Saturday's Lady

Eight

Hushed words were coming from the hallway outside Emma's door.

She checked the clock. It was half past eleven on a Thursday, shouldn't everyone be in bed? But her curiosity overcame her. She slid out of bed and padded to the door to listen.

"I'm done with the secrets and the- the lies," spat a voice-- Hannah's. "I am tired of having to be maid to two ladies, one of which isn't even a lady! It's not my fault she got old and decided to live vicariously through some brat to feel better about herself. I had hoped this whole farce would have been over by now."

"I don't think that's really fair, Hannah," started the voice of Abigail, the other kitchen maid. "Emma's nice enough, it's not her fault the old lady wanted her to do this--"

"And now she's got some gentleman caller and she acts like she's better than the rest of us! She's even started talking in that ridiculous accent with us. I miss when she was just the dumb little ginger that did the mending."

Emma rolled her eyes. It wasn't her fault, after all, that she'd been pulled into this cage.

"I'm done!" hissed Hannah, her voice rising. "I'm telling Mrs. Remigrant that I quit. I'll find somewhere else, and maybe somebody will take pity on me and then I'll marry rich."

Emma smirked. Good luck with that.

"Mrs. Remigrant is a good employer," protested Abigail. "She's fair enough and pays fairly well."

"I've been here for years. It's time for a change. Maybe I'll go up to the mountains."

"And do what?"

"There's plenty of rich folk up there to work for."

Abigail huffed. "Do it, then, but could you let me go to bed now? It's late."

Emma stepped back towards her moonlit cot.  She had no problem with Hannah leaving. The other girl had held nothing but contempt for Emma for years.

She wished her the best, and when she fell asleep she dreamed of her father.

*****

"Mrs. Remigrant?"

The old lady raised her head and opened her eyes. "Yes, Emma? What is so important you decided to stop reading to me?"

Emma closed the book-- something by Hawthorne-- and used her finger to hold the place. "You've said before that I can't tell my family about our-- social life," she began, settling herself in her chair. "However, since I'm likely to marry a man of your class, how can I tell them? I wouldn't like to lie to my family about my marriage."

Mrs. Remigrant thought for a moment, leaning her head back into her chair. "I've wondered the same, recently," she said. "If they swear to keep it quiet, you can tell your siblings. Don't let them expect any favours."

"Of course not, ma'am. Thank you." Satisfied, Emma opened the book and began to read again, but she didn't miss how the old lady looked at her: like there was something she wanted to know, but couldn't find a way to ask.

*****

It had been a long, hot day in the field, and he decided he could treat himself to a pint. It had been a long while since he'd had one, and one wouldn't hurt. Besides, he had the spare change.

So he sat in the saloon on the outskirts of Omaha and asked for a pint, just the one, and then he handed his coin to the barkeeper. There were lots of people milling around in the dusty autumn evening, plenty of men at the bar.

A large man with a thick blond beard sat heavily next to him and called for a whiskey, putting down a nickel. 

"Long day?" asked the man with blond hair. He had a thick accent- German or Scandinavian, the red-haired man couldn't tell.

He took a swig of his beer. It was almost as good as he remembered. "Aye. Nobody told me haying would be such hard work on a hot day."

The other man laughed, taking his drink. "I have not seen you here before."

"I try to stay away from the drink. Almost ruined my life, it did, once."

The man raised his eyebrows approvingly. "It is a good man who knows what is bad," he said, then stuck out his thick hand. "Gunnar Oleson. I have a farm."

The red-haired man took the hand firmly. "James MacEilan. I've been working on a farm a few months."

Oleson took a sip of his whiskey. "You have not been in Omaha long?"

James shook his head. "Not in America long either. Came over last year." He took another drink. "How long have you been here?"

"Five years. My brother and I went to Wisconsin but it was too much like Norway. I wanted to learn English and see something new. Omaha is good."

"It's better than Chicago and New York put together," agreed James, "at least the air is clean."

Oleson laughed. "Ja, and the sky is blue here. I only miss the mountains."

"I miss the sea," James confessed as he drank. "Lived my whole life around it, and now there's a thousand miles between rivers, let alone the sea."

"I hear there are big mountains in the West. Full of gold. If my wife would let me I would dig for it."

"At least there'd be work for the winter." James finished his drink and put down the mug, thinking.

"Mountain winters are hard. Here, they are windy, but we get through them. In the mountains winter kills."

"Is there really gold?"

Oleson shrugged and put down his glass. "I had a neighbor who went in the spring. He thought he would be rich, but I have not heard anything."

"Maybe I'll go." 

"It is worth a try. But it is not safe for children to live there, and my wife would not like it. I love her too much to try to convince her."

"I haven't got a wife or kids anymore," James remarked a little bitterly. "I may as well strike it rich in the West."

Both men were silent. James stood up. "Thanks for the talk, Oleson."

"Good luck," replied the big man. "I hope you find the gold."

"So do I," called James with a smile as he walked out of the saloon. "So do I."

Yep, their dad is back and he's headed straight for Colorado. What do you think will happen? What do you want to happen?

Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter!

Also- with the dates-- I realised I needed a time jump of about a year, because things felt like they were moving way too fast. I've tried to hunt through to fix continuity errors, but please point any out that I missed!