Under Starry Skies (23 page)

“We’ll need things to make this little one a bed.” She laughed joyfully, still playing with the puppy.

Brett rose and reset his hat on his head. “Well, I’d better get back to the lumber yard. Betsy is sending over a wooden crate, some table scraps, milk, and water dishes. All you’ll need is an old quilt to throw into the crate for a bed.” He looked at her with concern. He hated to bring up her earlier worries especially since she was now in a joyful mood. “Is there anything I can do to help you with all your other problems?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Wait!” she said as he started to walk away. “Just wait here a moment.” She handed him the pup, hurried into the house, and returned with the letter Maria stole. “I implore you to not divulge the information in this letter, but I’d like your opinion. It’s a letter Maria found in a trunk under the eaves in Aunt Emma’s attic. Along with a packet of letters, it was packed on top of a Confederate uniform with more clothes beneath. You know it was believed Uncle Henry died by the hands of a rogue Confederate sympathizer?”

He placed the puppy on the ground near his feet, opened the letter, read it, then folded it, and handed it back. “The War’s over Maria. A lot of people on both sides detested it and weren’t fussy about helping a wounded soldier when he ended up in enemy-held territory. They cared little about whether he fought for the North or South.”

“Yes, but Uncle Henry was killed with a Confederate button left beside him. All I want to know is whether the uniform in the trunk has all its buttons.”

He raised an eyebrow while he weighed her comment. “Well,” he finally said, “let’s find out. Let’s pay a visit to your dear aunt Emma.”

“And tell her we want to see the uniform?”

“No, let’s use the ruse of showing her your new pup.”

“My good man have you been drinking?”

Brett snickered. “Who knows? Maybe even old hard-nosed Emma will melt under this little one’s charm, and he’d be enough diversion so one of us can look in the trunk.” He winked.

Abby grinned, then grew serious. “I’ll say we’re there to ask Millie to give Maria and me some additional milk each day, or maybe borrow an old useless quilt for the dog’s bed.”

“Sounds desperate, maybe a little too deceptive, but we can play it out and make up the rest as we go along.” He glanced down, too late to stop the pup who had relieved himself over the toe of his boot. “Good grief! These boots are almost brand new.” His face crumpled in disgust over the ripple of laughter from Abigail. He swiped his boot on the grass. “You’re going to have to teach this little mongrel some manners.”

Together they walked up the hill, past the stables, to the old manse with the puppy riding safely in the basket. Millie met them at the door.

“Is Aunt Emma here?” Abigail asked.

“Yes,” Millie nodded, then whispered, “but she’s on a rant about the seamstress. It seems the dress she had ordered is too tight. She can’t get it buttoned. This may not be a good time.”

From behind Millie, Brett and Abigail heard, “Who is it, Mildred? Some pitiful soul wanting another hand-out? Bid him farewell and shut the door on the sniveling creature.”

“No, it’s Abigail,” Abby called over Millie’s shoulder. She bit her lip and grimaced at the housekeeper.

Emma replied, “Might as well be a waif! Well, show her in, Mildred. Don’t stand there like a dolt with the door open.”

In the foyer, Emma stood like a proud statue, her back to them. Her blonde hair shot with gray was done up in a mass of curls on her top head and spiraled down the back of her head. She wore a sapphire blue silk dress. “I was just about to go to town to return a dress the seamstress incorrectly altered for me. Altered miserably with little skill, I might add.” She turned, looked up, saw Brett, and brightened. “Oh, and what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Captain Trumble?”

“I’m just accompanying Abigail. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. McNeil.”

Inside the basket, the puppy whined, and Emma’s gaze locked onto it.

“Oh, Aunt Emma, Maria and I have a new puppy. We wanted you to see it.” Abigail lifted the lid and took out the squirming puppy and held it in her arms.

“A dog?” Emma snapped and backed away. “You wanted me to see a
dog
?”

“Yes,” Abby forged on, turning to Millie. “I was wondering if we could have a little extra milk each day?”

“For the dog?” Emma frowned. “My dear, I’m not about to start feeding all the stray animals wandering around your doorstep.”

“Mrs. McNeil,” Millie said, “the old jersey cow gives us close to seven gallons a day. Even when we send milk to the inn, we still have too much. We can only make so much butter, whipped cream, and cheese.”

