Beyond All Measure (24 page)

“We can talk after church on Sunday if you like. I don’t have time just now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to have detained you. I didn’t realize what a busy woman you are.”

“All right.” Ada set down Molly’s hat and fished her pencil and notebook out of her bag. “What type of hat would you like? A toque, a cloche, a boater? Or perhaps a jocket hat. I’m sure I can find a rooster feather for it somewhere.”

Wind whistled around the corner. Bea drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. “I want one like the one you made for Carrie Daly, only with more netting and a much bigger flower. White, if you have it. Oh! And some feathers and seed pearls too.”

Ada scribbled. “A confectioner’s cake, then, to be worn on the head.”

Bea ignored that. “I’m sure it will be lovely. And now, I must deliver this sheet music to Mrs. Lowell. The children should have begun their practice weeks ago, but what goes on here is out of my hands.” She opened the door and swept inside.

Ada picked up the hat and headed for the mayor’s house. But today, hats were the furthest thing from her mind. Despite all the talk about the fire at the Spencers’ and the growing unrest over the land in Two Creeks, she wasn’t ready to give up on her plan to help the little girl with the preternatural storytelling skills.

She’d talk it out with Wyatt over lunch. He would know how to proceed without causing more trouble.

A wagon creaked down the road with one of Wyatt’s mill hands at the reins. Ada stepped aside as he drove past, the harness clanking. He tipped his hat. She nodded and continued along the road to the mayor’s house.

Molly Scott answered her door almost before Ada could knock. “Get yourself on in here, girl, before you freeze to death.”

Ada came inside and took off her wrap. “It isn’t that bad. In Boston we’d call this a warm day.”

Molly cackled. “In Tennessee, forty degrees is considered pretty chilly—until you get up in the hills, that is. I got some mulled cider on the stove, if you’re interested.”

“That sounds good.” Ada removed her cloak and gloves.

Molly filled two cups and motioned Ada into a chair. “Have a seat.”

Ada sat and tasted the warm, cinnamon-laced cider. “This is good. Just the thing for a chilly day.”

“It’s my secret blend of spices.” Molly took a sip from her cup. “My grandma Andrews from way over in McNairy County gave it to me the day I married the mayor.”

Ada set her cup down and opened the hatbox. “I’ve brought your hat. All I need to do now is attach the bird to the brim.”

Molly’s broad, friendly face lit up. “I’ll go get it.” She hurried out of the room and soon returned with the stuffed pigeon. The feathers had faded to a dull brown, but the bird’s tiny black eyes shone. Only a missing foot marred its perfection.

“I brought the pheasant feathers too,” Molly said. “Thanks to my Hiram. He tracked that bird for two days before he caught him.”

Ada took a needle from her sewing kit. With a few deft stitches she attached the bird to the ribbon and the ribbon to the hat, then tucked the two long feathers into the back and secured them. She knotted the thread, trimmed it neatly with her scissors, and handed the finished hat to Molly. “Here you are, Mrs. Scott. I hope you’re pleased.”

Molly went to the mirror and tried it on. “It looks even better than the one in that fancy magazine. I can’t wait for my husband to get home. He’ll be right proud!”

“I’m delighted.” Ada rose and gathered her things.

“I’ll get your money.” Molly handed Ada two dollars and walked her to the door. “I hope you ain’t walking all the way back to Lillian’s place.”

“I came into town with Mr. Caldwell. He’s taking me home.”

“That’s good, because Hiram says some of the Klan have been actin’ up again.”

Ada nodded. “I heard about what they did to the Spencers. They seem to be beyond the reach of the law.”

Molly shook her head. “You can’t outlaw pure old meanness. When folks feel threatened, they get scared, and when they get scared, it brings out their bad side. Ever’ so often, they put on their ghosty garb and ride around just to remind folks they’re still here, law or no law.” Her bright eyes bored into Ada’s own. “They think they’ve got themselves a big old secret organization, but half the town knows who they are. Folks just pretend not to. It’s safer that way.”

Ada thought of Jasper Pruitt. If she were a gambler, she’d bet her last dollar that the irascible store owner was involved.

“All this foolishness about Two Creeks has got their dander up.” Molly went on. “Anyway, better be extra careful on the road for a while.”

