Roxanna Britton: a Biographical Novel

By Shirley S. Allen

Roxanna Britton: daughter, wife, mother, grandmother. Real person.
                                         ~
California resident Shirley S. Allen takes real people - her own ancestors - and tells the story of how their west was won, through the eyes of one woman, Roxanna Britton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kotu Beach Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834138779

Book preview

Allen

Chapter 1—Cleveland, Ohio, 1855

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Roxanna walked across the little room from Will's desk to the window and back, too nervous to sit down. Would they come?

They'll come, she told herself. Her sad message would sound the call of duty for Ma and awaken Pa's sympathy for his eldest daughter, even though she had defied them by marrying Will, who was only a schoolmaster with no land to his name and never was seen at Sunday worship.

Two-thirty. They should be here soon. In the middle of winter, farm chores would not prevent them, and Aunt Marion was there to mind the children. Twenty miles on roads frozen hard shouldn't take more than four hours.

She crossed to the window again and looked down the street. Not a soul in sight except Mrs. Reilly's boy from next door, scurrying through the cold with a wash basket full of freshly ironed laundry.

Her glimpse of the homely street, splotched with dirty snow, reminded her to prepare for her parents' reaction to her situation. Ma would struggle not to say, I told you so, and cluck her tongue over the shabby rooms. Pa would shake his head at the sight of the seedy neighborhood. They wouldn't believe that she and Will had been happy here in three rented rooms, had never gone hungry or lacked wood for the stove.

The wood! She had almost forgotten to fill the empty basket. She snatched her shawl from the peg and opened the door. A rush of icy wind slowed her step for a second, but she pulled the door to, hurried along the length of the porch, and scooped up an armload of wood.

Back inside, a wail from the kitchen told her that the baby was hungry again, and she felt the wetness seeping through her camisole. Thank the Lord her milk had not dried up under the strain of the last few weeks! With her elbow, she pushed aside the curtain to the kitchen and dumped the wood into the basket by the stove.

Martha, Martha, Mama's here, she crooned as she went out for another load of wood. Coming back to the kitchen, she found Sylvia, flushed and tousled from her nap, standing by the baby's cradle.

Martha wants her milk, she announced.

Roxanna dropped the wood and bent down to kiss Sylvia's forehead. She avoided looking into the upturned face, which was too like Will's. She laced Sylvia's shoes, took up the baby, and sat down in the rocking chair to nurse her. Tending the children steadied her and provided temporary relief from tormenting thoughts.

Even before Will drew his last breath, she had faced the prospect of life without him, racking her brains to think of a way to support herself and her girls, but finding none. If she took a place as a hired girl in one of those big houses on the east side or if she got work at the mill, she would have to put Sylvia and Martha in an orphanage. Too horrible to think of!

Her only hope was to ask Ma and Pa to take her and the girls back to the farm. She gritted her teeth at the thought of being dependent on them, knowing how they had disliked Will and how hard it would be to revert to her schoolgirl status with Ma controlling her every move and trying to control her thought.

But she had no alternative. The money Will had saved would be used up by his doctor's bills and the cost of the funeral. The February rent was due in three days. Ma and Pa were her only hope. But what if they didn't offer to take her and the girls back to the farm? Since she had married Will, Ma had borne another child, so there were six children now besides Aunt Marion. Roxanna and her girls would make twelve people crowded into their little house.

A noise in the street drew Sylvia to the window. Horsies! she cried. Mama, come and see!

It's your gramma and grandpa, Roxanna said, laying Martha in the cradle and going to the window to look out over Sylvia's head.

For a second, she saw them with her city eyes, not the familiar Keziah and Squire Britton, but a farm couple in coarse clothing and country boots. He was slight, but wiry; she, compact and stiff. Roxanna noticed the curve of Pa's head as he guided Ma's foot to the wagon step and the slant of Ma's figure as she leaned against him. Their movements testified to the affection of a long marriage and lent grace to their homespun appearance.

She felt a stab of pain at the contrast to her bereaved state. Now that Will was gone, would anyone ever again hand her down from a carriage? She took Sylvia's hand and hurried outside to greet them.

We came as soon as we could, Pa said, looking into her eyes for a long moment. A sad occasion. He shook his head slowly.

Ma put a gloved hand on her shoulder. Was it lobar pneumonia?

