Carla Kelly (45 page)

Angharad looked at her father for encouragement. “Da thought you might like the Aegean Sea. That is Mount Olympus.”

She kissed Angharad. “Your da was right.”

“He usually is, miss. Happy Christmas.
Nadolig Hapus
.”

Della handed Angharad a package, the rose talc she had bought in Provo on their shopping day, and another gift to Owen, a copy of John Taylor's
Mediation and Atonement
. It had seemed like a dry tome to give to a man so important to her, so she had crocheted a little bookmark with his name on it. “You have to wait for Christmas, you two.”

Owen produced an envelope with her name on it. “It's not much. Stick this in Angharad's box and take it with you.” He pointed to what he had written on the envelope below her name:
Open early if you think you need it
.

“What on earth does that mean?”

“If you need it, you'll know.”

“Now you're going to help me in the kitchen, Angharad,” Mabli said, taking her niece by the shoulder, leaving them alone in the front room.

“Thank you for Mount Olympus,” she told him.

“It's our version, so it looks a bit like that mountain you can see from the high meadow.” He took a deep breath. “Do you think Billy Evans is getting close to reading?”

She nodded, nearly overwhelmed. “Any time now. After that last bit of straw you sliced off, I don't think you can remove much more and not make him suspicious.” She laughed softly. “Or leave me much to sweep with!”

“I'm not entirely out of ideas about that broom, and I have faith in Billy.”

She looked at him, loving the honesty in his eyes. “I'm afraid to go to the Anderses and still scared of the canyons. Since you won't be along to cover my head with your over-coat”—he chuckled at that—“would you give me a blessing? It's my right to ask.”

He nodded and pointed to the floor. She knelt and he put his hands on her head, blessing her with courage and fortitude. He finished in Welsh, then said amen and kissed the top of her head. He left without a word. She stayed on her knees, praying for Billy Evans to grow over the Christmas break.

he canyon was as frightening as ever. Della took so many deep breaths that she felt light-headed by the time they reached Colton. Miss Clayson had buried her nose in a copy of
Daniel Deronda
. When her terror lessened, Della observed with unholy glee that her principal hadn't turned a single page since they left Pleasant Valley.

“One more canyon,” Della said. She pulled out the latest copy of
McCall's
, purloined from the library, and turned to the short story.

“Miss Anders, you really should read more elevated material,” her principal scolded.

“At least I turn the pages,” Della teased and turned a page.

Miss Clayson had the good grace to laugh. “What's the story about?”

“A secretary in a stenographic pool in New York City who falls in love with her boss.”

“Preposterous!”

“I know,” Della said, unruffled. She rummaged in Mari's suitcase and pulled out a month-old copy of
Saturday Evening Post
. “There's a great story in here about a young lady who goes to cook for a rancher in Wyoming. I guarantee you won't even think about snow towering over the train. Live a little, and laugh some more. My father used to say that.”

Miss Clayson decisively snapped
Daniel Deronda
shut and took the magazine. In a few minutes, she was engrossed and turning pages, to Della's delight.

During the Provo stop, Della hurried from the train with Owen's three boxes and handed them to Amanda Knight, who waited at the depot.

“Since it's Christmas, I added another ten dollars,” Amanda said, handing over seventy dollars in an envelope.

“All that will make him do is deduct ten dollars from the next box he makes for you,” Della told her. “I'll spend it for him and buy him new shirts from Mr. Auerbach. He'll be the envy of Number Four mine.”

“Do that.” Amanda touched her forehead to Della's. “I'll be thinking of you in Salt Lake. If it gets too awful, you know where we live.”

The train began to fill up, stopping at little towns all along the way to Salt Lake. After Miss Clayson put down the
Saturday Evening Post
, Della told her about her life in a mining camp on the Colorado Plateau, her father's death, and the pain of growing up in a household where she wasn't wanted. She spoke of the stigma of her own birth. Miss Clayson just nodded, her expression thoughtful.

“My father was a railroader,” she said, when Della finished. “We had to glean coal from the tracks to heat our house in winter. I got pretty good at fighting for a lump of coal.” Miss Clayson hesitated. “It may have made me less … less kind than I should have been.” She picked up the magazine again, then put it down. “Thank you for telling me. I had heard some rumors, but nothing more.”

“I should have said something sooner. I hope the Anderses will be on their best behavior, since I have brought along a guest.”

“How will they treat you once I leave for Boise?” Miss Clayson asked quietly.

“I have no idea,” Della replied, her voice just as soft.

She had some idea when they arrived at the depot in Salt Lake City and found no one waiting for them. “Well, that's embarrassing,” Della said. “I was hoping Uncle Karl might send his coachman.”

Miss Clayson just shrugged and picked up her bag. “I see a trolley platform over there. Will it get us anywhere near your uncle's house?”

“Pretty close, and I do like to ride the trolley.”

Della couldn't help herself; the closer they came to the Anderses’ house, the more quiet she became. When they came to their stop, she got off and just stood there.

