by Diane Noble
I’ve wanted to talk to him, to ask his forgiveness, to give him opportunity to ask for mine, but it seems the days and weeks and months pass without true conversation of the heart. We speak of everything else, from the garden I’m planting to his newest Arabian colt, but not of our feelings for each other.
Most of all I grieve for my mistake in marrying Zeb. I’ve cried before God, asking his forgiveness, but the deed is done, and there’s no going back. I have no sense of his forgiveness, perhaps because I can’t forgive myself. I have caused deep heartache for Zeb, because he suspects I don’t love him the way I should. I don’t know how to convince him that I might—if he would just love me in return.
O Welsie True, perhaps you shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to give you cause to worry, especially now that you are suffering ill health. Please write soon and assure me that you are well again.
You asked if Micheil might write to me. I hope you haven’t asked because you fear for your health and want him to have means to contact me if something should happen to you. I will welcome his letters. But I hope it is not worrisome news they bear.
I remain
Your dearest friend,
Fairwyn March Deforest
At night sometimes I lay awake wondering about Welsie True’s world. I dreamed of traveling to California to meet her at last. I thought of the sunlight and waves that she said crashed high and lacy against a crystalline sky. I imagined the mission bells that resounded across her valley, but most of all, I pictured meeting my lifelong friend, the woman who had revealed so little about herself but so much of her love for me.
As for Zeb and me, we continued in our separate lives, mine filled with reading, gardening, and singing, his filled with college affairs and work on another book, his third.
I had almost given up my hopes that our lives would change when one evening in June, Zeb arrived home from the college, a flush of wonder on his face. I was working in the garden and could see his smile even as he drove the one-horse buggy up the road to our house. He pulled back on the reins and nearly leapt from the vehicle, so intent was he on reaching me.
My heart caught; I’d not seen such passion in him for a long time. He drew me into his arms.
“Fairwyn!” he said, looking me full in the face. “Finally, my time has come!”
“Your time, Zeb?”
“My deepest desire!” He practically shouted the words. “The head of the department!”
“It’s yours?” I caught my hands to my face. He hadn’t mentioned it for months. I thought he’d given up on advancement at the college just as he had stopped hoping for a child.
His face fell. “Well, not exactly. It’s rumored that my name is with the president and his administrative committee.”
“Zeb!” All the feelings I’d harbored—the wonder of watching him lecture, the pleasure of walking with him through the greens at Providence College, seeing him talk to the other professors and the scholars—all of it rushed back into my heart, filling me with pride.
We moved up the walkway toward the house. On either side of the brick path stood the glory of my gardens. Their sweet fragrance filled the air.
Smiling down at me, Zeb put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me gently the way he had done in our days of courtship. I caught my breath at the sudden wonder of his nearness. He reached to open the door for me, but just before I stepped inside, he kissed me. In my surprise and delight, I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.
“You’re blushing,” he teased and let his fingers trail along my cheek. “I haven’t seen you blush for, well, forever, it seems.” He laughed, looking pleased.
I moved through the open doorway, aware of his closeness as he shut the door behind us.
“I have something I want to talk to you about,” he said once we were inside. “Plans I need you to help with.”
“It sounds serious.”
He laughed lightly and crooked his finger. “Follow me, milady.”
Curious, I followed him to the library. A stone fireplace dominated the far end of the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books covering every topic from medieval folklore to European history, science to mathematics, Renaissance art to modern politics. Books Zeb had given me, including all of Mark Twain’s works, filled an entire wall. Because I spent hours reading here—at least when Zeb was at his college—I’d arranged a small settee flanked by two striped chairs near the window that faced the back garden and the pasture beyond.
I settled into one of the chairs, across from Zeb, and leaned forward eagerly. Maybe there was hope for us yet. It had been years since Zeb said he needed my help. I half expected I’d misunderstood and that he would laugh at the absurdity.
But he didn’t even smile. “We need to campaign hard for my position.”
“Campaign?”
“Administrative politics plays a large part in the awarding of these positions.”
“Especially because you didn’t marry Jeannie.”
His eyes met mine with a look of warning. He ignored my words and continued. “My thoughts are these … You see, Fairwyn, I’m of a mind that we will put on the soiree of all soirees for all of Oak Hill. Not just for the college”—he nodded thoughtfully, almost as if the ideas were coming to him as he spoke—“I wouldn’t want to be that obvious. No, we’ll put on a charity event.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And my idea is this. We’ll have a benefit for the people of Appalachia.”
The idea appealed to me, and I smiled, catching his enthusiasm. “Go on.” He knew I’d been closely following the potential devastation of mines throughout Appalachia.
“Though coal mining has brought some good change, it is also causing men to leave their families, their lands. They’re selling their souls to the companies. Some are moving to the mining camps alone, others are uprooting their families. All are suffering.” He shook his head slowly. “Many suspect economic devastation is coming; others deny it—especially those who are tied to the business of mining.”
I was touched that he cared. “It’s a fitting thing to do.”
