In the Face of Danger (9 page)

She broke off, and Emma said, “Oh, Megan is our adopted child. We chose her.”

“I’m from New York City,” Megan said. “My name is Megan Eileen Kelly.” Trying to put Mrs. Haskill more at ease, she smiled and added, “And don’t feel badly about being impoverished. I was impoverished, too.”

Mrs. Haskill turned to Emma with bewilderment and said, “I’m sure your intentions were excellent, but I fail to understand how you could possibly take into your home a child who is—who is shanty Irish!”

M
EGAN GASPED
,
UNABLE
to believe her ears. The color rose in Emma’s cheeks, and her eyes sparked as shock gave way to anger. Deliberately she smoothed her apron over her knees, tilted her chin a little higher, and said firmly, “Mrs. Haskill, I’m sure you’re so exhausted from the long ride that you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Mrs. Haskill looked puzzled as she tried to explain, speaking as though Megan weren’t there. “But my dear Mrs. Browder, I do know what I’m saying. It’s common knowledge that the Irish are dull-witted and lazy and therefore never able to rise above the laboring class.”

“There’s not one word of truth in that statement!” Emma said.

Megan’s face burned hot with anger, and she gripped the seat of her chair, trying to keep from speaking the words she was thinking.

Mrs. Haskill appeared flustered. One hand crept to her cheeks, which were pink with embarrassment. When she spoke, her tone was conciliatory, and her words came slowly, as though she believed she could persuade Emma
to listen to reason. “You are obviously not as knowledgeable about the Irish as the English are, since we have had closer dealings with them.”

Megan knew about those “closer dealings.” She well remembered Da’s stories about the British armies that swept across Ireland, burning homes and tearing the roofs from churches. No allegiance was allowed except to the British Crown, and property was stolen from landowners and given to subjects loyal to England. Those Irish who emigrated to England or the United States, trying to keep from starving, found that laboring jobs were the only ones given to them—if jobs were offered at all.

“I am not alone in my beliefs,” Mrs. Haskill continued. “In Boston it is quite usual to see, in the windows of shops and small businesses, Help Wanted advertisements that specify ‘No Irish need apply.’ ” She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap as though the discussion had come to a satisfactory conclusion.

But Emma hadn’t finished. “It’s a pity that in Boston there are so many small-minded, mealymouthed people who can’t see beyond the ends of their turned-up noses! I hope that living in Kansas with people who know how to value each other will broaden your education, Mrs. Haskill.” Emma’s eyes bored into the other woman’s as she leaned forward and snapped, “And perhaps greatly improve your manners!”

Mrs. Haskill gasped, and her teacup rattled so hard in its saucer that she had to put it on the table.

The door flew open. Ben and Mr. Haskill stomped the dust from their feet on the front stoop and stepped into the room.

“Well, well,” Ben said, beaming at the two women. “You should be pretty well acquainted by now. Emma, I
told Ada and Farley that you’d be excited about having another woman as a close neighbor.” Ben turned to Mr. Haskill. “We’ll see if Emma can make us a little something special for dinner to celebrate.”

Emma sat staring straight ahead with her back stiff and her hands so tightly folded her knuckles were white. She didn’t repeat the invitation.

“I—I’m sure that Emma would—” Ben blundered on, but Mrs. Haskill interrupted him. Trembling, she rose to her feet.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I wish to become acquainted with my new home as soon as possible.”

“But we—” Mr. Haskill began.

Ignoring her husband, Mrs. Haskill glanced around the room and sighed. “Living in this primitive fashion is going to be quite a change for me.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed with concern as she asked Mr. Haskill, “Farley, have you told Ada anything about your home?”

Mr. Haskill looked uncomfortable. “I—I’ve never had the words to describe things easily,” he stammered. “Anyhow, I figured there’d be things she’d want to do to fix it up her own way.” He threw a panic-stricken glance at Ben. “I gave it a good cleaning afore I left. Did it look all right to you?”

