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Justine O’Keefe

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Copyright © 2013 Justine O’Keefe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0754-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0756-2(hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0755-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923859

Abbott Press rev. date: 1/23/2013

CONTENTS

Dedication

1

The Stage

2

Lionel

3

Neighbors

4

Dance At The Grange Hall

5

Rumors Of War

6

Look Back, Move Forward

7

Lionel

8

Changes And Disappointments

9

Of Trips Contemplated And Taken

10

The Bitter And The Sweet

11

Lionel

12

Work And Worry

13

Proposals

14

Lionel

15

Convalescence

16

Armistice

17

Lionel

18

Revelations

19

Forecasts

20

Visits

21

Working Girl

22

Memorial Day

23

War Wounds

24

Casualty

25

The Journey Begins

26

The Maritimes

27

On The Island

28

James

29

Disclosure

30

Annandale

31

Homecoming

32

Lionel

33

Conclusion

Acknowledgements

DEDICATION

To the memory of my grandparents,

Gussie and Leroy Maines,

who inspired this story

and to

my beloved friend, Margaret,

who left before reading it

1

THE STAGE

CLUTCHING THE LETTER, GEMMA STOOD at the crossroads in the bright noonday sun. With her free hand shading her eyes, she peered down the road looking for the cloud of dust that signaled the arrival of the stage. Over the past weeks Gemma had spent a good deal of time mentally composing this particular letter, and last night had labored over its completion long after her grandparents were asleep. Now, having made up her mind to unburden herself to Lionel, she was anxious that the letter get to him before he left for Maine.

She’d been held up at the library where Miss Jessup had just received a new shipment of books. There were several titles the librarian knew would interest Gemma and she was eager to share them with her young friend. Ordinarily, Miss Jessup’s description of the latest addition to the library’s stacks would have been a high point of Gemma’s day, but today she had been far too distracted to be other than irritated by the delay.

Now it looked as though she had missed the stage. If she mailed the letter tomorrow, Lionel would be on the way to Maine before it reached Chester. She thought of mailing it to Lionel’s address in Maine, but this was a letter meant to be read and considered in private, not in the company of a table full of Mrs. Anderson’s boarders. Heaving a frustrated sigh, she stuffed the letter in her pocket where it weighed more heavily than the pile of books tucked into the crook of her arm. Taking one last look down the empty road she turned toward home.

Hey there, Gemma, what you waiting for? called a voice. The stage’s gone by already. I guess old Lionel won’t get his love letter today.

Gemma turned to look behind her and saw Lewis Farnum leaning on a broom in front of his father’s general store. A white apron was tied around his lanky frame and his thatch of red hair gleamed under the June sun. You just mind your own business, Lewis, she said. What makes you think I was waiting for the stage anyway? Can’t a body cross the road around here without hearing your two cents on the subject?

Ah, come on, Gemma, said Lewis leaning his broom against the building and walking toward her with a broad grin. Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be friendly.

You call it friendly to be broadcasting my private affairs to the whole town? Why, you should be ashamed of yourself, Lewis Farnum. What would my grandmother think if she heard what you just said? Gemma tossed her thick, dark braid over her shoulder and scowled.

Lewis glanced up and down the street and said, For gosh sakes, Gemma, there’s nobody around to hear what I said. This old town’s dead as a doornail, you know that.

That’s neither here nor there, she said. You’ve no cause to embarrass me right here on the main street of town. I feel bad enough that I missed the stage.

I’m sorry, Gemma, Lewis said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. You know I wouldn’t hurt your feelings on purpose. I was just trying to have a little fun.

Well, I accept your apology, Lewis, Gemma said. I guess Grammy’s right; I’m kind of sensitive lately. Anyway, hadn’t you better get back to your sweeping?

I guess I better. Lewis glanced up the street at the store. If my pa finds me out here talking to you, I’ll never hear the end of it.

You get on back to work then, Lewis. I’ve got to get home myself before Gram starts worrying about me. As she gave Lewis a parting wave she saw his father step out of the store and look down the road in their direction. Nodding a greeting to Mr. Farnum, Gemma turned toward home.

