Secrets at the Fair

Book Two of the Tales from the Garden of Mysteries

Chapter One – A Pig-tastrope

Prairie Corner, Missouri, March 1904

“I promise I will not let my head float into the clouds,” Ten-year-old Lucy Woods said. She peeked through her squeezed, almost‑shut eyes and crossed her fingers behind her back, just in case.

Then she looked at her three brothers hopefully.

Even though she really wanted to keep the promise, sometimes her imagination had a way of unraveling faster than a ball of Mama’s yarn.

“Forget it,” Jeb said, dashing her hopes. “You’ll mess everything up just like always, Goosy Lucy.”

Stephen rolled his eyes and added, “You can’t even say it right, Lucy. How can we trust you with an important job like this?”

“I did say it right,” Lucy protested, blinking back the tears pricking her eyes. “And I promised. You said if I promised, I could hold the gate and watch.”

Wes, the brother closest to her in age and usually the kindest, tried to smooth things over. “You almost said it right, Lucy.” He was the only one who didn’t call her by the hateful nickname. “Jeb told you to promise you wouldn’t let your imagination float away. It’s not the same.” He gave her a gentle pat on the arm of her green-checked gingham. “You tried real good, though.”

“Quit mollycoddling her,” Stephen said.

He shoved Wes, knocking him against the pigpen fence. The new piglets inside squealed and grunted their disapproval, their tiny hooves kicking up bits of straw. The earthy smell of the pen drifted into the spring air.

“She’ll let her head ‘float into the clouds,’” Stephen mocked, using Lucy’s own words, “then she’ll let the gate open, and the piglets will run into the yard. And if that happens . . .”

He didn’t have to say anything else.

Mama promised dire consequences to anyone who upset their older sister Rilla’s visit with Henry Smithfield, the mayor’s son. Lucy had helped Mama and Brigit, the hired girl, sweep the front porch and set a lovely tea table for the visit. Henry was set on courting Rilla, who didn’t care much for him.

Mama was set on helping Rilla find what she called a “suitable match.” Whatever that meant. A piglet running through the yard would certainly upset Mrs. Smithfield, Henry’s mother, who had come along as chaperone.

“I can keep the gate shut,” Lucy insisted.

Wes, used to being shoved, pushed, and tormented by his older brothers, stuck his fingers through the fence and crooned softly to the piglets. “I don’t think we should grease any of the pigs, anyway. It don’t seem right. How’d you like to have grease smeared over you?”

This time it was Jeb who rolled his eyes and snapped, “Grease don’t hurt the pig.”

“Maybe not,” Wes answered, “but I’m not sure trying to catch a greased pig is a good idea, not with Rilla having company an’ all.”

A hen clucked loudly nearby as if agreeing with him, scratching at the dirt beside the barn.

“We got to!” Stephen hollered. “It’s less than a month ’til the World’s Fair. We gotta practice every single day, or we won’t catch the pig at the greased pig contest.”

“I don’t think there will be a greased pig contest at the fair,” Lucy spoke out bravely. “Not at a world’s fair.”

Stephen turned with shocked blue eyes and mouth open. “No greased pig contest? Course there’s gonna be one. It’s a fair. You can’t have a fair without a greased pig contest. And this year one of us Woods is taking home the prize.”

Lucy had heard enough about the disgrace the boys suffered last fall after the Missouri County Fair.

The boys had gone down in dirty, grimy defeat to the Thomas brothers from St. Louis. City boys! It was insult added to injury. All winter they’d talked about their chances and made plans. Here it was the end of March, and the new piglets were big enough to use for practice.

“He’s right,” Jeb agreed. “I’m sure there’s going to be a greased pig contest.”

Taking Lucy’s side, Wes repeated, “Even if there is, I don’t think you should practice today. Not with Rilla having company. There’s sure to be trouble, especially if the pig gets through the gate and into the yard.”

