Worthy of Riches (30 page)

“Well,” Margarite said, her voice huffy. “I would never travel alone with a man.”

Jean was getting angry. She bit her lip. “We weren't exactly alone,” she said.

“Oh?”

“No, it was me and Mr. Townsend and God.” She couldn't keep the smirk off her face. “I'd say God is a good chaperone, wouldn't you?”

Momentary confusion touched Margarite's face, but Jean's sarcasm didn't stop her. She continued the inquisition. “So, how many days would you say Ray Townsend visits your farm in a week?”

Jean wanted to tell her it was no one's business, but she simply kept sewing. Anger fueled her adrenaline, and she was unable to keep her hands from trembling. The needle slipped, and she stabbed her index finger. “Ouch,” she said, examining the wound, then putting the tip of her finger to her mouth to staunch the flow of blood. Finally she said, “I don't know just how often he comes by. I suppose a couple times a week.”

“That's not what I heard.” Margarite raised an eyebrow. “He's over there very nearly every day, and sometimes he stays to supper.”

Jean's anger bloomed, and now she didn't care. “Yes, sometimes Mr. Townsend stays for supper,” she said tersely. “He works hard, and it only seems fair to feed him.”

Margarite pushed further. “So, you two are alone? Often?”

The other women had stopped sewing. Laurel's face was crimson.

“Of course, we're not alone. Luke, Brian, and Susie are always around.”

A satisfied grin touched Margarite's lips. “But you were alone when you went hunting.”

Jean didn't reply. She wished she hadn't come today and wondered if she could find a polite way to excuse herself.

“I've done my best to be charitable to you and your family,” Margarite continued. “Especially after your husband was killed. I've bit my tongue many a time, but it's time something was said. It wouldn't be Christian of me to remain silent any longer. I'd just be allowing you to stumble.” She met Jean's eyes. “It's downright indecent of you to be spending so much time alone with that man. What kind of example is it to your children?”

Jean stood. “Nothing improper is going on between me and Mr. Townsend. He's a friend, and he's good to the children. Without Will we
needed the help.” Jean could feel tears burning the back of her eyes, and that made her more angry. She wasn't about to let that woman make her cry.

Laurel joined her mother and placed an arm around her shoulders.

“And about the hunting trip, Mr. Townsend was simply being generous. My family needed the meat, and he offered to teach me. He's the best hunter in these parts.”

“And what about your son? He could have taken you. And didn't he go hunting himself? I see no reason why you needed to go traipsing off into the mountains with a man.”

Miram stood and rested her hands on the table. “Mama, hush. This is none of your affair.”

Margarite's eyes opened in surprise, then hardened as they fell upon her daughter. Her tone cruel, she said, “You'll be still.”

Miram's chin quivered, and she pressed her lips together. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she said nothing more.

“That's enough,” Norma Prosser said in a booming voice. She stood with her hands planted on her hips and faced Margarite Dexter. “I asked everyone here to do a good turn for Edna and to enjoy each other's company. This is not the time or place for finger-pointing. Margarite, you need to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Margarite's face turned red, then purple. She shoved her needle into the quilt. “Well! I was only trying to help. It's my Christian duty to show a sister the error of her ways.” She scanned the others around the table. “I can see I'm not welcome here.” She tipped her chin into the air. “It doesn't really matter anyway. We're leaving this valley.”

Miram gasped.

Mrs. Dexter scanned the faces at the table and settled on Miram. “We'll be leaving before the middle of the month.”

“Leaving?” Miram asked, her face grief-stricken. “You never said anything. We can't go.”

“Oh, yes we can. And we are.” Margarite stepped away from the table. Heavy hips swaying, she walked to the coatrack and retrieved her and Miram's coats. “It's time to go.” She shoved the coat into her daughter's arms, then pulled on her own, swept a scarf around her neck, and pulled on gloves. Finally she pushed a hat over her short dark
curls and looked at her daughter, who still stood holding the coat. “We're going.”

Miram didn't move at first. She pushed up her glasses and looked at her friends. “I'm sorry,” she said meekly, then pulled on her coat and gloves and followed her mother out the door.

