Carla Kelly (40 page)

“How do they do it, my dear?” Amanda asked. She ran her hand over the box. “Tell you what:
Nobody
will wake him up. Maybe he'll sleep until the dissipated hour of nine.”

They laughed together, then Amanda kissed her forehead. “Go to bed! Cook and I will have the turkey in the oven. The pies are done, and all you have to do is look pretty tomorrow.” She made her own assessment. “I'm not sure what it is, Della, but you have a certain something about you I never noticed before.”

Della smiled and went upstairs. She was out of her clothes in a minute and in bed beside Angharad, who burrowed close to her.
It's confidence, Aunt Amanda
, she thought before she slept.

She woke at nine to snow falling outside and breathed the fragrance of cooking turkey, which drifted up through the vent. The house was quiet, so she hoped Owen still slept. She closed her eyes, revisiting the pleasure of his arm around her on the train. She thought of his question.
No, your world isn't too small, as long as it includes me
, she told herself, then turned her face into the pillow, shy to even think something like that, no matter how farfetched she knew it was. Owen Davis knew more about her than anyone in the canyon, but he didn't seem to mind being her friend. She hoped it would be enough. The old Della would have said it was, but the new Della wasn't so sure.

Angharad came awake slowly and peacefully, something she probably always had done, even as a baby, even during days that must have been desperately sad for her father. Some children were blessed with a calm disposition; she must have been a comfort. Della tried to imagine such hardship, trying to work and tend to a helpless infant. Her own father had done that too, but it wasn't a time Della remembered; she was too young. By the time she was aware she had no mother, it hadn't mattered, because she never had a mother.

She looked at the child beside her, a beloved daughter who had many mothers in Winter Quarters.
I suppose I am one more
, she told herself as Angharad opened her eyes.

“Is Da still asleep?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

Angharad sat up and looked around, delighted at the little room. “Am I in a castle?” she asked as she got out of bed.

“Very like. Aunt Amanda lets me sleep here when I visit, and she thought you would like it too. I suppose this means we are both princesses.”

“
You
are. I would be satisfied, s-a-t-i-s-f-i-e-d, with black curly hair,” she said and bounded back into bed for another cuddle.

“That's what makes a princess?” Della asked.

“I think it must be,” Angharad replied, serious. “Da says you look like a princess.”

“No. He calls me a butterbean,” Della told her, even as she blushed at the secondhand compliment, handed out in that artless way of children.

“No. No. He says you are beautiful,” Angharad insisted. “I was not supposed to tell anyone, but he probably meant anyone but you, since you're beautiful and probably already know it.” She yawned and returned to sleep.

Della dressed quietly and went downstairs on tiptoe. The main hall was still dark, which pleased her. She wondered if Owen had ever slept past seven in his life, even when he was on the late shift, because he had to take care of Angharad.

She went into the kitchen, and there sat her Uncle Karl Anders. She stopped in the doorway, her heart pounding, then remembered that Aunt Caroline was still in Europe.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Uncle Karl,” she said when he looked her way.

Her uncle stood up and held out his hand to her. She crossed the room and took it, releasing it just as fast. He sat down and looked at the pile of letters in front of him.

“Amanda let me read the letters you've been sending her,” he said, picking up another one. “You're having a good time in a pretty hardscrabble place.”

“Hardscrabble?” she asked, puzzled. “It's a mining camp, and I know those well. Uncle, the people are so kind.”

He nodded, indicating her aunt. “Amanda tells me you brought two of them with you, intent upon finding a piano tuner.”

Maybe it was the way he said “them,” as though miners were a species apart. “They're kind,” she said again, but it sounded feeble to her own ears. She felt herself drifting back into the desperately sad, lonely child who had come to this man's door with his name and address around her neck on a placard. “We had a pie auction to raise money for a piano tuner,” she said, forcing herself to speak to her uncle. Maybe she could change the subject. “What … what do you hear from Aunt Caroline and my cousins? Are they still in Europe?”

“No. They're in New York City, spending my money,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “You should have gone along, Della. You are generally the voice of reason.” He laughed too heartily. “You could have stopped them and saved the family fortune!”

“They didn't invite me,” she reminded him.

He gave her a look of genuine surprise. “I told Caroline to invite you.”

“It must have slipped her mind,” she said, wondering if any subject was safe. “I could never have accepted anyway, since I had to teach school. They'll be home soon?”

“Next week.” Uncle Karl frowned. “She didn't invite you?”

“No, but I assure you I couldn't have gone.”
This has to stop
, she thought.
Someone help me
.

Someone did. Even from the kitchen, she heard Owen Davis singing. Uncle Karl was listening too. “Amanda, your guest likes to sing in the shower.”

“And he's marvelous,” Amanda said. “Jesse thinks he sounds that good in the shower, but he doesn't.”

