by Diane Noble
But before I could answer, he had again covered my mouth with his. The tenderness of his kiss made my knees weak, and when he pulled away, I could see a sweet vulnerability in his face, like a little boy.
I ran my hand along his strong jaw and gazed at him, unable to speak words of love. How could I when I didn’t know what it was I felt? “My singing place,” I finally managed, my voice shaking. “It’s been a magical, special—even secret—place all my life. I’d like to show you.”
When we arrived at the hollow log, now covered with a thin sifting of snow, he gave it only the merest glance. “So this is where you sing,” he said, rubbing his hands against the chill. After a moment of awkward silence, we turned back. He took my hand in his.
“I’ve been teaching at Providence College in Oak Hill for three years,” he said, his tone once again filled with enthusiasm. “The youngest ever to gain an assistant professorship in the department of English Literature. By writing a book”—he laughed—“any book, I will solidify my position at the college.” His voice softened. “What you’ve done for me here will never be forgotten.”
“Whether or not I come with you?”
His frown lasted only as long as a glint of sunlight on a leaf in the wind. He squeezed my fingers slightly, and his voice was warm when he spoke. “I hope you’ll use good sense even though your grandfather opposes it. This may sound harsh, but it’s your mind that you need to follow, not your heart.”
A salty sting burned the top of my throat. “I desire an education more than anything, but I can’t leave the one who’s raised me.”
He stopped, turning toward me. “It’s your granddaddy who’s wrong, Fairwyn.” His face turned dark, and he dropped my hand. His voice rose slightly as he continued, “Think like an adult instead of a child. Think of yourself for once. You can stay here in the backwoods, letting your mind languish”—he waved one hand toward the direction of my hollow log—“or you can expand your mind and your world without limit.”
I stared at him, knowing there was truth in his words. Also knowing there might be greater truth in my heart.
He walked away from me, standing stiff-shouldered as he looked through the barren trees toward the cabin. A redbird flittered from one branch to another above his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he turned back. “I’m speaking as if you’re one of my students.” He shrugged. “It’s just that I see a spark of longing in you—” He fell quiet, glancing into the branches, so wet-dark against the pale sky. “I give you my word, Fairwyn, if you don’t like what you find in Oak Hill, I’ll see to it that you are sent safely back to Sycamore Creek.”
But your kiss, I wanted to say. What about your kiss and your words of caring … of love?
He returned to me, taking my hands in his. “Your visit wouldn’t have to be for long—perhaps a month. I could show you around, introduce you to some of my colleagues. You could get a feel for the place. Couldn’t your granddaddy spare you for just that long?”
I drew a breath, feeling a heavy weight on my shoulders. As I looked up into his eyes so bright with knowledge and affection, I knew my answer. I couldn’t say no. All he offered had been buried in my mind for as long as I could remember.
“I will come with you,” I said at last.
Above me the redbird fluttered to another branch, and a falling leaf drifted through a shaft of pale sunlight on its way to the ground.
I had just been offered my heart’s desire. I wondered why I trembled so.
The next day Poppy found me sitting on the hollowed-out log, my dulcimer lying beside me. I’d gone there to consider what lay ahead, to do my grieving without showing him my tears. I didn’t want to hurt him any more than I already had.
His tread was so quiet along the deer trail that I didn’t hear his approach. I was weeping, and when he saw me, his furrowed face drooped with sadness.
“Oh, Poppy.” I wiped my wet cheeks with the hem of my skirt. “Please give me your blessing.”
He settled down beside me on the log, and for several minutes he didn’t speak. The wood was silent, a dusting of snow muting every sound, even our voices.
“If ’n ye go,” he said, “I’ll be waitin’ fer ye to come home agin.” He looked off into the wood. “I cain’t stop ye from what ye’ve decided. So go, lass.” He let out a deep sigh. “Ye’re as stubborn as yer grandpappy.”
“I am.”
He turned then and smiled. “Ye have a gift from God himself. Ye’ve a curious heart, one that is full to overflowing with wonder at the good Lord’s world. Not everyone’s got that kind of yearnin’. I always feared ye’d leave someday. I drug my feet agin’ it, but all along, I knew ye’d go.”
