by Lynn Austin
We rode in silence for several minutes. I knew it was Frank’s job to lead the conversation, but I struggled to think of something to say so I wouldn’t disappoint my father. ‘‘Um...It turned out to be a lovely day for the social, didn’t it?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes.’’
I wanted to shout, Ha! I caught you! That was a yes and no answer!But I didn’t think I could draw a deep enough breath to shout, let alone gloat.
‘‘We’ve had just the right amount of rainfall this spring, haven’t we?’’ I asked, trying again.
‘‘Yes.’’
I would have heaved a sigh of frustration if my corset would have allowed it. This ridiculous courtship was a sham, an agonizing means to a mutually beneficial end, and Frank and I both knew it. The drive to church only lasted ten minutes but it seemed like ten years.
Everyone gaped when Frank Wyatt showed up on the church lawn with a woman on his arm—although they might have been gaping because it appeared as though poor Betty Fowler had her head ripped off of her frumpy body and pasted onto someone else’s. Either way, we created quite a stir. Every maiden, spinster, and scheming mama in Deer Springs began calculating how they could win Frank Wyatt’s attention now that he had finally decided to start courting. But courting Betty Butterball of all people? Who would have ever thought?
We made a ridiculous pair. Even with my astonishing new bosom I looked like a child beside Frank. He was tall and sunbrowned and muscular from years of hard work—and the top of my frizzy head didn’t even reach his shoulder. I had to take five hurried steps to equal one of his strides, so I must have looked like a little lap dog with my tongue hanging out, trotting to keep up with him.
Although Frank was politely courteous and well-mannered, he never warmed up enough to risk melting the ice cream. He kept my lemonade glass filled and he generously spooned all the toppings onto my ice cream for me at the serving table, but he never asked me a single question about myself in order to become better acquainted. I tried very hard to like him, but the knowledge that he wasn’t the least bit interested in me hampered my efforts. Every time Frank looked at me he saw my father’s pond.
There were three-legged races for the couples and games like musical chairs, horseshoes, and croquet, but Frank showed no interest in any of them. I was just as glad. I could barely walk, let alone dash, bend, reach, or scramble. As we strolled around the church lawn, Frank occasionally stopped to converse with one of the other men, forcing me to make small-talk with their girlfriends. It was hard work for me to be pleasant for an entire after-noon. I wasn’t used to being sociable. Banty hens and books were my usual afternoon companions.
By the time Frank brought me home again I was exhausted. As soon as Lydia loosened my bonds, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. It was short-lived.
‘‘Did you make a favorable impression?’’ Father demanded to know at the supper table. It was one of the few times in my life that my father had ever shown an interest in me.
‘‘I tried, Father.’’
‘‘You tried? That’s all? I certainly expect you to do more than tryif this merger is ever going to take place. Don’t you realize that a man like Wyatt can take his pick of women when it’s time for him to choose a wife?’’
I recalled the scheming mamas all sizing up Frank Wyatt and stared at my mashed potatoes in misery. ‘‘Yes, Father.’’
‘‘Don’t slouch, Betty. Sit up. That’s better. Did he ask you out again?’’
‘‘He said that he’ll be busy with the orchard for a while, but he wondered if I would like to take a drive in the country with him sometime.’’
‘‘Good. Good. I hope you were encouraging?’’
‘‘I told him I would be very pleased to ride with him.’’
‘‘Good. Pass the green beans.’’
Father’s health had been poor for months, so I was glad that this courtship was putting some life back into him. But I knew that today had been just the prologue. A long series of agonizing afternoons with Frank Wyatt would probably follow until he made up his mind whether or not my father’s land was worth the sacrifice of marrying me. But I would persevere. Nellie Bly was indomitable and I would be, too. My overwhelming concern was to not disappoint my father.
Frank courted me all that spring, usually on Sunday after-noons when work wasn’t allowed. In June we went for a drive in the country, to a temperance lecture in the next town, and to a special missionary presentation at church.
‘‘Do you belong to our Women’s Missionary Guild, Betty?’’ he asked on the way home.
