Supper was late, Tate having had to do chores in the twilight, and if it hadn't been for Bessie being so cheerful, the meal would probably have been silent. What with Pete still upset at his father and Johanna's stomach in an uproar and Tate in a foul mood after killing the bull, things had gone rapidly downhill all day.
"I'll be glad to clean up the kitchen, Johanna," Bessie offered after dessert. "Why don't you go into the parlor and sit for a while? You're looking a mite peaked."
Disgruntled with the day's events, Johanna took her up on her offer, only to hear the three males of the household laughing and teasing as they assisted in the cleanup, an unheard-of event, in Johanna's experience. It was more than she could tolerate. Bessie was not only practically a raving beauty, she was efficient and capable of sorting out Johanna's kitchen without once asking a question.
And on top of that, she had won today's battle, hands down.
Battle? The word stuck in Johanna's mind. Why on earth did the advent of Bessie Swenson seem to have all the earmarks of a war? The woman had been pleasant and affable, offering to mend Timmy's favorite quilt, admiring Pete's book of letters and praising Tate to the skies as she looked over the improvements to the barn and his new mares.
She'd nodded knowingly as Tate explained his theory of improving the herd, hugged Timmy with enthusiasm after he complimented her on her pretty dress, and even coaxed Pete into allowing her to cut his hair before supper.
"How'd you let his hair get so ragged-looking, Tate?" she'd trilled, casting a sidelong glance at Johanna as she spoke. "He never looked so shaggy when … " She'd stopped, smiling apologetically at Johanna and shrugging daintily.
Johanna had been itching to get at the boy's dark hair for months, but he'd been adamant that only his father could lay hands on his head. Today it had taken Bessie less than a minute to have him wrapped in a towel and sitting on a chair while she clipped and combed.
The rocker had never had such a workout. Johanna, wrapped in her shawl, unwilling to lay a fire, even though the air had grown cold with the setting sun, sat in solitary splendor in the dark room, her foot pushing the chair into a steady rhythm.
"Jo? What are you doin', sitting in the dark?" Tate stood in the doorway, and she scowled in his direction, glad of the dim light.
"Just enjoying the peace and quiet," she said, modifying the speed of her rocker.
"Come on out and join us. We're going to play a game of spoons."
She shook her head. "I think I'll go up to bed early. I've had a long day."
A burst of laughter from the kitchen drew his attention, and he hesitated, then looked back at her. "Are you sure, honey? You looked tired at supper, but I hate to have you miss the fun."
"I'm sure you'll get along fine without me," she said, rising and walking toward him. He stepped aside to let her pass, and she headed for the stairway.
"I'll be up shortly, Jo. The boys need to get settled down before long, and I'm sure Bessie'll be ready to have a good night's sleep, too. She had a long trip."
"Take your time, Tate." She started up the steps, lifting her skirt, her feet feeling as though they weighed a ton apiece. Suddenly weary to the bone, she clutched the banister to ease her way, ignoring the man who watched from below.
By the time the week was past, Johanna had retreated into a mood she could not seem to escape. Feeling out of sorts and more like a scullery maid than the owner of a prosperous farm, she found herself making more work for herself than was necessary.
Chasing Bessie out with the boys after breakfast, she scrubbed the kitchen to a fare-thee-well. Bessie'd mentioned the old open shelves in passing, telling of her own newly refurbished kitchen. Complete with fresh wallpaper and a new cabinet, outfitted to hold grocery staples in assorted nooks and crannies, it sounded like a marvel of modern design.
On Friday, Johanna washed the curtains, turning the crank on the new washing machine with a vengeance, then rinsing and starching them before hanging them outdoors to dry. She'd sprinkled them down and ironed them before supper, only to be disgruntled when Tate didn't even notice the clean curtains and sparkling windows.
Bessie had watched her idly for a while as she turned the crank on the washing machine. "I bought the Acme combination washer in the Sears catalog for myself last month. They tell me it's got your Fulton #1 there beat all to pieces."
"Is that so?" Johanna'd replied, determined to avert a head-on fuss with the woman. Apparently, once Bessie got her husband buried, she'd had a field day. In fact, if her recitation of facts was to be believed, the house she lived in in Ohio was literally full to the brim with all sorts of work-saving devices. Not the least of these was a brand-new Singer treadle machine, with which she had made the new shirts she'd brought along for Timmy and Pete.
And Johanna, having learned long ago that sewing was not her finest skill, had been forced to admire the woman's handwork with a semblance of enthusiasm. "Don't you think every woman owes it to her husband to save money on clothing?" Bessie had asked Johanna over the supper table. "I used to sew for these boys quite regularly when I had them nearby."
"I'm sure you did," Johanna had muttered darkly, ignoring Tate's look of reproof.
One noontime, Bessie regaled the boys with tales of her new bicycle, which they could certainly ride, should they come to visit. Apparently, Herb Swenson, for all his boozing, had left her well provided for, if all her tales could be believed. If Tate had waited around awhile, he'd have had a soft berth there, Johanna thought mutinously.
Not only would the boys have had their wondrous aunt Bessie to tend to their every want and wish, but Tate could have had her hovering over him every day. As it was, she'd made all sorts of fancy pies and cakes in Johanna's kitchen, shaping cookies by the score for the boy's enjoyment.
"Nothing wrong with a plain, ordinary apple pie," Johanna muttered as she set a pan of dried apples to soak on Saturday afternoon. At least she had Bessie beat when it came to solid food. Desserts were her specialty, the woman had said cheerfully. She had a part-time cook and housekeeper to do the drudgery.
Johanna swallowed her ire as best she could, determined to put on a cheerful face. It was hard today, though. Her breakfast had been stuck in her craw all morning, and she'd been swallowing against a sour taste for the past hour.
It was no use. As much as she hated to admit it, she was about to lose the meal she'd eaten so grudgingly, and she scooted into the washroom as the nausea rose in waves, making her dizzy.
An empty slop pail, rinsed and ready to be filled with scraps for the pigs, was in one corner, and she fell on her knees next to it, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. With a retching that stretched to the pit of her stomach, she lost it all-her breakfast, the final shreds of good humor she'd managed to cling to, and her appetite.
"Johanna? Are you all right?" It was Bessie, coming in from the yard, where she'd been teaching the boys how to play croquet, having bought a game from Mr. Turner at the general store on Thursday.
"I'm fine," Johanna lied, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. She settled back on her haunches and took a deep breath. "Something didn't settle right, I'm afraid."
Bessie looked at her knowingly. "Are you sure that's all it is?"
Johanna nodded crossly. "Of course I'm sure. What else would it be?"
Bessie leaned against the wall, inspecting her fingernails and looking down at Johanna with a half smile. "I've heard Tate say he wasn't interested in having any more children."
Johanna's eyes widened as she turned to face the woman. "What does that have to do with anything … and how would you know what Tate wants?"
Bessie shrugged. "I've known him for years. He was married to my sister." As if that relationship had given her privileged information, she smiled.
"I don't think he was the happiest man on earth while he was married to Belinda," Johanna said quietly, only too aware of her position on the floor, in front of the remains of her last meal.
"Well, Belinda wasn't any too overjoyed, either, having to live on that godforsaken farm. I've always thought I'd have had better luck talking Tate into living in town. Belinda didn't know how to handle him. And her going after him with a knife certainly left him with a bad taste in his mouth."