“Papa said we could practice any time we were done with our chores,” Jeb argued. “He didn’t say we couldn’t grease a pig today.”

“Maybe cuz he thought you had better sense,” Wes muttered, but only Lucy heard. A little louder he asked, “What did Mama say?”

“She gave us the lard, didn’t she?” Stephen snapped. “So, you gonna help or not?”

Wes looked undecided. Lucy knew he’d most anytime rather be somewhere reading or thinking. He was a great reader and thinker, traits Lucy admired. Although she loved books and stories, there weren’t many words she could read on her own.

To Lucy’s surprise, Wes gave her a wink. “I’ll help.”

Then he turned to their brothers. “But only if you let Lucy hold the gate.”

Jeb and Stephen turned their backs and whispered for a few minutes.

It doesn’t look good, Lucy thought.

Stephen turned around and sighed loudly. “All right, she can hold the gate.” He gave Lucy a stern look and warned, “But you’d better not let that pig get through the gate or there’s gonna be a big explosion.”

Holding herself stiffly, Lucy said, “I’m not dumb.”

Stephen rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, Luce,” Jeb used her other frowned‑upon nickname. “Mama won’t be happy if the pig interrupts Rilla’s courting. So, you better not let your head float into the clouds.”

While the boys went to grease the pig with lard—to make him slippery—Lucy took up her position at the gate and thought about their mother.

Mama, who’d once been a city girl, tried to make their farm in Prairie Corner as elegant as her girlhood home.

Mama often moaned to visitors. “Weston built the picket fence around the yard the year we married. I never imagined it being such a chore to keep my flowers alive.”

Most of the time, the gate swung open to welcome any number of barnyard creatures. Cows who chewed up the grass and ate the daisies or goats who yanked laundry from the clothesline and climbed all over the porch.

Mama was forever yelling, “Close that gate! You think no one ever heard of civility.”

The latch on the gate had broken long ago, so if you wanted it shut, it had to be pushed closed and held tight. The rest of the time, the gate sailed back and forth, better than a swing.

Lucy pushed off with one barefoot and the gate swung to the side. The packed dirt beneath her toes was warm from the morning sun, and the smell of hay drifted from the barn. It was lovely and breezy.

As the gate swung to the other side, Lucy sang, “Meet me in St. Louie, Louie, meet me at the fair.” She pulled the word “fair” out as long as a string of taffy.

Oops, my head is floating in the clouds.

That’s what Mama called it when Lucy went off into one of her daydreams, but as much as she tried, Lucy couldn’t help it. Concentrating on anything made her head hurt.

I will not let the piglet into the yard.

The boys had smeared lard all over the piglet. His squeals filled the air, mixing with the distant lowing of cows and the rhythmic thump of Peter, the hired man, chopping wood somewhere behind the barn.

Lucy glanced toward the porch. Somewhere behind the climbing purple morning glory vines, the wooden porch swing squeaked as Rilla pushed it with her dainty white kid slippers.

“Let’m go, Wes!” Jeb hollered.

Wes dutifully let go of the piglet.

Stephen took off after the enraged little animal.

I will not let my head float into the clouds. Stephen can’t catch the pig. Now Jeb is trying. Oh! He almost grabbed the piglet’s leg. I wonder when Henry and Rilla will eat the cream cake.

Lucy thought longingly of the extra cream cake Briget had made for supper. Cream cake was so yummy.

“Lucy, the gate!”

Snapped out of her lovely daydream, Lucy glanced up in time to see the worst possible sight in the world. The little pig was running straight for the yard. Lucy tried frantically to swing the heavy gate closed, but it stuck, as it sometimes did, on a hummock of grass.

“Lucy!”

Her name being shouted was the last thing she heard before she jerked hard on the gate. It swung in too fast and conked her on the head. Dropping to the ground, she was aware of the piglet’s tiny feet running over her face, leaving greasy hoofprints.

