The Bluebird and the Sparrow Page 5

  He smiled.

  Berta let her gaze travel over his face. He was new. She had never seen him in church before.

  She felt her face flush.

  “Here,” he said, smiling slightly. “You dropped this.”

  Berta let her eyes fall to the clean white square of cotton that he held in his outstretched hand. Her hankie. The flush on her face deepened. He would think she had deliberately dropped it in an effort to get his attention. It was a familiar trick of young ladies and one he was sure to be aware of.

  “I—I—” she began but didn’t know quite how to continue. Then her pride took over and she lifted her chin in defiance. “I did not drop it intentionally,” she declared stoutly. “I was not even aware that you were about.”

  Surprise registered on his face—but then he smiled. “Touché,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  Berta stood her ground, her armful of Sunday school materials held tightly against her white shirtwaist.

  “However,” said the young man, still appearing amused, “you may claim it if you wish.”

  Berta flushed. She reached out and took the hankie from him and spun on her heel. With head held high she marched on to the small room where her class of primary students awaited her Sunday morning instruction.

  But it was not easy to collect her thoughts. She kept seeing the amused brown eyes. The cleft in the strong chin. The sun-browned smooth cheeks that she somehow realized had been newly shaven. For the first time in her young life, Berta was smitten.

  ———

  His name was Parker Oliver. He was the son of the man who had purchased a local hotel. All the girls were swooning over him. Even Thomas Hawkins was no longer the frontrunner for feminine interest. Berta watched it all from a distance. She pretended she did not even know that he existed—that her pulse did not quicken each time he made an appearance.

  She lifted her head just a bit higher whenever she passed by him. For the first time in her life she was tempted to put just a bit of lace on her Sunday shirtwaists. To pin her hair a tiny bit looser, letting tendrils curl about her oval face.

  She flushed and chided herself and straightened her back to strengthen her resolve.

  But her resolve weakened each time he sent a smile her way. Each item in his Sunday wardrobe, each mannerism, each word he spoke in her hearing, was duly noted.

  But she pretended not to pay any attention.

  And then the inevitable happened.

  “Mama,” Glenna called before she had even closed the door behind her. “Oh, Mama—you’ll never guess! Parker has asked me to the corn roast. Oh—can I go, Mama? Please—please, say yes.” And Glenna threw herself at her mother’s knee.

  “Wait—” said her mother, and then managed a silvery laugh. “What’s this all about, child?”

  “Parker. Oh, Mama—he is—is just divine. And he asked me to the corn roast. Oh—I’ll just—just—weep if you don’t let me go.”

  Mrs. Berdette smiled. “Well—I’m thankful you didn’t use the annoying expression that you would just ‘die’,” she responded.

  “Well—I might do that too,” said Glenna, bringing another laugh from her mother.

  “Oh, I doubt that anything so dreadful as that would happen,” teased Mrs. Berdette.

  “Please, can I go? It’s well chaperoned. It’s a church party. Please, Mama.”

  No one had looked Berta’s direction. No one had seen her face turn ashen. No one noticed the pain darkening her eyes.

  She rose silently to her feet and moved toward the door while Glenna still babbled on in coaxing tone, trying to convince her mother that she was not too young to attend the youth corn roast with an escort.

  “You’re not yet fifteen,” Mrs. Berdette argued, but Berta thought she didn’t sound too firm in her position.

  “Everyone says I look and act at least sixteen,” Glenna was informing her mother as Berta stole from the room.

  Berta would not have denied the fact. Glenna was mature for her age. But Parker? Parker was nearing twenty. Berta had slyly wrangled the information from his kid sister. Did he really wish to attend with the young Glenna?

  Yes. Yes of course he did.

  All the boys wished to win the attention of her delightful sister. All the girls were secretly jealous of her—yet couldn’t keep from liking her, no matter how hard they tried. Berta knew that. Glenna was just—just Glenna. There was nothing about Glenna that one could dislike or disapprove of. She had always been that way. Always would be.

  Hurt and anger swept through Berta. For one awful minute she wished she were an only child, that her mother had never blessed her with a baby sister. Not a sister … like Glenna.

  ———

  “What should I wear? Oh, I don’t know which to choose. This one or this one? What do you think?”

  Mama had given Glenna permission to attend the corn roast. Excitedly she went through her closet, trying to decide on a gown that would fit her mother’s demand for sensible, warm attire, but would still favorably impress the amazing Parker.

  Berta chose not to be involved. She kept her nose in her book and tried to shut out the sound of Glenna’s voice.

  “What do you think?” Glenna asked again.

  When there was still no response, she crossed to where Berta sat propped up by the pillows on her bed.

  “What do you think, Berta?” she asked at close range.

  Berta could no longer ignore her.

  “How should I know,” she replied tersely.

  Glenna’s large eyes showed surprise.

  “And what do I care?” Berta shifted her weight to a more comfortable position.

  “But—” began Glenna.

  Berta only stared at her book.

  “Aren’t you going?” asked Glenna, her voice full of shock as it dawned on her that Berta was not preparing for the occasion.

  “No!” said Berta flatly.

