“What else am I to do? Fend for myself as a widow?” I rolled my eyes in jest. We both knew that I would manage just fine.
“A new marriage would limit your possibilities.” He straightened up beside me; his hand came to rest on my thigh.
I glanced at him. His dark hair had gained streaks of silver over the years; he was growing older, my friend, but it did not make him any less handsome. “What possibilities?” My gaze went back to the road.
“If you should ever dare another enterprise.” His voice was honey sweet.
“I told you I wouldn’t.” I batted at his hand, which had crawled farther up my thigh.
“Things may change; perhaps you’ll need my services again.” He gave my thigh a squeeze, and I wondered which of his services he referred to.
“I better make sure not to need your services then.” I lifted my chin a little.
“Oh, but I think you will. Our kind don’t change so easily, and it’s hard to go back to that ‘wholesome life’ after doing what you did in Chicago.” He let go of my thigh, but the warmth lingered.
“Still, I’m leaving it all behind.” I nodded once to emphasize my words.
“To be a pig farmer?” The disbelief in his voice was priceless.
“Just that.” I snapped the reins.
“And married to a butcher.” He suddenly laughed; the sound was dark and velvet soft. “I can see the charm in that.”
“You just don’t like that I’m leaving Chicago.” Another look at him and I could tell that he was looking at me too, with something almost like sadness. I could certainly sympathize. Of all the things I had to give up by leaving the city, the closeness to him was the only thing I would truly grieve. I took great pleasure in my friendship with Mr. Lee. “When I was a girl, I used to daydream of owning a farm,” I told him. “Where I grew up, it was as good as a castle, and everyone listened to those who had one. I suppose I wanted people to treat me better . . . I decided that I would have countless cows and more maids than I needed, just because I could, but then, having worked on such farms myself, I was sick of it all for a good long while. It’s different now, though; people repulse me after that whole ordeal with Mads, and it seems a good time to revive that old dream—to give myself what I wanted so much back then.” I snapped the reins again.
“Dreams change for a reason,” he noted.
“Maybe those reasons are poor.” I fumbled for the bottle of brandy by my feet.
“I don’t like letting you out of my sight.” He helped me uncork the bottle. “You are bold but too careless on your own. I would rather be there to assist you, and make sure that your dealings go smoothly. It was a close call with Mads, and then the Alma Street fire.”
“I’m quite capable, James,” I muttered as I retrieved the bottle.
“Of course you are.” His hand came back to rest on my thigh. “But if there’s ever something I can do, never hesitate to ask.”
* * *
—
The property was large, as expected. The orchard bristled with gnarled trees and bushes, while tall cedars would give plenty of shade around the house in summer. There was a sizable barn and a windmill, a small pond, a water pump, and several sheds for equipment and tools. The buildings needed work and the fields needed tending, but none of that came as a surprise. Mr. Williams’s in-laws had lived there; they were elderly and could not care properly for the place.
The main house was square and made of red brick, with a wooden addition in the back. The building sported twelve rooms in all—Mrs. Altic’s business would have had room to thrive. The double front doors led from the porch directly into a parlor with marble details; behind it was a beautiful dining room. Both rooms had exquisite, expensive flooring, though like everything on the property, it was run-down and old. Back in Mattie Altic’s days, the house would have been made up to be as lovely and inviting as the girls themselves, but now it was only the expensive materials that spoke of a time when the liquor flowed and passions ran high within its walls. I wondered how it was that the former inhabitants chose to end their lives when living in a place so pleasing to the eye. How could one even be touched by sorrow and strife when living with such beauty? I felt giddy as a girl while flitting through the rooms, caressing the smooth paneling with my rough and callused hands. These walls would not tarnish, I felt sure of it. No invisible filth would ever coat the voluptuous roses that sprawled on the dining room walls, or diminish the iridescent green in the parlor that would work so well with my furniture.
The kitchen was located in the addition at the back of the house, below a room for hired help. It was large with a working table covered in oilcloth and dozens of cupboards lining the walls, along with a sizable flour bin. The cookstove was old, but that could be changed. The pantry was cool and perfect for meat. Behind the kitchen was a small hallway that led out back and housed the door to the cellar, where a large, heavy wringer was already in place. The cellar had a dirt floor and dozens of shelves that would be perfect for storage.
Two of the six bedrooms were located on the first floor, off the parlor and the dining room; the four remaining were upstairs. The rooms were not very large but fit for a bed and a washstand. As I inspected the rooms I could see it so clearly, how the walls would look with a coat of fresh paint or covered in lovely wallpapers. Beautiful rooms for my beautiful girls. I just could not wait to begin.
Mr. Williams was eager to sell me the farm. He pointed, gestured, and gave me numbers. It was all rather pointless, as I had already decided that I wanted it. Brookside was clearly worth more than my Chicago property, and Mr. Williams and I discussed it for some time before deciding on an acceptable deal.
“Is it a good place to raise pigs?” I asked Mr. Williams as we stood outside in the yard, where a few scrawny chickens flitted about under a large maple tree. There was a scent of hope in the air. Hope, manure, and fat, black soil. James was wrong, I decided. I would never need his help while living on this land.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Williamson said. “There’s already a hog pen.”
“What about Mattie Altic? Did she keep pigs as well?” I could not help but tease him for the things he had failed to disclose.
The man reddened behind his beard. “I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Sorensen. That was a very long time ago.”
“No,” I mused. “She probably didn’t. She probably only kept girls.”
I could hear James’s laughter behind me; he was standing a little away from us, inspecting some bushes.
This was the place, I could feel it my bones—this was the place to flourish and thrive.
28.
Belle
LaPorte, 1901–1902