Page 25 of Ellen Found
“But she was—”
“And you are you,” he said firmly. “I have something to say.”
She wondered at this quiet, capable man who usually kept his thoughts to himself. Why was he going to this trouble for her?
“When I was eight, my father came out of the Dalcoath tin mine and said we were going to America,” he told her. “He never said what happened in the pit to cause such a decision. We came to America and managed well enough.”
“You had family. I have no one,” she reminded him. “No one now.”
“Are you so certain? My father worked with wood. He taught me everything I know and use today. The way I see it, you are your own teacher. Never discount that.”
“I have nothing!” she said, trying to remind him, the stubborn man.
He put his finger to her lips. “Most of us require teachers. You taught yourself kindness and bravery. You taughtyourself. Think on that.”
She stayed a long time in the kitchen, holding the envelope to her cheek.
Did I say too much? Was I too impulsive? We’re working too hard, but we must. The electricians have created their magic. Ellen Found is also lovely by electric light. The plumbers are going to spoil us soon with indoor plumbing. I remember how nice it was when Clare scrubbed my back in the tub. I miss that. I miss a lot of things.
EVERYONE BUCKLED DOWN even more after Christmas. January saw the welcome addition of Mr. Colfitt, who set up his temporary forge and shop practically by the inn’s back door. He also brought with him more electric candlesticks and an amazing five-foot iron clock that Mr. Reamer had designed for the fireplace.
After surveying the situation and muttering to himself, Mr. Colfitt forged an iron ladder-bridge from the second floor landing out to the massive fireplace. Ellen watched two brave souls inch across, affix the massive clock to the fireplace, and set it ticking. “Someone has to wind that monster once a week,” Charles said over coffee the next morning. “Not me!”
Charles made no mention of their Christmas Eve conversation. He didn’t avoid her, but he remained his usual, quiet self. Ellen considered the matter as she grieved for Plato, wishing she could have... what? “He chose to stay with me for two years,” she told herself late one night. “He didn’t have to, but he did. I should let this rest.” She slept better after that.
Next came the inn’s electrification. Mr. Reamer called them artificers, those two fellows from Bozeman who, with Mr. Colfitt, wired the electric candlesticks throughout the lobby, down halls, and into guest rooms, where the carpenters hammered and sawed.
For a quiet man, Mr. Reamer had a dramatic flair. At nightfall in mid-February he announced over dinner that now was the time. “Gentlemen and ladies, join me in the lobby.”
Everyone watched as the architect and his electricians moved to the wall behind the front desk and Mr. Reamer flicked the switch. Each electric candlestick seemed to light itself by magic. Gwen clapped her hands.
Ellen stared in wonder. She looked around at tired faces that didn’t seem so tired. Maybe it was a trick of light after all these months of gloom and snow. She decided it was pride in the work, a commitment to a unique building in the wilderness and its pinpoints of light.
These electric beauties couldn’t flicker like ordinary candles. Their steady light shone on lodgepole pine walls and oddly shaped, lacquered branches twisting under the handrails. She took a good look at the small landing near the pinnacle of the roof where Mr. Reamer said a string quartet would perform during dinner and dancing. The crew already called it the Crow’s Nest.
She knew Plato would have enjoyed such a perch. Lately, she could think calmly of him, sorrow replaced by good memories and gratitude without relentless grief. Maybe Charles Penrose was right.
“There is nothing like this anywhere,” the architect said, recalling her to the moment. “June first, my friends,” he told them. “We are making history.”
Plumbers came the next week, bundled up in freight wagons on skids. With electric lights, the carpenters worked even later hours on room after room. Ellen saw the toll it took on Charles Penrose, the man she enjoyed seeing every morning for coffee. Now he carried a drowsy Gwen into Ellen’s room, where she patted Ellen’s pillow and returned to slumber.
“Your face is too thin,” she told Charles one morning. Electric lights made it harder to hide exhaustion. “Being in charge can’t be easy.”
He smiled at that, which helped her heart, that odd organ that lately seemed to govern more than her wary brain. Why else did she want to tuck his muffler tighter into his overcoat?
“I’ll survive,” he assured her one morning. “Sit down. You’re too busy. Just sit with me.”
She sat, hoping he would say more. She pushed forward a plate of Mrs. Quincy’sdoughnuts. He took one, nodding his appreciation.Say more, she thought, then thought the impossible:I want to know you better.
Maybe he was feeling expansive. Maybe more at ease. Maybe it was the doughnuts. He leaned back in his chair. “Clare would do that—bustle about until I grabbed her and sat her down. We didn’t usually say much. It was enough to just... just...be. Try it.”
One morning he asked her about Mrs. Quincy. “She seems different these days,” he said, then gave her a broad smile, as he used to before the work began to wear him out. “May I give the credit to Fred Wilson?”
She nodded, pleased that’d he noticed. “She doesn’t stare out the window so much,” Ellen confided. “She makes ever so many doughnuts. She won’t admit they’re for Mr. Wilson, but I know better.”
Then came the morning when his guard must have been down. “The fellows tell me that Sergeant Reeves always seems to find something to do here when he isn’t on patrol.”
“He does,” she agreed, wondering what to make of this widower, this tentative man.
