Homespun Hearts

by Caroline Fyffe

  There was a lot to be said for a relaxing woman. With Esme he was free to say and do what he wanted. She didn't know or care what was "proper behavior." She listened to his opinions, but she definitely had her own. But more than her good humor and her easygoing ways, she genuinely liked Cleav for himself and never hesitated to say so. That was a heady novelty.

  "What are you doing out here?" he asked. "Except for grumbling about your new husband."

  Esme's grin was downright naughty. "Just daydreaming a little. Wondering how scandalized the good people of Vader might be to catch a pair of newlyweds sparking in the grass in the middle of the afternoon."

  Cleav raised an eyebrow. "Well, Mrs. Rhy, we will never know," he stated with firm good humor. "Not that you aren't an extreme temptation," he admitted. "But those fish are very hungry."

  "Then let's feed them!" Esme agreed and hurried to her feet, holding out her hand to help him up.

  He took it and kept it when he got to his feet. The two walked hand in hand to the meat house.

  "I've been looking over all the fish," Esme told him. "Trying to get to know them better."

  Cleav smiled.

  "I still think they should have names," she said, then continued with a shrug. "But we've got more fish here than there's names in the Bible."

  "Oh, I don't know. We could go through all the 'begats' and probably get enough," he said. "But I'm not about to call one of my fine trout Jehoshaphat."

  Esme giggled.

  Together they gathered up a bucket of the ground meat and carried the smelly mix back to the water's edge.

  "These are my favorites," Esme told him as she indicated the full-grown fish swimming leisurely in the water. "They are just so pretty."

  "The Rainbows," Cleav said, nodding his understanding. "They are a very pretty fish, and good fighters. But for my table, I prefer the Browns. Not much to look at, but fine eating."

  "I can't even think about eating them!" Esme said, dismayed.

  "That's what they're for."

  "I know. No use getting sentimental about where your food comes from. But they are mighty pretty."

  While he scattered in the other ponds, Cleav let her hand-feed. She loved feeding the brooders, and it pleased Cleav to watch her.

  For her part, Esme thought that caring for his fish was a lot like caring for Cleav.

  "What are these gray ones?" she asked him. "The ones that always run with the Rainbows." He looked to where she pointed. "That's a Steelhead," he answered. "It's the same as the Rainbow."

  Esme looked up quizzically. "What do you mean the same? They look completely different."

  Cleav nodded as he squatted down beside her.

  "The Steelheads are the exact same fish as the Rainbows," he said as he watched a big silver gray Steelhead take a bite of meat from her hand. "They just grew up to look different."

  "Why?"

  "Well, you know that all the trout migrate."

  "Migrate?"

  "They go to other places downstream," he said. "That is, unless you've got them penned up in ponds like these."

  "Why do they do it?"

  Cleav shrugged. "Curious maybe," he suggested. "Or looking for the right mate. Nobody knows really, the trout just do it," he said. "But they always return to their spawning waters, the place where they were born."

  Esme nodded.

  "Now, all the trout travel," Cleav said. "But the Steelheads go the farthest. At one time in his life this big gray fish was swimming in the ocean."

  "In the ocean?"

  "Yes," Cleav told her. "It's the salt water that changes the Rainbow's pretty colors to gray."

  "And his colors never come back?"

  Cleav shook his head. "No, once he's been to the sea he's changed forever. The Steelhead can come back home here, stay for the rest of his days, and live among the other Rainbow trout, but he'll always be different because of where he's been."

  The Steelhead came up for another bite and Esme watched him with a strange sadness in her eyes.

  "He's like you, Cleavis."

  "What?"

  "He's like you. He'll never be a sea fish, but he's seen the ocean, and he's been marked by it."

  She turned her head to face him. "You went to the city, and it changed you, too." Glancing around, she indicated her surroundings. "You'll always live here in Vader, but the city put its mark on you, and you'll never be like the rest of us."

  Cleav was silent, staring at her.

