“Four Halloweens running, Evangeline!” Amoretta reminded. “Four! You cannot deny the facts, Evie. Four Halloweens in a row, my apple peels laid out an S. Four!”
“I know, Rettie,” Evangeline said. “Oh, believe me…Calliope and I both know. But it’s only a Halloween game. You know that.” Evangeline smiled, rolled her eyes with amusement, and recited, “Pare an apple, miss or mister, and fling the peel behind you. The letter it shapes begins the name of your lover meant to find you.”
“Oh, wait!” Calliope giggled. “I like this one better. Thrice around the apple go, with knife in paring whirl. Take the peel, and toss it back, whether you be boy or girl. Upon the ground the peel will shape the letter that begins your one true lover’s given name, spelled out in apple skins.”
“I know it’s just superstition,” Amoretta interrupted, sighing with exasperation. “But some of us…some of us believe there may be a certain credibility to some superstitions.”
“But even if that old superstition is true, which it’s not,” Calliope began, “your apple peelings shaping S does not mean you were meant to marry Sylvanus Tenney! There are hundreds of men in the world whose names begin with S. Sylvanus is only one.”
Evangeline and Amoretta exchanged amused glances.
“I’m sure there are more than hundreds of men in the world with names that begin with S, Calliope,” Evangeline teased.
Calliope rolled her eyes, shook her head, and corrected herself, “Thousands then…if you’re going to pick nits, Evie.” Sighing, she continued, “Regardless, Amoretta, your S apple peels do not mean you were meant to marry Sylvanus.”
“And how can you be certain?” Amoretta asked rather daringly.
Calliope shrugged. “Well, it would make sense to me that if one superstition were true, then the others would follow with proof. And I don’t remember you ever bobbing for an apple and retrieving one with an S carved into it…nor do I remember you ever confessing to us having seen Sylvanus appear behind you in a mirror on Halloween at midnight. Therefore, you can’t convince me that the S your peelings have spelled out for four years running…you won’t convince me it was Sylvanus Tenney’s S, and there you have it.” Calliope gestured with one hand that she’d proved her point. “You never, ever once saw Sylvanus Tenney’s image appear behind you in a mirror held by candlelight at midnight on any Halloween past. Therefore, you cannot be sure it is Sylvanus’s S that the apple peelings carved out.”
“But I’ve always felt it was Sylvanus’s S,” Amoretta confessed.
“Of course you did,” Calliope agreed. “Because Sylvanus Tenney was and still is the handsomest young man in all of Boston! Every one of us mooned about after him like a litter of hungry puppies. Add to that that none of us knew another young man of our family’s acquaintance with a name that began with S, and of course you felt it was Sylvanus’s S in your apple peelings.”
Amoretta shook her head. “You’ve failed to convince me that the S of my apple peels—four Halloweens in a row, I might add—was not Sylvanus Tenney’s S. And therefore, I worry that in leaving Boston and moving to this godforsaken West, my happiness has been obliterated before it had the chance to begin.”
Evangeline puffed a sigh of frustration. “Amoretta…for pity’s sake!” she exclaimed. Then, straightening her posture and seeming to find renewed resolve, she added, “Think of it this way, Rettie. If Sylvanus Tenney is meant to be your one true love and husband—if your Halloween apple peelings truly have been spelling out S for Sylvanus—then all will be well. Your paths will cross again when it is time. Don’t you agree? After all, aren’t you the one forever telling Calliope and me that true love always finds a way?”
Amoretta shrugged. “Well…well, yes, I suppose. But—”
“But nothing,” Calliope interrupted. “You are always telling us that, and if you really believe it, then take heart and know that if you were meant to love Sylvanus and belong to him…then life will bring you together once more.”
Amoretta shook her head, brushed one last tear from her cheek, and smiled. How could she linger in her dismal mood of loneliness with such wonderful companions as Evangeline and Calliope ever at hand?