As she walked away she heard the shopkeeper say, I thought you was sweeping, least ways, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. And there’s shelves to stock, you know. The canned goods just came in and you haven’t got to sortin’ them nails yet, neither.

Gemma didn’t catch Lewis’s response, but she heard his father say, See that you do. And next time, keep your mind on your business instead of stopping to visit with every pretty gal that walks by.

As her boots kicked up dust in the dry road, Gemma thought of her exchange with Lewis Farnum; that boy never missed an opportunity to make a nuisance of himself. Ever since they’d met at the village school shortly after her arrival in Brookfield, Lewis had proved to be a tease and a bother. She felt a little sorry for him though and couldn’t stay mad at him for long. Although the elder Mr. Farnum was unfailingly polite to her, Gemma thought he was a bit of a tyrant, free with his criticism of Lewis and stingy with his praise.

As she passed onto the wooded path, her favorite part of the walk, she heard the familiar song of a chickadee and soon spotted him on a nearby branch. Mimicking the bird’s song, she watched him turn his black capped head from side to side as though trying to decipher her unintelligible dialect. Laughing, Gemma said, You are a sweet thing. I’m so glad you’ve come to keep me company. As if he understood, the little bird flitted along from tree to tree as she made her way down the path.

Before emerging into the blaze of the mid day sun, Gemma tied on the bonnet that had been hanging down her back by its strings. It wouldn’t do to arrive home bareheaded; Grammy objected to Gemma’s olive complexion and was forever warning her against the sun’s darkening rays.

Arriving at the farmhouse, she entered through the summer kitchen. The heat in the room was intense. Several jelly jars of Gram’s latest batch of rhubarb sauce stood in a tidy row along the drain board of the big soapstone sink. Gemma walked through to the family kitchen where her grandmother was putting dinner on the table and Gramp was wiping his hands on a feed sack towel. Well, my girl, he said, we were wondering where you’d got yourself off to.

Goodness, child, what makes you so late? her grandmother asked. I could have used some help putting this dinner together, you know.

Sorry, Gram. I was trying to catch the stage and then I got waylaid by Lewis Farnum. You know what a bother he can be. Gemma dropped her pile of books on a nearby chair and pulled her apron off a hook.

Don’t you be too hard on that boy, her grandfather said. His pa don’t let up on him for a minute. Besides, I think he’s a little sweet on you. He grinned at Gemma. Can’t say’s I blame him, though, pretty girl like you makes a fella want to sow some wild oats.

Never mind about that, said his wife. One suitor is one too many as far as I’m concerned. Since Lionel’s made his intentions known, I can’t get a lick of work out of Gemma. Always mooning around and staying up half the night writing letters, then too tired the next day to be much good at all.

Oh Grammy, I get my work done, same as I always have. Gemma frowned. I’m sorry I was gone so long, but I’ll make it up this afternoon, she said, her voice softening.

See that you do, said her grandmother smiling. I thought you wanted to get the bodice fitted on that dress you’re making. I seem to remember something about a dance at the Grange Hall next week when Lionel visits.

Clapping her hands together Gemma kissed her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek. Oh, can we Gram? I do so want it to be ready for when Lionel comes. I know he’ll be so proud of me when he sees what I’ve done.

You mean what we’ve done, said her grandmother. Now, come on over here and sit down before your dinner gets cold.

That evening, under the sloping ceiling of her cramped room, Gemma sat at her writing table. Composing her daily letter to Lionel helped to fill the long, lonely periods between his infrequent visits. Throughout the day, as she went about her routine of chores and errands she mentally compiled fragments of news to share with him. She’d tell how Gramp had praised her latest batch of biscuits or how pleased Grammy had been with the perfect bouquet of violets she had picked for her. She’d complain of having to babysit the unruly Stiles children or write about how she and her friend Annie had tended the handcraft booth at the Heritage Day Festival. There was something about sharing these ordinary occurrences of daily life that made her feel closer to him.

