Page 40 of Hank and Elsie
He took a deep breath and then a sip of his tea. If Elsie had swooned, she probably would have been fine. Bruised, yes. The ground was hardened by a lack of recent rain.But what if she’dhit her head on a stone?The very idea made his rapid heartbeat kick back up.
Now, cowboy, he chided.Stop digging in your spurs.Elsie’s fine!He gave her another studying glance. Still pale but looking a bit more like her lively self. Her eyes had regained their normal brightness.
In one hand, Miss Taylor held a silver platter of baked goods formed in a roundish shape. Her other hand grasped a china platter with a small bowl of jam and one of pale butter. “Elsie did a bit of baking this week, trying a Scottish recipe from Mrs. Cameron.” She held out the silver platter for Hank to select one.
Curious, Hank studied the offerings, wondering what exactly she’d baked. They weren’t flat like cookies and too lumpy to be rolls, or so he hoped. He did want a wife with cooking and baking skills. He caught himself and had to inwardly laugh. Hehadwanted a wife who’d be good in the kitchen. But right now, he’d take Elsie alive and healthy, and hopefully, someday, in love with him.
“These are scones.” Miss Taylor brought him back to the present. “You eat them with jam and the clotted cream.”
“Oh, I thought that was butter.”
“No,” Miss Taylor said cheerfully. “Similar, though. Mrs. Cameron gave me a crock of clotted cream.” She glanced at Mrs. Bailey. “I hope you’ll like it. Elsie tells me that you’re a dab hand at butter making.”
The stern expression on Mrs. Bailey’s face eased into a preen. “Well, it does make a difference what you feed your cow,” she said in a self-deprecating tone. “There was a time when she got into a wild onion patch.”
Elsie laughed. “That butter, ugh. We hadn’t known the patch was there. Although, ever since, we’ve made good use of those wild onions. Saved us having to plant any.”
Mr. Bailey nodded. “More room for carrots and potatoes.”
Elsie wrinkled her nose. “And turnips.”
“Parsnips,” Mary echoed, with a similar scrunched face.
“Rutabagas,” Ricky chimed in.
“Beets,” Elsie said with a giggle, obviously enjoying being playful with her siblings.
Her brother and sister let out simultaneous groans.
Mrs. Bailey swept her offspring a repressive frown. “That’s enough from the three of you. I count it a blessing when we have a good crop of those vegetables. Those are staples that last.”
“Speaking of our root crops….” Although, Mr. Bailey’s expression remained solemn, his voice held a lift. “The harvest is plentiful, thank the Good Lord. Of course, I don’t dare to hope until everything is stored safely away, this looks to be the best in four years. Even better because we have the extra field.” He gave Elsie a direct look. “Come the beginning of October, we’ll need you home, Daughter.”
She grinned at him. “I’ll be there, Pa.”
Hank had to give Elsie credit for maintaining her cheerful countenance. He knew how much living and working in town meant to her. To return home, to the arduous labor of bringing in the harvest, must cost her some pangs.
After spreading clotted cream and jam on his scone, Hank took a bite.Delicious.When he’d finished his mouthful, he forced himself to wait to take another. “Do you harvest the crops by yourself?”
“Those from our garden, of course,” Mrs. Bailey answered.
Mr. Bailey nodded in agreement. “Our nearest neighbors, the Smithsons, we help them—takes about a week with us all working together, and then they help us for about four days. So, our harvest time lasts about a week and a half.”
Elsie set her cup on her plate. At the clinking sound, she winced. “And we pray that a storm doesn’t roll in before we’vefinished. One year, we got in all of the Smithsons’ crops and only half of ours.”
“Elsie,” her mother chided.
Wanting to spare Elsie from more of her mother’s disapproval, Hank hurriedly asked another question. “Do you take turns? One year the Smithsons go first and the next year you do?”
“No.” Elsie frowned. “The Smithsons have greater status, so they always come first.”
“Elsie,” her mother warned again. She looked from Hank to Miss Taylor. “The Smithsons’ family is larger, with adult sons and sons-in-law.”
“The Smithsons are richer,” Ricky muttered.
Mrs. Bailey let out an exasperated breath. “Yes, more well-off,” she admitted. “They come from money back East. But they’ve been good neighbors.”
Ricky scowled and stretched out his legs. “Because we cater to them. And, still, they rub our noses in every good deed.”
