Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  For a moment, there wasn’t a sound in the courtyard except the soft burrs of the swallows. I lifted my face to see Micheil standing with his arms outstretched as he pronounced a blessing on the gathering. His beloved voice, with its thick brogue, carried on the wind, mixing with the rustle of pepper leaves and coo of the flocks above us.

  His weary, lined face was filled with deep conviction, his voice with great courage. I shivered and prayed again for his safekeeping.

  Later, after the vaqueros and señoritas had performed their dance, the children shouted that it was their turn to sing. They scrambled onto the platform, first singing in their native tongue to the music of the Spanish guitars. When they finished, Rosa hopped from the riser, took my hand, and led me to my place just below them.

  A few days earlier I’d taught them “The Bird Song” in honor of the swallows. It had quickly replaced “The Old Gray Goose” as their favorite. I hummed a note so they would begin in the same key and then lifted my hand.

  They watched my fingers just as I’d taught them, and when I brought my hand downward, they began to sing, shyly at first, then gaining speed and gusto. Nando wiggled his way to the center of the front row. He opened his mouth wide and sang at the top of his lungs, drowning out the others.

  Hi! says the blackbird, sitting on a chair,

  Once I courted a lady fair;

  She proved fickle and turned her back,

  And ever since then I’m dressed in black.

  Giggling, the children went on to sing verses about the blue jay, the leather-winged bat, the woodpecker on the fence, and the little mourning dove, each verse striking them as sillier and merrier than the last.

  Nita stepped forward and opened her eyes wide, her thumbs and fingers forming round circles like spectacles atop her nose. The others hummed while she sang the next verse alone.

  Hi! says the owl with eyes so big,

  If I had a hen I’d feed like a pig;

  But here I sit on a frozen stake,

  Which causes my poor heart to ache.

  The audience laughed and clapped. The children finished the final verse together, first pointing to the roosting swallows, then standing tall with hands on hips and waggling their elbows like wings.

  Hi! says the swallow, sitting in a barn,

  Courting, I think, is no harm.

  I pick my wings and sit up straight …

  When the song was over the children bowed and marched from the platform.

  “Now you, señora,” Nando said heading straight toward me. “It is your turn. You promised.”

  Micheil carried a chair to the platform and placed it in the center. Then, taking my hand, he helped me step onto the small riser and be seated. The children settled on the ground below me, their parents, brothers, and sisters slightly behind. A hush fell as I began to strum.

  The tone was perfect, mellow and sweet. I shivered with delight, unable to stop smiling. It was finished, it was! As whole and beautiful as I’d imagined it would be. I let my fingers dance over the strings, closing my eyes and listening to the tone I’d missed.

  The dulcimer Zeb had given me, the music it played, seemed shallow and empty compared to the rich tones floating from this instrument. I glanced up at Micheil, who was heading from the platform to sit with the children. His expression said that his delight in the sound was nearly as great at mine.

  I strummed up and down the fingerboard, playing the first chords of “Greensleeves” and watching the faces of the little children kneeling in front of me. The song, dating back to sixteenth-century England, was familiar to Micheil. He smiled and nodded in time with the music.

  I purposely didn’t sing out loud, but instead, lost myself in the haunting beauty of the melody, letting the lyrics play only in my mind. Greensleeves was all my joy … Greensleeves was my delight … Greensleeves was my heart of gold … Still strumming, I glanced down at the children, who had draped themselves over Micheil. Rosa rested her cheek on one shoulder; Juan hung on the other. Nita sat in his lap. Carlos played with the vaquero hat, lifting it and dropping it back onto Micheil’s head in perfect rhythm with the music. Jaime leaned against one arm.

  The sight of Micheil surrounded by the children made my throat tighten, and I swallowed the sting. Cradling the dulcimer, I slowed the tempo, still strumming softly, almost as in a lullaby.

  Though he didn’t sing the words out loud, Micheil’s lips formed the words of the final chorus, his expression solemn as he kept his gaze on mine.

  Greensleeves, now farewell! Adieu!