Double lobar, the doctor said. But come in! You must be frozen. The kitchen's warm.

Just a minute, Pa said, kneeling down to face Sylvia. I haven't met this little lady since she was crawling around on the floor.  Can you say 'hello' to your old grandpa, Sylvia?

Roxanna expected her to shy away, but instead she reached out to touch Pa's beard. Pa laughed and straightened up.

Get your shawl, Sylvia, he said. We'll go find a place to put the horses to bed for the night.

Sylvia wriggled with pleasure at the invitation and was soon bundled up and settled next to Pa on the wagon seat. Roxanna led Ma inside.

It must have been a hard trip in this cold, Roxanna said, although Ma, standing erect, showed no sign of fatigue. I'm so glad that you could come.

Naturally, we came, Ma said, taking off her shawl. She surveyed the front room with those deep-set eyes that missed nothing. I see that you need help. This place isn't fit to receive callers. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.

Roxanna stiffened. Ma never hesitated to point out the failings of her children, usually couched in the pithy proverbs of her Puritan forbears, but how unfair of her to criticize now! When had Roxanna had time for house cleaning, with two babies and a mortally sick husband to care for?  Hot resentment welled up in her chest.

Ma headed toward the kitchen. Just tell me where you keep your mops and pail, and we'll tidy up this place in no time. Many hands make light work.

Roxanna drew a deep breath and told herself that her mother meant well. Oh, Ma, don't you want to sit down by the stove for a few minutes. I have some cider warming.

Warm cider would be welcome, Ma said, permitting herself to perch on the stool by the sink. But I'm here to help, you know. I don't intend to sit around and let you wait on us.

Ma took a sip of the cider and set her cup on the sink board. Where's he laid out?

Roxanna swallowed hard, knowing how much Ma would disapprove of her answer. At Sharer's Funeral Home, not far from here.

Ma's hand went to her mouth. A funeral home? Why, I never heard of such a thing!

I was so tired, Ma, I couldn't lay him out by myself, and he wasn't a member of any church.

Ma pursed her lips, but refrained from comment on Will's godless ways and turned her attention to the cradle, where Martha was happily cooing.

The baby looks healthy, she said.

Oh, she's been so good! Only three months old and she sleeps through most of the night. I didn't have much time for her when Will was so sick. She wished Ma would ask to hold Martha although she knew that Ma thought coddling was bad for children.

Both your girls take after the Comstock side, I see, Ma said.

Hearing the acid in Ma's voice, Roxanna bent down and lifted the baby into her arms. Ma was starting already, running Will down before he was in his grave. Martha and Sylvia were Will's only legacy. She hoped they would have his clever mind as well as his flaxen hair and blue eyes.

While Ma was in the front room dusting and mopping, Roxanna began setting the table. On the stove was a stew that Mrs. Reilly had brought in, and in the cupboard were bread, raisins, and apples from other neighbors. At least, Ma and Pa would have a fine supper after their trip, and they would see that she had good friends in the city.

By the time Pa and Sylvia came in, supper was ready, and they all sat down at the table. Pa picked up his knife, tapped it once against his tumbler of water, and bowed his head. The familiar signal awakened Roxanna's memories of childhood and brought a rush of emotion that threatened to disturb her hard-won composure.

Dear Lord, Pa said. We ask Thy blessing on the food before us. He paused, as if searching for the right words. And we ask Thy special comfort this night for those who mourn. Amen.

Roxanna inwardly thanked him for brushing so lightly past her bruised soul. How is everyone at home? How's By? she asked.

Your brother Byron, Pa began with mock solemnity, caused us a heap of trouble yesterday when we got your news. Bound and determined to come with us, though he was needed at home to help Harriet run the house. I reminded him that he had to be the man of the family. That cheered him up.

Pa chuckled as if he was joking, but she could tell that he was comforting her. Imagine her little brother By—he was only fourteen—trying to assume the role of her protector!

Can't Aunt Marion look after the children? It's a shame that Harriet and Byron have to miss school.

Ma defended her sister. Marion helps out all she can, but she's had a pesky cough since last fall. Besides, it won't hurt Harriet to miss school for three days. Mostly, she just teaches the youngest ones how to read, anyway.

Only three days? Roxanna looked from Ma's face to Pa's, searching for a clue to her fate. If they were going home so soon, they must not be expecting her to go with them.