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll make a better effort to bloom where I’m planted.” Wagging an index finger at her elder sister and then her younger one, however, she added, “But please quit saying that! It makes me want to scream every time I hear it. ‘Bloom where you’re planted.’ I’m not a tulip or daffodil. I’m a girl, a woman, and I was born in Boston, and it makes perfect sense I should feel…well, transplanted and underwatered if nothing else.”
Evangeline and Calliope both laughed, and Calliope said, “All right! We won’t think of you as a tulip…but rather as a snobbish, Bostonian woman who—”
“I’m not a snobbish Bostonian,” Amoretta interrupted, giggling. “I’m a normal, Meadowlark Lake tulip, blooming where I’m planted.”
“Or at least you will be one day,” Evangeline offered.
“And besides, Rettie,” Calliope began, “I’ve already seen several young men right here in Meadowlark Lake who are far better looking than Sylvanus Tenney.”
“Well, I’ll believe that when I see one for myself,” Amoretta said, winking at her sister.
“You’ve got to meander around town a bit…actually get out of the house for a change, if you expect to see one for yourself, darling,” Calliope added. “Maybe one will appear as we walk to Mrs. Montrose’s house this afternoon for the sewing circle.”
Amoretta forced a smile. In truth, Amoretta Ipswich felt no better about being dug up from her comfortable bed in Boston and plopped into the dusty, dry ground in Meadowlark Lake than she had before her sisters had endeavored to cheer her. But she would not allow Evangeline and Calliope to sense that all their efforts were once again in vain.
Thus, rising from the chair she’d been sitting in in the parlor, she said, “You’re right, Calliope! It’s time I got out and about…found some of these good-looking young men you’re always telling me about. Perhaps even before we start for Mrs. Montrose’s sewing circle this afternoon.”
“Do you mean it?” Evangeline asked. “You’re really going out? You haven’t been out since we arrived last week. Well…for anything other than a visit to the outhouse anyway.”
“Exactly,” Amoretta said. “And it’s time I changed my attitude, right?”
“Do you want us to go with you?” Calliope asked.
“Not at all,” Amoretta answered. “I’m off on my very first, way-out-west, Meadowlark Lake adventure. After all, you two are always telling me I’m the adventurous Ipswich girl, right?”
“Right!” Calliope giggled.
The relief and joy were so plainly obvious on the faces of her sisters that Amoretta was glad she’d chosen to fib to them about having changed her perception of their move. She wanted them to be happy. They were both enjoying Meadowlark Lake, and it would only be selfish to continue to dampen their spirits the way Amoretta realized in those moments she had been doing—however unwittingly.
“And so, my darlings, I’m off for a stroll…off to linger in admiration of those beautiful vistas Evangeline loves so and those handsome young men Calliope admires.” With a curtsy, and a secret satisfaction in the smiles on her sisters’ faces, Amoretta hurried through the parlor, into the kitchen, and out the back door of the house.
Determined to be out of sight of her sisters before her true feelings erupted, Amoretta hastened past the old outhouse, through the line of fruit trees that backed her father’s new property, and toward the wooded area she could see on the horizon. But being that the woods were more than a mile off, Amoretta knew her tears could not be withheld so long as it would take to reach the woods.
Suddenly, and without further warning, Amoretta burst into the bitter sobbing of disappointment, heartache, and unfamiliar loneliness. Oh, how she missed Boston! How she missed the plush, green grasses and flowering, fragrant shrubberies! Oh, how she longed t
o wander familiar byways. Meadowlark Lake only owned one major thoroughfare—a street that entered the small town at one end and exited at the other. All other streets and paths roundabout were simply wagon-rutted dirt roads or grassy trails that were more often than not hard to follow. Of course, her father saw things differently. Amoretta’s father had told her the dirt roads and overgrown paths of Meadowlark Lake were wonderfully rural, picturesque, and simple adventures in themselves. But Amoretta’s mind had known her father had seen what he wanted to see in Meadowlark Lake—a fresh start.
