Spring for Susannah (8 page)

He shrugged. “Some women take to wearing them out here. Seems like it'd be easier, but it's up to you.”

“I'd best stay in my skirt.”

“Then at least take off your corset.”

Susannah felt herself flush. How could he talk about undergarments at the table? “I'll meet you at the field.”

Jesse sang with the rhythm of the swinging cradle, but Susannah had no extra energy for harmonizing. Every muscle in her city-girl body howled with pain. The constant wind blessed and cursed: drying her perspiration, keeping the flies from lighting, blowing dust in her eyes.

A cloud, she wished. Just a little shade. Memory summoned trees: tall elms lining the streets, the backyard apple fragrant with good fruit, the cool pines fringing Michigan's lakes. The only trees she'd seen in Dakota were back in Fargo, along the Red River. Perhaps the harsh wind or lack of rain kept the rest of the territory a barren grassland.

The sun simmered low on the horizon when Jesse called a halt. “Three acres! Beats my usual two a day.” He tugged the work gloves off her limp hands, flinching at her blisters. “I won't always work you like this. If those grasshoppers hadn't wiped me out, I'd have hired help.” Long fingers kneaded her shoulders. “A bath'll feel good tonight.”

“I didn't think people on the frontier bathed this often.”

“Don't know about the rest of the neighborhood, but I try to get a bath every Saturday night, for church tomorrow.”

“Church? I thought you said—”

“There's no preacher or building. Just Ivar and me. We sing, pray, share a few verses. Nothing fancy.”

“Sounds like a first-century church.”

“That's the idea. Congregation's growing. Marta last year, baby Sara this spring, and now you.”

Marta
. All week loneliness had dragged at Susannah, making her wish for Ellen. She missed their easy confidences, her friend's blunt good sense and droll worldview. Exchanging correspondence would take months. Besides that, her letter would be passed around; much of what she'd like to write would have to go unsaid. Surely Marta had been lonely too, and would welcome her friendship.

Just the thought made Susannah's heart a little lighter.

Chapter 7

All-wise God, please . . . why won't she talk to me?

A
re you in love with Matt?”

Susannah choked on her coffee. “Pardon me?”

Jesse leaned across the table. “You asked if I'd thought of going into the ministry. Maybe you're in love with Matt, hoped I'd be just like him. It's not unheard of for a woman to fall in love with her pastor.”

Her appetite vanished under his scrutiny. “He's married.”

“What if he hadn't been?”

“Ellen is a much better pastor's wife than I would ever be.”

“Why do you say that?”

Susannah picked at a fried potato slice. “She's a ‘blessed peacemaker.' At the first sign of discord she jumps right in, not resting until it's resolved.”

“Where are you when the doctrines fly?”

“Hiding under the pews.”

Jesse chuckled. “Guess we're different there. My family likes nothing better than a good old brawl. Ma would even change sides to keep it going, though she drew the line at defending slavery.”

“I was under the impression your family got along well.”

“We did. No suffering in silence for us. We enjoy the debate too much.” He thumbed his whisker stubble. “So, what'd you see in my brother that made you think I'd be a good husband?”

Susannah served him a wedge of plum pie. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm trying to puzzle you out. Figure out why you married me.” He raised his hands, palms toward her. “Yes, Matt and Ellen threw you on the train because you weren't safe alone, and they didn't have room for you, and you didn't have any money. But you wrote me before all that, before your pa died. Why?”

Why? Because Ellen told her to. No one refuses Ellen.

Susannah remembered the exact afternoon, eight days after her mother's funeral. The thrumming of a spring rain framed the uncharacteristic quiet of the parsonage. The boys napped and the girls were still at school. Bread in the oven filled the house with a welcoming yeasty smell. Ellen served tea at the kitchen table, and she had that look on her face, the expression that told Susannah she wanted something. As it turned out, she wasn't recruiting a Sunday school teacher or a women's circle leader, merely someone to write to the Reverend's brother, alone on the frontier.

Susannah agreed. After all, writing came easier to her than talking. Even when Ellen got around to the subject of marriage, Susannah wasn't too worried. She couldn't leave Father. And surely Mr. Mason would write to several women and choose someone else.

Ellen's eyes brightened with a zealot's flame. Didn't Susannah realize? This was their chance to become sisters. With a hug, Ellen welcomed her to the family.

Now Susannah rolled up the corner of the oilcloth, studying the neat hemming her mother had stitched. With his blunt question, Jesse had nipped at the heels of the truth. In marrying the minister's brother, she hoped in some way to become more like Ellen: confident, outspoken, at ease with people.

But how could she explain that? “Reverend Mason is a good man. He's gentle with his children, well respected in the community, doesn't indulge in tobacco or alcohol.”

“Guess he didn't tell you about my drinking habit.”

“You have nothing stronger than coffee here.”

Jesse rubbed his temples. “When I first came home from the War . . . well, let's just say I don't remember '66 at all. Except maybe waking up in an alley in Buffalo, hands frozen to a whiskey bottle.”

Ah, that explained the deep lines carved in his face, the sadness tugging the corners of his eyes. What horrors he must have seen to resort to drink in a family of teetotaling Methodists. Susannah reached across the table. “Plenty of men despaired of the War. You're to be commended for conquering it.”

“I had help—strong hands lifted in prayer and reaching down to me.” He caught her wrist, his thumb overlapping the last joint of his middle finger. “Aren't you going to have some pie?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You're too jumpy to eat. What were we talking about? Oh yes, how you wrote to me because my brother doesn't drink. I'll just hold this hand of yours until you tell me the rest.”