  “But Thomas asked—”

  Berta gave her a sharp look. She wondered how Glenna knew about Thomas’s invitation.

  “So—?” she said haughtily.

  “He’ll be—hurt,” went on Glenna timidly.

  “So who made you Thomas’s guardian?” demanded Berta, straightening up against the pillows. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

  “Well—none, but—”

  “Then stay out of it,” snapped Berta.

  Glenna blinked.

  “Okay,” she finally nodded. “I didn’t mean to—to pry. I just thought—”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Glenna moved away from the bed and began to quietly change into the gown of her choice. As she pinned up her hair and tucked in stray curls she dared to speak again.

  “I think Thomas is nice,” she said carefully.

  “Then why don’t you go with him?” Berta responded harshly.

  “Because Parker asked me,” Glenna replied, casting a glance Berta’s way. Then she stopped short at the look on Berta’s face before the older girl could hide it.

  “Oh, Berta,” she exclaimed, her voice full as the truth dawned. For one moment she stood in silence, studying the face of her older sister. Then she said, “Do you like him?”

  Berta fought for proper control. Her chin lifted and she stared evenly back at Glenna. “What do you mean?” she asked as matterof-factly as she could.

  “Parker? Do you like Parker? Because if you—”

  So here it was. Glenna—generous Glenna—was going to be “giving” again. She was going to offer Parker to her older sister—to keep the peace—to present happiness. It was a generous offer. The most generous that Glenna had ever made. But—even if she was willing to make the sacrifice, didn’t Parker have some say in the matter? Would he be willing to be “handed off”? Certainly not. Not to the plainest girl in the school.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” retorted Berta. “Are you out of your mind? I think boys are nothing but—offensive bores.”

  Glenna
drew in her breath. “I’m glad,” she admitted. “Really glad. I like him—a lot.”

  Chapter Six

  Changes

  The cold fall wind sent shivers through Berta’s slender frame, making her pull her long gray coat closer about her body and hurry her step. She had graduated from high school and taken a job at the town library.

  She was thankful for the job. It provided a bit of income to supplement her father’s insurance money provided by the bank where he had put in the years of his employment. And it also gave her opportunity to be among books.

  Berta had never lost her love for books. She found it difficult to resist the urge to bury herself in one when duty called her to be filing them back on the shelf instead. But she did borrow—extensively—and at night, as her daily tasks were completed, she pulled a chair close to the warmth of the fire and drank from the exciting pages.

  She would have been quite pleased with her life—were it not for one nagging concern that gnawed at her and grew with her own maturity and ability to assess her mother’s condition. Mrs. Berdette really was not her normal self. Had not seemed to be strong ever since they had lost their father.

  Berta watched her carefully, daily measuring her listlessness and lack of energy.

  She knew that her mother tried to hide her state of health. She never talked about it if Berta brought the subject up. “I’m fine,” she would argue defensively, and then try a light laugh. “Remember, I’m not as young as I once was,” she would add.

  But Berta knew that was not the reason. Her mother was still young. Not nearly old enough to be troubled by symptoms of old age.

  Others did not think she was old either. Mr. Mills, the bachelor hardware owner, asked her permission to call, and his request was firmly declined. Mr. Willows, a widower farmer, had offered his services as a handyman along with his attention—and that, also, was rejected.

  Berta knew her mother remained a young, attractive woman. Her excuses of age did not account for her pale face or slow step.

  But there seemed to be little that Berta could do—little besides worrying and watching.

  Berta drew near the library, moving quickly. The bitter wind had her shivering in spite of the warmth of her coat.

  She had to tug against the strength of the wind to get the door to agree to being opened. Making a blustery entrance, she thrust her body through the opening and pulled the door quickly closed behind her.

  “My—it’s nasty out,” she commented as she shook the snow from the scarf she had worn over her hair.

  Miss Phillips, the middle-aged woman who shared the responsibility of the town library with her, looked up from the records before her.

  “Did you walk?” she asked absently.

  Berta nodded. It was much easier to walk the distance than to worry about the team.

  “Have you thought about moving into Allsburg?” The woman surprised Berta by her question. Miss Phillips was usually quiet and withdrawn.

  “Oh my, no,” Berta quickly replied. “Mama needs me.”

  “I didn’t mean you alone. I meant your family,” the woman went on. “I know your mother rents her land—but the place still must be a burden.”

  Berta wanted to argue. Her father had not really been a farmer—though he had insisted on owning a bit of land just beyond the edge of town. “A gentleman farmer,” he had jokingly referred to himself. He insisted that he needed a bit of diversion from his banking duties. A way to get exercise. A place to keep his fine team of bays. But now that her father was gone, the bays were really more nuisance than they were assistance. Neither she nor her mother appreciated the task of hitching the team to the buggy or cutter. They even walked to church when the weather permitted—and when the weather was inclement, the Morgans kindly offered them a ride.

  “I’m sure Mama would not like to leave our country home,” Berta responded, but the idea lingered with her as she went about her tasks of the day.