  God I pray to prosper thee …

  I boarded the first train east the following morning.

  Thirty

  The train pulled into the station in Oak Hill at 11:13 A.M. the following Thursday.

  From the corner of my eye I saw the stationmaster give me a curious glance as I walked past his counter, my face slightly averted. In my present state, I didn’t think I would be recognized. But I needed to be careful. I didn’t want the word spread that I was back. Not yet. I would find out soon enough if Oak Hill thought me dead or if Zeb had tracked me to California and let it be known that I had deserted him. When I ran into the first old acquaintance, the resulting expression would answer the question: A look of horror would tell me they thought me a haunt. Disdain would tell me Zeb had indeed discovered I was alive.

  I hired a carriage at the stables across from the train station, and soon I was heading down the dusty road to town. I directed the driver to take me to a rundown boardinghouse on the outskirts, a place where Zeb and his colleagues would have no connection.

  My valise in one hand, I paid the driver with the other and waved him off before turning to assess the front of the graying, two-story town house. It certainly wasn’t of the same distinction as the imposing Deforest home on Bank Street, or Jeannie’s family estate a few blocks over.

  I stepped to the front door and knocked. A small woman with white hair and a face like a dried-apple doll opened the door a few minutes later.

  “I need a room for the night …” I hesitated. “Possibly longer.”

  She frowned, looking me up and down and finally settling her gaze on my round abdomen. “What’s your business in Oak Hill?”

  Her question stopped me. I hadn’t expected it. Worse, I didn’t know how to answer. “Family here,” I finally mumbled, knowing she likely would wonder why I wasn’t staying with them.

  “Estranged family,” I added with a small smile.

  She patted my arm. “Never mind an old woman’s questions, dear. Come in, come in.” She stood back to let me enter the house. “My name’s Geneva Zacharias.” Her cheeks wrinkled into a smile. “You can call me Eva. All my boarders do.”

  “My name is Fairwyn,” I said. “Fairwyn March.”

  Eva’s forehead furrowed in thought. “Fairwyn … now that’s an unusual name. Heard tell of someone else in this town with that same name. Now isn’t that something?”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “She was married to that Deforest professor out at Providence College.” She peered into my eyes. “You heard of the college?”

  “Yes ma’am. I have.”

  She chuckled. “Well, that Fairwyn, the other Fairwyn, has a reputation just about as far and wide.” She turned to lead me up the stairs.

  “What have you heard, about that other Fairwyn, I mean?”

  Eva moved slowly upward, taking two small steps on each stair, hanging onto the banister as she went. “Well now, I’m not at all certain what I’ve heard is the gospel truth—but I think she’s one of those what died in that there train wreck last year.” She shook her head. “Sad, sad time it was. So many lost here in town. Over in Dover Town, I heard tell, they lost more’n we did.”

  Eva stopped at the top of the stairs, pinching her little knot of white hair at her neck to make sure the hairpins were still in place, then moved slowly on down the dark hallway. I followed, breathing heavily as I climbed the stairs.
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  Eva waited for me at the door to the first bedroom on the right. I looked in and sighed when I saw the iron bedstead. The train ride across the country had taken its toll on me, and I was weary.

  The bed graced one end of the perfectly square room. It was covered by a faded log-cabin quilt and flanked by two small scarred tables. An ancient wardrobe stood opposite the bed. And between the two, a worn curtain draped across the room’s single window.

  Eva fussed around the room, opening the wardrobe doors, pointing out the basin and towels, and chattering on about the necessary that was outdoors behind the peach tree.

  She tottered to the open door, then hesitated and turned, looking worried. “Child, you look close to your time.”

  I nodded. “I am.”

  “You plan to have your child here? See a local doctor?”

  My cheeks warmed as I realized how unprepared I was. My focus had been on getting to Oak Hill before my labor pains began, not on what would happen once I arrived. “I-I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  Her face softened somewhat. “You need to think about it. I’ve had experience with such things. You look like you could have your baby any day.”

