A Woman Named Damaris Read online

  Damaris supposed it would. She knew she should be truly thankful, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just been pieced out here and there. She wondered if she would ever have anything at all to say about her own life.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miss Dover

  Damaris hadn’t thought much about Christmas until she heard Mrs. Stacy make references to “celebrating” it. The idea frightened Damaris, though she didn’t dare say so. In her mind were vivid memories of how her father had “celebrated” any event that gave him an excuse to drink.

  On Christmas Day Damaris worked hard, hoping that if she finished all her chores she would be free to escape to the safety of her own room.

  But Mrs. Stacy did not let her go so easily. “Slip into your prettiest dress, Damaris,” she suggested. “Folks will soon be here for our little Christmas celebration.”

  Damaris grew weak and pale. She placed a trembling hand on the table for support. Mrs. Stacy noticed, and she watched Damaris a moment with concern on her face.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “I—I don’t think so,” mumbled Damaris.

  Mrs. Stacy placed a hand on the girl’s forehead.

  “You don’t seem to have a fever.”

  “I—I just feel—” began Damaris.

  “Perhaps you should go lie down. I can manage things. If you feel better you may join us later.”

  Damaris crept off, relieved to be released from attending the celebration.

  Later she heard voices and laughter and even some singing, but she stayed curled in a ball, huddled under her blankets. Her ears were attuned to hear glass breaking, the banging of chairs being overturned, or shouts of anger, but those sounds never came.

  And then everything was quiet. Mrs. Stacy came to her room and knocked gently on the door.

  “Are you sleeping?” she whispered, opening the door a crack. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Water or cold buttermilk?”

  Damaris would have given anything for a glass of cold water, but she licked her dry lips and shook her head.

  “I’ll be fine,” she managed.

  Mrs. Stacy bid her a Merry Christmas and closed her door.

  ———

  It seemed to Damaris that she was always on the run. She would just be settled into a task at Mrs. Stacy’s when word would come that she was needed at Mr. MacKenzie’s store. Or she would be hanging up the broom at the store and Mr. MacKenzie would say, “You can hustle over to Miss Dover’s now. I won’t need you anymore today.”

  She tried to convince herself that she really didn’t mind. That it kept her from boredom. That it acquainted her with the people of the town. That she was young and the exercise did her good. But in spite of all the reasoning she did with herself, Damaris longed for a sense of actually belonging—somewhere.

  The little jobs here and there, which often turned into big jobs before the day was over, were slowly paying for the new shoes on her feet and the two new dresses in her closet. Damaris had found it hard to wear her precious dresses for her working duties, so Miss Dover had altered, free of charge, two of her own old ones for Damaris to wear for daily tasks.

  Damaris was thankful. She admired her two new dresses and wouldn’t want to soil them—but with working seven days a week, she really had little occasion to wear them.

  Her days often stretched from early breakfast preparation to late-night dishes, with many, many errands and tasks in between. Every night Damaris fell into bed so weary that she seldom dreamed about Edgar or ached for his little arms around her neck.

  She did not visit as she worked. “A quiet little thing,” Mrs. Stacy would say. And Mr. MacKenzie told his wife, “At least she’s not always yammerin’ at ya.” Only Miss Dover felt concern about her silence and tried to draw her out as they sewed and mended together.

  At first Damaris was reluctant to reveal anything about herself—her past, her thoughts, or her feelings—but little by little Miss Dover was able to piece together a few bits of information.

  She discovered that Damaris loved to read. Miss Dover also loved to read and possessed a number of books of her own, so she was quick to suggest that Damaris might like to take a book or two home to read in the evening. Damaris could not hide the sudden light that flashed in her brown eyes.

  Reading provided an opening for conversation. As Damaris returned each borrowed book, Miss Dover would smile and say, “How did you like it?” or “Who was your favorite character?” or “What did you think about” this happening or that statement?

  At first Damaris answered with one or two words, but gradually she was able to express some of her thoughts and feelings about the books.

  Before her first winter in the West reluctantly surrendered to a slow but tempestuous spring, Damaris had learned that whenever the words “Run on over to Miss Dover’s” were spoken, her heart beat just a little bit faster. She felt comfortable and yet stimulated in the presence of the older woman.

  One May afternoon Damaris ran across the street and entered the door that set the little bell to jingling. Miss Dover looked up from her sewing, her strange little glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  “Hello,” she said with a smile as she watched Damaris shake the spring rain from her shawl before hanging it on the coat tree. “So you got caught in the rain?”

  Damaris smiled in response. “I don’t mind—really. It’s almost fun—like being a kid again.”

  Miss Dover laughed at the comment. Damaris was still little more than a kid.

  “And how old are you now?” Miss Dover asked kindly.

  “Goin’ on sixteen. I had my fifteenth birthday on my way west.”

  “Have I ever told you about my trip west?” asked Miss Dover, tucking away the information about Damaris’s age.

  Damaris shook her head and seated herself on a stool next to Miss Dover. She reached for the mending basket that held her task for the day.

