That Tender Light: An Owen Family Novella

by Marsha Ward

  Her heartbeat quickened; she could feel it thudding against her ribs and wondered at her reaction. She didn't know the young man. She had not seen him at either of Camilla's parties. She didn't know if he was of a good family, or if he had any money, or if he worshipped God. She only knew that he was going to make a vital change in her life.

  Julia tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in her throat. He was gazing at her, quite pointedly, in fact, as he came closer. His blue eyes mesmerized her, holding her captive in their vibrant depths. She feared he could hear the thunder of her heart, feared that it would reveal to him that she could no more look down at the fabric in her lap than she could fly into the nearby trees.

  Then he drew rein, stopping his horses, still gazing at her. He removed his hat with the hand holding the lead rope. His mount danced sideways, nearer to her. He took a moment to control it, then met her eyes again. “Good day, miss,” he said in a deep voice steeped in Virginia charm. “Are you a God-fearing lady?”

  Her throat still parched, she could only nod, and wonder at his question.

  He glanced at her hands, frozen over the silken garment. She felt broken until he raised his eyes again and stared into hers. “Not married? No domestic entanglements?”

  She shook her head, astonished at his bold questions. Then he seemed to search her very soul with those eyes. Her face warmed. What was he discovering with his steady gaze?

  He gave a slight nod, and asked, “You're free to marry me?”

  Her hand rose to cover her mouth at the same time all nature paused, took a breath, and then gathered its forces to spill golden light upon the head of the young man waiting for her reply.

  Her body, light as air, yearned for his hand to pull her back to earth. Her mind raced over the catalogue of social conventions his words had shattered to bits. We've never been introduced. I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. I have no chaperone. I have no dowry. Jonathan is not here to consider his suitability. Does he make enough of a living to support a wife? Does he own slaves? What does he do?

  Even so, the tingling in every nerve told her that this man was unusual, that his words were not spoken lightly, nor in jest. He wasn't mocking her. His direct approach had cut through every impediment, every excuse she could raise due to social custom. Her heart fluttered, a captive moth beating its wings in her bosom.

  But one conversation did not a courtship make. Although the strength of his personality tugged at her heart, her head insisted upon making her reply.

  Julia cleared her throat. She swallowed, grateful that she now could. She moistened her lips, then she steadied her voice.

  “You're welcome to court me,” she said, then picked up her needle, looked to her task, and took a stitch in Camilla's hem.

  His laughter rolled over her like warm honey. “Spunky,” he said, “and well spoken, besides.”

  She looked up. He cocked his head and grinned at her. She felt her defenses slipping.

  “Will you do me the honor of findin' someone to introduce us, just as soon as I deliver this horse?”

  She smiled. He wasn't ignorant of society's normal behaviors. He had merely ignored them for some purpose of his own. Aunt Susannah could serve as an intermediary. Or perhaps it would be more proper if Uncle Phillip did that bit of work.

  “I will,” she replied, and cast her gaze downward, but not before she saw that his grin widened.

  “I'll see you again in an hour in the parlor.” He tipped his hat to her, set it back on his golden locks, clucked his tongue at the horse, and rode out of her sight toward the back of the house.

  Julia put three fingertips to her forehead and filled her lungs with air. Who was that man, and how had he awakened such a multitude of emotions in her? Birds she had never noticed chirped in the bushes lining the porch. A bee flew by, buzzing industriously. A breeze arose and cooled her brow.

  She looked at her work. Only three stitches remained for her to do. She finished them as rapidly as she dared, then gathered up the skirt and the sewing basket and hurried into the house. She must hang the gown and then find Uncle Phillip.

  She burst into Camilla's room and opened the armoire door. She hung the skirt of the wedding gown next to the bodice and arranged its folds to prevent wrinkles. Someone came into the room behind her. Securing the armoire door closed, Julia turned and met her cousin's eyes, her cheeks burning.