A second later, she heard a loud scream from the front porch and a bang.

Uh, oh.

Chapter Two – Splat!

The piglet’s squeal jarred Lucy back to the present.

She heard the boys screaming and hollering as they stampeded across the pasture and raced into Mama’s fancy yard.

Lucy’s newest puppy, White Tail, had been politely asleep in his basket near the barn. When he heard the pig and the boys, his ears perked up, and he was on his short, terrier feet in an instant.

With a yip and a yap, he raced after the piglet.

“What on earth?” Mama’s voice rose in puzzlement and annoyance as she hurried from the parlor. Mrs. Mayor Smithfield, teacup in hand, followed close behind Mama with a look of amazement on her face. “Boys! Get that animal out of here.”

“We are, Mama,” Wes hollered as he raced after the squealing porker.

Jeb jumped over Lucy and managed to shout back, “I knew we couldn’t trust you.”

Tears burned her eyes, but Lucy scrambled up and ran to help.

“Lucy, quiet that dog!”

“Yes, Mama.” Lucy ran after White Tail, who was clearly having way too much fun to stop. He yipped and chased the piglet, getting in the boys’ way and creating more trouble. The more White Tail barked, the squealier the piglet got and the longer they raced around the yard.

Henry Smithfield, Rilla’s beau, stood from the swing, a smirk on his face. Standing beside him, Rilla, wearing her best purple organdy, looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” Lucy yelled as she ran past.

At just that second, White Tail chased the piglet right under Mama’s damask tablecloth, which hung over the tea table. Pinned to the wall of the house by the yapping dog and Henry’s polished boots, the piglet let out an awful squeal, raced across Henry’s boots, and escaped down the porch steps.

White Tail, ready for the chase, scrambled under the table. One of his toenails caught the fringe on the end of the tablecloth. He squirmed, and the tablecloth, along with everything on it, came with him. Dishes rattled and crashed to the floor as Mama, Rilla, and Henry tried frantically to save the teapot and cream cake.

“I’ve got it!” Henry shouted in triumph, holding aloft the four-layer cake.

He spoke too soon.

Jeb, chasing White Tail, ran past him on the porch and bumped into his elbow. Caught off balance, Henry swayed, toppled backward, and sat down on the floor with a thump that must have hurt.

The cream cake went with him and splat! It hit him square in the face. Cream covered his eyebrows, dripped from his nose and smeared the smirk from his lips.

White Tail jumped on Henry’s chest, licked a splotch of cream, and bit down hard on Henry’s hand. “Ow!”

“Oh, no! You naughty, naughty dog!” Lucy grabbed White Tail by the hind leg and held on, even though he yelped like crazy. A second later, the dog lurched out of her hand and scrambled for the safety of the barn, licking icing from his fur.

“Put that dog in the woodshed,” Mama hollered at Lucy, turning to her company with apologies, “I am so sorry, Henry.” She turned toward the house. “Brigit! We need towels.”

The hired girl came out on the porch with baby Celia in her arms. One look at the mess and she handed Celia to Wes, grabbed a towel that was stuck in her apron, and took control. “You hooligans,” she hollered to the boys, “quit chasing that piglet and let it find its own way back to the pen.”

Jeb and Stephen whooped and hollered, still trying to catch the piglet.

Brigit charged across the yard, dark eyes snapping as she shoved up the sleeves of her white muslin shirtwaist. In the yard, she grabbed Stephen by the ear. “Chase the porker back into the barnyard. An’ ye be doin’ it now.”

Jeb snatched up a broom and went after the piglet, shooing it back to the pigpen. It squealed, glad to be back with its mother, and Stephen jerked the gate shut.

Wes jiggled Celia while Mama—still offering profuse apologies—wiped cake off Henry’s face. Brigit came back on the porch, trying hard to hide a grin. “Here, let me be helpin’ you by gettin’ some warm water to wash up.”

