at arm’s length, bent down to look at my eyes beneath my bonnet. He pushed my poke off, untied the ribbon at my throat, then tossed it with one hand onto the cot. Beside another pile of bottles. I turned my attention back to him.
“Are you backing out, Mr. Warren?” I hadn’t imagined him doing that. Why hadn’t I imagined that, to keep it from happening?
“No, no.” He took me into his arms then, kissed the top of my head. “No. I’m grateful as a man can be that you would want to hurry our promises along. The house isn’t ready but if you are, we can make do. We could have Hugh Brown marry us, right here. He’s a JP.”
“No. Away from here. And about the children? My brother and sisters? You told me they could come live with us.”
“We can cross that bridge after we’ve crossed this river. Let’s plan for tomorrow. Will you tell your father?”
“Not until after I’m Mrs. Andrew Warren.”
We made arrangements to meet the following day and I rode home. I sliced ham from our smokehouse, remembering that Mr. Warren said that’s where he’d been when I rode up, in a smokehouse; so we’d have pork at least, and smoked salmon when the fish made their run up the Calapooia. I didn’t hear any chickens, so maybe my father would eventually give me the loan of one or two laying hens or Nancy’s family might let us buy one. I thought of Nancy, wished I could include her on this special day, but it wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone. While I organized in my mind what I could pack and take with me, I cut up last year’s potatoes into grease I put in the spider, then set the three-legged skillet on one of the stove’s eyes to heat. Millie and Martha played with the stocking dolls Rachel had knitted them. I had one too, stuffed with duck feathers inside a tiny sack, a miniature bed tick with arms and legs attached. The limbs flapped around, but the center, like my resolve, was firm. I touched the leather purse at my waist. The ring was in there. Did I dare to use it?
In that lull before my father stopped his lesson preparation and I served supper, I carried a bag of my clothing wrapped inside one of my mother’s quilts out into the barn. Nellie nickered and I spoke softly to her of my plans. Horses know how to keep secrets.
That evening, everyone ate well and seemed especially jovial. My brother even commented on the great taste of thedumplings, something he rarely did. I wondered if he knew, but didn’t see how he could. I listened with attentive ears to the conversations: Rachel’s nasal Boston tone, my father’s clipped responses to simple questions followed by lengthy answers when an issue of principle or justice or the Indians or the legal status of colored people in Oregon came up. The little girls giggled when I told them of a rabbit Yaka had chased and how the dog’s tongue hung off to the side of his mouth. I breathed my family in, aware that this was the last evening I would have as Eliza Spalding, their older sister. After this I would be forever Mrs. Andrew Warren. I would make things work.
That night, I whispered the Lord’s Prayer three times as I crawled onto my straw-filled tick, slipped under the quilt, pushing Martha a little from the middle. She sprawled in her sleep. I wondered if Mr. Warren slept face up or down, feet straight or curled against the cool. The last thing I did that evening before I tried to sleep was imagine the terrible things that might happen in the morning: Andrew changes his mind. My father discovers my quilted bag in the barn. Millie, Martha, and Henry come down with fevers. Rachel has a stomach complaint I couldn’t cure with asafetida or valerian. Nellie gets loose. Yaka dies. Andrew isn’t there when I arrive in the morning.
My eyes flew open, wide awake. A full moon shone through the window. A rushing in my head and heart pressed my eyes as though someone had thrown cold water on my face. A need to do this now, before it could be stopped. I wondered
“Are you backing out, Mr. Warren?” I hadn’t imagined him doing that. Why hadn’t I imagined that, to keep it from happening?
“No, no.” He took me into his arms then, kissed the top of my head. “No. I’m grateful as a man can be that you would want to hurry our promises along. The house isn’t ready but if you are, we can make do. We could have Hugh Brown marry us, right here. He’s a JP.”
“No. Away from here. And about the children? My brother and sisters? You told me they could come live with us.”
“We can cross that bridge after we’ve crossed this river. Let’s plan for tomorrow. Will you tell your father?”
“Not until after I’m Mrs. Andrew Warren.”
We made arrangements to meet the following day and I rode home. I sliced ham from our smokehouse, remembering that Mr. Warren said that’s where he’d been when I rode up, in a smokehouse; so we’d have pork at least, and smoked salmon when the fish made their run up the Calapooia. I didn’t hear any chickens, so maybe my father would eventually give me the loan of one or two laying hens or Nancy’s family might let us buy one. I thought of Nancy, wished I could include her on this special day, but it wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone. While I organized in my mind what I could pack and take with me, I cut up last year’s potatoes into grease I put in the spider, then set the three-legged skillet on one of the stove’s eyes to heat. Millie and Martha played with the stocking dolls Rachel had knitted them. I had one too, stuffed with duck feathers inside a tiny sack, a miniature bed tick with arms and legs attached. The limbs flapped around, but the center, like my resolve, was firm. I touched the leather purse at my waist. The ring was in there. Did I dare to use it?
In that lull before my father stopped his lesson preparation and I served supper, I carried a bag of my clothing wrapped inside one of my mother’s quilts out into the barn. Nellie nickered and I spoke softly to her of my plans. Horses know how to keep secrets.
That evening, everyone ate well and seemed especially jovial. My brother even commented on the great taste of thedumplings, something he rarely did. I wondered if he knew, but didn’t see how he could. I listened with attentive ears to the conversations: Rachel’s nasal Boston tone, my father’s clipped responses to simple questions followed by lengthy answers when an issue of principle or justice or the Indians or the legal status of colored people in Oregon came up. The little girls giggled when I told them of a rabbit Yaka had chased and how the dog’s tongue hung off to the side of his mouth. I breathed my family in, aware that this was the last evening I would have as Eliza Spalding, their older sister. After this I would be forever Mrs. Andrew Warren. I would make things work.
That night, I whispered the Lord’s Prayer three times as I crawled onto my straw-filled tick, slipped under the quilt, pushing Martha a little from the middle. She sprawled in her sleep. I wondered if Mr. Warren slept face up or down, feet straight or curled against the cool. The last thing I did that evening before I tried to sleep was imagine the terrible things that might happen in the morning: Andrew changes his mind. My father discovers my quilted bag in the barn. Millie, Martha, and Henry come down with fevers. Rachel has a stomach complaint I couldn’t cure with asafetida or valerian. Nellie gets loose. Yaka dies. Andrew isn’t there when I arrive in the morning.
My eyes flew open, wide awake. A full moon shone through the window. A rushing in my head and heart pressed my eyes as though someone had thrown cold water on my face. A need to do this now, before it could be stopped. I wondered
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