by Diane Noble
As always when we were together, I tried to set aside my apprehension about her feelings for Zeb and his for her. She hugged me, then grinned. “You’re looking glorious today, Fairwyn.”
I glanced down at my plain attire, then back to Jeannie. “I’ve been working on the ‘soiree of all soirees,’ as Zeb calls it. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” I touched my mussed hair.
She laughed, seeming not to notice. “That husband of yours. When he gets a bee in his bonnet, there’s no getting it out. He intends to make this an event to remember. He’s working everyone too hard.”
“Thank you for your help, Jeannie. I don’t know what I’d do without all your ideas, your help with menu and guestlist.”
“It’s nothing. I’d do anything for the two friends I love best in this world.” She brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “But I didn’t ride out to talk of soirees or plans. I came to see if you’d join me in a ride. You need a break.”
I was delighted. Jeannie was the sister I had always wanted: loving, accepting, merry. I was sorry that I couldn’t completely believe in her loyalty to me. Oh, how I wanted us to be true friends of the heart.
“Let me change first.”
She grabbed my hand. “You’re perfect just as you are. This is impromptu. Let’s just throw caution and proprieties to the wind.” Laughing, she tore off her hat and shook her hair loose from its knot at her neck. “There, that’s better.”
Minutes later, we were galloping across the fields, Jeannie on the black, me on one of Zeb’s prized Arabians. I hoped he wouldn’t mind. We laughed like girls and called out to each other as we rode, racing for a bit, then letting the horses slow to a walk. Finally, we stopped at the edge of Strawberry Creek to let the horses drink.
The June sun beat down on my shoulders, and I drew in a deep breath with my eyes closed.
“See, I knew you needed this,” Jeannie laughed when I looked up.
I grinned at her and slid from the saddle, landing lightly beside the Arabian. Jeannie swung off the black and led the way to a sandstone boulder. We sat down facing the creek. A pale thicket of rhododendron covered the slope on the far bank. A gathering of finches flittered through the branches of an elm, hopping and singing.
I could breathe again. “Thanks, Jeannie. You’re right. I needed this.”
“Let’s talk books,” she said. “I just finished Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady.”
“All three volumes?”
She raised a brow as if there could be no doubt.
I tossed back my head, delighting in the warmth of the sun on my face, and smiled. It had been several weeks since we had last discussed a book, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. “I finished the second James volume last week. Tell me, what did you think of the story as a whole?”
“It’s a masterpiece,” she said. “I don’t see how James will ever top the work.” She stared at the creek for a moment, then turned to me again, her expression earnest. “Isabel Archer is a victim of her own provincialism. It’s clear throughout.”
“I’ve not finished the third volume, but I can see what’s coming when she gets to Europe. She has such promise, yet …” A twinge of my heart stopped me.
“Yet what?” Jeannie pressed.
“Our American myth of freedom and equality is cut through with a kind of blindness. Maybe even pride. Isabel’s promise can’t be fulfilled. She’s still a victim of her class.”
She studied me for a moment. “You’re talking about Fairwyn March, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said too quickly, “I’m speaking only of Isabel Archer.”
“It seems that you’re the only one who can’t accept who you are,” she said softly. “Everyone else here in Oak Hill thinks you’re one of us—even Zeb’s mother and father.” She studied the rippling creek. “You just said that Isabel is trapped by blindness and pride—”
“You’re still thinking I mean myself.”
She shrugged, her expression expectant and kind. “Do you?”
“Pride in me?” I thought about it. “Perhaps.”
“Blindness?” she said thoughtfully.
“Likely.” I nodded. “Both in good measure … with me, just as with Isabel.”
“I thought of you too as I read.”
“That’s why you came to see me today?”
She was staring up at the sky now, the cottony string of high clouds that dimmed the sun for a moment. “Partly, I suppose. It’s been too long. That’s the real reason.”
“You said others in Oak Hill accept me …” The thought brightened my spirits.
