Halestorm

by Becky Akers

  The next year, she piled her hair atop her head and descended to breakfast the morning after his arrival. Startled silence greeted her. Then the titters began, from everyone but Nathan, who only smiled kindly and asked the Deacon what work he wanted done that day. He would have succeeded in distracting them had her hairpins not come loose, dropping her curls over her face and into the syrup she was pouring on her buckwheat cakes. Even Nathan had to laugh this time, though he bent his head to disguise it instead of guffawing like the rest.

  But one day last harvest, three months past Nathan’s sixteenth birthday, her torment ended. The boys were bringing in the hay, eyes on a thunderstorm simmering to the west. She and Beth carried dinner to them lest they lose time eating at the house. They dispensed cold ham and johnnycake to the older ones, Samuel, John, Joseph, and Enoch. Then she came on Nathan raking near the woods bordering the field.

  He nodded gratefully as she handed him the cider and stood silhouetted against the clouds with his legs planted wide. Sweat polished his browned forearms and the bit of his chest peeking through his tunic as he drank. He seemed a statue wrought from mahogany, his nose and cheekbones exquisitely chiseled. She stared while lightning flickered.

  He returned the flagon to her. Their fingertips brushed as they had a thousand times before, during chores and meals, at Meeting, around the hearth, while walking to town. But this time was different. Nor was she the only one to feel the spark. Nathan blushed through his tan. “Ally,” he murmured, and she had known, and smiled, and glanced at him sideways as she dispensed the meat and bread. She skipped to the house then, hearing nothing but his voice, seeing nothing but his face. When next they were alone, he gave her his miniature, painted the month before on a dare from his college friends. “Wondered what I’d ever do with it,” he said with a laugh.

  Marriage was in the air that autumn. Nathan’s brother John had announced his betrothal to Alice’s sister. They would wed in December. Both the Deacon and her mother seemed pleased with this, even after the ugly talk of incest started in town. John and Sarah were too happy to heed such gossip, and the house filled with neighbors and friends come to celebrate the nuptials, who did not consider the marriage a scandal, or if they did, would overlook it for the sake of the Deacon’s punch and his wife’s renowned baking.

  Alice knew that at fifteen she was too young to marry. Still, she and Nathan expected their parents to rejoice at their love as they had at John and Sarah’s, even if their wedding waited a few years. And at first, the Deacon seemed oblivious, though her mother stared with stricken eyes.

  But suddenly, mysteriously, Deacon Hale not only noticed, he objected.

  “Whole town calls it sinful that your brother’s marrying your stepsister,” he roared at Nathan, so loudly that she and everybody else overheard. “You think I’ll let it happen again?”

  His reaction must have stunned Nathan as much as it did her. The Deacon ever preached against public opinion, warning that it was usually wrong and often ridiculous. The man who heeded it was a fool. But now the Deacon would decide their future based on what the neighbors thought. That astonished her as much as if the peach tree out back had yielded cherries.

  Yet when Nathan pressed him, the Deacon exploded, “I’m your father. ’Tis your duty to obey me!” He insisted Nathan promise to forget marrying her, insisted however his son pleaded, until finally, defeated, Nathan gave his word.

  But Alice would not allow a stuffy old tyrant to keep her from the man she loved. She continued smiling at Nathan during meals, letting her eyes speak what modesty forbid her lips. She laughed heartily at his jokes—and there were many of them. She found or invented excuses to snatch a moment with him.

  Her mother beseeched her, with tears, threats, commands. At last, seeing she could not persuade Alice, she settled for watching her. Alice nevertheless conducted an intense campaign. She besieged Nathan with letters while he was at Yale and ambushed him when he was home, reminding him with smiles and compliments that he owned her heart.

  Nathan would not court her against his word. He graciously dodged her devotion, or worse, responded as formerly, with a brother’s affection, so that she tired of her insinuations and their failures. She convinced herself that if she spoke frankly and acted as no lady ever should, she would prevail.

  For the past fortnight, while Nathan and Enoch were once again home for the harvest, she had sought to find her beloved alone. But she despaired of doing so until this day, the boys’ last in Coventry, when Nathan mentioned his trip to town. She resolved to take advantage and longed for dinner to end.