His face softened. “I know how difficult it’s been for you to feel you fit into my world. I thought this might be a way to blend your world and mine together.” His look was earnest, his voice low. He reached across the distance between us and took my hand. “Let’s have a dinner here, perhaps on a Sunday afternoon.”
“I’ve never put on such an affair, but I suppose I can find someone to help …”
“Jeannie has already offered,” he said. “She said she’ll help you in any way she can.” He leaned back and smiled. “It was her idea to make it a picnic. She suggested that we set up tables around the yard. It will be a perfect setting—your gardens have never been more beautiful.”
He grinned. “I was also thinking we might try our hand at a Western barbecue.”
I put aside my uneasy feelings about Jeannie and smiled at my husband. “Even Mark Twain speaks of the beef roasted over an open hearth outdoors.”
“Or smoldering on a spit over coals.” His eyes twinkled.
He walked to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and lifted his pen from the center drawer. Still looking pleased, he sat down, dipped the nib in the well, and began writing names. “We’ll charge them a nominal fee of course. But that will be for the Appalachian poor.” He continued his list. “There’s something else,” he said, looking up finally.
“What is it?”
“I want you to sing.”
I laughed. “Sing? Oh, Zeb. I haven’t sung for anyone since I broke my dulcimer.”
He rose and circled from behind his desk, then sat beside me on the settee. “Think of it, Fairwyn. This will be a way for your true self, your mountain voice, to shine.” His eyes met mine. “It would make me so proud.”
I swallowed hard and nodded slowly.
“I want you to play your dulcimer and sing—just as you did when we met.”
Years before,
I had loved an audience. I smiled finally, thinking of it. Perhaps that part of my heart was still alive after all.
He rose and came to stand beside me. “It will work—for you, for us both.”
I turned to look up into his face. He was pleading with me. I could see it behind his eyes.
“Your career rests on it?”
“You might say it’s in your hands, Fairwyn.”
I thought of my instrument, broken and dead, in the barn. “I need time to fix my dulcimer.”
“That old thing?” he scoffed. “I’ll buy you another. It’s probably no good anyway by now. Wood too moldy to save.” He hesitated, looking deep into my eyes. “Why did you quit playing? You could have bought another instrument anytime.” He was holding my hand again, rubbing his thumb across mine.
All my longings, my heartaches, my faded dreams, came flooding into my soul. I craned my neck to look up at his face, surprised by the tenderness I saw. Maybe it truly was time to sing and play again. And bring that dulcimer back to life.
He bent to nuzzle my neck, then moved his lips up to my earlobe. Finally he kissed me. “I think it’s time we made some music of our own,” he murmured, his voice husky. He swept me into his arms and carried me from the library and up the circular stairs.
The next morning I pulled my dulcimer from its shelf in a dark corner of the barn. I’d lovingly wrapped it in Poppy’s counterpane for protection. I coughed as I brushed the dust and cobwebs from the faded, worn cloth, turning it in my arms until I could pull out the instrument.
A splintery hole gaped at the back of the sound box, and the strings hung limp and lifeless. But Zeb was wrong; the instrument had not a spot of mildew on it. I turned it around completely to examine Poppy’s workmanship. It had no other damage. I rubbed my fingers over the smooth, satiny wood, then took it out into the sunlight, holding it tenderly against my chest. Sitting on a large stone by a stand of hollyhocks, I tightened the strings on the tuning pegs. Gingerly, I worked some of the larger splinters toward the flat top, patting them into place. Small holes remained.
I strummed a few chords and winced at the thin sound. I worked the splinters a few more minutes then tried strumming again. It was no better. Then I smiled. I knew Poppy had repaired many a dulcimer. Perhaps his instructions for dulcimer making would give me a clue. Gently putting aside the instrument, I raced into the house and up the stairs. I fell to my knees before the bureau and pulled out the drawer where I’d hidden the small chest he’d left for me.
The light caught the brass latch. Just the sight of it lifted my heart. I reached for the box and set it on my lap. Opening it, I wondered what Poppy’s thoughts must have been when he first placed these treasures inside.
I unfolded the brittle yellow paper with his drawings, smiling as I traced the lines with my fingers. Step by step, his illustrations showed the fine art of dulcimer making, but there wasn’t a bit of instruction on repairing injured instruments.
I opened the next document, frowning as I peered into the near empty box. My eyes went back to the paper. It was my savings account, looking the same as the last time I checked.
Then I noticed what was missing: the deed to my land, my inheritance. Frantically, I looked around where I was sitting. Perhaps it had fallen out when I opened the box. But there was nothing, nothing at all.
I stood, puzzled. Could I have taken out the deed some months ago? I thought hard about the times I’d lifted the same box from its hiding place, fingered through the papers, and thought about Poppy. But nothing came to me. I knew I’d left the deed in the chest. I wouldn’t have been so careless as to take it out and not replace it.
Trembling, I swallowed hard. Where could it be? Only one answer came to me. Zeb. Had he taken it? And why?