“I’ll remind you, Mildred, you are hired and paid to do as I instruct you to do.”

Millie Hanson lowered her head and nodded.

Irritated by her aunt’s haughtiness, Abigail interrupted, “I know Millie is always busy, often milking the cow twice a day when the men aren’t available. What if Maria or I agree to milk Blossom in the evening in return for an extra quart of milk? It would give Millie more time here at the manse?” She watched her aunt consider her offer.

“I already give milk away to you and for the inn’s meals, and I imagine the staff there drinks it as well,” Emma said.

Abigail fought the urge to explain to her that half the Mule Shed Inn’s profits were going to her without
any
of her help. And what type of person would ever deny the hired help or a stranger a glass of cold milk, especially when there was too much?

Brett spoke, his voice smooth like velvet. “Now, Mrs. McNeil, there must be some sort of solution. What if Maria and Abigail could send up a few fresh eggs a few times a week?”

Emma looked at Abigail in surprise. “You have chickens? Nobody told me you had chickens.”

Abby nodded. “Oh, yes. Or rather, Maria does.”

Outside they heard a buggy pull up in front of the house. “Well, I suppose it would work. Thank you, Captain Trumble, for your brilliant suggestion.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. McNeil. Please call me Brett.”

Emma smiled radiantly, then motioned to Millie to get her cape from the peg beside the door. “As you can see I must be on my way to that wretched, wretched seamstress. Why don’t you work out the details with Mildred?” With that, Emma O’Neil dashed out the door.

At the sound of the front door slamming, the puppy in Abby’s arms whined. “I think he’s hungry,” Abigail said to Millie. “I have no idea how long it’s been since he was taken from his mother. I also came to see if we could get another old quilt from the attic so I can make him a bed.”

“Come into the kitchen,” Millie said. “Let’s get him a saucer of milk immediately.”

“If you don’t mind, I can send Brett up into the attic to get the quilt while we take care of the pup.” Abigail trailed behind Millie. She turned and raised her eyebrows at Brett.

“Of course, what a good idea,” Millie called over her shoulder scurrying down the hallway. “You can use the back stairs in the kitchen, Captain Trumble, while I make some tea and warm the coffee. It’s so nice to have company. Come, come sit. I have custard pie, too, if you’d like. The little one is hungry. What have you named him?”

“I’m waiting for Maria to name him.” Abigail followed Millie to the kitchen. As she passed the parlor, she looked at the sheet-draped furniture, eerie-looking in the fading light. She took a seat by the table. “The War is over. Isn’t it time for Emma to take those hideous sheets off the furniture in the parlor and stop worrying about the wear?”

Millie put a kettle on the back of the stove. “Oh, she only covered the furniture right after Henry’s death, not before the War started. I was down in Colorado Springs for my sister’s funeral when Henry was killed. She draped the entire room herself—like she was in mourning and was paying tribute to his memory. She hung that enormous picture of Henry above the fireplace, and only left the spinet and loveseat uncovered. She still refuses to even let me go in there to clean. It’s some sort of personal shrine of hers.”

“Shrine?”

“Yes.” Millie shook her head disapprovingly. “And poor Henry’s marriage to her was little more than a long series of rants and spats. It near drove us all crazy.”

“What did they fight about?” Abigail set the puppy next to the saucer of milk Millie placed near her feet and watched him shove his little nose into the milk and begin to lap it up.

“It was always money.” Millie sighed. “My, oh my, Emma knows how to shop. Pity the seamstress today. The dress she’s returning was ordered six months ago, when Emma was ten pounds lighter.”

Later, as Brett and Abigail walked back to the cottage, Brett told her he found all the buttons still attached to the Confederate uniform.

She shook her head sadly, holding an old quilt to her chest as he carried the basket with the puppy. “I thought maybe we had a clue to help us discover who killed my uncle.” There was disappointment in her voice. “All that sneaking around for nothing.”

Brett reached out and encircled her shoulders with his free arm. “We’re not giving up yet, Abby. Do you want to hear the good news?”

“What?” she asked.

“I stole the rest of the letters in the trunk.”

Chapter Eighteen

It was always an exciting day, a day of celebration, whenever it was the birthday of one of the student’s in Maria’s class. It was especially so, when Maria discovered Lenny Sanderson’s birthday was coming up, and he would be attending school that day.

