The Beloved Wild

by Melissa Ostrom

  His single-mindedness influenced me, and I also ensured some personal savings by turning splinters into baskets. Mama approved of these endeavors. Perhaps she thought my newfound interest in moneymaking reflected a womanly impulse to supply myself with a dowry.

  Marriage, however, had never seemed less likely.

  The fact was, Mr. Long didn’t appear as interested in me as he once had. This turn of events occupied my thoughts as I spent the final week of May weaving baskets.

  He still passed a great deal of time with us, or at least with the men. Like most farming neighbors, we lent our aid to him to quicken an industry, and he reciprocated. Though Papa and my brothers had handled without assistance the cultivation of the corn—hoeing, weeding, and hilling it—Mr. Long and his cousin Jeb had helped my family with the more arduous task of stump pulling in the field my father wanted widened. In return, my brothers had sharpened their froes and split enough wood shingles for Mr. Long to use to replace his bark roof.

  But our neighbor’s recent weeks were not all work and no pleasure. If Betsy could be counted as a reliable source of information, he was also spending a fair share of his time in Middleton with the Goodriches.

  I refused to feel betrayed when it came to Mr. Long. If he wanted to bestow his precious person on a pack of silly town girls, that was fine with me. Let them grow bored watching him whittle every handy piece of wood. No doubt, when he got to know them well enough, he’d make them the new objects of his caustic comments and observations. I couldn’t care half a farthing.

  My mother, unfortunately, could.

  * * *

  June arrived and brought with it bright, cheerful weather. Mama, in contrast, was pure gloom and doom. Betsy, who enjoyed accompanying Papa whenever he had business in town, started bringing back interesting news regarding Mr. Long. The gossip vexed Mama. Her worries made the strawberry season, normally quite a lovely time, a painful period of ominous predictions and gentle scolds.

  We began picking the fruit in the middle of the month, and on the first day of this endeavor, Mama sighed, “Those Goodrich girls are very ladylike.” She cast a disapproving frown at my dirty apron.

  I shrugged. Given our enterprise, I wasn’t sure how she expected me to preserve an immaculate appearance. We were in the meadow, foraging diligently for the wild berries—or at least Mama and I were. Grace was just eating them.

  Betsy, intent on witnessing the mild lecture Mama was dealing me, mostly stalked us.

  I gave her a mean look. “Go away, Miss Nosy.”

  “I hear the oldest plays the pianoforte,” Mama continued, dropping a handful of sweet red fruits in her bucket. She shook her head slowly and tragically, as though the Goodrich chit’s accomplishment bespoke automatic victory in the matrimonial contest. All hope was lost.

  She interspersed the subsequent strawberry-related activities with additional details, all sighed mournfully. “Those girls’ dresses are store-bought,” she moaned through the mashing for jam. “The oldest girl paints—in oils, no less,” she groaned through the strawberry bread mixing.

  Halfway through preparing berries for drying and tea making, she stopped and demanded, “Do you know what the Goodriches have in their parlor?”

  “A pianoforte?” I was nipping the caps off the berries with vicious pleasure, like a vengeful peasant beheading greedy aristocrats. Indeed, my hands were stained a bloody red.

  “Well, yes,” Mama said impatiently, as she arranged another capless strawberry on the clothed table. “But also a sofa. A real sofa!”

  As opposed to a fake one, I supposed.

  I tried not to let her death-tolling headshakes perturb me.

  Her funereal fixation on the supremacy of the Goodrich girls’ upbringing and talents persisted and reached a climax on the day of the strawberry festival. It was held every year during the strawberry moon, but this time, the prosperous Goodrich family had offered to throw open their grand doors and host the evening’s ball.

  I dreaded it.

  * * *

  After trimming my best gown in new lace, yanking the brush through my snarls, dressing my hair, and smoothing and patting and circling me, Mama took a step back and scrutinized my appearance with the fierceness of a military leader strategizing an ambush. Then she leaned forward and pinched my cheeks.

