A Woman so Bold

by L. S. Young

  I had brought a nosegay of pear blossoms and we placed a few of them among my ruddy tresses where they would be most becoming. The last week of March and second week of April were when everything bloomed in Willowbend, creating a riot of color, and endless flowers for young girls to choose for their hair and clothing.

  Ida, Letty, and I entered the downstairs hall together. Ida went first, her head thrown back and her face sparkling with the smile that entrapped every man on whom she chose to bestow it. I was next, my hand in Ida’s. I was conscious of myself and trying not to show it—aware of my exposed bosom (although every woman there was just as pinched and pushed up as I was), conscious that the fingers of the elbow-length gloves I had borrowed were too long, thinking that the slippers I wore were old and didn’t match my dress. I attempted a deep breath, recalling the years I had spent among high society as a ward, but it was caught midway by my unforgiving corset. Letty came behind me, fanning herself. Her stays were laced too tightly as well, and her round cheeks were already pink with exertion.

  “Oh, it’s hot in here,” she panted, “thank goodness I brought my salts.”

  She’ll faint before the night is over, I thought, but I won’t, by gosh.

  I danced with a couple of gentleman, one whom I had never met and another whom Eric had gone to school with who looked like a wall-eyed goat with a bad complexion. I did not consider myself a brilliant dancer, but he trod on my toes so that I made up my mind to dodge him the rest of the evening. After that I rested for a bit, fanning myself and drinking cool water. I knew better than to sample the punch so early on. Ida was surrounded by gentlemen on the other end of the hall, but she soon grew tired of them and sought me out.

  “Did you see what Olive Sanders is wearing?” she asked, squeezing my arm and giggling. “She’s been dropping petals all evening!”

  Olive’s father was a farmer. Her folks had eleven children and six acres of sandy soil. She often didn’t wear shoes until November. She’d been invited to the ball by Ida, when she saw in her passing at the post office, and without the benefit of my connections to cast-off ball gowns, had worn her Sunday dress. It was a lavender-hued gingham trimmed with hand-crocheted lace, and no bustle or frills. She had done her hair as a milkmaid might have, plaited and pinned across her head, and dressed it with two long sprigs of purple wisteria. She carried another bunch draped across one arm. I thought she looked sweet, wild, and wholesome, as a country girl ought to, but Ida did not share my view. In her white mousseline and lace summer gown, with large puffed sleeves and diamonds round her throat and wrists, she looked the height of fashion.

  “Don’t be so unkind,” I said, touching my fingers to the few blossoms in my hair and the spare pieces of jewelry I wore: a necklace of freshwater pearls borrowed from Colleen and a garnet ring that had been my mother’s. “Not everyone has jewels like you. Colleen says flowers are the most tasteful adornment for a lady who has no finery.”

  “I never meant to offend!” cried Ida, piqued. “But, my dear, admit she looks silly, do admit it!”

  “She looks like a farmer’s daughter who has never seen a fashion plate, and that’s no insult to her. I love wisteria.”

  “Yes, but I wager you’ve never thought of wearing it to a ball. And you might not have many gems but those you do have are fine. They’re heirlooms.”

  I did not reply, certain that Ida would leave off her meanness if ignored long enough. We sat in silence for a bit until we were approached by a gentleman. He wore a light gray sack coat and waistcoat with dark gray trousers, and his golden blond hair was parted on the side and neatly combed with pomade so that it shone in the gaslight. It took me a moment to recognize him.

  “Mr. Cavendish!” I exclaimed.

  He bowed. “Miss Andrews.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t know you for a moment. This is my friend, Miss Ida Monday.”

  Ida gave him her hand and her most dazzling smile. I felt suddenly crestfallen. She would sink her teeth in momentarily. However, he appeared unmoved.

  “A pleasure,” he said. “I believe you are the hostess?”

  “My mother is, really, but I am the daughter of the house,” Ida replied.

  “Well, this is a lovely party. My compliments to her.”

