by Diane Noble
Ten
November 4, 18 and 83
My dearest Welsie True,
Forgive me for causing you worry. You said you were ready to travel all the way here by train to see about my health. I know your meaning was in jest, but how I would rejoice in such a visit! It has been months since last I wrote, and I beg your forgiveness. I have not been well, but it is an illness of spirit, not body.
I received your wedding gift, and my countenance lifted at the sight of it. How well you know my heart, dear Welsie. How well you knew what I might need to bring light again into my dark spirits. A sterling candleholder fashioned in the form of flying swallows. You once told me how they return to the mission in your town, flying with wings of silver and sunlight, singing to each other as they find their spring nests in the bell towers.
How my heart longs to take wing, to sing with abandon as I did long ago. No longer do I feel like singing, not with the joy that once bubbled from my soul. When I sing—and I do not want to mislead you, for I still do often—it is to forget my world, not to add joy to it.
Perhaps that seems like so much folderol, as Poppy always says, but it’s true. I disappear into the meadows and hollows of my memories, content to live there instead of my present reality.
I made a mistake, Welsie True, when I married Zeb Deforest. I knew it for certain on our wedding night, though I have not admitted it to anyone but you. My heart has weighed heavy ever since.
No one knows here in Oak Hill how it is with me. I smile and try my best to be a good wife to Zeb, a helpmeet in all ways. I hold in my worries about seeming foolish and backward to his equals. But how I long to let my spirit loose just like your swallows flying toward the sun, to speak my mind no matter what words I use—plain mountain talk or the soft, elegant speech of Oak Hill. On the day after our wedding, I asked Zeb if he would love me as much if I returned to my mountain ways, kicked off my shoes, and spoke again with words like agin, ye, and once’t. He laughed and said not to be ridiculous.
That night I cried myself to sleep, taking care not to wake Zeb, but all the while longing for something I could not put in words.
So you see, dearest Welsie True, this is how it is with me. Zeb wants babies. A lot of babies, he says. Perhaps when I write next, I will have that news to tell you. Maybe it will help and give us more common ground to walk on.
I am sorry to burden you with my troubles. Even as I write this letter, I move my gaze to your candleholder, thinking of your love and friendship. The candle glows from atop my cherry wood writing table, casting light across the room. It is a beacon, calling me to a place I do not know but long for.
I remain
Your devoted,
Fairwyn March Deforest
February 18, 18 and 84
Dear Welsie True,
Your latest letter caused such grief in my heart. I am troubled about your health. You’ve never told me your age, even though I’ve asked many times, especially when I was a lass and did not know it was ill-mannered. But since you are complaining of pains in your chest and cannot always catch your breath, I worry that you are failing. I have longed to see you in my lifetime, but must be content with your precious letters and caring for me across the miles.
Once I asked Zeb if he thought I might someday travel to California to see you and the mission you love. He spread out the plans for our new house, then asked if I thought we would have any money for such a “frivolity,” especially since we are still paying for my schooling at Providence.
I’m in the third term now, and my subjects are ancient history and English literature. I passed each of my earlier courses with honors. Zeb is proud. Oh yes, crows about it to anyone who will listen. His wife is the smartest woman on campus, he says. Then laughs and says it’s because there are only two women at Providence—Jeannie Barton and me. My studies are all that keep me going most days. My passion for learning has never ebbed, and I must admit I’ve discovered more than I’d ever dreamed possible.
Since the wedding, Zeb has had three desires. I have told you about the first—his wish for children—but I will tell you the others now. Zeb wants to be in charge of Providence College before his thirty-fifth birthday, not that long off. First he must become head of his department, he says, then dean of his section, then president of the college. He’s driven by this desire like a dog worrying a bone. And he wants his book, Celtic and Gaelic Traditions Carried from the Old World to the New World through Subsequent Generations, to meet great acclaim. It will publish next month with the Century Company, and he is as proud as a banty rooster every time it is mentioned in conversation.