She glanced my direction with a smile. “That’s one of the reasons Zeb thought a party of this kind would be good for you—and for the town. He wants you to feel accepted for who you are.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t want to ask when they’d spoken of it, but my imagination took wing. Was it during those evenings Zeb stayed late at the college, or those weekends he went riding, only to disappear for hours? I pictured them meeting, Zeb’s smile of delight as he beheld Jeannie. Her sweet smile and contagious laughter as she reached out to take his hands.
Jeannie, head tilted, was watching me curiously. “He wants you to sing, for he thinks your music has been missing from your heart for much too long. He thinks it might alleviate your dark spells.”
Such intimate things about his wife for a man to discuss with another woman. I was troubled with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “We should be getting back,” I said.
She glanced up at the sun and shrugged. “Yes, you’re right.”
Without speaking we mounted our horses, letting them walk as we headed from the creek to the open field. She looked across at me. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to help with the invitations.”
I nodded but kept my eyes straight ahead, still trying to sort out my feelings. She touched my arm. “Fairwyn, have I spoken out of turn?”
Meeting her clear-eyed gaze, I saw that I needed to put her mind at ease. “No, not at all. I-I enjoyed our book discussion.”
“I fear I said too much about Zeb, about those things we discussed.”
“He once said that you’re his dearest friend. With such a relationship, how can I be troubled by your conversation about me and my problems?”
She halted her horse. “I did hurt you. I knew it! Oh, Fairwyn, please forgive me. I didn’t mean anything by my bumbling words.” Her fingers twisted in distress. “I wished only to reassure you.”
I shrugged. “Zeb must talk to someone. Goodness knows he doesn’t talk to me.” I flicked the reins and headed the Arabian across the field, Jeannie’s mare trotting behind me.
During the following weeks Jeannie, Zeb, and I spent hours planning the details for our grand gathering. Zeb arranged for a barbecue pit to be dug between the vegetable garden and the wood. An iron grate was fashioned in town, and two men hauled it out on a wagon and dropped it into place three weeks before the party. Zeb also sent for a dozen redwood tables from the north country of California, said to withstand the moisture in our climate even if left outdoors year-round. When they arrived by train and I beheld their vermilion beauty, I worried about the money Zeb was spending on this affair, but he assured me it was for a good cause.
I bought bolts of red-and-white gingham cloths from Grand’s Mercantile to fit the new tables. Jeannie and I each took a bolt to sew into table covers. When we’d finished, we sat together at the large dining table and wrote out the invitations, Zeb smiling as he watched from one end of the room.
Next we set about planning the details for the menu, Jeannie spouting ideas, Zeb interjecting his, and me writing it all down. In my spare time, I pulled fat worms from tomato stems, weeded between the rows of corn, and broke up dirt clods around the potato hills, worrying that not all the abundance I had planted in the spring would be ready on time. I sang as I worked, old songs I remembered from my childhood, many near forgotten until my lips
began to move and I discovered the words still deep in my heart.
Whistle, daughter, whistle, and you shall have a cow—
Lolly too dum, too dum! Too lolly day!
Whistle, daughter, whistle, and you shall have a cow—
I cannot whistle, mother, because I don’t know how.
Lolly too dum, too dum! Lolly too dum day.
Grinning as I worked, I went on to the next verse.
Whistle, daughter, whistle, and you shall have a sheep—
I cannot whistle, mother, and I’m just about to weep.
And the next …
Whistle, daughter, whistle, and you shall have a man—
And I began to whistle happily.
A shadow fell across the row I was weeding, and I looked up to see Zeb smiling down at me. I stood and brushed off my hands.
“The invitations went out today,” he said. “All two hundred.”
I drew in a quick breath. “There’s no turning back.”
“There never was.”
I glanced down at a large, cloth-wrapped bundle he was carrying in one arm. He followed my gaze, and met my eyes with a smile. “For you.”
“Why, Zeb,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush with pleasure. “What on earth?”