“I will.” Ada waved to Molly, went through the gate, and returned to town. She was disappointed with the way her talk with Mrs. Lowell had turned out, and Molly’s reminder about the Klan had put another damper on her spirits. She passed the bakery and inhaled the yeasty smell of fresh bread. For all its problems she was beginning to like Hickory Ridge. The mountains, the peaceful river, and the thriving town with its rows of shops appealed to her. She’d made friends. And there was Wyatt, her dearest friend of all. One day he would leave Hickory Ridge, and so would she. But she didn’t want to think about that. For now, this little town in the foothills had become her home.

More delicious smells greeted her as she entered Miss Hattie’s and looked around for Wyatt. He rose and motioned her to his table near the window. “I went ahead and ordered chicken and hot biscuits. I hope that’s all right.”

Ada draped her cloak over the back of her chair. “As you always say, nobody makes better chicken than Hattie.”

“I assume the mayor’s wife liked her new hat.” Wyatt buttered a biscuit and took a bite. Ada smiled. She’d never known a man who so enjoyed his meals. It was one of the reasons she looked forward to the nights when he came to Lillian’s for supper.

“Mrs. Scott was pleased. Her hat looks better than I expected, but I hope I’m not called upon to attach more dead animals to hats anytime soon.”

“Doggone it,” Wyatt said, above the clank of silver and the squeak of the door as patrons came and went, “I was hoping you’d sew that rabbit I shot last week to the brim of my new Stetson.”

She laughed. “I understand Stetson is a well-respected company where you come from. I doubt they’d appreciate such embellishment.”

He grinned. “Any more hat orders?”

“Only Bea’s. These days everyone seems to be thinking of nothing but the Christmas pageant.”

“It’s quite a production around here, all right.” He munched a bit of crust from the drumstick he was working on. “This year, with Mrs. Lowell’s children taking part, it’ll be bigger than ever. One of my customers from Knoxville is thinking about bringing his family out on the train just to see it.”

“Don’t tell Bea. She’ll want to charge admission.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea, though. Mrs. Lowell is always strapped for money.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Lowell, my talk with her this morning was most unsatisfactory.” Ada buttered her own biscuit and took a bite. “She refuses to allow me to visit Sophie. She thinks that an education will only make the girl more unhappy. But I simply cannot abide the thought of wasting that child’s life.” She stirred more cream into her coffee. “I realize that Sophie’s opportunities are limited here, but she won’t always be ten years old, and she won’t always live here—or at least she doesn’t have to. With a proper education, she can go somewhere else and make a life for herself. You’d think Mrs. Lowell would see my point, but she refuses to take the long view.”

“This is very important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, as important as anything I’ve ever done. Of course, Mrs. Lowell brought up Two Creeks as one reason for her refusal. But deep down, she doesn’t think Sophie, or any female for that matter, deserves an education.” She finished her coffee and set her cup down. “It makes me mad enough to spit nails!”

He nodded, his expression grave. “I can see that. But Mrs. Lowell has a point about Sophie, especially right now. I think it’s admirable, your wanting to help the girl out, but maybe you should wait until some of this talk about Two Creeks dies down.”

She frowned. Was Wyatt going to fight her on this too? “It isn’t as if I’ll be going down to the colored settlement. I just want to visit Sophie at the orphanage, maybe take her out to Lillian’s once in a while. I don’t see why anyone would care. Libby Dawson comes to the house every week and no one says a word against it.”

“That’s different. Her family works for me.” He wiped the chicken grease off his fingers and motioned to Hattie for the check. “I just don’t want you to put yourself into a dangerous situation.”

“But it’s the right thing to do. If Mrs. Spencer can be brave enough to go down to Two Creeks in the middle of the night by herself, surely I can muster the courage to visit Sophie in broad daylight.”

He reached into his pocket for his money clip. “Let’s not argue about it today. I need to get you home and then check on things at the mill. Charlie Blevins is back on the job, and I don’t want him to overdo it.”

Ada wasn’t ready to let the conversation go; she wanted it resolved right now. But one look at the firm set of Wyatt’s mouth told her this wasn’t the time to pursue it. They went outside into the brisk air, and she drew her shawl about her shoulders. “Charlie’s the one who cut his arm a few weeks back?”