The funeral's tomorrow, isn't it? Ma asked.

Roxanna nodded.

You don't expect any Comstocks to be coming, do you?

I haven't heard from them. Ma knew that Will had not kept in touch with his parents—more evidence to her of the feckless ways of the Comstock family.

Well, then, there's no reason at all we can't head home on Wednesday morning.

Roxanna sat still, wondering how to pose the question of her fate. Wednesday morning? she repeated.

Pa spoke up. Uncle George can't spare his horses for more than a few days.

Sylvia, nestled in Pa's lap, sat up straight. Are we going to ride in the wagon, Mama?

Roxanna held her breath.

Sure you are, Pa said. You and your mama and little Martha Washington in her cradle.

Oh, Pa, Roxanna said, can you take us with you? Is there room at home for us?

Of course, you're coming home with us, Ma answered. You can't stay here in the city alone. We'll make room. Blood is thicker than water.

Roxanna exhaled the breath clenched in her lungs. She and her girls would be safe. Forget pride. They would have food and shelter. But Ma, I don't know how we can be ready to move on Wednesday.

We'll pack your clothes in the morning. I can't think you'll want any of this furniture shipped. Haulage is so dear.

Following her mother's cursory look around the room, Roxanna saw the old chest and chairs through Ma's eyes—odds and ends discarded by others. Even Will's desk in the front room, which they had bought in a store, was not a fine piece. And where would she find money to pay a hauler? But in a sudden panic she felt that everything was being stripped from her. She couldn't bear to leave their home without some remnants of her life with Will.

This table? she pleaded, running her hand over the satiny surface that Pa had planned and sanded. You gave it to us as a wedding present. And Will's books?

Pa smiled. I reckon George's team can manage the table and a few books.

This small victory was won at too great a cost to give her much joy. She had forced herself to beg for permission to keep just a few things, as if she were a child asking to keep a toy. And what if Pa had said no? She saw that in losing her beloved Will, she had lost more than a husband. She had lost her place in the world.  How would she survive?

Fighting back tears, she rose from the table. I'll go get more wood for the night.

I'll go with you, Pa said, setting Sylvia on the stool. Sylvia, you can help Gramma wash the dishes.

While they were outside gathering the wood, Pa reached over and patted Roxanna's shoulder. I don't worry about you, Sanny. You're a Britton woman. My father always said that Britton women could do anything they set a mind to. But you have one fault. You have to learn to trust your family.

After Ma and Pa were settled in the bedroom and Martha had finished nursing, Roxanna lay next to Sylvia on the cot and thought about Pa's words. She had never thought of herself as a Britton woman because she had inherited Ma's face and form, the same deep set, dark eyes, white skin, and glossy brown hair, the sloping shoulders, narrow waist, and slim ankles that had made Gramma Edmonds the belle of Walpole, New Hampshire. And she was glad that Will had found her beautiful, but now she hoped that Pa was right, that she had inherited the legendary strength of the Britton women. Of that young Elizabeth Britton who braved the Atlantic in 1650 in a ship smaller than the Mayflower. Of that Tabitha Britton who ran the family gristmill while six of her brothers were serving in General Washington's army. Of Diana Britton who took turns with her mother guarding their Ohio cabin while her father was away fighting the Indians.

She needed that kind of strength to find her own way now that she was alone. It irked her that Pa had scolded her for not trusting her family. If she had trusted them, she never would have married Will. She had to find her own way, especially now that Ma would be treating her like a child again. She would need the strength of a Britton woman to maintain her independence.

Chapter 2—Avon, Ohio, 1855

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Roxanna watched the last plume of smoke from Cleveland's mills fade on the eastern horizon, then lowered her eyes to stare at the road slipping away behind the wagon. She sat in the back with Martha's cradle on her left and Sylvia, curled up in a blanket, on her right.  As the strong west wind swirled around the wagon, she felt herself being sucked backwards into the vacuum of childhood where a girl was weightless, with no control of her own life. And now even her place in the village, where she had been known as Squire Britton's eldest child, would be gone. As Mrs. Comstock, she would be a ghost in a once familiar world.

