Something Worth Doing Read online

  Ben gave up the breeding stock, selling his beloved stallions he’d been building a solid bloodline behind. He did so without a word of protest. Penance. Self-imposed. She chastised herself when she snapped at him. She found she liked living in Lafayette full-time, closer to family, finding new ways to make money, relieved of the heavy farm work or chasing coyotes from sheep pens. But oh, how she missed the view!

  Ben had managed to find a buyer, so they didn’t have to file bankruptcy to settle the claim. Millard Lownsdale, the son of a man who had brought apples to the Oregon Territory and had made a fortune because of it, bought Sunny Hillside. He planned to expand the orchard and had the capital to do so. Abigail was glad that the land would be nurtured but resented that some had the means to prosper at the expense of those working hard every day who lived on the edge and by some small mistake could fall to ruin.

  “If not for you, we’d be there too, Abigail. Penniless. You work so hard.”

  She thought to encourage him by saying that the farm brought as much as it did because of his work, his vision of the orchard he’d begun. That she knew he’d sacrificed by going to the mines and that he too had lost dreams along with the farm. But she kept silent, perhaps sending her anger at despicable men, which at that moment included her husband.

  Withholding comfort now and then was better than being strident. Even Clara had said once when Abigail snarled at her spouse, “Don’t be mad at Pa. He’s doing the best he can.” Abigail knew he was, and she chastised herself for her attitude, hoped the husband-bashing and self-lashing would not last. She didn’t much like herself for her reluctance to prop him up, but she hadn’t yet learned that not forgiving Ben hurt her as much as him.

  “I’ve been working on something.” Ben stared at the egg noodles he swirled on his supper plate, not at Abigail. It was months since they’d moved and life had taken on new patterns. Ben was gone often in the afternoons, and Abigail assumed he was once again visiting with his friends. That was good. She hoped he’d start singing again too. He cleared his throat. “Something that could help with the laundry.”

  “One of those Thor washing machines would be handy to have, but we can’t afford it.”

  “I’ve made a better one and enough different with the wringer attached and two rinse tubs that Capt John thinks it could be patented.” Ben’s words were tentative.

  “Don’t forget to scrub that noddle pan, Clara.” Then to Ben, Abigail said, “So that’s what you’ve been doing. Why, that’s wonderful.” It is!

  “I apprenticed with a cooper back in Illinois. Did I tell you that?” She shook her head that he hadn’t. “I’m ready to give it a try here. If you approve, of course.”

  “Why would you even wonder. Anything to make laundry easier, though saving for one of those newfangled Thors might have been quicker.”

  “Mine has features.” He looked up at her now.

  She reached across the table and took his hand not engaged in noodle-shifting. “If you designed it, I’m sure it will be superior to anything on the market. Bring it home. Let me see those features.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ben pulled his hand from beneath hers, stood, and carried his dishes to the soapy water in the dishpan. “Are you ready for your story, Wilkie?” he asked their youngest. The child nodded his head. He’d been slower to pick up language, though Abigail wasn’t worried. Yet. “You are? Good. I’ll read. You turn the pages.”

  “We do it together. You sing, Pa?”

  “Maybe.” He smiled at Abigail, kissed the top of her head as he walked by.

  “Well, I never,” Abigail said. “It works . . . fine, Ben. Yes, it does.”

  “You say it as though you doubted it would.” He’d filled the tubs with water, and a pump heated it so Abigail didn’t have to lift steaming pots of water. She still had to swirl the clothes with a stick, but the heavy lifting was gone. Dirty water drained into a bucket he could carry for watering the garden.

  “No. I didn’t doubt you.” But I did, shame on me.

  “I’ll eventually work out some kind of trough so you can do laundry in the kitchen instead of outside or in the laundry house. We can put the wastewater on the garden.” He showed her how the rinse tub worked.

  “I won’t make much on the sale of each one, but it’ll bring in something now and then.”

