Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  I passed the window that looked out over the lawns where the tables were set. A sense of pride filled me. Yes, I was becoming the suitable wife Zeb’s parents had wanted for him and he had wanted for himself. If they could put aside their fears about me, surely I could put aside my fears about everyone around me.

  I strode down the hallway with renewed confidence. This day would make all the difference for Zeb and me. All the difference in the world.

  I paused at the library door, on the way to fetch my dulcimer from within. I decided that for once in my life—given Zeb’s new attentions toward me—I would tell him of my longings to start over. This very night, once our party was an evident success and we had worked together to make sure of his promotion to dean, we would sit together here, in our favorite room, and talk over the wonder of what we’d accomplished … together.

  I smiled at the thought and turned the crystal knob. Zeb would at last understand my heart, I decided, because I would tell him everything in its depths. Even my secret that I might be with child. I imagined the look on his face.

  I pushed open the door, then hesitated, hearing low voices.

  “Precious Jeannie,” Zeb said, his voice husky and low, “please don’t push me away again. I can’t bear it …” His voice broke off.

  Jeannie answered in a voice so faint I couldn’t make out the words. I only knew it was filled with heartache and passion. I started to back toward the doorway, but curiosity drew me closer. I might as well have been a moth drawn to a bright ember. Silently, I walked deeper into the room.

  My husband and my friend stood near the window, backlit by the waning light of the cloud-filled sky. Zeb gathered her close to his heart, bent over her upturned face, and covered her mouth with his. Their kiss seemed to last for an eternity.

  Then pulling back slightly, Zeb breathed, “It’s always been you. Only you.”

  Fifteen

  I stepped backward, groping for the library door, unable to make out more than blurred images because of my tears. It didn’t matter if Zeb and Jeannie had turned to watch me flee, though I suspected they had not. They had been too lost in each other.

  I stumbled through the house, pushed open the back door, then raced past the garden toward the clusters of early arrivals who were talking among themselves in lighthearted voices punctuated with laughter. I lifted my chin and pasted on a smile, just as any good Southern woman would do. Our guests were waiting. I couldn’t leave them standing there without a word of welcome, no matter what my husband was doing inside the house.

  “Greetings, one and all,” I said. “My husband will be out to join us in a moment. For now, please help yourself to lemonade and cider. We’ve got both in abundance.” I gestured lightly toward the table at the rear of the house.

  At the outer edge of the cluster of the guests nearest me, I saw Zeb’s father and mother exchange a worried look. I moved toward them, gave them both reassuring smiles, then kissed the air beside Charlotte’s cheek.

  “Zeb will be with us in a minute,” I promised.

  Zebulon glanced toward the back door. “I thought I saw him go inside with Jeannie several minutes ago—”

  “Ah yes. ’Tis true,” I said, with my smile still spread wide. “You did indeed.” Without another word, I turned to greet Jeannie’s mother and father, the president of Providence.

  “Thank you for coming,” I murmured. “Please help yourself to some lemonade.” I looked up at the threatening sky, feeling the close, heavy air settling around us. “It’s certainly the day for a cool drink.”

  Quickly I moved to each knot of visitors, his faculty colleagues, our friends from town, giving them a personal word of welcome, a bright smile, and then moving on. Zeb would be proud. I was an utterly charming hostess. Then the yard was full, and still more carriages were halted in a line before the house, moving slowly forward to let out their passengers.

  With a jangle and creak of wheels, the last carriage had just headed around the curve to park with the others behind the barn when I raised my eyes to the stone stairs at the back of the house. Zeb and Jeannie stood together on the porch.

  They met my gaze with surprising calm. When I stared hard at them, they exchanged a glance. A heartbeat later, they strode down the walkway to where the crowd milled about. Zeb took his place near me, easing quickly into words of welcome and polite chuckles with his friends.

  I moved beside him as if in a fog, hearing my light conversation as if someone else were speaking the words. Ever the gentleman, Zeb guided me with a hand at the small of my back as if nothing had changed between us. Jeannie kept her distance; not once did I catch her eyes on either Zeb or me.