With Zeb busy writing his second book and me busy with my studies, there is little time left for the two of us together—though I would gladly set aside my books if he would just want to talk the way we used to, if he would still listen to me as if he cares.
Forgive me for telling you of my troubles when you have plenty of your own. In my present darkness I have nearly forgotten how to pray, but I lift your name to heaven each night and ask for God’s mercy in your regard. You are my treasured friend, and I remain
Your devoted,
Fairwyn March Deforest
May 30, 18 and 84
My dearest Friend,
I understand your concern, but no matter what you say, I cannot feel God’s love and care for me. I have never even breathed this truth before now, not even to myself, but I know it was not God’s best for me to marry Zebulon Deforest III. I have pondered it long and have concluded that the still, small voice warning me was God speaking to my heart. I disobeyed him, so my present darkness has much to do with disobedience.
Since last I wrote we bought land for our two-story brick house. Charlotte Deforest has chosen essentially everything—from the floor plan she deems most “appropriate” for a future college president, to the drapes and wallcoverings. I’ve given up trying to argue with her; Zeb only takes her side anyway.
It gives me great peace to know your health is better. Yes, please do tell me of your new friend, Micheil. I am filled with curiosity. You say he is troubled greatly because of his exile to the “hinterlands,” as he calls San Juan. Where is he from that such a fate could befall him? And whatever crime has he committed to require such a penance? No matter his past, tell him I am ever in his debt for the care he is giving you, my friend.
I remain
Loving you always,
Fairwyn March Deforest
June 8, 18 and 85
My dearest Welsie True,
Just now as I penned today’s date, I realized Zeb and I have been married two years this month.
I finished putting in the garden I told you about back in March. Since then I made a trip back to Poppy’s old cabin on Blackberry Mountain. Poppy helped me dig up some mountain daisies, bluets, and buttercups. I brought them, roots and all, back to North Carolina. After I dug the soil in my garden and put them in, I added lilacs, roses, hollyhocks, irises, and black-eyed Susans. Now they are a glory of color. How I wish you could see them.
Zeb bought three Arabian mares and pastures them just beyond the pond. Most of his hours at home—which are not many—are spent working with his horses, training them and riding. The cost of such creatures seems extravagant on a college professor’s salary, but each time he brings in a new filly or colt, I hold my tongue. ’Tis something I still have not learned very well.
To answer your question about children, there is nothing to tell. I see a low-burning sadness in Zeb’s eyes, and I fear he blames me for our barren state. And to answer your second question, I still find it hard to fit into Zeb’s world.
I am still studying hard for my exams. This is my last term before upper division classes. I would tell only you such prideful news! But I have you to thank for my every success, Welsie, for it was your love of books that made me love them, your gifts that allowed me to read.
Soon I must hitch up the buggy and head to town to mail this letter, but first I want to ask you for your pra
yers. My darkness is descending more often now, sometimes so great I think I cannot go on. I have taken to walking deep into the wood on the far side of the pond, often bringing along my dulcimer and losing myself in its music.
Pray for my countenance, O Welsie True, my dear friend, because no matter what you say about God waiting and listening, I cannot pray for myself. The darkness is too great for even his light to break through. You have always listened kindly and loved me through these bouts, and for that I am grateful. But now I am feeling selfish because so little in my letters has to do with you. Please write and assure me of your good health. Tell me more of your love for that crumbling mission and the man who is running your ranch, the gentle-hearted ex-priest.
Until then, I remain
Your devoted,
Fairwyn March Deforest
P.S. Last night as I lay upon my bed unable to sleep, I was so overcome by fear that a terrible image came to me. In it I was cowering in a corner, curled in a ball, my head covered by my hands. My heart pounded, pulsing in my throat, and I thought the ugly image might never flee my mind. Then I remembered your candlestick and rose to light it. Holding it, I traced the flying swallows with my fingers and thought of your bright mission by the sea. My darkness finally left when I imagined what it might be like to visit you there.—FMD
One morning the next spring, as we lingered over coffee in the dining room, Zeb announced that I would be sailing to Europe to visit a fertility clinic in Switzerland. He did not ask, he merely presented it as something I would clearly see I must do. Somehow, I was not surprised.