  The silence between them lengthened.

  Esme looked down at the Steelhead swimming in the pond. "I'm gonna name this fish."

  Cleav's eyes went to the streak of swishing silver beneath the water.

  "All right," he said. "What name are you going to give him?"

  A broad and bittersweet smile brightened her face.

  "I'm gonna call him the Gentleman."

  Together they finished the feeding. Esme hummed softly to herself, but Cleav was quiet, almost troubled. He'd come to care deeply for Esme, but it unsettled him that she could read him so easily. It made him feel uneasy. He should never have told her about his time in the city. He'd not shared that with a living soul. But at the time it seemed right to talk to Esme. And it felt so good that she could understand. It felt too good.

  He wanted to be with her constantly, to tell her everything that happened, every curious word that was said, and every foolish thought or dream he had. It wasn't natural for a man to feel that way, he was sure.

  Or maybe it was natural. Looking across the room at her examining the items stored at the far end of the hatching house, he wondered if this is what it was to be in love.

  Esme Crabb was not at all the kind of woman he'd thought he could be in love with, the kind of woman he'd want for a wife. But it wouldn't be the first time he'd been wrong. That was the way of natural science. Each scientist had perceptions that he tried to prove. As often as not, a scientist proved himself wrong.

  Had he proved himself wrong? Could he love Esme Crabb? Maybe he could.

  "What is this thing?" Esme asked as she examined a large wood rectangular contraption with a metal crank.

  "That's a roller spawning box," he answered, crossing the room to show it to her.

  "A spawning box?"

  "It's how I collect the fertilized eggs from the trout," he said. "It's a new idea, but I like it a great deal. It seems more natural for the fish."

  He turned the crank to show her how it worked.

  "The fish lays her eggs here on top. Once they are fertilized, the roller carries them down to this end compartment, where you can remove them to the hatching house without disturbing the fish."

  Esme examined the box more closely. It was really three boxes within a box. The top layer was a mesh screen obscured by coarse gravel. Under this was an endless apron of fine wire-cloth that passed over rollers at the ends of the box that were turned by the crank. Esme was impressed by the ingenuity but curious about the purpose.

  "Can't you just leave the eggs in the ponds?" she asked.

  Cleav shook his head. "There are too many predators. Birds, frogs, and lizards consider fish eggs a treat. I hate to admit this, but a lot of my fish are so dumb they don't know family from food."

  Her eyes widened. "You mean they eat their own babies?"

  "It can happen. That's why I keep the small fry separate from their elders until they're old enough to defend themselves."

  "It seems kind of sad," Esme said.

  "For me, too," Cleav admitted. "Nature isn't always sweet and pretty the way we'd like it to be. I am a student of the natural order and have great admiration for it, but I believe there must be a balance."

  "What kind of balance?"

  "It's hard to explain," Cleav answered, wrinkling his brow as he sought the best phrasing. "Some men believe that only human needs are important. That trees should be cut to make farmland and dangerous animals should be destroyed routinely."

  Cleav sighed and shook his head. "In contra
st to that, there are many naturalists who would alter nothing. They believe that man should not use his superior intelligence to compete with animals and plants."

  "But you don't agree with either view," Esme said.

  "No," Cleav answered with a chuckle. "I agree with both." He turned his gaze to look out the doorway to the ponds beyond the hatching house.

  "It's like a man with a house full of children," he said. "I believe it's his duty to see that his children have bread on the table every day."

  He turned his eyes back to Esme. "But that doesn't mean that he can ignore his neighbor's children who may be hungry."

  He reached for Esme's hand. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Esme smiled at him. "You are a wonderful man, Cleavis Rhy," she told him.

  "I'm just a man," he said. "Trying to do what I think best. That's why I prefer keeping the fish as close to their wild heritage as I can. The spawning box helps me do that. It's more natural."

  "More natural?" Esme asked. "More natural than what? What do other people do?"

