Рита Браун - Probable Claws

After he left, John, arm around his wife’s waist, said, “You shouldn’t be riding close to the summer. I wonder should you be working so hard now?”

“Honey, it’s only twelve weeks.” Catherine had known for twelve weeks that she was pregnant. “Don’t worry.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“What would you like. Another boy or a girl?” She put her arm around his waist now.

“A little girl who looks just like her mother, her beautiful, radiant mother.” John, not the most verbal of men, came up with radiant, which impressed his wife.

“You.” She kissed him.

Ewing walked back having seen Yancy to the door. Roger, the butler, escorted Yancy down to the stable, glad to be out of the house for a bit. He offered the walking stick for Yancy to keep, compliments of Ewing, but once mounted Yancy handed it back.

Up at the house, Catherine and John sat with Ewing for a moment.

“What do you think, dear?”

“If I’m going to run a horse, Father, it has to be for a big purse.”

“Should we win, it would bring people here to breed, would it not?”

“Yes. It is a good idea but I would like to see The Levels before agreeing to anything. And I want to hear about purses.”

“Yes, yes.” Ewing nodded. “I expect Yancy is trying to see who might be interested and then he and Sam will gather the monies for handsome purses. Silver cups, too, I should think. We can’t let the English outdo us on such a pursuit.”

John smiled. “We can’t let Yancy outdo us.”

This made Ewing laugh, then he stared at his son-in-law. “John, do you think there might be violence? Do you think you might be called should this come to pass?”

“I pray that won’t happen but yes, I would be called. We fought so long and so hard to free ourselves from the king. We can’t fall apart now. We must hold, find some agreement.”

“Ah, John, I fear fighting is the way of men.”

“Perhaps we can be different. We must be different,” John said with feeling.

Catherine, sitting down and sampling a biscuit for she was hungry, listened. “The solution to these competing ideas is to let the women organize the men.”

“My dear.” Ewing’s eyebrows shot upward.

“Lysistrata.” She giggled.

Ewing explained to John, not a well-educated man, about Aristophanes’s play in which the women go on a sex strike to knock some sense into the men.

John laughed, turned to his beautiful wife. “That would work. Yes, it would.”

The three laughed then Catherine, as though as an afterthought, pounced. “Father, if we do race, it will be Jeddie who rides. He will need quiet, good sleep. He does not have that under his mother’s roof.”

“Felicia can be strong-minded. Rachel mentioned this to me the other day.” Ewing raised his eyebrows again. “Jeddie’s situation must be more pressing than before.”

“Felicia wants him out of the house so she’s pushing him to get married. That’s what I think,” Catherine posited.

“I see. Well, he is of an age. What is he now?”

“Nineteen, Father.”

“Ah yes.” A smile spread across Ewing’s face. “No girl in sight?”

“No. He needs proper exercise, needs to exercise the horses. I must work with him. He bursts with talent but he’s raw. He’s never run in a true race.”

“Yes, yes.” Ewing wrinkled his brow as John watched his wife maneuver her beloved father.

“You have an empty cabin at some distance from the weaving cabin. That’s a possibility.”

“Well, we can’t have Felicia”—Ewing exhaled—“causing a loss of concentration. I’ll ask Charles to look at the cabin. Is it tight? The boy would need wood. Does he know how to cook? It is quiet down there.”

“What a wonderful idea. I’m sure Charles is the right person to make certain it is suitable.”

Ewing said, almost as if to himself, “Nineteen and not a girl in sight.”

“Don’t you start,” Catherine chided him.

“I was just remembering being nineteen.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yesterday. It seems like yesterday. I can recall the moment I saw your mother as though it were yesterday. I loved her the moment I saw her. Perhaps it will hit Jeddie that way, too.”

“Thank you, Father.” Catherine rose, leaned down, and kissed him. “Thank you for helping me with the horses, for helping Jeddie.”

Catherine and John left. Ewing, lost in memory for a time, did recall every detail when he first beheld Isabelle. He had returned from the Grand Tour, his father had some resources but Ewing wished to strike out on his own. A gala affair at Williamsburg, his best friend from college was getting married and he was invited. Who couldn’t have a good time in Williamsburg? There with the bridal party was a goddess, a true goddess. Isabelle, slender, hair in a modest becoming coiffure, somewhat loose around her face to frame it, glowing in a rose silk dress, ribbons woven into exquisite lace around her bodice. He was introduced to her by the groom’s family. He couldn’t speak. He stammered. She touched his forearm, remarking how dry the day was. A bit of punch would help. Music. Her cultivated voice was music. As he escorted her to the monstrously large silver punch bowl, he vowed he would win this woman if it took him years. She had beaus far more handsome than he, rich men, sons of rich men, military men, men fell all over themselves to court her. He listened to her. He listened with all his heart and he spoke from the heart. She fell in love with him. He wanted to know her, not possess her. She, young as she was, felt the difference. Loving Isabelle was the best decision he had ever made. He hoped it would happen to Jeddie. A man, slave or free, thrives with love, grows with love, becomes a better man.

Yes, he would see to the cabin.

14

January 10, 2017

Tuesday

Crouching down at the chink in the back door of Gary’s office, Pewter whispered, “I know you’re in there.”

“That spider isn’t coming out,” Tucker advised.

“Why would you want her to? She’s big. Let her be.” Mrs. Murphy’s whiskers swept forward.

“So I can chase her.”

“Ugh,” the tiger replied.

“Look, we chase mice and they’re bigger than this spider.” Pewter felt bold because, of course, the spider wasn’t coming out.

“Mice have four legs. Spiders have eight. Gross.”

Tucker, agreeing with Mrs. Murphy, said, “She does have a point, Pewter. Eight legs. Too many legs.”

Pewter edged just a little closer to the chink, squinted. She could see the spider in there. Seeing the cat so close, the spider lifted her two front legs, the long ones. Pewter backed up.

As the animals discussed the merits of chasing mammals versus insects versus spiders, the three people in Gary’s workroom hovered at the drafting table.

Tazio pointed to the corner fireplace in the drawings. “The big wood-burning fireplace has the far outside corner, the small propane fireplace sits in the corner near the bathroom, smart. You need the steady heat by your pipes. He thought of everything.”

“Propane isn’t cheap. Prices go up and down. I can cut my firewood. Storms bring down branches,” Harry stated.

Tazio came back. “The cost of filling the propane tank will vary. Let’s say, since you have a big tank, fewer trips out for Tiger Fuel.” She named a local company. “Eight hundred dollars. Will that last the entire winter? Who knows? We’ve had bitter long winters and surprisingly short ones, but for the sake of argument, let’s say your winter propane bill totals sixteen hundred dollars. That’s a small price for unfrozen pipes, a small price for you to walk into the work space, which will be reasonably warm. You build a fire in the traditional fireplace and soon enough you can remove your sweater, inhale the wonderful aroma of a wood fire. You’re being perverse. You have a propane stove in the tack room and you told me you have one in the bedroom. Just do it.”