Romancing Olive (7 page)

“Now, everyone at the table, please,” Miss Wilkins instructed. Peg ran to take a seat. The woman produced primers and slates and soon had each child copying their name from the letters she had drawn at the top of the board. Mary harrumphed and slouched but Miss Wilkins coaxed the girl into reading a story.

“Mr. Butler? May I speak to you outside?” Miss Wilkins asked as she pushed John’s chair closer to the table.

Jacob closed the door in wonder as the children listened to Mary read and compared slates and the smell left in his nose was clean and innocent. The smell of a child bathed.

“Yes, Miss Wilkins?” he asked.

“Why do you think John doesn’t speak?” she asked from the shadows the dim light threw from the cabin window.

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and guided her down the porch step. “Truthfully, I never noticed if the boy spoke much before but he sure isn’t talking now. No, I don’t know why.”

“Is there a doctor in town?”

“Yeah,” Jacob said. “Doc Hunter.”

“I’m going to take John to see him then on Monday. Maybe there’s a physical reason. I should ask Mary, I suppose,” she said as she tilted her head to the sky.

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Miss Wilkins. You can’t fix a lifetime of problems in two days.”

Jacob watched her drying hair curl around her face as she studied the darkening landscape. She looked down then and sighed.

“I just never, ever, in my wildest dreams imagined the conditions they lived under. The pain. The . . . the . . . I would’ve have come if I’d known. The letters from James painted an idyllic picture of a quaint farm and a happy family.”

Jacob saw misery and guilt and worry line her face as the shadows of night descended and she shook her head. “It wasn’t your doing. And its not you’re fault,” he said.

Miss Wilkins met his eyes and declared softly, “Whose fault is it then? Who more than their blood relatives? I failed them.”

Jacob watched a shiver run through her. “Are you chilled?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Butler, I’m not chilled. I’m angry.”

“Anger doesn’t solve things. Sometimes nothing does. Except time.”

“But I could have come sooner,” Olive Wilkins said and stepped back from him, fists clenched. “Why didn’t I Mr. Butler? I’ll tell you why. I’ve lived my life; my whole thirty-five years reading books and watching other people live their life. And now, here, those children bear the brunt of it. I buried my nose in a book and my house and my cat and failed them miserably. I made quilts for charity’s and ignored the questions and the doubts I had. I painted a picture of domestic tranquility and never dreamt these children were living, do you hear me, Mr. Butler, living a Dickens tale.”

Jacob’s head inched back with her near hysteria, as she asked and answered her own questions and he knew there was nothing to convince her otherwise. He watched as she calmed herself, righted her dress and shook her head.

“All you can do now, Miss Wilkins, is love them and maybe the past will right it’s self,” he said.

“Yes, of course you’re right. I’m terribly sorry you witnessed my outburst.” Olive Wilkins turned and walked to the porch.

Jacob pulled the tobacco from his pocket, rolled a quick cigarette and leaned against the tree, suddenly grateful for two minutes alone without the demands of children and the farm. Olive Wilkins was a puzzle that was for certain. Hot and cold, she blows from ranting and raving to apologizing. He figured he’d never before met such a moral, upright individual. Other than his own mother perhaps. Miss Wilkins was stiff looking sometimes and judgmental sounding too, all done up in black, until she smiled at one of the children. That smile transformed her into an attractive looking woman. And after her speech, just a few moments ago, Jacob knew her harshest judgments she reserved for herself.

When he entered the house, he was amazed at the picture before him. Miss Wilkins sat with the children at her feet, except Mary, and read aloud from a book. The children listened and Mary pretended she didn’t as she leaned against the fireplace. Not a sound could be heard but the melodic tones of Olive Wilkins’s voice as she made characters come alive through another’s words. Soon Peg’s head was nodding and Miss Wilkins closed the book.

Luke’s eyes were barely open as he begged to hear more.

“Tomorrow, children,” she said softly and carried Mark to his crib. Jacob nodded to Miss Wilkins as he picked up the boys and carried them to the loft in the barn.

