by L. S. Young
Colleen furrowed her brows. She was from Concord, and her father was a solicitor. Farm life confused and annoyed her, and I decided not to argue the subject further. I went back to shelling peas. When I was finished, Colleen put them on to boil for supper, and we sat down to the noon meal: greens with pot liquor and cornbread. Although in her time with us she’d been induced to try trout, gator, wild venison, and even squirrel, Colleen had never learned to like the taste or smell of collards. Odious, she called them, and she relegated herself to cornbread with honey and the cold hominy from breakfast.
Afterward, I began a game of tag with Ezra as Colleen seated herself in the rocker with her customary cup of ginger tea. Ezra’s idea of tag consisted of slapping whatever part of my body was closest to him and then scampering away, shrieking delightedly as I chased him. After half an hour of this, I was in a grand state of dishabille, my face flushed, my hair slipping out of its bun and falling all around me. Our hound dog, Ebenezer, frolicked at my heels, barking as happily as a puppy.
I was wearing a white cotton tea dress that Colleen had passed on to me when she was pregnant with the twins. It had been beautiful once, with a classic shape, a pin-tucked bodice, and eyelet lace on the three-quarter-length sleeves and hem. Over the many years she wore it for company calls, it had collected various tea and coffee stains and a tear on the back of the collar, but it retained such a simple elegance that it became my favorite dress. When she was thin again, Colleen was kind enough to let me keep it. I held the skirt up around my knees so I could run after Ezra.
“Goodness, another rider!” wailed Colleen, hearing hoof beats. “Are we to have no end of company today?”
I assumed it was Daddy returning from his errand in town and continued to chase Ezra. When I caught him, I tossed him into the air until he shrieked with laughter. When the rider turned up the drive, Colleen cried for me to stop. I put Ezra down, pushing my hair out of my eyes so I could see.
The man riding up the drive this time was no one I recognized, and I knew everyone in Willowbend. He was young, and he rode a dapple-gray mare with hints of ginger in her mane and tail. The breathtaking animal had all the aloof grace of a well-bred aristocrat, her tail and ears held high. A slim hunting dog trotted obediently at her heels. The spectacle was such a contrast to the former one of Mr. Buckley and his plodding, drop-eared nag that I stood for a moment as one paralyzed. Once he had dismounted, the rider spoke to the mare with obvious affection, patting her neck and clucking to her until she nickered at him. His canine companion loped about the yard, sniffing unseen trails, then jumped to attention and ran to his side when he called, “Pharaoh, come!”
“It’s not anyone we know,” I murmured, for Colleen’s benefit, mounting the front steps. Her eyes were weak. “It’s a gentleman by the looks of him.”
“Goodness!” she hissed, “and I look like common white trash! Landra, invite him in and make my apologies while I change.”
She snatched up Ezra, who had run to her, but he struggled, wailing, so she put him down and rushed inside. The screen door snapped shut behind her on its tight spring as I gathered Ezra into my arms. I stared after her, aghast that she had left me to meet a strange man without an introduction. Finally, I drew myself up and turned to face him, remaining on the porch.
Having fastened the mare to the hitching post, the man was approaching. I saw that he wore a gray slouch hat, a khaki frock coat with a white shirt beneath it, and brown, brushed cotton trousers tucked into worn, leather riding boots. He wore no tie, cravat, or waistcoat. I did not think he was wealthy, but he was dressed so well, at least in comparison to my father’s usual habiliment of denim bib overalls or chinos and striped cotton shirt, that I was taken aback.
He paused several feet before the front steps and removed his hat.
“Good afternoon, ma’am” he said. He held a riding crop in his free hand, but from the look of his horse, I doubted he ever used it.
I kept my chin up, conscious of my appearance, but unwilling to acknowledge it by smoothing my hair. “Hello.”
“My name is William Cavendish. I’ve just inherited an old estate nearby and wanted to make a friendly call.”