  Finally, only crumbs remained from the Brown Betty; the jumbles and gingerbread were but a memory. The Deacon returned thanks, and the family scattered to their chores.

  Alice scraped plates, planning to join Nathan in the barn when she took the leavings to the pigs. So intent was she on her scheme that she didn’t hear the Deacon until he had called her name twice. Then she started. “Yes, sir?”

  “You can clean the henhouse when you’re done here, Alice.”

  Clean the henhouse! Her stepfather was mad to think she would obey such an order this afternoon. Protesting would do her no good, though, so she tossed off another “Yes, sir” as he left the room.

  After she stacked the dishes, she ran to her chamber and retrieved the pocketbook she had beaded for Nathan. It was a pitiful thing, with clumsy stitching. Though it had only one pouch, its pattern of flames (so fitting for Nathan, who warmed and cheered and danced better than any fire) ran crooked. She had thrice ripped out and redone the legend “For Nathan with Love from Yr Sister,” the last time with tears of frustration, but it was still indecipherable. She owned neither the patience nor the ability, supposedly a girl’s birthright, for such labor. But please God, it would show her love because he knew how she hated embroidery. She returned to the kitchen for the bucket of slops and escaped to feed the pigs.

  In the barn, she found Nathan currying his horse and crooning into his ear. The General was a bedraggled stallion who appeared to have only another mile or two in him. But once Nathan mounted him, he was transformed. His neck arched with pride; his coat seemed glossier; his movements were smooth, no longer disjointed. He also became fleet as Coventry’s gossip: Nathan had inherited his father’s love of fast horseflesh.

  “Nathan.”

  He flashed a smile at her over the General’s neck.

  “Can I ride to town with you? I—I—have to, um...Mama wants me to get some sugar.”

  If he suspected she was lying, he was too gallant to say so. He rubbed the General’s nose as he surveyed her with narrowed eyes. “Well, what do you say, General? Wanna carry a featherweight like Ally to town today?”

  He swung into the saddle and nudged the horse toward the mounting block. He would not stoop to squeezing her arm as he helped her up behind him, but she fancied he held her hand longer than necessary.

  She pressed herself to him lest they pass the Deacon as they cantered down the lane. Tingling at his company, at the exhilaration of the autumn day, she was confident she could persuade him to ignore his father and marry her.

  The sun kissed them and the spangled woods along the road. Her whole being so hummed at his nearness that she wondered he could not hear it.

  Nathan smiled over his shoulder. “Well, Ally, seems like you’ve been busy with Elijah Ripley lately.”

  She basked in her victory, though it was a small one. Nathan had sheltered behind his usual fortress of brotherly concern this visit. Hoping jealousy might flush him, she had flirted with Elijah Ripley, a frequent guest at the farm and Coventry’s wealthiest resident for all his rotted teeth and diffidence.

  She rested her hands at his waist. “Mr. Ripley visits a lot, but he comes to play checkers with your father.”

  “That’s not what I hear from John and Samuel.”

  “’Tis true.”

  “Ally, no man can enjoy losing to my father that much.”

  There was more teasin
g and less jealousy than she liked in Nathan’s tone. He would never propose at this rate. She must speak boldly.

  “I’m going to miss you, Nathan. Wish I could go back to Yale with you.”

  Such boldness startled him. He hesitated, then spoke in the same light way.

  “Fine with me, but you’ll have to ask Enoch. We lead quite the life there, you know. He’ll be afraid you’d carry tales.”

  “I mean it, Nathan. I want to go back with you tomorrow.” She rushed ahead before her courage faltered. “We could get married there.”

  He did not reply. Except for the General, who snorted, the world itself seemed to hush.

  Heart hammering, cheeks aflame, she said, “Nathan, didn’t you hear me? I’m proposing to you.”

  “I—I know, I just—”

  “We could do it. You know I’ve got that money my father left me.”

  Again he said nothing. She felt giddy, as if life had been galloping toward this moment, this euphoria and truth and love. Someday, she would tell their children of it—how brave she had been, how she had defied convention to win their father.