She shivered in the wind and reached over to tuck the blanket more securely around Sylvia and then peeked under the shawl that covered Martha's cradle. Both children were unnaturally quiet, lulled to a stupor by the rocking wagon. She had constantly to reassure herself that they had not slipped from her. They were her ballast, the solid weight that held her ship upright.

Her eyes swept over the wide landscape, which now began to look familiar. Low sand hills ran down to the lake on the north side of the road, and brown fields, blotched with frozen stubble, stretched to the horizon on her right. She knew what life was on these farms: hard work from dawn till dark, with everyone in the family pitching in to coax a living from the sandy soil, braving whatever hardships nature tossed their way. Farm life was all she had known until she met Will.

Thinking of him was like touching a raw wound, but for the first time since his death, she didn't push the thought away. She remembered the day she first saw him, the new schoolmaster, walking across the schoolyard, his blonde hair blown back by the autumn wind. He seemed to have come from another world. He looked like the pictures of Apollo in the book of Greek mythology.

Roxanna had stepped up to the door of the schoolhouse to intercept him. You must be Mr. Comstock, she had said. I'm Roxanna Britton. I've been teaching the first grades so that Miss Ellsworth could spend more time with the older children.

He fixed her with the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Roxanna. Empress of the world! He clicked his heels and made a small bow.

She stood silent and confused. Was he making fun of her?

Perhaps you didn't know. You're named for the wife of the great Alexander, who conquered the world.

It had taken her a while to get used to his playful ways and constant references to things she'd never heard of. He was unlike any of the boys she grew up with, who were straightforward and serious and never read books. Will was slight of build and cared nothing for ice skating and ball games, but he had a natural grace of movement that made the boys seem rough and clumsy by comparison.

Roxanna would never forget that winter as long as she lived. Every day after school in the empty schoolroom, Will tutored her in Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth. For her it was like wandering through a beautiful garden under the guidance of a master gardener.

Pa's voice from the wagon seat interrupted her reverie. There's the church spire. We're almost home.

Roxanna sat up to look for the familiar landmarks: Mr. Hurst's grand house on the hill, Cahoon's orchard, the creek. And at last, the village itself. How pitiful it looked in the cold winter light! Nothing but two rows of rough-hewn houses huddled under naked trees.

The wagon turned toward the lake and the oldest part of town, where Grandpa Britton and Grandpa Edmonds had settled on land granted by the government in payment for their fathers' service in Washington's army. Gramma Britton had told her that when they arrived in 1817, the Western Reserve was still wilderness. An echo of childhood pride stirred her heart at the thought of her grandparents fighting the hostile Indians to protect their homesteads.

Riding in backwards, Roxanna couldn't look ahead to Gramma Britton's elm, the landmark of their farm. Few trees grew in the sandy soil along the lake, but this elm had been carefully nourished because it was a present from Grandpa Britton to his wife when she was homesick for New England. A sharp turn of the wagon and the quickening pace of the horses told Roxanna that they were approaching the barn. She heard a shout of welcome, and a moment later Byron was at the side of the wagon, scooping Sylvia out.

Roxanna was surprised by the warm rush of affection aroused by the sight of him. Byron, look at you! she said, struggling to rise on shaky legs. You've grown so tall." She had left him a little boy, and now he was taller than anyone in the family, all gangly arms and legs. But he still had the same twinkle in his eyes, the kindly smile, and the shock of wavy brown hair.

She was grateful for his arms, hard and strong under her as he lifted her down, but she had only a moment to steady herself before the others came streaming from the house and crowded around the wagon, Aunt Marion, Roxanna's three sisters, and her little brother. Only the new baby that Roxanna had never met was left inside. They all were shy with her and said little, but she greeted them warmly, one at a time. Harriet, Molly, Ella, Arthur.

Ma appeared from the other side of the wagon and shooed them all into the house. You'll catch your death of cold out here with no shawls on, she told them.

Roxanna lingered outside in the dusk to look around her, her eyes drinking in the sweep of fields stretching away to the east beyond the barnyard fence. She sniffed the tangy, sweet scent of hay from the barn and savored the peace and quiet of the farm. The only sounds were the murmur of Byron's voice gentling the horses and the slap of his hand against a flank. She felt calm and safe. It was good to be home. And I'll earn my keep, she thought. I can help Pa in the fields and Ma in the house. They'll see that I'm not a child any more.

