The Carousel Painter Page 7

  Augusta released my arm and hoisted herself into the carriage. Her face had tightened into a grimace.

  “You’re hurting much worse than you’ve been letting on, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a little sore, but it will pass soon enough. Don’t say anything to Mother. I’m hoping Tyson is feeling better and the three of us can go out for the afternoon.”

  The thought of spending an afternoon with Tyson held no appeal, but I didn’t argue. I’d wait and see how he was faring when we got home. If Augusta’s plan took shape, I’d find some way to excuse myself.

  The ride home was surprisingly pleasant. The churchgoers had accepted the explanation given for Augusta’s bruises, Mrs. Galloway was in good humor, and the weather was surprisingly warm for an early spring day in northern Ohio. Augusta would have added Tyson’s arrival as another reason for the pleasant mood. And I suppose it was. For everyone but me.

  Augusta was careful to hide any sign of pain as we walked up the steps and into the house. Frances stood in the foyer waiting to relieve us of our wraps. Augusta removed her lightweight cape and handed it to the maid. “Has Tyson come downstairs?”

  Frances nodded. “He has. He said to tell you that he is feeling better.”

  “Where is he?” Augusta raised on tiptoe and peered down the hallway. She obviously hoped to see Tyson emerge from the dining room.

  Frances scrunched her brow. “He said to tell you that he decided to return home and see his parents for a short time.”

  “That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” Augusta’s voice had taken on a shrill tone.

  Frances looked toward the ceiling and tapped her index finger against her lips. “Oh. Yes. He said he’d be back in time for the housewarming.”

  Immediate disappointment clouded Augusta’s eyes, and I squeezed her hand in a show of support. Although I had harbored no desire to spend the afternoon with Tyson, his disappearance was the cause of my friend’s pain. At that moment I disliked him even more.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what had precipitated such a hasty departure. Not for a minute did I believe he’d gone to visit his parents. Only last evening he’d told me they were off traveling. Tyson’s behavior left me to draw only one conclusion: He was up to no good.

  CHAPTER

  7

  I would have preferred to leave the Galloways’ house quietly on my own the next morning, but Augusta vehemently disagreed. She insisted upon eating breakfast with me, instructing Frances to pack a lunch for my noonday meal, and riding along in the carriage with Thomas and me. Her company would have been appreciated had she not been so gloomy.

  From the time we sat down in the dining room for breakfast until I bid her good-bye at the carousel factory, Augusta lamented Tyson’s departure as well as my move to The Bottoms. Had I not been resolute in my refusal, she would have followed me into the factory to watch me paint. She’d avowed her father wouldn’t mind in the least. Though I didn’t doubt her claim, I’d shuddered at the idea. Being the only woman in the factory would be difficult enough. But if I arrived with a friend in tow—especially when the friend’s father was the owner—the workers would never accept me.

  When Augusta bid me farewell, it was with a promise that she and Thomas would deliver my trunks to Wilsons’ Boardinghouse before they returned home. She offered to have the driver call for me after work so that we could eat supper together at her home. I declined. The sadness in her eyes was almost enough to make me change my mind. Instead, I promised to join her another evening. Although obviously unhappy, she mumbled her agreement. Thomas had stopped the horses a short distance from the factory. I didn’t want the workers to see me arrive in a fancy carriage.

  Once Augusta departed, I squared my shoulders and strode toward the factory door. A stiff wind caused an unexpected chill, and I pulled my cloak tight around my neck. Had I realized what a drop in temperature the breeze would create, I’d have tucked a pair of gloves into my pocket. Bending my head against the wind, I continued onward. But the closer I got, the slower I walked. A number of men brushed past me and hurried toward the door, obviously eager for the warmth inside the factory. If I dallied much longer, I’d be late for my first day of work. So I inhaled a deep breath, forced one foot in front of the other, and pulled open the door.

