by Diane Noble
After I was dressed, I slipped past the dining room without being seen, unable to bear facing Zebulon’s family again. I found the garden and fell into a small white bench of iron filigree by the fountain, burying my face in my hands. Indecent? Somehow the word made me feel unclean, something I had not felt before coming here.
I heard footsteps on the gravel path.
“Fairwyn?” Zebulon said from behind me. I looked up, my eyes so watery he was but a shimmering blur.
“Fairwyn, I’m sorry.”
But instead of saying anything, all I could do was weep. For lost dreams, for not fitting in, for the joy I had thought I would find in the world outside my mountains.
Seven
Each day I met in the family library with Zeb, as he asked me to call him now. Sometimes we spoke of Chaucer and Shakespeare; other times Zeb seemed more interested in my mountain stories, ballads, and dulcimer playing. He would settle back in his chair by the fire, his eyes closed while I sang. It seemed we couldn’t get enough of each other, the talk, the laughter, the discovery of thoughts.
There was only one subject I hadn’t asked about. I desperately wanted to know about Jeannie, but looking into his eyes, I thought I couldn’t bear it if they were indeed betrothed.
“Fairwyn,” Zeb said one evening at the end of the first week, “I can’t imagine your ever leaving here.” The fire lit his handsome face in shades of crimson, and his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“I promised I would be home in a month.”
“And I plan to honor that promise to your grandfather,” he said solemnly. “But I also made a promise to you—to further your education. Come to some lectures, mine and perhaps some others on English literature or world history.”
When he walked me to the library door, he stood very close, then reached out to touch my face. He seemed to be pondering something and drew back without so much as a brush of his fingers.
“I want you to come to the college with me tomorrow,” he said. “Walk with me through the campus. Then when you’re comfortable, we’ll meet with the faculty and my publisher. You can tell them your stories and sing your songs.” He smiled. “Perhaps seeing the college will change your mind about going home.”
October 17, 18 and 82
Dearest Welsie True,
I was awake in the night, thinking about you and praying for your health. I pray your chest pains of last year have gone away. But still I am filled with anxiety for your well-being.
It seems I will be here for three more weeks. How I wish we were face to face to talk over all that is spilling from my heart and mind. I don’t want to go back home again. After only a week here with Zeb, talking about world history and English literature, I know I shall shrivel up and die if I must stay in Sycamore Creek. I’ll die an old maid with no one to talk to but Poppy and Selah and Blinken, though I admit I love to talk with Selah more than just about anything in the world.
I hope you will write to me soon, Welsie True. I miss your caring words, your sound advice. You are my truest friend, and I love you.
Your devoted,
Fairwyn March
Late that afternoon, before supper, I slipped to the garden to play my dulcimer and sing. The fountain splashed and harmonized, reminding me of the river back home.
Zeb’s mother would be thankful that I was missing their social hour. I’d become so nervous eating with them, I always seemed to be dropping my fork with a clatter or knocking over a glass of sweet tea. Mrs. Deforest gave me tight smiles and never raised her honeyed voice, but the strain in her face was clear.
This afternoon would be mine alone, with my music filling my heart, with the empty garden and no one to frown with doleful eyes. Smiling to myself I started in on “Dabbling in the Dew,” and had just reached the second verse …
Oh, suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,
With chariots of gold and fine horses rare?
Oh no, sir, oh no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it’s dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaid fair.
… when I heard footsteps coming up the path behind me. I stopped my strumming and turned. It was Zeb.
“Fairwyn,” he said, his voice low, “I was hoping to find you here.” He settled across from me, a book in his hand.
My fingers moved quietly along the strings while we beheld each other.
I glanced at the volume. “Mark Twain?”
He smiled. “You don’t forget anything, do you?” He flipped open the book and began to read:
“Tom!”
No answer.
“Tom!”
No answer.
“What’s gone with the boy, I wonder? You TOM!”
No answer.
The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for “style,” not service—she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:
“Well, I lay if I get hold of you I’ll—”
Zeb’s voice was rich and deep, and his words filled me with delight. I chuckled out loud, so full was my joy.
He looked up as I swiped at a tear that had rolled to my chin. He saw through to my soul in that instant—I could see it in that place behind his eyes. Smiling, he handed me the book. “It’s yours,” he said reverently.
I took it into my hands, feeling the rich leather under my fingertips. “Mine?”
“Open the cover,” he said, leaning toward me, his eyes bright.
“It says here, ‘Mark Twain,’ in cursive.” I admired the slant of the penmanship as the import of the name sunk in. “The author signed this?”
“I asked my editor to have it signed to you. It’s Tom Sawyer, Twain’s first published book,” he said, laughing. “His publisher—the Century Company—is the same that will be publishing my book.”
“It says, ‘to Fairwyn March,’ ” I breathed, running my finger over my name, which seemed to shine on its own. I gave Zeb a wide smile. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s a wonderful present.”
He stood and reached for my hands, pulling me up before him. The winter light was fading. “You are beautiful,” he said, his voice hoarse with softness.
Behind us the fountain sang, and above us a sharp breeze blew through the big elm tree, causing its bare twigs to bend and rattle.
