The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(22)
Emma Hopkins, the librarian, allowed Abigail Anne to take home six and seven books at a time even though the rule was no more than three. “Abigail dear, have you read this one about our United States Presidents?” Emma would ask; then she’d stack another book on top of the pile of those already selected.
On the first Sunday in August, William told Abigail to fix an especially nice dinner. “The Kellers are coming to visit,” he said, “and they’re bringing that nice young boy of theirs with them. Name’s Henry, I believe.”
Abigail, who now wore Livonia’s apron day in and day out even though it had been washed a hundred times and long ago lost the scent of her mother, fried up a platter of chicken and boiled a pot of potatoes. It was the hottest day of the season, so hot that even the livestock left the grass of the field and clustered together under shady maples, but Abigail baked biscuits and a peach pie. When William saw the sideboard laden with food, he smiled. “Ah yes,” he said, “that boy’s gonna like this.”
Abigail didn’t answer because she was engrossed in a news story telling how a woman from Montana had been elected to Congress. “See, Papa,” she said. “Mama was right; women can do anything they set their mind to!”
“What are you talking about, girl?” William looked over Abigail’s shoulder and saw the headline that read Jeanette Rankin—the U.S.’s First Congresswoman. He turned down his mouth and shook his head from side to side. “Lord God,” he mumbled, “what next?” Then he told Abigail she ought to clean herself up, maybe rouge her cheeks a bit.
The Kellers arrived just after two o’clock with their son Henry, who was already taller than his father and skinny as a fence post. With a real friendly looking smile on his face, William led them into the parlor, the room usually reserved for very special company. “Sit here,” he told Mister Keller and motioned to the biggest chair. He told Abigail to fetch some cold tea; then he turned his attention back to Mister Keller. “Well, John,” he said, “how’s that spread of yours doing this year?”
John Keller was a somber faced man who had the habit of rubbing his chin whenever he had to think about something. “Better than ever,” he answered and cupped his palm to his chin. “We got twenty-two calves. Herd’s so thick I had to open up the far meadow. You?”
“The same,” William answered. “Come harvest time we’ll need two, maybe three, pickers.” He looked over at Henry, who was all arms and legs. “I’ll bet a stropping lad like you is a mighty big help to your Pa. Is that so, boy?”
Henry shuffled around in his seat, as if being the topic of conversation made him uncomfortable. “I suppose,” he answered.
“My Abigail, she’s a born housekeeper. Since I lost Livonia, she’s taken over all the cooking and cleaning. Why, just wait ‘till you taste the dinner she’s cooked up today. Even Livonia couldn’t make a better peach pie than this girl!”
“Papa!” Abigail blushed.
After dinner, William suggested that the young folks ought to visit on the front porch for a spell, but then he turned to Will and told him to take care of the evening chores. Henry led Abigail outside and they sat on the swing.
“Your Papa’s a right nice man,” Henry said as he reached his arm around Abigail’s shoulder.
“He means well,” she answered.
“He was right about that pie. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
Abigail smiled. “Pie-making’s nothing, I’m gonna be a teacher.”
As soon as the Kellers had taken their leave, William turned to Abigail; “Well?” he said, “Did you like him?”
“He’s nice enough,” she answered then stuck her nose in a book about India.
“His family’s got the biggest spread in BlackburnCounty, and Henry, he’s their only boy. A fine looking lad; of marrying age, I’d say. A boy like that is bound to be a good provider.” Abigail didn’t answer, so William walked away grinning to himself.
From that point on, Henry Keller became a regular visitor at the Lannigan farm and William went out of his way to make the boy feel welcome. “Have another piece of pie, son,” he’d say and clap the boy on the back so vigorously that the skinny lad wobbled. The minute Henry walked through the door William would let a grin settle on his face. “You remind me of myself,” he’d say, “salt of the earth, hard working. Yes sir, not a whisker of foolishness about you.”
When school started again, Abigail was overjoyed. She’d practice the multiplication tables in her head as she washed William’s workpants; or she’d think about the rules of sentence structure as she swept the kitchen. “School is so exciting,” she told Henry, but he pretty much shrugged the thought off. “Miss Troy said there are airplanes that can fly from one end of the country to the other,” she told him but Henry preferred to grapple her into a position where he could steal a kiss. “Don’t you care about what goes on in the world?” she’d ask, and he’d shake his head no.
By the time fall turned into winter and the air became so cold and brittle it hurt a person’s lungs to breathe, Abigail’s worlds began to collide. It seemed that dinner was never ready on time, the biscuits were usually burned, she’d forget to feed the chickens then have to get out of bed in the dead of night to do it and she hadn’t read a book in months. One Sunday she told Henry he shouldn’t come over so often. “Once or twice a month,” she said, “that’s enough ‘till I catch up on my schoolwork.”