Steadfast Heart (2 page)

“But I have a guest.” She dramatically jumped to her feet and put her hand to her breast. “Lenore has just received some troubling news, and we are in deep spiritual thought for an answer.”

Mrs. Madison raised her eyebrows and lowered her chin. “I am quite certain you can continue to think deeply while kneading bread. Perhaps Miss Fulcher will wait for you in the parlor. She will find a selection of ladies' magazines there that I'm sure will occupy her time.” She gave Lenore a knowing smile. “Or you could spend the time in prayer.”

Lenore didn't wish to ire the lady any further. In an instant, she was on her feet. “I will be happy to wait there, Mrs. Madison. Father will be busy until lunchtime, so I really haven't anywhere I need to be. I only wanted to bring some gowns to Abrianna. Might I have our man fetch them?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Madison glanced at Abrianna's wrinkled
appearance. “If you can persuade her to dress in a manner more befitting her age, I would be most appreciative.”

“Oh, Aunt Miriam,” Abrianna sighed. “First bread and now my attire. Must I always suffer such trials and torments of disapproval?”

Mrs. Madison tightened her lips and turned for the door. “Two minutes, Abrianna. Do not give me cause to berate you in front of the other young ladies.” With that, she exited the room, leaving Lenore and Abrianna to follow.

“My life is such a chore.” Abrianna retucked her blouse into her skirt. She went to the dressing table and began forming her long curls into a knot at her neck. She secured this with a few pins and sighed. “I have no great love of bread, so why must I learn to bake it? Would God not have me do something of greater value? Just look at all the times in the Bible where bread got folks in trouble. The Israelites had to make it without leaven so they could leave quickly, and the disciples always seemed confused about bread.”

Lenore couldn't hold back her laughter. “Oh, Abrianna, you do go on. Perhaps the greatest value of your life will be baking bread. Perhaps the Lord has plans for your bread-baking abilities. Just imagine it—you might very well be able to feed thousands by giving your bread like the boy in the Bible with his loaves and fishes.”

Her friend gave Lenore a troubled look. “I don't mind feeding the hungry, but why must I be the one to bake their bread? I would be just as content to serve it or even pay for it—if I had riches.”

Lenore laughed again and put her arm around Abrianna's shoulders. “Pity you weren't born into a wealthy family.”

Abrianna sighed. “It is, Lenore. It is a great pity.”

Miriam Madison advertised her school as a place for “practical women who desire to become practical brides.” When her husband passed away shortly after coming west to make a new life in Seattle, she found he had left her a small amount of money and this building near the waterfront in Seattle. Taking her situation in hand, Mrs. Madison took on the task of reordering her life, and the idea of the school came to her. With the help of her younger sister, Poisie Holmes, and dear friend and widow Selma Gibson, she turned her misfortune into a way to support not only herself but the other two women, as well. They lived quite comfortably and trained other women to do likewise. Together they had managed the Madison Bridal School for nearly twenty years.

Miriam knew a deep satisfaction at her success. The early years had been difficult, but based on a previous idea tried by a local man named Mercer, Miriam was certain she could make the arrangement work. Mr. Mercer had no doubt failed because he was a man. At least that was her firm belief. After all, what godly woman would want to set sail and leave kith and kin to risk Mr. Mercer's proposal of mail-order brides? The man might just as well be a debaucher of women. For certain he had persuaded a few, but the project never worked as well as he had hoped, and many a bachelor was sorely disappointed. That was, until Miriam took on the project.

“Now, ladies, you must form loaves and put them into the pans to rise.” She walked down the center table and nodded in approval at each woman's progress. “This will take several hours. During that time you can work with Mrs. Gibson on crocheting doilies for your hope chests.”

Another idea that had come to Miriam. Most of these young women arrived in Seattle with nothing much but the clothes on their backs. The school provided their train ticket to San Francisco and a steamer ticket to Seattle. The girls would earn their keep while attending school by making various things to sell to locals. There was always a wide variety of foods and handwork for sale. Particular favorites were jams and cookies, as well as items of sewing. Work shirts and simple wool blankets often were sold in a frenzy of bidding. Some of their talents were auctioned off at monthly receptions, which serious young men seeking a bride could attend and get to know the young ladies better. Of course, there was an admission fee. That was one of the only ways to prove a man was serious, according to Selma. If a man were to part with some of his hard-earned cash for the right to dress uncomfortably and spend a day attempting to be cultured and socially astute, then the ladies believed them of serious interest.