Still feeling the pall of the afternoon's clash, Jean stuffed wood into the stove. A knock sounded at the door. “Now, who could that be? It's dark as pitch out there, and I didn't hear a car.” She opened the door.

Miram Dexter stood shivering and gripping a lamp in a gloved hand. Her fur-lined hood was pulled tightly around her pale face. With her shoulders hunched up and her voice smaller than usual, she asked, “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Jean rested a hand on the young woman's shoulder and guided her inside. “You must be frozen. Let me get you something hot to drink. Do you like tea or coffee?”

Miram sat at the kitchen table. “Tea, I guess. Thank you.” She managed a small smile. “I'm so sorry to bother you, but I… I didn't have anywhere else to go.” If it were possible, her face crumpled more, and she looked even more sorrowful.

“What's happened?” Jean asked, pouring tea into a cup and setting it in front of Miram.

Miram loosened her hood and pulled it off, remaining silent.

“The children are in bed, and I was just about to have a cup of tea. It's nice to have someone to share it with.” She smiled encouragement and filled her own cup, then sat across from the young woman. Warming her hands on her cup, she waited. Miram still said nothing. Finally Jean asked, “So, what brings you to my door this time of night?”

Miram's response was tears. Her eyes filled and flooded her red cheeks. She reached for her handkerchief, pressed it to her nose, and blew. “I'm sorry,” she managed to say. After blowing again, she blubbered, “I need a place to live.”

“What about your parents?”

“They're leaving. You heard my mother.” She straightened slightly. “But I'm not. I told her I'm staying. I can't go. This is the first place I've ever had real friends. And Ed, well, we're nearly engaged. I can't leave.”

Her hands trembling, she picked up her tea and sipped. Carefully she set it down, then looked at Jean. “I was wondering … well, since your husband passed away … well, there's so much work for just one woman …” She let the sentence hang, then began again. “Is it at all possible that I might stay here with you? I'd be a real help. I'm a hard worker. I can sew and cook, and although I've never done much farming, I'm sure I can learn.”

Miram's words tumbled out quickly. Jean took a moment to absorb the request.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come,” Miram said as she stood up. “It would be an imposition. I should never have come,” she repeated. “I'm sorry.” She headed for the door.

“Miram,” Jean said gently. “Please. Sit. Let me think a moment.” She offered what she hoped was a cheery smile, and the young woman returned to her chair. Jean hadn't considered sharing her home with anyone outside the family, but maybe it wasn't a bad idea. There was a lot of work to do, and having another woman's company would be nice. The house had seemed empty without Laurel.

She looked at Miram and thought over what kind of person she was. Miram could be slightly annoying, what with her constant sniffing and the smell of camphor wafting about her. Her sharp, high voice grated, but she was kind and honest. Jean had often felt sorry for her, having to live under her mother's authoritative control.

Miram stared at her hands.

“Have you talked to your mother and father about this?” Jean asked.

“No. I just told them I'm not leaving Alaska. They insist that I go with them.” Her eyes brighter now and more confident, she added, “I'm a grown woman—twenty-five now. It's time I was on my own.” All of a sudden her eyes were swimming in tears again. “If I leave the valley now, I may never marry. Ed is my only chance for a husband. He loves me just the way I am. I know I'm no catch. I doubt that anyone else will ever want me.”

Jean's heart ached for the girl. She reached out and laid a hand over Miram's. “Of course, you can stay.”

OVER HER PARENTS' PROTESTS, MIRAM MOVED INTO THE HASPER HOME. Luke and Adam carted her few possessions, and she moved into Laurel's old room, sharing the space with Susie.

Susie welcomed the company, and Brian was happy to have a guest in the house. He liked Miram. Luke, on the other hand, wasn't pleased. Miram's personality grated on him, but it didn't take long before her sweetness and caring won him over.

The day of the Dexter move was a sad one for Miram and her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Dexter came by the evening before, hoping to convince their daughter to join them. As luck would have it, Ray had stayed for supper. Margarite gave both Jean and Ray a knowing look and a perfunctory greeting.

She and Miram retreated to the porch. Margarite's voice carried inside as she pleaded with, then threatened, her daughter. Miram wouldn't budge. She'd made up her mind to stay, and that was that.