“Mr. Buckley told us of your arrival just today.”
A brief silence elapsed. He crouched on his heels and stroked his hound as it came to him. Ebenezer was beside me in an instant with his hackles raised, and I quieted him with a word.
I slowly became more and more conscious of my bedraggled hair and shabby dress, and Ezra grew heavy on my hip. I set him down, but he refused to come forward, hiding himself in the folds of my skirt. Resisting the urge to smooth my tumbled hair, my hand went instead to my mouth, where Daddy had hit me with the lash. It had healed, but a scar was left, a thin line that split my top lip on the right side. I rarely thought of it, but when I did, I was self-conscious of it.
All of this passed in a matter of moments, but each one seemed an aeon thanks to my discomfort. Mr. Cavendish smiled at Ezra.
“Your little boy is bonny. It’s comely in a child, to be shy of strangers.”
“This is Ezra, my brother.”
He looked confused. “You are Mrs. Andrews, are you not?”
“I’m Miss Andrews. Mrs. Andrews is my stepmother. You might have seen her on the porch as you approached.”
“Begging your pardon. Did I frighten her away, arriving so unexpectedly?”
“You didn’t frighten her. She went inside to make herself presentable. We weren’t expecting company, you see.”
“Even on a Saturday afternoon?”
“We live too far out for it to matter.”
“I see.”
He rose, his boots creaking, and made as if to swing the crop, pivoting on his heel. He turned back to me and said, “Begging your pardon, but I don’t believe I caught your first name.”
“My name is Landra,” I said, managing not to grimace, for I hated my Christian name. No matter how often I said it, it felt odd and awkward in my mouth. At church, the girls who didn’t like me said it was ugly. I never signified their remarks with a reply, but I knew they spoke the truth. My mother had pronounced my name with a soft a in her drawling Georgia accent, much as one says the word lawn. Daddy, in his smugness that I had been named after his father, pronounced it with a short a, like the word land. Neither pronunciation improved it, but I generally went with my mother’s; there was a hint of refinement in it.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he replied. He ascended the first two steps of the porch and extended his hand.
I hesitated. A young lady does not take a gentleman’s hand indiscriminately, I thought, a favorite proverb of Colleen’s, yet Colleen had abandoned me, and here we were. There was no common acquaintance present to introduce us. At last, I met him on the middle step and shook his hand.
“The pleasure is mine,” I replied, bowing.
“Lahn-dra,” he enunciated. “That’s mighty pretty. Don’t think I’ve encountered that one before.”
My mind flitted away for a second. His words reminded me of something. Miss Montgomery. Has a nice ring to it. You got a first name? Who had said those words? My father. My father had said them when he met my mother. My mouth went dry, but I managed to rejoin, “I-I wouldn’t think so. I’m named after my grandfather, Landry. My mother wanted to name me Cassandra, from the Greek myth, but my father wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Cassandra. Wasn’t she a seer?”
“Yes.”
I smiled, pleased that he understood.
“Too pagan for him?”
“Precisely.”
“And what have you seen, near namesake of Cassandra?”
“A great many things. Come in for a drink, and I’ll tell you some of them.” I blushed, astounded by my own daring.
It was his turn to
smile.
When he was seated in the parlor, I flew to the kitchen with Ezra in my wake. Lily was setting out sandwiches and molasses cookies on a tray.
“Do I look all right?” I asked.
She ignored me. “Ma—Colleen said to make a tea tray for company.”
“Lily, it’s a gentleman!”
Lily wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward to smooth away the tendrils of hair that had fallen out of my bun. “Is he handsome?”
“He has fair hair and a fine smile.”
“Goodness, you haven’t wasted any time taking that in!” she laughed. “Has he any manners?”
“Yes, and he seems educated.”
“Education doesn’t mean wealth, not anymore. Is he married?”
“Lily! You have a beau!”