* * *

Sunday morning arrived and Miss Wilkins had the children ready for church and Jacob was proud as he looked over the reasonably clean and well-dressed group. Jacob had trimmed his hair and bathed and was in his best shirt. He had not been to church since Margaret’s death but when he quietly told Miss Wilkins that he would wait in the wagon, her eyebrows raised and she pursed her lips. Without an ounce of remorse, he imagined, she threatened to tell the children he wouldn’t be joining them. Luke, John and Peg were so excited about the outing, laughing and talking and Mary kept touching her hair where Miss Wilkins had pulled it back with a ribbon. Jacob grumbled but followed as the little ducks clamored for Miss Wilkins’s hand on the church steps. Mary was visibly nervous as she saw a group of children her age turn and stare and Jacob caught her eye.

“You look fine, Mary,” he said.

She blew out a nervous breath and went into the church as Jacob held the door. They were seated in a pew and Jacob watched as heads turned and whispers escalated before the reverend stepped into the pulpit. Miss Wilkins held her head high, smiling and nodding and cooing to Mark.

Jacob saw some of his friends, other farmers and heard them whisper and look as services ended and the congregation waited between pews to leave the church.

Jack Steele spoke up. “So, Jacob, first time I’ve seen you in church for awhile.” Bill Williams elbowed Jack but grinned in encouragement. “You know what they say, when a woman gets a man to church, the altar’s not far away.”

Jacob knew his face colored that his boyhood friends would think that he had set his cap to the dowdy and older Miss Wilkins.

“She’s Jimmy Wilkins’ sister. Here to take her niece and nephew back to Philadelphia.”

“Oh,” Bill Williams said and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Where’s she staying?”

Clearly Bill knew Olive Wilkins was staying at his farm. News in a small town traveled with lightning speed and Jacob was sure he and Miss Wilkins were the focus of much speculation. “With me.”

Jack Steele cocked his head. “Get’s mighty lonesome sometimes. I’m sure you appreciate the company.”

* * *

The minister had droned on and Olive was sure she knew the scriptures better than he. Reverend McGrath confused the Old Testament with the New and he seemed to create disciples’ names as the sermon required. His bulbous red nose may have been the result of illness or liquor, Olive concluded. At the end of the service, she and the children patiently waited in line to greet the minister when she heard a man ask Mr. Butler where she was staying. Olive watched as the men’s wives pinched their arms and pursed their lips.

“Mr. Butler has kindly allowed me to stay at his home to allow me time to get to know my niece and nephew,” Olive said. 

Olive hated their knowing stares and worse yet she was embarrassed that Mr. Butler was so obviously uncomfortable with the implication of a romance. Olive was well aware of her looks and her age but it did nothing to lessen the pain that Jacob Butler would die a slow death before courting her. She had seen this before in the eyes of men when caught talking to her at a social. They scurried away before anyone tied them to the spinsterish Miss Wilkins.

Mr. Butler introduced Olive to the men and their wives. Beth Steele and Florence Williams both smiled at Olive and she was jealous suddenly of their age and marital status. The thought of marriage hadn’t crossed Olive’s mind for fifteen years, but she found herself staring at the gold rings on the women’s hands.

“Nice to meet you,” the pretty plump Beth Steele said.

“We’re glad you’re here for those children,” Florence Williams said.

Olive realized she desperately missed conversation with another woman. “Thank you. They have some difficulties to overcome.”

“I would think so after how they lived,” the Florence said. But then the woman’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say . . . I . . . oh, never mind.”

“No insult taken, Mrs. Williams. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the circumstances of their home.” Olive noticed the younger children wander past the line of adults to the porch steps. She watched as they met up with other children. “Mary, will you look after them for me?”

Mary’s shoulders slumped and she faced the open church door as if it were a chasm that she could not cross. She looked up to Olive and hesitantly walked outside.

“The church social’s next Saturday and we have a quilting bee and a potluck supper and then dancing. Will you be coming, Miss Wilkins?” Beth Steele asked.

Olive leaped at the chance to talk to other adults, be useful and introduce her niece and nephew to what society Spencer had. “That sounds wonderful,” she replied.

Suddenly she heard John’s wails and adults shouting. Olive rushed past the minister and the others in line and her eyes widened at what she beheld. Mary was fighting, fist fighting, a boy near her own age.

“Mary, what are you doing?” Olive shouted and saw that Mary’s hair had come undone and her new dress was dirty and torn. Mr. Butler pulled Mary away from the boy.

