Quiet Dell: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

nine years old, precocious, and so preoccupied with fairies and spirits and pronouncements. Hart says shetalks in her sleep, and I often hear her, perfectly alone in her room, whispering away.”
    “The plays are her games. She’s her own society. And she is providing our only after-dinner entertainment. The more elaborate, I say, the better.” He reached to touch her hand. “Anna, Anna. I’d love to see you smile.”
    Looking at him, so tall and handsome and beloved, she did smile. He wore a man’s oilcloth apron that Heinrich had worn in the workshop, years ago. Those aprons were indestructible, unlike so much else. But all that could change. She thought of the letters in her bureau drawer, tied with silk twine, one nearly every day for the past weeks. Still smiling, she felt a blush rise to her face, and her eyes moistened.
    “That’s better,” Charles said. Noticing her warm glance at his attire, he untied the apron and thrust it into her arms.
    She laughed, folding the thick thing in squares, smaller and smaller, just as she had years ago, walking through the grass from the workshop on summer evenings with Heinrich. They worked hard on weekends while Lavinia entertained the children, then stayed up late en famille, eating fine meals Betty kept in the warmer, hand-turning ice cream, playing croquet by lamplight, listening to gramophone records. Heinrich loved teaching them ballroom dancing and boxing postures. Annabel was his poppet, his Nell, and Hart followed him everywhere. There were good things to remember, things she must hold fast.
    Charles had followed her into the kitchen. “Madam?” He put his gold cuff links in her hand and held up his wrists like a cooperative prisoner.
    Anna fastened the French cuffs of his shirt and watched approvingly as he pulled on his suit coat. He was fine and dear and she would miss him. But surely he would forgive her someday, and visit them often. He seemed much valued at Dunnegan, and came and went as business dictated. He would stay for holidays, just as now. Cornelius’ Iowa holdings were not so far from Chicago, and she would write to Charles from the property in the South, explainingall. Better to tell him by letter. All was so clear when one held a letter in one’s hand. One’s handwriting was intimate, a reflection of one’s deepest nature. Cornelius had spoken volumes; page after page of his flowing script had comforted and led and reassured her; he’d questioned with her, answered, deepened their bond to one of lasting strength.
    “Anna.” Charles touched her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “Sit down with me. We’ve been working from the moment we lay eyes on one another this morning. The bird is in one oven and the vegetables in the other. Everything must cook. And I insist we have a glass of wine.”
    “Yes, let’s do. Where shall we have it?”
    “In the dining room, at our own Christmas table.”
    His warm touch was on her shoulders. Dear Charles. He’d insisted on ordering in all the provisions, for he knew the local tradesmen, apologizing that he hadn’t time to actually bake the pies this year but thought the children would appreciate apple and cherry tarts, as well as a chocolate bûche de Noël and another treat he’d kept fastened in a cardboard cake box. A surprise, he’d said.
    “I must speak with you now, Anna. You must give me leave.” He turned her to face him, and looked quite grave. There was a high color in his cheeks.
    A chill gripped her heart. He might be ill. She knew this happened. Lavinia’s husband, Heinrich’s father, had died young, hidden away in a sanatorium, poisoned with the mercury antidote to his disease. Lavinia had known, never reproached him, and stayed with him to the end. “Of course, Charles,” Anna said. “What is it? You’re not ill?”
    He smiled to reassure her, and put his mouth against her hair. They stood quite still for a moment. “No, of course I’m not ill,” he said.
    Anna was too