Indigo Christmas (10 page)

“So it was not close to the barn?” Hilda interrupted.

“No, it was near to the fence, by the drive up to the place. I'd forgot that part. How did
you
know?”

“If it had been near the burning barn, there would have been enough light for you to see what it was. Go on.”

He scratched his head at Hilda's perspicacity and continued his story. “So I picked it up, and when we got to where they was givin' us supper, there were lanterns and I could see it was a man's billfold, and a fine one. Good leather, only a little worn on the folds. It was pretty dirty, though, so I cleaned it off a bit and asked if anybody there had dropped it. And later, I went back and asked the firemen. And nobody knew nothin' about it, so I kept it. Musta been one of them told the police I had it. But where the harm is in that, to make the police come after me, the good Lord alone knows.”

Hilda handed him a knife. “Slice some ham and put it on this plate,” she directed. “I have only one more question for you. Were you with the rest of the men, building the new barn, the whole day?”

“What would ye think, I'd go off and leave the rest of 'em workin'?” Sean was beginning to be annoyed. “ 'Course I was there all day.”

Hilda cut some bread and cheese while she considered how to ask the next question delicately. “I mean—you must have had to—to go off by yourself sometimes. Were you ever gone longer than a few minutes?”

Her cheeks were burning, and Sean's turned fiery red. “I don't know what a decent woman is doin' askin' me such a question, but the answer is no.”

Hilda started filling plates and soup bowls and putting them on trays. She added a tall glass of cool, creamy milk to Norah's tray. “I am sorry, Sean. I had to know if you had enough time to go over to the next farm without anyone noticing and set the fire.”

“Nobody noticin'! There wasn't enough of us to do the job as it was, and we was working that hard, we noticed when anybody stopped for a drink o' water. If you think I could've sneaked off, you've lost your mind. The whole gang of 'em would've lost their Irish tempers, and you know that's no comic thing.”

“Not for most Irishmen,” Hilda said with the hint of a smile. “For you—I wonder what would make you angry?”

Sean took it as a serious question. “I never had much of a temper, but now—well, if somebody hurt Norah or the baby—I don't know what I'd do to 'em, but for sure they wouldn't like it.”

“No, but you have showed me you do not anger easily, or you would have become angry with me for my questions, instead of just being annoyed and embarrassed. And you have showed that you would not be good at lying. Me, I can lie if I have to, but I am sure that you would give yourself away. Your face shows what you are thinking. So I believe that you did not steal any money, and I believe that you did not start the fire, and I will do everything I can to prove that you are innocent. Now, will you carry up this tray while I take the other?”

LADIES LISTEN TO A POEM
Meeting of Women's Missionary Society
of First Presbyterian Church
[There follows an
account of the meeting, including a ninestanza
poem by one of the members]

—South Bend
Tribune
   
December 3, 1904

 

 

11

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER, Hilda carried both trays downstairs again. Sean had eaten a good meal, but they had been unable to persuade
Norah to eat much. She had drunk the glass of milk, reluctantly—“I've always hated milk”—but had pushed away the food after a few bites. “I'm so tired! I wish you'd all go away and let me sleep.” Fiona had wakened in her cradle and whimpered, so Hilda had changed her diaper and given her to
Norah, but the baby nursed for only a minute or two before falling asleep.

“Sean, will you stay here with them? I must prepare supper for Patrick. He will be home soon.”

Sean was delighted to stay with his wife and child, so Hilda
went back down to the kitchen and put together a substantial assortment of food for Patrick. She also made a fresh pot of coffee, and pouring herself a large cup, sat down with him at the kitchen table. They both found it more inviting than the dining room, though they dared enjoy it only when Mrs.
O'Rourke wasn't around. Patrick ate and Hilda drank in companionable silence.

Her nap had refreshed her somewhat, but she was still tired, and her mind refused to function in its usual clear manner. She hoped she wasn't getting one of her headaches. They had been less frequent since her marriage, but now her head felt as if it were stuffed with damp cotton, and there was a threatening tension behind her right eye.

“So,” said Patrick, when he had polished off all the food and fetched a bottle of beer from the cool larder, “how's the wee spalpeen?”