  I felt the room begin to spin and reached for the iron footboard of the bed to steady myself. “I am tired. It’s been a long, long journey.”

  When she left I dropped to the edge of the bed and sat for a long while, thinking about Zeb, wondering how I should first contact him. I rose and walked to the window and lifted the heavy sash to let the spring breezes sweep in.

  A tightening rippled across my stomach. I caught my breath until it passed.

  I had to see him. Now. It couldn’t wait, even till morning as I had planned. Feeling faint, I crossed the room to the basin, poured water in my hands and splashed it on my face. Then straightening the skirts of my voluminous smock, I headed slowly for the door.

  Shortly later, I walked slowly along the road to the heart of Oak Hill to the livery at the corner of Central and West Bank Street. The proprietor was asleep, sitting on a bale of hay. I touched his arm, and he jumped, looking sheepish.

  “I need a buggy for the afternoon. And a driver.”

  “Yes ma’am. Got just the thing.” He stumbled to the corral and led out a high-stepping black mare. “I’ll give you the fanciest one we got. But I ain’t got no driver. You’ll have to do the honors yourself.”

  My arms and legs ached from days of sitting on the bench in the coach car and trying to stretch out in the small sleeper at night. The thought of managing a horse, even flicking the reins, brought the smart of tears.

  “I don’t need fancy,” I said. “Just gentle. Manageable.”

  Minutes later he had hitched up a quieter horse and helped me into the carriage. Gritting my teeth in determination, I forgot my discomfort and snapped the reins over the back of the old piebald mare, heading her to the south of town. The more I tried to guide her, the more rapid the flicking of one ear. I headed her onto the familiar road leading to our property, winding through the spring-green hills and across the wildflower-strewn fields.

  The spring scents raised my spirits; and instead of past failures, I focused on our new start. I pushed the thought of the asylum from my mind as I flicked the reins over the piebald. She lifted her head and shook her mane with a low sputtering whinny, one ear flicking backward.

  “All right, girl,” I said with a laugh, “have it your way.” I let her set the pace, and surprisingly she ambled along with ease.

  The closer I got to our acreage, the harder my heart beat against my ribs, to the point of causing a dull ache. I slowed the mare, and she let me know her displeasure with another flick of her ears.

  I reined the piebald to the side of the road and let two carriages pass me. I flicked the reins again and headed the mare toward the house. When I was a half-mile away, I stopped, surprised to see the place looking deserted. The fenced pasture where Zeb kept the Arabian horses was empty, the grass overgrown. My gardens near the back porch entrance were a tangle of wild growth.

  I halted the piebald near the barn and eased myself to the ground. Still puzzled by the deserted look of the house, I walked closer. The curtains were drawn tight, the winter storm windows still in place. I stepped to the front door and knocked.

  Perhaps Zeb was ill. Even so, he would have hired servants to keep up the place, tidy the yard, care for the horses, open the windows. I looked around the high, grassy lawns, frowning that he would let such a thing go. It wasn’t like Zeb at all.

  I knocked again, but no footsteps sounded from inside. Perhaps he had gone on a trip, an extended European tour. He had always talked of the two of us visiting England one day.

  Still searching for answers, I skirted the house, through the gardens, to the back door. A small notice had been posted in the window, facing out. Curious, I stepped closer and bent to read it.

  Grand Estate Auction

  April 7, 1888, 10:30 A.M. to 5:00 P.M.

  Owners Deceased

  Owners deceased? I frowned and reread the notice. Zeb must have sold our home after he thought I died. That was the only logical explanation. The new owners had died, thus the notice.

  Resting my hand on my stomach, I read the notice again, and then turned away, still puzzling over Zeb’s being gone, over the notice that left too many unanswered questions.

  I climbed into the carriage and turned the mare toward the road. As she trotted alongside the house, a sadness settled deep inside me. I craned to look back as we passed, trying to conjure up happy memories, but they didn’t come. Instead, my heartaches and fears lined up in legion, waiting to march against the newfound joy in my heart.