“So you’ve claimed him already, have you? There, you look tidy.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ve just met him. You get the tray. I’ll make some tea.”
Sometime later, we were all seated in the parlor drinking iced tea. Lily’s egg salad sandwiches were excellent, and Mr. Cavendish tucked them away with zest. I took the opportunity to study him more carefully. He was naturally fair-skinned (but for his sunburned face and neck), his hair and beard were a light shade of blond, and his eyes were a clear blue. As I observed him, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow, for in spite of the drawn shades, the heat in the parlor was smothering. Saddle muscles were visible in his thighs, like my father and most of the men I knew. He was trim with a muscled torso, his shoulders broad, and his arms strong. He had shapely, beautiful hands. I imagined them closing around my wrists and sliding up my arms then inhaled sharply and shook myself out of my reverie, feeling as if my thoughts were written on my face.
Colleen had donned the outfit she wore for church and social calls, a dove-gray skirt and cream silk blouse with a high lace collar and long sleeves. It was snug around her growing middle, and she was sweating profusely. She sat fanning herself with vehemence.
“Cavendish,” she mused. “That sounds . . . Scottish?”
Mr. Cavendish struggled to swallow the morsel of sandwich in his mouth and said, “Yes, I’m a Scotsman. My grandparents came over as children.”
“Well, my husband’s children are Scots-Irish!” Colleen said this as if it were a revelation. I looked up to see him giving me a gentle smile. There was a mole above his mouth, and his lips were full. He had a nose that was nearly Grecian but rather broad at the base, and his jaw was square, tapering into a narrow chin. Almost pretty, rather than handsome, I thought, but it was an odd sentiment for a man who exuded such virility, and I dismissed it. Conventionally handsome he was not, but there was something in his looks that made me think of Norse gods. I smiled back.
“Oh yes!” Colleen repeated. “Scots-Irish.”
I winced, tortured. In spite of her Irish name, Colleen’s people were German and English, and she could never seem to get it into her head that nearly everyone who had settled in Florida was Scots-Irish, excepting the Africans and native Seminoles.
“Solomon’s mother is a stolid Irishwoman,” she crowed, “and I promise you, Landra has her temper, a mile wide and florid as her hair.”
I blushed to my scalp at this. Now everything about me is red: temper, hair, face.
“I have auburn hair,” I corrected her, “and everyone here is Scots-Irish, Leen, come down from the Carolinas. Scotsman or not, Mr. Cavendish, you sound like a Southern man, born and bred.”
“I consider myself to be,” he replied.
“Where do you hail from?”
“Alabama, by way of South Carolina.”
“How did you come by the old Macready place?” asked Lily. I shot her a look of deep appreciation for helping to change the subject.
“Old Mr. Macready was my great uncle. He had no sons, and all his daughters are long since married, so the estate passed to me, some way or another. Well, fact is it went to my brother Gabriel, but he runs an insurance firm in Charleston and had no desire to fool with it, so he sold it to me.”
“Entailment,” I said. “In the event that the heir has no sons, the estate passes to the nearest male relation, such as a cousin or nephew.”
“That’s right.” He pointed to me. “You know a thing or two!”
“Or three or four,” said Lily defensively.
“Landra is accomplished,” said Colleen. “She had a governess.”
He gave me a look signifying doubt over whether a country waif with flyaway hair could possibly be accomplished. “Got some learnin’, have you?”
“Enough to tell you there is a g on the end of the word learning.”
“I knew that too, even if I do forget to pronounce it.” He shifted his gaze to Colleen. “What happened to her?”
“To whom? Oh, the governess! Well, she wasn’t Landra’s governess, really.”
I sighed, feeling the need to elaborate so we could move on. “She was my playmate, Ida Monday’s, governess, Miss Northrop. Mama and Ida’s mother were friends, you see. Mama had taught Eric to read and write and cipher, but she wanted us to have a real education. She promised to pay a bushel of peas, a sack of pecans, twelve dozen eggs, and a pail of new milk annually, for me and my brother Eric to sit in on Clyde and Ida’s lessons a few times a week.