He held out the parcel and placed it in my hands, smiling into my eyes. “Something I should have done a long time ago.”
We walked slowly toward the wooden garden chairs. I sat in one, and Zeb settled across from me in the other, his face eager. Fingers trembling, I untied the ribbon and let it fall loose in my lap. Slowly, I unwound the velvet cloth, noticing its dark, seductive softness in my hands.
When it was undone, I gasped in surprise. A new dulcimer gleamed in the slant of the late afternoon sunlight.
“Zeb,” I breathed, turning it, examining the workmanship. It wasn’t Poppy’s handiwork, but it was exquisite nonetheless. I strummed a few notes, tightened the tuning pegs, and wondered if Poppy’s hand-carved tuning pegs would fit.
I met my husband’s eyes and wanted to believe in his love, that this gift was a symbol of his acceptance of me, my ways, my music, my heart. Jeannie’s words came back to me about how Zeb understood my music, my longings. I wanted to believe her.
I pushed aside my recent suspicions. Maybe now Zeb and I could begin again. Singing for Zeb’s friends, the families of Oak Hill, his colleagues from Providence, would at last set me free to be myself. Oh, how I wanted to believe that such a miracle could happen!
“ ’Tis a treasure,” I said. “Truly.”
He grinned. “Sing ‘Dabbling in the Dew.’ ”
I smiled with him. “One of the first songs I ever played for you. You remembered.”
“I don’t forget anything.”
I strummed a few chords, tightened the pegs again, and let my fingers dance over the frets and the fingerboard. The soft zings and taps of the strings transported my heart to the carefree days of my childhood. I closed my eyes, letting the melody wash away the years.
I sang the first two stanzas, and began the last:
Oh, fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare
Bring gray to the cheek and silver to the hair.
What’s a ring on the finger if there’s rings around the eye?
For it’s dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaid fair.
“I’ve given you fine clothes and carriages,” Zeb said when I’d strummed the final note. “But there’s no gray in your hair or rings around your eyes.”
I touched the damp tendrils at my forehead self-consciously. My yellow hair had faded. The last time I studied myself in the looking glass, my eyes showed a new darkness beneath them. I held no illusions about any beauty I might still hold. I didn’t answer Zeb. Instead I looked down and continued strumming.
“It has a mellow tone,” I said finally. “The wood is cherry. I’ve never seen one made of cherry.” I rubbed my fingers across its smooth side. The color reminded me of blood.
“Sing something else,” he said.
And I did, then another. And another. The songs of my childhood. The songs that linked me to the mountain, to my heritage across the sea. Long into the ashen dusk I sang. Zeb finally left me. But I remained under the spangled skies, singing as if tomorrow might never come.
July 1, 1887
Dear Micheil,
I opened your letter with trembling fingers, worried about what you might say about Welsie’s health. I am relieved to know she is regaining her strength after a bout of consumption. You say her constitution is fragile, but that her spirit is unusually strong. I knew this about my friend, and how joyful I am that someone else recognizes the same in her.
I am puzzled by your words about prayer. I thought you might help me learn to pray for God’s mercy. But you said to find myself a clergyman here in Oak Hill, someone to counsel me here. I cannot do that. I thought you might know my soul yearnings and fears, because of your closeness to Welsie True. Though, as I consider it now, she—being the friend she is—has likely kept my personal heartaches in confidence.
I am but a simple and plain mountain woman. Any beauty I once had has faded. I have an education, and though it has filled my mind with glorious ideas and knowledge beyond imagination, my heart remains empty. I once sinned by not following what I knew was God’s best for me. As a result I am filled with remorse, for myself and for the one I sinned against—my husband.
Lest this sound too obscure, let me explain. I married, thinking myself in love. Only later did I discover that it was the idea of love that captured my heart, not love itself. I want to ask my husband’s forgiveness, but I can’t admit to him that I married him without true love.
So that is why I asked you about God’s mercy. In my head I know that God’s forgiveness is there—if I shall but ask. But in my heart, I can’t believe he has given it. How can he love and forgive one such as me?