Hilda frowned. “What is a spalpeen?”

“A mischievous young one. A rascal.” And when Hilda still looked puzzled, he grinned. “The baby, I'm meanin'.”

“Patrick! It is not nice to call that lovely baby a—whatever you called her. She is an angel!”

“Ah, it's easy to see she's got round you, then.
Norah all right?”

“She is very tired, and does not want to eat. I hope she will wake soon. The baby will need food.” Hilda yawned. “And I am tired, too.” She went to the range and turned on the burner under the coffeepot. “I think maybe I might have a headache later. I hope the coffee will help.”

Patrick looked around the kitchen and then back at Hilda. “Where's Mrs.
O'Rourke? And Eileen? Tending to Norah and the babe?”

“No, I left them with Sean. I told the servants to take a nap. They were busy all night.” Hilda was a little embarrassed. The word
servants
, applied to their employees rather than their colleagues, still felt strange.

Patrick didn't notice. He stood up. “That was a kindly thought, darlin', but you need them. You can't run a household and look after a baby and a new mother and chase down a murderer, all at the same time.”

Reluctantly Hilda put down her coffee cup. “Yes, you are right. I will go and wake them.”

“You will not. You've been runnin' all day. Leave it to me.”

 “You will be polite? You will not make Mrs. O'Rourke angry?”

“And when did ye ever know an Irishman couldn't wind any woman round his little
finger when he wanted to?” said Patrick, a twinkle in his eye and an exaggerated brogue on his tongue.

“Me you could not wind. not always.”

“And that's true enough, darlin' girl, but you're different to the rest, aren't you? Sit still, I'll be back before ye know I'm gone.”

Alone and quiet, Hilda drank coffee and felt her headache recede a little. She looked around the kitchen. It was a peaceful, comfortable room, at least when the volatile cook wasn't there. not as warm, true, as the Tippecanoe Place kitchen with its massive coal-fired range, kept alight even in summer. oh, how she had roasted when errands took her to that kitchen in summer! But in winter it had been a haven,
first thing in the morning, from her cold bedroom at the top of the house.

This kitchen wasn't as grand, but it was well appointed. Patrick's aunt and uncle, who had given them the house as a wedding present, had redone the kitchen completely. The very latest in Hoosier kitchens stood against one wall, with its flour bin and sifter, compartments for spices, canisters, many doors and drawers, and a lovely big, tinned work surface that pulled out for convenience. The ice box was the
finest available, the gas range and the coal heating stove shone with polish, the sink gleamed with white enamel. everything from the white walls to the blue wainscoting to the blue-and-white checked linoleum was fresh and new and bright. And hanging from one wall was a prized possession, the coffee mill Hilda's brother Sven had made for her and painted with a gay Swedish design of birds and flowers.

Yes, it was a good kitchen. Perhaps, thought Hilda somewhat guiltily, the best thing about it was that she didn't have to cook in it.

But she'd better clear away the dishes Patrick had used, or Mrs.
O'Rourke would be angry. Hilda knew it was foolish to let the cook bully her. She had served under a bullying butler for years and had had quite enough of it. on the other hand, if Mrs.
O'Rourke got angry enough to leave, Hilda simply did not know what she would do. She could clean, oh, yes, she could clean anything, but cook—especially with a new mother and a baby in the house—she shuddered and hastened to rinse the dishes and stack them neatly in the sink. Then she poured out the last cup of coffee and retreated to the parlor.

Patrick joined her there in a few minutes. “Well, they're up, and downstairs, and cheerful about it, so that's off your mind. Is your head feelin' better?”

“Yes. The coffee is good. Thank you, Patrick, for talking to Mrs.
O'Rourke.”

“You ought to stand up to her, darlin'. She'd be the better for a good talkin' to.”

“I was yoost—just thinking that. I do not think I can do it. I am afraid she would lose her temper and leave us, and I do not know how to cook. Aunt Molly has said she would teach me, but I cannot take the time now. There is Sean's trouble, and the baby, and—oh! I forgot to tell you. I am starting a club for the poor boys in South Bend, and there is to be a Christmas party for them, and there will be much to do.”

