in.
“I brought the onions you showed me how to pick for our supper, Maggie, and a pot of strawberry preserves. I wasn’t sure what to do about flour and such . . .” she glanced around the crowded cabin evocatively.
“Space being what it is, we’d better work through our stock first, then borrow on yours. I was planning on more soup. And now we’ve got the preserves, we can spread it on pancakes for a sweet.”
“You certainly do know how to plan a meal!”
Maggie thought Gwen was teasing, then glanced at her face. No irony was involved. Her compliment had been in dead earnest.
“I seem to have trouble making decisions on things like meals, Maggie. I always have. I suppose I was never cut out to be a homemaker.”
“Is that why you’ve never married?”
Gwen evaded the outright question. “It is not as if I’ve never run a household. I’ve raised Irish since he was eight. Our parents were taken off by the cholera, so there was little choice. It’s the daily tediousness . . . Back home I finally worked it out to a pattern. Baked beans on Mondays, fowl on Tuesdays, fowl pie on Wednesday, mutton on Thursday, fish on Friday . . . You can’t get any of that on the trail, from the shops around the corner, as you could in Boston.” She stopped at Maggie’s barely hidden smile.
“May I give you some assistance?”
Maggie handed her a bowl. “Whip together a little pancake batter while I get the soup going.” Maggie watched as Gwen carefully placed the bowl on the tiny table and stared at it.
“About three cups of flour, Gwen. A pinch of salt, a sprinkling of sugar, a pinch of salteratus for the rising, and water to mix. I’d use milk and eggs if we had them, but we haven’t.”
“Oh.”
Amusement and awe covered Maggie’s face as Gwen began bumbling through the procedure. A woman who couldn’t cook! It came naturally to her, growing up watching her mother. She resisted the urge to shoo Gwen out and do it herself. It might be faster, but if the woman was to be any help at all she’d just have to learn. Maggie stirred her soup pot.
“It’s the food, then, that’s scared you off men?”
“No . . .” Gwen hesitated. “It’s the men. I’m used to Irish, and he’s family, so he doesn’t count. But other men . . . They used to come calling, even proposing. Not so much now anymore. At twenty-eight I guess I’m past the marriageable age. It ought to be a relief, but sometimes I wonder.”
She’d finally gotten the flour into the bowl and was hovering over it with a salt cake in her hand. “They just did not appeal to me, Maggie! So rough and forward they seemed. Is that so hard to understand? I got to thinking about living with them, day after day.”
“The closeness frightened you?”
“Yes,” Gwen finally admitted. She reached for the sugar bag. “Is there something wrong with me, Maggie?”
Maggie carefully cut around the slab of bacon, where the pup had chewed at it, throwing a clean piece into her warming water.
“More likely you were courted by the wrong men. I haven’t that much experience myself. I’ve never been courted by anyone but Johnny. I’ve never wanted anyone but Johnny. But Johnny I wanted. From the first.” She smiled in remembrance of Johnny’s wagon coming round the bend when she was ten, of Johnny himself, laughing and mischievous, asking if he could water his horse. Of Johnny unlatching the rear door of this very wagon to haul out his ancient and gloriously drunken father. The soup pot began to bubble before her eyes, pulling her memories into its whirlpool.
“When the right kind of man comes along, you’ll find it a pleasure, Gwen. It opens a woman up like a flower, it does.” She stopped and sighed, spoon in hand, still thinking about Johnny.
Gwen watched her expression wistfully. “It can still happen? Even at twenty-eight?”
“I do believe it can happen
“I brought the onions you showed me how to pick for our supper, Maggie, and a pot of strawberry preserves. I wasn’t sure what to do about flour and such . . .” she glanced around the crowded cabin evocatively.
“Space being what it is, we’d better work through our stock first, then borrow on yours. I was planning on more soup. And now we’ve got the preserves, we can spread it on pancakes for a sweet.”
“You certainly do know how to plan a meal!”
Maggie thought Gwen was teasing, then glanced at her face. No irony was involved. Her compliment had been in dead earnest.
“I seem to have trouble making decisions on things like meals, Maggie. I always have. I suppose I was never cut out to be a homemaker.”
“Is that why you’ve never married?”
Gwen evaded the outright question. “It is not as if I’ve never run a household. I’ve raised Irish since he was eight. Our parents were taken off by the cholera, so there was little choice. It’s the daily tediousness . . . Back home I finally worked it out to a pattern. Baked beans on Mondays, fowl on Tuesdays, fowl pie on Wednesday, mutton on Thursday, fish on Friday . . . You can’t get any of that on the trail, from the shops around the corner, as you could in Boston.” She stopped at Maggie’s barely hidden smile.
“May I give you some assistance?”
Maggie handed her a bowl. “Whip together a little pancake batter while I get the soup going.” Maggie watched as Gwen carefully placed the bowl on the tiny table and stared at it.
“About three cups of flour, Gwen. A pinch of salt, a sprinkling of sugar, a pinch of salteratus for the rising, and water to mix. I’d use milk and eggs if we had them, but we haven’t.”
“Oh.”
Amusement and awe covered Maggie’s face as Gwen began bumbling through the procedure. A woman who couldn’t cook! It came naturally to her, growing up watching her mother. She resisted the urge to shoo Gwen out and do it herself. It might be faster, but if the woman was to be any help at all she’d just have to learn. Maggie stirred her soup pot.
“It’s the food, then, that’s scared you off men?”
“No . . .” Gwen hesitated. “It’s the men. I’m used to Irish, and he’s family, so he doesn’t count. But other men . . . They used to come calling, even proposing. Not so much now anymore. At twenty-eight I guess I’m past the marriageable age. It ought to be a relief, but sometimes I wonder.”
She’d finally gotten the flour into the bowl and was hovering over it with a salt cake in her hand. “They just did not appeal to me, Maggie! So rough and forward they seemed. Is that so hard to understand? I got to thinking about living with them, day after day.”
“The closeness frightened you?”
“Yes,” Gwen finally admitted. She reached for the sugar bag. “Is there something wrong with me, Maggie?”
Maggie carefully cut around the slab of bacon, where the pup had chewed at it, throwing a clean piece into her warming water.
“More likely you were courted by the wrong men. I haven’t that much experience myself. I’ve never been courted by anyone but Johnny. I’ve never wanted anyone but Johnny. But Johnny I wanted. From the first.” She smiled in remembrance of Johnny’s wagon coming round the bend when she was ten, of Johnny himself, laughing and mischievous, asking if he could water his horse. Of Johnny unlatching the rear door of this very wagon to haul out his ancient and gloriously drunken father. The soup pot began to bubble before her eyes, pulling her memories into its whirlpool.
“When the right kind of man comes along, you’ll find it a pleasure, Gwen. It opens a woman up like a flower, it does.” She stopped and sighed, spoon in hand, still thinking about Johnny.
Gwen watched her expression wistfully. “It can still happen? Even at twenty-eight?”
“I do believe it can happen
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