At the end of the table, Miriam found Abrianna and her attempt at bread making. Her ward was generously sprinkled with flour, as was the floor. In fact, Miriam thought perhaps more flour had made it onto the floor and into Abrianna's hair than into the bread. The tiny lump of dough looked gooey and refused to form up properly.

“What have you here, Abrianna?”

“I think it looks rather disappointing. Don't you, Aunt Miriam?” Abrianna shook her head. “I would not want to be the recipient of bread so obviously wanting. I do not believe I have the talent to make bread. Pity, too, for I would have enjoyed tasting the finished product. You always make such lovely loaves, Auntie, although bread is certainly not my favorite. I'm much more appreciative of your apple pies.”

Unwilling to give in to flattery, the older woman merely nodded. “Start again, Abrianna. This time I shall watch you measure out your ingredients. My guess is that you simply put in too much water or perhaps not enough flour. Either way, we shall endeavor together to overcome your
disappointing
dough.”

She saw the disappointment on the redhead's face but knew better than to feel sorry for the girl. Abrianna had been her most difficult pupil since the ladies took her as their own. Perhaps it was the trauma of losing a mother so young. It might even have been the desertion or death of her father right after Abrianna was born. They were never quite sure which was the case, although Abrianna's mother was certain to her dying day that he never would have abandoned them. Who knew how such things truly affected one's ability to function—and to make bread. In Abrianna's case, however, Miriam Madison had found her greatest and most frustrating challenge.

F
or Abrianna Cunningham, anything related to cooking was a chore. Nevertheless, days after the “Great Bread Ignominy,” as she had come to call it, she found herself making cookies. She liked cookies well enough. In fact, she loved sneaking huge numbers out of the school to give away to all the homeless sailors and orphans she'd befriended. Aunt Miriam was always horrified at this, chiding Abrianna for taking off unaccompanied and befriending old men who were of questionable repute.

Abrianna laughed this off, for since she'd been a child she had sneaked out to visit the docks and surrounding city. Everyone knew her and looked after her like a wayward little sister. And she liked that. It suited her nature to be sister to the entire world. Besides, by slipping out to venture forth on her own, Abrianna had become well acquainted with the city life of Seattle. She knew where she could finagle extra food or a blanket or two for her homeless friends. Abrianna also learned to avoid the more dangerous areas of town, including places where the staunch church matrons might see her. They would only condemn her aunties for such behavior, and Abrianna couldn't bear
the thought. Her aunts were good women, and when others questioned their actions or attitudes, Abrianna always found herself feeling overprotective—even unforgiving.

Of course, she always did forgive them in the end. By the time she said her evening prayers, her conscience wouldn't allow her to continue in hard-hearted anger. But it was only after asking God to sear the old biddies' hearts with a desire for mercy and kindness, and to remind them that gossip was a sin, that Abrianna truly repented.

Now as Abrianna juggled two cookie pans into the oven, she tried to focus on why she was there. Aunt Miriam was determined she learn to cook. Aunt Selma was just as determined she become an accomplished seamstress, while Aunt Poisie was less imposing—an amusing play on words that made Abrianna giggle. She often said that Aunt Poisie did not “impoisie” herself on folks. Just as often, Aunt Miriam requested that she keep such thoughts to herself.

“At your age, Abrianna
, you should comport yourself in a more ladylike manner,”
she could hear Aunt Miriam say.

But the trouble was, Abrianna didn't care about being a lady. Nor was she particularly happy about growing up. Growing up brought with it a great many requirements and responsibilities that Abrianna would just as soon not worry about. For instance, it was thought to be quite socially unacceptable for her to visit the docks or even go to see her lifelong friend, Wade Ackerman, at his little shop, much less “mill about town,” as Aunt Selma called it. Not only that, but she was expected to wear her hair up and her skirts down—down to her boot tops. And she didn't even want to think about gloves. Couldn't her aunts understand that she would only soil them when visiting Wade's wagon shop or when giving food to one of the hungry?

“You look deep in thought.”

Abrianna startled and put her hand to her breast. “Speak of the devil.”

“What?” Wade Ackerman asked in confusion. He glanced around as if looking for someone else.