“I’ve taken great pains to arrange this,” he said. “It’s the wisest course, given your inability to conceive.” He took a loud sip of coffee, sighed, then placed his cup in its saucer. It rattled, and he touched it to quiet the motion. “If you leave now, you’ll be back for spring term.”
“I won’t go alone, Zeb,” I said without hesitation. “Think of how long I’ll be away.” My voice softened as I tried to convince him. “The crossing itself will take weeks. I may be gone from home six months.” I imagined him holding me in his arms on the long voyage. “Shouldn’t we go together?”
“Perhaps a year,” he said, ignoring my question, “including the time you will stay in the sanitarium for the tests.”
“When have you arranged for me to leave?” I spoke between tight lips.
He smiled then and squeezed my fingers, a look of triumph on his face. “You’ll sail on the tenth of next month.”
“You’ve arranged it without knowing what my decision would be?”
He gave me a narrow look. “I knew what you’d decide, Fairwyn. I knew that when you considered the small life you hold in your hands, our child’s life, you would agree.”
I bit back all the things I wanted to say, and when I spoke, my voice held no emotion. “I must visit Poppy before I go.”
He stood. “Of course, darling. I knew you would. It’s been too long since your last visit.”
Within the week I was on my way to Sycamore Creek, by train to Dover Town, then by hired horse into my beloved mountains. It was early spring, the time of year when tight-curled buds on the dogwoods were readying to unfurl in the warm sun. All around me, the redbirds sang, and the bees worked the laurel and rhododendrons. The sweet scent of damp soil and the delicate colors of the bursting leaf buds flooded my senses, and I filled my lungs as a thirsty traveler might gulp water from a spring. My heart lifted, and my darkness drifted away like the morning mists as I rode up the hollow and across the meadow to Poppy’s place.
I helloed the house before sliding from my saddle, so glad was I to be home. “Poppy!” I cried as I lifted my skirts to my knees and bounded up the porch stairs. “Poppy, I’m here! Your Fairwyn March is home.”
Only silence met my ears. “Poppy!” I called again, this time quieter, as I pushed open the front door and peered inside.
The house smelled musty, as if it had been empty for a long time. His worn counterpane was folded on his bed, his pillow in place at the head. The fireplace was long cold, and the shelves where we kept our iron kettles and pans and dishes were shrouded in dust. It was as if Poppy had left on a journey, planning never to return.
A great fear squeezed the breath from my lungs. I ran from the house, around to the smokehouse, the empty barn. No chickens scratched in the yard, no yellow dogs yipped and barked, no Blinken brayed a greeting. “Poppy,” I breathed, “where are you?”
But in my soul I already knew.
Leaving my horse pastured near the barn, I removed my shoes and petticoats and took off by foot through the wood, to climb to the top of Blackberry Mountain.
I headed up the switchbacks, feeling slightly winded. And I remembered the time I had climbed this trail with Zebulon and Jeannie. Brambles reached out to tear at my city dress, but I didn’t care. My eyes were already damp as I hurried upward, still upward.
At the top of the trace, I helloed to Selah Jones. When she didn’t come to her door, I called again. Finally she appeared, holding the door half open and staring out, the lines in her face furrowed in a puzzled frown.
“ ’Tis Fairwyn March,” I said, drawing closer so she might see me better.
Her face split into a near-toothless grin as she tottered across the porch, letting the door slam behind her. “Fairy lass,” she said. “Ye’ve come home at last.”
“Poppy?” I breathed. “Do you know where Poppy is?”
Her rheumy eyes peered hard into mine. She reached for my hand then, Selah did, hers feeling light as parchment in mine. Blue veins on them looked like slender branches on a winter willow. She pulled me close, her wiry arms hugging me tight.
“I sent word,” she said, her voice both hoarse and soft. “Your Poppy went last winter.”
