A/N: Hi everyone! I'm not going to have a super long authors note at the beginning of every chapter, just wanted to have a little explanation.
This fic is going to be an AU historical fiction based in the early 1900s (which I will do my best to be accurate with, but I'm not a history buff so just enjoy the story). It's set in the region of WI where I grew up, a beautiful place full of rivers and rolling hills and forests, so I based it there because it's beautiful, I know a ton about it, and I can.
There's going to be a bit of my personal experience sprinkled in, yes, I really did fall hopelessly in love with my beautiful, sweet, optimistic, blond-haired, blue-eyed best friend, so my feelings will hopefully shine through a bit and add some real emotion to the story.
This is the first fic I'm committing myself to finishing if anyone shows interest, and I have no idea how long it's going to be. I will try to updat fairly regularly, so bear with me.
Lastly, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
A dark head of hair rests against the cool glass of a train window as a sullen girl watches the world rush by. She'd left Chicago, the only home she'd ever know, behind hours ago, and she was already tired of this miserable trip.
Her papí may have been absolutely useless by the time he finally drank himself to death, but he was the only family she'd ever known. Her mother had died when she was very small, and her papí's family had remained in Mexico, refusing to acknowledge his existence after he left.
Santana had always supposed that his problem had begun after her mother's death, it had torn him apart. Your mother was an angel, he said, beautiful and gentle and sweet. She wished she remembered her mother with all her heart, but she had always resented that she wasn't enough for her papí. Not enough for him to stop drinking to take care of her, not enough for him to make the effort to keep a job to take care of her. She always tried to be the best little girl she could be, to be just like her mother, but it was never good enough.
Despite the fact that they'd always struggled, she had managed to attend school until the sixth grade, and she always had enough to eat. The last time her father had been fired for showing up drunk to a construction site though, she had finally dropped out of school and gotten a job as a maid for a nice, middle aged couple in one of the nicer parts of town. Regardless of the fact that she was only half Latina, it was the only work she could get.
She made good money with the Schuesters, and every once in a while, if he got home early, Mr. Schuester would run through a lesson or two with her that he had taught that day at the local high school. He seemed sorry that she couldn't attend, but much to her disappointment the lessons had been slowing in frequency for some time now, as Mr. Schuester was home less and less. She suspected it was because his wife was home more and more, as her friends seemed to be neglecting to include her in their outings. She supposed she couldn't blame them, Mrs. Schuester had a bit of an unnerving vacant stare, and her personality could be a bit grating.
Altogether, she knew she was lucky to have the job though. It was the only solid income for their household, especially as her papí's drinking habit's had been worsening for the past few years.
That won't be a problem anymore thought, I suppose.
The morbid, satirical thought had flashed through her mind before she could stop it. She had loved her papí, but the man she had seen wasting away on their couch drowning himself in moonshine and subsisting on whatever she brought home as leftovers from the Schuester's dinners was not the same one who had once bought her lemonade and taken her to the shores of Lake Michigan for Independence Day.
So now she sits here, alone, on a trains hurtling away from everything she's ever known, towards some river town in southwestern Wisconsin to live with her only remaining family, her mother's sister and her husband, whom she'd never met. From the one short letter she'd received with the train ticket, they'd seemed kind enough, but she still wasn't exactly thrilled to be leaving the bustle of city life to live miles away from any civilization to speak of.
...
She's lost in thought and startles when a dark skinned girl sits down in the seat next to her.
"You ridin' alone?" she asks amicably.
She simply nods, noticing that the girl looks about her age.
"Well, my mama says that girls our age shouldn' be sittin' alone on trains, t'ain't proper."
With that, she gestures toward a large, tidy looking woman seated a few rows back, dressed in a well-worn, but clean calico dress with a floppy bonnet on her head.
"Why you headin' all the way to Wisconsin alone anyway? Name's Mercedes, by the way, Mercedes Jones."
"Santana Lopez."
The girl, Mercedes, continues to look at her as if she expects her to continue. Remembering the question, Santana fiddles with her thumbs in her lap ad mutters morosely, "Visiting family. You?" she asks, hoping to keep the other girls talking so she doesn't have to.
She never has particularly liked people, especially strangers, and positively hates the ones that try to make friends when she obviously doesn't want to be there friend. But she accepts the company, just this once, because anything is better than sitting alone one this train, unable to escape her buzzing thoughts, no matter how fast it speeds along.
At the obvious invitation to continue the conversation, Mercedes launched into a long-winded story about her daddy working on the river and catching a riverboat to meet him in Iowa when they reach the Mississippi in La Crosse. She goes on talking about anything and everything for some time, so Santana is taken by surprise when she stands and says something about arriving soon and how she should go back by her mama. She offers Santana a small smile, which Santana considers not returning, but does, if only to be polite. She tacks on as an afterthought, "Thanks for the company," and leans over to press her head against the window again.
