A Woman so Bold

by L. S. Young

  “You’re not going to meet up with her are you?” I asked.

  He gave me a searching look. “She’s been invited to a Christmas ball at the governor’s mansion and means for me to go with her.”

  “Well, aren’t you high society?” teased Lily.

  “Shall you?” I asked.

  He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon.

  “Of course. It’s white tie, but she says I may borrow Clyde’s tails. He’s out in Texas now.”

  Ida’s elder brother Clyde was as mad as a March hare. He’d killed someone in a bar room brawl, lit out to Texas, and with his father’s money had managed to become a reputable, albeit crazy, cattle rancher. Anytime Ida mentioned his name, I imagined him drunk in a saloon, shooting anyone who looked at him wrong. I was glad he no longer rampaged about Willowbend with his parent’s money to fuel his madness.

  “I’d be glad to see her,” Eric murmured, more to himself than to us. “Been a long time.”

  I shook my head. If anyone had ever asked me to name Eric’s shortcomings, the one thing I’d have been certain of was his love for Ida. She might have been my best friend, but I knew the havoc she wreaked on hearts. He had been taken in by her beauty and charm when we were little more than children, and apparently leaving Willowbend for four years had done nothing to cure him of it.

  “You ought to let her go with someone as wild and unprincipled as she is,” I said. “You’re too good for her, and everyone but you knows it. Even Mrs. Monday wonders why you let her string you along like she does.”

  “Nonsense,” said Eric, but he blushed bright red to his hairline. “Ida strings everyone along. We’re friends, you know that.”

  Christmas dawned unseasonably warm that year. We opened the windows and drank iced tea and lemonade as we opened our gifts. William showed up after breakfast and remained beside me throughout the ritual. Lily and I had made the trek to Granny’s with a basket of goodies the evening before and begged her to join us, but she was not interested in making the long walk and was content to kiss us each in turn and wish us a Merry Christmas.

  When all of the children had opened their meager stockings of fruit and molasses taffy, Lily presented them with the gifts we had knitted. There was a chest warmer for Edith, a scarf for Ephraim, a pair of mittens for Ezra, and for Esther a set of hand-crocheted doilies to place in the hope chest she maintained with such care.

  Colleen’s mother had sent the children a picture book, and a copy of Tennyson’s poems for me and Lily. Lily’s face lit up when she opened her gifts from Aunt Maude: a silk fan and a tortoise shell comb. My parcel contained a silver-handled brush and mirror, much finer than Colleen’s scratched resin ones. I held them carefully, for I owned few pretty things.

  Maude had sent a set of wooden blocks painted in bright colors for Ezra, a sling shot for Ephraim, tin lockets for Edith and Esther, and a silver rattle for the baby. She had also sent a pound of white sugar and a bushel of lemons. With no children of her own, she never spared any expense for us at Christmas. My mother’s elder sister, I knew she was of the opinion that my father was good-for-nothing white trash, and perhaps it assuaged her feelings to gift us with finery every year.

  As I was clearing away the mess the children had made of wrapping paper and ribbon, William slipped something into my hand, a small box wrapped in brown paper. I tore off the wrapping to reveal a small wooden box that opened with a sliding catch. Inside was a silver thimble nestled in a bed of cotton.

  “Oh, William . . . such a fine gift. I received so many lovely things this year!”

  He shrugged, smiling. “I know you hate mending, but I thought if you had a proper thimble you might prick yourself less often.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see if Daddy was looking. He was watching the twins play with their toys and drinking a mug of eggnog. Satisfied, I stood on my toes to kiss Will’s cheek.

  “Is that a proper way to thank your sweetheart on Christmas?” he teased. “Where’s the mistletoe?”

  “My brother is here, and he doesn’t know you,” I whispered, but I pecked him once on the lips for good measure. As I turned away, I noticed Eric regarding us, his brow furrowed. When I went through the breezeway into the kitchen, he followed me.

  “Are you engaged to him?” he demanded.

  I stared, surprised by his forthright tone. Eric’s philosophy was generally live and let live.