  Camilla looked Julia over. “What's going on? Something about you has changed.”

  Julia thought, I have met the man I will marry, but aloud she asked, “Do you know the whereabouts of your father?”

  “Father? I saw him go toward the stable. Someone brought him a horse. A Mr. Owen, I think.” She opened the armoire and admired her gown, then turned and looked at Julia, furrowing her brow. “What do you want with Father?”

  Only to make my life better, she thought. With Mr. Owen. She savored the sensation of the name settling deep into the corridors of her mind, then recalled Camilla's query.

  “I need to ask him a question.”

  “I can most probably give you an answer.” Camilla arched an eyebrow.

  “Not for this,” Julia replied, and left as quickly as she could. Not for this.

  ***

  Rod Owen walked his horse toward the stable, his mind swirling and his body so alive that he scarcely could recall his business here at this big house outside New Market. The only thing that mattered was the young lady sitting on the porch at the front of the house, the raven-haired girl whose beauty and grace had shaken him to the core. She said she feared God; he knew his pulse raced and his senses quickened upon the first sight of her. He suspected his knees would give him little support when he dismounted to conduct his business. Why was he here anyway?

  The horse on lead behind him hesitated. The rope in his hand tightened. Oh yes. The horse. He was to deliver the gift from Mr. Madox to his bride. That is, he was to deliver the horse to Mr. Phillip Roush, the father of the bride. What use he made of the animal afterwards was not his concern.

  His concern was to meet—

  “Rod,” he muttered, “deliver the mare first.” The girl? He hoped the girl would occupy his attentions from here on, until his final breath.

  He saw her in his mind, having memorized her entire being the moment he set eyes upon her. She was slight of body, but had curves in the appropriate places, and a face that had taken the breath from his lungs for several moments. When she looked up, he lost himself in her dark eyes. Her gaze stirred a tumult in his belly, and his mouth became roofed with sandpaper. He heard his mother's dying request echoing in his ears, and for that reason alone, he had uttered the words of the question uppermost in his brain, first surprising, then alarming himself. What had the girl thought?

  Then he couldn't stop himself; she was working on what could only be a wedding outfit, after all, silken and shimmery. She might be Mr. Madox's intended. He had to know her status, her availability to become his bride. If she had indicated that she had an understanding with a man besides himself, with Madox or another, he knew it would have crushed the life out of him.

  The slight, negative shake of her head in response to his questions filled his mind and body with such joy, such lightness, that he scarcely could keep himself in the saddle.

  He had heard himself say impossible words: “You're free to marry me?” He was certainly daft. Perversely insane. He almost thought the earth lurched and groaned at his ridiculous question. Surely he gave the girl occasion to think him crazed.

  But incredibly, after a pause that lasted long, very long, too long, she had cleared her throat. She had run her tongue across her lips— oh, tender lips he yearned to touch, to capture beneath his own— and then she had set his world right with five words and her agreement to an introduction.

  The matter won't end with an introduction, he vowed. I will win her heart and her han—

  He noticed that his horse had stopped before the stable, and had probably been standing there for m
ore than a moment or two. Also, a gentleman was striding toward him from the direction of the house.

  “Soon, very soon, I will be in her company again,” he said to himself as he swung down from his horse. Then he addressed the man standing before him. “Good day.” He pulled off his hat. “Are you Mr. Roush?”

  ***

  Julia almost fell down the stairs in her haste, but caught herself before she tumbled head over heels in total disarray. Now breathless, she took a moment to steady herself, then approached the kitchen door.

  What had Camilla said? Her father probably was already outside talking to ... that man. Mr. Owen. She said the name aloud. “Mister Owen.” How well it sounded, as beautiful as the golden man himself. If Uncle Phillip was already engaged in his business with Mr. Owen, she could not approach him right now. But she had to know where her uncle was, what he was doing. She hurried to the kitchen, twisted the handle, and opened the door.