And it wasn’t that she wasn’t happy for her father. She was! It’s why she had sworn Evangeline and Calliope to secrecy where their father’s middle daughter’s unhappiness was concerned. Judge Lawson Ipswich seemed so hopefully changed since the family had abandoned Boston for places west, and Amoretta truly wished her father happiness. She only quietly wished her own happiness could’ve accompanied his.
Brushing rivulets of tears from her cheeks and trying to catch something other than a ragged breath, Amoretta began to run. She didn’t know whether her feet followed one of the rural, picturesque, and adventurous paths toward the woods; she didn’t care. All she could think of was reaching the woods, hiding among the trees, and sobbing out her retched soul in peace.
Over and over the phrase she’d grown to despise echoed through her mind: Bloom where you’re planted. Bloom where you’re planted.
Oh, how she loathed that phrase! In those moments, Amoretta wished whoever had coined it in the first place had left well enough alone. She wondered who it was that spent his time making up such irritating metaphors. Bloom where you’re planted. It made her want to scream!
She tripped then on a large root protruding from the ground. And when she found herself sprawled on the soft, fragrant grass, Amoretta Ipswich felt pure defeat. Not bothering to sit or stand—careless of whether she ever reached the woods and the privacy it offered—Amoretta folded her arms on the ground beneath her, placed her forehead on the protection they provided, and cried.
He’d seen the girl running—seen her trip and go tumbling forward into the grass. His powerful protective instinct caused him to rein his horse toward her. Yet when he heard her sobbing, heard her cry out, “Bloom where I’m planted? Never!” and realized no one was pursing her, he paused in offering assistance.
He figured she’d come from the new judge’s house—figured she must be one of three daughters he’d heard tell the new judge had brought with him from Boston. And if there was one thing he didn’t need, it was to attract the attention of a judge. Still, the girl seemed overwrought, and from the very marrow of his bones he wanted to make certain she was unharmed.
Still, his intuition whispered that this was one of those moments when a female just needed space and privacy in order to cry her heart out to the breeze—to purge her spirit of whatever was ailing it. Therefore, instead of descending on her unexpectedly and perhaps scaring the very life out of her in doing so, he simply lingered a moment and listened to the girl pouring her heart out to the grass (something about tulips). And when he was sure she was not in any sort of danger or experiencing truly life-threatening duress, he reined his horse to the left. He’d take the longer way to the woods. He’d have less chance of being seen that way anyhow.
As he rode toward the privacy of the tree line, he shook his head, realizing he’d best plan on taking the longer route to the woods from now on. Being that the new judge’s house had a clear view of the woods and all those who might come and go into and out of them, it made better sense to take a little more time than to raise the suspicions of the new lawman.
Raising a curious brow, the man mumbled to his horse, “Looks like that new judge has his hands full if that’s how all his daughters carry on.” The horse whinnied as if agreeing with its rider.
The man chuckled. “Let’s just get where we’re goin’, Gambler…before that girl sits up and sees us.”
He urged Gambler into a trot, hoping the girl was still crying too hard to hear the rhythm of horse hooves.
*
Amoretta had no idea how long she’d been gone from the house—and part of her didn’t care. Alone in the vast open field of grass between her father’s house and the tree line of the woods, she’d somehow managed to cry herself to sleep. She’d awakened when she’d heard something—the unfamiliar, and yet beautifully serene, call of a songbird nearby. Her eyes opened slowly, and she was surprised by the sensation of delight that washed over her as the vision of the soft blue sky and white billowy clouds was what met her in those first waking moments.
She’d obviously rolled over during her out-of-doors nap, and there above her was pure wonderment in blue and white. She’d never seen clouds like these before—like giant kernels of the whitest of white popcorn, lazily drifting on a hue of bright blue she could have never imagined. The thought occurred to her that in Boston she would never have known such privacy—such quiet. Save the sound of the light breeze through the grass and the sweet song of the birds, there was not another sound—and she fancied her ears adored that fact.
The day was warm, and the air was light—not heavy and sticky the way it always was in Boston. And there were no unpleasant odors, it seemed. Amoretta inhaled several deep breaths, concentrating as she did so on discerning the scents in the air. There was no scent of rancid meat that often lingered in the marketplaces in Boston. There was only the fragrance of grass. There was no choking coal smell, only a freshness her vocabulary could not define.