Wyatt nodded. “I told him not to try to split that green hickory with an ax, but he didn’t listen.”

They went out to the rig. He helped Ada in and placed the empty hatbox at her feet. Then he climbed in on the other side and they turned for home.

“I almost forgot,” he said as the horse clopped along. “I brought you a surprise.”

“Another one?” She felt the same delight she’d known as a child when her mother brought her a doll or a new book. But even those gifts were not as special as these small unexpected tokens from Wyatt.

He reached inside his coat pocket and handed her a small paper bag.

Ada opened it. “Sarsaparilla candy! I love this!”

“I know.”

She grinned and held out the bag to him. “Want one?”

He popped a piece into his mouth. For a few minutes they rode along without speaking, enjoying the sugary treat. Ada watched him handling the rig, her heart overflowing with affection for him. Since the night of the harvest festival, he’d come often to Lillian’s for supper, bearing some small gift for her. Last week he’d shown up with three perfect red apples. The week before, he arrived with a handful of late-season flowers plucked from his garden. And now . . . she sighed. Sarsaparilla.

“Mariah said you may be getting another timber contract soon.” She set the bag inside the empty hatbox at her feet.

“It’s a possibility. I’ve got some good Eastern red cedar I’m trying to sell to the pencil factory over in North Carolina. Red cedar is too soft for furniture and such, but it’s the best there is for making pencils.”

As he described the art and science of pencil making, Ada buried her hands in the folds of her cloak and breathed a contented sigh. She loved listening to Wyatt talk about his mill. It seemed there was nothing he didn’t know about timber, its characteristics and its uses. When he talked about the best way to strip bark from a tree, the hard work of getting logs down the mountain, or the satisfaction he got out of planing a rough log until it was a thing of beauty, she couldn’t help but draw parallels to her hatmaking and the pleasure it brought to her and to the ladies of Hickory Ridge. She smiled to herself. Maybe it was a strange kind of connection, but it was one that increased her feelings for him.

They rounded the last bend. Wyatt drove into the yard and helped Ada down. She retrieved her bag and her hatbox. “Thank you for the fried chicken. And the candy too.”

“You’re welcome.” He planted a quick kiss on her temple. “Always a pleasure spending time with you.”

Libby Dawson came out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. Wyatt paid her and she started home.

“I should get back to the mill,” Wyatt said.

“Will you be back for supper?”

“Afraid not. Too much paperwork.”

She tried to hide her disappointment. She wasn’t looking forward to a long evening without him.

He took both her hands. “I need to check on some timber up on the ridge. Want to ride up there with me?”

“When?”

“Saturday afternoon, if the weather holds.” He scanned the overcast sky. “We’ll see. Looks like we’re in for some rain.”

He climbed into the rig and drove away. Inside, Ada found Lillian still sleeping, her face slack, one hand lying palm up on her Bible. Ada added another small log to the fire and took Lillian’s Bible to the parlor. Lately she’d found herself turning to it for comfort. Though she still had many questions—why her mother had to die young, why her father interfered with her engagement, why Edward hadn’t defied him for her sake—the words of the psalmist and the prophets brought her the beginnings of peace. She changed her dress and headed down to the kitchen. There was time for tea before starting dinner. She set the kettle on to boil, curled into her chair, and opened the Bible.

A slight noise and a movement at the window startled her. She hurried to the back door and looked out. “Robbie? Is that you?”

Something rustled in the bushes beside the barn, and then she saw a flash of white moving toward the trees. She shoved down a rise of panic, hiked her skirt, and took off across the yard. “You! Stop!”

She reached the edge of the woods and cocked her ear, listening. But all was silent. She hurried back to the house, fear like a cold needle in her veins. There was no longer any doubt. Someone, most probably a Klansman, was keeping an eye on her and Lillian.

On the back step, right below the kitchen door, she spied a single sheet of paper folded in half and weighted with a stone. Trembling and out of breath, she took the note inside and opened it. The words spilled across the page at an angle, as if the writer had been in a great hurry.

A Wentworth stop yure medling with the culerds or yul be sorry.
You have been worned!