  “No, not yet,” I said, tying on my apron.

  “Then why in the Sam Hill is he giving you such a gift? It’s forward.”

  “It’s only a thimble, Eric.”

  “And why’d you kiss him before everyone?”

  “I barely kissed him. He’s my beau. I don’t see it as terribly improper.”

  I took a pot of potatoes that had been boiling off the stove and drained the steaming water into the sink.

  Eric settled himself at the table, taking up a molasses cookie. “You kissed him on the mouth.”

  I poured the last of the coffee from breakfast into a mug and handed it to him then splashed some fresh cream into the potatoes and began to mash them.

  “You never kissed anyone on the mouth?” I asked pertly.

  He rolled his eyes. “I just think he ought to make his intentions clear before giving you such a gift.”

  “The fact that one man treated me unkindly in the past does not give me reason to expect an indiscretion from every gentleman who comes to call. And you don’t know anything about his intentions because you don’t live here or know him!”

  “If he’s buying you trinkets and kissing you in the parlor, I daresay he’s more than a caller. Landra, you don’t know the first thing about men!”

  “I am not an ingénue, Eric!”

  “You don’t need to tell me that.”

  I wheeled on him. “How dare you! I know everything about how you and Ida have behaved since you were little more than children. Yet you’re a man, in a man’s world, and you can look down your nose at me.”

  Eric was shamed into silence by this. We rarely fought, and it cast a darkness over the proceedings of dinner, but by the time the dishes were done we had forgiven one another and were talking and laughing like old times. After Christmas dinner, the thermometer on the front porch read seventy-seven, and I changed out of my brown calico and into my white tea dress, stained and patched by that point beyond any evidence of its former glory. Ida showed up after dinner as I had predicted, driving her two-wheeled open trap behind a fat pony.

  Her lips and cheeks were touched with rose-hued rouge, and she wore a red riding habit and the black hat with the ostrich plume that she was so fond of. She was as brilliant as a cardinal against the bleak landscape of dead foliage in our yard. Eric met her at the door, and she kissed him on the cheek, beaming, then swept past him.

  “Merry Christmas!” she piped, “Lily, Mr. Andrews, Will, children.”

  Ezra ran to her, but she merely patted him on the head, keeping him at arm’s length. Ida never favored children with more than a passing glance.

  “What’ve you all been up to?” she sang, kissing my cheek.

  “Gifts and food. What did your parents shower you with this year?”

  “Oh, just a few furs and a new riding crop.” She settled herself carefully on Colleen’s sofa, mindful of her bustle. “Eric, tell me all about school. I’m dying to know of it, and you never write.”

  “I used to write you all the time, but you never responded,” said Eric quietly, looking piqued.

  “You know I haven’t time for correspondence, silly. It doesn’t mean I don’t wish to hear from you. You’re looking wan! Aren’t there any pretty girls in Leon County?”

  “None named Ida Monday,” said William, giving Eric a discerning look.

  Ida laughed,
taking his comment for a joke. “That’s right, there’s only one of me.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said. “Coffee?”

  “Heavens no, darling! It’s hot as Hades today! I’m dying to get out of these—ohhhh!” Her hazel eyes grew round with excitement. “I know! I know just the thing.” She beckoned with a crimson polished nail, leaning forward confidentially. Eric leaned toward her in spite of himself, but William ignored her. He never had any tolerance for her games, and I loved him for it.

  “We ought to go . . . skinny dipping”—she mouthed the last two words silently—“at the lake.” She raised her brows at us for confirmation, pleased with herself.

  “Not the lake,” Eric disagreed. “How about the swimming hole? It’s private.”

  We had referred to the spring-fed sinkhole behind Granny’s as the swimming hole for time out of mind. No one was supposed to swim there because it was dangerously deep and because that was where Daddy kept his still, which he thought was a secret. Eric and I swam there in our childhood, with Lily in tow, and I knew Ephraim went there with or without permission.

  “No,” said Ida, looking away from him. “I don’t want to go to the nasty old swimming hole.”