  “I—I’ve always—always loved you, Nathan, from the day we came here, remember? Remember you made everyone laugh when you told about Beth putting mustard in her gingerbread? Even your father laughed, and I thought then, I thought, I’ll never love anyone but him.”

  “That says more of you than me, Ally. You’re easy to impress.”

  “There’s a lot who don’t impress me.”

  He pulled the General to a halt and twisted in the saddle. She leaned against him, lifted her face, closed her eyes, nearly swooned as his arms encircled her and he kissed her. This was her prize, worth all shamelessness and impropriety. She should have thrust herself at him long ago, never mind what ladies were supposed to do....

  Incredibly, he was pulling away.

  “Forgive me, Ally. ’Tis wrong. I can’t marry you.” He picked up the reins and clucked to the General, his straw hat hiding his face.

  She sat befuddled. “Why not?” The joy coursing through her, weakening her knees, pirouetting in her veins, abruptly fled. “I—I don’t understand, Nathan. Please, take me back to Yale tomorrow. Let me go with you.”

  “Ally, I promised my father. I can’t betray my word.” He spoke as gently as a surgeon to a dying patient. “It’d upset the whole family. We’d both regret it.”

  “N—n—no, please, we—we wouldn’t, either, Nathan. Don’t you see?” A pain began somewhere inside, threatening to consume her. “Don’t you love me?”

  “Ally, I—’tis not as simple as that—”

  “You love me. You know you do.”

  “But I—”

  “And I know you do, too. Nathan, it’s only right for us to marry. Please tell me we will, please, because if you don’t, I can’t stand it. I—I’ll just die.”

  “No, you won’t.” But he spoke too quickly. “You’re like the phoenix.”

  She shook her head against his shoulder, sniffling. Didn’t Ovid mention the phoenix and its habit of eating frankincense? What had that to do with her breaking heart?

  “’Tis the most beautiful bird ever, Ally, as beautiful as you.” He twisted again to wipe the tears from her cheeks, making her cry harder. “But it lives for only five hundred years, poor thing, and then it dies. So it throws itself on a pyre, but from the ashes of the fire, it rises again and lives another five hundred years. I always wondered what it thinks when it sees those flames reaching for it. Does it know it’ll survive? Or is it thinking that’s the end? See, Ally, things aren’t ever as black as they seem.”

  “Will you marry me, then, if I throw myself on the kitchen fire?”

  “Ally!” The General had stopped to nose some clover growing in the road, and Nathan clucked at him to start him on his way. “Ally, it has naught to do with you. I gave my word—”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “Ally—”

  “Every man in Coventry’s in love with me. Why aren’t you?” ’Twas true and no boast. And all of them together not worth Nathan.

  “Ally, I promised my father—”

  “Oh, bosh! Nathan, this isn’t the Dark Ages. People marry for love now. They don’t let their fathers pick a bride for them anymore.” She fought to make her arguments charming and reasonable, to keep the desperation from them. “I love you. You love me. We should marry.”

  They were passing the Thatcher farm, the last before town. He sighed. “Ally—”

  In that word, whispered with regret, resignation, weariness, lay the death of her dreams. But she forced herself to listen, hoping for some bit of comfort.

  “Ally, I can’t.”

  And though she waited (if only he would put his arms around her, if only he would kiss her once more), he merely wrapped the reins around his hand, so tightly that the General snorted again. Still, she waited.

  At last, throat aching and voice flat, she said, “So, even though you love me, even though I—I proposed to you, you won’t marry me?”

  “I can’t.”

  She nodded, numb to her core.

  He halted the horse before Root’s Tavern and General Merchandise. “I’ll wait out here while you get the sugar.”

  “Sugar? What su—? Oh, we—we don’t need any sugar.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she remembered that, like the Deacon, he detested lies and those who told them more than anything. But what did it matter? He wouldn’t marry her, so he might as well hate her.

  He wheeled the General around. “I have to go to the Huntingtons’. You want to stop anyplace else?”

  “No.” She blinked back more tears and struggled for control. Rev. Huntington had tutored Nathan and Enoch for Yale and would expect them to visit for a while over some of his wife’s pastry, especially with his prized pupils heading for New Haven tomorrow.

