A Woman Named Damaris Page 12

  ———

  Mrs. Stacy began to talk of a Christmas party again. Damaris tightened up at the thought. She would do just as she had done the year before, she decided. Mrs. Stacy hadn’t questioned her much—and she had felt sick. Her story had not been a lie.

  And then, just two days before Christmas, Miss Dover came to call on Mrs. Stacy. They visited over cups of tea for a few minutes as Damaris worked about the room. Then she heard Miss Dover ask, as calmly as you please, “I was wondering if Damaris might have Christmas Day off. I would like to have her join me for dinner.”

  Mrs. Stacy squirmed in her chair before she gave her answer, and

  Damaris held her breath. She knew that the woman really counted on her help.

  “For the whole day?” asked Mrs. Stacy, making a single day sound awfully long.

  “She hasn’t had a day off for ever so long,” continued Miss Dover, and Mrs. Stacy nodded rather reluctantly. The fact was, Damaris had never had a day off—not since she had reached their little town.

  Damaris had no idea what a day off was, nor what to do with one if she had it, but if it allowed her to spend more time at Miss Dover’s house, she would be in favor of it.

  “Would you like that, Damaris?” Mrs. Stacy swiveled in her chair to ask.

  Damaris tried not to appear too eager. “I guess so,” she said, trying to still the hammering of her heart. She wondered what special task Miss Dover had for her, but she didn’t really care. She was willing to sew or mend or scrub or anything.

  “Then it is settled,” beamed Miss Dover. “We will plan dinner for one o’clock, but you can come as early in the morning as you wish.”

  Damaris thought she understood then. Miss Dover was having guests and needed help preparing dinner. It suited Damaris just fine. She nodded her head and tried to hide her pleasure.

  ———

  Damaris was up early on Christmas Day. She had decided she wouldn’t leave until she had helped Mrs. Stacy with breakfast and washed the dishes. But everyone seemed to be reluctant to climb from their beds. The guests straggled into the dining room, one by one, and Damaris soon ran out of patience.

  “Why is everyone so slow this morning?” she asked Mrs. Stacy.

  “Oh, on Christmas everyone likes to loaf a bit,” replied the lady, seeming not to mind in the least.

  “They’ll be late for work,” said Damaris.

  “Oh, no one works on Christmas,” Mrs. Stacy returned. “None of the shops will be open.”

  It was news to Damaris. She had paid no attention to the shops her first year in town.

  “You run along,” said Mrs. Stacy good-naturedly. “Ah, but before you go, I have a little gift for you.”

  Mrs. Stacy left the room and came back with a small package. “Here,” she said. “I hope you like it. Merry Christmas.”

  Damaris opened the package and found a lace handkerchief. Her eyes widened. She couldn’t understand why Mrs. Stacy had given her the gift.

  “But why—?”

  “It’s Christmas,” said the woman. “People give gifts at Christmas.”

  Damaris had not received a Christmas gift since her mama stopped giving them when Damaris reached age seven. She assumed that such things were no longer done—at least not for anyone past childhood.

  “But—but you never—” Damaris stopped. To continue her statement would have sounded like criticism when instead it was simply confusion.

  “Last year I wasn’t thinking,” the woman admitted. “None of us were thinking. We talked of it later and all felt terrible—but it was too late to go back and do something about it.”

  Damaris had no idea what Mrs. Stacy was talking about.

  “But I—does everybody give gifts?”

  “To family—and special friends,” Mrs. Stacy answered.

  “But I don’t have gifts,” said Damaris. “Not for anyone.” Her head was whirling. Who were her special friends? Well, Miss Dover, certainly. And she supposed, especially as she stood with the hankie in her hand, that Mrs. Stacy was also a special friend. Edgar was one—but he was miles away, and the captain had been—well, rather special, but she had no idea where he was.

  “I—I thank you,” Damaris finally managed to stammer. “It is a most pretty hankie. Too pretty to use—even to wipe one’s brow.”

  Mrs. Stacy smiled at the comment. “Run along now,” she said. “I’ll manage just fine.”