She turned toward the house, but stopped at the sight of it silhouetted against the luminous sky. Something was terribly wrong. The windows on the lake side were boarded up, the kitchen shed sagged, and one of the front porch railings hung like a broken arm. The house, under its weather-beaten roof, looked defenseless and exposed to the sky. Then she saw that Gramma Britton's elm was gone.

Byron, Byron! she cried, running into the barn. What happened to the elm?

He shrugged and turned back to his work. It just withered up and died like everything else around this place. Nothing grows in this sand against the wind off'n the lake.

The slump of his shoulders and the bitterness of his words were as ominous as the misshapen silhouette of the old homestead.

But, By, that elm was bigger than anything. Gramma said it would outlast us all.

We've had bad times, Sanny, he said, picking up the lantern. Not enough rain, and the soil wearing out. We're not the only ones. All the farms along here are hard hit. That's why Pa can't even find winter work. Nobody has money for lumber, let alone a carpenter.

I didn't know, Roxanna said, her brain whirling.  Pa and Ma never said a word. And here I am, bringing more trouble.

Don't fret, Sanny. We're mighty glad to have you home. I mean to say—I'm sorry about your husband. About Will.  He led her outside and shut the door behind them. Now that you're here, maybe you can make Ma listen to reason. She's dead set against moving to California.

California! The name called to her mind stories about the hundreds of families that set out each spring, walking countless miles across the prairies and enduring great hardship. She pitied them from her heart. Oh, no, By. Pa would never leave the homestead.

All I know is Pa says we've got to find better soil for growing crops, and we can't wait till the wolf's at the door.

Inside the house, warm air pungent with the odors of pork and beans awakened her hunger. Pa lugging an armful of logs for the fireplace was besieged by children all talking at once. His laugh, ringing out, sounded as hearty as ever, and she looked in vain for signs of dejection and despair.

The room was just as she remembered it, with the big rag rug before the fireplace, the settle on one side and Pa's chair on the other—homely comforts her parents had made with their own hands. After the mournful quiet of the rooms in Cleveland, this house seemed bursting with life. Ma's baby was creeping across the floor toward Martha's cradle. Molly and Ella were setting the table. Beyond the kitchen door, Ma, already in her apron, was helping Aunt Marion and Harriet with the cooking.

When they sat down to supper, Roxanna noted that there was plenty of food on the table. In the center were a whole loaf of Ma's bread, freshly sliced, and a huge pot of baked beans. Things couldn't be so bad when Ma was able to feed twelve mouths in January. As Pa dished up, she recognized the tell-tale signs of hard times—very little pork in the beans, no raisins in the brown bread, and no butter on the table—but that was not alarming. It wasn't the first time they had survived a winter of plain fare.

That night, settled with Sylvia in Roxanna's old bed under the eaves, with Martha's cradle beside them, Roxanna was grateful for a safe place to rest. The scent of raw pine boards, her sisters' even breathing, and the very feel of the straw mattress promised security. It would be easy to slip back into the old role of dutiful child, but she would guard against that. Tomorrow, she would show Ma that she could do a woman's work and take her share of responsibility for running the house.

Tired as she was, she could not fall asleep at once. Byron's words kept running through her mind. Hard times. The wolf at the door. No carpentry work for Pa in the winter.  Pa obviously hadn't enough money to buy lumber for house repairs. Why not borrow money on the land, just until things got better? Fear crept up her spine as she realized that Pa must already have mortgaged the farm.

Chapter 3—Avon, 1855

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In the morning, Roxanna walked into the kitchen before Ma had lit the fire in the stove.

Shall I fetch oats? It was the first time in her life that she had asked Ma such a question. Children were not allowed to enter the store room.

No. Thank you. I'll make the oatmeal this morning. You could set the table for me.

You can trust me to do more than set the table, Ma. I'm not a child any more. I'm used to running a house on my own.

My dear girl, I should know better than anyone how old you are. There's plenty of work for you without trying to take over my job. No one goes in the store room but me.

Roxanna said nothing further although her spirit bristled. She carried the spoons and bowls into the other room as she had for years in childhood. Would Ma ever treat her like a grown woman? A wave of longing for Will weakened her knees for a moment. The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back to her task, and she began mechanically to set the table. The mindless chore calmed her. By the time she had laid ten places—Martha and Lou were too young to sit at the table—and walked back to the kitchen for milk, she had regained her spirits. Ma always said that work was the best cure for pain and sorrow. Maybe she was right.