“Please accept my apologies for my unruly children,” Mama said, giving Lucy and Wes both stern looks.

Lucy tried to figure out what Mama wanted. She was tilting her head and nodding at Mrs. Smithfield, who stood stiff as a statue with a tea cup trembling in one hand.

“We’re sorry,” Wes said. “I told them not to let the piglet into the yard.”

“I’m sorry too,” Lucy agreed, happy to have a brother who could figure out Mama’s stern look: Apologize!

“What on earth were you four doing?” Mrs. Smithfield asked, staring at Henry as he swiped the rest of the cake from his face. The bodice of her peach silk dress heaved. “Oh, my, Henry, are you all right? Were you injured? I feel quite faint.”

“Would you like to lie down?” Mama asked. “Let me help you into my room—”

Mrs. Smithfield waved her offer away and set to fanning herself with her free hand. “No, no. Please, just have someone bring our buggy. I would like to go home.”

“Certainly, Mother.” Henry ignored Brigit’s offering of another towel. “I shall be glad to leave this circus.” He turned his back on Rilla and put his hand on his mother’s arm. “I’ve had quite enough cake for one day.”

“One of the boys could drive you,” Mama offered, “or our hired man.”

In all the commotion, Peter, the hired man, had run from the barn with a smelly pitchfork in his hand. Now, standing at the corner of the porch, his face showed his horror at this suggestion. He swallowed so hard that Lucy heard the gulp joggling his Adam’s apple.

“Thank you, but I just want to leave.” Mrs. Smithfield handed over her cup and saucer to Brigit. “Henry can drive us home. Can’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, Mother. I shall be glad to shake the dust of this place from my feet. If our horse could be hitched up?”

“Peter—” Mama started to say, but the hired man had already cleared the porch railing and was on his way to hitch up the mayor’s chestnut bay.

“You can be assured that the children will be severely punished for this mischief,” Mama told the Smithfields. She gave Lucy and Wes an angry glare.

This softened Mrs. Mayor Smithfield somewhat as she came to pat Lucy’s damp, disarrayed dark curls. “I’m sure it was just high spirits. They surely didn’t plan for the dog to chase the pig.”

Lucy was going to explain that wasn’t how it was until she noticed Mama shaking her head.

“And this little one”—Mrs. Smithfield smiled down at Lucy—“well, she can’t help herself. The Lord made her this way to be a lesson to all of us, to be thankful for what we do have, like children as sound as my Henry. I’m sure she didn’t understand the consequences.”

At first Lucy didn’t understand what the mayor’s wife meant. Then she saw Mama stitch her lips together and make her I–don’t-like-that eyes. She feels sorry for me, Lucy thought. Like I’m not made right.

“Lucy has always been a blessing to us,” Mama said in a voice that left no room for argument.

Mrs. Smithfield gave a smirky smile, as if Mama didn’t know what she was talking about.

Peter brought the buggy around just then. Henry helped his mother inside and before too long they were on their way down the dusty road.

“Weston Michael Woods,” Mama snapped. “What were you boys doing?”

“Practicing for the greased pig contest at the World’s Fair,” he answered, “even though I don’t think there will be one.”

Mama smacked her forehead. “Get your brothers, and then you can clean the henhouse. After that, I’ll have a list of chores to keep you out of mischief until your father gets home. What he will do to you, I have no idea. You’ve ruined your sister’s chances with Mr. Smithfield.”

“What should I do, Mama?” Lucy asked. She darted a quick look at Rilla, who didn’t look too upset.

“Oh, Lucy,” Mama sighed with that hopeless—what am I going-to do with you—voice.

It pierced Lucy like a sharp arrow, slicing her in two.

“Keep the puppy quiet for the rest of the day,” Mama finally said. “I must finish putting up the strawberries. Come, Celia,” she said, taking the chubby baby from Wes. “Let’s get you fed.”

