The Carousel Painter (19 page)

Mr. Robaugh had been among the men who’d gathered outside the factory to taunt me. No doubt he’d told the men exactly how many hours of overtime he’d been required to work in order to restore the horse to usable condition. Strange how they all blamed me instead of Louis. I had tried to apologize to Mr. Robaugh when he’d begun work on the horse. I’d even offered to stay late and help. He’d waved me aside like a pesky fly and told me to leave him alone.

Now only a little more touchup would be required, and Mr. Tobarth said he’d complete that work once I finished the rest of the trim.

I moved a few inches closer to where Mr. Tobarth was painting silver medallions on a jumper. “Has Mr. Kaestner mentioned anyone applying to fill the vacant positions?”

The wiry man tipped his head to the side and eyed his work. “Nope. Ain’t heard nothin’.” He drew his brush along one edge of the intricate carving. “Saw you in church last Sunday. That’s your first time attendin’, ain’t it?”

“Second,” I said. “I didn’t see you.”

“That’s ’cause I sit near the back. Unless I’m late, then I gotta sit closer to the front. Somehow I didn’t figure you for a churchgoing gal, but Mrs. Wilson’s a strong influence in gettin’ folks out to church.”

His comment startled me. Even in the factory I always did my best to act proper. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “Never heard you say anythin’ ’bout God or church. Ain’t no need to get your feathers ruffled. Didn’t mean no insult by it.”

I didn’t know why his comment bothered me. Probably because I figured knowing the Lord was like wearing a badge. If you knew Him well, people could tell. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that Mrs. Wilson knew the Lord and Mr. Tobarth, too. They both talked about God sometimes. Kind of like my mama had done when I was little and Papa wasn’t around.

“What about Mr. Kaestner? He doesn’t act like someone you’d see at church, but he attends every week, doesn’t he?”

“Josef? Why, he’s ’bout as strong in his beliefs as Mrs. Wilson.”

“But he works on Sunday,” I countered.

Mr. Tobarth rocked back on his heels and laughed. “You one of those folks that’s all tied up in worryin’ ’bout rules, huh?”

“The Bible says you’re supposed to rest on the Sabbath.” I knew that was true. My mama had told me.

“You’re right about that.” He tapped his finger on his narrow chest. “But it’s what’s in here that’s important. To my way of thinkin’, folks worry too much ’bout the wrong things.”

I didn’t want to argue the rights and wrongs of what people thought about others or the judgments they imposed. And I certainly didn’t want to argue about the contents of the Bible. I didn’t know enough to hold my own in a debate.

“You gonna keep going to church?” he asked.

“When I’m at the boardinghouse, I will. But sometimes—as I’ll do today, for instance—I go to visit friends after work on Saturdays and don’t return home until late Sunday evening.”

He flashed me a lopsided grin. “Over to the Galloways, I’m guessin’.”

I turned my focus to the floor, surprised his comment had caused a feeling of shame to ball up and settle in the hollow of my stomach. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Ain’t no use tryin’ to hide anythin’ around this place. Everyone knows you and the Galloway gal are friends. Might as well be proud of the fact.” He tucked the paint can close to the rack. “Mostly they’re just jealous they don’t have the same advantage.”

“Maybe,” I replied, knowing I wouldn’t have been hired had it not been for my friendship with Augusta. However, my association with the Galloway family had unearthed its own ever-growing mound of problems—the primary one being Augusta’s insistent invitations to visit her nearly every weekend.

Yet I should be grateful. Where would I be without the Galloways and their help? I mentally checked off the many things they had done for me. The job, the clothing, the paid-up rent, the storage of my father’s paintings. Yes, where would I be without the Galloways and their help! Occasional visits at their home were nothing compared to the generosity I’d received.

Mr. Tobarth stood up and lifted his brush to shade the ears of his horse with dark umber. “Josef says you got some of your paintings stored here at the factory. I’d like to see some of your work if you’re of a mind to show ’em to me one of these days.”

