Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  Fresh tears formed. She cleared her throat and stared at me. “I couldn’t go through with it.

  “You were giving up everything, your home, your life with Zeb. I thought of his love for you, and I dared to think that if I came to you, explained how it was, what I had done, maybe your love for him might be given a second chance.

  “I ran to the family carriage and drove as fast as I could to Zeb’s. I confessed everything. Before the words were out of my mouth, he rode like the wind to the train station. I prayed he would catch you in time, bring you back, let me explain to you my deception, my terrible deeds.”

  Michela fussed in her cradle, and I crossed the room to pick her up. When she was cradled in my arms, I sat again and rocked her gently.

  Jeannie was openly weeping now. “But he never came back.”

  “He boarded the train.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “The brakeman said he grabbed the rail of the caboose as it moved past him. He was so distraught they feared for his safety if he tried to move to the next car. With the storm and all …” She didn’t finish.

  “They found his body?” For a heartbeat I prayed that maybe he’d lived … that maybe he had gone looking for me … not telling anyone he was alive.

  Her gaze never leaving mine, Jeannie shook her head. “His body was found.”

  I swallowed hard, looking away from her beseeching eyes, concentrating on my nursing infant.

  “Fairwyn,” she whispered, coming toward me. Reaching my lap, she dropped to her knees, looking at me with so much anguish and fear and sorrow I thought I couldn’t bear to look.

  “Will you … can you … forgive me?” she whispered.

  My heartache, my failed marriage, Zeb’s life … so much of it attributed to Jeannie’s deception. She had loved Zeb too much. Even now his flaws were covered by the haze of her love for him. My own doubts about myself—my fears of failure, my certainty that Zeb couldn’t love someone like me—had played right into her hands. I stared at her now, wondering how different my life, Zeb’s and my life together, might have been without her meddling.

  Jeannie. My friend. I thought of the hours she had spent in our home, talking and laughing with me, reading and discussing books, speaking of our mutual passion for learning. Listening when I told her my fears and sorrows. My friend had betrayed me.

  Forgive others as I forgive you, beloved.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she started to get up, certain that I couldn’t do what she asked.

  She was no different from me. She was human. Her choices hadn’t been the right ones any more than mine had been. Yet at this moment, her courage shone bright. She didn’t have to tell me any of this. I would never have known.

  I reached out one hand, clasped hers as she stood, releasing it as she walked back to the window seat. “My own failures are great,” I said. “It’s hard to forgive without also asking your forgiveness.”

  “For your deception?” she asked.

  I nodded. “You know then?”

  “I suspected that you didn’t die in the wreck. Your body wasn’t found, which made me wonder. After what I did, I was determined to follow you, find you, and tell you everything.” She fell quiet and turned to stare out at the fountain. “After … after Zeb was … killed, I knew I couldn’t live with myself, if I didn’t find you.”

  “You weren’t surprised to see me.” I lifted Michela to my left shoulder and patted her back as I rocked. Smiling at her tiny burp, I snuggled my head close to hers and continued rocking.

  “I feigned surprise for the sake of Zebulon and Charlotte. But when you fell sick and I thought you might die too, I told them everything. Including the fact that I hired an agent to search for you in California. He found Welsie True’s home, asked around the town of San Juan. It didn’t take him long to find someone who described you, even giving your name.”

  Zebbie was fussing now in his cradle, and Jeannie stood to fetch him. She rocked him gently in her arms as she paced the room. “I just hadn’t decided what to do with the information,” she said. “I didn’t know whether to travel there … or wait until you came home. All I knew was that to be rid of my own darkness, I had to find you. Beg you to forgive me.”

  “I forgive you,” I said. “But Jeannie …” She turned, her head tilted affectionately toward the baby. “Have you forgiven yourself?”

  She sat down on the window seat, now holding Zebbie against one shoulder and patting his back. He sucked one fist, making hungry, fussing sounds. I smiled and we traded babies. She went back to the window seat to change Michela’s diaper, while I nursed my son. “I don’t think I can,” she said. “After all that I’ve done … the hurt I’ve caused others …”

  I settled back in the rocker, the baby making little sucking sounds in the back of his throat. A wave of tenderness enveloped me. “Let me tell you about a bridge I heard of in California,” I said.

