The Letter
In the parlor of my Indianapolis home, I stood, speechless, the news dangling from my hand.
“My goodness, child, what does it say?” Clara Witherspoon asked. She smoothed her apron and put her hands on her hips.
Her husband fetched his pipe and carefully packed it with fresh tobacco, a sign of stress in the middle of the day, while Jonathan leaned against the doorway, a sliver of hickory protruding from his mouth.
I read the letter I received in the morning mail aloud.
April 5, 1893
Dear Emeline,
I’m sorry to write to you with bad news, but Mr. Pickwick
has taken ill and can no longer manage your farm. Please come to Kearney as soon as possible to speak with him and your caretakers, the Coopers, about its future.
We miss you and hope you’ll come soon.
Sincerely, Miss Ambrose
My arms dropped to my sides, the paper quivering, as I stared through the front window of the house. To the three, I said, “And this took six days to arrive. What’s happened since then? Will you excuse me, please? I need time alone to think.” I donned my wool coat, folded and tucked the news into its pocket, and left them as I slipped across the yard. My voice cracked as I called my Morgan. “Dakota! Here, boy.” I climbed over the fence rails as he clip-clopped toward me. Dropping into the pasture, I used his black mane to pull myself onto his bare back.
Salty tears fell, but dried in the crisp breeze as we trotted around the pasture. What about the people and the place I cherished? We slowed to a stop and Dakota munched on new grass. The scent of lilacs wafted in the breeze, calming me. Memories of my old life in Kearney bubbled to the surface. Losing Ma and the baby to a tragic childbirth had turned me from a ten-year-old child to a motherly figure, as I took care of Pa before and after school. Three years later, Pa’s heart failed, and I’d found myself alone in the world. Oh, I had friends, but no close family. Now the farm belonged to me, but what would I do with it? My eyes squeezed shut. Falling over Dakota’s neck, I sobbed for a long while, clutching a fistful of the horse’s black mane.
Then I dismounted and rested on the soft spring grass mixed with fragrant clover, dried my eyes with my sleeve, and breathed in the cool spring air. I picked long clover stems and wove them together to keep my hands busy. I’d always believed things in Kearney would stay the same until I married, but now I was worried about Mr. Pickwick and the O’Connor Farm I’d inherited. How long could I expect others to manage my property?
I’d chosen to fulfill my promise to Pa and had journeyed to Boston to meet his pa: Grandfather Silas. I recalled Pa’s last words three years ago: “Promise me. Let him get to know you — love you, as I do. Family’s important.” But on the way, the Witherspoons had found me unconscious in the woods near their home and had cared for me until I recovered enough to continue, and I loved them dearly.
My thoughts stilled as I faced the blue sky replete with fluffy white clouds. “Lord, please show me the way. I know you work all things together for good to those who love you, so there must be a purpose I can’t see right now.” I stood, took a deep breath, and placed the clover necklace over my head. “At least the decision is obvious, Dakota.” He nickered, as I resigned myself to meet this forced challenge and returned to the porch where everyone sat, waiting for me.
Jonathan spoke first. “Well? What have you decided?”
I smoothed wisps of windblown hair and said, “Thank you for giving me a moment to clear my head. I’ve decided I must go to Kearney. It’s my legal responsibility. Hopefully, Mr. Pickwick will recover, and things will return to normal.” With red, puffy eyes and a stuffy nose, I turned to Mr. Witherspoon. “It’s Tuesday and I’m sorry I might not complete the order of spindles, sir.” Tears welled up again as I searched for a sign of approval from him.
Samuel smiled and nodded. “I knew you’d do the right thing, Emeline.”
Jonathan tried to lighten the mood. “Don’t worry. We’ll finish them, though I will miss you sharpening my tools.”
“Thanks, Jon.” I gave him a feeble grin.
“Seriously, I hope everything works out for you.” His piercing, ice-blue eyes met my hazel ones. They peered into my soul, but after all these years, I doubted his true feelings for me. Yes, he was a little older, but hadn’t we been close friends for years? Jon remained a beautiful, pleasant mystery.
“Works out...” I repeated the words as I gazed into his handsome face. “Jon, you know I abhor change. I prefer everything tidy and in its place. The unknown scares me to pieces.”
Samuel motioned with his pipe to Clara, and they excused themselves and moved to the kitchen.
“But change is healthy, like the growth of a tree.” Jon continued, as he leaned against the jamb of the front door and gazed outside. “It’s essential to growth, in fact. If nothing changed, wouldn’t life be dull?”
“I suppose. I love the change of seasons, but spring and fall are my favorites.”
He laughed. “That’s ironic, because those are the seasons when things change the most.”
Embarrassed, I smiled and stared at my shoes. “But I prefer a comfortable pair of old shoes to a shiny new pair that needs breaking-in.”