  He turned to me. “Miss Andrews, are you engaged for the quadrille?”

  I inspected my dance card. “No, I am free.” I handed him the card and he opened it, reaching into his pocket for a pencil.

  Ida snorted next to me, trying not to laugh. I elbowed her firmly as Mr. Cavendish was looking at my dance card.

  “Very pretty,” he said, closing it and handing it back. “I’ll see you in a moment.”

  He made off and Ida collapsed into giggles on my shoulder. I felt breathless.

  “You never said he was so handsome!”

  “Why would I? So you could be after him before I’ve half a chance?”

  “I’d never. I know how terribly you need a good match. Besides, his manners are rather too reserved for me.”

  I gave her a sideways glance. “You’ll be on him like a snake after a rabbit if I look away for a moment.”

  “Don’t think so ill of me. I have Arnold.”

  “The minister’s son? You’ll be rid of him in a fortnight.”

  “Hardly, minister’s sons make the wildest lovers.” She winked at me and sidled off.

  Mr. Cavendish’s manners were anything but reserved when we danced the quadrille. He was good-humored, keeping eye contact with me and smiling as we moved throughout the other dancers. He didn’t speak much, but when he did his conversation was friendly and light. Far more of a Bingley than a Darcy, I thought.

  I sat out the next two dances, then danced a polka, and a minuet with Ida’s elder brother, Clyde. He was tall and thin as a rail, with a well-kept goatee, and a terribly handsome face. In addition to this, in my private opinion, he was mad as a hatter. Ida had once tried to make a match of us, but neither was interested. He was a wild and jolly man, but I personally wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole, prone as he was to gambling and bouts of violence. He gamboled and hee-hawed through much of our minuet, and flirted shamelessly with other girls when we switched partners, but I merely laughed and shook my head at him.

  The next two dances were waltzes. I sat the first out, fanning myself and drinking a glass of punch Ida had abandoned in order to dance with Arnold, the Baptist minister’s handsome son. She hung on his arm, gazing at him, as he walked her back to the bench we’d been sharing. A moment later, Mr. Cavendish was at my elbow.

  “I believe I’ve engaged you for the next waltz,” he said.

  I gasped, inspecting my dance card. “Oh, dear! It seems you have. I always seem to forget these things.”

  He smiled, holding out his hand. “No matter. Shall we?”

  I felt Ida pushing me. “Go! It’s beginning!” she hissed.

  A moment later, I was dancing with him again. The waltz was far more intimate than the quadrille. A woman was face to face with her partner, looking into his eyes, clasped in his arms. For the first time in some years, I felt the exhilaration of mutual attraction blended with physical contact. It was a heady sensation, and I basked in it.

  Then I fainted.

  One moment, I was whirling around in blissful oblivion, and the next I was hot all over, watching the room fade into darkness. I came to on the balcony. Someone was slapping my wrists and cheeks, and Mr. Cavendish was fanning me. I tried to sit up.

  “Stay put!” admonished Letty Hamilton in her nasal tones. She was the one slapping me. “I fainted an hour ago, and believe me, you’ll feel better if you lie still in the cool air.”

  I closed my eyes and obeyed her. It was rather nice to lie there in the dark with the breeze blowing my hair away from my sweaty neck, if I didn’t dwell
on the fact that I’d fainted in front of a man I found appealing. At least I obeyed Ida, I thought. Eventually, Mr. Cavendish brought me a glass of water, and Letty found the decency to give me some air and move to the other side of the balcony with the gentleman she’d been speaking to when I was brought out.

  “I’m afraid I’ve humiliated myself,” I said.

  “Nonsense. You’re not the first woman to faint tonight. Nor the first to faint in my arms.”

  “How debonair,” I said ruefully.

  He smiled. “I’m afraid my charm has nothing to do with it. Women compress their lungs with whalebone and prance around a crowded room all night in heavy silks, then wonder why they drop like flies.”

  “However did I get out here?”