“After she passed away, Daddy didn’t see the point anymore, but when he married Colleen, she changed his mind.”
The way Colleen maneuvered the advent of our education, one which had gone sadly awry after Mama died, is something I could never forget. Just as I shall never forget the first time she visited our home after her betrothal to my father. The two went nearly hand in hand. Before that day, she had been a secret to us, a dreaded enigma, inspiring, nonetheless, curiosity. When Daddy went to court her, I would try to picture her in my mind. He had told me she was young and pretty, with fair hair. I hoped this meant that if he married her she would be a kind stepmother, not like the ones in fairytales who made their stepchildren into slaves or turned them out of the house.
Lenore dusted the sideboard and all the furniture in the parlor that day and made me take a bath and bathe Lily as well. My hair was combed as smooth as it would allow, plaited, and tied with twine, and Eric’s mop of curls was tamed with pomade. Granny cooked chicken and rice, collard greens, and cornbread for dinner, and I made the dessert, a bread pudding. When we heard the sound of the carriage in the drive, Lily and I ran to the screen door to peer at our visitor, but Eric remained by the hearth in the kitchen, whittling a piece of kindling. He remembered Mama too well to take even miniscule pleasure in curiosity over her successor.
I was shocked when I saw Daddy helping Colleen down from the wagon. She was little more than a child, thin and pale-blond, with cornflower blue eyes too large in her round, naïve face. She took my hand and spoke kindly to me, but I hated her on sight. I could see the tentative way she took in her surroundings, the plain tin roof and whitewashed exterior of the house, the swept yard where chickens scratched around Mama’s gardenias, and the simple hardwood floors. She must think herself too fine for us, to blink so uncertainly at our home. In that instant, I set my will to driving her away.
“Lily and I never wear shoes before November,” I told her, noticing that her eyes had come to rest on our bare feet. We had, in fact, been instructed to don our shoes for company but had forgotten in our curiosity to see the woman Daddy was courting.
As we sat in the parlor before supper, I stared at her with a look of purposeful stupidity on my face, although I had been taught all my years that a polite child keeps their eyes on the ground until they are spoken to. At last, Lenore pinched me and made me lower my gaze.
“Landra, your father informs me you have a fine singing voice,” said Colleen, once the adults had covered the polite topics of conversation. She gestured
to the worn Steinway in the corner and said, “I thought you might favor me with an offering.”
“I don’t sing so good,” I replied.
“Tosh!” said Daddy, his brows lowering. “Like a nightingale don’t! Sing Aura Lee for her.”
I hesitated, then went to the piano and began to play. I made certain to hit a few wrong notes and sang the song from beginning to end in a quavering falsetto, slightly off key, that was so unlike my own voice it was all I could do not to giggle with delight at my naughtiness. Nonetheless, Colleen clapped at my performance.
“I’m sure with practice she shall be a great soloist,” she said. Daddy scoffed but did not acknowledge what I had done.
“You girls look so pretty,” she said, attempting to engage me again.
“Yes,” I replied. “Lenore made us take a bath. First time Lily’s hair has been combed this month.”
Colleen’s mouth opened at this, but she made no reply. I sank down onto the ottoman and took up the sampler I was working on, pleased with myself.
At supper, I noticed that Colleen picked at her greens.
“Don’t you like collards?” I ventured. “They’re Granny’s recipe. She’s famous for ‘em.”
“Oh,” she hesitated. “I’m sure they’re lovely. It’s just that I’d never eaten collards before I came to the South, and they’re something of an acquired taste. I find them rather pungent.”
“Hmph!” This came from Granny. I looked over to see her chewing her bottom lip, a sign that she had taken offense.
“What does pungent, mean?” I asked, although I had a fairly accurate idea.