  She shot me a puzzled look, then finished pinning the diaper and picked up Michela. “A bridge?”

  I laughed. “You wouldn’t think such a thing would be life changing. But it was.”

  Jeannie sat down again with the baby, staring down at her sweet face with awe.

  “You see, it has to do with God’s mercy … his forgiveness.”

  “Tell me,” she said. And I did.

  Oak Hill

  July 1, 1888

  Dearest Micheil,

  Your letters lift my heart! Half the time they’re more filled with sea shanties than facts about the ranch or San Juan. I can almost hear ye singin’ the words, with your deep Irish brogue. ’Tis almost like sitting with you, my friend, listening to your music and laughter and talk.

  The days are passing quickly. Spring utterly disappeared in the midst of changing diapers, feeding the twins, changing the diapers again. And again. Rocking and singing. And changing diapers. Again.

  You once said I might be carrying twins. At the time I thought it a wondrous idea indeed. A family, readymade, since I would not be having any more. But now, I worry I can’t keep up with them. Already they’re running me ragged, and they’ve not yet begun to walk!

  Oh, but you should hear how they quiet down at night. When they fuss, I pull out the dulcimer and sing, sitting cross-legged in the center of my bed, strumming and humming. I always end with “Greensleeves,” which seems to lull them to sleep better than any other. And while I sing, I remember that grand day the swallows returned to the mission.

  I plan to stay on with Zebulon and Charlotte until the babies are strong enough to travel. I have become closer to Zeb’s parents than I ever thought possible. They dote over the babies and me, spoiling us all with their love.

  The twins are now round and rosy-cheeked. Oh, how I wish you could see them, Micheil. By the first of June they were smiling and cooing, and now they’re laughing out loud. Their eyes follow me across the room, making me want to kick up my heels and dance. And they’ve just begun to reach up for me to hold them, their little arms waving like windmills. My heart turns cartwheels in rhythm with them, and I almost forget to breathe because of my joy!

  I know by the end of summer you will head into the high country for the roundup. It will also be a sign that Ireland calls. You promised me you would stay for these “seasons,” and I will forever be grateful.

  My time here is coming to a close as well, dear friend. Next letter you write to me, please send to me in care of general delivery at Sycamore Creek. I will then give you a full report on my journey to Blackberry Mountain with the twins.

  Until then, I remain

  Your friend,

  Fairwyn True Deforest

  I settled onto the upholstered horsehair bench in the first car of the train, my dulcimer in a large valise to one side, my smaller case with my clothes on the other, two more piled atop holding baby clothes and extra diaper cloths. Facing me, on the opposite bench, were two small wicker baskets, sitting side by side, that Zebulon had made in Oak Hill. Each held a twin. Bright-eyed, the
y gurgled and cooed, hands moving like swallowtail butterflies in the spring.

  I bent forward to the window, searching for Zebulon and Charlotte. They spotted me and waved. Charlotte was crying and blowing kisses. I smiled and blew one back.

  Around me, the other passengers spoke of their journeys. Children scrambled to get closer to windows. Voices rose. Laughter and squeals, murmurs of mothers talking to their children, businessmen to each other about their fields.

  Across from me a woman met my eyes and smiled, then lost herself in the book open on her lap. Beside her an old man adjusted his hat low on his forehead, leaned back and closed his eyes to rest. Ordinary people, ordinary sights and sounds, just like the journey I began a year ago when I boarded in the rainstorm.

  Back then I didn’t know the fragility of life … or know the light that shone on the far side of the darkness.

  We pulled away from Oak Hill station, snaking through the center of town, past the red-soil earth and the acres of tall corn ready for harvest, past the rolling green hills and silver-hued river. The train gained speed, and soon the small town with its proud history lay far behind me.

  Strange, I thought, how when I arrived from California I feared that truth would destroy me.