  When we had finished our greeting, Zeb finally spoke to me. “Are you ready to sing?”

  For a moment I stared, uncomprehending. “Sing?”

  Zeb frowned. “You’ve forgotten?” He stepped closer so others wouldn’t hear. “This is a benefit for the children of your mountains. You’re planning to sing folk songs from your childhood.”

  “Oh … yes. That.” I swallowed hard, remembering I had gone to the library to fetch my dulcimer and had left without it. It seemed hours ago, though only a half-hour had passed, if that. “I’ll need my instrument. It’s in the library.”

  “I’ll get it.” Before he turned away from me, a flicker of apprehension crossed his face, a look of puzzlement, of unease.

  I didn’t move my unblinking gaze from his. “The library,” I repeated.

  Grim-faced, he hurried away from me, took the porch steps two at a time, and slammed through the back door. Around me, the guests chatted and laughed. No one had noticed our exchange. Not even Jeannie, who had kept as far away as possible from me since her exit from the house with my husband.

  Zeb returned a moment later and, without another word to me, bounded up the steps to the dais. He was now the gracious host, smiling broadly, calling for the attention of our guests. Then he turned to gaze at my upturned face.

  “Darling,” he said, inclining his head my direction. “Please, come join me. This is your party too. In fact, in many ways it’s more yours than mine.” I stepped up the stairs to stand beside him as he continued. “As many of you know, my wife is originally from the Great Smokies. I found her there—a jewel among the uncut gems of that glorious mountain culture.

  “She had already taught herself to read—and gone far beyond the book learning of most women, even in our cultured region. She understood very quickly the import of my work connecting Elizabethan English to the language of the Appalachian people. Her help in my project—and the ultimate publication of my first book—was without equal.”

  Zeb gave me a quick bow, reached for my hand, and kissed my fingertips. “Thank you, my darling.” Our guests clapped and shouted their approval.

  Zeb grinned and went on. “A project that has become dear to my heart, and to that of my wife, is the plight of the children and families of Appalachia now that the mining companies have lured many of the men from their land. The first published reports, only months ago—about the ravaging of the land, the mass evacuation of the men and resulting ripping apart of the caregiver from his family—have prompted us to do something about it. Something that will bring assistance to these people.

  “This picnic is our first step. Let’s not talk about this assistance in dollars and cents terms quite yet.” He chuckled. “We’ll hit your pocketbooks later. For right now, we want to celebrate my wife’s heritage.

  “Though she’s been part of my life, and many of you have either met her at Providence or talked with her in town, you’ve probably never heard her sing.”

  He turned to me and smiled, handing me the dulcimer. “And she sings like an angel,” he said softly. “For her music is her soul.”

  My eyes turned moist as I held the dulcimer close. My husband’s trade was that of words, a study of their history, their country of origin. I didn’t realize until this moment how desperately I longed for his words to contain a truth I coul
d hold on to. Now I suspected that they never had.

  So, accompanied by thunder rolling across the Piedmont and the air heavy with the coming rain, I opened my mouth and sang to my husband. The tune wasn’t toe-tapping fast. No, I slowed the tempo, turning it into a ballad, full of sorrow and heartbreak.

  There was a little ship and she sailed on the sea

  And the name of the ship was the Merry Golden Tree,

  And she sailed on the lonely, lonesome water,

  And she sailed on the lonesome sea …

  I continued through the verses, lifting my voice above the hush of the crowd with their faces tilted toward me, above the distant thunder. Then I reached the last verse. Halfway through, Zeb turned away from me as if unable to bear my pain-filled eyes.

  She turned upon her back and down sank she;

  Fare ye well! Fare ye well to the Merry Golden Tree!

  For I’m sinking in the lonely lonesome water,

  For I’m sinking in the lonesome sea.

  When I was through, I handed the dulcimer back to Zeb, tears streaming down my face. There was not a sound among our guests. With my head held high, I walked from the dais, stepped to the grassy ground, and didn’t turn to look until I reached the house. I hurried inside and up the stairs, then locked myself in my bedroom.