  Cook stood at a large table in the center of the room, using two knives to cut lard into a bowl of flour to make crusts for the dinner pies. Julia paused to greet her before she passed. “Good afternoon.”

  “Afternoon, Miss.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, probably in surprise at seeing someone invade her kitchen, but she did nothing to stop her, so Julia hurried over to the window overlooking the back yard and the outbuildings.

  Yes, Uncle Phillip leaned over to where Mr. Owen held a back hoof of the horse between his limbs so Uncle Phillip could inspect it. Uncle nodded, and Mr. Owen— oh, how she wished she knew the man's Christian name! He dropped the hoof, disentangled himself from the horse, and stood erect.

  Now they conversed.

  Julia wrapped her arms around herself. Because Uncle Phillip was engaged in his business, she supposed she must speak to Aunt Susannah, but could not pull away from watching the men's interplay.

  Mr. Owen gestured toward the front of the house. Uncle Phillip's gaze followed the man's hand. He looked back at Mr. Owen and raised his hands in a little motion that could mean anything, anything! Julia hoped against hope that he meant to say, “That lovely girl is my niece, Julia,” but of course, he wouldn't say that. By now he barely knew she was present in all the hubbub surrounding Camilla's impending nuptials.

  The men shook hands and Mr. Owen stepped back. Uncle Phillip evidently called a groom from the stable, for one appeared, took the lead rope of the horse, and walked away with the animal following him.

  Uncle Phillip motioned with his head toward the kitchen, and Julia hastily stepped back from the window. What if they had seen her? Were they coming into the house? She linked her fingers together so tightly that they turned red. Surely not. But perhaps Uncle had invited Mr. Owen to refresh himself with a tumbler of water or a plate of cake and a cup of tea? Perhaps Uncle Phillip viewed Mr. Owen with more esteem than that of a mere servant. Were they coming into the house?

  Her breath came in short, rapid bursts as the door opened. They were coming in. What would the men think when they saw her? Would they know she'd been spying on them? She turned her back, unable to bear the disgrace.

  “Miss Julia, what you think of this dough?”

  The cook's question surprised her, but she hurried over to look at the pie tins, lined up on the top of the table. The cook held out a scrap of rolled-out dough, and Julia took a look at it. It was dough, but the cook looked at her expectantly, eyes twinkling.

  “Why, it looks fine, Hettie. You've done a fine job,” she said, her voice sounding to her like she was strangling. “Fine work.”

  Cook nodded, her lips held in a tight line as though she pressed them together to keep from laughing. She knows I'm spying on the men! “Thank you,” she whispered, and turned to leave the kitchen, but Uncle Phillip had seen her, and was approaching, his footfalls loud on the wooden floor.

  “Ah, Julia,” he said, and she knew she had to turn to acknowledge him, but she seemed frozen. Was Mr. Owen behind him?

  Cook gave her a little nudge, and she inhaled until she thought her bosom would burst, then she turned slowly to face her uncle.

  Yes, Mr. Owen stood beside Uncle, smiling as though catching a girl spying on him was the happiest occurrence of his day. Uncle Phillip also smiled. I am in trouble.

  “Julia, I would like to present Mr. Roderick Owen of Mount Jackson. Mr. Owen, this is my niece, Julia Helm, of Cumberland County, Pennsylvania. My dear, Mr. Owen owns a farm outside the town and is well-known for his prowess with horses,” Uncle Phillip added. There he stood, making a grand show of the introduction, but in the kitchen, not in the parlor.

  This is my fault. I should not have come in here. If I'd been in the parlor, Uncle Phillip would have brought him there to find me, and this introduction would have been made in the proper place.

  Julia raised her shoulders, unable to keep from the motion of self-protection. No, no, no. You must be a lady. With an effort, she relaxed her body, put out her hand, and amazingly, Mr. Owen took it, hesitated, then bent over it and bestowed a quick kiss upon her knuckles.