  “It was a long time ago—it seems like eons. I was seventeen at the time—not much older than you. Though my eighteenth birthday was coming close.

  “I had met and fallen in love with this wonderful, wonderful man. He had asked me to marry him—and Papa had given his permission. Things looked just wonderful and we had the date all set for a September wedding. And then that spring—just as the leaves were coming out—the leaves that I expected to be turning to gold and red by my wedding day—the army sent him out West. He was an army man—though he planned to settle and go into law as soon as his army days were fulfilled. But my …” Miss Dover stopped her needle and looked off into the distance. She sighed, then smiled at Damaris. “My, he looked handsome in his uniform,” she said without embarrassment.

  Damaris felt her own cheeks flush at hearing such an intimate secret.

  “Well, he went on west as bidden and I stayed at home. But the closer and closer we got to that September date, the sadder and sadder I felt. Finally my papa said—my mama had already been gone for three years—‘Katherine—we have two alternatives as I see it. We can have you wasting away day by day in your longings for that young man—or we can pack you up and send you west to marry as you had agreed.’ I could have hugged my papa. In fact, I did.

  “So it was decided. We wrote letters to Andrew and he arranged everything for my trip. Then I climbed aboard a wagon train that was taking supplies to the fort. I was the only woman in the whole train. At first I felt very uncomfortable—but I kept reminding myself that I was going to Andrew.

  “It was a horrible trip. One day would be so hot that you could hardly breathe and the next would pour rain from the skies until the wheels of the wagons would be buried in the mire.

  “At last we reached Fort Collins. It was wonderful to see Andrew again. He had lost weight—was very tanned. But he still looked just as handsome in his uniform. We planned our wedding all over again. We knew there would be no lovely church—no gowned attendants—no wedding feast or wedding gifts. But w
e didn’t care. We had each other.”

  She stopped and looked out the nearby window as though picturing the scenes again.

  “I met a nice lady who was married to one of the officers. She agreed to attend me, and Andrew had many friends among the army men, and he picked his attendant from among them.”

  Miss Dover roused herself in her chair before continuing. “Well, three days before the ceremony Andrew was sent out on patrol—and—well—he never came back.”

  Her last words tumbled out on top of one another, and Damaris wondered if she had heard correctly.

  “You mean—?” she began.

  Miss Dover nodded her head. “He was killed in some skirmish. I—I never asked for details.”

  All of the color drained from Damaris’s face. She couldn’t imagine going through such a terrible experience. She stared at the face of the woman before her, her thoughts in a whirl.

  “And—and you never went home?” she whispered.

  “I was going to. In fact, I made my arrangements with the army. I was to return with a train the next month—but then I got a notice that Papa had died. He was all I had—back home. I saw no reason for going then. I dreaded the thought of that long, dusty trip. So I asked the army to get me to the closest town, and they brought me here. I got a small inheritance from my father’s estate, and I opened up this little shop. I have been here ever since. My, I guess that was over thirty years ago now.”

  There was silence in the room. Miss Dover seemed to have gone back in time. Damaris wondered if she was seeing the dashing young man in his army uniform or listening to the voice of her father.

  Slowly Damaris began to move the needle again, in and out around the patch she was sewing on a pair of men’s trousers. Soon Miss Dover stirred and the machine began to whir again. Damaris heard her speak, though her voice was little more than a whisper. “That was a long, long time ago.”

  Damaris said nothing.

  Then Miss Dover surprised her with a sudden question. “Did you ever have a young man you cared about?”

  Damaris was too embarrassed to respond at first, but finally, with flaming cheeks, she shook her head slowly. “No,” she said honestly, “I never have.”

  “Well, you will,” predicted Miss Dover. “You have most attractive eyes. Men will notice them.”

  Damaris shook her head slowly. She had made up her mind long ago. She had no interest in marrying—anybody, ever.

  “Do you like parties?” asked Miss Dover.

  “I—I don’t think so,” she answered.

  “Well, maybe we should find out. Would you like me to have a party and—”

  “Oh no,” cut in Damaris, fear showing in her eyes. “I—I mean—I don’t know any of the young folk of the town and—”

  “But it would be a way to get to know them,” went on Miss Dover.

  “I—I’d rather not—really,” said Damaris, her face now pale with concern.

  Miss Dover let it pass, but she wondered why a pretty young girl like Damaris would have such strong feelings about parties. Instead of asking, she changed the subject.

  “You have a beautiful name,” she said. “I have never heard it before. Is it a family name?”

  Color washed the girl’s cheeks once more. She even lifted her head briefly and peeked over her needle at the older woman as she spoke.

  “It’s from the Bible,” she said, pride coloring her voice.

  “From the Bible?”

  Damaris nodded again. If there was anything personal she had the slightest pride about it was her Bible name.

  “We should look it up,” said Miss Dover.

  “You—you have a Bible?” Damaris could hardly believe the good fortune.

  “Oh yes. I have a Bible. I don’t know how I would ever have survived without it.”