  I took a quick survey of my surroundings. Now that I was an employee rather than a visitor on a brief walking tour, the place looked different, although the pungent smell of glue remained. A man with graying hair and stooped shoulders stood near a desk not far from the entrance. I decided he must be Josef Kaestner. Mr. Galloway had told me Mr. Kaestner would be expecting me.

  The workmen entering the factory stared at me as though I’d grown a second head. My heart slammed against my chest and hammered a reverberating beat that ascended and pulsated in my head. There really was no reason for apprehension, yet I could barely swallow as I closed the short distance to greet the older man.

  “Good morning.” My voice squeaked like an untrained bow being drawn across taut violin strings.

  The man appraised me with wary brown eyes and a single nod of the head. “Morning.”

  “Mr. Kaestner?”

  “Nope.” He continued to sift through the papers on the desk.

  “Nope?” I hadn’t meant to mimic him, but his response had taken me by surprise.

  He tilted his head to one side and gave me a hard look. “That’s what I said. Nope.” Lifting a pencil from the desk, he pointed to the area where I’d seen men carving on my previous visit. “He’s back with the carvers. He expecting you?”

  “Yes. Should I go back there?”

  The man dropped the paper work onto the desk and shook his head. “I’ll go get him. Name?”

  I pointed my index finger at my chest. “My name?”

  “Unless you want me to give him someone else’s.”

  “Carrington Brouwer,” I croaked. My arch enemy, the ever persistent and unmanageable giggle, rippled at the back of my throat, begging for release. I tightened my lips together and fought against the threatening laughter. For a moment I thought I might explode. It wasn’t until the man turned to walk away that I released my breath. Before I could clasp my hand over my mouth, a snorting guffaw escaped.

  The man stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You say something?”

  I held a hand to my mouth and forced a cough into the gurgling laugh. “A tickle in my throat,” I sputtered, silently condemning myself for my lack of control.

  He grunted and swatted the air as if to let me know I was an unwanted irritation, a pesky fly upsetting his busy routine. The action was unnecessary: He’d already succeeded.

  I drew in a deep breath of air and pursed my lips before I pushed the air from my lungs. Midbreath, my throat constricted, my stomach convulsed, and a loud hiccough escaped. No! Not now! Not the hiccoughs. Hadn’t the giggle been enough embarrassment?

  When I was a little girl, Papa had instructed me to hold my breath whenever I had the hiccoughs. The remedy had never proved particularly successful, but maybe just this once it would work. I pinched my nose together, opened my mouth, and sucked in air until I thought my lungs would explode. Another spasm hit my throat and stomach, but I continued to hold my breath. Without exhaling, I opened my mouth and forced a little more air into my lungs. Another hiccough. Still pinching my nose, I exhaled one long breath, drew in more air, and held it in my lungs. Maybe this time.

  “Gut morning!”

  The voice that boomed in my ears bore a distinct German accent. Startled, I jumped and swiveled. I didn’t know who was more surprised— me or the man staring at my thumb and index finger tightly positioned on either side of my nose. Heat scalded my cheeks as I released my hold.

  “Sorry I am if I gave you a scare. Mr. Morgan said you wanted to see me, ja?” He continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed as though he’d never before seen a woman.

  I shook my head. “No. I wanted to see—” Before I could finish, a loud hiccoug
h erupted and echoed into the cavernous room. My embarrassment was complete. I wanted to flee.

  “Now I see why the nose you were holding,” he said. His chocolate brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “My mutter always told me a good scare would frighten the hiccoughs away.”

  “I don’t think that works, either. I was frightened when you walked up behind me, but I still have the hiccoughs.” I clasped my hand over my mouth to hold back the noise of another attack. I waited a moment and then said, “I need to speak with Josef Kaestner.”

  He touched his index finger to his chest. “That is me. Josef Kaestner.”

  My remaining smidgen of self-confidence evaporated like the morning mist. “Y-y-you?” I stammered. “You’re Mr. Kaestner?” This man was far too young to be in charge of Mr. Galloway’s factory. He appeared to be no more than five or six years older than I.