Zeb drew me closer until I could feel the warmth of his nearness. I held my breath for the beauty of him, his flaxen hair gleaming in the slant of the sun, his eyes filled with knowledge and desire.
“My feelings …” he began, then swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear I didn’t. I’ve tried not to care, since that day in the forest when I kissed you. I swear, I’ve tried not to love you.”
I reached up to touch his smooth face, running my fingers along his jaw. He trembled and caught my hand in his, then turned it and kissed my palm.
“Oh, Fairwyn,” he whispered. “You’ve captured my heart!”
Now his eyes closed, almost as if unable to bear the emotions between us. He sounded ready to cry when again he spoke. “You don’t know the complications my love for you will bring. You can’t know how impossible this is!” He dropped my hand and turned away from me.
I stood as still as death and puzzled his meaning. “Jeannie,” I whispered. “Is she what makes this impossible?”
He buried his face in his hands and nodded, without saying a word.
“Your mother told me you’re promised to each other.”
“Our parents arranged it, or tried to. I thought I loved her. We’ve known each other since childhood. I do love her, but it’s friendship. Not love.” He looked up, his face ragged. “Not the way I love you.” His eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t want to hurt her.”
“She’s become my friend,” I said. “I understand—”
He frowned, cutting me off. “You can’t possibly know how close we are, what this will do to her.”
“I didn’t mean to compare my friendship with her to yours …”
He turned again to me, and for a long moment, he stared, speaking not a word. “Come here,” he said at last in a husky voice. “Come here, Fairwyn, before I lose my mind.” He opened his arms.
He looked like a lost child reaching for someone to love him. I walked slowly across the distance between us. Desperately he clutched me, and with a small cry held me tight, so tight I could feel the wild thump of his heart. “It is wrong,” he whispered in my ear. “I know it is, but I can’t help myself.”
Gasping, I pulled away from him, feeling I might faint because I was trembling so. His face looked ragged and worn. “I can’t let you go,” he cried. “God help me, I can’t!”
He stepped closer and lifted my face until I was looking him straight in his pale eyes. “Don’t you understand, Fairwyn?”
I shook my head.
“I want to marry you!” Then he bent to kiss me again, first on my lips, then all over my face. “I’ll have it no other way,” he said when he’d stopped. “No matter what Mother or Father or Jeannie or her parents or anyone else might say.” He caught my hands in his and whirled me into a dance. Then throwing back his head, he shouted it again, “I will marry you, Fairwyn March! I will!”
I stepped backward, staring at him, my heart pounding. “It’s not entirely up to you, Zeb. Don’t I have a say in this?”
He moved closer. Raising my hand to his lips, he kissed my fingers. “Indeed you do, my dear,” he said with a smile. “Indeed you do.”
October 17, 18 and 82
Dearest Welsie True,
I’m writing to you for a second time today because tonight Zeb kissed me again. He said he wants to marry me! He will not take no for an answer. I should be blissful that a beau might finally ask Poppy for my hand. But instead, my heart pounds with fear. A small voice inside me says, ’Tis wrong, Fairwyn March, ’Tis wrong! But I can’t help dreaming of my life as Mrs. Zebulon Deforest III.
I asked you once what love is, and you replied that it is everything I’ve said about appreciating Zeb’s mind, his tenderness toward me, his way with words—all of these things and more.
It’s that “more” that bothers me, Welsie True. I think you mean that I should love his heart. Sometimes I think I do, other times I’m sure I don’t.
How I long to be in love! Can I make love come? That’s what I need you to tell me. If I already love his other qualities, can’t I work on the rest?
I don’t want to be an old maid forever—this might be my only chance. Oh, tell me, Welsie, what I should do!
With love
I remain,
Fairwyn March
Eight
Loud wailing from down the long hallway drew me from my sleep the next morning. It sounded like Zeb’s mother in her suite of rooms, along with the lower tones of Zeb and Mr. Deforest. Each time they spoke, she only cried the louder. I hadn’t known she had any other voice but the one that spoke in silk and honey.
When I finally realized what they must be speaking of, I sat up in bed, my eyelids flying open. Zeb was surely telling them about his proposal to me.
I swung from the tall feather-tick and ran to the wardrobe, hurrying into my day dress and struggling with the back buttons and sash. Ignoring my shoes, I picked up my dulcimer and ran from my room, through the house to the garden, feeling I might suffocate if I didn’t get away from Mrs. Deforest’s crying.
Once there, I drew in a deep breath and settled onto the iron filigree bench. I closed my eyes, trying to think. This should have been the happiest time of my life, so why did my heart feel hollow and scared?
Setting aside the dulcimer, I stood and walked nearer the fountain, letting my fingers stir the chill water. The ripples danced and sailed in silvery rows across the small pond.
Upstairs, faint but sure, the argument continued. It seemed they now were closer to the window, for I heard whole snatches of their conversation.
“You’ll be ruined by marrying the likes of her, Zeb! Can’t you see it?” his mother wailed. “She doesn’t even have family.”
“She does. There’s a grandfather,” said Zeb’s lower, calmer voice. “You’ll grow to cherish having her as part of our family, Mother. Give her a chance.”