I have given up asking, for I fear my Lord tires of my pounding on heaven’s door. Oh that I could believe that his mercy is mine! That his forgiveness would wipe clean the slate of my heart! All that remains is the knowledge that long ago I did wrong and that my present darkness is punishment. If only I knew how to accept God’s grace for one such as me, my darkness might be gone.
Thank you for writing of Welsie True. Give her my love, and tell her I will write to her again soon.
Until then I remain
Your grateful,
Fairwyn March Deforest
An hour before dawn on the day of our soiree, I woke feeling ill. I sat gingerly on the edge of the bedstead. I held my stomach and doubled over as the room spun. Quickly, I leaned back on the bed, stretching out on my back and breathing deep and slow until the strange queasiness disappeared.
Out on the back lawn, Zeb was barking orders to the men he’d hired to set up the tables and chairs. I heard the rattle of a farm wagon heading up the driveway as another crew arrived to set up the dais. I lay still, listening to their voices, then finally swung my feet over the side of the bed, sat still for a moment, then stood shakily.
It was the third morning of the strange malady, and a slow growing realization made me smile. Surely not! I touched my stomach and smiled again, deciding to keep my secret to myself until I could be sure.
Later, as I worked by Zeb’s side overseeing the placement of the tables and laying out the cloths, I was back to my normal robust health. I cut a profusion of roses, peonies, sunflowers, and petunias from my garden and tucked them into the small watering pots at the center of each table. But with every step I took, every blossom I snapped, the secret tucked in my heart made me sing.
All was in place by the time the sun rose, but the air was heavy and damp. By noon a bank of clouds rose in the south, and the wind was already beginning to lift the edges of the cloths. By midday the sky turned gray, and thunder rumbled in the distance. I could see by the rigid line of Zeb’s shoulders that his displeasure was great.
At noon Jeannie rode up our long drive in her buggy. I’d
never seen her look fairer, with her long dark hair piled in a loose knot on her head, her blouse with its leg-of-mutton sleeves and high collar that accentuated her slender neck.
She gave me a hug. “I found another book at Providence library that you simply must read,” she said.
Suddenly at my side, Zeb chuckled. “Do you two talk about anything but books?”
Jeannie smiled up at him, raising her perfect brow. “There’s nothing more interesting, Zeb. I’m just glad you married someone who loves reading as much as I do.” She looked back to me and winked. “Fairwyn’s the only woman in town I can talk to.”
Her words created a glow that spread from deep inside me to cover my face. “We do speak the same language,” I said with a grin.
“And I’m feeling left out.” Zeb’s words were directed to Jeannie, not me. Her gaze caught his and seemed unable to let go.
The glow in my heart disappeared. “I must be seeing to things in the kitchen,” I said and turned without another word to head to the rear of the main house. I wasn’t needed. The cooks we’d hired for the occasion had already laid out the slabs of meat for grilling, hams for roasting. Pots of black-eyed peas bubbled on the stove, and the scents of honeyed ham and molasses beans wafted from the oven.
I hurried upstairs to my bedroom. With a sigh, I sat on the edge of my four-poster bed, staring at the looking glass across the room. I compared my sallow complexion and dark-circled eyes to Jeannie’s perfect heart-shaped face, her peaches-and-cream skin, her lively eyes.
I took a moment to calm my fears, pushing the silly thoughts from my head. Surely my suspicions were imagined. I considered the tenderness Zeb had shown me of late, the gift of the dulcimer.
Standing, I smoothed my skirts, brushed my fingers through my hair, and left the room. As I descended the stairs and headed to the library to fetch my dulcimer, I scolded myself again. It was unhealthy to always suspect the worst. Why, Jeannie herself had told me that Zeb wanted me to play and sing for his colleagues this day—so they would see the talent in me that made him proud. He wanted them to know me, to appreciate my mountain ancestry, my folklore, my music, my voice. The thought made me smile.