  While he glanced toward the paper work in his hand, I studied him. His eyes closely matched a chocolate brown thatch of unruly hair that had been trimmed close around his ears. I didn’t have to tip my head back very far to look him in the eye. He wasn’t tall, but his angular features seemed to create an illusion of height. His thick fingers bore a number of nicks and scars, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed muscular forearms. I did my best not to stare but found it impossible.

  After dropping the papers on his desk he looked up as though he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Ja, I am Josef Kaestner.” He exaggerated his mouth and pronounced the words slowly, enunciating each syllable in a loud voice. Apparently he thought I was dense or hard of hearing.

  “Then you are expecting me. I’m the new artist.” Seeing the confusion that shone in his eyes, I quickly corrected myself. “The new painter—for the carousel horses.”

  Mouth agape, he stared at me for what felt like five minutes or more. Though it was probably less than a minute, it seemed like forever before he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and gave me a fleeting glance.

  “Nein. The only painter I am to see is Mr. Brouwer.”

  “I’m Mr. Brouwer. I mean, I’m Carrington Brouwer, Miss Carrington Brouwer.” Mortification rushed over me. What kind of woman agreed she was a man? Only me! My response had been as clear as a church bell tolling the hour. At least I had plowed onward without so much as a hiccough or giggle. Fear and embarrassment had combined to snuff out my normal pesky interruption, even if only for the moment.

  Mr. Kaestner traced his fingers along his clean-shaven jaw and took another look at the paper. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “This cannot be correct. In this factory, we have only men.”

  I bit my tongue, for a sharp retort wouldn’t serve me well. “I am a well-qualified artist, Mr. Kaestner. I’m certain you’ll be pleased with my work.”

  “An artist?” He motioned me toward the office I’d recently visited with Mr. Galloway and pointed to a dust-covered chair. I removed my handkerchief and swiped the seat before I turned and sat down. He stood nearby with his arms folded across his broad chest. He’d been watching my every move, and his look told me I’d just made a mistake: I’d confirmed that proper women didn’t belong in a dust-laden factory inhabited by men. Now I’d have to prove him wrong.

  He sat down without wiping his chair. “Tell me what it is you know about this work we do.”

  I had to muster a large dose of inner conviction to appear unruffled. Mr. Galloway had already hired me, but it seemed I would be required to convince Mr. Kaestner of my qualifications. He jiggled his leg at a dizzying speed while I detailed my training and accomplishments.

  Though it took great perseverance, I refrained from grabbing his knee and holding it in place. What would he think if I should reach forward and grasp his leg? Such improper behavior was out of the question, but I did direct a frown at the bouncing appendage several times. Mr. Kaestner seemed not to notice. I decided he must be bored with my recitation. Once I’d finished, I leaned back in the chair and met his intense brown eyes. He didn’t appear particularly impressed.

  “In Paris with the artists you trained and painted portraits? Nothing else?”

  “And still lifes,” I added. He’d obviously worked hard to lose his German accent. For the most part he’d succeeded, but he hadn’t mastered the language completely—not yet.

  “And the still lifes,” he repeated. His eyes registered confusion. “The portraits and still lifes we do not paint in our factory, Miss Brouwer. We paint on the wood, not canvas. In our factory there is little freedom for what I hear you artists call ‘creative expression.’ Here you paint what the carver makes for you.” He continued to jiggle his leg. “This training of yours, it does not qualify you to paint the carousel animals. But what can I do? Mr. Galloway has already hired you.”

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Kaestner. I believe you will find me well qualified for any task you present.”

  His leg stopped the incessant bouncing. “I am a wood-carver. That does not mean I can build a house. Both use wood; both take special talent and training, ja? The two, they don’t change places.” He crisscrossed his fingers. “Your talent and training, they do not make you good for painting the carousel animals.”

  He looked at me as though his argument had won the advantage. Well, this wasn’t a game of lawn tennis, and I didn’t think he’d won at all. Far from it. “I suggest you set me to work, and we’ll see whether I have the skills required to meet your expectations.”