An enormous yellow and black butterfly fluttered into her line of vision, and Amoretta smiled as it floated just above her. It seemed almost curious somehow, and when it did eventually land on the back of her hand for a moment, she smiled at the tickling sensation of its legs on her skin. She was astonished at how very long the butterfly lingered—several minutes actually—and she inwardly admitted that the pretty thing could not have done so in the bustling city of Boston.
Eventually the butterfly took flight once more. Amoretta sat up as she watched it meander on its way. It looked just like a large yellow buttercup caught on the breeze, and she was disappointed when it disappeared into the grass somewhere, having found something else to be curious about.
“Where have you been, Amoretta Ipswich?” Calliope chirped as she rather romped through the grass toward Amoretta. “Evangeline and I are ready to walk down to Mrs. Montrose’s house for the sewing circle gathering. You are coming, aren’t you?”
Amoretta giggled, delighted by the sight of her sister skipping toward her. The manner in which bright sunshine glinted on the gold of Calliope’s hair gave her the look of wearing a halo—just like an angel—and Amoretta did indeed feel better. Boston suddenly seemed very far away. And though she knew her anxieties would return—the strange loneliness she felt at the thought of never setting eyes on Sylvanus Tenney again—in that moment Amoretta wondered if perhaps she really could find a measure of happiness out west in the small town of Meadowlark Lake.
“Of course I’m coming,” Amoretta chirped. Calliope offered her sister a hand, and Amoretta accepted, allowing her younger sister to help her to her feet. “I mean, after all…what’s more exciting than a sewing circle?”
Calliope giggled, adding, “And we wouldn’t want to miss it and make the sheriff’s wife feel slighted, now would we?”
“No indeed!” Amoretta agreed.
“Then come on,” Calliope said, linking her arm with Amoretta’s. “Let’s be off to our very first Meadowlark Lake sewing circle! There’s bound to be gossip and thereby much to learn about the people of our new town.” Calliope paused, winking at Amoretta. “Perhaps there’ll even be a mother or two with a handsome son to marry off.”
“A son more handsome than Sylvanus Tenney?” Amoretta teased.
“Oh, much more handsome, Rettie! Much more handsome!”
Amoretta’s smile did not fade, and her heart remained lightened. She wondered if perhaps her wretched sobbing had purged some of her misery
after all. Perhaps there was another man in the world whose name began with S—the S the apple peels had been spelling out for her every autumn for the past four years. Perhaps she could learn to bloom where she was planted. Though she still despised the phrase and determined that she always would, Amoretta looked up into the bright blue sky with its white popcorned clouds and smiled. Evangeline was right after all. Her mother and baby brother were in heaven, not in the cold Massachusetts ground. And if her apple peelings had spelled out S for Sylvanus, then true love would ensure that Sylvanus found his way back to her—somehow.
To the man of my dreams…
My husband, Kevin!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession of novels, novellas, and e-books—including Dusty Britches, The Whispered Kiss, The Haunting of Autumn Lake, and The Bewitching of Amoretta Ipswich—has established her as one of the most favored and engaging authors of true romance. Her unprecedented forte in weaving captivating stories of western, medieval, regency, and contemporary amour void of brusque intimacy has earned her the title “The Queen of Kissing.”
Marcia, who was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, has spent her life intrigued with people, history, love, and romance. A wife, mother, grandmother, family historian, poet, and author, Marcia Lynn McClure spins her tales of splendor for the sake of offering respite through the beauty, mirth, and delight of a worthwhile and wonderful story.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A Bargained-For Bride
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine
A Better Reason to Fall in Love
The Bewitching of Amoretta Ipswich
Born for Thorton’s Sake
The Chimney Sweep Charm
Christmas Kisses
A Crimson Frost
Daydreams
Desert Fire
Divine Deception
Dusty Britches
The Fragrance of her Name
The Secret Bliss of Calliope Ipswich Page 23