  The cold wind and drifting snow kept most patrons from venturing out to the library. Berta found the day dragging until she was informed by the older woman that she might as well choose a book and settle herself for a good read. From then on the day sped by on swift wings. Berta was sorry to see it come to an end.

  “Do you think you should spend the night in town with friends?” the woman asked as Berta buttoned on her coat and tied her scarf firmly around her head.

  “Oh, I could never do that. Mama would worry. Someone would need to get word to her—and I might as well be the one,” she finished with a little smile.

  Miss Phillips nodded, then hastened to add, “Well, I do think it is too far to be walking in such weather. You must make arrangements with your mother that on such wintry days you’ll stay in town.”

  Then Miss Phillips seemed to bite her tongue and turned

  sharply away as though she had already said much more than she had intended.

  Berta nodded. She’d have to do some thinking about their situation. It was a long way for Glenna to be walking to school as well. Perhaps they would be better off in town.

  By the time Berta had made her way through the swirling snow and reached the Berdette doorstep, it was getting quite dark out. She was glad to lift the latch and press her way into the warmth of the front hallway.

  “I was concerned,” her mother said, a worried look on her face. “It’s so stormy.”

  Berta replied by shivering and asking, “Is Glenna home?”

  “Parker brought her. He picked her up at school. He offered to go back for you, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave until your hours—”

  “That’s all right,” Berta interrupted. She certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed a trip home through the storm with Glenna’s Parker.

  The two were now seeing each other regularly. They were recognized as an established couple—both at the little church and also in the community. Folks had long since stopped making comments about “how young Glenna is to have a steady beau.”

  But even though Berta also accepted Parker being in love with her little sister, she still struggled with the fact that she found him very attractive.

  “Miss Phillips told me not to come in the morning if the storm persists,” she told her mother. “No one ventures out to the library in such weather anyway.”

  Mrs. Berdette nodded. “I have some tea ready,” she told Berta and led the way into the living room and the warm fire blazing in the open fireplace.

  Berta extended her hands. She hadn’t realized just how cold she was until the warmth of the room surrounded her.

  “I’ll need to get out to the horses,” she murmured as she accepted the cup of tea from her mother.

  There were also the chickens to care for and the two cows that remained from her father’s livestock.

  “Glenna is doing the chores,” replied her mother.

  “Glenna?” Delicate Glenna was mucking around in the barns?

  “She knew you’d be chilled clear through,” Mrs. Berdette went on.

  Berta took her tea to a nearby chair. “Mama,” she said, pushing some stray locks back from her face. Usually her hair was so severely tucked and pinned that it didn’t dare break free of its knot at the nape of her neck, but the strong wind had dislodged it. “Miss Phillips made an interesting comment. She suggested that we move into town.”

  Berta waited for her words to sink in. She expected her mother to respond quickly with strong opposition. But there was silence in the room.

  Berta looked up from her teacup to see her mother rubbing her hands together as though in agitation. At last she spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking the same myself,” she said to a surprised Berta. “It doesn’t make sense for you and Glenna to walk to and fro—especially in such weather.”

  Berta stared at her mother, hardly believing her ears.

  “Glenna will be done with school in the spring,” continued her mother slowly, “and I’ve an idea that Parker will not wish to wait long for a wedding. The farm �
�� ”

  But Berta did not hear her next words. She was in shock with the calm way that her mother had spoken of Glenna—little Glenna. Surely she wasn’t ready to get married. Parker’s wife?

  Berta shook her head to clear it. The room seemed to be spinning around her.

  “Are you all right?” she heard her mother asking.

  Berta jerked back to attention.

  “I’m fine. Just fine,” she insisted. “I—I was just—thinking—I mean—it took me by surprise—your speaking of—of Glenna and—I mean—I guess I still think of her as—as a child.”

  Her mother smiled. “I’d like to think of her in that way too,” she said slowly. “But I … I keep seeing the love in her young man’s eyes.”

  “But she’s only seventeen,” argued Berta setting aside her teacup.

  “I was married at her age,” answered her mother softly.

  Berta could not hide her surprise. She had known that fact—but she had never before thought about it in relation to an actual age—her sister’s age. Her mother seemed so—so different from her little sister.

  They both sat silently each deep in her own thoughts. It was Berta who finally spoke.

  “So there will just be me—and you,” she stated.

  Mrs. Berdette stirred. She moistened her lips and started to speak, then shifted uncomfortably. Fear gripped Berta’s heart. Was her mother hiding a secret? Had she, without confiding, agreed to the proposal of one of her male acquaintances?

  “Have you made plans without—?” Berta stopped. She was challenging her mother’s right to make her own decisions. There was more than concern in her voice. There was also annoyance.

  “Well … not really. I mean, I haven’t decided … I’ve just been … thinking.” She stirred again as though hesitant to go on.

  “About what?” prompted Berta.

  Her mother seemed to take courage. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead, not meeting Berta’s dark eyes. “Your grandmother has asked me to move in with her. She isn’t as strong as she once was. Uncle John would be greatly relieved if I’d agree to the arrangement. He’s been advising me to sell our small farm—get rid of the nuisance of livestock—the hens—the team. He thinks—”