  She kissed his cheek, dabbed sweat from his forehead with a towel, then wiped her own. “A labor-saving device. It’s wonderful, Ben. I’m proud of you.”

  It looked like he might cry.

  Abigail rose at 4:00 a.m. in order to prepare the day’s lessons, staying one step ahead of the learners. Ben watched their children too young to attend school, and he’d taken over preparing much of the larger meal of the day. The boarders were fed breakfast and supper. It was a cooperative effort.

  “If I’m honest with myself,” Abigail told her sister Kate, “It’s all been good. I love running the school and the bustle of the boarders and having the children know of current events and giving them wise counsel. My counsel, of course.” She clacked her knitting needles, making winter socks.

  “A chance to pontificate,” Kate said. “Your forte.” The two sat on the Coburns’ porch while Ben and Captain John smoked, leaning over the back rail.

  “It is my métier.” Abigail grinned. “And Ben is such a help with the children and the housework. He doesn’t bat an eye at that broom. And he’s invented a washing machine. It actually is quite useful.”

  “I hope you’ve let him know how much you appreciate him.”

  “In my way,” Abigail said.

  “Ha! I know your ways.”

  Kate rose from her rocking chair where she’d nursed her youngest, placed her baby in the cradle where a lace coverlet draped nearly to the floor. “You’ve turned your loss into something full of gain, Jenny. Perhaps you’ll worry less now, enjoy your teaching more. And Ben’s assistance. He doesn’t appear as sad about the farm sale.”

  She’d noticed that too. He sighed less and even joked with her now and then, when she let him make her laugh. Perhaps inventing something took him from his cellar of sorrow the way writing worked for her.

  “I’ve another novel rising in the doughboy.”

  “I don’t know when you find the time.”

  “Ben helps, as you note.”

  To herself, Abigail acknowledged that despite the loss of Sunny Hillside, she was more invigorated now than she’d ever been, stood straighter, and had less pain in her joints, even found time to work on that next novel—when she woke at 3:00 a.m. and gave herself that hour to indulge in pure writing without regard to lesson preparation or boarder breakfasts.

  Ben had undertaken the laundry, and she said not a word when she had to replace a button torn off in the wringer because of how he’d fed the contraption that squeezed water from the cloth. He’d even taken out a patent, with her assistance.

  She thought about how one of the worst moments of her life—that wretched sheriff’s visit and the sale of that beloved farm—could have resulted in this time of respite. Maggie would have quoted her Scripture, maybe Romans 8:28 about God working for good for those who follow him. Maggie used that verse often enough, even with a brother’s or niece’s death, events so sad Abigail couldn’t imagine how anything good could come of them. But might it mean that even in sorrow, one wasn’t alone. Abigail found Scripture beautiful as a language but never held it to be predictive the way Maggie did, she who could spout its words to support whatever view she held, whatever pain she had to bear. But for this day, in this moment, Abigail would admit that something good had come from the disaster of the farm loss.

  As they drove back to Lafayette after visiting Kate and the Captain, Ben said, “Capt John’s offered to loan me use of acreage he’s purchased that I might take up horse training again.” Anticipating her protest, he raised his voice. “I could work out some during the day, help farmers with haying, and still have an hour or two to work breeding stock. I’ve been
checking around. Experienced farm hands are sought after.”

  How hard it must be for him to think of working for others when once he owned his own place.

  “There’s a market for matched white circus horses. You know I’m good with training.” He kept his eyes forward, gave her time to think.

  She thought about how he wouldn’t be as available to help with her ventures if he was gone working horses and forking hay all day.

  “Are you up to that?”

  “Absolutely. I can still fix breakfasts while you study your lessons and be there for supper too. Willkie’s three already. He could sit in on your classes, couldn’t he? I sold another of my washing machines, so we could bring in a helper.”

  “Squeeze another bed into the attic?”