They laughed, and soon Karl and his wife's cousin were talking of family matters. Della quietly left the kitchen and sat on the stairs, closing her eyes in gratitude. When Owen finished with “Our Mountain Home So Dear,” sung with even more gusto than the song required, he segued into “Men of Harlech” and then the sound of running water stopped.

“Did Da break it?”

Della turned around to pull Angharad onto her lap. She had dressed herself, but she handed her hairbrush to Della.

“No, he just turned off the water,” Della said, brushing the child's hair. “I'll show you how to take a bath in there tonight, with lots of running water. Want a French braid?”

By the time Owen came out of the bathing room wearing dark trousers and a turtleneck sweater, Angharad's hair was braided. He joined them on the stairs.

“I could like indoor plumbing,” he told them.

“You're supposed to,” Della teased.

“I only wanted to sleep until seven,” he said, sounding apologetic. “It's nearly ten.”

“Excellent! There is nothing here for you to manage, and I still do a better French braid,” she told him. She handed the brush back to Angharad, who took it upstairs. “All you have to do today is eat and be thankful.” Feeling bold, she nudged his shoulder. “That's what President McKinley said in his proclamation last month.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “And here I am sitting on the stairs in
the
Jesse Knight's house.” It was his turn to nudge and tease. “Do you
know
who he is?”

“What my father used to call a shirttail relative, the nicest rich man I know.” She stood up. “Now it's time to gird your loins and meet my bona fide uncle.”

The two men shook hands in the kitchen. She felt her face grow warm when Uncle Karl looked down at his hand when they finished, maybe thinking it would be black.
The coal washes off in the shower
, she thought, embarrassed, hoping Owen didn't notice her uncle's involuntary glance. No such luck. Owen was quite aware; she saw it in his eyes.

wen insisted on a long walk after Thanksgiving dinner that afternoon. The snow had let up, and the scrape of snow shovel on sidewalk was heard up and down Center Street. After dinner, Owen had asked Amanda if he could shovel in front of the Knights’ home, but the Knights’ handyman beat him to it.

“You'll just have to be a guest,” Amanda told him, her eyes merry. “You too, Della. Put down that dishtowel and step away from the sink!”

“Is she always so kind?” he asked, when they strolled down Center Street with Angharad skipping ahead.

“Funny, I never really knew her before I went to her house in August,” Della said. “When I went there with my Aunt Caroline, I was in the kitchen, doing the dishes.” She stopped walking. “I'm sorry my Uncle Karl is so condescending to you.”

Owen just shook his head. “Never apologize for your relatives.”

“Easy for you to say!” she retorted, amused. “Mabli is a delight.”

“You never met my relatives in Wales! Aye, it is easy for me to say.” He took her arm. “March now. If I don't work off that dinner, I'll never be able to squeeze under a ledge of coal and set a charge!”

They walked north, past Brigham Young Academy. “Uncle Jesse says the academy will keep growing,” she told him. “You can send Angharad.” Her arm was pressed to his side, and she felt his silent laughter. “I'm serious!”

“I know you are. I just can't help thinking how those relatives of mine would be astounded at a Davis in a college. It would never happen in Wales. It can happen here in America.”

“It
will
happen here, and for Angharad. I may not agree with Miss Clayson …”

“You seldom do, if memory serves me.”

“I do appreciate her passion to see our students in places just like this.” She stopped and faced him. “Here's the difference: she doesn't seem to understand that probably all of you in the canyon have exactly that same passion, and that is why you work so hard.”

“You've found us out,” he said simply.

She looked at the broad stairs up to the entrance, room for all. “We have to work and wait, to see how many canyon children end up here.”

“Your life's work?” he asked, as they ambled toward Center Street again. “A noble one, but suppose you decide to marry? Schoolteachers aren't allowed.”

“No, they're not, but I don't see a mound of marriage offers coming my way.”

They walked in silence for some distance before he spoke, and she could hear the hesitancy in his voice. “Della, you have only one fault that I can see.”

She laughed out loud, which made Angharad smile too, even though her father's voice was low and not intended for her ears. “I am managing, cranky, and dictatorial! Just ask Angharad.”

“She's not, Da,” Angharad contradicted.

“I didn't think so. Run on ahead and lend a hand to that old lady shaking out her tablecloth.” He watched her go. “It's this—you still don't think large enough yet.”

He must have decided the conversation was getting too serious. “Besides, Dr. Isgreen seems happy to buy your dinner every Saturday.
He's
not interested?”

No,
I'm
not
, she thought suddenly.
Emil is charming and he kisses my cheek once a week, but … but what?
“I think he's mostly interested in my connection to the Finnish women.” She felt her cheeks grow warm, despite the cold air. “He really wants me to find ways to get them to call on him when they … when they think they're …”