Page 11 of Ellen Found
Christmas soon. The bears are denned up, thank God, and our extra guards have returned to Fort Yellowstone, leaving only Sergeant Reeves, a new corporal, and the two privates. Ellen misses Plato. She and Gwen still hesitate when they enter the dark lobby, but she has lost her wary look. She calls me Charles now, and Sergeant Reeves is Dan. One-Eyed Wilson is Mr. Wilson because she defers to age. She is so pretty.
TO EVERYONE’S RELIEF, real snow came at last, snow that meant bears were hibernating. To Mrs. Quincy’s delight, Sergeant Reeves and his men shot three wild turkeys for Thanksgiving.
The magical moment for the lobby came after Thanksgiving dinner when the massive fireplace, with its four hearths, was lit for the first time. “Rumor is the Childs are coming for Thanksgiving,” Charles told her.
The Childs arrived at the inn the day after Thanksgiving, accompanying the freight wagons on skids, a four-day journey as the snow deepened.
“I am impressed,” Mrs. Quincy said, when the Childs came into the lobby, laughing and shaking off snow, accompanied by the architect. “I didn’t think Mrs. High-and-Mighty would want to spend Thanksgiving away from her French chef.”
Ellen listened for bitterness, but she didn’t hear it. “I wouldn’t think Thanksgiving had too many French pilgrims,” she teased.
It was a small joke, but Mrs. Quincy laughed. “There’s leftover ground turkey. We can call it les hashe .”
Les hashe it was, flavorful and accompanied by biscuits smothered in turkey gravy. Ellen heard Mr. Reamer ask Harry Child, “We weren’t sure you were coming. How did you manage it?”
Mrs. Child waved away any difficulties. “ Harry and I climbed into the freight wagon four days ago. Call us stowaways! We hunkered down in a pile of blankets intended for the rooms here.”
“We wanted to be here,” Mr. Child said simply. “You are all working magic.”
“I’m certain your French chef was disappointed he couldn’t cook for you,” Mrs. Quincy said, her voice perfectly bland.
Was Mrs. Child touched by that same bit of Yellowstone magic that Ellen had been feeling despite everything? How else to credit what happened then? Maybe Ellen didn’t really know Mrs. Child, except through her boss’s jaundiced view.
“Mrs. Quincy, I was perfectly wrong about a French chef,” Adelaide Child said, mincing nary a word. “He left in a huff a month ago when all I did was say I’d like bacon and scrambled eggs for dinner, you know, the way you make them.”
Stunned silence. Mrs. Quincy stared at her former employer.
“You should have seen his hissy fit,” Mrs. Child told her. “I hear he’s working for some copper king in Butte now.” She took Mrs. Quincy’s hand. “I was wrong, and I apologize. Would you come back and cook for us?”
“I’ll think about it,” Mrs. Quincy said after she got her breath. “But now, I do have hash, if you don’t mind a little solitary splendor in the dining room.”
“That would be delightful,” Mrs. Child said. “First, though, I want to sit by the fireplace.”
Everyone gathered in the lobby, the warmth of the fire reaching into dark corners. It was Ellen’s turn to give Mrs. Quincy a little prod in the doorway to get her moving. “I can’t believe my ears,” her boss whispered to her. “She wants me back.”
Ellen squeezed Mrs. Quincy’s hand. “Don’t leave us.” It sounded bold and brave to Ellen, but she meant it. Her answer was a squeeze back.
Even with the warmth and light, Ellen felt a momentary fear of the bear. To her relief, it was now a catching of breath before taking that first step. Gwen moved closer to her. She put her arm around the child even as Charles did the same. Their hands met and he smiled. “No fears, you two,” he admonished gently. “You’re safe. The bears have gone to bed for the winter.” He leaned closer to Ellen, his daughter between them. “You’ll feel peaceful someday.”
His hand was warm on hers. She nodded, too shy to speak. She thought about him later after everyone admired the fireplace, chatted about what lay ahead, and left the building, the Childs to share the photography studio with Mr. Reamer. The glowing coals from the hearths had winked out, and the massive red door, with its iron straps, was closed but not locked. Everyone’s goodnights followed a predictable, bravura appearance by Old Faithful. “It never gets old,” Mrs. Child said.
Lying in bed, her feet warm, Ellen contemplated how much of that peace came from Charles Penrose, the quiet, capable carpenter and father to a child becoming such a part of her life. What better time to consider the matter of father and daughter, here in bed with the luxury of time to think.
Aided by Mrs. Quincy a week earlier, Charles had done something that Ellen knew she would never forget, no matter how many years passed. When her shoulder still ached, and she grieved the yawning void left by Plato’s death, she went to bed one night to discover a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel between the sheets in precisely the place where Plato used to sleep.