Then the Witherspoons returned. “We have a thought,” said Samuel. “Jonathan and I will manage here while Mrs. Witherspoonaccompanies you to Kearney. You shouldn’t travel that distance alone as you did years ago when we found you — honestly. We love you too much, Emeline.”
“I’ll accompany Emeline on the train, if you like,” Jonathan McFarland said. He shuffled over to a chair, sat down, and leaned forward with his muscular forearms crossed over his knees.
“No, Jon. That would appear improper and besides, I need you here in the shop,” Samuel said.
Shocked, I said, “Goodness, thank you. Are you sure?”
“Yes,” they said together. They reached out to me, and we embraced each other like it was the last time.
“I love you, too.”
After dinner, Clara planned our trip. “First, we’ll drive the carriage down to the train station and purchase tickets,” she said. “I believe the train runs from Indianapolis to St. Louis and then on to Kearney, but I’m not sure. Get ole Applejack ready, will you please, Emeline?”
Orders given, Jonathan and Mr. Witherspoon went back to the wood shop. I, with carrots and a bridle in hand, approached the Witherspoon’s chestnut horse, who grazed in the pasture with my Morgan. “Applejack, we’re going out today. Hello, Dakota! Here’s a carrot for you, too.”
I stroked Dakota’s face and pressed my cheek against his velvety nose as he nuzzled the carrot from my open hand. “I must leave you for a while, but I’ll be back soon. Be good, boy.”
Applejack was easy to bridle, thanks to his love of carrots. I led him to the tack room, strapped him into his harness, and hitched him to the wooden carriage. He shook his head and stamped his front foot. “Do you have something caught in your foot, Applejack?” I checked them all — I found no stones caught in his feet.
Alone with the horse, questions rippled through my mind. Would Peter Pickwick recover? Would the farm be in good shape? How was Harriet? Miss Ambrose? Would I be able to come back? Would I still want to? Would Jon find a girlfriend? What would I do? Since losing my parents, change had equaled uncertainty, risk — and challenge. How would I handle it?
I drove the horse and carriage up to the house, hopped out, and tied Applejack off at the hitching post. “We’re ready, Mrs. Witherspoon,” I called as I climbed the steps, crossed the front porch, and opened the front door.
“Fine,” She picked up her pocketbook. “Hope the tickets aren’t too expensive. Prices have gone sky high lately. Have you read the news?”
“No, not much. Should I?”
“All I’ll say is, I’m glad we own our property and still have plenty of work. So many have lost their jobs... oh, don’t get me started.”
“Let me buy my ticket, at least, with the money I’ve saved. Hold on.” I ran into the house, pulled a box from under my bed, and tuckedseveral paper bills from it into the pocket of my dress — a black and white pinstripe I’d made. I would always be thankful for Ma’s sewing lessons and hoped her Singer machine would still be at our farmhouse in Kearney. Pinning my hair up into a high bun, I tied a white scarfaround it, pulled a swoop of hair down over my forehead, and walked outside, my head held high, though I trembled.
We climbed into the carriage seat. “My, that hairstyle favors you,” Mrs. Witherspoon said.
Like Ma, she encouraged me. I gave her a wide smile and felt older, attractive, and empowered. “Thank you.”
She returned my smile and clicked to Applejack, “Gid-up!” The gentle, dapple-gray horse ambled down the road toward downtown Indianapolis, Indiana.
Applejack’s long silvery mane and tail drifted in the light breeze as we traveled over the bumpy, dusty road to town. Our seat springs made the bumps tolerable. Fresh green leaves adorned the trees and bright yellow forsythia bushes were harbingers of spring. I opened an oversized parasol to protect our skin from the sun, while Mrs. Witherspoon held the reins.
“We’re sure going to miss you, Emeline. You’ve been like a daughter to us. But don’t despair about leaving us. You’re practically seventeen now and old enough to make your own decisions.”
“Oh, Mrs. Witherspoon, I’ll miss you too, and I’m thankful for you both. You’ve been the parents I’ve needed since I lost mine. I hope to return soon.”
“No matter what happens or where you are, remember, the Lord will be with you. You’ll always have friends who love you in Indianapolis.” She turned her face away from me for a moment. “I suspect the same will be true in Kearney, but don’t forget, our door will always be open to you.”
The train depot remained as spectacular as ever: a stunning silver- white edifice with soaring arched doors and windows. Built entirely of hewn granite stones, the tracks ran straight through the interior belly of the building, giving easy access to oncoming passengers on one side and outbound passengers on the other.
A slender man in a black uniform with brass buttons, complete with a billed cap, met us at the ticket counter. “May I help you?”
“Yes, please,” said Clara. “We are traveling to Kearney, Missouri. What is the best route?”