  A horse and rig already stood at the Huntingtons’ hitching post. She knew they belonged to Jason Daggett, a farmer whose land lay north of town, but Nathan did not. He studied them curiously. Home only once or twice a year from Yale, he could no longer identify the townspeople by their buggies.

  She slid off the General before Nathan could offer his hand and marched past him, up the lane redolent with climbing roses and morning glories. She let fall the Huntingtons’ brass knocker, ignoring her brother as he retrieved books from his saddlebags.

  A maidservant ushered her to the parlor. It was a dignified room, with candlestands and Windsor chairs and a tea table in the center. Rev. and Mrs. Huntington sat there with Jason Daggett and a young man new to Alice.

  She gawked at the stranger, almost forgetting her distress. His huge wig was powdered pink, the queue rolled up on itself and tied with black ribbon. He wore a tiny, modish patch on his left cheek and another on his chin. His yellow satin breeches and flowered waistcoat, undoubtedly the height of fashion in London, made him ridiculous against Rev. Huntington’s broadcloth and Jason Daggett’s homespun.

  “Alice, dear.” Mrs. Huntington held out her hand. Alice embraced her, then curtsied to the men as they rose. “Surely you haven’t come alone,” her hostess said. “I hope you brought one of those handsome brothers of yours with you.”

  “Of course she did,” her husband said. “Here’s Nathan now. Brought my books back, have you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nathan set his load on the table and bowed to the company. His gaze lingered on the stranger, but he recovered quickly. “You’re Guy Daggett, aren’t you? Welcome home.”

  The Englishman returned the bow with a smirk. “And you’re Nathan Hale.”

  Jason Daggett stepped forward. A handsome man once, he had fought in the French War until a bayonet pierced his left eye. “But it give me this in exchange,” he’d say, pointing to the livid scar that ran from his cheek down his neck to disappear beneath his linen. Now he waved a hand at their exotic guest. “Alice, lemme present my nephew, Guy Daggett. Nathan here probably remembers my brother George, but I misdoubt you ev
er knew him. He took Guy and sailed to England a few years back, afore your mama married the Deacon. Well, George died six months ago, and Guy come to bring me the news and claim his father’s land. Guy, this here’s Alice Adams, Nathan’s stepsister.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Nathan said.

  Alice echoed his condolences, then blushed as Guy Daggett’s eyes swept her body. Still, for Nathan’s benefit, she presented her hand as though he were King George himself.

  Mrs. Huntington poured two more dishes of tea. “Nathan, do have some of my cake, and tell us how school’s going.”

  Guy’s attention, malevolent, amused, rested on him. Nathan gave him a level look before answering.

  Alice seated herself in the chair that the newcomer held for her, shame swamping her, shrinking at Nathan’s rejection. She had expected a reward for her courage and still could not comprehend his refusal. Humiliation choked her as Daggett prattled. Why wouldn’t he go away and leave her to her misery? Instead, he straddled the chair next to hers, his cheer rubbing salt in her wounds. The sobs crowding her throat threatened to break out with a howl. Lest she make a bigger fool of herself, she pried her thoughts from Nathan to study Guy Daggett.

  Beneath his macaroni frippery, he was as pleasing as his uncle had once been, so that the ladies he hoped to attract with his paint and patches wished he had left Nature alone. His brows were dark, his liquid eyes darker. His lips were full and voluptuous. Judging his age through his rouge and powder was hard, but she guessed he was three or four years older than Nathan. His manner implied that he had seen the world and found it boring—except for her.

  He spoke of Court and Ranelagh Gardens and Hyde Park, places she could only dream of seeing but ones he obviously considered common as the barn. He rambled on about his last fox-hunt and how eagerly he had welcomed this trip to the colonies.

  “Such handsome women you’ve got here!” He wrinkled his nose at her and took a snuffbox from his pocket. “Least your beauty makes up for those rabble-rousers in Boston. ’Tis treason, how they try to turn all of you against His Majesty, as if he’s to blame for their silly little problems. Here we are, citizens of the British Empire, the best country on earth, and the freest, too, and all they do is complain.”