  “It’s a spring, Ida. It’s clear water,” I said.

  “William, give us your two cents,” said Eric.

  “I’m fond of the river m’self.”

  “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “We could take a picnic supper.”

  Ida laughed at me, as if the idea of a tame picnic accompanying an activity as bawdy as skinny-dipping was unheard of.

  Eric shrugged. “There’s a gaping flaw in your plan as it is.”

  Ida turned on him, the feathers in her hat bobbing. “What?”

  “Who is going to watch the children?” He nodded at Daddy, who was already dozing soundly in his armchair.

  “I will,” said Lily. “Emmett is coming by later, and I don’t suppose I’m invited anyway.”

  “Emmett? I haven’t heard you speak of him in ages.”

  Lily shrugged. “We’re writing one another again is all. He’s visiting his family for Christmas.”

  “Why, of course you are invited, doll baby!” cried Ida.

  “She certainly is not,” I said. “If I know you, you’ve brought a bottle of Clyde’s homemade moonshine, and she’s but sixteen.”

  Ida smiled. “Just a small one,” she said. “You can come gadding with us when you’re older, Lily. Have fun with your beau.” She pointed to the front door and to Daddy then whispered. “Let’s go before he wakes up!”

  The road that led to the river was shaded by trees that grew over it in a natural arch, with patches of blue sky peeking between their branches. When we passed beneath gaps into the open, the sun was hot, but the breeze was cool. Ida’s carriage could only seat two, so I rode behind William on his sprightly mare. The smell of starch in his shirt and the steady rhythm of the horse beneath us lulled me into a half sleep until I rested my cheek against the stronghold of his broad shoulders. Every now and then he placed his hand over mine to check if I were still awake and holding onto him tightly enough, a gesture that thrilled me with its easy familiarity.

  When we reached the banks of the Withlacoochee, the sound of the rushing water was so enticing I wanted to plunge in immediately, imagining the icy flow washing away the sweat and dirt of the road. However, we took our picnic first, mindful of the strength of Clyde’s moonshine. Ida poured some into a small glass and passed it around once everyone had eaten.

  After my third sip, the world was spinning. I soon found myself with my head in Will’s lap, staring into the patterns of the sunlight in the leaves above me. My reverie was interrupted by Ida’s shrieks of laughter as Eric tore off his shirt and then chased her toward the shore. Chuckling, Will began to kick off his shoes.

  Ida and I turned our backs to the men as they stripped off the rest of their clothes and plunged into the cold water. Drunk beyond restraint, she cried, “Show us those big tits Landra Andrews!” and I cuffed her, but we both kept our undergarments on. Although I knew she was wild and intoxicated enough to bare herself, she knew I wouldn’t, and if someone came upon us we’d be ruined.

  Swimming was a blur. I was conscious of the inexorable pull of the river, of giving myself to it, until I felt a strong hand on my upper arm and Will was behind me, holding me back from the stronger currents with his chest against my back. When I turned to face him, our legs tangled together. It was the closest we’d ever been, and as he pressed me to himself, I could feel that even in the cold water he was aroused by my proximity.

  When the four of us emerged from the water, I sat shivering on the bank, sober once more from cold. I had my arms crossed over my chest in awareness of how transparent my undergarments had become, and Will draped his coat over my shoulders.

  “For your modesty.”

  I pulled the coat closed over my bosom. “Thank you.”

  He lowered himself to the sand next to me and rolled his trousers to the knee. I smiled. “You look like Huck Finn, now.”

  “Build me a raft, Becky.”

  I laughed. “You’ve confused him with Tom Sawyer.”

  “Ah, yes. Never cared much for Twain.”

  “No?”

  “I like the classics.”

  I traced my initials in the sand with my big toe. “Now that the spirits have worn off and my head is aching, I fear you will think ill of my behavior today.”

  Will took out his pipe, as was his habit when conversation turned serious, and began to fill it with tobacco. “How so?”

  I cleared my throat and said in aristocratic tones, “A lady doesn’t become intoxicated, nor remove her clothing to bathe with gentlemen.”