  Damaris returned to her room to lay the hankie tenderly in the little drawer of her night stand. Then she reached for her shawl and laced on her high-top boots. As she worked she made up her mind. She would run down the street to Mr. MacKenzie’s store. Even if it was Christmas, she was sure he would let her in to do some picking from the stock on the shelves. She had to have a gift for Mrs. Stacy and Miss Dover. She just had to. She had money on her account. She had been hoarding it for a new summer bonnet. She had unpacked a number of attractive ones and placed them on a shelf. Now that she was older, it was quite improper for her to be out on the streets without a hat on her head. Damaris cringed as she thought of the account money and the need for gifts. Then her chin lifted. “I’ll just do without the bonnet for a bit longer,” she told herself and rushed through the cold December morning to rap on the MacKenzie door.

  ———

  When Damaris reached Miss Dover’s house, a card of shining new needles clutched firmly in her hand, she was surprised to be ushered directly to the rooms at the back.

  “Merry Christmas, Damaris,” said Miss Dover.

  Damaris thrust forward her small gift. “For you,” she said. “For Christmas.”

  Miss Dover fussed over the gift until Damaris flushed with embarrassment.

  Then Miss Dover turned to a little cupboard and drew forth a package.

  “And I have a gift for you,” she said. “It isn’t exactly new—in fact, it isn’t new at all—but I have redesigned it. It’s a bit summery,

  I’m afraid, but perhaps by next winter you will have a brand new one picked out from—”

  Miss Dover was cut short by Damaris’s squeal of delight. It was a bonnet. A bonnet far prettier than any Damaris had unpacked at the store. The young girl who so carefully guarded all thoughts and feelings could not hide her pleasure with the gift.

  “Oh, Miss Dover. It’s—it’s lovely,” she managed to say, and her eyes told just how much she meant the words.

  “I’m pleased you like it,” said Miss Dover. “The color will suit you beautifully.”

  Damaris looked again at the soft cream material. Pretty bows clustered against the sloping brim and a large feather plume swept gracefully up one side and over the top.

  “We must sew a dress to go with it,” said Miss Dover and then amended her statement. “You can sew it yourself on the machine—perhaps in the evenings when your other work is done.”

  Damaris couldn’t imagine a dress beautiful enough to compliment the wonderful bonnet. Suddenly she realized that she should have been assuming her household chores instead of standing there admiring her new hat. She placed the hat lovingly back in its box and turned to Miss Dover.

  “What do you wish me to do?” she asked. Already the rooms were filled with delicious odors.

  “All is done—for the moment,” said the woman. “Why don’t we just sit down and chat ’til our other guest arrives.”

  At the surprised look on Damaris’s face, Miss Dover explained, “Gil is coming for dinner, too. But he won’t be here until a bit later. He had things to do in the morning and it is rather a long ride, I’m afraid. But he promised he’d be here as soon as he could.”

  Damaris panicked. She hadn’t realized that she would be asked to serve Gil.

  “Now, why don’t you run on home and put on your prettiest dress. The one we made you last summer. Why, I have scarcely seen you wear it.”

  Damaris hesitated. The dress was special to her. She hated to get it spotted with grease or spatterings.

  “If we should clean-up togeth
er later,” Miss Dover went on, “I promise that I’ll give you an ample, heavy apron to cover it completely. But as my guest, I want you to feel ladylike and lovely.”

  “Your guest?” Damaris could not stop the words.

  “You didn’t know you were to be my guest? Why, yes. For Christmas dinner. You and Gil. The two people dearest to me.”

  Damaris stood still, unable to move or speak. She had never been anyone’s dinner guest. She knew how to serve, but she wasn’t sure she knew how to sit.

  “Now hurry,” urged Miss Dover. “We have a lot to talk about before Gil gets here.”

  Damaris turned and left then, clutching her shawl tightly about her. As she slipped out of her plain dress and into the “special” one, a daring thought entered her mind. She would wear the brooch. Her mama’s. If she was to be a dinner guest she wanted to look her very best. Perhaps the brooch on the bit of lace at her throat would give her confidence.