  I jerked back.

  She followed me and took hold of my cheeks again. “Just trying to give you a little color, dear.”

  “Ow!”

  Whether my bruised cheeks maintained their artificial blush all the way to town, I couldn’t say. But the circumstances at the Goodrich house cheered Mama immensely.

  At least initially.

  Within minutes of our arrival, while I was still gaping in speechless wonder at the six-piece orchestra, the chandelier that sported more blazing candles than the Winter household lit in an entire year, and an actual French dance master liltingly calling out the figures, Mr. Long secured my first dance. He teased me in his usual fashion whenever the cotillion brought us face-to-face. I fired back sharp retorts. We resumed our raillery as though several weeks hadn’t slipped past us with nary a conversation.

  But afterward he danced with many others, including the three oldest Goodrich girls. He acted just as politely charming with them as he had with me—and (if their laughter was any indication) equally teasing. In fact, he struck me as shockingly popular with the ladies. Practically a flirt. The official beau of the ball! So busily occupied did the Middleton maidens keep him, he couldn’t bother chatting with members of his own sex. The only man with whom he talked was Mr. Goodrich. I overheard some of this conversation and discovered that Mr. Long was doing work for the older gentleman, specifically helping him harness the mill wheel’s power and improve the business’s efficiency by building additional machines.

  My location on the famous Goodrich sofa put me in a position to learn this information. Rachel Welds briefly stopped by and tried to engage me in a nonsensical chat about ribbons before admiring my sprig muslin gown and delivering the dubious compliment that I reminded her of the beautiful, young sunburst locust tree that stood “grandly tall and golden and perfectly straight” outside the front door of her former Massachusetts home. Then she flitted away.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t good at girlish gab. Girlish anything, really. Feeling awkward, out of place, grotesquely long, and as wooden as a sunburst locust, I glanced down at myself, wondering how it was that my birth mother had been a famed beauty while her sole child had turned out like a clumsy filly, all skinny legs.

  I was sitting hunched over my cup, sipping (gulping) some thankfully potent punch, watching the dancers, and, in the short lulls between the songs, listening to Mr. Long and Mr. Goodrich chat about cogs, hammers, and bellows a few yards away, when Gideon appeared and settled beside me.

  He looked happier than usual. I assumed this was because he’d danced twice with Rachel, two times more than Luke, who’d failed so far to outmaneuver the other swains intent on winning her hand. Plus, Rachel had arranged in the topknot of her hair a lush, red flower that looked suspiciously like one of Mama’s peonies. I wondered if Gideon had ridden all the way to the Welds house earlier in the day to give her a bouquet of the June blossoms.

  My brother’s eyes followed his love interest’s progress across the floor in the contra dance. I studied the floor for a different reason. Mr. Long had just joined the dance, this time leading the oldest Goodrich daughter. Hadn’t he danced with her once already? Miss Goodrich laughed her little silver-bell-tinkling laugh. I made a face at the couple. Heavens, they were awfully familiar. Perhaps seriously familiar. Maybe they planned to announce their engagement tonight at the end of the festivities. Well, I’d be the first to stand and cheer.

  “Strange to think this could be the last civilized event I attend before I leave,” Gid said.

  I tore my eyes off Mr. Long and shook my head. “There’ll be a few more dance assemblies before March. And even on the frontier, folk
s surely scrape up some reels. As long as there are people, there’ll be music and dancing.” I cast a critical eye around the Goodriches’ immense parlor, swollen with the millings of laughing ladies and gentlemen in their Sunday best and wastefully aglow in countless candles. “Though probably not in such a fancy setting.”

  “I’ll miss these occasions. Our neighbors, our friends. You, especially, Harry.”

  “Well, you don’t need to miss me.” Because I’m not sticking around here, either. Mama had hardworking (if tediously inquisitive) Betsy to help her. Papa didn’t require me to darn his socks; even sickly Grace could do that. And Mr. Long … he obviously wouldn’t miss me. Why stay and witness his and Miss Goodrich’s courtship?