  I chirked to the mare, and once we were on the main road, she moseyed along at her own clip-clopping speed. The wheels creaked as we hit a rut. I braced myself, glad the mare was moving no faster.

  We reached the outskirts of town and I reined the horse to the side of the road. I didn’t have the courage to do what was next. I didn’t! I turned to look back at the house, now lying deep in the shadows of the setting sun.

  “I can’t do it,” I muttered to myself, picturing Zebulon II and Charlotte when they saw me. “I can’t.”

  I watched the shadows deepen, the red sunset fade to amber and gold, then to a deep lavender gray.

  The mare flicked her ears impatiently. I sighed and reined her back onto the road. As dusk fell, we reached into town. I turned the piebald onto Bank Street, flicking the reins to urge her forward.

  Soon the Deforest mansion rose before me in the ashen light. Biting my lip nervously, I chirked to the mare once again and turned her onto the curved road leading to the wide porch.

  A light glowed in the parlor window. Jeannie stood by it, facing Charlotte and Zebulon, who were just entering the room.

  I stepped from the buggy and walked to the front of the house. I climbed the stairs, grasping the handrail for support. Inside, I heard the low voices of Zeb’s father and mother, and Jeannie’s higher, musical tone.

  I lifted my hand to the brass doorknocker and hesitated. I didn’t want to frighten them. I also had to admit I didn’t want to face their hostility when they found out, if they didn’t know already, that I had chosen to deceive Zeb.

  The full impact of my deception swept over me, and I almost fell to my knees in despair. The baby kicked and rolled, and I touched the rippling spot, taking some comfort in the movement beneath my hands.

  Finally I tapped the knocker, once, twice … then again. The sound cut through the frog chorus from the side garden and the cricket song from across the wide lawn.

  The conversation inside quieted, and after a moment I heard footsteps coming toward me. A moment later, the door opened.

  Zebulon Deforest II stood before me, a puzzled look on his face. He obviously didn’t recognize me.

  I bit my lip and stared at him, thinking of all the words I’d practiced saying to Zeb when we met. Never once had I considered I might first see his father and mother
instead. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes?” he said, peering into the dimly lit porch. “Can I help you?”

  “It’s Fairwyn,” I finally whispered. “I’ve come home.”

  His eyes bored in on me, and he didn’t make a sound. Behind us the crickets screeched. “Is Zeb with you?”

  I cocked my head, thinking I hadn’t heard him correctly. “Zeb?”

  “Who is it, dear?” Charlotte called from the parlor. “Do we have guests?”

  His gaze was still fixed on me, unblinking, unbelieving. “Fairwyn,” he said softly, shaking his head. Then his gaze moved from my eyes to my toes, and he looked back, stunned. “A baby?” he breathed, incredulous.

  “Zebulon?” Charlotte called again. “Is everything all right?” I heard her footsteps approaching and braced myself. She took her place beside her husband and stared blankly into my face.

  “It’s Fairwyn,” Zebulon murmured.

  “It can’t be—” She halted, and took a step closer. “Fairwyn?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Fairwyn?” She frowned, looking me over. “Whatever … ? How can this …?” Finally she gave up trying to comprehend the impossible and reached for my hands.

  When she had drawn me inside, she asked the same strange question her husband had asked. “Is Zeb with you?” Without waiting for my answer, she drew me into an embrace. “Please tell me he is,” she said. Her shoulders trembled, and it seemed as if she was weeping softly.

  I drew back, confused. “No,” I said as gently as I could. “No, he isn’t.”

  Jeannie stood in the parlor doorway, her face pale, her expression troubled, as she watched the reunion.

  I had last seen her on the day I found her in Zeb’s arms.

  Her eyes filled. “We thought you were dead.” She stepped toward me and took my hands.

  I fought the urge to withdraw mine. “We thought”—her tears were spilling now—“that you died.” She shook her head slowly. “The stationmaster said you were on the train.”

  How could I tell them what I’d done? I looked from Jeannie’s face into Charlotte’s tragic, white face, then to Zebulon’s lined haggard face. Their grief was still raw. Was it all for me?