As her feet warmed and her heart softened, she knew the gentle blessing of unexpected kindness. She couldn’t recall a time when anyone had been so thoughtful. How kind of Mrs. Quincy.
She told her so that morning, and Mrs. Quincy shook her head, her eyes lively. “I’d love to take credit, Ellen, but that goes to Mr. Penrose. He thought you might find it comforting.”
“I do,” Ellen replied after a moment of amazement. “Charles Penrose?”
Mrs. Quincy continued to amaze her. “I believe he is looking out for you.”
“I think he will always be grateful that I... I... well, you know, kept his daughter safe.” She shivered, the memory too real.
“It’s more than that,” Mrs. Quincy replied. “More.” She clapped her hands and broke the spell, but Ellen sensed no harshness. “Let’s get busy! Breakfast isn’t going to make itself.”
Ellen could have said nothing. Maybe the Ellie Found who was raised on sufferance wouldn’t have. Things were different now. She waited until after breakfast when the architect gave his instructions for the day’s work and Charles Penrose made the assignments, then brought his daughter into the kitchen.
Ellen patted Gwen and gave her a gentle nudge. “Mrs. Quincy needs you to help her carry some Carnation cans from the shelves over there,” she said, hoping that Mrs. Quincy would understand she wanted a quiet moment with the tall carpenter.
To her delight, Mrs. Quincy didn’t hesitate. “Follow me, Gwen,” she said, after a slight raise of her eyebrow that spoke louder than words ever could. Ellen had an ally.
With an ache, Ellen realized that she knew nothing about addressing kindness. She took a deep breath and a chance, the same as when she answered the advertisement a few months ago. “Charles, thank you for the hot water bottle,” she said, her hands clasped together to keep them from shaking. “It made me a whole lot less sad.”
“Oh, I . . .”
Could it be that Mr. Penrose didn’t know what to say either? Ellen felt herself relax, happy to know she wasn’t the only shy person. “You were kind,” she told him. “I needed that.”
To her delight, he seemed to relax too. He glanced at his daughter, busy with Carnation cans, and came closer, keeping his voice low. “After my wife died”—she saw sudden sadness cross his face—“I did that for myself.” He hesitated, then must have understood that since he had gone this far, he might as well forge on. “Clare liked to put her cold feet on my legs.”
No matter her inexperience, Ellen knew this was a charged, intimate moment, a contained man’s attempt that she understood: Loneliness is worse than almost anything. She spoke quietly to him alone, as if the room were empty. “I didn’t feel lonely.”
“Mrs. Quincy said she would make sure you had it every night.”
“I hope you didn’t use your only hot water bottle.”
“I have another one. That one’s yours now.”
Such a memory. Mrs. Quincy had not forgotten the water bottle tonight. “Stay here at Old Faithful, Mrs. Quincy,” Ellen said softly. “We need you... I need you... here at the inn. Mrs. Child can wait. Please?”
Besides themselves, Mrs. Child had brought along burlap sacks of onions and carrots, and even celery. The next day Harry Child had Charles’s crew unload a heavy cache from Mr. Colfitt, ironworker extraordinaire. Straining and sweating, even in below-zero weather, the freighter hauled in crates of Colfitt’s best efforts, including iron bands crafted to Mr. Reamer’s specifications to wrap around the inn’s stone front desk.
Even more remarkable were the electric lights shaped like candles. Charles held one up, turning it to catch the early-morning sun, at least what there was of it.
“Four crates of these, with more to come,” he said. “Our electrician arrives in March to wire this whole building. You’ll see these everywhere in the lobby and halls.”
“Winking little stars among our lodgepole pines,” Ellen said, enchanted. “How does Mr. Reamer do it?”
“He has a vision of what can be. ”
So do I , Ellen thought much later, warming her toes against the hot water bottle after a long day’s work. It was still her more-modest vision of wanting something more, but what? Her life had trained her to expect nothing, so the matter required some thought.
Warm from the water bottle, tired from the work, safe with her door closed, and free finally from an aching shoulder, Ellen closed her eyes. Before she slept, she wondered what Charles was going to do with the little iron fish that she saw Mr. Colfitt hand him. Perhaps he had requested it from Mr. Colfitt for his daughter because Christmas was coming. A fish?
She was still thinking of the pretty thing next morning when she opened the back door of the kitchen that led to the massive bear-proof garbage cans, ready to dump in breakfast scraps.
As always, she looked down at Plato’s grave, which lately had become a repository of magpie feathers, a shell or two from someone, even a sardine can that made her smile.
There rested the iron fish.