Tonight though, stymied by the letter she had failed to mail, Gemma didn’t know what to write. Pulling the envelope from her pocket, she laid it on the table, then impulsively slit it open and removed the several sheets of coarse lined paper.

Brookfield, NH

July 7, 1916

My dearest Lionel,

For weeks I have been thinking about writing to you concerning certain questions and feelings that have been troubling me, but I have not been able, until now, to make up my mind to do it. You see, dear, I am afraid that what I have to say may cause you to doubt my affection for you or lead you to think that I am not committed to our future together.

Now, however, I feel I must tell you what has been on my mind and try to decide what to do next. If we are to be engaged soon and someday married, it can only be when I have resolved these questions and feelings.

I am unwilling to put into a letter the things I want to tell you, that must be done face to face, no matter what the consequences , so I want to at least prepare you for what is to come. The next time you visit Brookfield, you and I will take a long walk and I will open my heart to you.

Oh Lionel, I am afraid that this letter will distress you and I am sorry for that, but dear, I cannot continue to disregard the urgings of my very heart and soul. I must be true to myself, so that I can be true to you. Unless we begin our life together in openness and honesty, we can never hope to find the happiness we both desire.

So, my dear, I will close. Please don’t worry too much. Trust your darling girl; you know I would never intentionally hurt you. I can only hope that this experience will draw us closer to one another and that our love will be stronger for it.

As always,

Love, Gemma

Slowly Gemma refolded the letter and slid it back into the envelope, an inner voice telling her that such a letter was certainly a foolish thing for a girl in love to write. This, of course, was an argument Gemma had often turned over in her mind. She could almost hear Grammy telling her not to borrow trouble and wasn’t that just what she was doing? If she sent the letter to Lionel there might be no end of consequences for which she was unprepared. Gemma loved Lionel. He was a man of honor and integrity and furthermore, Lionel was a man of prospects. A man Gemma could count on to provide for her and their family and the person to get her off this farm and out of Brookfield.

Resting her elbows on the writing table, she put her head in her hands, the determination of the previous evening giving way to uncertainty. Perhaps it was just as well she had missed the stage. Perhaps she had gotten ahead of herself again. After all, the questions and worries Gemma had were really not to do with Lionel; they were to do with her.

Opening the small drawer of the table she placed the letter between the pages of her journal and slid the drawer closed. Slowly she stood, smoothing the front of her dress and taking a deep breath. It was no good thinking about all of this now; it was late and Gemma had to rise early to be at the Maynard farm by eight.

2

LIONEL

LIONEL SAT ERECT, HIS JACKET buttoned tightly around his small frame, his stiff collar seeming to support his head above his shoulders. Dark hair combed straight back off a high forehead and a prominent beaked nose gave him the look of an inquisitive bird of prey. Next to his highly polished boots, which barely grazed the floor, his leather sample bag rocked gently as the coach made its way along the winding road.

A man of few words, Lionel was attentive to the conversations of others. On more than one occasion, Gemma had seemed bothered by his quiet ways. She often asked him if something was wrong or offered him a penny for his thoughts. But the truth was Lionel didn’t have all that much to say. He was more comfortable listening, taking in what others talked about and keeping his opinions to himself. When someone asked him out right what he thought about a particular subject, he kept his replies short, especially where religion and politics were concerned.

So he sat now, watching the two men across from him share stories of their commercial traveling experiences. One fellow, with round spectacles and a sallow complexion, sold engraved invitations and announcements as well as a selection of embossed stationery in a wide variety of colors and sizes. Florid and portly, his sharply dressed companion was in the men’s haberdashery line. As far as Lionel could make out neither man appeared to be listening to the other; each seemed to be delivering his well worn sales pitch to deaf ears.

As the coach bounced along, Lionel thought again of Gemma. He had expected a letter from her and was disappointed that he’d had to leave before it arrived. It never occurred to him that she might not have written; she wrote every day, sometimes more than once. He liked the newsy way Gemma had of filling him in on what she was up to; details that helped him picture her tending to her homely duties. Sometimes though, her letters upset him. She complained of being lonesome, of there being too much time between visits, of his attentions to the Baker sisters. She talked of crying herself to sleep. She hinted that he did not love her as much as she loved him.

