Hattie was imbued with excessive energy that at times plumb wore Augusta out. It reminded her of Jacob as a boy, only somehow worse, for she supposed she’d never questioned the bromide decreeing it acceptable, even expected, for a boy to be rambunctious. Girls were supposed to be quieter and easier to raise.
Not to mention Luke was alive when Jacob was a young, energetic scamp hell-bent on driving her crazy. Her husband had possessed an uncanny knack for sensing when she’d reached her limit. He’d take Jacob with him to some far-flung corner of the ranch so she could catch her breath. And of course, she’d been a decade-plus younger then.
So instead of looking for reasons why Hattie was uncharacteristically subdued the past few days, Augusta had merely said, “Thank you, Lord,” and put her feet up for a spell.
But it was a funny thing. Once she’d had a day’s rest, it began worrying her when Hattie remained quiet and withdrawn. Augusta was sometimes wearied by the child’s antics, but more often they amused her. In the handful of weeks since Hattie had come to live with them, Augusta had grown extremely fond of her. It disturbed her to realize that Hattie wasn’t comfortable enough in return to share her troubles. And now, like a thunderbolt, as she watched the girl in the cheval glass fussing unhappily with her attire, comprehension struck.
Today was Hattie’s official coming out, her introduction to society. A dinner party had been planned for weeks, and as parties went, it would be a small affair. Only Jacob, Hattie, and herself, plus Dr. Fielding and Jane-Ellen, Hattie’s tutor, John Fiske, and the family lawyer, Roger Lord. And, clearly, Hattie feared the impression she’d make.
Augusta chastised herself for not realizing sooner. But Hattie always appeared so fearless it simply hadn’t occurred to her. Augusta crossed to stand behind Hattie at the mirror. She straightened the skirt of the eleven-year-old’s dress and fluffed the sleeves. Then she picked up the brush and restored order to the riotous mass of copper curls. As she retied the bow holding Hattie’s hair back, their eyes met in the mirror. “I think you look perfectly sweet,” she whispered. “Our guests are going to be very impressed.”
Hattie studied her own reflection in the mirror, then raised her gaze to meet Augusta’s. “I don’t see how,” she said in a surprisingly adult tone. “You tell me you like me just the way I am. But you’re always instructing me on ways to change.” She turned to face Augusta, her expression uncertain. “What will strangers who don’t know me at all think?”
“Oh, my dear.” Augusta bridged the distance between them, reaching out to hug her ward. As always, when a glimmer of vulnerability broke through Hattie’s tough little exterior, Augusta’s heart melted. Leading her to the bed, where they both sat, she picked up and held one of Hattie’s hands in both of hers. “Sometimes your perception is frighteningly mature. It’s not always easy to remember you’re not even twelve years old yet.”
“I will be in January.”
“Yes, I know.” Augusta took a deep breath. “Hattie, I truly do like you just the way you are, and I’m certain others will, too. But there are a great many rules that govern the behavior of young ladies in our society, dear, and females of good family are expected to adhere to them faithfully. Some are fairly basic: such as good table manners. Others are subtler, and I suspect you’ll have to learn a few of those by trial and error. But I wanted to instruct you on as many as I possibly could before you went out into society. You’re expected to observe the proprieties, but unfortunately you don’t even know what many of them are.” She freed a hand to gently brush an unruly curl away from Hattie’s eyes. “That’s why I’ve been stuffing you full of rules and regulations. Folks can be mighty quick to judge, darling. I don’t want them judging you so quickly by your mistakes that they don’t give themselves a chance to become acquainted with the real Hattie Taylor. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I think so. Mirabel says I’m barely housebroken.”
“Oh dear. Did that hurt your feelings?”
Hattie flashed a smile. “Nah. Mirabel likes me, so I expect she’s sorta saying what you just said. Like, if I were a puppy and I piddled on the parlor floor, people might be so shocked at my behavior they’d never realize I was actually a right fine house pet.”
“Exactly.” Augusta hid a smile. What an apt analogy.
Hattie studied the room for a moment. Then she looked up at her guardian. “Aunt Augusta? Did you know my mama?”
“Not very well, dear. That branch of the Witherspoons lived in California. I’ve spent the majority of the past twenty-four years here in Oregon. But I did meet her on a few occasions, and I remember her as a warm and gentle woman.”
“I can’t recollect what she looked like anymore. But I remember I loved her. And she was a lady, wasn’t she? A real lady, I mean, like you?”
“She was, dear. In every sense of the word.”
“Then, I ’spect I’ll try to be a lady, too. Like she was, and you are.”
Augusta squeezed Hattie’s hand. “I can’t think of a nicer way to keep your mama’s memory alive,” she said and rose from the bed, pulling Hattie up with her. “Come, dear. It’s time to go downstairs. Our guests will be arriving any moment.”
Hattie had been dreading this day far longer than anyone knew. For the first hour, she sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, ankles primly crossed and hands tightly clasped in her lap, her stomach fluttering uncomfortably as she willed herself not to say or do anything stupid. She even declined the hot spiced cider, which she dearly loved, for fear she would slurp, spill, or otherwise embarrass herself or Aunt Augusta.
That earned her sharp scrutiny from Mirabel, who was passing the tray around, and a surreptitious laying-on of cool, bony fingers to her forehead. Hattie grinned and accepted a cup after all. Listening to the conversations around her, she gradually relaxed and conceded that perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d feared. Covertly, she studied their guests.
Six
Our family car suddenly swerves onto the scenic overlook at Devil's Outcrop and I grab for the dashboard. “What the—?”
My spouse, in the driver’s seat, is not ordinarily given to impulse so this is way out of character. And I admit it kind of shakes me up. It is not until the car comes to a full stop and the gear shift is shoved into Park that I suck in a breath. My fingers nearly leave prints as I unclench them from the dash and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something I might regret. Sitting back in my seat, I follow the spouse's intent stare to its source.
And almost lose my breath all over again.
The train trestle above Big Bear Gap, suspended between two points of land a hundred and sixty feet above the lake, has the spouse's attention. Or rather the two women strolling across it as casually as they might the streets of Gravers Bend.