  Instead it had set me free.

  Michela started to fuss, and I reached for her hand. She gripped my index finger tightly. Just like God has hold of me, I thought with a smile.

  Dover Town

  August 7, 1888

  Dearest Micheil,

  Because of the proximity of a post office, I decided to write to you tonight and post this letter in the morning before the twins and I head into the mountains. They are sound asleep here in our hotel room, though the saloon next door is raucous. A tinny piano plays, and from time to time a group of merrymakers spills into the street below our window. Yet Zebbie and Michela sleep on …

  I bought a horse, a sturdy chestnut mare, and a pack mule to hold our clothes and other belongings. I can fasten the twins’ baskets to my saddle, one on either side. They’ll be close enough to touch if they fuss, and safer with me than on the mule. We will be a sight to behold once packed up. Because the mining companies have improved the trails, in some cases making new ones, I believe I can make the trek in one long day. I will begin before dawn and, Lord willing, arrive at Poppy’s cabin by dark.

  There’s a promise of a full moon to light the way if the mists don’t settle, which will ease the night journey. And I have brought a lantern, should we need it.

  My friend, I can’t help but wish California was my destination. It’s all I can do to keep from boarding the train tomorrow morning and heading west.

  But Selah is getting up in years. She’s my great-aunt, Welsie True’s sister, and I want to see after her for all her days. There’s also the matter of the feud between the Marches and Trues, something I would like to straighten out. I can hear your laughter now at such grand ambition!

  But California calls, with its windswept lands and great big sparkling ocean. My little cottage and the barrio around it, all of it remains in my heart, and will until the day I die.

  Enough thoughts of melancholy from me. I meant to cheer you, my friend, as the time for Ireland nears. I’ve begun a new prayer, one I hope will not offend you. I am praying that by some wondrous intervention by God, you will be absolved of all charges, that you will be free to return to San Juan and the work you’ve begun there.

  Forgive me, for I know why you return, but I pray for such a miracle each night before I go to sleep.

  It is ten o’clock. The tinny piano plays on, and my little angels are not even stirring. I think I shall pull out my dulcimer and play a lively Irish jig to drown out the noise below.

  You remain in my prayers tonight and always.

  And I remain

  Your friend,

  Fairwyn True Deforest

  Thirty-Three

  With the babies wrapped snug and safe in their wicker carriers beside me, I yanked on the rope that tethered the mule behind the mare. We climbed quickly and soon found ourselves deep in the hardwood forest, making our way through the poplars, chestnuts, and maple trees. On either side of the trail grew red fern spread over miniature forests of mushrooms hidden beneath. The scents of decaying leaves and loamy soil filled my nostrils.

  Gnats danced around my head. I shooed them away from the babies until the buzzing disappeared in the clearings. Upward, ever upward we climbed, sometimes crossing valleys sprinkled with farmhouses, other times riding for an hour or more with no sign of civilization.

  I headed the chestnut mare to an outcropping of rock. I halted her and slid off the saddle, stretching my legs. Zebbie slept, but Michela chortled, chewing on her hand. I lifted her from the basket and cradled her in my arm to feed her. When I had finished, Zebbie was awake and ready. It took me nearly an hour to feed them both and change them, an hour I hadn’t planned on.

  I looked up at the sun, gauging my time. This time when I placed the babies in their baskets, I covered their faces lightly with flannel blankets, hoping they would fall asleep again. Zebbie did, but Michela howled and fussed so loud she made the mule’s ears flick and the mare snort nervously. A half-hour later, she settled to a whimper, then slept soundly.

  I reined the horse onto level ground, still keeping to the trail. My eyes drank in the beauty of the pink sea of rhododendrons on a slope in the distance. It was known by the hunters in Sycamore Creek that deer got caught in them, unable to move in one direction or another because of their thick foliage. An adult deer could starve to death right there in the middle of beauty and fragrance.

  I shuddered and moved on down the trail.