“It looked fine,” Ben said. “I told Emma I couldn’t get over how well you’d cleaned it.”

Mr. Haskill let out a long sigh of relief. Ben glanced from Emma to Mrs. Haskill, and Megan could see that he was confused by the tension in the air.

“Emma,” he said, “we can fix up a basket of things for Ada to take to her new home. Put in a loaf or two of the bread you baked this morning, and some of your plum jam.”

Without a word Emma walked to the kitchen table,
opened the nearby cupboard, and began to put things into a woven reed basket.

“Ada, you’ll love Emma’s wild plum jam,” Ben continued. “I’m sure she’ll teach you to make your own, come summer when the fruit is ripe.”

The pups began to yip and whine, and Mrs. Haskill glanced toward their box, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She turned to Ben, and her voice was cold. “I know how to make jam, thank you. I am well versed in all the disciplines needed to operate a household.”

Ben rubbed his chin before he answered, and Megan could see that he was sizing up Mrs. Haskill. But he said amiably, “Neighbors are a real necessity out here where families are spaced so far apart. We’re glad to welcome you to the territory, and if you need or want for anything, we’re here to help you out. Farley’s always been a good neighbor to us, and we’re mighty thankful to have him nearby.”

Mr. Haskill clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, mumbling his own thanks, but Mrs. Haskill gave an imperious nod. She gracefully put on her coat, looked around the room for a mirror, and finding none, impatiently pinned on her elegant hat. “As soon as I’ve unpacked my china, Mr. Haskill and I will invite you to dine,” she said.

Ben blinked with surprise. Emma strode to where Mrs. Haskill was standing and shoved a napkin-covered basket at her. Mrs. Haskill had no choice but to grab the handle before the basket fell on her toes.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Haskill said formally.

“You’re welcome.” Emma’s words were equally cool.

Ben and Mr. Haskill left to hitch the horses, and Mrs. Haskill followed. Emma hesitated, obviously torn between following the basic rules of courtesy and giving in to her feelings. Firmly she shut the door and wrapped her arms around Megan.

“It’s the Irish in you that makes you so special and wonderful,” she murmured against Megan’s hair. “Pay no attention to what that dreadful woman said!”

Megan hugged her back, having trouble getting her arms about Emma’s waist, which seemed to be growing thicker each day. “I’ve heard things like that before,” Megan reassured her. “There were some in New York City who had no use for the Irish or for that matter anyone different from themselves. Ma told us to feel sorry for them because they were not only ignorant but wanted to stay that way.”

Emma smiled. “A good description of Ada Haskill.”

“I don’t like her,” Megan said.

“Neither do I. But then who would?” Emma filled the kettle from the jar that held fresh water brought from the well that morning and hung it on one of the arms at the side of the fireplace, swinging it over the fire to heat up. “It’s perfectly clear why she couldn’t find a husband in Boston and had to come west to marry Farley.”

“Poor Mr. Haskill,” Megan said. She peeked through the window and watched Mrs. Haskill struggle with her skirts as she climbed to the seat of the wagon.

“Poor Mr. Haskill should have had his head examined before marrying that woman!” With a clatter Emma slammed a stack of tin plates onto the table.

“She tries to be very grand,” Megan said, “and she thinks that Mr. Haskill’s house is like yours. I wonder what she’ll do when she finds that she’ll be living underground.”

Megan and Emma looked at each other with such mischief that they burst into laughter. At that moment Ben came into the house. He stared at them in amazement, which made them laugh all the harder.

“There must be something here I don’t understand,” he said, which caused Emma to whoop.

She leaned against the table, wiping her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Ada Haskill—” she began, but couldn’t stop laughing.

Ben rubbed his chin again and turned to Megan. “I didn’t see anything about the woman that would cause the two of you so much merriment. Was it her hat?”

This set off another outburst, until finally Emma was able to say, “It’s the idea of a woman like that having to live in a dugout.”

