[short story] An Unwanted Visitor
A historical women's fiction short story from Juniper Falls by author A.T. Butler
Though it was not what she had hoped for her life, Martha did not mind being a spinster. As she rolled out her dough to make the doughnuts her nephews so dearly loved, she realized that she had been keeping house for her brother for more than twenty years already. When she was twenty-two and Bertie was twenty-four, he was able to—after several years of working for others and saving—purchase his own sprawling farm a little bit outside of Juniper Falls. Martha, at the time, had gotten so tired of their parents’ dejected comments about her not having a beau, not having a family of her own yet, that she went with him.
He had been grateful to have her, and she had settled in easily to keeping house on her own. Getting out from her mother’s hovering and her father’s subtle critique had given Martha space to blossom. They fell into an easy rhythm, and a few years after that Bertie got married. While that had been a trying transition, Martha and her sister-in-law, Jennie, had always been friends. No one had even implied Martha should return to her parents’ house.
The children came in the years after that—Albie, Micah, Ellen, Otis, and Susie—and Jennie needed all the help she could get.
And now, twenty years later, Martha was just as much a member of the Wright family as any of them. She was never left out of holidays, never asked to make herself scarce when guests visited, the way other hired girls might be. She had a bedroom to herself, was afforded time off when she needed it, and was depended on by the children nearly as much as were their own parents. For Martha, this arrangement had turned out to be just as good as marrying and having a home of her own.
Truthfully, perhaps better, Martha reflected as she floured her cutter and began to cut out the doughnuts from the rolled dough.
Bertie and Jennie were still very much in love almost twenty years after marrying, but like all couples they fought occasionally. Bertie watched what Jennie spent closely, and that could become an argument. Jennie resented Bertie going to the Golden Eagle Saloon too often, and that could become an argument. But Martha did not have to deal with any of that. All she had to do was retreat when the tension was high and wait for it to blow over while she kneaded her bread or hung the sheets to dry on the clothesline.
She had space when she needed it and support when she needed it.
No, whenever she thought about it, to Martha’s eyes she got all the benefits of being a married woman without any of the headaches she associated with men. What more could she want, really?
“Aunt Martha!”
Otis came dashing into the kitchen from outdoors, seemingly unable to arrest his momentum. At six years old, he was not yet going to school every day with his older siblings, but Martha and Jennie were running out of ways to keep him entertained for hours at a time. He missed his older siblings, his primary playmates, but Bertie had decided that his youngest son was still too restless to be able to sit still indoors all day. She would be grateful when he was out of the house and under the tutelage of Mrs. Frye come the fall.
“Aunt Martha,” he repeated when she waited too long to respond.
“What are you up to, young sir?” she asked as she wiped her hands on her apron.
He had been going so fast he ran into the back of Martha’s legs, but he bounced off and was now standing somberly with his back to the counter. He pushed his strawlike hair out of his face and looked up at her with wide eyes.
“I have three things I wanted to say.” He held up three fingers before scrunching up his nose as though trying to remember them. “Um . . .”
Martha waited patiently. It had taken Otis longer than his siblings to speak—his father postulated that perhaps it was because Ellen spoke far too much—but when he finally did it was in complete sentences. He took his communication very seriously, and if occasionally Martha needed to wait quietly for Otis to carefully choose his words, it was worth it to see him blossom into the young man he was becoming.
“Okay. Right.” He nodded to himself. “The first one is . . . um, when will the doughnuts be ready?”
“Not long, love. I’m cutting the dough now while the oil heats, and then I’ll fry them and glaze them, and then they will cool while I make supper.”
“This is not one of my three things, but could I have a doughnut with supper, please?”
“You can ask your mother, but I think she’ll probably say you need to wait until after supper. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
She grinned at her little nephew, and he grinned back, in no way ashamed of getting caught in his machinations.
“What’s the second thing, love?”
“Um, well, you know how I was catching grasshoppers yesterday?”
She nodded.
“Do you think the grasshoppers are sad to be in my jar?”
“Oh. Well . . .”
Two days earlier, he had begged her to both give him one of her jars and help him punch holes in the lid so the insects could get air. Martha had been hesitant at first, not because of the jar—she had plenty of those and could easily get another—but because she worried about Otis’s sensitive heart if any of the grasshoppers died while in his care.