  He grinned, clenching the pipe between his teeth as he lit it. “Colleen’s not here to judge you, and no one else will know. Besides, I don’t think we’re the first young folks to get lit and enjoy the river. Do you imagine we are?”

  “I suppose not.”

  His fingers found mine, and we held hands in companionable silence. Several yards away, Eric and Ida were kissing beneath the moss-draped shade of an old oak. I turned my eyes away from the sight of my brother exploring Ida with his hands, but Will and I soon followed suit, albeit more conservatively. The sun was dipping when we began to dress, and it was dark before we reached home. On the ride back, I sat in front of Will in the saddle and rested my head against his chest. With his arms wrapped securely around my waist, I allowed myself to sleep, confident he would hold me safe and sound.

  On New Year’s Eve, Daddy got drunk again. Lily and I both slipped out of the house, she to meet Emmett at the crossroads to town, and me to meet William in our hollow. I sat in the gnarled crook of my favorite tree, and he leaned next to me. It had been in the thirties since the day after Christmas, and I wore the scarf I had knitted for him with my shawl. His coat was slung over his shoulder. The cold never bothered William.

  “I have something for you that was meant to be given at Christmas,” he said.

  “Surely not,” I laughed. “After the thimble? What now?”

  “Um, a whittling of a sort. Your brother being here . . . he didn’t take so kindly to me until the end, and things were so hustle and bustle that morning that I left it off.”

  “You forgot the detail of Daddy being drunk.”

  He paused, not one to speak ill of others. “Yes, that as well.”

  I held out my hand, expecting a figurine, or a chestnut, but he made no move to present the gift.

  “I fear I haven’t always spoken freely enough of my regard for you,” he said. “I don’t know if I even have said outright that I love you.”

  I stifled a smile. “You have, the night you first kissed me!”

  “It’s only that I never wished to appear too
forward.”

  “What brings this on?”

  “Landra, can you not see I’m trying to propose?”

  I gasped, and he looked sheepish. “It was to be on Christmas morning, but I could never get you alone to ask.”

  “You might have done anyway! Here I thought we were sharing an everyday talk, and me in my work dress! Well, go on!” I laughed breathlessly.

  “Will you consider becoming my wife?”

  “Consider! I will become your wife!”

  He clasped my hands and kissed them fervently then kissed me on the lips. The so-called whittling was a cup of birch wood, sanded smooth, with my initials carved into it, and inside, a ring wrapped in felt. The stone was a square emerald, dark green with fiery depths when the light caught it, adorned with two small pearls on either side. I was in shock over the extravagance of it until he told me it had been his mother’s. Her engagement ring had gone to Gabriel’s wife, but the emerald was an heirloom from her youth, passed down from mother to daughter.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Ephraim says he’s down at the spring, asleep,” Lily answered. “Been hitting the moonshine again.”

  I groaned with irritation. “It’s all he’s done this week with Colleen gone. I wish he’d fall in and drown.”

  “Oh!” Lily was never as cold about Daddy’s shortcomings as I was. I felt chastened by her stricken look.

  “I don’t mean it. But I wish Colleen could come home. He never drinks so hard when she’s here.”

  “Let’s not be mournful. I hate it. Play us something, Will! I’ll accompany you on the piano, and Landra can sing.”

  I sang a few hymns as they played, and a ballad. Then Will began to play something on the fiddle that he had written himself. It had no lyrics, but a cheerful, lilting tune that reached into one’s limbs and made me want to frolic. Ezra and Esther began to leap about, and I danced with them as Lily’s fingers picked out chords on the piano. When Esther began to waltz with Ezra, I twirled before Will by myself; his smile and the warmth of his eyes the anchor my gaze returned to with each rotation. I swayed my hips and lifted my arms, tilting my head to let my hair swirl surround me. He put his fiddle away from him in a swift movement and took me into his arms, spinning me around until I shrieked with laughter. We halted all of a sudden as we passed the open parlor door. Daddy was leaning against the frame, his flask held limp in one hand.