My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Seven

Tuesday dawned cloudy with darker clouds on the horizon. Anna rode into town on the back of Simon's horse to help with the store. That left me to help Cordelia with the ironing.

Most of the time, she was distracted by the small children. Susan spent the day outside, weeding the small garden. My trunk was still missing and every moment I thought I'd be able to go in search of it, Cordelia demanded me to get back to work. Every time I asked after it, twice in writing and once vocally, I was ignored.

Besides the change in task, the day passed more or less as Tuesday had, ending exactly the same: my work ignored while Cordelia's and Susan's was praised by Father.

Wednesday, as it turned out, was the day for mending, which I had begun on Monday. Simon remained behind to put together the bedframes for everyone in the attic, and then he joined Mr. Prater—I still had yet to learn his first name—to do repairs to fences and the roof of the barn.

Though I offered, by means of gestures, to take lunch out to them, Cordelia sent Susan, who was more than happy to abandon her needlework.

Selfishly, I was delighted when a quick comparison revealed that my stitches were smaller and more even than my stepmother's. It felt good to have something I was good at, whether anyone else noticed or not. But it would have been nice for my work to have been recognized.

Thursday's task was to put away everything that had been washed, mended, and ironed the previous days. To have these tasks spread out over three days confused me. They all were difficult it was true, but was it so hard to put things away immediately?

I tried to ask my stepmother but her expression of disgust when she read the question made me think this was how it was done.

On Friday, while Cordelia and Anna became dusted with flour from baking, I was tasked with doing a small load of washing. The baby went through many diapers each day and little Katie had not yet stopped wetting the bed. After several days, the smell was intolerable.

The task went quickly, and while the cloth waved in the breeze, I too advantage of the time to enter the barn. Mr. Prater looked up from where he was repairing a harness and he stood up. It was the first time his hat was nowhere to be seen.

"Can I help you?" he asked. His expression was so serious. Did he ever smile?

Did he smile for Anna?

Shoving that jealous thought to the back of my mind where it belonged, I gestured with my hands, miming a box in the air. If I'd known he or anyone else would be in there, I would have gotten my slate. I tried to keep it on hand, but there were sometimes, like when i was up to my elbows in soapy water, when it was inconvenient.

"—need...box?" he asked with a frown.

Close, but not quite right. I shook my head and knelt down. I held my hand about how tall I thought my trunk was and then held my hand apart with the width. I looked up at him and mouthed, 'Trunk.'

Understanding dawned and he gave a nod. Relieved, I stood up and then followed him further into the barn. In one of the unused horse stalls was my trunk. Delighted, my hand automatically signed, 'Thank you!' as I rushed to it.

I didn't pause for a moment as I knelt down to open it. The scent of the lavender I had packed in it to keep my clothes fresh drifted up as soon as the lid opened. It out me in mind of my aunt when I breathed it in.

Knowing there wouldn't be enough room for me to take my trunk in, I rifled through my belongings. I selected two dresses, one being my Sunday best, and also I pulled out my sketchbook. The rest could wait.

After all, what would be the point of unpacking it all if I was only going to ask Father about returning to Hartford?

Pleased with myself, I sent a smile at Mr. Prater and carried a small armload of my clothes out of the barn. My stepmother stood by the washtub, her hands on her hips. It wasn't until I followed her gaze that I understood why she appeared to be angry.