgetting him, Belle thought resentfully. His spirit had been a living, breathing presence in her Aunt Clara's house in Columbus—the small home where she and her mother had lived until Lillian married Henry Sault. And even if it hadn't been, Lillian would never have let Belle forget her father or what a paragon of virtue he'd been.
"Your father would be so ashamed of you . . .""Oh, Belle, what would your father say?" Her mother's words rang in her mind. Even after all these years the painted face of John Calhoun still filled Belle with the urge to get down on her knees and atone for her sins. It was that more than anything else that made her push aside the blankets and get out of bed. If nothing else, she didn't want to have to look at him all morning, didn't want to hear the imaginary sermons coming from a mouth permanently painted closed.
Hurriedly Belle combed out her hair, braiding it again before she slipped into an old brown calico work dress, and shoved her feet into a worn pair of boots. Then, steeling herself, she started down the stairs. The old wood creaked and groaned under her footsteps.
"There you are." Lillian stepped from the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on the heavy twill of her apron. "So you haven't decided to lie abed all day. Good. There's work to be done."
Belle paused on the bottom stair and gave her mother a sarcastic smile. "Good mornin' to you, too, Mama. You didn't have to wait around just to tell me that."
"I didn't." Lillian turned, walking back into the kitchen. "I want to talk to you."
Belle's smile faded. She felt the telltale tightening in her neck, her jaw. Still, after all this time, the anticipation of talking with her mother made her edgy. Her steps were wooden as she went down the hallway into the kitchen, and the bright morning sun and the cool air from the open back door only increased her tension. The room was cheerful, though she felt anything but. The familiar scents of sour milk and yeast nearly choked her.
Lillian began scrubbing the dishes. Breakfast was over; the only thing left was the coffee steaming on the stove and part of a buttermilk pie.
Belle forced herself to relax. "Nice of you to leave me some breakfast," she said, pulling out a chair. "Pie looks good."
Lillian didn't spare her a glance. "If you want to eat, be up when the rest of us are."
"I'll remember that." Belle went to the stove, easing past her mother without touching her, and poured coffee into a thick yellowware cup. The pottery was hot, nearly burning her hands as she hurried back to the table and set it down, taking a seat herself. At least there was a place setting there for her, she noted, grabbing a spoon and pulling the cream and the sugar bowl toward her. That was something, anyway.
She shoveled three spoonfuls of the coarse brown sugar into her coffee and a healthy pour of yellow cream and stirred it, clanking the spoon noisily against the cup. "Where's Sarah?"
"With Rand." Lillian plopped a dish into the tub with such violence, it sent water splashing up her arms. "Doing chores."
"Isn't she a little young for that? Hell, I didn't have to feed the chickens at Aunt Clara's till I was seven."
This time Lillian did look over her shoulder, though her eyes were expressionless. "Don't sass me, Isabelle. If you think I've forgotten about yesterday, let me assure you I haven't."
"Why, Mama, I don't think you've forgotten a thing." Belle took a sip of her coffee and pulled the pie tin toward her.
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