Lionel didn’t know what else he could do. He had to work, had to travel this route through the eastern part of the state into Maine selling, or trying to sell, the products manufactured in his uncle’s soap factory. It was hard for Lionel to get excited about selling soap which while useful was not particularly interesting. What fascinated Lionel was the factory itself. The noise and glitter of the finely tuned machinery, the rooms stacked high with barrels of potash and fat, the belt that conveyed the bars to the men and boys who wrapped and boxed them were infinitely more compelling to Lionel than the aromatic soap stacked in his sample case. He tried to generate enthusiasm among his customers for Harmon’s Scented Soaps, but he didn’t have the words to convince them that they needed what he was selling. The fact was Lionel was no salesman; he wasn’t cut out for this line of work.

His mother had prevailed upon her brother to find him work in his company and Lionel had been excited by the prospect of learning the soap making trade. But because Lionel had spent a year in business school, his uncle had given him a sales job instead of finding him a place in the factory. If he did well on the road, his uncle would take him into the office to clerk for him. Neither his mother nor his uncle understood that Lionel had no interest in being a bureaucrat. He wanted to work with his hands, to fit pieces together to make something useful. He was good with his hands, but not much good with his words.

Lionel dreaded the week ahead. Walking into his accounts and facing the reaction of the customers took all the courage he could muster. It was strange he mused; he could sit at his piano and play for a large crowd at a Saturday dance, even make a few remarks to the audience and not feel the least bit self-conscious. But his knees turned to jelly when he walked into an establishment and asked for the man in charge.

The last time he’d called on Mr. Farnum, up in Chester Lionel had been so unnerved by the storekeeper’s gruff and impatient manner that he’d torn a hole in the order form with his fountain pen. The look of pity that Lewis had given him from behind his father’s back served only to add to his humiliation. Lionel knew he was a sorry excuse for a salesman. The question was how long it would take Uncle Henry to figure it out.

It wasn’t just the work itself that bothered Lionel; the traveling got to him. He didn’t mind staying at Mrs. Anderson’s boarding house, but he didn’t much like sitting down to dinner with a tableful of salesmen. He found their incessant talk tiresome. The constant bragging about getting the better of the customer seemed to Lionel vaguely immoral. He had a lot more respect for the men in Gemma’s family who earned their bread by an honest day’s work even if their shoes lacked polish and their fingernails were dirty.

His mother wasn’t the only one who wanted Lionel to work in an office. Gemma was proud to have a suitor who dressed in white shirts and pressed trousers. Though she loved and respected her grandfather, Gemma thought a man who used his brain, not his back to make a living was somehow a more desirable marriage prospect than the farmers among whom she’d grown up. If he failed to make the grade in sales, Lionel worried that Gemma might think less of him. She might even begin to look more favorably on Lewis Farnum, poised as he was to inherit the family business.

If only he were doing work for which he was better suited, he thought. He feared disappointing his mother, his uncle, and Gemma, but disappoint them he must. He considered packing up and heading home tomorrow, turning in his sample case, and telling his uncle that he didn’t want to be in sales and less still did he want to be a clerk. Even as he entertained these fantasies, Lionel knew that he would plod through the remainder of the week, visiting his customers, and doing his best to interest them in the array of soaps, both liquid and solid, of which Uncle Henry was so proud. But he also knew he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely, that sooner or later he’d have to make a break and set out on his own regardless of the consequences.

As the stage pulled into Fryeburg Lionel steeled himself for the week ahead. This trip his uncle had given him two new stops to make, accounts that he said would give Lionel a chance to prove his worth. He knew Uncle Henry was taking a chance on him; these customers had the potential to do significant business with the company. If Lionel failed to convince them that Harmon’s soaps were the obvious choice for their discerning clientele, his uncle would have no alternative but to find a more qualified man to fill his position.