  Yet I hesitated to declare my intention to leave. Home, home, home: It still held me in its familiar embrace. Plus, as busy as I’d been sentimentalizing Middleton, I hadn’t thought of a good way to disclose to Gid my idea of leaving it, to frame this agenda in such a manner to make it sound reasonable.

  But perhaps, while the music and dancing afforded us a measure of privacy, now would be the time to speak. Staring straight ahead, squashing my reservations, I blurted, “You don’t need to miss me because I’m going with you.”

  He turned to face me. A while passed before he stammered, “But—but—there’s Mama and the girls and—and what about him?” He waved a wild hand toward Mr. Long, deep in conversation with Miss Goodrich.

  My mouth tightened. “What about him?” I glared at our neighbor. He aggravated me to no end, first assiduously attending to me for months—nay, years!—and so faithfully it seemed all of Middleton shared an understanding of our pending nuptials, then thoroughly ignoring me, to the extent that, for the past six weeks, I had been forced to endure an onslaught of pitying glances every Sabbath at meeting.

  And then here, tonight: starting off with his old friendly jabs and jokes then promptly ditching me for the rest of the evening.

  I felt toyed with. That I’d taken him for granted in the past and thus earned this treatment, I didn’t want to admit. I longed to show him—and everyone—that I was my own woman, quite capable of orchestrating my future without anyone’s help. I wasn’t going to hang around to see if our neighbor thought I was good enough for him. I wasn’t going to linger just to get tossed aside. Either way, the waiting made me a loser. Staying in Middleton would be like the quadrille now under way: a perfectly sedate dance, politely dictated by custom, all figured out step by step, up one long line and down another. Fine but predictable. Someone else had made up the dance. I shouldn’t have to follow the steps.

  I wanted an adventure, too.

  Gideon was looking doubtful. “I don’t think our parents will let you.”

  “Well, for that matter, you don’t know if they’ll let you. And if they do, they might be grateful to me for agreeing to go with you. After all, who’ll set up your housekeeping while you’re working on your parcel, chopping down trees, and taming the wilderness?”

  His gaze drifted toward Rachel.

  I snorted. “I won’t interfere with your romance, Gid. Go ahead and court her. If she agrees to marry you, after the happy occasion I’ll leave you two to your love nest.” I knew I sounded sour, but I couldn’t help it. I had never imagined Gideon would prove so susceptible to a ninny. Most likely, after the featherbrain lost her youthful shine, he’d find her to be a terribly dull companion. I folded my arms. “Regardless, I can’t see marriage happening before you’ve cleared enough land to build a house and grow something.”

  He nodded slowly. I could tell he was mulling over my points and finding them sound. “That’s decent of you, Harry. I’d sure love your company. Truthfully, leaving you behind was the one consideration spoiling my anticipation.” His smile turned tentative. “But if things work out with Miss Welds and me…” He cleared his throat, stared at his boots, and finished awkwardly, “Where would you go?”

  “Back to Middleton, I guess.”

  Even as I said this, I couldn’t really believe it. What would home be like without my best chum? The farm I knew featured Gideon racing me, coming to my aid when one of our brothers tormented me, making me laugh during the most boring activity. His absence would more than sadden me; it would permanently alter my world, turn it barren and cheerless and unfamiliar, as if a person hadn’t gone missing but a whole chunk of the landscape had disappeared—a big mountain, an entire stream.

  My gaze found Mr. Long. He was leading Miss Goodrich from the dance floor and looking pleased. With her, probably. I experienced a sinking sensation. Once Gid left, I’d never find anyone to fill the void. Better that I go with him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Being made aware of (and now a pending participant in) Gideon’s ambitious plan turned me into a quasi member of a secret club I hadn’t known existed. This club, before me, had been an organization of three: Gideon, Robert Welds, and Robert’s younger brother Ed.