  From my window I heard Zeb apologize to our guests, saying I was indisposed. The party went on without me, but by sundown the rain had started. The dinner was ruined as folks ran for their carriages. By the time the carriages had been driven from behind the barn, the red mud on our road was ankle deep.

  Later, much later, I heard the drone of voices—Zeb’s, Charlotte’s, and Zebulon’s. I could not make out their words, only their worried tones.

  I was still awake when Zeb tapped on the door at midnight. I rose from my bed, turned the brass key in the lock, and stood back so he could enter the dark room. Now and then a flash of light brightened the walls, illuminating his face. It was kind, which surprised me. As thunder rolled in the distance I shivered.

  “You’re distraught,” he said gently.

  I let out a sigh. That was mild compared to what I was feeling.

  “We need to face your illness. This darkness that attacks you without warning. You’ve been ill for a long, long time. I just didn’t see it clearly until tonight.”

  I frowned at him in the dark, trying to figure his meaning. “You said as much tonight before our guests. You called me indisposed.”

  “You remember what Dr. Crawford said.”

  How could I forget? I let out a mirthless laugh. “Perhaps my darkness has reason,” I challenged.

  “What do you mean?” His voice was wary.

  “I saw you tonight … you and Jeannie, in the library. I heard … what you said to her.” My voice was low, my words clipped. I refused to cry in front of him, but the sting of unshed tears filled my throat.

  Zeb didn’t speak, didn’t defend himself, as I thought he might. Nor did he try to reassure me that it had all been a mistake. A momentary lapse. Maybe something about a blunder in the heat of passion, something he would always regret. But the moment passed, and he said nothing.

  I walked to the window, pulled back the drape, and peered into the rainy midnight sky. A jagged streak split the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the room. I bowed my face into my hands, and remained utterly still. Zeb moved closer and circled me with one arm.

  “How can you suggest sending me to the hospital when it’s you who’s caused my darkness?”

  “Me?” he said with a soft laugh. “Darling, it’s you who’s driven me away. Perhaps I’ve needed someone who doesn’t dwell only on herself and her own problems.”

  I spun, tearing his arm away from my shoulders, and pushed against his chest with both my hands. “How dare you blame me for your indiscretion!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re not taking me anywhere,” I muttered. “You have no right.”

  “I have every right.”

  “I’m not ill. I see that now. It’s you, not me.”

  A downpour of rain pounded the roof above us; until it passed, neither of us spoke. Another jagged lightning bolt did a macabre dance across the sky, followed by a low rumbling clap of thunder that kept building in intensity until it caused the windows to rattle. All the while I pondered the fact that he was set on blaming me, looking for a cause that spoke of my instability, not his guilt.

  When the rain had died enough for us to hear, Zeb spoke again. “You haven’t met my needs,” he said at last. “Been the helpmeet I needed. I should have listened to those who warned me …” His voice trailed off, lost in the ping and patter of rain on the eaves.

  Something inside me died. The wasted years, a future without love or hope. “But you came for me,” I said. “If it hadn’t been for you I would never have left home.”

  “I thought you loved me,” he said, his voice cold and hollow in the dark of the room. “Perhaps my love died when I found out yours never existed.” I heard him step to the door. Seconds later it clicked closed behind him.

  Still dressed, I curled on the top of my bedclothes, willing the sweet depths of sleep to overtake me. I lay still, lulled by the waves of rainfall crossing the roof. Trees near the house creaked and groaned in the wind, and the rain slashed hard against my window.

  It was then I heard a sound from the corner of the room.

  Do not be afraid, child. For in the night my song will be with you.

  “Who is it?” I whispered, clutching my bedclothes to my bosom, wondering if it was truly a voice I heard … or my imagination. Perhaps I was dreaming.

  I am the One who never leaves you, who never forsakes you.

  “You are the same One who was there that day. That time beneath the chestnut tree?”

