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Nov. 2nd, 2012 08:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
papagena posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
prairie_schooner"'Their own home is in the town on the road. Their parents, and brothers, and sisters, will be glad to see them again; and so will the little girl and boy to see them. The... the..."
Henrietta watched her pupil, Louis, a little scamp with a swath of dark hair from the room downstairs, stare hard at the next word in the story. His tongue slid over his lower lip in frustration.
"S-stage...." Louis muttered. "Stage-coach... The stage-coach which only brings d-dust to you and me, as it rolls along, brings joyful faces --"
There was a clatter from the entryway and Louis stopped. Henrietta held his place with a finger, glancing up, as her brother Charles strode into the room. He flashed a wide smile while whisking off his hat, looking briefly at Louis before fixing onto Henrietta. Something in his eyes begged to speak.
"Mr. Clarke!" Louis burst out before Charles got a word in.
"Hello there, young mister. Did Miss Henrietta teach you just as well as I do?" He ruffled the boy's hair and grinned over his head.
"Louis did a wonderful job today," Henrietta said as she gathered the boy's schoolwork from their table and gently closed the book. "On account of my tutoring, I'm sure."
"Say hello to your mother." Charles led Louis to the front door of their tiny apartment and shut the door behind him. Henrietta stood, watching from the doorway of the Clarke's sitting room.
"How was your meeting?" Henrietta asked after Charles turned around. His cheerful veneer had melted somewhat, revealing a few more lines on his face that she had not noticed before.
"The plans are apparently set in stone. This confirms it." Charles reached into his coat and produced a paper, which he handed to Henrietta. Her eyes scanned the flowery language.
"To Oregon?" she repeated the words on the paper, throat dry. "Indians? Charles--"
"I've already been in contact with a man about the journey... a Mr. Boyd from Nauvoo. I saw his name in the newspaper and thought it would be wise to write him for more information, in the event I was re-assigned."
He stood at the window, watching the muddy city street below. Rain had been pattering at the glass much of the day, and while Henrietta enjoyed the change that predicted a showery spring to follow the snowy winter, now she felt that it matched her mood appropriately. Grey and gloomy. Henrietta sighed, pushing the paper away on the table.
"Etta, you don't have to accompany me," Charles said, turning suddenly to face her with a pained expression, as though everything around him were about to disappear. "I'm bound to be foolish and make a lot of mistakes. I don't know anything other than city people... and they want me to minister to the Indians?" He sucked in a breath. "Have you heard of the massacre of the Whitmans?"
Henrietta held her tongue for a minute as she gazed about the room. They had large bookshelves filled with every genre imaginable, fine pieces of furniture passed down to them from their deceased parents, a comfortable warmth emanating from the fireplace. The rain was kept outside where it belonged. Everything was just so - it had taken them two or three years to finally settle and become comfortable in their apartment. Having come from a fine large home when their parents were alive, it was a struggle.
"You can't... refuse?" Henrietta hesitantly asked, predicting his answer.
"I signed the paper. Even though they knew I've only worked with immigrants mostly, they were so persuasive -- most of the cost of transport is paid by the mission board -- and who am I to refuse if it's from the Lord?" Charles didn't sound entirely convinced though. "As I said, just because I'm leaving doesn't mean you must accompany me --"
"Charles, what else would I do? I am nearly 26 years old, without any prospects of a suitor - " the words tumbled easily from her lips; she'd grown used to saying them, which saddened her. But something about the prospect of a journey instead of a suitor was making her heart beat a little faster. "I take in very little money by being a seamstress. Besides, who would mend your clothes on the way there?"
He just quirked an eyebrow at her.
"It wouldn't do to have you do this by yourself."
"I had hoped I wouldn't be. I'm thinking of asking John to come along."
"John!" Henrietta couldn't help but snort out a laugh. "John Smith! He'd sooner disappear with your oxen than help you over a mountain. Even more reason why I should come along. He's shiftless, shady..."
"And joining us for supper tonight." Charles loosened his neck tie, eyes aside.
"Oh. Shall I ask for a room up for him too? Will he start paying rent?" Henrietta replied, rolling her eyes. The man had weaseled his way into their life enough, taken advantage of Charles' hospitality, as far as she was concerned. Ministering to the poor is how Charles would call it, and he even one time said that his association with Mr. Smith had given him access to other groups of people - but in Henrietta's sight, Charles was amused by this Mr. Smith and his tales of Romania or England or wherever he originated from, and all his strange customs and habits. "The man is a stubborn atheist."
"First of all, you know he hardly eats anything - "
"- An insult to Mrs. Shriver." Henrietta said, referring to their landlady who cooked suppers for her tenants.
"And," Charles plowed ahead, "If he's an atheist, he ought to receive a warm supper every now and then, for I imagine little else warms his soul."
