Emma Field Book I - coming of age in the changing times of the mid-19th century

Chapter XX - Making Right

By the time Emma pressed the handle of the latch she knew what she needed to do. She threw a piece of wood on the fire without stirring the coals, added a dipper of water to the pot of stew, and hung the pot on the crane. She was grateful she didn't need to peel more potatoes tonight too. Tomorrow she would put salt pork on to boil before she left for school. She unfolded the settle just enough to find the bundle of fabric Mrs. Henderson had given her. She glanced at the table, then took the fabric to her father's bed in the corner and tenderly rearranged the colours.

This must be how God feels, she thought as she cut and stitched, ironed and rearranged, the hours flying by. Her father returned just as she was poking the last of some carded wool into the side seams of the doll's body.

"There you are! Why did you leave in such a hurry earlier? Whatever are you making a doll for?"

"It's for Jane," Emma replied without looking up.

"Jane? Doesn't she have enough worldly possessions?"

"Yes, she does, but this is different."

"I see."

"Can we eat now, Father? I want to get as much done on this tonight as I can."

Father and daughter quickly ate the last of the stew and Emma put the dirty dishes in the dishpan. "I forgot to put water on to boil," she explained. "I will take care of them in the morning. That's all right, isn't it, Father?"

"Yes." He took a candle from the candle box. "That firelight isn't bright enough for you to be sewing by. There's no need to ruin those eyes before you have a chance to become a school mistress!"

"Thank you. I really want to make this for Jane."

"That is quite apparent," he said as he leaned toward the fire. He felt rather pleased with himself today. He had done the right thing, mailing that letter to Seamus.

Emma worked on the doll until long after her father had crawled beneath his fabric-covered blankets.

"Leave them there," he'd said. "It would do me good to sleep beneath a rainbow."

Emma's eyes felt dry and tight. She whipstitched the last seam and placed the colourful doll on the windowsill above the settle before wetting her finger and extinguishing the candle flame. She was too tired to change into her nightclothes.

•

Emma bolted from bed as soon as her father stirred in the morning.

"What a sleep! This must be how a leprechaun feels every morning! Will you leave that fabric there?"

"What? Oh. See what I made? I finished it last night! Isn't she beautiful?"

"So that's why the candle is so low. We maybe shouldn't put a candle in the window this Christmas; we've hardly enough to carry us through to next fall, though it won't be long before the days start to lengthen again," Jeremiah responded, running his fingers through his hair. "The sleeves are a little short, aren't they?"

"They are supposed to be that way. That's the latest fashion, Father."

"Oh. And they are a little...scooped. Is that the latest fashion too?"

"Yes! And you call that 'flared.' See the lace under-sleeves which go to the wrist?"

"That doll will never do a day's work in her life, will she?"

"No. Do you have a tiny piece of paper I may have, please?"

Jeremiah rummaged through the cupboard and held up a thumb-size piece of nearly brown paper.

"Perfect. Thank you." Emma carefully wrote three words on the paper and pinned it to the doll's dress.

Her father looked over her shoulder. "'I'm sorry. Emma.' Why did you write that?"

"Because I needed to." Emma threw her shawl over her shoulders and raced out to the privy just as the sunlight hit the windows of the boarding school.