“But Mama,” Lucy tried to explain, “It was my fault the piglet got in the yard. My head floated in the clouds, and I couldn’t keep the gate closed.” Tears burned her eyes, “I didn’t mean—”

Mama patted Lucy’s head just like the mayor’s wife had smiled. “The boys shouldn’t have asked you to do that. They know you can’t keep up with their mischief.” She turned to her oldest daughter. “Amaryllis, dear, I’m sorry. Perhaps once Henry has a chance to see the humor in the situation, he might come courting again.”

Rilla sniffed, swooped a hand up, and unpinned her glorious dark hair so it cascaded down her back like a waterfall.

“Pooh! Who cares about Henry Smithfield anyway? He’s tedious. I’m going to change and read until supper.”

With a sigh, Mama followed Rilla into the house.

Brigit hurried over to clean up the mess from the tea table. “A fine lot of children you are,” she scolded as she picked up the shards of Mama’s violet-sprigged teacups. “Ruining your sister’s chances of courting the most eligible young buck in town. Not worth a corn cob, any of you.”

“It was Lucy’s fault,” Jeb sassed back. “She promised to keep the dang gate closed.”

Brigit cuffed the side of his head with one of Mama’s linen napkins. “It’s usin’ the curse words now, is it? The lot of you get started on that henhouse double quick or I’ll be chasin’ you with me broom. Scat!”

The boys went, scuffling their bare feet and arguing. Lucy started to follow but Brigit held her back. “Not you, missy. I’m thinkin’ you’d best get me some hot water with plenty of lye soap and help me scrub down this porch.”

The words jumbled around inside Lucy’s head, and she gave Brigit a blank stare.

The hired girl sighed. “Fill the blue enamel pan with the hot water from the teakettle on the stove. Then take a scoop of lye soap, dump it into the pan of hot water and bring it here. Take care you don’t burn yourself.”

Unlike most of her family, Brigit always made it clear to Lucy what she wanted. Lucy had no trouble getting the hot water, even remembering to use a hot mitt for the handle. When she carried it carefully to the porch, Brigit picked up all the glass, swept the rest of the cream cake up, and gathered all the soiled linens. “Tis’ a fine job, Lucy. Let me get a mop an’ you can clean the porch.”

Lucy was glad to have a chore to do to make up for her part in White Tail and the piglet ruining Rilla’s tea party. She was careful to do a good job wiping up the porch. When she remembered to dump the pan of dirty water on Mama’s rosebush near the porch, she overheard Mama and Brigit talking in the parlor.

“Thank you, Brigit,” Mama said. “As soon as I’m done nursing the baby, I’ll help you with those strawberries.” As the water poured around the thirsty ground, Mama asked about the children.

Brigit gave an account of the boys and mentioned, “I’ve set Lucy to cleaning off the porch.”

Mama sighed. “I suppose she can’t break anything doing that.”

Bright laughed, “Like as not she’s out there counting the railings again. I’ll go out in a bit and see if she’s remembered to scrub off the steps.”

I don’t need to count the railings, Lucy thought.  There are forty-six posts around the front.

“I don’t like Miranda Smithfield’s pity.” Mama said. “Lucy is our burden. For whatever reason God gave her to us, we’ll have to accept her as she is.”

Burden . . . burden? Lucy frowned.It didn’t sound like a good word.

She finished the porch, taking care to wipe off the steps, and hurried to find the one brother she could trust to explain.

“Wes,” she asked, interrupting his scraping chicken muck off the henhouse floor. “What does burden mean?”

Before he could answer, Stephen blurted out, “You! You’re a burden. It means something bad you have to endure. Our family would be perfect if we didn’t have a Goosy Lucy. I wouldn’t be knee deep in chicken feathers and—”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest of Stephen’s rant or Wes’spatient explanation that began, “Quit calling her that. Geese are remarkably intelligent animals . . .”

Mama thinks of me as something bad? As a burden?

Could it be true?

 Lucy ran for the barn.