"Well, I can't argue with that." Henrietta took another glance about the room, as though fixing it, the way it was, in her mind one final time. "I'll let Mrs. Shriver know. And... when will we leave?"
"Next week."
Henrietta watched her pupil, Louis, a little scamp with a swath of dark hair from the room downstairs, stare hard at the next word in the story. His tongue slid over his lower lip in frustration.
"S-stage...." Louis muttered. "Stage-coach... The stage-coach which only brings d-dust to you and me, as it rolls along, brings joyful faces --"
There was a clatter from the entryway and Louis stopped. Henrietta held his place with a finger, glancing up, as her brother Charles strode into the room. He flashed a wide smile while whisking off his hat, looking briefly at Louis before fixing onto Henrietta. Something in his eyes begged to speak.
"Mr. Clarke!" Louis burst out before Charles got a word in.
"Hello there, young mister. Did Miss Henrietta teach you just as well as I do?" He ruffled the boy's hair and grinned over his head.
"Louis did a wonderful job today," Henrietta said as she gathered the boy's schoolwork from their table and gently closed the book. "On account of my tutoring, I'm sure."
"Say hello to your mother." Charles led Louis to the front door of their tiny apartment and shut the door behind him. Henrietta stood, watching from the doorway of the Clarke's sitting room.
"How was your meeting?" Henrietta asked after Charles turned around. His cheerful veneer had melted somewhat, revealing a few more lines on his face that she had not noticed before.
"The plans are apparently set in stone. This confirms it." Charles reached into his coat and produced a paper, which he handed to Henrietta. Her eyes scanned the flowery language.
"To Oregon?" she repeated the words on the paper, throat dry. "Indians? Charles--"
"I've already been in contact with a man about the journey... a Mr. Boyd from Nauvoo. I saw his name in the newspaper and thought it would be wise to write him for more information, in the event I was re-assigned."
He stood at the window, watching the muddy city street below. Rain had been pattering at the glass much of the day, and while Henrietta enjoyed the change that predicted a showery spring to follow the snowy winter, now she felt that it matched her mood appropriately. Grey and gloomy. Henrietta sighed, pushing the paper away on the table.
"Etta, you don't have to accompany me," Charles said, turning suddenly to face her with a pained expression, as though everything around him were about to disappear. "I'm bound to be foolish and make a lot of mistakes. I don't know anything other than city people... and they want me to minister to the Indians?" He sucked in a breath. "Have you heard of the massacre of the Whitmans?"
Henrietta held her tongue for a minute as she gazed about the room. They had large bookshelves filled with every genre imaginable, fine pieces of furniture passed down to them from their deceased parents, a comfortable warmth emanating from the fireplace. The rain was kept outside where it belonged. Everything was just so - it had taken them two or three years to finally settle and become comfortable in their apartment. Having come from a fine large home when their parents were alive, it was a struggle.
"You can't... refuse?" Henrietta hesitantly asked, predicting his answer.
"I signed the paper. Even though they knew I've only worked with immigrants mostly, they were so persuasive -- most of the cost of transport is paid by the mission board -- and who am I to refuse if it's from the Lord?" Charles didn't sound entirely convinced though. "As I said, just because I'm leaving doesn't mean you must accompany me --"
"Charles, what else would I do? I am nearly 26 years old, without any prospects of a suitor - " the words tumbled easily from her lips; she'd grown used to saying them, which saddened her. But something about the prospect of a journey instead of a suitor was making her heart beat a little faster. "I take in very little money by being a seamstress. Besides, who would mend your clothes on the way there?"
He just quirked an eyebrow at her.
"It wouldn't do to have you do this by yourself."
"I had hoped I wouldn't be. I'm thinking of asking John to come along."
"John!" Henrietta couldn't help but snort out a laugh. "John Smith! He'd sooner disappear with your oxen than help you over a mountain. Even more reason why I should come along. He's shiftless, shady..."
"And joining us for supper tonight." Charles loosened his neck tie, eyes aside.
"Oh. Shall I ask for a room up for him too? Will he start paying rent?" Henrietta replied, rolling her eyes. The man had weaseled his way into their life enough, taken advantage of Charles' hospitality, as far as she was concerned. Ministering to the poor is how Charles would call it, and he even one time said that his association with Mr. Smith had given him access to other groups of people - but in Henrietta's sight, Charles was amused by this Mr. Smith and his tales of Romania or England or wherever he originated from, and all his strange customs and habits. "The man is a stubborn atheist."
"First of all, you know he hardly eats anything - "
"- An insult to Mrs. Shriver." Henrietta said, referring to their landlady who cooked suppers for her tenants.
"And," Charles plowed ahead, "If he's an atheist, he ought to receive a warm supper every now and then, for I imagine little else warms his soul."
"Well, I can't argue with that." Henrietta took another glance about the room, as though fixing it, the way it was, in her mind one final time. "I'll let Mrs. Shriver know. And... when will we leave?"
"Next week."