“You sent a letter?” I whispered.
Selah nodded, looking worried. “I wrote it myself.”
“Oh no,” I whispered. “I received nothing.”
“ ’Tis true. He went of a sudden. ‘Twas his heart. I told you in the letter.” Her face saddened. “Perchance I didn’t mark it clear enough.”
“Were you with him? Was anyone?” I couldn’t bear to think of his passing all alone.
Her face drooped. “Near’s we know, he passed sommat between comin’ here for Sunday dinner and Monday nearin’ high noon when Dearly Forbes climbed the trace to buy some eggs. It was Dearly what found him.” She patted my hand. “Near’s we know, yer Poppy went quick.”
I turned from her then, looking out across the valley beyond Blackberry Mountain.
She walked the few steps between us to stand beside me. Her hand settled on mine, and the warmth of it comforted me.
My eyes filled. The trees and mountains shimmered as if the whole world were about to shed my tears. “I need him,” I said, though mostly to myself. “He’s always been here, loving me from afar. What will I do?” I turned to Selah.
“Your granddaddy wouldna want ye jes’ mopin’ and mournin’ fer someone gone. Soon enow, ye’ll know life goes on.” She stared at me hard then. “Ye do not look like yer farin’ well, lassie. And I can tell ’Tis sommat besides your poppy that troubles you.”
“I’d like to see where he was buried,” I said quietly.
“I figured ye’d be comin’ to see the place. I been waitin’, lass.” She turned to walk down the trail.
I followed her to the graveyard. For nearly a hundred and fifty years my kinfolk had buried their dead in this place.
Selah held on to my hand as we wound through the flat grassy yard. “Over there,” she said, pointing. “Beneath yon chestnut tree. Thar’s the place where yer granddaddy rests.”
I hurried to the place and fell to my knees before Poppy’s grave. A rough stone rested at the head, and chiseled on it were the words, Angus March, 1795 to 1886, husband of Gorawyn Maxin, father of Fairwyn Enid March. May He Rest in Peace.
Fairwyn Enid March, the mother I never knew. I touched her name on Poppy’s gravestone, wishing
I could go to her now for comfort, wondering what it might be like to have a mother’s arms around me.
I stood and moved to the two granite stones to the right of Poppy’s and knelt again: Gorawyn Maxin and Fairwyn March, my grandmother and my mother. The space beside my mother’s was empty.
Poppy took the knowledge of my da with him to his grave. I blinked back fresh tears as I stared at Poppy’s headstone.
Choking back the sorrow that filled my heart, I crumpled on the empty place next to my mother’s grave, feeling the loss of much more than Poppy. Feeling the loss of my da I never knew, and of a mother’s love.
I felt a light touch on my shoulder. “Fairy lass,” Selah said. “There’s sommat else ye need be knowin’. Come with me.”
I stood to follow her.
“It be sommat yer granddaddy left fer ye. Sommat he said to give ye without fail.”
“Word of my da?” I said, hoping above all hope. I caught her hand. “Is it?”
She stared at my queerly without speaking. “Naw,” she said. “That’s sommat ye’re better off without.”
She shook her head slowly as I followed her back down the trace. “Naw, lassie. ’Tis not word of your da. ’Tis something else entirely.”
I took hold of her hand again and gently halted her midstep. “You know then? You know my pa, who he was?”
Again came the queer stare, and in her eyes I saw that she was hiding a secret knowledge. Then she started down the trail again. “ ’Tis not for me to say.”
“Did you ever know a Welsie True?” I called out as we walked.
She halted dead still, and turned, her bright round eyes curious. “So ye know her then, lassie?”
“Aye.”
She stared then, her eyes turning damp. “I should’ve knowed it,” she whispered. “Aye, that I should have.” But she would say no more. She turned and motioned me to follow.
Eleven
Selah dusted off a small chest, hobbled across the porch with it, and set it down beside me on her front steps. “This here be what yer granddaddy left ye.”