  She withdrew the brooch from her drawer and held it up to the light, admiring again the sparkle of the stones. Then she reached for the watch and let it dangle from her hand as she grasped the chain. She still did not have the blue velvet or the domed glass. The watch must remain in its hiding place. She slipped it back into the drawer, covered it with her undergarments, and pushed the drawer quietly shut.

  When she reappeared at the house across the street, dressed as bidden, Miss Dover exclaimed over and over how nice she looked. “The brooch is beautiful,” she admired. “It must be a family treasure.”

  “Yes,” said Damaris, lowering her eyes. “Yes, it is.”

  Then Damaris was seated in a chair in Miss Dover’s own bedroom while the woman skillfully pinned her long, silky dark hair into a becoming style on top of her head. As Miss Dover worked, she talked, sharing with Damaris the fine art of table manners. It was not difficult for Damaris to listen. She realized that the pointers were given out of love and to keep her from embarrassment. Over and over in her mind she reviewed the “rules.”

  “If you get mixed up,” said Miss Dover, “just watch me. I’ll give you a little wink—or nod.”

  Damaris agreed. There were so many things to remember. She wondered if she could ever keep them all straight.

  “Now—just before Gil comes I want to tell you a bit about him.”

  Damaris wondered why, but she held her tongue. Her head was so full of new information that it would be silly to ask for more.

  “Gil came here when he was about thirteen,” said Miss Dover, plunging right into her story. “Oh, my! That’s fourteen years ago. How time passes!” Miss Dover was silent for a moment, seeming to think back; then she went on with her story. “He was skinny and scared and filled with mistrust—and I don’t blame him one bit. He had lost his parents when he was only three and had been placed in an orphanage some place. He never has told me where. He doesn’t like to talk about it and I try not to push. Well, he’d had enough by the time he was thirteen—and he ran away, somehow ending up out here. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for days and his clothes were little more than rags. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. You see—I had always wanted a boy of my own.”

  Miss Dover stopped. Damaris wondered if she would be able to continue, but she did not hesitate for long.

  “Well, it took a lot of doing, believe me, but I finally earned his trust. We found him a job with a local rancher—a friend of mine, and Gil worked hard and saved every penny he earned, determined to have his own spread. And then Gil came up with a plan to share-crop the calves. He took those that would have died without special care—or something like that. I never could understand exactly how it worked, but both parties seemed more than satisfied with the arrangement.

  “The man would gladly have let Gil work for him for the rest of his days. He was so pleased with Gil’s care of the animals. In fact, I think he would have even left him the spread in his will. He hinted as much to me. But that wasn’t what Gil wanted. He was determined to make his own way. So he got a small piece of land, put a few head of stock on it, mostly the calves he’d earned, which had grown and had calves of their own, and spent part of his winters cutting timber to sell in town. In short, after a few years and much hard work, he now has a paying spread. It’s small, but it will grow. And Gil seems quite pleased with his accomplishments.”

  She gave the girl’s hair one final pat. “I think of him as my boy. Oh, I never formally adopted him—just sort of ‘accepted’ him. But he’s mine—nonetheless.” She laughed softly, then added, “And anything else you wish to know—you’ll have to get from Gil himself.”

  Damaris, though touched by the story, couldn’t imagine why Miss Dover would expect her to show further interest.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Christmas Day

  Damaris could not hide her nervousness as she sat at dinner with her hostess, Miss Dover, and Gil Lewis. Damaris had never shared a festive table with anyone before. She was so conscious of her table manners, or lack of them, that she feared she would break out into a sweat.

  But Damaris was quick to learn. She had listened closely to all that Miss Dover had said. She watched her hostess carefully, every now and then receiving a smile of encouragement or a nod of approval. Even so, Damaris found it hard to relax and enjoy herself. She wasn’t even able to take much part in the conversation. Miss Dover and Gil chatted comfortably. Damaris sensed that they had discussed many issues in the past, and today was simply a matter of catching up on the latest happenings in each other’s lives.