“Normally, passengers either travel through Chicago or St. Louis first, switch trains for Kansas City, and then again for Kearney. You’llneed three tickets: one for each leg of the trip.”
Pulling money from my pocket, I asked, “Which way is least expensive, sir?”
“St. Louis, miss. Hold on, let me check the availability and pricing.” “Thank you.” Clara opened her purse.
“One moment, please, ma’am.” His fingers flew over the timetables
and prices. “A train departs for St. Louis in three days — on Friday at seven o’clock in the morning. But they’ve paused the Wabash railroad line to Kansas City. It will cost $15.00 for the ticket to St. Louis.”
“What about through Chicago?” she asked.
“Checking... no, I’m sorry, they’ve paused the line from Chicago to Kansas City, as well.”
“Oh, dear. Why?”
He explained. “Some lines are bankrupt, while others fight union strikes. It’s a sad state of affairs, which I hope settles soon.”
“We must get back to you. Thank you for your help, sir.” We sat down on a bench in the station. To me, she said, “Well, Emeline, that won’t do.”
“Hmm, let’s give this some thought,” I said. “I’m comfortable riding Dakota across Missouri, if there’s a way for him to travel with me to St. Louis.”
“What about me?” she asked.
“You would stay here. I was fine when you sent me on the train to Boston, right?”
“Yes. Partially because I asked the conductor to look after you.”
“And he did. I even met the nice man, Mr. McCarthy, who helped me find Grandfather. I believe the train is a safe way to travel.”
“I don’t know... It’s probably safer than traveling by horse for days. Let’s consult Mr. Witherspoon.”
“I should at least ask about Dakota and buy a ticket to St. Louis before they’re gone.”
“Ask about Dakota, but don’t buy any tickets yet. You’ll need to pay more for him, too, no doubt.”
“Alright.” I went back to the ticket counter while Clara stayed on the bench. After a brief wait, I made my request. “Hello, again. Will you please tell me if the train to St. Louis has a livestock car? I’d like to take my horse with me.”
“Your horse will have to travel on a freight train, miss. We have protective pads for him, and he’ll be free to move in one of the fourstalls in the car. The only difficulty we sometimes have is getting the horse into the car. Loading spooks some horses,” he said.
“Do these trains depart at the same time?” I asked.
He checked his timetables again. “We have a freight train departing an hour after the passenger train. I have tickets available for both on Friday morning.”
“Fine. How much will a ticket for him cost, please?”
“More than yours, I’m afraid. It’s $20.00, miss.”
“Thank you. I’ll return soon.”
I updated Clara, and we scurried through the depot and hopped
back into our carriage. Applejack nickered as we turned toward home, while my adopted ma reminded me to make a list of things to take. “Three days isn’t long. We’ll have to get your clothes washed up and dried first thing. And on Thursday, I’ll pack a sack of food for you to take along. And don’t forget your canteen.”
I laughed, “Thank you! You remind me of ma — organizing me. I’m an excellent packer.” A pang hit my stomach as I thought of how much I’d miss her. Tears stung my eyes, but dried quickly in the wind.
Back at the house, Jonathan McFarland had returned home for the night. Clara Witherspoon lit the lanterns as daylight waned after supper, and we settled into our respective chairs to discuss the matter.“How will you ensure your safety traveling alone, young lady?”
Samuel Witherspoon asked.
“I’ve made two safe trips alone by train before: to and from Boston.
I know to befriend the conductor.” I smiled.
“Hmm.” He puffed his pipe. The tobacco scented the room with a
sweet bakery odor — like cookies baking. “Mrs. Witherspoon, what are your thoughts?”
“I believe she will make it on the train fine, but it’s such a long trip on horseback after St. Louis. I’d rest easier if she could stay withfriends along the way or have a companion rider.”
“I know to be wary of strangers. I’ll travel near the railroad lines and look for schools or churches to spend the night. And I’ll get supplies from the teachers themselves, or in town with their help. Missouri’s full of small towns. I promise not to spend the night alone in the woods again.”
“I suppose that’s reasonable,” Clara said. “Mr. Witherspoon?”
He tapped his fingers together in thought. “We must let her go. Alright. We’ll keep you in our prayers, Emeline. Send us a postcard whenever you can to apprise us,” Samuel said.
“I will. And I’ll write Miss Ambrose tonight. Since the Coopers are living in my farmhouse, I’ll ask if I can stay with her for a while.” “Very good,” Samuel said. “Come back whenever you can, young lady. We love having you here and you’re a terrific help in
the shop.”
“I shall. Oh! I’ll have Wednesday and Thursday to finish your spindles,” I said, grateful for the respite of time.