“It’s not for long,” I reminded him. “Only a few weeks, then I’ll return to you.”
He studied my face a good while before speaking. His lips moved as if he were trying on the words before letting them out of his mouth. “It’s yer Mister Deforest,” he said, “that vexes me. I want ye to promise ye’ll be keerful of yer heart.” He paused, staring out in the shadows of the wood. “I tremble for ye, Fairy lass. I do.”
I reached for his big, gnarled hand. “Thank you for saying yes, Poppy,” I whispered. “Thank you.” Even as I spoke, dread fear caused me to tremble.
Three days later, I made my way down the trace with Zebulon Deforest.
Five
It took Zebulon, Jeannie, and me nearly a week of mule-riding through Cumberland Pass, across the razorback ridges through Pigeon Roost and Hardburley, past Defeated Creek and into the eastward leaning hollows and coves of the Smokies before we finally headed along switchbacks leading down the mountain into Dover Town, where we were to stay the night.
I stopped with a sigh of wonder when Dover Town rose into view. The buildings were stacked double high, made of red bricks and mortar and trimmed in fussy designs. Along the streets, flanked by houses with gardens and picket fences, carriages rumbled and horses trotted and people strolled. I couldn’t help my staring at the clothes the womenfolk wore. Only in books had I seen pictures of such wonders. Ruffles and lace and bonnets with feathers.
That first night, I took pleasure in the washtub of warm water that was brought to my room. The soap smelled of roses and bubbled high above the rim of the tub.
Then I climbed into the tall bed. It was the first time I rested on a feather-tick, and I planned how I would describe it to Poppy once I got home and to Welsie True in a letter even sooner than that.
The next morning, Jeannie took me to the mercantile. Wide-eyed, I circled the place, fingering the materials and ready-made frocks.
“Choose any you like,” she said, then caught my hand and drew me to a rack of bright dresses. “Oh, you must try this one!” She pulled out one the color of a meadow in spring—a pale leaf-budding green with little blue and purple and gold flowers.
Unable to stop smiling, I put it on in the back storage room. It fit perfectly, with a trim bodice and pretty white lace collar. I’d never seen such a glorious dress, and there it was on me! I stepped out to where Jeannie sat waiting on a flour barrel.
She assessed me carefully, finger to chin, having me turn one way then another. Her brow furrowed. “I think we can do better,” she said at last.
I chose one the hue of my Smoky Mountain skies at sunset with puffy sleeves and a full, gathered skirt. Again, I stepped into the back room and then emerged with it on. I waited while the shopkeeper fastened the multitude of buttons up the back.
When I stepped back into the main room, Jeannie gave me a quick nod. “It’s beautiful. Suits you perfectly.”
There wasn’t anything wrong with the dress—it looked fine. But it didn’t have the same effect on my heart as the first one. Still, it was a gift, and I was determined not to be ungrateful. Besides, Jeannie knew more about looking fine and proper than I did, so I resolved to trust her good judgment.
“It shows off her hair,” the lady said, her voice pleasant. “It fits so well, it’s
hard to believe it’s a ready-made dress. Such a lovely shade. Depending on the light, it’s sometimes gray, sometimes blue.”
“May I see?” I ventured, feeling shier than ever before in my life. “Do you have a looking glass?”
The shopkeeper smiled. “Of course.” She turned to lead me across the room, but Jeannie stopped her.
“How about shoes?” Jeannie looked down at my brogans then winked at me. “Something a bit daintier, perhaps?”
The woman bustled around the storeroom and soon emerged with a pair of leather lace-up shoes with heels shaped like Poppy’s hourglass. “You can walk in such things?” I asked with awe.
“These will do you for dress-up or for everyday,” she said. “If you can buy but a single pair of shoes, these are the ones to have.”
“Try them on,” Jeannie said with a grin. Her expression said they would be perfect.
I sat on the flour barrel opposite her and hiked up my considerable skirts above my knees, grabbing my ankle as I did. The shopkeeper pulled out a tool that looked like something Poppy used for scooping out sassafras wood.