“Oh, not really. I do apologize. That was rather harsh and uncalled for. You aren't at all like the devil. You have morals and values that would make the devil quite uncomfortable.” She smiled. “Let me start again. Good afternoon, Wade. What brings you to the Madison Bridal School?”

He laughed and pushed back a strand of brown hair in annoyance. “I don't think my new hair tonic has quite the hold it's been boasting.”

“I can't say that I'm surprised,” Abrianna declared in a self-assured manner. “What can you expect from a product produced by the Hoggleson Brothers? I mean, the name suggests something less than tidy.” She noted his slicked-back hair. Other than the single errant strand, Wade looked quite well groomed. Except that he had a two-, possibly three-day growth of beard.

“Did you lose your razor?”

“What?”

“You need a shave,” she said, pointing to his face.

Wade touched his hand to his chin. “I suppose I do. I've been busy.” He rubbed his finger along the stubble under his nose. “You do realize mustaches are all the rage now.”

“I just don't believe it becomes you. Your appearance isn't enhanced by the hair. You just look . . . well . . . hairy.” She shook her head. “I suppose there is nothing to be done about it right now. What are you working on at present?” Abrianna settled herself on a kitchen chair. She liked her casual talks with Wade. Their friendship had survived all sorts of ups and
downs, and Wade was very much like the older brother she'd never had but always wanted.

He joined her at the table. “I've been making repairs to the depot wagons. They sure go through a great deal of wear, and I can't say that the workers in charge of them ever think to properly care for them.”

“Maybe they're too busy,” Abrianna suggested with a raised brow and tilt of her head. She cocked her head to the other side. “Honestly, I'm not sure I can continue to converse with you and that beard. I really find it distracting.”

Wade laughed. “You would send me away because I didn't have time to shave? I only stopped by to return some dishes. I set them down over there.” He pointed. “You didn't even hear me come in.”

“I was preoccupied with collective thoughts of great importance,” she defended. “I am not a mindless ninny, Mr. Ackerman. I spend many an hour contemplating.”

He grinned and leaned back against the very table where Abrianna had failed at bread making. “And what, pray tell, do you have need to contemplate?”

She was taken aback. Did he not realize she was a woman of deep thinking? Goodness, they'd known each other for most of their lives, and somehow he had missed this point. Were all men so blind? “I contemplate a great many things.”

He crossed his arms against his chest. “So give me an example. Tell me what goes through that fiery red head of yours.”

“My hair is not fiery. It's a honeyed auburn. At least that's what Aunt Poisie calls it.” She wasn't sure if she agreed, since honey had many shades, and who was to say which hue a person might think of when such a remark was made. “Lenore says it's more of a gold-touched cinnamon, but Aunt Poisie is most insistent.”

“All right. What goes on in that honeyed-auburn, gold-touched cinnamon head of yours.”

“Well, my
head
isn't really colored either one. It's only the hair that could be called by that name.”

He shook his head in frustration. “I give up.”

“Well, if you must know,” Abrianna said, mimicking his exasperation, “I'm still quite undone by the entire Chinese matter.”

Wade looked at her a moment and then rubbed his chin as if contemplating a puzzle. “What do you mean?”

“The way they rounded the Chinese up and tried to force them from the city,” she replied. “Have you forgotten?”

“That was two years ago, and the matter was somewhat resolved. As I recall, they were allowed to remain.”

“Some were, but others had already been sent away. A good number of people of whom I was fond were loaded like cattle onto ships for market.”

“I didn't realize you had so many close relationships. I thought you were mostly fond of the Chinese for their food,” Wade said with a chuckle.

Abrianna fixed him with a glare. “While I did enjoy their food, I was also quite taken with their culture and traditions. I learned a great deal from our kitchen girl, Liang. She has told me many stories about her life in China. You do remember that her parents and sisters were some of those sent away. Liang thought she and her family would all be killed, but she managed to escape before her family was put on a ship. She was left destitute and betrayed by the very society that should have rallied to her protection.”

“But they did rally . . . well, some of them did. Besides, what can you do about it now? Your aunts took in Liang, and she's now safe and well cared for. And her family was able to resettle
in San Francisco with relatives. Liang chose to remain here in your aunt's employ. That's hardly destitute or without friends.”