I raced down the stairs to his desk in the library. Frantically, I rummaged through his papers, looking for files, old letters, anything. I had just lifted a pile of his folders to my lap, when a sound at the door caught my attention.
I looked up.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, striding toward me.
I stood, frightened at his expression. The files slid to the floor.
“The deed to my land,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. “Where is it?”
A smile replaced the dark anger on his smooth face. “I can explain, darling,” he said.
Yesterday’s words about the mining companies and their devastating practices came back to me. I thought my heart might stop its beating for the fear that filled it. Did he want to help the poor children of the mining companies to relieve his guilt? I scarce could consider such betrayal. “You didn’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t.”
“Let me explain.” He came toward me, raking back his flaxen hair with his fingers, looking down at me with warm eyes of undecided blue. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Fourteen
Zeb stepped to my side, still smiling. “I think you’ll agree that the deed was too important to leave so carelessly unattended.”
“Tell me you haven’t done anything with my land,” I said.
He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Surely you don’t suspect—?”
“My land,” I repeated. “The land Poppy left to me.” I knew the law. A woman didn’t have the right to own property. Legally, it belonged to her husband to do with as he chose, with or without his wife’s blessing.
“You had no right to take it.” I spoke softly. “Where is it?”
He smiled, his face wide with wisdom. “It’s here—where it belongs.” He walked across the room, pulled out the middle drawer of his desk, and reached in for a key. It glittered in his fingers as he crossed to the framed English hunting scene beside the window. He removed the painting and swung open the door to the steel safe box.
He flipped through several envelopes and papers, pulling out a yellowed document. “You should have brought it to me in the beginning.” Turning, he handed the deed to me. “It was careless of you to keep it in your chest.”
I scanned through the words I’d memorized, at once relieved. I looked up to meet his gaze, trying to read his expression. He touched my arm. “What if we’d had a fire?” He shook his head. “All your important papers belong in here.” He nodded to the safe.
“You didn’t place my bank deposit paper with the deed.”
“You don’t need a deposit slip to withdraw your funds,” he said evenly. “That paper is proof of your grandfather’s deposit, of course. But to receive your funds—should you ever decide to—all you need to do is go to the bank in Dover Town.”
I gazed at him steadily. “Is it possible for anyone else to withdraw my money? Anyone who might choose to … without my consent?”
He moved closer, studying my face. “Surely you don’t think I would do such a thing.” His expression was guileless, open, frank.
I felt foolish for my suspicions. Why did I always suspect the worst of my husband? Where was my trust? I tried to sort out my feelings. “I don’t know what I think, Zeb,” I said quietly. “Perhaps I’m simply bothered that you went through my private papers.” I drew in a deep breath. “You should have mentioned what you’d done and why.”
He slipped his arm around my shoulders affectionately as we walked back to the wall safe. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Fairwyn.” He took the deed from my hand and placed it among the other papers. “You’re making too much of this.” He closed the safe and locked it with a loud click. Instead of placing the key back in the desk drawer, he dropped it into his vest pocket. “But as I said before, you really shouldn’t have been so careless.”
“I am not one of your students,” I said evenly. “I am not the naive young woman you brought here four years ago.” I walked to the safe, stared at it a moment, then turned back to him. “I suspect that the day I said I wanted to return to Blackberry Mountain, you set about seeing to it that I couldn’t leave you. You thought you could keep me here if I had no home to return to.”
He took a fe
w steps closer to me. “Is that really how you see me?” He frowned. “Capable of such a heartless act, I mean?”
My heart was pounding hard. I didn’t answer.
“Does my love, my concern for you, mean nothing?” He sighed. “I was watching out for your best interests. That’s all.”
His voice was anything but harsh, and within a tick of the mantel clock I was ashamed of my accusations. With a sigh, I gestured lamely. “I’m sorry, Zeb. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”
He reached for me then and gathered me into his arms. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Poor, poor Fairwyn,” he said, his arms circled around my waist. “My precious darling, the confusion that must be within you.”
June 7, 1887
Dear Micheil,
Welsie True, my beloved friend, has written of you often, telling how you spend time with her and care for her in her times of frail health. I am greatly troubled because it has been so long since her last letter.
It would ease my mind considerably if you might write and tell me how my friend is faring. Welsie speaks kindly of you and has told me of your journey from Ireland and your troubles. I understand how your heart must ache for home.
A longing for home is something I understand. Heartaches, too, though of a different sort than yours.
Welsie tells me you were once a priest, and though you long ago turned away from that calling, you are still a man of God. Perhaps you can tell me how you pray for God’s mercy. I have lost my way, and also my courage, and cannot seem to find either one.
Please write soon about my beloved Welsie.
Until then, I remain,
Fairwyn March Deforest
Jeannie rode up the winding driveway on a spirited black mare. When my friend saw me, she waved and smiled, then headed to the pasture just beyond our barn to let her horse graze. It was a ritual born of her comfort as our friend and of being a frequent visitor to our home. Minutes later, she strode up the walkway, looking beautiful and trim in her riding habit.