  “I carried you, of course.”

  He smiled at me and I flushed with embarrassment, and something else, which made me feel faint again. A moment later Ida came rushing out.

  “Do you feel well, dearest?” she cried, crouching beside me. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “My stays ache terribly,” I whispered to her. “Take me upstairs, and no hysterics. Just take me round to the dining room.” The outer balcony connected the dancing hall to the dining room.

  “I’ll accompany you,” said Mr. Cavendish. In a moment, I felt his arm around my waist. He lifted me easily from the balcony flooring and waited until I had my footing.

  Just as I was saying that his help wouldn’t be necessary, Ida exclaimed, “Oh yes, you should carry her!”

  “I can walk very well, thank you,” I said, embarrassed by Ida’s attempt to force me on him.

  “Good night, then,” he said, bowing to us. I thought I heard a trifle of reluctance in his tone.

  We bade him farewell and went upstairs. I was only too glad to get out of Ida’s dress and my too tight corset, and into my nightgown. I lay down on the feather mattress that had been spread out for me on the rug. The Mondays didn’t want for spare rooms, but I had always stayed in Ida’s room when visiting so we could chat. Lily joined me later, flushed and happy from her evening dancing with her friends from school, and “a lot of other handsome gentlemen besides.”

  Just as we had extinguished the lights and fallen into half-slumber, Ida entered the room with a male companion. She groped around for a light for a moment, then gave up, giggling and dropping her slippers on the floor. They were kissing one another, and thinking of Lily, I was about to sit up and declare our presence when they collapsed onto the bed together. Mere moments later, came the sound of Ida’s heavy ball gown landing on the floor with a soft whump, and the sounds of their lovemaking became apparent.

  Lily and I hid under our quilt, uncertain what to do with ourselves.

  “Does she know we’re here?” she whispered, a high note of hysterical laughter in her voice.

  “I don’t know!” I returned. “She left me here two hours ago.”

  “It sounds like the minister’s son, but it’s hard to tell,” she replied.

  I bit my knuckle to keep from laughing aloud at this, then whispered, “Oh Lily, this isn’t how you should learn of such things.”

  “Don’t be silly. We live on a farm and our room shares a wall with Daddy’s and Colleen’s.”

  We spent the rest of that awkward incident laughing into our pillows and plugging our ears to keep from hearing the noises coming from the bed. When Ida’s lover finally left, she lit a lamp and peered over the bedside at us.

  “You chickens!” she squealed. “I didn’t remember you were here until halfway through and then it was too late. You might’ve said something!”

  “You might have stopped!” I cried. “My little sister is present! What would I tell Colleen?”

  “Well, I am sorry,” said Ida, petulant. “Gracious, I’m starved. I barely ate all evening. Anyone for a run to the kitchen?”

  Lily and I could no longer contain ourselves at that, and we burst into peals of laughter. Her guests had all gone home at that point, and Ida got dressed in a wrapper, leaving her beautiful gown in a heap on the floor, then went downstairs again. Thinking of Tansy, I retrieved the rumple of mousseline and lace and hung it up in Ida’s closet. She returned in some minutes with a platter loaded with food.

  “The ices have all melted, but there’s plenty of cake and cold chicken leftover!”

  We fell to this repast with eagerness and talked late, until night turned to early morning.

  Chapter 8

  Harmonicas and Hoecake

  It so happened that my father met William Cavendish far sooner than I expected. He lived a ways from us on foot, but his mail was dropped off very near to our house, a fact we had yet to learn when we heard the distant sound of music as we were having breakfast that Tuesday morning.

  “What’s that?” asked Ephraim, looking up from the flapjacks and cane syrup he’d been digging into.

  “It’s pretty!” said Edith, her blue eyes growing misty.

  Daddy, who loved music and could carry any tune and play the banjo, said immediately, “Harmonica.”

  “What on earth?” Colleen murmured.