She pulled. His grip held. “What do you want me to say?”

“What's in your head, in your heart.” His other hand worked a fork through the pie. “Hmm. You're a better cook than my ma.”

“Cooking for such a large family must have been a challenge.” She waved a fly away from the open pan. Jesse flicked it out of the air with a one-handed snap of his napkin.

“Susannah—”

“All right.” She worked a thread loose from her apron. “It's not so much what I thought of the Reverend, but my admiration for the way he and Ellen work together. They support each other.”

His grip loosened into a caress. “I'd like our marriage to be like that.”

Susannah stood to clear the table.

“Did Ellen ever take on your folks?”

Her plate dropped back to the oilcloth. “Pardon me?”

“You said she dove into conflicts.”

“Whatever gave you the idea my parents had conflicts?”

“So I'm wrong. Tell me about Mr. and Mrs. Underhill.”

Father's college education earned him no financial reward or respect in a country where any farmer could call himself a veterinary surgeon. Yet he refused to return. Mother pined away for her beloved England. Susannah had never wanted to involve herself in the conflict; she feared their bitterness might infect her. If she understood her parents' feelings, she might feel the need to take sides, so she stayed out of the line of fire. She took care not to draw their attention, not to give them a focus for their anger.

“They never raised their voices,” she said. Not often, anyway.

“Did they talk?”

She scoured the cook pot. “Of course.”

“More than ‘How's the weather, what's for dinner, and guess whose horse went lame today?'” Jesse slid his plate into the dishwater. “Did your pa hug your ma? Did she run to kiss him when he came home? Why are you an only child?”

She wiped the plate. “That's hardly—”

“Hear me out. I've been chewing on this. Seems like people tend to follow the roads they know, without thinking where they want to go.” He reached around her for the coffeepot and refilled their cups. “Guess your folks' marriage was quite a bit different from Matt and Ellen's.”

Susannah scrubbed harder.

“Looking at other marriages, I see a lot of unhappy people. Guys in my regiment signed up to get away from their wives, if you can imagine. I don't want us to be like that.” Grasping her arms, he turned her toward him. “I want this marriage to work for both of us. I want you to be glad to see me when I walk in the door.” He slid his hands up to her shoulders, rubbing in circular motions. “See how wound up you are, how you pick at your food. Susannah, you don't want to live like this forever.”

She bit her lip and focused on the empty pie pan. What choice did she have?

He sighed. “Guess I need to back off, give you more time. Will you think about what road we should take?”

She nodded.

“I'll bring in the tub. Want me to scrub your back?”

Her midriff quivered. “No, thank you.”

One finger moved to the top hook of her bodice. “Or help you undress?”

She backed away. “I believe I hear your oxen calling you.”

Jesse sighed. “Some other time.”

This broad-shouldered man was her husband. She had to get used to the idea. Closing her eyes, she gave a quick nod.

“I'll take that as a promise, one I won't forget.” He sauntered to the door. “Holler when you're done.”

Although the warm water soothed her aching muscles, Susannah bathed quickly, not trusting the man to wait.

“Jesse!” she called out the door, then sat with her back to the washtub. While he took his turn, she mended his shirt. She heard the rustling of clothes, the splashing as he entered the water, then turned her thoughts to church tomorrow. They would sing and read Scripture, Jesse said. She hoped to talk privately with Marta.

“Don't suppose you'd scrub my back?”

Susannah started toward the tub, then caught herself. “You'll sing tomorrow? I forgot, the Reverend sent a hymnbook.” She rummaged through the trunk by the table.

“A hymnbook? Tune up the piano!” Jesse splashed out.

“Must be in the other one.” Using her hair to shield her vision, Susannah sidestepped to the other. “Yes, here it is.”

Jesse reached around her, his nightshirt flapping. “
Protestant
Episcopal Hymnal
. Guess the Methodist songbook isn't out yet.”

“Reverend Mason said it could be another year or two.”

“Well, let's sing! Teach me a new one.”

While he tuned his guitar, Susannah set aside the hymnal and pulled a copy of a magazine from the trunk. “Here's Fanny Crosby's latest, ‘Blessed Assurance.'” She passed the magazine to Jesse. “Page 36.”

“Palmer's
Guide to Holiness and Revival Miscellany
?” he asked. “That's a mouthful.”

“Ellen gave it to me,” Susannah said. “It was just published in July.” She stood behind him as he propped it on the table with the cracker tin and two potatoes. His fingers picked out the melody, adding chords as she sang. Heat rose off him in a steam. They'd used the same soap, yet he smelled so
different
.

Midway through the first verse, he stopped. “You're breathing through your shoulders, like the other day on the wagon. Come here.” He did not raise his voice, but it was a command just the same. He set the guitar down. “Sing the last line again, without moving your shoulders.” He shook his head when she inhaled. “Corsets. They make you huff and puff even when you're not wearing one.” He spread his palm across her lower rib cage. “Breathe so you move my hand.”

How could she, with all that fluttering going on inside?

“Better. You'll have air to sing a whole line on a breath.”

Her heart raced and her legs had all the stability of a newborn calf's. Surely he could feel it. She could barely breathe, let alone sing.

Jesse raised a speculative eyebrow in her direction. “Let's try again.” He picked up the guitar and resumed playing. On the next verse, a yawn interrupted Susannah's singing.

“I've worn you out with this fieldwork.” His face softened with an apologetic smile. “Lie down. I'll join you soon.”

Susannah nodded, then, just for a second, touched his elbow. She dropped off to sleep during his next song.