Earlier in the week, she had arranged with the cook at the inn to bake a cake and have it delivered to the schoolhouse. She had helped Millie, an expert knitter, to select yarn to make a hat and scarf for the boy. They had finally settled on black for the hat, but more colorful yarns for the scarf. It was a task Millie had been unselfishly doing for the last three years for all the schoolchildren when their birthdays arrived.

Maria also knew Lenny Sanderson needed something warmer to wear than the few flannel shirts he wore each day, and when she mentioned her concern to Betsy, a hefty package was delivered along with the cake.

For the last two weeks, with autumn sending its chilly fingers over the countryside and leaving the morning frosty and cold, Maria had arrived at the school house only to discover the stove was lit and warming the classroom. Although she had never enlisted the help of anyone, she knew it was Lenny Sanderson and the blacksmith’s grandson, Isaac, who were sharing the task. She suspected Tye gave them a few coins each week for their work.

Careful not to embarrass the boy, Maria waited until the party was over and the last of the children were leaving when she presented Lenny with the gifts. His father was planning to deliver another load of wood after school, and Maria knew he was also taking the boy home with him afterwards.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” Lenny looked in awe at the store-bought woolen coat and the hat and scarf. “I don’t know whether my pa will let me keep these.”

“He won’t.” River Roy stopped inside the doorway, removed his scruffy lumberman’s cap, and stomped his feet to get them warm.

Maria rose from her seat behind her desk and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Sanderson, welcome to my classroom. And thank you for the wood.” She waved him inside. Despite the man’s gruff appearance, Maria suspected deep down inside there was a man of character. “Come, sit by the warmth of the stove, and let me get you a piece of Lenny’s birthday cake and show you some of his schoolwork.”

Warily, River Roy proceeded to one of three chairs Maria had placed beside the stove and accepted the plate and fork she handed him.

Maria took a stack of papers from the top of her desk and took a seat beside him.

“I do thank you, Miss O’Donnell, for telling me about the inn needing wood delivered this winter. Words out, and Lenny and me now have regular customers in town. Even your aunt has requested a few more loads. I can barely keep up, and the money is sure a help.”

“You’re most welcome.” Maria smiled at him. Unaware of whether Sanderson was capable of reading, Maria showed him his son’s homework in arithmetic, history, spelling and grammar, all marked with an “A” on top right corner. “Lenny is one of the brightest students in my class, and he only attends two days a week. These are the best grades possible.”

“He still can’t take no gifts.” A shadow of annoyance crossed his whiskered face.

“Mr. Sanderson, I beg you, do not disappoint me or others with your stubbornness. Millie Hanson knits every child a hat and scarf for his birthday, even those children with spring birthdays will get something to wear later in the year. I am not about to tell her she can’t do this, do you understand?” Maria looked at him and set her chin in a stubborn line. “The coat is a present from Betsy Ashmore who said if you don’t let Lenny accept it, and I quote, ‘tell the cantankerous coot I’m going to knock him alongside his head with a broom the next time he comes in to the store for supplies.’” Maria watched a faint smile kick the side of River Roy’s mouth to wrinkle his whiskered face before he broke into a deep rumble of laughter.

She removed a package from her desk and handed it to Lenny. “And my birthday present is a new sketch pad and pencils which I absolutely
forbid
you to deny him.” She gave him the most stern teacher’s look she could muster. From the bottom of the stack, she withdrew a sketch she had framed. It was the one Lenny had drawn the first day of school when he arrived and had been instructed to draw a picture of what made his father happy. River Roy and his son, fishing poles over their shoulders, walking down a narrow path through the woods toward a pool in a rain-swollen creek. Exquisitely drawn, it was shaded, and detailed, so real a person could step off the page and into the woods.

“My son did this?” Sanderson asked in a bewildered voice.

“Yes, your son is talented way beyond his age.” She rose. “I’m going to take time to try to teach him how to use pen and ink. Your son has an exceptional mind and memory for recreating detail. And for a child so young. The picture is yours as a gift. It would surely look nice on the wall of your cabin.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she wagged a finger. “No, no, no, Mr. Sanderson. Don’t be stubborn!”