“It’s called a shoehorn,” she explained and forced my foot into the small space. Before I could complain, she laced the shoe up tight and tied the two leather thongs into a bow. Never had I felt such grief in my feet. My toes cramped, and my ankles smarted.
Then the woman squeezed my other foot into the remaining shoe. I was on my feet wincing as I slowly followed her across the store. Each step threatened to topple me, and I grabbed ahold of bags of flour, bolts of cloth, and the pickle barrel to keep myself upright as I made my way.
I glanced at Jeannie, who looked ready to explode in laughter. I frowned, offended at first, then realized how silly I must’ve looked. I bit my lip to keep from giggling. But Jeannie let out a squeak and a sputter that caused me to release a peal of my own.
She came over to help me, circling her arm around my waist until I could take a step without falling. “They take some getting used to,” she said sweetly.
The shopkeeper turned a large looking glass on a stand toward me.
With a gasp, I moved closer. I had seen my face in a small ivory-handled mirror given to me by Granny Nana years before, but never had I seen the whole of me. Now there I was, from tip to toe, and I could only stand and stare.
I knew not whether I was comely or homely. Only that I had a mess of hair the color of corn silk that frizzed around my face like furled leaves on a spring-sprouting dogwood. I seemed of a smaller size than most, though the skirts on my new frock made me feel awkward and oversize. And my trying to balance in the tiny shoes caused me to look as old and bent over as Selah Jones.
I stepped closer to peer into my face, touching it in amazement. It had likely been years since last I looked in Granny Nana’s looking glass. I had forgotten about the freckles that covered my nose and cheeks. I’d even forgotten the color of my eyes—and now I saw that they matched the dress perfectly.
The shopkeeper approached again, this time with a hat such as I’d never seen in my life. Its brim was made of straw with a mound of paper daisies on one side. I tied the ribbons beneath my chin then turned to the mirror to look again.
Jeannie stepped up behind me, and I met her eyes in the reflection. Her gaze was warm with friendship, something I’d never known with a girl my own age on my mountaintop. It struck me, watching her in the mirror, that no matter what transpired in Oak Hill, I’d made a friend, perhaps one to last a lifetime. “Have you never seen yourself before?”
“Some years back,” I said.
“I saw how your eyes sparkled with that first dress,” she said. “Let’s take both. They’re beautiful on you and will be perfect for the days ahead.” She turned to the shopkeeper. “Zebulon Deforest asked that they be put on his account.”
I touched the silk at my cuff and looked at the woman. “Would you mind bundling my old things for me?” I thought of my homespun skirt, poke bonnet, and shawl once belonging to Granny Nana, their scent of wood smoke from winters sitting with Poppy by the fire. “I’ll likely be needing them again once I return home,” I said, unable to resist one last glance in the looking glass. I smiled at myself, a twinge of sorrow filling me as I took in the color and fit of the dress, the dainty design of the silly, high-heeled shoes. Where would I wear such finery once I returned to Sycamore Creek?
The bell atop the door jangled, and in strode Zebulon Deforest. His eyes were fixed on me as he approached.
He looked me up and down, a smile beginning in his eyes and spreading to his smooth jaw. “My, my,” he said, then made a sound like a soft whistle. “My, my, my.”
Jeannie’s face shone with a smile at the sight of him. “Isn’t she lovely?” She beamed at me.
I took a single step forward, but my ankles wobbled, and I started to fall. Zebulon caught me, and with his arm circling my waist, he pulled me toward him, steadying me. My cheeks grew warm at his nearness.
I glanced at Jeannie, who seemed to be studying Zebulon’s face and then mine with curiosity.
“I’ll need to teach you the ways of a lady, Fairwyn,” she said gently. Zebulon released me, and I stepped back, this time careful to maintain my balance. “A lady should take a man’s arm, or allow him to place his hand on her back to steady or guide her. Like this.”
She tucked her dainty hand in Zebulon’s arm, and the two promenaded across the room. Then she stopped and he placed his hand in the small of her back and turned her gently. They moved in perfect harmony, like a well-rehearsed song.
“All right now,” she said when they had finished. “You try it.”