“That's true enough.” Abrianna shifted against the ladder-backed chair. “But I'm still deeply offended by what happened and by the prejudice that remains. Poor Liang was but twelve. How terrible to be taken from the people you love. And she wasn't the only one, Wade, as you well know.

“This city should answer for what they did. Not only that, but one of the biggest supporters, that Mary Kenworthy—” Abrianna jumped to her feet and began to pace, all the while waving her arms to accentuate her speech in case Wade somehow missed her distress. “She continues her ugly disapproval of the presence of Chinese in Seattle. She believes them to be the cause of so many white men having no work, but you tell me what white man would be caught dead working at the jobs some of the Chinese are doing.” She stopped, arms akimbo. “Just tell me.”

“Well, I didn't mean to work you up into a lather.” He shook his head. “Now I can see why you're preoccupied most of the time. Your mind must never stop churning.”

Abrianna sighed. “You have no idea. It's quite a labor to be me.”

Wade's face screwed up. “Is that smoke I smell?”

Glancing around the kitchen, Abrianna saw the gray cloud rising from the oven. “Oh, fie. I forgot my cookies. I put the blame on your facial hair.” She hurried to the stove and opened the door. Thick smoke caused her to cough, and for a moment rendered her senseless. She reached into the hot oven, but Wade jumped toward her, pushing her aside.

“Move back. Let me get it.” Wade took up a dish towel and doubled it twice before pulling the burning cookies from the oven. “You could have seriously burned your hands, Abrianna,
reaching into the oven like that. What were you thinking?” He placed the smoldering discs atop the stove and stared at them. “Some of them aren't too bad.” He cleared his throat.

Abrianna frowned. With a spatula in hand she flipped one of the cookies over to reveal the burned bottom. “Aunt Miriam will never allow this.”

He shrugged and gave her a smile. “She doesn't have to know. I can help you scrape off the bottoms where they're burned.”

“She'll smell the smoke. I'm surprised she isn't here already. If she wasn't busy showing her students how to properly dye cloth, I'm sure she'd be wondering what catastrophe I had brought about this time.”

Wade quickly went to the windows and opened first one and then another. “The room will air, and since the kitchen door is closed, I doubt the smell went further than right here.”

“I suppose we can hope such a miracle will befall us.” Abrianna moved the cookies to a plate for cooling. “Goodness, I had such high expectations for this batch.” She poked at one of the cookies. “Aunt Miriam says I'm likely to be an old maid for all of my life.” Abrianna looked Wade in the eye. “I think she has given up hope for my chances at matrimony, despite running a school for brides.” She paused, most contrite. “I am her deepest sorrow.”

Wade laughed. “Abrianna, you are no one's sorrow. Now, let's get to scraping those cookies.”

They had been working on the cookies for nearly ten minutes when Abrianna heard the unmistakable sound of shoes on the back staircase. “It's Aunt Miriam. She's coming to survey my accomplishments. Hurry and close the windows, or she'll know for sure what a mess I've made.”

Wade did as instructed while Abrianna scooped the mess of
blackened crumbs into the garbage pail and quickly covered it with some potato peels she had left over from earlier tasks. They both hurried back to the counter just as Miriam Madison entered the room. For a moment the older woman stood frozen in place, narrowing her eyes. Her expression suggested that she knew something to be amiss but couldn't quite put her finger on it.

“Wade,” she finally said with a nod, “it's good to see you again. I have another job for you, if you're of a mind. Oh goodness, are you growing a mustache?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled. “Why don't we go out to the parlor and discuss the job you have for me?” He offered his arm in a gentlemanly fashion. “My, don't you look lovely today, Mrs. Madison.”

Abrianna barely heard her aunt's reply, but she was most grateful to have avoided a reprimand. Perhaps that would come later. Little ever escaped Aunt Miriam's fine sense of order. She had an uncanny way of knowing when things were amiss. Abrianna smiled and prayed that should her aunt turn back, she would see her ward relaxed and happy. Maybe that would assuage her aunt's concerns.

But it was not to be. Aunt Miriam turned at the door with a look of disappointment. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it and shook her head. Abrianna had no doubt she knew what had taken place and was deeply grieved.

Oh,
bother. I can't seem to do anything right. Sometimes
I contemplate whether God made a mistake in making me,
but of course God doesn't make mistakes. Still, I
can't help but wonder just what He was thinking.