  I am with you always, even unto the ends of the earth, beloved. Even till then.

  His voice, so familiar, so strong and sweet, filled me. “I’m afraid,” I whispered. “In the depths of my spirit I tremble.”

  Do not fear the dark, my daughter. I am here.

  “Are you my da?” I choked back the long-dormant sorrow that seeped into my heart. There was no answer.

  Then I jumped as a clap of thunder rattled the room and roused me from my sleep. I sat up, staring into the corner. “Are you there?” I whispered. “Are you still with me?”

  I heard no answer, but peace, as comforting and soft as a blanket, settled over me. I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I pondered it awhile and had nearly drifted off to sleep when a new thought came to me.

  I must leave! I must put as much distance between my husband and me as possible. He and Jeannie could have each other. I didn’t care. I shouldn’t have married Zeb in the first place. I would leave and start over again. Let my husband start over … with Jeannie.

  The peace of moments earlier disappeared, and I was at once filled with both self-pity and self-righteousness. I would fill my heart with music and fill my heart with the glory of my mountains. I didn’t need Zeb. I didn’t need all he had given me.

  I am here, beloved. Give me your heart, your life, your darkness.

  I swung my feet over the side of the bed just as downstairs the grandfather clock struck four. Time was short. Zeb would rise by five, heading to the barn to feed his horses. An ashen light was already tingeing the rain-laden skies.

  Do not run away.

  Pulling a valise from my wardrobe, I quickly stuffed enough clothes to get back to Sycamore Creek. I washed at my basin, changed into fresh traveling clothes, threw a cape over my shoulders, and started for the door. Then I remembered the tuning keys and dulcimer drawings and turned back to retrieve them from Poppy’s wooden chest in my bureau drawer.

  Long ago I had designed a small leather pouch with a long neck ribbon to hold the keys close to my heart. I pulled out the pouch, folded the drawings and bank receipt, and looped the ribbon around my neck, tying it securely. The pouch fell securely into place beneath
my chemise. I refastened my shirtwaist, tucked it into my skirt, and slipped into the hallway and down the stairs. I tiptoed to the library, my cape over my arm, valise on the other. I was careful of every board that creaked or groaned beneath my weight.

  Almost afraid to breathe, I opened the middle drawer in Zeb’s desk and rummaged for the key. A moment later, I touched its cool metal and pulled it out. I hurried across the room to the painting, lifted it from the wall, and leaned it against the desk.

  I fumbled with the key, dropping it in my hurry, then finally finding the keyhole. I turned it once the wrong direction, then turned the opposite way until it clicked. The safe door swung open.

  First I counted enough bills to buy a train ticket to Dover Town from the small box at the back of the drawer. Then I searched quickly through the stack of papers for Poppy’s deed. Frowning, I lifted them all out and placed them on Zeb’s desk and lighted a lamp.

  The sky was turning paler by the minute, and my heart pounded with fear of Zeb’s discovery. Holding my breath, I sorted through the papers. Once. Twice. Then again to be sure I had not missed the deed.

  It was not there. I looked again, then sat back in dismay. Zeb’s final betrayal twisted my stomach nearly in two. I sat for a moment, my head in my hands, breathing slowly to calm the anger that burned deep inside. How dare he take my inheritance! He deserved to wake and find me gone.

  Do not run away, beloved. Trust me with your heart … your all …

  My heart still thudding with anger, I rose and stacked the papers in the safe, closed it, and replaced the framed painting of the English hunt.

  I had opened the desk drawer to replace the key when a familiar-looking envelope caught my eye. Puzzled, I pulled it out and held it beneath the lamplight. It was from Welsie True, addressed to me in her distinctive script, postmarked just two weeks ago. Its seal was broken, and the folded letter inside was rumpled as if hurriedly read and stuffed haphazardly into the envelope.

  Time was passing too swiftly for me to stop and read it now, so I placed the letter in my valise to read later. I closed the drawer and extinguished the light, then silently retraced my steps to the library door and headed through the dining room to the back porch.