  Lily and I shoved our chairs away from the breakfast table and ran to peer out the back door. A few moments later, we saw a pale-headed man with a golden beard cutting across our backyard. He was walking with a graceful lope and playing “Be Thou My Vision” on a harmonica.

  “It’s our neighbor,” said Lily over her shoulder. Daddy pushed past us, coffee cup in hand.

  “Mornin’!” he called, his deep voice booming across our property and bouncing back at us from the pinewoods.

  Mr. Cavendish said, “‘Lo there!” raised a hand in greeting, hesitated, then stowed the harmonica in his pocket and came toward us.

  “Beg pardon for trespassin’, sir!” he said when he was closer. “My mail you see, gets dropped off at your front drive.”

  “No skin off our nose, though I had a bulldog died a few year ago woulda took your leg off at the knee for it! You make the mouth harp sound mighty fine.”

  “Thanks, sir.” I noticed that his way of speaking to Daddy was quite different than the way he had spoken during his visit with us, sociable but less genteel.

  “Play anything else?”

  “The fiddle, a bit. Banjo.”

  “Play the banjo myself. Been a far piece since I had anyone to pick with. I’m Solomon Andrews.” Daddy extended his hand, and Mr. Cavendish took it firmly.

  “William Cavendish,” he replied.

  “Well, Mr. Cavendish, I hear you’ve met my two eldest daughters already. I trust they gave you a fine welcome. How’d you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I never refuse one.”

  “Come on in!”

  He opened the back door wide and let Mr. Cavendish enter before him as Lily and I exchanged a look of astonishment behind his back. Daddy was a friendly sort, but he never invited people in during breakfast.

  As he entered the room, his glance wavered to mine for a mere second, and I gave him a smile of greeting before dropping my eyes. Still, my gaze had lingered long enough to take in his appearance, straying to his blue eyes and the small mole above his mouth. On a woman, it would have been called a beauty mark; on him it was enticing, out of the ordinary.

  In contrast to what I had seen him wearing at the ball, he was clad in simple farm attire: khaki chinos, a cotton shirt, and suspenders. His pale blond hair and beard were neatly groomed, and the thin shirt did not belie the strength of his arms. A fine looking man, I thought. I had thought so every time we met, and the way Lily and Colleen’s eyes strayed to him, I thought they saw it too.

  Colleen was five months pregnant by then, and I knew she would not wish to get up and reveal her swollen belly to Mr. Cavendish, so once he was seated at the table, I poured him a cup of coffee and p
laced a tin plate with a stack of the last few flapjacks on it. He tried to protest, but I silenced him with a shake of my head.

  “Finish them. We’ve all had a plenty.”

  He slathered them with a pat of butter and a few slow drizzles of cane syrup then took a bite, his eyes widening with pleasure.

  “Ain’t words for it, are there?” said Daddy. “Wait ‘til you taste her ten-layer cake.” I looked at him in surprise. He was not one for compliments, especially not to me.

  The morning of William’s Sunday visit, I went to the coop and wrung our second fattest chicken’s neck, plucked its feathers, and scalded it in a saltwater bath. Colleen basted it with butter and herbs and put it in the oven to roast. Lily peeled a bushel of potatoes from the cellar and set them boiling. After church, I changed into my old brown calico and set to work frying bacon to season the collard greens, then fried hoecakes in the grease. I had baked a ten-layer cake and frosted it with white sugar icing the day before. It was in the pantry on Mama’s best cake plate, waiting to be served with coffee and orange slices for dessert.

  Mr. Cavendish came to the front door, and Esther ran to let him in. He sniffed the air appreciatively. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in weeks,” he said happily, “unless you count scrambled eggs and oatmeal, which I do not.”

  Just before dinner, Lily and I changed out of our aprons and old dresses and back into our Sunday best. Edith set the table, and I placed a pitcher of fresh sweet tea on the table made with cold water from the spring, with lemon slices and mint leaves floating on its surface. The sun from the window winked at me through the glass pitcher.