There truly wasn’t anything that wasn’t known by everyone in the factory. They even knew about the paintings. “They aren’t my work, Mr. Tobarth. They’re the remaining works my father completed before his death.”

“So he was one of them famous European-type artists that made lots of money for paintin’ bowls of fruit?”

I chuckled at the question. “He wasn’t very famous, and he didn’t make much money at all. But his work was admired by all of the other artists. They said he’d be famous one day. Unfortunately, death put an end to his work.”

His eyes softened. “Death has a way of doing that.” He held the paintbrush to his side and stood back to view the shading he’d completed. “But when you know you’ll see the people you love in heaven, it helps ease the pain.” When I didn’t respond, he glanced over his shoulder, his bushy eyebrows curved at a cockeyed angle. “Don’t ya think?”

“But what if you don’t think you’ll see them in heaven? What if someone you love isn’t there? And what if they go to heaven and I don’t?”

Concern extinguished the customary glint from his eyes. “You sure got a lot of what-if questions. I’m not sure I’m the one to answer all of ’em, but I’ll give it a try—at lunchtime. You bring your pail over here, and I’ll tell you how you can be sure ’bout where you’re going when you die.” He stepped forward and deepened the shading on the inside of the horse’s left ear. “Right now I need to concentrate on finishing up some of these horses.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. For some reason, his offer had produced an inexplicable feeling of joy. I didn’t know if it was because Mr. Tobarth had spoken to me as though we were friends or if it was because I might receive some additional assurance I’d see Mama and Papa when I died.

She’d done it again! Tyson was sitting on the front porch of Mrs. Wilson’s boardinghouse when I approached after work. Augusta was nowhere in sight. “Where is Augusta?” I asked, walking past him.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Miss Brouwer.” I ignored his sarcasm and continued inside. Tyson followed close on my heels. “How long before you’re ready? Augusta said you got off work at six o’clock on Saturdays. It’s already seven.”

“I don’t control the amount of work that must be completed in a given day. And if I’m asked to finish something before leaving, I must do so.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Some of us
work
for a living.”

He slapped his palm against his chest. “Oh, you’ve wounded me, Miss Brouwer. I doubt I’ll ever recover from your cruel words.”

I waved aside his attempt at comedic drama. “Augusta? Is she—”

“Anxiously awaiting your arrival. I told her it didn’t take both of us to call for you. She seems to have difficulty getting anywhere on time.”

“That must be a recently acquired bad habit. I don’t recall her ever being late when she lived in Paris.” I rested my foot on the bottom step of the staircase. “I’ll be down momentarily. You can wait in the parlor or on the porch. Whichever you wish.”

“I’d prefer to come upstairs and help you.” He winked and rubbed his palms together.

I had considered Tyson’s past behavior offensive, but he obviously needed to understand that I would no longer tolerate his ill-mannered advances. I leaned across the banister determined I would no longer mince words with him. “I find you one of the most boorish men I’ve ever encountered. You are coarse in both word and deed, and if it weren’t for Augusta, I wouldn’t give you the time of day. If your crude behavior doesn’t cease, I shall speak to both Augusta and her father.” His head jerked back. I silently applauded myself, pleased I’d attained the desired impact.

He made a quick recovery and took a step closer. “I’ve had far more practice at these games of cat and mouse than you, dear Carrington. I suggest you be careful.”

I did my best to ignore his ominous tone. “I’m not playing a game. I’m giving you a warning. Stop your offensive behavior, or I’ll speak to Augusta.”

“I must warn you, I am quite effective where Augusta is concerned.”

I stood there blinking, my heart gone eerily still. “If you’d cease your advances, this wouldn’t need to become a contest.”

He winked—bold as you please—as if I’d never mentioned his behavior, as if my threat meant nothing, as if he held the trump card. I squared my shoulders and marched upstairs. If he tried to follow, I’d push him down the steps without a second thought.