‘‘No, I—’’
‘‘You must join.’’
I joined. I had taken ‘‘the pledge’’ after the temperance lecture, too. I would have stood on my head and spit wooden nickels if that’s what it took to convince him I would make a satisfactory wife.
By July the entire town knew that we were an ‘‘item.’’ Frank invited me to sit in the hallowed Wyatt pew with him one Sunday morning. Father was overjoyed.
‘‘Good. You have the fish on the line,’’ he said. ‘‘Now reel him in.’’
Whatever thatmeant. When I asked Lydia, she said it meant I should invite him home for Sunday dinner so he would know that I could cook. She faithfully coached me in the feminine art of courtship, but I seemed to be failing the course. Frank and I had courted for two months and he still hadn’t stolen a kiss from me or even tried to hold my hand. The gap between us on the carriage seat was just as wide as it had been on our first date.
I couldn’t help but compare Frank with the dashing, amorous heroes of my favorite novels, and he always came up short. I wasn’t falling in love with him. In fact, the more time I spent with him the more I hated his cold, overbearing ways. But judging from my own experience and the example of my parents, I decided that love and romance must be the stuff of fiction, not real life. I learned to ignore the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of my stomach every time Frank arrived at my house and to disregard the gnawing unease I felt each moment that I spent with him.
While my courtship with Frank plodded slowly on, Lydia reached a milestone of her own—she dated the same man two weeks in a row, then three! Ted Bartlett was a traveling notions salesman whose route brought him to Deer Springs on the train once a week.
‘‘I’m in love, Betsy! Oh, this time I’m really in love!’’ Lydia exclaimed.
It was mid-July, and we lay crossways on the bed in our stifling room hoping that a breeze might find its way through our dormer windows. So far the only thing that had found its way inside was the mosquito that hummed with delight around my head.
‘‘Tell me everything!’’ I said, smacking my own cheek as I missed the mosquito.
‘‘Ted is unbelievably handsome! He has dark, wavy hair and a luxurious mustache that tickles when he kisses me.’’
‘‘You let him kiss you already?’’
‘‘Of course, silly. When I’m with Ted I never want him to stop kissing me. He makes me feel so...loved! I can’t describe how wonderful it is to feel his strong arms around me as he showers me with kisses. Or how glorious it is to rest my head against his broad chest and hear his heart beating beneath me.’’
Lydia’d had more than her share of romances but I’d never heard her talk this passionately before. She made me feel like I was missing out on something. ‘‘Tell me more about him,’’ I begged.
‘‘He’s a really sharp dresser, and he wears all the latest in men’s fashions. I’m sure he must be very rich. He’s from Chicago. That’s where we’ll live after we’re married.’’
‘‘He asked you to marry him?’’
‘‘Well, not yet, but I know that he will soon. He loves me, Betsy. He tells me he does all the time. Maybe Frank will ask you to marry him, too, and we can have a double wedding. Won’t it be wonderful?’’
‘‘Ouch!’’ I swatted uselessly at the mosquito again after he took a spiteful bite out of my leg. ‘‘A double wedding would be nice,’�
�� I lied. ‘‘I won’t be nearly as nervous if we go into this venture together. But to tell you the truth, I can’t imagine being married to Frank.’’
‘‘You mean sharing his bed?’’
‘‘Lydia!’’
She laughed at my embarrassment. ‘‘Sharing a bed is wonderful when it’s with someone you really love.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’ I teased.
She gave me a playful shove. ‘‘Be quiet and go to sleep. I’ll dream about Ted and you can dream about Frank.’’
But as I lay awake scratching mosquito bites, I didn’t have the heart to tell my sister that any dream about Frank would have been a nightmare.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lydia had bragged for weeks about Ted Bartlett’s wealth, so when a fancy carriage with a liveried driver and a matched team of horses pulled up to our farmhouse one hot July afternoon, I thought for sure they were delivering her beau. Father was working out in his orchard, and I was using my few moments of peace and freedom to sit out on the front porch and write. I planned on writing a romantic novel someday, so I was scribbling down all the romantic things Lydia had told me about Ted before I forgot them. And now here he was in person! I was about to tell the mustached gentleman who stepped down from the carriage that Lydia hadn’t returned from work yet, but he spoke first.
