Chapter Three

      “Here’s your tea, Mama.” Jane lowered the silver tray onto the table next to the upholstered settee. “I fixed it just the way you like it.”

      “Why, thank you, dear. Such a nice custom, don’t you think? Whenever Ah am in a tizzy, Ah just have my tea and soon it’s all better.”

      Jane gazed past her mother’s pale blue eyes to focus on the rose-flowered wallpaper on the wall behind her. How Mama clung to the past, especially when things upset her. Her entire day was made up of rituals from when she had been a belle—hot cocoa served to her in bed, roses arranged in crystal vases, tea every afternoon. Then the War came, and their lives were shattered. Until the day he died, her father referred to that dreadful fighting as The War of Northern Aggression.

      “I went to town today, Mama. To the bank and the mercantile.” She forced a gaiety she didn’t feel into her tone.

      “I trust you were properly chaperoned?”

      Jane hesitated, her hand on the handle of the silver teapot. “No, Mama,” she said softly. She lifted the delicate painted china cup and tipped the pot forward. Her hand shook as she poured.

      “Your father spends entirely too much time fussin’ over those peach trees of his. We’ve already got a cellar full of jams and jellies, and Ah can’t bear the thought of another crop comin’ on. We must ask Jonas to bring his darkies to help.”

      Darkies! Jane met her mother’s dreamy gaze. Jonas had been her father’s overseer at Montclair. Numb, she tried to think what to say.

      “Mama? We haven’t laid eyes on Jonas, or his darkies, for over a decade. Are you feeling a bit tired?” She set the teacup down and took hold of her mother’s soft, cool hand. The skin was so transparent a tracery of blue veins showed through.

      A dull pain pressed near her heart. Her mother was growing frail. Washing the kitchen floor and changing the bed linen, as they had done together each Saturday morning since they’d come west, would soon be out of the question. From now on, Jane would have to manage by herself.

      “Mama, I spoke to Mr. Wilder at the bank this afternoon. I—I’m going to start a business.”

      “Wilder? I don’t recall the name, dear. Who are his people?”

      Jane let an inaudible sigh escape through her lips. As far as she knew, Rydell Wilder had no “people.” Anyway, she didn’t want to think about him.

      She moved toward the kitchen. “Finish your tea, Mama, while I fix our supper.”

      She concocted a sandwich of sorts using sliced tomatoes and cheese melted on the biscuits left over from breakfast. Jane wasn’t the least bit hungry, and her mother ate both portions.

      After washing up the dishes, she opened all the windows and the front door to catch the cooling evening breeze, then pulled the cherrywood sewing cabinet into the front parlor. Tomorrow she’d have to find someone to load it into a wagon and haul it down to her store. But first, she had to scrub the place six ways to Sunday with a bucket of hot soapy water and a broom.

      Her mother settled on the settee, propping her feet on a crewelwork-covered hassock to relieve the swelling in her ankles. The kerosene table lamp sent a pool of light over the book open in her lap.

      “Jane Charlotte, just listen to what Mr. Tennyson writes. “The old order changeth, yielding place to new…. Whatever does he mean?”

      A sob bubbled up from Jane’s throat, and she clamped her jaws tight shut. She thought of Papa, lying cold and still in a grave behind the orchard, of Montclair before the Union army came, the way the sun lit the tupelo tree as they drove the buggy down the drive for the last time. The old order.

      “It means that things change,” she murmured. “That we must look forward, not back.”

      Right then and there she decided she detested Mr. Tennyson. Things weren’t supposed to change, especially if they were beautiful things—peaceful summer days and evenings so quiet you could hear the darkies singing from their quarters beyond the stables, a father who was strong and brave, a mother like a small exquisite bird entertaining dinner guests dressed in shirred emerald satin and petticoats so wide she had to move sideways through doors. Why, why did such lovely things have to be destroyed?

      Worst of all, why did she now find herself beholden to that aggravating know-it-all Mr. Rydell Wilder? Merciful heavens, he looked at her as if he owned her already!

      She frowned as something stirred her memory. There was a boy once, who looked something like Mr. Wilder around the eyes. He’d walked her home from school that first day, and she noticed first that he was tall, with a shock of unruly dark hair tumbling over his forehead, second that he was barefoot. He had shoes, he’d told her…. He just didn’t wear them except in winter.

      He had a gentle voice, she recalled. He explained about being new in a town and said he would watch out for her. She remembered that his shirt was clean and pressed, but the sleeves were so short his wrists stuck out. When he saw her staring at them, he unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up. His knuckles were scraped raw from a fight he’d been in. She wanted to cry at the sight of those bony wrists.

      Odd that she’d think of that now. It was so long ago, but for some reason remembering it made her feel warm inside.

      “Jane Charlotte, Ah want to read some of this lovely poetry to your father. He is partial to poetry, you recall. Wordsworth and Shelley are his favorites.”

      “Mama? Mama, I’ve tried to explain about Papa….” Oh, what was the use? Mama had always refused to acknowledge things that were unpleasant.

      Jane stood up, aware that her chest felt tight. The skin over her cheeks burned. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Perhaps it would be wiser to—

      “Miss Davis?” A low voice spoke through the front door screen. Jane froze as the tall form of a man loomed on the porch. With the lamplight from inside, she could not see him clearly in the dark. Mercy me, at least she’d latched the screen! Otherwise he could walk right in.

      “Who’s there?” she blurted.

      Her mother looked up from her volume of poetry. “Jane Charlotte, where are your manners? Is that any way to greet a caller?”