  “Something like that. Or I could fix up that small room behind the kitchen stove.” He kept his eyes on the road ahead, reins loose in his hands, while the children chattered to each other behind them in the wagon box.

  Abigail thought of Kate’s words and the good that had come from the sale. Ben was entitled to a bit of goodness too. “I know that working with horses gives you great pleasure.” And he loves to gab. He needs people around. He doesn’t ask for much. “You’ve earned that, Ben. We’re moving forward in this westering place. We can make it happen.”

  SIXTEEN

  The Direction of Light

  1864

  _______

  The next year found Ben doing what he loved. He kept a garden at the Lafayette house, nurturing the tomatoes and marveling over the lettuce sprouts unfolding as delicate as a baby’s tongue. He spent hours away with horses and farmers while Abigail hired a Chinese cook and housekeeper so he could. In the early evenings, Ben and eight-year-old Willis wielded a saw and hammer and wooden pegs, contributing to the cabinets Ben made to furnish the school. He joked with men who came to him for his advice on horses and found “pleasantness,” as he called it, when he worked his young colts, forming teams.

  Abigail continued her teaching, but she knew it wasn’t enough. Contentedness wasn’t a part of who she was, she decided. She began making a few loans to women in need. She didn’t always confer about them with Ben, thinking that he didn’t run every detail of his days by her, either. She wanted to help them get back on their feet. She’d made a loan to a divorced woman to help her buy furniture to start a boardinghouse to support her children. As soon as she had the chairs and table and beds to replace what her former husband had taken in the divorce, he returned and gathered up what she’d bought and sold them out from under her.

  “Can you imagine?” She told Ben as they sat at the table while Clara and Willis cleared the plates and squabbled at the dishpan over who would wash and who would dry. Hubert played with Wilkie. An advantage of having more than one child—they could look after each other. The boarding girls had already gone upstairs for the evening.

  “Tragic,” Ben said.

  “Yes. Tragic and perfectly legal. What was hers, was his. Even after the divorce, he could trot right into that house and take what he wished. She had no say. And now she’s in debt, and you can bet no law will make him pay it. She’ll be liable for it and still without a pot to sit on. It’s so unfair.”

  She didn’t tell Ben that the money the woman owed was to the Duniways. Instead, she wrote a scathing letter to the editor describing the need for changes in property laws so women would have more choices when deserted by unscrupulous men—some of whom were husbands. She wrote letters to help women, supporting changes dealing with unfair practices, like a neighbor having to pay off a debt incurred by a deceased husband, a debt he had before the couple even married.

  “What I need,” she told Ben one evening while she added a patch to a thinning shirt elbow, “is a wider reach.”

  “The paper publishes your letters every week now.” He drew on his pipe, the breathy air the only sound she could hear above the crickets. “And you and your ‘flamboyant’ friends attended an open meeting. That sent some tongues to wagging. We men let you.”

  “But the reporters barely mentioned it. There is no reason women can’t attend public meetings and even speak at them. We’ll go again. The editor will have to do an article about such a commotion. Editors have total control in deciding what goes in and what doesn’t.”

  “Advertisers influence that, I suspect. There has to be a balance or they’ll lose subscribers.”

  “If I ever run a newspaper, I’ll find supporters willing to fund my perspectives. Balance won’t be a part of it, because the scales are already tipped toward papers that celebrate men, protect their interests, not their wives or even mothers.”

  Ben sucked on his pipe again. He’d been giving up actual smoking, just used the pipe stem to chew on in the evening again. Abigail said she didn’t like the taste of tobacco on her lips, and she kissed him more since he didn’t fill the bowl. He held a sleeping Wilkie in his arm.

  “I had no idea you hankered after running a newspaper. When did that happen?”

