way you wear it suits you. It would be a shame for all of you to be so confined.”
“Pardon me?”
“Ah, my dear, in your hair I see the spirit inside you that wants to break free.”
Amethyst stared at her, for once not even bothering to try to save her hat. Instead, she pulled out the pin and, with hat in hand, wove the long hatpin back into the felt. She shook her head, then using her fingers, since she refused to be digging in her case for her brush and comb, twisted her hair and pinned it again on top of her head.
“I once saw a beautiful woman, Chinese I imagine, who wore her long hair in a coil held in place by two ebony sticks. I always wished I could find sticks like that, for she looked so regal. Instead, I use combs.” Mrs. Grant touched an ivory comb that peeked out from under the pert hat. “Hmm. I think I have extras.” With a lift of her eyebrows and a widening of her eyes, she turned and opened the clasp on a leather case beside her on the seat. Humming a little tune, she sorted through things, using her fingers for her eyes. “Here we go.” She pulled a drawstring pouch from the case, opened the neck, and retrieved two amber-colored combs. “These will look quite lovely in your hair.”
“But I can’t, I mean…” Amethyst pushed her spine tight against the seat back. “You can’t just give things to a stranger like this.”
“Whyever not?” Mrs. Grant looked from the combs to Amethyst and back. “Of course, if you don’t like them…”
“No, that’s not it at all. They are beautiful, but…” Snatch them, clutch them, the voice in her head screamed at her.
“Ah.” Mrs. Grant pursed her lips and gave an emphatic nod that set the feather bobbing. “Now, let me see if I understand this. I have two combs that are not being used, and if the truth be told, I have many more at home. I want to give them to a friend of mine, and for some reason known only to her, she is looking at me as if I offered her a live mouse.”
Amethyst rolled her lips to keep from chuckling out loud. Mice were the last thing she’d thought of. The desire of owning something so lovely made her mouth dry. Whoever had made the combs had carved a design into the bar of the comb. Her fingers ached to feel the cool comb in the palm of her hand. “If there were something I could do in exchange.”
“Why, you’ve been doing something for me ever since we left the station.”
“What?”
“Helping me enjoy my journey.” She reached over and took Amethyst’s hand in her own and placed the combs in the palm. “There now. They are yours, and we’ll hear no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Amethyst gazed at the treasures in her hand. A lovely color, like apple cider that had been sitting for a time and its bubbles were just beginning to rise. She held the combs closer to the window to see the engraving. Simple, like the fronds of the ferns that grew in the deep shade of the trees down by the creek.
“Do you know how to use them?”
“Not really.” How backward she must think me. Father God, you have given me a gift in this woman, and I promise to learn from her all that I can .
“Like this. You hold the comb so the curved side is out, then set it against the hair. If you set it with the hair, it will fall out and be totally useless.”
Amethyst twisted her hair in a rope, rolled it around her hand, and tucked the end under the coil, then settled one of the combs into the side. When it slipped, she did it again, and this time it held. She set the other one on the left side and tipped her head gently from side to side. Her hair didn’t shift.
She tucked the three hairpins she’d been so careful not to lose into her reticule. “At home I wore a scarf tied round my head to keep my hair back when I was working.” She didn’t say that she’d found her hat in a box someone sent to the church for the minister’s family. Mrs. Landers had insisted she take it, for no proper woman went without a
“Pardon me?”
“Ah, my dear, in your hair I see the spirit inside you that wants to break free.”
Amethyst stared at her, for once not even bothering to try to save her hat. Instead, she pulled out the pin and, with hat in hand, wove the long hatpin back into the felt. She shook her head, then using her fingers, since she refused to be digging in her case for her brush and comb, twisted her hair and pinned it again on top of her head.
“I once saw a beautiful woman, Chinese I imagine, who wore her long hair in a coil held in place by two ebony sticks. I always wished I could find sticks like that, for she looked so regal. Instead, I use combs.” Mrs. Grant touched an ivory comb that peeked out from under the pert hat. “Hmm. I think I have extras.” With a lift of her eyebrows and a widening of her eyes, she turned and opened the clasp on a leather case beside her on the seat. Humming a little tune, she sorted through things, using her fingers for her eyes. “Here we go.” She pulled a drawstring pouch from the case, opened the neck, and retrieved two amber-colored combs. “These will look quite lovely in your hair.”
“But I can’t, I mean…” Amethyst pushed her spine tight against the seat back. “You can’t just give things to a stranger like this.”
“Whyever not?” Mrs. Grant looked from the combs to Amethyst and back. “Of course, if you don’t like them…”
“No, that’s not it at all. They are beautiful, but…” Snatch them, clutch them, the voice in her head screamed at her.
“Ah.” Mrs. Grant pursed her lips and gave an emphatic nod that set the feather bobbing. “Now, let me see if I understand this. I have two combs that are not being used, and if the truth be told, I have many more at home. I want to give them to a friend of mine, and for some reason known only to her, she is looking at me as if I offered her a live mouse.”
Amethyst rolled her lips to keep from chuckling out loud. Mice were the last thing she’d thought of. The desire of owning something so lovely made her mouth dry. Whoever had made the combs had carved a design into the bar of the comb. Her fingers ached to feel the cool comb in the palm of her hand. “If there were something I could do in exchange.”
“Why, you’ve been doing something for me ever since we left the station.”
“What?”
“Helping me enjoy my journey.” She reached over and took Amethyst’s hand in her own and placed the combs in the palm. “There now. They are yours, and we’ll hear no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Amethyst gazed at the treasures in her hand. A lovely color, like apple cider that had been sitting for a time and its bubbles were just beginning to rise. She held the combs closer to the window to see the engraving. Simple, like the fronds of the ferns that grew in the deep shade of the trees down by the creek.
“Do you know how to use them?”
“Not really.” How backward she must think me. Father God, you have given me a gift in this woman, and I promise to learn from her all that I can .
“Like this. You hold the comb so the curved side is out, then set it against the hair. If you set it with the hair, it will fall out and be totally useless.”
Amethyst twisted her hair in a rope, rolled it around her hand, and tucked the end under the coil, then settled one of the combs into the side. When it slipped, she did it again, and this time it held. She set the other one on the left side and tipped her head gently from side to side. Her hair didn’t shift.
She tucked the three hairpins she’d been so careful not to lose into her reticule. “At home I wore a scarf tied round my head to keep my hair back when I was working.” She didn’t say that she’d found her hat in a box someone sent to the church for the minister’s family. Mrs. Landers had insisted she take it, for no proper woman went without a
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