“Nothin’,” the girl said as she looked up at Olive.

The boy’s mother flew into the milieu and slammed chubby arms onto wide hips. “Bertram, what are you doing?”

“Fighting will solve nothing. And in front of the church on Sunday morning. Explain yourselves,” Olive said.

Bertram’s mother had a vice like hold on her son’s ear and she shouted shrilly, “What happened?”

“Nothing. I was just talking to her and she,” Bertram said and nodded with malice to Mary, “started shoving me.”

Olive heard the distinct sound of hand hitting cheek as Bertram’s mother shook his shoulder with her other arm. The woman’s fat cheeks jiggled and her girlish twists of curls bounced with her tremors.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, stay away from that white trash,” the woman shouted.

Olive’s eyes widened and her chin dropped and she stood in awe of the woman’s reasoning. “Pardon me?”

The woman swirled in a fury. “Everyone knows the Wilkins’ are trash. Low born and common. I don’t want my Bertram near them even if he was giving her the thrashing she deserved.”

“Now, wait a second, Luella. This girl’s been living with me and I don’t take kindly to anyone talking that way about her,” Jacob Butler said. “That’s all I’m going to allow on that subject.”

He held Mary by the arms tight against him and Olive watched as the girl turned her head into his stomach. The giant arms encircled her and rubbed Mary’s back in an unconscious motion.

“Mary, tell me what happened,” Olive asked.

The girl’s eyes would not rise from the ground and she slowly shook her head.

Bill Williams turned to Luella. “It’s all over now. Sometimes youngsters fight. Let’s forget it and go home.”

Luella looked around Bill Williams to Jacob Butler. “And to think you brought this wild thing to church and made good Christian folk sit beside her.”

“That’s enough, Luella,” Jacob said. “I said once I won’t allow anymore talk like that and I mean it.”

Olive’s heart was pounding in her chest and she felt angry tears building behind her eyes. “This ‘wild thing’ is my niece and ‘good Christian folk’ don’t cast the first stone,” she said.

“Humph,” Luella replied and hauled her son down the walk by the ear.

Olive noticed Luke and Peg buried in her skirts on one side and John trembling and crying on the other.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Butler said, as he put his arm around Mary to lead her to the wagon.

Florence Williams laid her hand on Olive’s arm. “Luella Grimm is a loud mouth gossip. Don’t pay her no mind.”

Olive’s head swung around on the notion of dismissing the woman’s cruel words but Beth Steele joined in. “Florence is right. Everyone knows how Luella is.”

Olive excused herself and followed Mr. Butler to the wagon. John climbed in the back and snuggled up tight to his sister. Olive didn’t recall the ride home, only the silence in the wagon. Mark began to cry in her arms and she realized she was holding him too tight. She loosened her grip and rocked the child, swaying in her seat. Luella’s words, ‘low born and common’ rang through her head and for once Olive was glad her parents were gone. To hear her family name referred to as ‘trash’ would have been more than her parents could have borne.  Once home, Mary jumped from the wagon and ran to the fields. Olive called to her but Mr. Butler shook his head.

“Let her be a bit,” he said.

Olive slumped at the kitchen table and recalled the dreadful scene at church. She had no experience in teaching a young woman that fist fighting was inappropriate. Where would she have leaned that lesson, Olive thought, with a grim smile. She and Theda would have no more engaged in fisticuffs than danced naked in the streets. The only redeeming moment on the steps of the church that morning came when Jacob Butler defended Mary to that odious woman.

What a picture he made standing tall, holding Mary close and comforting her, while setting the boundaries for his make shift family. He was without a doubt the most handsome man she’d ever met.  And, more importantly, she believed Jacob Butler was as loving a father as her own father had been. Olive prepared dinner and scowled and talked under her breath until she noticed the children staring.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Luke said softly.

Olive’s shoulders dropped. “I know children. I’m sorry. I am not angry at you.”

Olive sat down and the three children approached her cautiously.

“Mary let him have it,” Luke said nodding, wide eyed.

Olive noticed John’s head drop. “What started the argument children?” she asked.

Luke and Peg looked first at each other and then to John’s bowed head. Luke shook his head softly at his sister, but Peg turned to Olive anyway. “He said something mean.”