Jean silently cheered for Miram. It was time for the young woman to be out from under her mother's control; it was time for her to grow up. Jean was proud of her and told her so when she came back inside.

Miram hugged her and with tear-filled eyes said, “Thank you. Thank you for your help and for believing in me.”

Jean smiled and gave her another hug. As she watched the young woman leave the room and head upstairs, she had the sense that she'd inherited another daughter. Sadly, she considered what Margarite had lost. It was a shame.

“I s'pose I ought to get on home,” Ray said.

“How about a cup of coffee first? I could use the company. I'll put
Brian and Susie to bed, and we can enjoy a hot drink and a visit.” The words were out before she could stop them. She didn't know exactly why she wanted him to stay.

“I always like your coffee and your company.”

Jean headed for the front room, and Ray followed. Brian and Susie lay on the floor, working a puzzle. Brian knew where all the pieces went, but he let Susie find most of them. Jean shook her head. Brian was such a mix of temperaments. On one hand he could be like a whirlwind, hurrying from one activity to another and giving no thought to anyone or anything, and the next moment he could be thoughtful and sweet. Jean glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was seven o'clock. Luke should have been home long ago.

“Time for bed, you two,” she said.

“Ah, Mom. Can't we stay up a little longer?” Brian asked.

Ray reached down and scooped him up, swinging Brian out in front of him.

Brian giggled.

“You've got school tomorrow,” Ray said. “Now, how are you going to be smarter than everyone else if you don't get your sleep?”

“I don't care if I'm smart.”

“Well, one day you'll wish you were,” Ray said, setting him on his feet.

“I won't either,” Brian said, heading for the stairs.

“Come on, Susie,” Jean said, picking up the puzzle and putting it in its box.

“Mommy, I don't feel good,” Susie said, swiping her hand over her eyes.

Jean set the box in a cupboard, then felt Susie's forehead. It was warm. “You do feel like you've got a fever. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“My head hurts.”

“Is that all?”

Susie nodded, her blue eyes brighter than normal.

“I'll just give you some aspirin—that ought to help.” She picked up the little girl and glanced at Ray. “I'll be down in a few minutes.”

Susie waved at Ray. “Good night.”

Ray smiled. “Good night.”

She hugged her mother around the neck. “Can Ray stay? I like it when he's here.”

“No. He has to go home. But he'll come back to visit.” That seemed to comfort Susie because she rested her head on her mother's shoulder. “I like Ray.”

“I like him too,” Jean said, realizing she did care for Ray Townsend, maybe more than she should. He was kind to the children—good to all of them, including Luke. Although Ray tried to keep his tenderness in check, he was a gentle man. Jean's mind moved over the moments when he'd exposed his tender heart—memories of his wife and daughter, sorrow over Will's death, worry over Brian's broken arm, and even tonight concern had touched his eyes when he'd heard Susie was feverish.

He is a good man,
she thought, realizing her fondness for him had grown. The feelings were inappropriate. Will had been gone less than a year. How could she even begin to think of anyone else? She felt shame.
It must be because I'm lonely,
she told herself.
Or because he's been so kind. I'd feel fondness for anyone who'd been so helpful.

She pulled the covers over Susie and kissed her forehead. She and Ray Townsend were simply friends. It would never be anything more. Nor should it be. Aside from Will's death, they had very little in common.
What an awful thing to link two people.

After saying prayers with Brian and Susie, Jean returned to the kitchen, wishing she could find a way to send Ray home.

He stood at the sink, looking out the window. When Jean entered the kitchen, he turned to her. “Looks like the wind is picking up.”

“I can feel the chill even in here,” Jean said, adding wood to the firebox. “Maybe you ought to go home before it gets worse.”

“It's not bad. I'll take that cup of coffee you offered, then head out.”

Jean nodded. “OK. Would you like some apple pie to go with it?”

Ray smiled. “How could I turn down your apple pie?”

The coffee was still hot from supper, so Jean poured them each a cup and cut two slices of pie. “Why don't we eat it in the front room? Sometimes it seems I spend my life in the kitchen.” She walked to the sofa and sat, placing her cup on an end table and taking a bite of pie.

Ray pushed his fork through the crumbly crust and well-cooked fruit and took a bite. Chewing, he smiled. “Delicious as always.”