  They made attempts to bring Damaris into the conversation. When asked a direct question she gave an honest, though short, reply, but she never did relax enough to really become involved.

  Nor did she wish to. Damaris held herself in check, giving no information about her experiences in the past, her feelings about the present, nor her thoughts and dreams about the future. Damaris was careful to reveal nothing about herself.

  She felt relief when the leisurely meal was finally over. Now she could slip to the kitchen to clean up and let the other two chat by the comfort of the blazing fireplace.

  But it wasn’t to be so. After Gil’s heartfelt declaration that the meal he had been looking forward to for weeks had been even better than he imagined, Miss Dover stood, smiled at them both, and then turned to Gil.

  “Well, now it’s time for you to pay your dues.”

  Damaris wondered what she meant and was surprised to see Gil remove his jacket and lay it aside. He followed this by carefully rolling up his sleeves, his face playfully screwed in mock displeasure.

  Miss Dover chuckled softly, then turned to Damaris to explain.

  “Gil always does the washing up at Christmas.”

  Damaris could not believe what she was hearing. She had never seen a man “wash up” in her entire life.

  “But—but I will do it today,” she stammered.

  “Oh no,” insisted Miss Dover, “we have had this arrangement for years.”

  “But—but I—I have—haven’t been here before,” replied Damaris.

  “You may dry,” conceded Miss Dover. “That is usually my chore—but this year—with the three of us—I’ll care for the food and put the clean dishes away.”

  “But—but—I expected to do it all and I don’t mind—really,” Damaris hastily continued.

  “Now, Miss Damaris,” said Gil in his pleasant drawl, “if you wish to be a part of this little family, then you must accept your assigned task without argument or conditions—or else pay the consequences. I learned that long ago.” He smiled at Miss Dover, then turned to wink at Damaris, causing her cheeks to flame.

  Damaris was too flustered to argue further. She hurriedly turned to the table and began to gather dinner plates and cutlery.

  The clean-up proceeded as planned, though the kitchen seemed crowded. The man bending over the steamy pan of hot water took up much more room than either woman. Damaris listened to the light chatter and easy laughter. He had spoken of her as part of the famil
y. Damaris was so affected by the thought that she could hardly keep the tears from her eyes. In one way she longed to really be a part of what was going on around her. At the same time she held herself back. She dared not let her heart rule her head. One could be dreadfully hurt by becoming too involved.

  “Is that it?” Gil asked as he glanced around the room.

  “That’s it,” replied Miss Dover.

  “You are definitely getting to be a smarter cook,” he teased. “When I was a kid, you used to dirty three times the dishes—and just for the two of us.”

  Miss Dover laughed and her pleasure filled the small room with silvery merriment. “Oh, Gilwyn,” she replied with good humor, “you were the one who made the ‘rule’ in the first place. You said it would be more fun to do things together on Christmas.”

  He nodded, sober now. “And I was right,” he insisted, pouring the water from the dishpan into the big pail by the door and wiping the pan so he could place it on the wall hook. “Besides,” he went on, “it has stood me in good stead as a bachelor. I never leave the dishes for more than three days at a time—while other fellas don’t wash up for a week—or two.”

  Miss Dover laughed again, and Gil smiled when he saw the look of horror on Damaris’s face.

  “He’s just teasing,” Miss Dover defended. “I have been to his place—several times—and I have never seen dirty dishes stacked about yet.”

  Gil didn’t pretend further. He rolled his sleeves back to proper position and buttoned the cuffs. “Are we going to play checkers?” he asked.

  Miss Dover placed the last dish in her cupboard and turned to him, a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she replied. “Checkers is a two-person game, and now we are three.”

  Damaris realized that she was being considered part of the group, and the comment made her heart beat faster. She didn’t wish to be locked in too tightly with this twosome. Being a friend of Miss Dover’s was one thing—but to be considered a part of a family that included a man—that was quite another.

  “I—I don’t play checkers,” she announced. “You go right ahead. You two. I’ll—I’ll just watch.”