  "Well, most trout breeders simply wait till the fish are fertile and then catch them in nets," he told her. "They pick a fish up in their hands and then press on its abdomen. If it's a female and she's ripe, the eggs will just pour right out of her into a pan. They can be fertilized right in the pan and taken immediately to the hatching house. The fish don't really have much to do with it."

  "But with the spawning box, they do?" Esme asked.

  Cleav nodded. “Those trenches I've built at the far end of the ponds are called the races. When it's time for the female to lay her eggs, she wants to go as far upstream as she can and find a nice still place to leave them.

  “I put this box in the far end of the races. I put lots of nice gravel on the top here for her nest and then I just leave it alone."

  Cleav's eyes were bright with the excitement and pleasure of the memory.

  "The female comes up to the top of the races, finds her nesting spot, and deposits her eggs. Her mate is watching her all the time, and when she leaves, he goes behind her and puts the milt on the eggs."

  "Milt?"

  Cleav hesitated. "Milt is the . . . well, it's what the male contributes to the egg to fertilize it."

  "Is it like an egg, too?"

  "No, it's more a fluid that the trout just spills on the eggs."

  Esme's brow screwed up curiously. "Is it like people?" she asked in a cautious whisper.

  "People?"

  "You know," she said with a blush.

  Cleav's mouth opened in surprise. Ladies never mentioned such things. As his shock receded, he laughed out loud.

  "Yes, Esme," he said. "It's like people."

  He pulled her into his arms and gave her a warm, loving hug. "I love being married to you," he said. It was the closest he could come to expressing his new feelings.

  "Me, too," Esme admitted. "And I'm so glad we're people instead of trout."

  "Why is that? Don't you know how to swim?"

  "I swim just fine, Mr. Rhy," she said. "That wasn't at all what I was thinking about."

  "What were you thinking?" he asked. "I'm always curious about the workings of your mind."

  Esme giggled. "I was thinking that I wouldn't want us to be trout, 'cause then you wouldn't have any arms to hold me.”

  He immediately released her and stepped across the room.

  "That's true, Esme," he said. "But it wouldn't be so bad. Sometimes a look is enough."

  To prove his point, Cleav allowed his eyes to slowly travel along Esme's body. His pupils dilated with the pleasure of the sight.

  "Perhaps we could create a scientific experiment," he said, "to determine if the sense of touch is absolutely necessary to create intimacy between a husband and wife?"

  Without waiting for her consent, Cleav's look became a hot, fluttery caress across her skin. His lips parted as he examined the curve of her jaw and the length of her neck. Slowly he moved his gaze to the swell of her bosom, the trimness of her waist, the curve of her hip, and allowed his heart to remember the long, slim legs hidden beneath her skirts.

  Esme felt her flesh quiver beneath his gaze. Forcing her chin up, she straightened her shoulders and looked back. He was so handsome, so strong, so warm and wonderful. His heart was so full and he talked with such sincerity and concern for all things. It was difficult to keep herself from running into his arms. But the challenge in his eyes stayed her.

  Her nipples pressed anxiously against the fabric that covered her. But she was not the only one who could be affected by a look.

  Giving free rein to her own eyes, she watched as Cleav swallowed nervously. Her gaze wandered down his face to the broad strong shoulders that bore such care, the long sinewy arms that held her with such strength, and the large, long-fingered hands that he kept so clean and touched her with so tenderly. She felt a warmth of joy and possession as she allowed her eyes to travel the length of his masculine torso to the front of his trousers. He was already partially aroused. The sight brought a slight smile to Esme's face.

  "One thing about this experiment," Esme pointed out. "When the fish look at each other, they aren't wearing clothes."

  A slow smile spread across Cleav's face as he reached for the buttons on his shirt.

  Sunday dawned bright and spring-like as the Rhys, both the mister and missus as well as Cleav's mother, Eula, prepared to attend church.

  Esme hummed with pleasure as she donned the new dress she had made for herself. The pretty pink color was perfect for her and brought out the blush of her complexion in her cheeks.