Later, making his way up the steep flight of stairs to his room in the boarding house, Lionel felt oppressed by the combined weight of Mrs. Anderson’s pot roast and the boasting, boorish chatter of his fellow boarders. He missed Gemma and looked forward to the letter he was sure would arrive in the morning’s post. Lionel was prepared for the good natured teasing he knew would accompany the letter placed by his breakfast plate. The other men were used to his receiving regular missives from his sweetheart and Mrs. Anderson was always solicitous as to the health and well being of what she referred to as his intended.

When Lionel entered the dining room the following morning, two of the other boarders were already tucking into Mrs. Anderson’s hearty breakfast. Mr. Elliot reached for the platter of scrambled eggs, as Lionel took his seat at the table. They exchanged greetings and Lionel scanned his place for the letter he was certain would be there.

Just then the landlady came in with a pot of coffee and a plate of cornbread. She set the plate down and said, Well, Mr. Maines. Your young lady must have missed the post yesterday. I’m sorry to say, no letter arrived this morning. No doubt you’ll have one waiting when you get back this evening.

Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, Lionel said, unfolding his napkin. I guess Gemma didn’t make the stage on time. Two days without a letter; that was unusual and he wondered what it could mean. Perhaps Gemma was not feeling well or maybe she had just been too busy to write. Lionel didn’t believe either of these possibilities, but he couldn’t really come up with a satisfactory reason for Gemma’s silence, so he reached for the plate of cornbread and turned his attention to his breakfast. He had plenty to think about and determined to set his mind on the day ahead.

3

NEIGHBORS

THE SUN WAS STILL HIDDEN by mist when Gemma began the walk to the Maynard Farm the following morning. Before long, her boots were wet and the hem of her dress damp with dew. Mid way up the steep hill where the farmhouse overlooked the valley, she stopped to catch her breath. Removing her sweater, she placed it in her basket with the package of molasses cookies wrapped in waxed paper and a library copy of Kipling’s Just So Stories .

Gemma was the favored baby sitter at the Maynard Farm. The four youngsters ranged in age from Abby who was ten to Eli who was just starting to walk. In between were seven year old Jesse and Little Molly who was three. Except for Jesse, the children were well behaved and tractable. Their excellent manners had been drilled into them by their mother, a former school teacher, and a woman whom Gemma greatly admired. Molly Maynard was a pleasant, brisk woman who seemed able to do ten things at once. In spite of her myriad duties as mother of four and farmer’s wife, she never seemed flustered or upset. Her manner with the children was loving, but firm and she had a playful streak which delighted them.

Gemma approached the farm just as the skies were clearing to a brilliant summer blue. Walking up the drive she could see the white farmhouse peeking from behind a row of stately maples, the geraniums in the window boxes adding bright splashes of red against the green. The house was a fine looking place well kept and tidy. Gemma walked around back opening the gate to the kitchen garden and latching it carefully behind her. Alistair, the family goat, greatly enjoyed a foray into this forbidden realm and on more than one occasion Jesse had been sent to bed without dessert after failing to properly shut the gate.

Gemma climbed the few steps to the kitchen stoop and rapped lightly on the casing of the screen door. From inside she heard Abby say, She’s here. Gemma’s here!

Well, go to the door and let her in, dear, her mother answered, but Abby was already there, taking Gemma’s hand and pulling her into the kitchen.

Gemma, Lucy had pups last week. Mother says we mustn’t touch them yet, but we can look at them if we’re quiet and don’t make Lucy nervous. They’re so sweet, Gemma, wait till you see them.

By that time Little Molly had clamored down from her place at the table and approached Gemma with outstretched arms. Gemma put her basket on the floor and bent as the child grasped her tightly around the neck.

Mrs. Maynard turned from the sink, Well, Gemma. It’s not everyone gets such a welcome at the Maynard home. You’re quite an honored guest, I hope you know.

Gemma pulled Abby close and kissed Little Molly on the cheek. It’s gratifying to get such a warm welcome, she said, setting the younger child back in her chair. And how are you, Mrs. Maynard?

