Sage said. “Did you find him tending the graves out back like I said?”
Before Ada could reply, Wyatt sent her a pointed look and said smoothly, “She had to look a little farther than that, but she did find me. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing wrong. Just a question about that shipment going out tomorrow.”
Mariah laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Can it wait? Robbie and I are ready to go.”
“Me too,” Lillian said. “This heat is about to take the starch right out of me.”
“Well, then, ladies . . .” Wyatt offered an arm to Lillian and Ada. They brushed past Bea Goldston—who was looking a bit pink and flustered herself—and headed for the buggy.
SIX
Ada sorted through her supplies: scissors, thimbles, tailor’s chalk, a tape measure so old the numbers had all but worn away. In the bottom of the wooden chest, nestled in folds of soft muslin, lay her mother’s silk flower, some spools of thread, a few pieces of matted felt, and several bits of creased and faded ribbon. Taking in her meager assets, she felt tears pooling in her eyes.
Even with the money from Mariah Whiting, there wasn’t nearly enough to begin the millinery business she’d planned. And where were her customers to come from anyway?
She’d been crazy to come here. Crazy and naive. Most of the women in Hickory Ridge were farm women who needed sturdy poke bonnets instead of frilly confections of feathers and lace. If Wyatt’s prediction was true and hard times were on the way, nobody would have money for such frivolous purchases. She was trapped, without enough money to go or to stay. After setting aside a few dollars for her future, the money Wyatt was paying her for looking after Lillian was barely enough to keep her in soap, stockings, and hairpins. And even though Lillian might overlook Ada’s making a hat for Mariah, she would surely object to anything that diverted attention from her own needs.
Recalling her father’s failed financial schemes, Ada felt something close to panic. She didn’t want to repeat his mistakes. Fresh anger at him for leaving her without money or a husband built inside her chest.
Her gaze fell on a small woolen skating cap in robin’s egg blue nestled in the bottom of the box. She lifted it and held it to her face. Oh, Mother, I don’t know what to do .
Her throat tightened at the memory of the cold winter’s day when her mother had made the cap. The pond behind the house had frozen solid. Icicles adorned the eaves of the porch overlooking the snowy lawn. In the bare branches of the trees, a few jays fluttered and scolded.
“Mother? Must I finish this book? I am bored senseless.”
Twelve-year-old Ada set down her book and stared longingly at the glittering pond and the gaggle of noisy children sledding down Patriot’s Hill.
Elizabeth sat up in her bed, her thin face rosy in the glow of the fire that danced in the grate. “What has your father assigned you this week?”
Ada wrinkled her nose. “Emerson’s Essays —so stuffy. If Father insists that I read, why can’t I at least read something interesting? Dickens, for instance, or that autobiography of Frederick Douglass that Father has been reading.” Her eyes shone with mischief. “Or Mrs. Wetherell’s novel! Pansy Ashmore brought a copy to school, and she and Elise Summers and I read it while we were supposed to be resting. We got all the way to the chapter where Ellen is about to get married before Miss Trimble found us out.”
Elizabeth smiled. “ The Wide, Wide World is an entertaining story, but it was not meant for children.”
“I’m not a child. I’m almost thirteen.”
“Come here, darling.”
Ada crawled onto the bed with her mother, who drew her close and smoothed her hair. “My sweet daughter. When I’m no longer here to tell you so, promise you will remember how much I love you.”
Ada snuggled closer. “I promise.” She had long since given up the pretense that her mother would get well. For almost
Before Ada could reply, Wyatt sent her a pointed look and said smoothly, “She had to look a little farther than that, but she did find me. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing wrong. Just a question about that shipment going out tomorrow.”
Mariah laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Can it wait? Robbie and I are ready to go.”
“Me too,” Lillian said. “This heat is about to take the starch right out of me.”
“Well, then, ladies . . .” Wyatt offered an arm to Lillian and Ada. They brushed past Bea Goldston—who was looking a bit pink and flustered herself—and headed for the buggy.
SIX
Ada sorted through her supplies: scissors, thimbles, tailor’s chalk, a tape measure so old the numbers had all but worn away. In the bottom of the wooden chest, nestled in folds of soft muslin, lay her mother’s silk flower, some spools of thread, a few pieces of matted felt, and several bits of creased and faded ribbon. Taking in her meager assets, she felt tears pooling in her eyes.
Even with the money from Mariah Whiting, there wasn’t nearly enough to begin the millinery business she’d planned. And where were her customers to come from anyway?
She’d been crazy to come here. Crazy and naive. Most of the women in Hickory Ridge were farm women who needed sturdy poke bonnets instead of frilly confections of feathers and lace. If Wyatt’s prediction was true and hard times were on the way, nobody would have money for such frivolous purchases. She was trapped, without enough money to go or to stay. After setting aside a few dollars for her future, the money Wyatt was paying her for looking after Lillian was barely enough to keep her in soap, stockings, and hairpins. And even though Lillian might overlook Ada’s making a hat for Mariah, she would surely object to anything that diverted attention from her own needs.
Recalling her father’s failed financial schemes, Ada felt something close to panic. She didn’t want to repeat his mistakes. Fresh anger at him for leaving her without money or a husband built inside her chest.
Her gaze fell on a small woolen skating cap in robin’s egg blue nestled in the bottom of the box. She lifted it and held it to her face. Oh, Mother, I don’t know what to do .
Her throat tightened at the memory of the cold winter’s day when her mother had made the cap. The pond behind the house had frozen solid. Icicles adorned the eaves of the porch overlooking the snowy lawn. In the bare branches of the trees, a few jays fluttered and scolded.
“Mother? Must I finish this book? I am bored senseless.”
Twelve-year-old Ada set down her book and stared longingly at the glittering pond and the gaggle of noisy children sledding down Patriot’s Hill.
Elizabeth sat up in her bed, her thin face rosy in the glow of the fire that danced in the grate. “What has your father assigned you this week?”
Ada wrinkled her nose. “Emerson’s Essays —so stuffy. If Father insists that I read, why can’t I at least read something interesting? Dickens, for instance, or that autobiography of Frederick Douglass that Father has been reading.” Her eyes shone with mischief. “Or Mrs. Wetherell’s novel! Pansy Ashmore brought a copy to school, and she and Elise Summers and I read it while we were supposed to be resting. We got all the way to the chapter where Ellen is about to get married before Miss Trimble found us out.”
Elizabeth smiled. “ The Wide, Wide World is an entertaining story, but it was not meant for children.”
“I’m not a child. I’m almost thirteen.”
“Come here, darling.”
Ada crawled onto the bed with her mother, who drew her close and smoothed her hair. “My sweet daughter. When I’m no longer here to tell you so, promise you will remember how much I love you.”
Ada snuggled closer. “I promise.” She had long since given up the pretense that her mother would get well. For almost
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