Samuel switched pipes, filled a new one, lit it, and walked outside to sit on the front porch swing. Two pipes? If I smoked, I would joinhim. Instead, Clara and I brought out a blanket and sat on either side of him on the swing to watch the wildlife at dusk. “I’ll be careful,” I reassured him. He put one arm around my shoulders and the other around Clara’s. I leaned against his side and pulled a blanket up around my neck. I memorized the scent of his tobacco, as two deer grazed by the tree line.
Thursday morning, I rode Dakota to town to purchase the tickets for our travel on Friday morning, missing two hours of Wednesday’s work in the shop.
When I returned, Jon made his usual request. “Emeline, will you pleased sharpen this curved chisel for me?” With a broad, white smile, he handed me the tool, handle first, as he waved a fly away from his face. “It’s spring!” he said.
I nodded and said, “One of my favorite seasons.” Holding it at the proper angle, I sharpened it with three sharpening stones: coarse, medium, and fine. After a few minutes, I returned it to his workbench. “Tell me if it needs more, Jon.” I caught his eyes for a moment and giggled.
“Thank you.” He held the chisel, lightly checked the edge with his thumb, and carved a new groove on one face of a hickory post with ease,with his broad shoulders and muscular arms. “It’s perfect.” He grinned and continued slicing perfect grooves into the square piece of hardwood. “I’ll miss you while you’re away, and not just because of your work.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” I said. He examined his workmanship after each score. After three years of working with Jon in the woodworkshop, I learned he was a passionate artisan who took pride in his craft. With steady, skillful hands, and a keen eye for detail, he aimed for perfection in every piece. He chiseled several deep furrows on the newel post: all straight and parallel to each other. “Finished,” he said, a wood chip sticking out from his mouth’s corner.
“You’re a true craftsman, Jon,” I said.
“Thank you, Emeline.” Proud of himself, he flashed a perfect smile and turned the newel post to expose its blank side, ready for embellishment.
“Jon?” I asked.
“Yes?” He stopped and turned toward me.
Time grew short, and I considered professing my true feelings
for him right then, but I stopped myself. What’s the use of it now when I’m leaving? I smiled, but my stomach churned. “Oh, nothing. I’d better get back to work.”
At the lathe, I secured a three-foot long stick of hickory, set the wheel for a medium speed, and pressed the foot treadle to start it turning. Within thirty minutes, I’d turned the stick into a shaped spindle with multiple curves using various chisels. Loosely holding a flat chisel against the contours, I swept them lightly to check for smoothness. Any bouncing would reveal flat spots. Smooth and round. I smiled with pride and stacked it with the other finished work.
Clang, clang, clang. Clara rang the bell on the farmhouse porch. I echoed, “Jonathan — Mr. Witherspoon — time for dinner!”Samuel placed his tools and apron on the workbench and mopped
his brow with a kerchief, as did Jon and I. We approached the sprawling white farmhouse with its wraparound porch, ornate with its homemade gingerbread trim, eager for dinner.
“I love crisp bacon,” I said.
“Hot coffee,” Samuel said.
“Warm cornbread,” Jon said. “With sweet honey butter. My
mouth’s watering.”
Clara served these, plus scrambled eggs and fresh milk. After a
thankful prayer, we devoured our dinners.
“How’s the Johansson job coming along? Will we finish it by
tomorrow?” she asked.
Samuel paused and sipped his coffee. “Yes, I believe so. Jonathan,
Emeline, what do you say? I’m about finished with the hand and bottom rails.”
“Yes, sir,” I said with confidence. “Only eight spindles left.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said. “I’m working on the last post.” He winked and grinned at me from across the table and I returned it. “Emeline’s an expert with the lathe now, too.” Turning toward me, he asked, “Do you ever get bored with making the same shape repeatedly?”
“Honestly, I don’t, because each piece of wood is unique, even if its shape’s the same,” I answered. “Someday, I hope you’ll teach me how to carve the newel posts and broaden my skills, but I doubt I’m the artisan you are.” I smiled and continued. “And I’m not as strong.”
After lunch, Jonathan whispered, “Let’s surprise Mrs. Witherspoon and wash up the dishes for her. What do you say?”
“Great idea — I’ll wash while you dry and put away.” We chatted as we worked side by side at the sink, thankful for the inside water pump which filled the washtub.
“I’m nervous about what the future holds,” I said.
I handed him a plate to dry, and he asked, “What do you want?” Wistful for a moment, I said, “My big dream is to have a husband
and children someday.” My face flushed. “What about you, Jon?” Either my answer or his secretive nature prevented him fromanswering immediately. “Oh, I don’t have a big dream yet. I’ll have to
think about it. I may have one when you return to us.”
It felt natural and comfortable working next to Jon, and to me, it was a special feeling that I never wanted to end. But why didn’t he
use the word “me” instead of “us”? I ignored the slight.