Very well, thank you. How are those dear old folks of yours fairing these days? Keeping busy, are they?

Gram and Gramp are fine, thanks. Gram’s rheumatism doesn’t bother her nearly so much this time of year. Leaning closer, she whispered, She sent along some of her molasses cookies for the children.

That’s lovely, said Mrs. Maynard. We’ll add them to the picnic lunch I’m putting together. I thought you could take the children down to the pond to play. You could have your lunch down there and perhaps Eli and Little Molly will nap a bit, too. That way you won’t be in the way of the men when they come in to their mid-day meal. Jenny Morse will see that they’re taken care of. You’ll have enough to do looking after the children.

Willie Morse was the hired hand on the farm and Jenny his new wife. They lived in a small house about a quarter of a mile from the barn near the north pasture. Jenny was not much older than Gemma and had grown up on a nearby farm. Willie had married her after his first wife died in childbirth and Jenny was raising his baby daughter.

It was one thing to baby sit for an afternoon or evening, thought Gemma, but she didn’t feel prepared to take on the kind of responsibilities Jenny had. There was so much Gemma wanted to do before she became a wife and mother. She thought she’d like to teach or perhaps work as a librarian, but knew she lacked the necessary education to do either. As a matter of fact, Molly Maynard was one of the only woman she knew who had gone beyond eighth grade.

Gemma had not been given the opportunity to go to high school. Brookfield students had to travel to Chester and board there during the week if they wanted a secondary education. Neither her grandmother nor her grandfather saw any point in a girl having that kind of schooling, but Gemma would have jumped at the chance. Even aside from the financial impossibility, though, her grandparents needed her at home. Indeed, that’s why she had come to live with them in the first place. At least that’s what she had always been told.

After reminding her four children to behave themselves, not to give Gemma any back talk, but to do exactly what she said, with various admonitions intended specifically for Jesse, Mrs. Maynard left to catch the stage to Chester. Her sister had been suffering from bronchitis and Molly Maynard wanted to see for herself how her recovery was progressing. I’ll return on the afternoon stage and should be home by suppertime, she told them. I expect to get a glowing report from Gemma, is that understood?

The children responded affirmatively and Gemma said, Don’t worry Mrs. Maynard. We’ll be fine. We’re going to have a wonderful day. Give my best to your sister, won’t you?

Gemma carried Eli and Abby held Little Molly’s hand as the group made its straggling way to the pond. They stopped often, once to admire a patch of tiny white strawberry blossoms and another time to wonder at the shining drops of dew on a spider’s perfect orb web. Little Molly squatted low on chubby legs as Abby explained that the spider had constructed this marvel from the outside in, but that there were all sorts of webs and perhaps they’d find another kind along the way.

At first Eli was happy to watch the birds busy with their nest building from the exalted height of Gemma’s arms, but soon he fussed to get down and walk on his own. Progress was slow which was fine with Gemma as they had ample time to enjoy the pleasures of the spring day. Jesse, however, was impatient. Gosh, he complained, you girls are so slow; can’t you hurry up? I want to get to the pond.

You’ll have plenty of time at the pond, Jesse, said Gemma. The little ones can’t move as quickly as you can.

Well, can I go on ahead, then? I’ll meet you at the pond.

I think it best for us to stay together. We’ll try to pick up the pace a bit. She scooped Eli into her arms and stepped quickly along the path. Abby took Molly’s hand and they followed Jesse toward the pond.

By the time the rest of the group caught him up Jesse had taken off his boots, rolled up his pant legs, and was standing knee deep in the pond. In his raised right hand he held a long narrow branch whittled to a sharp point at one end and was staring into the water with the concentration of a heron in pursuit of its evening meal.

What you got there Jesse? asked Abby.

It’s my fishing spear, said her brother. Now, hush and don’t bother me, I’m fixing to catch us a fine trout for supper.

You can’t catch a fish that way, said Abby with some scorn. And anyway, there’s no trout in that old pond, just pollywogs and minnows.