Ben didn’t smile. He shook his head and said seriously, “Emma, we must set a good example for Megan. It’s not right to laugh at someone’s misfortune. We began our work here by living in a dugout, and you know the many hardships it caused you.”

Emma wiped her eyes again and glanced at Megan, whose stomach ached from laughing so hard. “Ben is right,” Emma said. “This should be a happy day for Farley, and I’m afraid it’s going to be unhappy for both himself and Ada. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Megan said to Ben.

“Oh, Ben,” Emma said, “it wasn’t what it seemed. The laughter helped us to keep from being angry.”

“Angry? Just because the woman seemed somewhat … reserved?”

Emma told him all that Mrs. Haskill had said. For a moment the room was silent. Then Ben slammed a fist on the nearby table so hard that the lamp wobbled, and Megan reached to catch it before it fell. He turned and stomped out of the house, banging the door behind him.

“Don’t look so worried,” Emma reassured Megan. “Ben will work off his anger. Before long he’ll begin to feel sorry for her. Then he’ll try to think of how to make her feel welcome and accepted, so that she’ll see how wrong she was and change her ways. By the time he comes to
dinner he’ll be himself again.” She smiled. “He’s a good man, Megan.”

Emma was right. By the time Megan had finished feeding the pups, Ben had come back. He sat down at the table and beamed at the steaming bowls of chicken and vegetables. When he bowed his head to say grace, he added an extra prayer for the well-being of Farley and Ada Haskill, then cheerfully set to filling the plates and passing them to Emma and Megan.

“Farley said that with the election just a few days away, feelings are high in St. Joe. There’s talk of war if Lincoln is elected.”

“Will you vote?” Megan asked him.

“I wish I could, but people in the territories don’t have the vote,” he answered. “Our elected representative to Congress can debate any issue, but even he doesn’t have the right to vote on it.”

They began to talk about Abraham Lincoln, who had come through eastern Kansas the year before on a speaking tour. Their words became a comfortable hum as Megan’s thoughts drifted away. She thought again of Mrs. Haskill and pictured the woman’s disapproving face. She’d try to feel sorry for her, as Ma had said, but Mrs. Haskill’s words had hurt, and it was hard to feel anything but upset and angry. Suddenly, achingly, Megan was lonely for her mother.

It was evening, the animals cared for and stabled, and Megan and the Browders snug inside the house, when Mr. Haskill arrived on foot.

His tap on the door made Emma start, and she nearly dropped the lamp she was lighting.

Ben glanced at the rifles in their rack near the door and called, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me—Farley Haskill,” the visitor answered.

“Not Ada again!” Emma breathed, but she put a fixed smile on her face and prepared to greet her neighbors.

Mr. Haskill entered alone, his head and neck tucked down inside the big collar of his coat as though he were trying to find a place to hide, and put the lantern he was carrying on the table.

Ben peered outside through the open door. “Where’s Ada?”

“Home,” Mr. Haskill mumbled. “She’s sent me with a list of things she needs and wants me to borrow.” He looked apologetically at Emma. “I tried to tell her that she can’t take from the neighbors, that we’ll have to ride to town for some of these things—those we can afford—but she—well, she insisted.”

Megan could imagine how insistent Mrs. Haskill could be.

“Never mind, Farley,” Emma said. She took the list from his hand. “Take off your coat and rest. Ben can pour some coffee for you—that is, ground hickory.”

Mr. Haskill shrugged. “That’s all I’m used to.”

He looked so miserable that Megan felt sorry for him. She helped him take off his coat and hung it on the rack for him.

Emma read the list, nodding or shaking her head at each item. “I can give you some sugar. It’s brown sugar, though, not the white Ada is used to.”

“Brown’s fine.”

“And some sassafras. It’s not on the list, but if she brews it in tea and drinks it good and hot it will help take away her headache. I don’t have the headache powders she wants.”

Mr. Haskill nodded.

For just a minute Emma closed her eyes and pursed
her lips as if she were trying to make a difficult decision. She gave a little sigh and said, “I do have one down pillow that I can lend her. My mother made it for me.”