While I washed up and changed my dress, I considered penning a note and sending my regrets to Augusta. I knew she’d be either angry or hurt—probably both. It didn’t take long to push aside the idea and return downstairs. My traveling case had been sitting by the front door since I’d left for work early that morning. Tyson had found more than sufficient time to annoy me, yet he still hadn’t loaded my bag.

“You are a picture to behold,” Tyson said, his voice smooth and soft.

“And you are a boorish cad.” I grabbed the handles of my traveling case and started for the door. When we stepped onto the porch, Tyson reached to take it from me. I swirled around in protest and pulled the bag close to my skirt. “I can carry it myself.”

“You are quite haughty, aren’t you?” He took two long strides to the porch steps and then glanced back at me. “ ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ ” He grinned, mocking me with his eyes. “Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen.”

“You’ll forgive me if I am somewhat surprised by your ability to quote Scripture.” I hastened to the carriage, lifted my bag, and slung it inside. “And the fact that you would do so in this situation grieves and offends me. Tell me, Tyson, if I am filled with pride, how do you label your own sin?”

“Me?” He tipped his head close to my ear. “I don’t worry about the sin aspect. I worry only about the conquest.”

I did my utmost to sit as far away from him as possible. He seemed to find my behavior amusing. How could Augusta think this shallow, loathsome man appealing? During our carriage ride, he did his best to engage me in conversation while I did my best to ignore him. Thankful to see Augusta waiting on the porch when we arrived, I grabbed my bag and stepped down from the carriage without a backward glance.

“You should always wait for the gentleman to assist you,” Augusta whispered when I leaned forward to accept her embrace.

“What gentleman? And why are you dressed in that fancy gown?”

She tipped her head to the side and giggled. “Tyson, of course. You should have waited for him to help you down.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to fending for myself over these past weeks. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of getting in and out of a carriage without help. Shall I take my bag upstairs?” I gestured toward her dress. “And you still haven’t told me why you’re wearing that elegant gown.” The dress was beautiful. Fashioned of pale mauve duchess satin and bearing the latest fashionable huge velvet sleeves adorned with lace, the gown would likely be the envy of many a young lady.

“Come along. We need to hurry and get you dressed. I’ll have Frances help with your hair. You did bring one of the evening dresses, didn’t you? We’re going to a party.”

A mental image of the party gowns that vied for far too much space in my wardrobe danced before me. “No. Your note said nothing about a party. You and Tyson go on. I’ll stay here and rest. I’ll find a good book in your father’s library. Besides, I’m tired after working all day.”

Augusta planted her fists on her hips. “Don’t you even think of refusing. We’ll find something in my closet that will be perfect. Come along.” Like an obedient child, I followed her up the stairs and into the room I’d occupied during my first days in Collinsford. “Wait here. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

I eyed the bed with longing. If only I could change into my nightgown and slip between the cool sheets to rest and rejuvenate my aching muscles. I dropped to the side of the bed, the soft mattress beckoning me once again to enjoy its comfort. I removed my shoes, lifted my legs onto the bed, and eased my back against the plump pillows. A sigh escaped my lips, and I closed my eyes. An intoxicating scent offering a promise of spring drifted through the window and carried me back to my early years in New Hampshire. Daddy had planted lilac bushes along one side of the house because they were Mama’s favorite. Each spring I’d pick bouquets for her. And each spring Mama would tell me lilacs were God’s promise of another wonderful springtime. I always agreed.

But the lilacs wouldn’t bloom for at least another four or five weeks. Spring had a way of teasing with sunny days and budding flowers, but winter hadn’t quite released its hold. The biting wind of the previous morning had been proof of that. The very thought caused me to shiver. I pulled the soft blanket across my shoulders and promised myself I wouldn’t go to sleep.

“Carrie!”

Startled, I lurched forward. If I hadn’t grabbed the bedpost, I would have landed on the floor. My heart pounded with turbulent ferocity, and I clasped a palm to my chest. “Why are you shouting?” I yelled. I couldn’t help myself. Augusta had nearly frightened the life out of me. Her eyes widened, and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I’m right here where you left me.”