She must have dozed off for a few moments, because she's awakened by the jolt of the train slowing as it pulls into the station in La Crosse. As she collects her things (the one, small bag that hold everything she owns in the world) and steps off the train, she's buffeted by a hot, smoky wind that whirls around the platform.
She looks around slowly, wondering if she'll know her uncle at all if she should see him, or if he'll know her. The letter said he would be fetching her from the station today, May 15th, at four p.m., she's sure of it. She squints in the bright sun, trying to look for something she's never seen before in the bustling crowd, and growing more agitated by the minute. What if he was late, or they decided they didn't want an ill-tempered sixteen year old after all? What's a girl to do in a new town, with only a few dollars to her name? It might be more than most girls her age had, but it was all that was left from selling everything in the apartment worth selling, after she'd settled her father's debts, and it wouldn't last forever.
Her fears are assuaged when she sees a strange man striding towards her determinedly, but not hurriedly. If she had to guess, she's say he was about 35. He's tall, but not overly imposing, with a light brown beard and a hat pulled down low over his brow. His movements are sure but not rushed, as if he knows what need to be done and will do it right, the first time. He stops a few feet in front of her, and seems a bit at a loss for words. He goes with simple.
"Santana Lopez?" His voice is a bit rough, but not loud, as if he's unaccustomed to speaking often. She nods.
"Well, I'm your Uncle John then I suppose," he says, sticking out his hand.
A bit surprised, she takes it, shaking it firmly before letting hers drop to her side again.
"Them's all your things?" he asks as he looks behind her past the small carpetbag, expecting perhaps to see a trunk or at least another bag to hold the rest of her possessions.
"Yessir," she responds quietly, glancing down at her bag and seeing how small and sad it looks once again.
"Well, I'll take it then, come along. We gotta get home before supper, and there's quite a ride ahead of us."
He scoops up her bag under one arm, ignoring the handles, and strides away, looking back only once to make sure Santana is following. He leads her to a simple, uncovered wagon that looks more like a large, modified farm cart than anything. There's a seat in front for the driver than looks a bit small to fit the both of them, and a bench in the wagon box that had obviously been added recently, probably for her benefit. Taking her hand, he helps her up into the wagon and hands her bag to her carefully, as if taking extra precautions with her few worldly possessions. She appreciates that.
"If you've got anything soft to sit on in there, I suggest you do," he advises, "Road gets a mite bumpy, and we'll be a good three hours before we're home. You'll be awful sore in the morning otherwise."
She pulls a ratty red and white quilt out of her bag and he nods. Folding it up, she arranges it on the seat and rests her back against the driver's seat as he swings up into it. With a click to the old horse hitched before the wagon, they're off.
...
It must have been three hours by now!
They'd entered the forest some time ago, the letter had mentioned that they were a bit isolated, but this was a little extreme after living in a cramped apartment complex in Chicago.
Her uncle was certainly not wrong about the bumpy road either. Santana's mouth tasted like rust from biting her tongue as they hit pothole after pothole, and her body ached. Luckily, the rattling of the wagon saved them from feeling as if they needed to make conversation; she had a feeling that was one thing her uncle didn't have much experience at, and she was always too surly to have much to say.
Turning around to face forward as they rounded a bend in the road, hoping to see something other than where they'd been, she glimpses a few lights. As they draw closer, the lights gain definition as windows, surrounded by the dark silhouette of a cabin. It dawns on her, as they turn of the main road that this, finally, was their destination.
Just as the wagon is pulling up to stop the door, it flies open, framing a dark figure in a flood of lamplight from inside the house. Santana doesn't manage to get a good look at her before she hurries outside into the dim twilight to greet them.
"John, you go put the horse away, this poor girl needs to get inside, and don't forget to bring her things when you come in!"
Her uncle assists her in climbing down from the wagon bed with a steady hand. Santana is shocked at the very least when she is swept into a tight embrace as soon as her feet touch the ground. When she's released, she's held out at arms' length for a moment.
"I'm your Aunt Charlotte as I'm sure you've guessed; now let me have a look at you! You look quite a bit like your father, but you have your mother's nose, and her figure as well."
She looked for another moment before loosening her grip, as if searching for that elusive something that her sister left in Santana when she left this earth. Whether she found it or not, Santana isn't sure, she whirled back toward the door too quickly.
"You must be exhausted, dear. John will get your things while I show you around."
With that, she disappeared inside, with Santana following close behind.
...