  She wiggled her fingers loose from his grasp and clasped her hands together in front of her everyday striped skirt, wishing she had put on her best clothing this morning. But how was she to know this ... encounter would take place, this meeting with a man she knew would change her life?

  “I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Helm,” Mr. Owen, Roderick Owen, said. His voice had a warmth she had never heard before, an assurance, a strength that took away her breath.

  But she had to make an answer, so she inhaled enough to do so, and said, “I am likewise pleased, Mr. Owen. Very pleased,” she added, to her horror, conscious of the cook still standing behind her, soaking in her every word. She could almost see the amused expression on her face, almost hear the throaty chuckle.

  Uncle Phillip, she could see, was enjoying himself, smiling and nodding and standing with his hands behind his back, rocking slightly to and fro from the balls of his feet to his heels, as though he had done something remarkable.

  Julia lowered her head and stared at her hands. What now?

  As though he had read her thoughts, Uncle Phillip said, “Come into the parlor, Mr. Owen. I'd like to hear more about your horse enterprise.”

  He forgot to invite me, Julia thought, as the men moved toward the inside door of the kitchen. But as he passed her, Mr. Owen grabbed one of her hands and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, thus ensuring that she was invited. In fact, his action came near to jerking her forward into an ungainly fall, but she recovered her balance, and gritting her teeth to stem her embarrassment, fell into step with him.

  ***

  The parlor had no candles lit, nor was there a fire glowing on the hearth. Julia freed her hand from Mr. Owen's arm and hustled to a table where candles stood in holders, ready for service. She held her breath and struck a lucifer match, lit three candles, then took them to tables beside the comfortable upholstered chairs where Uncle Phillip and Mr. Owen had already taken seats. She hurried to the three tall windows, flung open the drapes on each, and turned to determine where she should sit.

  The room contained several upholstered chairs and two sofas, arranged in one large part of the room, and straight-backed chairs along two walls for additional seating or to be drawn up to the main area, if needed. She could scarcely tug at one of them to boldly place herself beside Mr. Owen.

  Uncle Phillip looked at her over his shoulder and pointed with the pipe he was filling to the sofa nearest him. Mr. Owen caught her eye and glanced at the chair nearest to his. Now what was she to do?

  She decided that a third option— the other sofa, which was midway between the two men but a little apart from them— was safest, so she approached it and sat, arranging her skirt with great care. This seat had the disadvantage of placing her away from the conversation, but she didn't care. She hadn't been invited here to discourse upon horses, anyway. She had willingly come because of Mr. Owen's action, and because she desired to be here above any ot
her place in the world.

  Because of his astonishing words to her upon their first meeting not even an hour ago— hardly a meeting, more like a chance encounter— she knew the man had an interest in her. She certainly had an interest in him, which had been awakened by his appearance and his assured manner, as well as by those unlikely words. However, she knew nothing of him beyond his name and his place of residence, which was, if she understood her geography correctly, several miles distant. And she knew that he dealt in horses. What else he did was still unknown. Whether or not he owned slaves was still in question.

  She sat, and she listened, and she looked, made slightly uncomfortable that she had nothing to occupy her hands. At home, she was constantly busy, always occupied with one task or another. Being out of her element caused her heart to beat strongly against her ribs, and she feared that Mr. Owen could hear it.

  He glanced her way from time to time, his gaze searing her soul as though he knew about her drumming heart, about all her faults, and especially that he knew she lacked experience in this less hurried world below the Mason-Dixon Line. He seemed not to care that she was such an imperfect creature, although she was acutely aware of her faults.

  She was certain that Mr. Owen spoke to her uncle in deference to his position as the master of this house, but that he actually desired to converse with her, Julia. What did he wish to say to her? Would he speak again of marriage after such a short acquaintance, or would he attempt to learn more about her? Would he begin a lengthy, formal courtship? How would that happen? She lived so far away. What did men say to young ladies? She wished she had paid better attention to the conversations at Camilla's parties.