What's happened to Molly this morning, Ma? she asked, eyeing the empty milk pail. She told me last night that she does the milking now.

Ma continued to stir the oatmeal without looking up. We used more milk than usual last night, and Betsy isn't giving much this winter. We're sometimes short.

Roxanna stared at her mother. Old Betsy must be in her dotage. Was she the only cow they had?  With two more babies in the house, they would need a lot of milk. Shall I put on a pitcher of water then? she asked in the mildest tone she could manage.

Her mind leapt back to Byron's dire predictions, and she resolved to talk to Pa as soon as she could find him alone. But first she would find a way to get into the store room and see what supply of food was there.

On Sunday she volunteered to stay home with the little ones while the family went to church. The offer was not a great sacrifice. Until lately, Sunday worship had provided the spiritual nourishment necessary to sustain her through the week. Even though Will had not shared her faith—indeed, he had often argued against Calvinist dogma, as he called it—she had managed to get to church most Sundays. But during the long nights of Will's illness, her prayers had begun to lack conviction, and since his death, her heart had refused to believe in a heaven that excluded him.

As soon as Ma and Pa, Aunt Marion, and the four older children had trudged off, picking their way over the frozen ruts on the road to town, Roxanna began searching for the key to the store room. After a few minutes she found it in the pocket of Ma's apron. Fitting the key into the lock, she felt guiltier than a thief—more like Judas. She was betraying her mother's trust. If she was caught, she would never live down the shame. But she could hear Arthur and Sylvia playing in the other room, and the babies were too young to tattle.

Leaving the door ajar for a shaft of light, she stepped inside the dim, cold closet. The air, untainted by the smoke from the fireplace, gave off the delicate scents of wheat and oats. She scanned the upper shelves and saw empty jars which should have held preserves. She lifted the barrel lids, one after the other, and peered down to assess the level of flour, meal, and oats in their depths. There was not nearly enough to last through the winter and spring. No wonder Ma had tried to keep her out of the store room!

She returned the key to Ma's apron pocket and went to tend the children, her mind reeling with the impact of her discovery. Such a bare cupboard meant that the crops must have failed last year and the year before. Byron had not exaggerated their plight. They would have to move to California, and there was no time to lose if they hoped to hitch up with a wagon train this spring. Her head began to throb. She couldn't think in the stale air of the house with the babies fussing.

Look, Arthur. The sun's shining, she said. Let's get your wagon and take the girls down to the beach.

For a moment he looked at her with solemn eyes, no doubt weighing her authority against Ma's strict rules. You can use my wagon, he said with a hint of masculine condescension, and then ran whooping to the peg where his coat hung.

Walking along the windy shore, Roxanna gulped the fresh, cold air. Arthur and Sylvia romped on the sand, their cries mingling with the sound of water lapping at the shore and the calls of birds. As far as her eyes could see, the lake lay glistening in the pale sunlight. Her soul stood up and stretched as if waking from a long coma.

This beach was where she had come as a child to heal wounds to her spirit or to dream of a world beyond the farm, and even now the spacious horizon awakened some of the exhilaration she had felt then. In such a wide, sunlit world, why should she fear moving on, even to California? Giving up the Britton homestead had seemed like a betrayal of her family heritage, but her ancestors had left their home in London to come to New England, and each generation had moved farther west, first to Connecticut, then New York, and eventually to Ohio. And every move had been fraught with danger.

That afternoon as soon as the dinner dishes had been put away and the babies settled for their naps, she slipped down to the barn, where Pa retreated on Sunday afternoons to escape the Sabbath quiet Ma imposed indoors. Pa's family had left Calvinist strictness back in New York. In fact his sister and brother had broken entirely with their Puritan heritage by becoming Mormons, and Pa did not believe that the good Lord would consider repairing oxen yokes a desecration of the Sabbath.

Thinking about spring planting already? Roxanna asked as she sat down on a milking stool. What are you going to sow this year?

Pa looked up from his work, and she saw the pain in his eyes. Beats me where we're going to find money for seed this year, Sanny. I can't borrow any more on the land. I've been hoping for some winter work, but nobody's building these days, and now it's getting on toward spring.