She found herself standing in a large, rectangular room washed in the warm light of kerosene lamps and smelling of the supper waiting for them; altogether, it gave the place a cozy, homey feel. The walls were thick logs chinked in between to keep out the bitter Wisconsin winters, and there were a few glass paned windows with red and white gingham curtains looking out the front.
On one end of the room stood an impressive stone hearth with two rocking chairs and a rug before it, nearby, a simple table covered in a cloth to match the curtains. On the other end, a stove, wash basin, , butter churn, several large cabinets, and privacy screen (presumably used for bath days) took up most of the space. Her aunt ignores these things and leads Santana directly across the room to a curtain covered doorway she had overlooked at first glance.
"This will be your room," she said, pulling aside the curtain divide and ushering her in, "It's a bit sparse right now, mostly odds and ends, plus the bed your uncle finished before you came. It's all yours though, so you won't have to sleep in the open."
She looked a bit puzzled at Santana's lack of response, until she grinned and assure her, "It's perfect."
And it was.
It appeared to run partway down the length of the large room with two walls of logs and two of boards, one adjacent to the big room, and one presumably adjacent to her aunt and uncle's bedroom. It had a single window looking out the back of the cabin, and Santana could see what appeared to be a small stream running through the trees a little ways away. In the right corner of the room, against the window-wall, stood a simple bed frame with a freshly stuffed straw tick mattress on it, making the room smell fresh and sweet. Next to the bed stood a small shelf that was the perfect height for a bedside table, with a lamp sitting atop it. To the left of the door there was a tall cabinet that she imagined was intended to be used as a wardrobe, and there was a cheerful rag rug on the floor.
Thought the room was sparsely furnished, the overall effect was rather charming, and considerably nicer than the area of the living room that she'd partitioned off with old sheets to be her bedroom in Chicago. For the first time since boarding the train that morning, Santana felt just a bit of the tension she'd been carrying ease. She's brought out of her thoughts by a gentle voice.
"Let's get you some supper, dear."
When they return to the great room, her uncle is just hanging his hat on a peg near the door, and her aunt hurries over to the stove to fetch the plates of food that have been warming there. Santana takes this time to study her aunt, who hasn't stopped moving since she arrived.
She's a small woman, probably 3 or 4 inches shorter than Santana, with glossy brown hair braided and pinned up. She has tiny hands that always seem to be moving, flying from one task to another, always with a purpose. Her face is kind, you but for the fine laugh lines and crinkles about her dark brown eyes that deepen when she smiles. She has a ruddy complexion from time spent in the sun, and her overall appearance is one of delicate strength; it's obvious who runs the household.
She's also a fantastic cook. After such a long day, Santana has no trouble eating everything put in front of her: corn bread and butter, roasted chicken, and a baked potato. Full and relaxed, she makes to rise when her aunt does, to help with the dishes. She always had to do them at home anyway or they'd sit in the sink for days, and she wanted to make a good impression.
She sways a bit when she rises too quickly, the fatigue of the day, and of the past few weeks finally catching up with her. Her aunt tsks.
"Look at you, asleep on your feet. Go to bed, dear; I think I can manage the dishes myself for one night."
Santana shuffles toward her door and turns at the last minute, facing her aunt and uncle again. She might not have exactly wanted to come, especially under the circumstances that made it necessary, but they seemed like some of the rare, genuinely kind people in the world. She knew she wasn't one of those, what she'd gone through in her short life had made her too hard for that. Caring about people, trusting people, it got you hurt. But maybe, just maybe, it would be different here. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knows that there is something for her here.
Neither of them notices her look until she speaks, louder than she has all day.
"Thank you."
They look up in time to see the curtain whisked back into place.
...
Seeing her things next to her bed, she decides to unpack, seeing as it should only take a minute or two. She takes out her nightdress first, changing into it so she can hang up her best dress, which she'd worn for traveling, along with the work dress she'd brought. Those, in addition to a coat that's a size too small, are the only articles of clothing she brought with her, and she hangs them in the wardrobe. After spreading her tattered patchwork quilt on the bed over the top of the nice, new-looking one her aunt had left, she reaches down to the bottom of her bag. She brought one keepsake with her from Chicago, nothing else was really worth remembering; setting the photo of her young mother on the bedside table, she snaps shut the floodgates threatening to release the feeling she's kept so carefully controlled.
Her eyes are nearly closing of their own accord at this point, and she barely has the energy to push her bag under her bed before she flops down on it and tumbles headlong into slumber.
...
A/N: I want to know if anyone wants me to continue, so review if you want! Helpful suggestions will be taken into consideration, and questions will be answered. If you don't like it, then don't waste your time writing about it. Thanks!