Patrick made a face. “When I married you I thought I was givin' you a life of leisure. Do ye not want to be a lady and—do whatever they do all day?”

Hilda laughed. “No, Patrick, I do not! It is boring, that life. They do nothing except call on each other and go to silly meetings and change clothes all day long. A dress for morning, a dress for afternoon, a dress for calling, a dress for staying at home for tea, a dress for dinner—it is foolishness. And with every fancy dress one must wear stays, and I do not like them.” She shivered a little with sudden pleasure. To be able to talk of stays with a man, a man who had, moreover, seen one's stays, had seen…

Patrick's thoughts were traveling along much the same line. “You've a neat little waist, and no need to cage it up.” He put out a hand and pulled her up into his arms. “Mmm, yes, a neat little waist indeed…and a neat, soft little—”

The doorbell rang. Hilda sprang away and smoothed her dress.

“Who's callin' at this time of night?” said Patrick, displeased.

“I do not know. oh, I hope it is not a policeman for Sean!”

They listened anxiously while Eileen went to the door. There was a murmur of feminine voices.

“Oh!” Hilda's hand went to her mouth. “It is Mrs. Murphy. I forgot! I think Aunt Molly told me she might want to stay here for a few days, and there is not a bedroom ready for her.”

Patrick rose to the emergency. “You talk to Eileen while I entertain Mrs. Murphy. We'll have her off to bed and settled in no time.” And then, Patrick's look said, we can also be off to bed.…

“Yes,” Hilda whispered, “and be sure to invite her to stay as long as she wishes. And tell her—”

“I'll say the right things. You can trust me, my girl.”

Eileen showed Norah's mother into the parlor, and Patrick stepped forward to charm her, while Hilda beckoned
Eileen out of the room. Twenty minutes later Hilda returned to the parlor, where Mrs. Murphy was sitting comfortably with a cup of tea, chatting with Patrick.

“How are Norah and the baby?” Mrs. Murphy asked as soon as courtesies had been exchanged.

“Norah is very tired and wishes mostly to sleep. The baby woke a few minutes ago and
Norah is feeding her now. Would you wish to go up and see her? And I hope Patrick asked you to stay with us as long as
Norah needs you.” Hilda bit her lip. That sounded as if Norah's mother was welcome only as a nurse, and was not what Hilda had meant to say, but it was too late to take it back now.

“Yes, I'll go up,” said Mrs. Murphy briefly. “You don't need to bother about me. I'm used to doing for myself.”

Worse and worse. “It is a pleasure to have you here,” said Hilda, but it sounded stiff even to her, and Mrs. Murphy did not reply as she started up the stairs, Patrick following with her bag.

After a moment of indecision, Hilda went into the kitchen. Mrs.
O'Rourke was fussing, rearranging things that intruders had evidently moved a few inches from their appointed positions. “Yes, madam?” she said in her most formal voice.

“I came to thank you, Mrs. O'Rourke, for all you have done. The baby arriving has made you much extra work, but I am so grateful you were here, because I would not have known what to do.” There was art as well as truth in Hilda's remark. It would, she thought, be good to make the cook feel superior. not that she didn't feel that way already, of course.

The cook unbent a little. “I was glad to do what I could, madam. Has
Norah been eating well?”

“No, and that is the other reason I wanted to talk to you. She is very tired and does not want to eat, but I know she must. What can we give her that will tempt her?”

“Well, now. I can make her a little custard, that goes down easy, and some rice pudding. And maybe for right now, some good rich eggnog. And then soup for tomorrow, rich broth with noodles—oh, there's lots I can give her that she'll like. You leave it to me, madam. I've cooked for many a new mother in my time. I'll send up the eggnog directly. Where's that
Eileen?”

Hilda explained and left the kitchen feeling that at least one burden was off her shoulders. With luck it would not be very long before she and Patrick could forget all their burdens for a few hours in sleep and other joys.

Tears, idle tears, I know not
what they mean…

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
    The Princess
, 1847

 

 

12

T
HE STORM BROKE very early the next morning. Eileen knocked at their bedroom door and came in, looking scared.