  He pressed his palms against his thighs and pushed up from the chair. “For this, I already know the answer, Miss Brouwer. It is an experienced carousel painter I need, not a picture artist.” He motioned me forward. “Come with me.”

  Picture artist. I wasn’t a picture artist. I considered correcting him but knew it would serve no helpful purpose.

  “First I will take you through to see the factory and how this place we operate. Then I think you will agree it is not gut for a lady to work here.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d already been on a partial tour with Mr. Galloway. Besides, I’d seen very little on my earlier visit. Mr. Kaestner opened a door. “This is the wood mill. Where we cut and prepare the lumber,” he shouted. The clattering squeal and groan of the huge overhead belt and pulley system created a deafening noise. I clapped my hands to my ears to muffle the noise.

  The smell of fresh-hewn wood flooded the room, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the reminiscent scent of childhood walks in the New Hampshire woods. Several shipments of lumber had arrived, and young men were straining under the weight of the loads they were stacking near the double doors that led outside. All of them were young and strong, and I wondered if this was the place where Mr. Kaestner had first developed his muscular arms. Across the room I recognized the older man who had greeted me upon my arrival. He was shouting orders, and I decided he must be the supervisor. The men who operated the machines appeared at least ten years older than those shouldering the lumber. Survival of the fittest, I decided. Those who survived years of lifting the heavy lumber were finally promoted to the machinery.

  My shoes scrunched in the carpet of wood shavings that dusted the floor. Although the men appeared oblivious to the noise of the machinery, they’d clearly noticed me. And from their furtive glances, I knew my appearance was causing discomfort.

  Once we’d exited the wood mill and Mr. Kaestner closed the door, I uncovered my ears. “The wood mill has more workers than I imagined.”

  “Our orders continue to increase. We now have fifty-two workers in this factory. Fifty-three if I count you.”

  He didn’t sound thrilled to be adding me to that number.

  “Over here is the machine shop, where we make and repair the gears and other assembly parts. We hire our own mechanics, so they are all well trained. Sometimes they must travel and help assemble the carousels we ship.”

  “So you ship carousels from this factory?”

  “Ja. Where else would we ship them from? We build the carousels, we sell the carousels, and we ship the carousels—sometimes to ci
ties here in America, sometimes to India or Australia. Sometimes even to South Africa.”

  Once again he spoke in a slow and deliberate manner. Mr. Kaestner truly believed I was a complete dolt. Yet how could I fault him? My question had been ridiculous. I was astonished to learn there were orders from as far away as South Africa and India, but I didn’t mention my surprise. I wasn’t sure I should say anything else during my tour. Although we didn’t enter the machine shop, Mr. Kaestner opened the door and gave me a brief peek. Only a few of the men looked my way—all of them frowned, and I was pleased we didn’t go inside.

  Mr. Kaestner pointed toward the stairs. “Upstairs, that is where we store extra animals until they are needed—we call it the holding pen. Right now we do not have many extras up there. Also upstairs is the upholstery shop, where the chariots are padded to make them more comfortable. You can see that another time. Next we will go through the carving shops, the glue shop, and the paint shop.”

  “Of course,” I mumbled, hastening to keep pace.

  “In here we have the carvers—apprentices, journeymen, and master carvers. Some do not speak English so well. Unless the men come to us with great experience, they begin as apprentice carvers.”

  It seemed Mr. Kaestner wasn’t going to miss any opportunity to point out my lack of training to work here.

  One of the young apprentices spoke to me as we entered the woodcarving shop. I smiled and acknowledged him. Then several others nodded. I hoped they would remain as friendly when they discovered I was a new employee. I had expected to spend more time in the carving shop, but Mr. Kaestner rushed me through without explanation. He didn’t even hesitate in the glue shop, though I didn’t mind bypassing that particular area.

  When he came to a halt outside the door leading into the paint shop, he rested his hand on the doorknob. “I am puzzled. The men, some of them seemed to know you.”