  Miss Dover rose from her chair and left the sewing room for her small suite of living quarters beyond. She returned with a black book in her hand. Damaris saw that it looked just like the ones the people carried when they entered the little church back home on Sunday, all dressed in their finest clothes. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out for the book.

  Miss Dover sat down and opened the Bible across her knees. “Do you know where it speaks of Damaris?” she asked.

  Damaris was disappointed. She had hoped Miss Dover would be able to tell her.

  She shook her head slowly. “Mama didn’t say—an’ we didn’t have a Bible—anymore.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to look for it then,” said Miss Dover, and she closed the book, laid it aside, and returned to her sewing.

  Damaris could hardly stand it. There lay the book with her name within easy reach—and she had to sit and ply her needle in and out of the tough material, sewing patches onto worn overalls.

  “It has always bothered me that there is no church here,” Miss Dover remarked. “That is the thing I have missed the most about home. Year after year I have prayed that God would send this town a minister—and I still pray. I believe that someday—perhaps soon—the answer will come.”

  Damaris did not look up. She knew that church and the Bible book were somehow connected, but she really didn’t know just how.

  “It pains me to see the children of the town growing up without any knowledge of God,” went on Miss Dover. “Why, I never would have gotten through those difficult times had I not had Him. I was so thankful that my mama and my papa had given me a strong base of faith. When I couldn’t understand, then I could—could just trust. I knew without doubt that God still loved me—and He wouldn’t forsake me.”

  Damaris had no idea what the woman was talking about. She listened politely, making no comment, but the words were totally foreign to her. She had, somewhere in her past, heard references to God. She couldn’t remember when or where—oh yes, her mama had mentioned something. But Damaris had never heard talk about trust—or about God loving people. But then, Miss Dover was an easy person to love. Perhaps God did love her.

  The bell at the door jangled and a woman entered the room. She was tall and straight and her stern expression warned the world not to cross her. Damaris recognized her as Mrs. Henry, a woman she had waited on in Mr. MacKenzie’s store. At first she had been terrified of the lady. In fact, she wondered if Mr. MacKenzie himself was not a little frightened of her. Damaris had noticed that he was always busy with something when Mrs. Henry entered the premises so that Damaris had to look after the customer.

  Miss Dover did not seem to mind the stern-faced lady. She rose from her chair and smiled her warm smile. “Mrs. Henry. Good morning. I have your things ready for you. Right here. My, Mary must have grown. These dresses are a good six inches longer than the last ones I sewed for her.”

  Mrs. Henry did not beam and speak lovingly of her growing daughter. Instead, she scowled and commented about the child costing her a fortune with her growing spurts.

  “And how is Mr. Henry? I heard he had a bout with a chest cold.”

  “You heard right. He’s kept me waiting on him all winter. And I had to do his share of the work besides.”

  “Well, now that spring is finally here,” went on Miss Dover, “perhaps he will be able to shake the illness and regain his strength.”

  “I certainly hope so,” the woman retorted. “I’ve had about all I can take. And now the spring work is starting, I have no intention of shouldering that burden all alone.”

  She gathered her sewn dresses for Mary, paid her bill with some grumbling, and left without a “good-day.”

  “Well,” Miss Dover sighed after the door had closed, “they say it takes all kinds of people to make our world, but I often wonder just what it is that shapes them into what they are. Now take Mrs. Henry—what do you suppose has happened in her past to make her so—so sad and troubled all the time?”

  Damaris thought about repeating what Mr. MacKenzie had said, that she was a sour old buzzard—out looking for someone’s bones to pick. But she held her tongue.

  “Peopl
e like her need extra kindness,” Miss Dover said. “Just think of the pain she must have buried inside.”

  Damaris had never thought about such things before. She had always taken people at face value, never trying to figure out the reasons for their behavior. It was difficult for her just to serve Mrs. Henry without making her more upset. Damaris always sighed with relief when the woman was finally out the door. Miss Dover seemed to feel it her duty to try to understand the woman and apply some healing balm to whatever was hurting her.

  It was all strange to Damaris. She didn’t know what made Miss Dover so kind any more than she knew what made Mrs. Henry so mean—but she was glad to be able to spend some of her time at the kind woman’s little shop.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Book

  “Would you like to borrow a Bible?” asked Miss Dover when Damaris wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and prepared to run back through the light rain to help Mrs. Stacy.

  Damaris was so caught by surprise that she could not even answer.

  Miss Dover must have seen the light in her eyes. “I can’t spare mine,” she said, “but Papa’s is here. You may borrow it if you wish.”

  She left Damaris standing while she went to get it.

  Damaris knew the Bible must be precious to Miss Dover. “I’ll take special care of it,” she promised, tucking it under her shawl away from the rain.

  Miss Dover nodded and smiled. “I’m sure you will.”

  Damaris rushed home. She could scarcely bear the thought of laying the book in her room until she had completed her tasks. If only she could crawl off by herself and curl up and read and read until she discovered the story about the woman named Damaris.