Her brother had overheard the conversation and stepped in, explaining to Otis what could happen when he trapped the insects and making him promise that he would be a big boy if anything should happen to them. Such talking-to was a tactic that had worked well enough for Otis’s older brothers in similar scenarios, but Martha was not certain that Otis could keep his promise.
She wished Bertie were here now to have the conversation with his son.
“You know, Otis,” she said, squatting down to be at eye level with him. “There are some animals that thrive in captivity, and some that do not. Like Milky?” The Wright children had been given the privilege of naming the farm animals, with predictable results. “Cows like to have people nearby to help milk them. You don’t normally see cows wandering around in the wilderness like you might buffalo or wolves, right?”
Otis nodded, looking thoughtful. “Which one is a grasshopper?”
“I think a grasshopper might be more like a wolf. Just less dangerous. They hop around a bit, right? I don’t think many insects are used to being confined in a small space like yours are in that jar. Some creatures just like their freedom.”
“But are they sad?”
“Have you been watching and studying them the way you planned to?”
He nodded.
“Then you probably know better than I do,” she said. “Would you like my advice?”
“Yes, please.”
“I think if it was me,” Martha said, standing again and addressing her small nephew as though he were a parent himself or one of the elders at church, “what I would do is watch them again for a little while and determine if they seem more or less energetic than when you first captured them. Compare and look for any changes.”
“What does that mean? ‘Determine’?”
“Oh, it means . . . decide. Watch them, and based on what you see, you can decide if you think the grasshoppers are sad or not.”
“How long should I watch them for?”
“Until you think you have enough information.”
He nodded soberly and looked down at his hands. “Aunt Martha? If I de—determine that the grasshoppers are sad . . . will you help me open the jar so they can be free?”
“Of course I will, love. You just let me know how I can help you. Isn’t that what Aunt Martha is here for?”
“Thank you!”
Otis perked up immediately, now that he had a solution to his conundrum. He turned to dash outside again when Martha called him back.
“Wait! Didn’t you have a third thing for me, Otis?”
“Huh?” He looked back over his shoulder and let the door hit him when he paused. “Oh, yeah! Um . . . Mr. Everett is here and he said he wanted to talk to you and he’s been waiting out here for me to let him into the kitchen.”
“Mr. Everett?” she said, wiping her hands again and untying her apron. “From church? Why didn’t you show him to the sitting room?”
“He said he wanted to see you in here. Your, um . . .” He scrunched up his face again, searching for the word in his memory. “Your element. Is that the right word?”
“I think so,” she murmured, more confused than ever. “Thank you, love. Will you tell him he can come in?”
She hung her flour-covered apron on a hook by the pantry and turned back to the outside door awkwardly. What should she do with her hands? She glanced at the big pot of oil on the stove. It had just about reached boiling, and she should be frying the doughnuts right now. There was no time for a social call. What on earth was Mark Everett thinking?
Suddenly, Martha remembered the intense way he had been watching her at church a couple of Sundays earlier. Though he had not once approached her, Martha had felt his eyes following her as she spoke to other neighbors both before and after the service. It had been surprising on its own, as she was not sure she had ever said more than a couple of words to the man, but then, as they were getting ready to leave, she had spotted him speaking confidentially to her sister-in-law. Though Martha hung back, not interrupting the conversation, as soon as she could tell he was leaving, she’d hurried to Jennie’s side.
“What did he want?” she had whispered.
Jennie had frowned and watched the man’s retreating back. “He wanted to know who else you have kept house for.”
Martha had laughed. “He can’t think I’m looking for more employment, can he? He knows you have five children at home and all the requisite laundry and cooking and cleaning and—”
Jennie had laughed in agreement and shook her head. “Honestly, who knows what that man is ever thinking? Do you remember when he came to see Bertie about investing in the opal mine sure-thing? His thoughts always seem to be far away from reality. It’s a wonder he gets on as well as he does without more chaos.”
That Sunday morning, when Mark Everett had asked about Martha, had been strange, but not alarming. She had put it out of her mind, sure that if it meant anything more she would know soon enough.
And it seemed as though that moment had arrived. Less than a minute after the kitchen door had banged shut behind Otis, it opened again, and Mr. Everett entered silently.
He was the same height as Martha—or maybe an inch shorter—with a fringe of stark-white hair in a ring around his otherwise bald head. He had the air of a man who had once been quite handsome and desirable and had not yet reconciled himself to the fact that he had aged out of it.