Then Byron was right. He said that we have to move to California.

Pa shook his head. Your Ma won't hear of it.

She has to hear of it, Roxanna said, impatient at his easy admission of defeat.

Lord knows, I've tried.

Let me talk to her, Pa.

He was silent for a moment. Well try if you want, Sanny. But don't you badger her. She's not as strong as she seems. And you can be sure that I'm not going to do what your Edmonds grandfather did—ride roughshod over the family's opinion.

Roxanna remembered the only time she'd heard talk of selling the farm. It must have been seven or eight years ago when Grandpa Edmonds shocked the whole family at Easter dinner by announcing that he was going to sell the Edmonds homestead. I've had enough of trying to turn this sand pile into a farm. I've been trying for more than twenty years, and it's no use.

The grown-ups had stopped eating to stare at him. Aunt Sylvia, the oldest of his six children, spoke first. What do you mean, Papa?

I mean to sell these fifty worthless acres and move west—to Indiana.

Uncle Alex had pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. Don't you remember, Father, just a few years back, how you fumed when Amanda's husband took her and the baby to Indiana in that ox-drawn wagon?

Of course I remember. I still think it was too dangerous for Mandy and the baby. But now they have a big farm that grows more than they can use. Amanda writes that there's lots of good land for sale cheap. So Eleanor and I and the two girls are moving out there this spring. And you are fools if you don't come with us.

Aunt Sylvia shook her head. I'm sure you know what's best for you and Mama, but George's tailoring shop is our mainstay, and we're expecting a baby this summer, so we can't go with you.

Uncle Alex, still red in the face, pounded on the table. I'm staying here, too, on the Edmonds grant, he said. I've got this farm in my blood, and I can make a go of it. You get an offer on the land, Father, and I'll match it, though it may take me some years to pay.

Grandpa had turned to Pa. Well, Squire, what do you think? Your land is even worse than mine, and you've got a houseful of bairns. Come with us!

Gramma Britton stiffened and looked at Pa, but before he could say anything, Ma spoke up. Father, I'm a Britton woman since I married Squire; and I intend to stay on Britton land.

You're all fools then, Grandpa said, but Eleanor and I and the two girls will be leaving in a few weeks.

They did drive away in their covered wagon one hazy spring morning, but only one daughter went with them. Aunt Marion had rebelled against her parents, and Ma had taken her in. She was upstairs on Roxanna's bed sobbing.

The wounds of that battle had not entirely healed even yet. Ma had a bitter edge to her voice when she spoke of her parents. They exchanged letters between Ohio and Indiana, but without warmth.

I'll be careful, Pa, Roxanna said, although she couldn't see that Ma had lost any of her toughness.

The next morning after the children had gone to school and while Aunt Marion was upstairs making the beds, Roxanna confronted Ma in the kitchen. Pa told me how bad things are. He can't borrow the money we need for sowing this spring.

Ma lifted the lid of the kettle of wash water and let a cloud of steam rise. She replaced the lid and was silent so long that Roxanna feared she wouldn't answer, but at last she said, It's not your place to pry into Pa's affairs. Then she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. And I don't want any such talk in front of Marion or the children.

It is my place, Ma, if I'm to live with you and Pa. You can't afford three more mouths to feed.

We've had bad times before.

Not like this, Ma. I looked in the store room while you were at church yesterday.

Ma turned from the stove to face her. You were forbidden to go into there. I can't believe that my own daughter would spy on me. But since you're such a prying miss, let me tell you that you don't know everything. Just to be safe I planted three extra rows of potatoes last spring. As long as the hens are still laying, we won't starve.

But Ma, even if we don't starve this spring, we'll starve next summer without new crops. Pa says this soil is thin and worn out. We have to find better land.

I'll listen to no talk of California. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know. And now I'll thank you to empty this kettle into the wash tub.

They went on with the washing in silence for a few minutes, Roxanna chafing at her mother's stubbornness and miserably conscious of the extra burden she, herself, was laying upon the family. Ma, please listen to Pa about moving west. If Pa can't find some way to make ends meet, I can't stay here, knowing how bad things are.

She saw Ma's hands pause in their wringing of the sheets and knew her arrow had hit its target. A footfall on the stairs warned of Marion's approach, and Ma resumed her rhythmic twisting of the sheets.

"You