  “Susan B. Anthony owns one, and the Lily has a long history. Both are women’s rags, and they celebrate how life needs to change and offer ways to do it. Anne Royall ran one in the ’30s, and though she was tried as a scold for being so outspoken, she supported herself with it and made a difference fighting corruption and taking on religious leaders who had forgotten that Christians are to be loving souls. My little letters barely scratch the surface to do what that Royall woman did with her paper.” She put the thimble down and grinned. “Besides, with a newspaper I could get my novels printed. Serialize them, then bind and sell them later. I certainly haven’t had any luck finding a real publisher since my first . . . fiasco.”

  “You learned from it.”

  “I hope so, but until the books are in the hands of others with reviews, I’ll never really know.”

  “Oh, you know. You never let a lesson pass you by.” He set his pipe aside and motioned for her to put her mending away. “I’ll put Wilkie to bed, then let’s take a look at the garden. We’ve a full moon. You can almost see the melons grow.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a lesson to plan.”

  “You’re giving up a good moment, Mrs. Duniway.” His voice had teasing to it, and for an instant she thought she might succumb, allow affection to soothe the tension in her shoulders, the racing of her mind.

  “Those melons will grow without my admiration. And the moon will shine as bright. But if I’m not ready to stimulate those young minds in the morning, who knows what ideas they might walk away with.” She saw the frown on his handsome face. “I’ll only take an hour,” she said.

  He grunted. “I know your hour. I’ll be long asleep by the time you notice you’re still working at midnight.”

  She rose, bent to kiss him and Wilkie too. “Good night, Ben.”

  And so, she gave up tenderness, let it slip away, turned to thoughts of commerce. She didn’t let herself wonder why.

  It was late in the year, the children napped, and Abigail sat on the floor, a rare moment of pause as her back leaned against the couch. She’d bought a rag rug from a woman with arthritic hands, marveled at how that widow persevered to feed her family. Abigail ran her palm over the wool braids.

  Ben sat above her reading an agricultural magazine.

  “I’ve been battling the unfairness of a woman’s life ever since I watched Momma go along with Father’s decisions that failed. I hear these stories of women suffering through no fault of their own but from laws that mistreat them—as they mistreat our free-black and Chinese neighbors. It’s the laws that have to change.”

  “You’ll have to get men to vote the changes in.”

  “Fat chance of that.” She crossed her arms. Maybe I could start a cooperative where women sold their work and encouraged each other at the same time. She sighed. “I thought the West would be a vibrant place for women’s rights. Women work right beside their men. But here we are, still chattel.”

  “You should write about the
importance of women securing the vote,” Ben said. “It may be that the only thing that will really make a difference in a woman’s life is her having a chance to make her mark at the ballot box. Men will have to grant that permission, and our lives might be made easier if we do, though we’re a stubborn lot.” He set his magazine down, stroked her hair. Tender. “It’ll take good wisdom to create that end in Oregon. You could make the case better than anyone I know, if you find the right way to ride that horse.”

  “Do you really think so?” She turned to him. “I want women to have so much more control over their lives, so many more options to excel with their talents, their economic progress, their education. Removing barriers to either gender’s excelling would help both sexes. Why can’t men see that?”

  “You’ll have to show us. Become a suffragist.” He smiled.

  She turned back to stare at the mirror on the far wall. It reflected her mother’s portrait behind the divan. “I never saw myself as being one of those kinds of ‘Hurrah’ suffrage women.”

  “Much as I hate to say this, perhaps you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.” Ben patted her shoulder.

  “But back east . . . they hold parades and bang kettles on the streets and are so . . . strident. I don’t see that going over well here. I don’t want to compromise a woman’s reputation. I want to expand it by showing that she can make good decisions, as a man can.”

  “Perhaps try another tactic.”

  What might that be?

  Ben added, “They could vote out taxes they now have to pay.”

  “Yes. Women have taxation without representation. I believe the founding fathers had something to say about that. Not to mention the founding mothers. Bless Abigail Adams. But she couldn’t get the word ‘woman’ added in either, though we all thought ‘man’ meant ‘mankind’ and not just the sex bearing whiskers.”