Martha had been cordial with the late Mrs. Everett, and remembered her funeral two years earlier clearly. But other than attending the same church, she could not think of a single thing that she and this man had in common, nor why he might seek her out in her kitchen in the hours just before supper.
“How do you do, Mr. Everett?” she said primly, standing stiffly in the middle of her kitchen. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“A remarkable woman,” he said, seemingly to himself.
Martha watched as he looked around her kitchen, his gaze lingering on the doughnuts still waiting to be fried, the pile of potatoes waiting to be peeled, and the clean dishes for supper pulled out so she could set the table. She felt as though she should be self-conscious about this strange man’s attention to her workspace, but more than anything else she felt pride. Martha Wright knew precisely what her role in this family was, and she went above and beyond for them every day. There was nothing Mark Everett might see in this kitchen that she would be ashamed of.
Pride, and a little annoyance that he was keeping her from doing her duty.
“I see you’re about to make supper,” he said finally, after doing a complete circle of the space.
“Yes . . .”
She tried to see what he was seeing, to approach the kitchen from the view of a man who likely had not cooked for himself since . . . perhaps ever. Though his wife had died two years earlier, his daughter was old enough to keep house for him and had certainly stepped in to fill the gap.
She did not want to repeat her question, she did not want to seem rude to this man who was an elder in her church, but at the same time she truly could not fathom what he was doing in her kitchen. It was not often that Martha allowed herself to be truly idle, so waiting here, watching, not able to move forward on her projects until her guest at least spoke, was incredibly trying for her.
“Would you say that you enjoy cooking?” he asked suddenly. “That it is one of your favorite parts of the day?”
“Oh, I . . .” she stammered.
The question seemed far too personal for Martha to feel comfortable answering it plainly. She realized suddenly that her favorite part of the day was sitting around the supper table with her family, asking the children about their day, Bertie teasing his oldest son or Ellen speaking louder and louder until someone paid attention to her. Some of Martha’s fondest memories were during everyday, intimate family moments like that.
“I enjoy cooking, yes,” is all that she would allow herself to say.
There was another long quiet moment. Mr. Everett appeared to be examining Martha’s broom, mop, and buckets that were stored behind the door he had just entered. She was at such a loss to understand what his intention was that she could not come up with a question to ask.
Finally he turned back around to face her, puffed up his chest like a peacock, and fixed her with a meaningful stare.
Martha remained standing, idle, near her stove as she attempted to wait him out.
“I overheard some of what you said to the boy,” he began.
Martha bristled at the man not even bothering to learn the child’s name.
“And I have to say I disagree with you.”
“Oh?” Martha did not trust herself to say anything more.
“I’m not sure that all creatures want freedom the way that you told the boy that grasshoppers do.”
She frowned, at a loss for how to even respond to such a strange assertion. They were discussing literal wild animals, and he was claiming that they did not want to be wild?
“For example,” he continued, “I’m sure that you must be chafing against the lack of security and esteem in your own life. You must long for someone to take care of you, not unlike the way your brother takes care of . . . Milky, was it?”
When she had been a child, Martha had had a problem with losing her temper. As she grew older and learned not to take everything so personally, she was angry far less often, but now, listening to this man comparing her to a cow made Martha see red. She had matured enough, however, to limit herself to a measured response.
“Excuse me?”
“I have been admiring you for some time now, Miss Wright,” Mr. Everett continued, seemingly oblivious to any change in her emotions. “You appear to be one of the most capable and efficient women in all of Juniper Falls.”
“Thank you.”
Martha remained standing rigidly near her stove, uncomfortably aware of all the “capable and efficient” things she should be doing but could not without being rude to her guest.
He grinned at her as though they shared some kind of understanding.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and then at the dough that still sat waiting for her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but it’s getting late. I really do need to be getting to making the family’s supper. I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could speak plainly about why it is you came to see me today, I would appreciate it, as would the little ones who are less than patient about being fed when they want to be.”
“A remarkable woman,” he said again. “No time to waste. I admire that about you as well.”
Martha took a deep breath and waited. If she did not prolong the conversation any longer, perhaps he would be finished and gone more quickly.
“What I came here today to say,” he said importantly, “is that I have been admiring you for some time, and I have come to the decision that my life—our lives, my children included—could be greatly improved by your presence and care. I would like to marry you, Miss Wright. Martha.”
The way he smiled at her when he used her Christian name made Martha even more angry than she had been in the first place, completely aside from the fact of his marriage proposal.