Zebulon stepped toward me and smiled into my eyes. “It’s easy,” he said softly, bending toward my ear. “Just follow my lead.” He tucked my hand in the crook of his arm, and we started. I held my breath with each step, feeling faint with worry. My ankles wobbled, my gait mismatched with his.
He patted my hand. “Let’s try something else,” he said and drew me closer. Now his arm circled my waist, which truly threw me off balance. My heart began to pound. I leaned toward him to keep from falling. “That’s it,” he said and slowed his stride. “Easy does it. You’re catching on nicely.” I tried to relax, and finally I took a step without wobbling. Then another and another.
We stopped and my face flushed with my success. “I did it,” I whispered.
Jeannie was at Zebulon’s elbow. “Yes, you did!”
Dover Town
October 15, 18 and 82
Dearest Welsie True,
You will not believe it!
Here I am in Dover Town with Zebulon Deforest and Jeannie Barton. We arrived this very day, early in the morning, and we will leave tomorrow on the first train to Oak Hill. I haven’t stopped smiling since we got here—except when I find myself gawking at the ladies’ stylish dresses and hats, the tall brick buildings, and the fancy carriages pulled by high-stepping horses rattling down cobbled streets.
And wonder of all wonders, Jeannie took me to a mercantile today. I have now in my possession my first two ready-made dresses ever! Oh, they are a glory!
But the greatest wonder of all is the new hope in my heart. In the past I’ve told you how I’ve cried myself to sleep at night for fear my life would never change. I’ve worried to death that I would remain the old spinster of Blackberry Mountain.
All this is changing, Welsie True, for when I look into Zebulon Deforest’s eyes, I am breathless with expectancy. I cannot tell what the future holds—I scarcely know my own heart and soul well enough to describe it. I only know that change is coming into my life. Joyous change, frightening change, but change nonetheless.
I wish you were here right now, for I surely need a friend to help me sort out the stirrings within me.
Until I write again, I remain
Faithfully yours,
Fairwyn March
The next morning I walked to McKenna’s Store early to post my letter to Welsie True, then hurried back to meet Zebulon and Jeannie. Aft
er breakfast at the hotel we hired a carriage to take us to the train station. I was laced into a dress I thought might cause me to draw my last breath—especially after my big breakfast of flapjacks, butter, and honey. I was altogether in misery, with my hair balled tight at the back of my head, a straw hat set just right, and shoes too small and unsteady to be trusted.
I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Zebulon stood between Jeannie and me, and they both turned to watch my face when the fearsome locomotive with its clacking and screeching and belching steam pulled into the station.
“Mercy!” was about all I could whisper as it whooshed and groaned to a halt.
Jeannie caught my hand and drew me to the open doorway as soon as the steam cleared. Zebulon followed behind, lugging parcels, pokes, valises, and—most important of all—my dulcimer case. My heart pounded as we neared the machine, then stopped to gaze up at the gigantic wheels and smokestack. “Mercy!” I whispered again.
We climbed into a middle car and settled onto a bench, Jeannie on one side of me, Zebulon on the other. My stomach rose into my throat when we began to move. None of the other passengers seemed to pay any mind to the motion. Two little chaps jumped up and down in front of us. I was afraid the momentum would send them toppling, but they held on, stout-hearted and steady. Some folks were talking, while others leaned their heads back and closed their eyes.
I swallowed hard as the machine gained speed. My hand flew to my mouth, and I nibbled my bottom lip, surprised at a small dark fear that settled into my stomach.
“This is safe?” I asked. “ ’Tis a safe mode of transportation, I mean?”
Zebulon covered my hand with his and squeezed my fingers. “Of course,” he said, with a laugh that seemed meant to relieve my fears. “Safer by far than riding a horse.”
For a long time I studied the countryside as it raced by. I was unable to shake the fearful darkness that seemed to accompany the rhythm of the wheels on the track and the dizzying speed. To rid my mind of the growing discomfort, I closed my eyes and imagined sitting in our meadow, braiding a crown of buttercups, bluets, and mountain daisies to wear in my hair, just as I did as a child. I strummed an imaginary dulcimer and hummed a song of Selah’s.