  One week married, and it was heaven. Thinking back to the worries and concerns that had plagued her this time last Sunday, she laughed lightly. Cleav didn't love her, that was true. But he was such a fair and honorable man, and so tender and considerate, marriage was surely enough.

  Touching the beautiful material of her new gown almost with reverence, she sighed in near bliss. He was so good to her.

  "Imagine how he would treat a woman that he really loved," she whispered to herself and then glanced at her reflection in the glass with distaste.

  She refused to long for what could never be. A lifetime of deprivation had taught her to appreciate what she had.

  "You look beautiful," Cleav said from the doorway.

  "Do you like it?" she asked. "I hope you don't mind that I used the material, but I knew that you could never sell it. You know how I hate to see things go to waste."

  Cleav came closer to rub the fabric gently between his fingers.

  "The rose crepe de chine," he whispered. He leaned closer to ask. "How did you manage to get the stain out?"

  "I didn't completely," Esme admitted with embarrassment. "So I used that part for the inner facings of the yoke."

  Laying a hand gently over her heart, she told him, "It's here."

  Stunned by the feelings that welled up inside him, Cleav was frozen momentarily. Then gently he lay his head against the site where her hand had been.

  "Oh, Esme I—" He hesitated, suddenly fearful of his own words. "I don't deserve you."

  He planted a kiss on her bosom. And one led to another. Had Eula Rhy not called to them from downstairs several moments later, the Rhys would have forgotten about the Sunday service completely.

  As he walked to church between the two women, Cleav was still struggling with his emotions as their light conversation finally captured his attention.

  "That is a lovely dress, Esme," Mrs. Rhy said politely.

  "Thank you," she answered. "I'm not the seamstress that my sisters are, but I tried to do the fabric justice."

  "And beautiful fabric it is," Mrs. Rhy agreed. "I was beginning to wonder if Cleav intended for you to wear that dreary serge forever."

  Esme's mouth flew open in silent shock.

  "Well said, Mother," Cleav commented hurriedly. "I have been remiss about seeing to a proper wardrobe for my wife."

  He turned to smile kindly at Esme. "Why don't the two o
f us go down to the store this afternoon and look through the materials we have on hand. I'm sure we can find several things that you like."

  "I don't really . . ." Esme hesitated. "I mean . . . you don't have to give me new clothes."

  Her embarrassment was clear, but Cleav refused to let the subject drop. "Nonsense, I'm not giving you the clothes. You are my wife. Everything that I own, you own. That's the law of God and man."

  Feeling she already had so much, Esme cringed at the idea of further burdening her husband.

  "I don't really need anything," she persisted. "I'm used to wearing old clothes. It doesn't bother me."

  "Well, it bothers me!" Eula Rhy snapped in unkindly.

  Cleav glared at his mother. "You must have new clothes," Cleav said gently to Esme. "Would you want the people of Vader to think I can't provide for you?"

  "Of course not," she answered. "But everybody knows—''

  "Everybody knows that you are my wife and that the wife of a gentleman always dresses as well as he can afford."

  He was so adamant, Esme felt she had no choice but to acquiesce. But his words continued to haunt her, darkening her light mood of the morning. The wife of a gentleman. His mother had told it right the night of the wedding. How could plain, poor Esme Crabb live up to something like that?

  They reached the church in good time. Cleav gallantly escorted both women through the crowd as he paused occasionally to have a word with one person or the next. He was proud of the beautiful woman beside him in rose crepe de chine. He felt a strength, a belonging, a completeness that he hadn't felt since childhood.

  Despite his faults and foibles, almost because of them, Esme cared for Cleavis Rhy, the hill-born pisciculturist and small-town storekeeper. She saw no need for him to be anything else.

  At that sweet, precious moment on a Sunday morning in springtime, Cleavis Rhy was completely happy.

  Joining her new husband for the first time at his pew in the left front of the church, Esme was less jubilant. Every eye in the church was focused upon them.