A proposal!
There had always been a small part of her that had been sad that she had never had a beau, like other women, had never had the chance to experience the admiration of a man, to consider a proposal of marriage. But now that it had finally happened, Martha knew without a doubt that she could have lived the rest of her life without it.
After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Martha could only say the first thing that had come to mind.
“You must be joking.”
“Why, no, I’m not.” He took a step closer to her, putting his hands up to calm her, as though she were a spooked horse. “I know this might be sudden and—”
“Sudden? Far be it from me to question your intentions, sir,” she said, cutting him off in a tone that dripped with the very questioning she was foreswearing, “especially seeing as I have no experience with such a situation, but I was under the impression that a gentleman would make his intentions known prior to issuing such a proposal.”
She all but bit off each word as it left her mouth, in her struggle to remain polite.
“Well, yes, that is usual for young folks, I’m sure, just setting off on their life together. But you and I are not so lucky as that, are we? I’m sure we both know what we want and do not need to wait or discover how we would like to spend our remaining years.”
“You are certainly correct in that,” she said. “I can say with full confidence that I know that I do not want to marry you. I am perfectly happy in my situation, sir, but . . .” She cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “But thank you for your . . . consideration.”
“What do you mean?” He blinked at her rapidly, as though she were speaking a foreign language he was not quite grasping.
“I mean that—”
Martha looked around her kitchen futilely, desperate for someone or something to rescue her from this situation. Of all the absurdity she could imagine for her life, being proposed to for the first time at her advanced age was silly enough, but for the offer to come from an arrogant man with whom she had never had a private conversation and who likened her to a farm animal was beyond the pale. A man so sure that he would be accepted, so certain that she was desperate, that he made no attempt to woo her for even a short while.
“I mean precisely what I said. That my life here, with my brother, with my nieces and nephews, is all I could ever want. I have no intention of leaving them, marriage proposal or no.”
“But . . . but . . . but surely you’ve wanted more for yourself? You could be a married woman.”
“I assure you, Mr. Everett, that what I have is far better for me than any situation I might have with you.”
“Why? What do you mean? I was sure you would be more than grateful for a chance to be married finally after being unwanted for so long,” he declared, unabashed.
Martha stared openly at him for only a moment before her temper caught up with her.
“How dare you?” she thundered.
Martha took a step back. She needed to put more space between herself and this self-important, odious man. The corner of the stove hit her in her lower back and she stopped.
“Why—what—?” he stammered.
“You, sir, are no gentleman to say such things to me. Get out of my kitchen, before I have to call my brother to throw you out.”
“Well, there’s no need to—”
“Get out, I said!”
Casting about for something, somewhere, to channel her fury, Martha’s gaze fell on her stovetop. Using her layers of skirt and petticoats to protect her hands, Martha seized the handle of the pot that had been sitting on the stove top. The oil had reached a boiling point, ready for the doughnuts that she had hoped to have finished by now. Her rage at being so insulted, on top of being delayed and distracted from her duty, clouded her thinking.
Or that’s what she told her brother and sister-in-law after the fact when they saw what happened next.
With both hands wrapped tightly around the pot’s handle, Martha spun around, eyes wild, and descended upon her unwelcome caller. The two looked at each other for a long moment, before Mr. Everett backed up several awkward steps, hitting his back against the door.
“Get out of my kitchen,” she said in a low voice, generously—she thought—offering him one last chance to make things right.
“Miss Wright, what are you doing?”
It was one question too many, and after valiantly holding back her temper through all of these insults, Martha could stand it no longer.
She took two heavy steps toward him, holding the pot of boiling oil firmly.
He—now, finally, intelligently—wasted no more time questioning her. Spinning back toward the door so quickly he almost fell over, Mark Everett seized the handle, threw it open, and ran out to the front yard of the Wrights’ home without another word.
Martha, weapon of choice in hand, followed.
He ran, ran faster than she would have supposed a man of his age could move, and she was satisfied to see the back of him. Several steps outside of the house, Martha stopped and seemed to come back to herself. The pot of oil was really getting quite heavy, and she still had to fry up her doughnuts before she started supper.
With a resigned air that her first and only proposal of marriage had been so infuriating, Martha returned to her kitchen and got back to work. She had never minded being a spinster, and she certainly would not start now.
This short story and two others are available for free on the book retailer of your choice. Grab Stories from Juniper Falls by A.T. Butler here: