by Mary Davis
“Are you all right?”
Papa’s words jerked her back to the present. “What?”
“You have been standing there, staring out the window, unmoving, for fifteen minutes with that towel in your hands.”
She looked down at the cloth twisted into a tight ball. She set it aside.
“Now, Rachel,” Papa said in that coddling voice he sometimes used with her when he wanted to convince her of something, “you know that it is what is on the inside of a man that counts.”
“Yes, Papa.”
When someone knocked at the door, she opened it to Henry Olson and almost gasped but stopped herself in time. His face had the misfortune of getting in the way of a freckle attack. Freckles were on top of freckles, bleeding into one another, all vying for space. It would be easier to count the spots of pale skin than count the freckles. And then there was his hair. Though trimmed short, it was as orange as carrots. Maybe that was why he kept it short, so it wouldn’t be blinding.
He spoke very softly when he spoke at all.
Once everyone sat down at the table and the blessing was said, the food was passed around and plates were filled.
No one spoke for a minute or two until Papa said, “Henry, tell my daughter what you do.”
Henry put down his fork, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, replaced the napkin on his lap and lifted his gaze to hers. His voice was so low she had to strain to hear him. “I work at the bank.” He picked up his fork and resumed eating.
Papa smiled. “A good job. He owns his own home, as well.”
Henry once again set down his fork and dabbed his mouth before speaking. “Technically, the bank owns it until I pay off the mortgage.”
Supper was slow and relatively quiet. Sitting in the parlor after supper wasn’t much better. Henry seemed like a sweet fellow. She could find no fault with him. She would try extra hard to like this one. Allow Papa to invite him back.
That thought caused a hollow place to open up inside her, and she thought about Charles. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, her daydreams always drifted back to him. The harder she tried to forget him, the more she thought about him. Why? He was only a friend.
Though Henry hadn’t been there long, he stood. “I’ve had a lovely time.”
“You’re leaving?”
He nodded.
And with that he left.
She was a little disappointed. If he’d stayed longer, maybe she could have started caring for him and forgetting about Charles. But she doubted Henry could ever make her forget.
Papa came up to her and draped his arm around her shoulders. “He was a nice man. And he can provide well.”
“He was nice. But I’m not sure.”
“Don’t let all those freckles taint your opinion. Get to know him. Give him a chance.”
“I will, Papa.” She lifted her shawl off a peg and wrapped it around herself.
“Where are you going?”
“Out to the barn to see if I can find where Mariposa hid her kittens.”
“All right.” He kissed her forehead. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“I know.” Taking a lantern, she opened the door and stepped out into the cool, damp night air.
In the barn, Mariposa, a tricolor calico, wound between her legs. Rachel looked where she’d last seen Mariposa and her five kittens. They should be opening their eyes. But they weren’t there.
“Mariposa, where did you hide your kittens?” She set the lantern down and picked up the mama cat.
Mariposa started purring right away.
Then Rachel thought she heard something and listened. A faint mew. “Where are they, Mariposa?”
Rachel heard the mew again. The loft. “Mariposa, say it isn’t so. You didn’t carry your kittens up there?”
The cat, hearing her babies, jumped from Rachel’s arms.
Rachel watched the cat climb onto a crate, jump to a barrel and then onto a narrow ledge and leap across open space, landing easily on the edge of the loft.
Rachel grabbed the lantern, hurried up the ladder and heard the hay rustling in the far corner along with a mew. She headed over and found Mariposa nursing her kittens. She didn’t have the heart to take one of the kittens while it was feeding. So she sat down beside the mama and petted her. Mariposa leaned into Rachel’s hand and purred. “This is a good place. Winnie and Edith won’t be able to bother them up here. But is it safe once your babies start moving around?”
Rachel leaned her head back against the wall and closed her own eyes. Immediately, the image of Charles’s face came to mind. She successfully forced it away. Then the memory of his accent floated through her mind. She tried to banish it. “‘Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.’” Her love of Romeo and Juliet proved to be a hindrance.
She must concentrate on something else. Henry perhaps? No, she had thought enough about him for one evening. So she opened her eyes and focused on the cat. Her soft fur and gentle purring.
Another noise.
She shifted her gaze and listened hard. She heard it again. And then at the bottom of the ladder. “Papa?”
A head popped up above the floorboards. “Just me. May I come up?”
Charles! She jumped to her feet and trotted over. “Yes. What are you doing here?”
He finished the climb and stood in regular clothes. No signs of being an English officer. Only his accent betrayed his heritage. “You haven’t come to the camp in a while.”
It had been a month. Long. Lonely. Tedious. “I thought it best.”
“Best? Why?”
“I have no desire to start a war.”
“Neither do I. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Even though she shouldn’t be, she was so very glad he’d come. “Do you want to see some kittens?” She didn’t even wait for him to answer but led him over to the corner. She maneuvered through the hay to the other side of Mariposa and sat.
Charles sat where she’d been before. “What’s her name?”
“Mariposa.”
“Like the lily.”
“Yes.” She was surprised he knew that.
“How many kittens?”
“Five. You want to hold one?” She scooped up a black-and-white kitten who’d finished eating and was sleeping and plopped it into his hands.
“This fellow is cute. I like his white chin and whiskers.”
The kitten also had a white upper chest and white paws. He started mewing.
Mariposa disturbed her other four kittens from eating, which caused them to start mewing, and carefully took the kitten from Charles and put it back with the others.
Rachel looked at Charles, not knowing what to say. Though she was glad to see him, she couldn’t tell him so. He shouldn’t even be here. But she didn’t want him to go away. She had missed him. So she said nothing.
Charles also said nothing.
She thought the silence would be awkward, but somehow it wasn’t. At least at first. Then it became very awkward. She should say something. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You have done nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I went to English Camp. If I hadn’t gone, none of this would have happened.”
“You mean you’re sorry you met me.”
“No—I mean...” She conceded defeat to herself. “It would have been better if we hadn’t met.”
“Nothing has happened. No one knows. Is it so wrong to be friends?”
“Friends? Is that what we are?”
“Of course. What else would we be? And don’t say enemies.”
She wasn’t going to. “Friends.” This encounter was strange. Not like their others with the teasing and the bantering. She wanted to bring that back. The
fact that he had come here meant something different. Something more.
To return to their lighthearted banter and to test his true knowledge of Romeo and Juliet, she said, “‘O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.’”
He gave a soft laugh. “‘She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes / In shape no bigger than an agate-stone...’ Testing me?”
“A little.”
“So you have all of Romeo and Juliet committed to memory. And you like Jane Austen. Did you like Sir Walter Scott’s poems?”
“The ones I have read.”
“You haven’t read them all yet?”
“Poems are like juicy strawberries at the height of the season. They are meant to be savored. Eat them too quickly and you are never satisfied. I read one poem, over and over, each time I go.”
He shifted in the hay. “Do you have a favorite so far?”
“That would be like choosing one food. A cherry is as different from salmon as from bread or milk and yet they are all equally good in different ways. How would one choose?”
“I guess one couldn’t.” He picked up a piece of straw and rolled it between his fingers. “Name a poem you read that you liked.”
She pretended to think a moment but knew her favorite. “‘It Was an English Ladye Bright.’”
“I should have guessed.”
Tilting her head, she asked, “Why?”
“It is much like Romeo and Juliet. That is a good one.”
“Are there any bad ones?”
“There are a few I don’t care for. What other books have you read and liked?”
She scratched Mariposa’s neck. “I like the Brontë sisters.”
His eyes twinkled. “I should have guessed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Romeo and Juliet. You had a Jane Austen book with you the last time. ‘It Was an English Ladye Bright.’ The Brontës make sense. You are a true romantic.”
She was glad the lightheartedness was back.
“Would it be too forward of me to ask who that young man was tonight?”
She hadn’t expected Charles to have seen or known about the suitors. “You saw him?” She felt her cheeks warm. “How long have you been here?”
“I confess, quite some time. Is he someone special?” Charles broke off the end of the piece of straw.
She supposed it was forward of her to answer, but she wanted him to know. Needed him to know. “No, not special. Papa is determined to find me a husband.”
“So your father chose him. Is he nice?”
“I think so.”
“You spent the evening with him, and you don’t know?” He continued to break the straw.
“He was painfully shy.”
“He doesn’t sound like the manner of gentleman you would be content to marry.”
“Well, he was nicer than the others.”
“Others?”
Oh, yes, the others. Ones she had tried to forget. “Buck thinks that reading is a waste of time and that a wife is to bear children and work harder than he does.”
“He is obviously not a true gentleman or he would know that a lady is to be adored and taken care of. You got rid of him, I hope.”
“Yes, but I should warn you that he charges the English three times the price for his fruit than he charges Americans.”
“Ah, Mr. Anderson.” He picked up another piece of straw and pointed it toward her. “I’ve met him. And we know he charges us more. It’s all for the sake of peace. Who else?”
“Malcolm didn’t think I was pretty enough.” She would leave out him trying to steal a kiss. His opinion of her looks was embarrassing enough.
“He’s a liar, plain and simple,” Charles said matter-of-factly. “Who else?”
“Hugh had no job, no home and no ambition.”
“And he was no good.”
“Bernard and...and...oh, I forgot his name.”
“He obviously made a lasting impression.”
She giggled.
“It’s good you can laugh at all this.”
It was good to laugh. “You shouldn’t have come.”
He tossed the piece of straw away. “I needed to see that you were all right. Please come back. If for nothing else, to read the rest of the book. Or I’ll have to check on you again.”
No. That was far too dangerous. “I don’t want to risk starting a war.”
“Technically, the war has already been started. We just haven’t fought any battles yet.”
She wanted to return but knew she shouldn’t.
“You are always very careful when you come. Don’t worry about a thing. No one is going to find out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who goes in that stretch of the forest but you?”
“You.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. I know you want to finish reading the book.”
She twirled a piece of straw. “I’ll think about it.”
“Rachel?” Papa called from below.
She quickly put her finger to her lips.
Charles gave her a nod of understanding.
She stood and pointed to her spot. “Yes, Papa. I’m coming.”
As she moved one way through the hay, Charles moved the other so it didn’t sound like two separate people moving and he was more hidden in the hay. She grabbed the lantern and went to the head of the ladder.
Papa stood at the bottom. “Did that silly cat haul her kittens up there?”
“Afraid so.” She turned and started down the ladder before Papa could decide to climb up. “I think I’ve annoyed her. She might move them again.”
Papa took the lantern. “She’ll likely leave them put. She knows Winnie and Edith can’t get them up there.”
She hooked her arm through Papa’s. “Let’s go inside. I’m getting a little cold.” She hadn’t noticed the nip in the air until then. She was relieved when Papa came with her without saying he needed to stay in the barn for anything.
She hoped Charles would wait a sufficient amount of time before trying to leave. Once in the house, she hurried up to her room and stared out the window.
Alice came in after a few minutes with Winnie and Edith and looked out the window, too. “What are you watching for?”
Rachel let the curtain drop back into place. “Nothing.” She hadn’t seen Charles leave yet, and she certainly didn’t want to let Alice see and tell Papa that a strange man was leaving their barn. She would have to be content with her memory of their encounter.
* * *
After Charles visited her in the barn, Rachel was eager to go back to English Camp. She would be extra careful to not be seen.
When she arrived, she didn’t expect to see the leftenant. He had duties. He couldn’t just wander off whenever he felt like it. She sat on the log and reached for the book of poems. Something felt different, so she bent over more to get a look. There were two other leather-wrapped books. She pulled out all three and stacked them on her lap. She opened the one she was sure was the poems and then set it aside.
The next book was by Elizabeth Gaskell, a biography of Charlotte Brontë. The third book was called Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. She’d never heard of these books, but she had to admit her exposure to literature was quite limited on the islands.
“I thought you would like those.”
She spun around at the male voice and saw Charles. Her heartbeat sped up, and her breath caught. “They look wonderful. I can’t wait to read them.”
“You should also try George Eliot. I couldn’t get my hands on a copy, but as soon as I do, I’ll bring it. I wish you could take them back to your house and enjoy them every day, not just when you come here.”
“Knowin
g they are here for me to read makes me happy. Thank you so much. Where did you get them?”
“I borrowed them from my brother’s wife.” He sat on the log but not directly next to her. He left an appropriate distance between them.
“She must love to read, too.”
“Nay. She thinks books make her look smart, especially when she can tell her friends she has purchased the latest in literature.”
Rachel couldn’t imagine having books that she never read. “Won’t she miss them?”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll be careful with them.”
“I know you will. That’s why I brought them. Every book should be read at least once.”
She hoped to read them more than once. “You must think me a silly girl for traipsing through the forest to see a garden and for gushing over books.”
“Never. Wait. Let me amend that. The first day I met you, I thought you were a girl. But I learned better.”
Rachel was aware she looked younger than her years. “You expect me to believe you know my age?”
“I do. You are twenty, which makes you a lady, not a girl.”
Rachel was shocked. He really did know her age. “How did you guess that?”
Charles tapped his temple with one finger. “I’m very perceptive.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe you.”
He chuckled. “Lindley told me that first day.”
“That’s not fair. You know my age, but I haven’t a clue about yours.”
“Take a guess.”
He couldn’t be too very old.
“Go on, guess.”
She squinted, studying him. She put her fist on her chin and tapped her lips with her index finger. She would guess early to mid-twenties. A perfect age. “Two score and a half a score.”
He coughed in surprise. “Fifty? You wound me, milady.”
“I’m sorry. Are you older?” She tried hard not to smile.
“You know I’m not. I’m half that minus one.”
“Twenty-four.”
“You’re quick with numbers.”
“Does a lady being able to do numbers surprise you?”