‘‘Good afternoon,’’ he said, removing his straw boater hat and bowing slightly. I saw right away that Lydia had exaggerated his dark, wavy hair. If this was Ted, he’d be bald in another five years. ‘‘I’m inquiring about the sign I saw posted in the dry goods store in Deer Springs,’’ the gentleman said. ‘‘You have a cottage for rent?’’
‘‘Oh! Yes! Yes, we do.’’
‘‘My name is Walter Gibson,’’ he said, handing me a beautifully engraved calling card. ‘‘I’m visiting from Chicago.’’
‘‘Betty...Betty Fowler. Nice to meet you.’’
I was so awed by him and by his aura of fine breeding and wealth that I could barely speak. He had a slight build, well under Frank’s height of six feet three inches, but was impeccably dressed in an ash-colored linen suit and waistcoat. A heavy gold pocket watch and chain dangled across the front. Even on this humid July afternoon he seemed comfortably cool—not cold and stiff like Frank, but pleasurably relaxed. His hand rested on a walking cane with a silver handle that was carved like a dog’s head, and I noticed he had beautifully manicured nails.
He looked like a photograph from a magazine, and I suddenly realized that I looked like a fright! I wasn’t wearing my bust-perfecto corset to help squeeze me into a recognizably feminine shape, and I had wiggled out of my petticoats and dropped them into a sweaty heap on the porch. I had also unbuttoned the top two buttons of my calico shirtwaist in the heat and, worst of all, I was barefoot. With the humidity causing my hair to frizz out around my head, I must have resembled a savage peasant wench.
‘‘So...may I see it?’’ He lifted one eyebrow and one side of his mustache in a half-smile. He struck me as a very kind man. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice.
‘‘Oh! The cottage! Oh, of course.’’
I had heard all about the summer ‘‘cottages’’ of the very rich overlooking the big lake—they were more like palaces! So I was embarrassed to show him our tiny bungalow.
‘‘It’s very plain...very rustic,’’ I sputtered. ‘‘And I’m afraid that the roof of your carriage will be too high to pass beneath the trees. I’d hate to see it get all scratched up or covered with dust. You would have to walk there.’’ I looked down at his perfectly polished, fine-leather shoes and winced. ‘‘Oh dear. They would get very dusty, too.’’
He glanced down at his own feet, then at my bare ones, and smiled—a full-blown smile that revealed an endearing dimple in his right cheek. ‘‘Then perhaps I should join you and remove my shoes, as well?’’ It surprised me to realize that he wasn’t laughing at me but at himself.
‘‘No, no. You’d better keep your shoes on. Listen, I’d hate to have you waste your time walking all the way out there for nothing. The cottage is very rustic and quite isolated.’’
‘‘It sounds perfect. I’m looking for someplace secluded.’’
‘‘Thoreau’s Walden Pond?’’ I asked without thinking. He looked surprised, then delighted.
‘‘Yes, exactly. How did you know?’’
‘‘I guess it was on my mind. I just finished rereading the book a few days ago.’’
‘‘I’ve read it several times myself,’’ he said. ‘‘My favorite line is: ‘Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance...but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.’ ’’
Our eyes met and I saw that with one poignant line from Thoreau, this stranger had given me a glimpse of himself. His eyes were as soft and gray as a foggy morning. When he suddenly asked, ‘‘What’s your favorite line?’’ I returned the gift without hesitation.
‘‘ ‘If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.’ ’’
He nodded thoughtfully, then smiled again. ‘‘So...will I get to see this cottage or did Thoreau already rent it before I arrived?’’
‘‘I’m sorry, of course,’’ I said, laughing. ‘‘It’s this way.’’
I set off down the driveway and was nearly to the barn before I realized that he wasn’t keeping up with me. He was a young man, in his early thirties, but he walked with the slow, frail hesitancy of someone much older, leaning heavily on his cane. I thought it might embarrass him if I apologized, so I simply slowed down to keep pace with him.