“I trust you remember where you live,” Miss Clayson said, her voice surprisingly gentle.

Della pointed. “Two blocks that way. I took this trolley a million times to my library job after school.”

She couldn't help her relief to see few lights on in the house. Even if no one was home, the housekeeper would let them in. “This is it.”

“My stars. It's a mansion,” Miss Clayson said, properly awed.

It was never a home
, Della thought, wishing herself back in Mabli Reese's tiny front room. If Miss Clayson hadn't been there, she would have turned around.

She rang the doorbell. After a long wait, a maid she didn't recognize opened the door. “The Anderses are out,” she said.

“I'm Della Anders, and I was invited to spend Christmas here with my aunt and uncle,” she said. “Uncle Karl is expecting us.”

The maid nodded and opened the door. Della unbut-toned her overcoat and handed it to the maid. Miss Clayson did the same. “Is Mrs. Mabry downstairs?”

The maid smiled at that, maybe relieved that she wasn't going to be responsible for letting in strangers. “She is. You can go downstairs.”

“I know the way. Would you ask Mr. Mabry to put our luggage in whatever room Aunt Caroline said?”

“She didn't say anything, miss,” the maid said. “Are you certain she was expecting you?”

Ashamed, Della glanced at Miss Clayson, who was regarding the maid with a frown. She took Uncle Karl's letter out of her handbag and handed it to the maid, who glanced at it.

“He probably didn't mention it to Mrs. Anders.”

I was afraid of that
, Della thought. “Miss Clayson? Let's go downstairs.” Her face burned with humiliation as they started down the hall.

Miss Clayson touched her arm, stopping her. “You are welcome to come with me to Boise. Oh, Della.”

“We'll be all right. Mrs. Mabry is my friend.”

To Della's relief, but not her surprise, Mrs. Mabry held out her arms and gathered Della close. “My little pet,” she crooned. “Mr. Anders said you were coming!”

I'm too old to cry about this
, Della told herself and kept her face turned into the housekeeper's generous bosom until she felt in control again. “Mrs. Mabry, this is Miss Clayson, my principal from Winter Quarters School. The maid had no idea where to put us …”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Clayson. You'll be in your old room and Miss Clayson will be next door. Ned will see to your luggage, and I will find a little something for you to eat. Everyone else is out.”

Mrs. Mabry's “little something” turned into roast beef sandwiches, leftover potato salad, and cake with chocolate icing. “That's especially for you, dearie,” Mrs. Mabry said as she sliced off a tile-sized slab of cake. “It's her favorite, Miss Clayson. Eat it all. You're looking a little puny.”

Miss Clayson didn't try to hide her smile as Della tucked into the cake first.

“Shame on me,” Della said, feeling not even slightly repentant. “I've walked that vertical canyon so long that I can easily work off a cake or two before New Year's!” She put down her fork with a sigh when she finished and turned her attention to the roast beef sandwich.

Mrs. Mabry sat down. “We worry about you in that canyon, Ned and I.”

“No worries,” Della assured her. “The mines are good, my students are willing, and I'm secretary of the choir.” She held out her glass for more milk. “Did my cousins buy out Europe?”

“Very like. Cressy fancies herself only a little bit lower than the angels, and Ellen is too good for the University of Utah. She's after your uncle to send her to Vassar, wherever that is.”

The front doorbell rang. Mrs. Mabry stood up. “I expect they're home. Go on up, dearie. Face the music.”

The old Della took over for a moment. Della felt her heart begin to race, and the color leave her face. As her panic rose, she reminded herself that Uncle Karl had invited her to his house for Christmas. “I am twenty-four and an adult,” she murmured, her lips barely moving, as she walked upstairs with Miss Clayson.

The Anderses had removed their wraps and were settling into the parlor when Della came in. Uncle Karl stood up and held out his arms awkwardly. “Della, you're a welcome sight,” he said in the vicinity of her ear. “Caroline, think how much you and the girls have to tell her about Europe!”

The briefest glance assured Della that none of the Anders women had any desire to even mention the continent across the Atlantic and certainly not its various parts.

“What a treat,” Della murmured and introduced Miss Clayson, who said all that was proper.

“How long will the two of you be staying?” Aunt Caroline asked, not suggesting that either of them sit down.

With a frown, Uncle Karl ushered them to a settee. “I invited Della for the holidays, and I believe Miss Clayson is on her way to Boise in a few days.”

“The holidays?” Aunt Caroline asked, as though her hearing was faulty. “The holidays?”

Della tightened her grip on the settee, ashamed that Miss Clayson should hear such rudeness. She thought of Annie Jones's lovely offering of oat bread and Eeva Koski's generous invitation to sauna, and felt her blood run in chunks. “I will leave shortly after Christmas,” Della said.

“I am leaving the day after tomorrow. Early,” Miss Clayson said, her voice smooth and dangerous to anyone who knew her, which, luckily, Aunt Caroline did not. Della felt her heart begin to beat again because she suddenly realized she had an ally.