There was more weeping. “You’ll be sorry.” His mother’s voice dropped. “You marry her, and it’s forever, Zeb. Can you imagine being tied to someone like Fairwyn March forever? You’ll be the laughingstock of all Oak Hill.” Her last words dripped with disdain.
“Now, now, dear,” said his father. “Calm down. I’ll admit this is a queer notion Zeb’s come up with, but no more queer than some of his other exploits. He’ll get over his little infatuation before the month is out.” He laughed a nervous-sounding chortle before he continued. “Zeb, you need to think long and hard about this notion of yours. Consider carefully the impact of marrying beneath your station. It could mean your career.”
There was a moment of silence before Mrs. Deforest spoke. “Your father’s right. Think of your career. You’ll be ruined. You’re supposed to wed Jeannie … what will she say? Jeannie’s father …” Fresh wailing began. “Think of the responsibilities a faculty wife carries. She’ll be an embarrassment to all of us with her backward ways.
“What if word gets out that she’s …” Mrs. Deforest didn’t have to finish. I knew the word that followed—illegitimate. It was a word I had feared all my life.
I looked down, ashamed of my dress, my bare feet, and my disheveled hair. I lowered myself, creating a rumpled pile of cotton and petticoats around me. Another word, and I might surely die of a broken heart. I rested my forehead on my arm, stretched sideways along the fountain bowl.
Then Zeb spoke. I could hear his disapproving tone.
“Fairwyn has more charm than you credit her with, Mother. She’s not an embarrassment to me, and if you’ll give her a chance, she won’t be to you.”
I tilted my face toward the window, holding my breath to see what might come next.
“She’s worked hard to better herself all her life. She’s taught herself to read. She’s eager to learn everything I teach her. She’ll learn fast how to adapt to our life—how to make small talk, how to serve tea at faculty affairs, all of it.”
There were more murmurings that I couldn’t hear as the voices moved away from the window.
I waited until long after I knew the family was breakfasting in the dining room before slipping in the back door and up to my room. I scrubbed my face and feet at the washstand and took special pains with my hair, pinning it back in a small round knot, just the way Jeannie had showed me.
Then with my chin tilted high, my spine picket-straight, I swept down the stairs and into the dining room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Deforest,” I said, measuring out my words like sorghum from a scoop.
Then I nodded to Zeb’s father. “Mr. Deforest,” I said pleasantly.
Zeb stood, smiling his approval as he moved to pull out my chair. I waited until he had pressed it against the backs of my knees, then with all the refinement I could muster, I sat down gracefully, nodded my thanks, and unfolded my napkin, smoothing it into my lap. I tried not to notice how my fingers trembled.
With red-rimmed and swollen eyes, Zeb’s mother stared hard at me. “You’re late, dear. Too late, I’m afraid, to eat with the family.” Her voice was silky as a spider’s trail, and her smile spread wide across the bottom of her face. “We’ll have to see if there’s anything left in the kitchen that might still be warm.” She rang a tinkling silver bell for the servant.
“Sukie,” she said when the dark-faced woman entered, “take Miss Fairwyn with you out to the kitchen, see what you can find for her to eat. She can take her late breakfast with the help.” She gave the word la
te an extra long drawl.
Sukie glanced uncertainly toward me, then back to Mrs. Deforest. “Yes ma’am.”
“Mother!” Zeb stood and threw his napkin onto the table. “That’s unnecessary. Fairwyn can and will eat in here. I’ll wait with her, if you and Father must leave.”
I stood, my heart fluttering like a bird in my throat for fear I might say something I would soon regret. I gave them all a hard look, feeling my heart twist inside. “I’m not hungry after all,” I said, and rushed to the doorway. I wanted only to be away from this place, this fresh heartache.
Zeb followed and, just as I passed the shiny, dish-laden sideboard, he reached for my arm. I swung away from him, and to my horror, my elbow knocked against a tall glass decanter. It teetered for a heartbeat then crashed into the awful silence of the room, splintered pieces spraying across the polished wood floor.
Zeb’s mother let out an agonized moan, brushed past me, and knelt. She tenderly picked up a broad shard, pricking her finger. Her tears fell on her trembling hands.
She looked up at me then, her eyes hard. “This belonged to my mother,” she said softly, “and her mother before that. It’s crystal. From Austria. But I suppose you wouldn’t understand the importance of this sort of an heirloom.”
“I am sorry,” I said quietly. I stooped to help her gather the glass splinters. “I am so sorry.”
I looked at my hands. Pinprick drops of blood mingled with the pieces of glass. “I am so sorry,” I cried once more as I stood and fled the room.
I paced the guest room, feeling more confused than ever about my place in this family. I considered leaving but couldn’t bear the thought of going home in shame. Just before noon, Zeb sent a housemaid up to fetch me for our daily talk.
I tapped the library door softly, and when Zeb opened it, I entered. “I still aim to marry you,” he said as I sat in one of the chairs by the fire. A new and stubborn look of determination shone bright in that place behind his eyes. He stood by the fireplace for a moment, then commenced to pace the room.