‘‘The easiest route is to take this shortcut through the orchard,’’ I explained. ‘‘There’s a dirt road but it’s overgrown with weeds. Father always planned on putting in a better road—a gravel one—but he never did.’’
‘‘I’m glad.’’
‘‘You are?’’
‘‘I’m looking for something secluded, remember?’’
‘‘So you said.’’ I smiled. ‘‘All right, then, you asked for it! It’s just on the other side of these trees, down near the pond.’’
‘‘A pond? Really? It’s not called Walden Pond by any chance, is it?’’
I found myself laughing again, and it amazed me. The only other person I’d ever felt this relaxed and content to be with was Lydia. The stranger’s gentle humor reminded me of my beloved school teacher, Mr. Herman.
‘‘You may name the pond whatever you like,’’ I said, grinning up at him. ‘‘I don’t think anyone has ever given it a name. Now, I should warn you, the cabin is very rustic....’’
‘‘I think you already have.’’
‘‘Oh. Well, now you are doubly warned.’’ But as we came through the orchard and Mr. Gibson got his first glimpse of the little stone cottage, surrounded by trees and nestled beneath the hill, I saw it afresh through his eyes.
‘‘But it’s lovely!’’ he said in surprise. A row of nodding pink hollyhocks by the front porch, with blossoms the size of saucers, waved at us in greeting.
‘‘It was originally a log cabin,’’ I explained. ‘‘The stones were added to it later. No one really knows how old it is. It was here when my father bought the land, before the War Between the States. He built our farmhouse after his family outgrew it.’’
I opened the front door and led Mr. Gibson inside. Father had made Lydia and me scrub the place thoroughly before she posted the sign in the store, so it was spotlessly clean. It smelled of pine logs and freshly ironed linen.
‘‘What a charming place!’’
‘‘When my sister and I were children we used it for a playhouse,’’ I told him. ‘‘I’ve always loved it, too. I wish I could live here.’’
It didn’t take long to show him through the tiny rooms, and I was sorry the tour ended so quickly. Something about the s
tranger made him nice to be around. He smelled good, too—like lemons.
‘‘Yes, I think this will do quite nicely,’’ he said, gazing out at the pond from one of the front windows.
‘‘You seriously want to rent it?’’ I asked in surprise. ‘‘But...but it’s so small, and...and...’’
‘‘And rustic?’’ He turned to me and his smile was contagious.
‘‘Yes, it’s rustic...rude...backwoods...bucolic! Call it whatever you like, but there’s no proper kitchen or running water—only a pump outside. And it’s small...diminutive...lilliputian!’’ I have no idea what made me suddenly indulge in my love of words, but I could see that he found it amusing.
‘‘I don’t mind. I’m seeking simplicity, remember?’’
‘‘But surely your wife—?’’
‘‘I’ll be living here alone. I’ve been ill for the past few months and the doctor recommended I try some country air.’’ His face was thin and a bit too pale, but if I hadn’t observed him walking I wouldn’t have thought him ill.
‘‘I’m sorry to hear that you haven’t been well,’’ I said. ‘‘I hope the country air does the trick.’’
‘‘Yes, so do I. How much do you want per month?’’
I told him Father’s price.
‘‘I’ll tell you what,’’ he said. ‘‘If I could arrange for meals to be brought to me, too, I’ll pay twice that.’’
‘‘Twice!’’
‘‘Yes. Would I be able to move in today?’’
‘‘Today? All the way from Chicago?’’
‘‘No, I’m living in my family’s summer home over on the lake, but to tell you the truth, I’ve grown weary of having servants and nurses constantly hovering around me. They mean well but they’re beginning to make me feel like an invalid. I’ve been craving peace and quiet lately, and your ‘rustic, lilliputian cottage’ should do quite nicely.’’
‘‘Then we have a deal, Mr. Gibson,’’ I said, smiling. ‘‘You may move in whenever you like—and I promise not to ‘hover.’ ’’
His dimple reappeared as he grinned in return. ‘‘Mr. Gibsonis my father. Please call me Walter.’’