  Beyond the rhododendrons, the lavender mountains faded into the pale blue summer sky. I halted the horse at the final outlook above the valley where Sycamore Creek lay tucked up against the mountains bathed in sunlight, deceptively bright in the slant of the afternoon sun.

  I thought back to the sad stories that Micheil had told me of my kinfolk. It struck me now that beauty covered our darkness, the feuds and fighting and death that had passed through the generations.

  I nudged the horse with my heels and headed her back to the trail.

  After three more stops to care for the babies, and once for me to eat a packed lunch and drink from a clear stream, we finally rode through Sycamore Creek. I stopped for supplies at the mercantile, holding the babies while I instructed wide-eyed Dearly Forbes, who was minding the shop, what to pack. Still grinning ear to ear, he strapped the provisions to the mule while I fastened the twins in their baskets.

  “Glad ye’re back, Fairwyn March!” he shouted after me as I pressed my heels into the horse’s flanks. “Ye’ve sure got yerself some purty lap babies there.”

  I waved gaily and then turned in the saddle as we headed up the trace. The mule ambled on behind us.

  The sun was hanging low as we started up the trace to Blackberry Creek, and dusk had settled in, misty and gray, before we arrived in the meadow. I halted the mare and drew in a deep breath.

  There, on the far side of the meadow, at the edge of the thick canopy of forest, sat Poppy’s cabin, squat and solid. A fresh tangle of kudzu grew up one side and cascaded from the roof on the other.

  Grinning, I urged the horse to move faster across the grassy meadow. We drew to a halt in front of the cabin. The babies were sleeping, but I carefully removed the baskets, and set them one by one on the porch, followed by our supplies. Unburdened and unsaddled, mule and horse headed a short way into the meadow to feed.

  Next I lit the lantern and held it up while I opened the door. The place smelled slightly musty and looked to have recently been cleared of dust. Everything was the same, Poppy’s iron bedstead in one corner, mine kitty-cornered to his, two wooden chairs before the cold and empty fireplace.

  The books Welsie True had sent me through the years lined the small bookshelf by the fireplace, and I ran my fingers lovingly over their spines, thinking how she had loved me all tho
se years. I pulled down Great Expectations and tried to flip it open. A stench of mildew filled the room, and huge clumps of pages stuck together. Grimacing, I quickly placed it back on the shelf. Likely everything in Poppy’s cabin would need replacing if we stayed, from furniture to dishes and eating utensils.

  I set the lantern on the table and looked around, worried about mice or any other critters that might have taken over the cabin. Again, I noticed it looked surprisingly clean to have been shut up for so long.

  I brought in the twins from the porch, placing their baskets on the table to serve as cradles. Weary beyond imagining, I settled onto a chair between them, dropping my head onto my folded arms.

  Hours later I woke to the hoot owls calling. A big moon had risen over the meadow. I picked up my dulcimer and went out to the porch. My fingers moved almost of their own accord as I played. I started with songs taught me by my Granny Nana and Poppy, then moved on to some I’d written myself, and finally, just as dawn’s gray light crept over the silhouettes of the trees, I strummed “Greensleeves.”

  Everything seemed so easy and pleasant as the sun rose above the meadow, causing the dew to sparkle and chase away the mists that shrouded the trees. I had a strong hankering for eggs, some of Selah Jones’s perfect brown eggs, laid by her prized chickens. I stretched and headed back into the dark cabin.

  That’s when dismay settled into my heart. I gazed around the inside of the cabin. Cracks of light showed through the weathered boards. One of the windows was broken, and the floorboards cracked and moved beneath the pressure of my feet. When the babies learned to crawl, it couldn’t be on that floor. I shuddered, thinking of the splinters, the spiders, and worse.

  The babies were awake now, calling me with their coos and gurgles. As I hurried into the house, the full extent of the cleaning and fixing drew me nearly to despair.

  I fed Zebbie first, sitting by the table while Michela fussed. Her fuss turned to a louder cry. Red-faced, she complained, waving her little fists in the air. I burped Zebbie, laid him in his basket, tucked the blanket around him, and picked up Michela.