  On the first occasion of my attendance, I glanced around the graveyard where we were holding the meeting and asked, “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Dunno,” Ed said, shrugging. “Minding the children, I expect.”

  Given the number of sticky, stinky siblings these two brothers shared, his explanation was all too plausible. Poor Rachel. I didn’t particularly like her, but I wouldn’t wish that much snotty-nosed torture on anyone.

  Robert eyed me with displeasure. “Like she’s supposed to be doing.”

  I smiled blandly. As long as Gid said it was fine for me to hang around, Robert would just have to put up with me.

  The three men’s feverish conversations, covertly shared behind the meetinghouse on Sundays and during rare visits arranged away from the farm, fed my excitement and, at least intermittently, lessened my dread of leaving home. They got their hands on a map and plotted their journeys, arguing where they ought to ford the Genesee River. And, with the help of the three letters Rachel had received months ago from Mrs. Linton, her old Massachusetts friend, the boys pieced together tidbits to improve their travel decisions and parcel choices. For instance, they learned that the main highway, called the Ridge Road, while the best means to penetrate the wilderness, was little more than an Indian trail. And certain available lots, particularly those below the lower falls, along the banks of Allan’s Creek in the new town of Carlton, were swampier than others and produced many plants ideal for foraging, like morels and elderberries, but were also home to any number of rattlesnakes.

  And of course there were bears, wildcats, coyotes, and wolves. Thankfully, less terrifying creatures occupied the thick forests, too, including beavers, hedgehogs, raccoons, and quail, all suitable for eating, according to Mrs. Linton. While the boys discussed the best techniques for crossing brooks with their teams when no bridges spanned them, I pondered the prospect of eating a hedgehog and wondered how one set about preparing the animal for cooking without getting speared by a bunch of quills.

  Throughout the planning, I listened but didn’t propose any suggestions. The fact was, while the Welds brothers knew that Gideon had made me privy to their plot, they didn’t know he’d agreed to let me make the journey with him.

  “Why can’t we tell them?” I demanded, one early summer evening behind the barn. I carried a pail of cherries, my favorite fruit, and selected a plump, firm one from the top of the mound.

  I’d chewed and spat out the pit before Gideon finally answered. Rubbing the back of his neck, toeing the dirt, and looking altogether sheepish, he admitted, “They don’t want a female messing with their adventure.”

  “But Rachel’s going.”

  “Not to stay with them.” He frowned and, with annoying primness, lectured, “It wouldn’t be at all seemly for a proper young lady, neither sister nor wife, to keep house for them. They’re to escort her to the Lintons’, where she’ll take up residency.”

  “For how long?”

  He gave a stiff shrug. “Until she marries, I suppose.”

  I could tell it bothered him that he was u
nable to add a me after the marries. But Gideon was an honest fellow, and he couldn’t yet claim to have won any major portion of Rachel’s heart. She handled him in a friendly fashion: warmly, cheerfully, and exactly as she treated every other panting suitor.

  I grinned. “So that’s where you’ll be doing your courting.”

  He gave me a nasty look.

  * * *

  July sprang over the countryside in a purple carpet of clover, and I put up an entire cellar shelf’s worth of dandelion wine. Beyond the whir of Mama’s spinning wheel, the twitters of birds, the hum of dragonflies, the buzz of bumblebees, and in the evening the roar of crickets and tree frogs, came the hiss of the sweeping scythes. Haymaking had begun. Yet the Winter family still didn’t know that two of theirs were preparing their thoughts for departure, hearts filled with equal parts anticipation and anxiety, faces frequently turned westward, gazes intent with the determination to leave.

  The temperature turned insufferably hot. We sweated our way to town for the Independence Day celebration and, surrounded by the din of clanging church, school, and farm bells, ate the marchpane cakes that had already started melting in Mama’s basket. The sun scorched the air and baked the fields until the wheat didn’t smell just like green growing things but a bit like the bread it was destined to become.