That Tender Light: An Owen Family Novella

by Marsha Ward

  She became aware that neither man spoke. Instead, they sat in expectant silence, both looking at her. The heat of Mr. Owen's glance warmed her in an unfamiliar way, and her cheeks burned. Had one of them asked her a question? What could she answer? She had been off gathering wool instead of politely listening to their conversation.

  Mr. Owen chuckled. “Miss Julia, would you have any objection if I were to call upon you?”

  He knew she had not been paying heed. He was amused at her discomfort and had laughed at her, blast him. She would wipe that silly smirk off his face.

  She stood. “Yes.”

  His face went slack, all amusement fled. A look of dismay fixed itself upon his countenance. His assurance crumbled as though to ashes before her eyes.

  Her chest tightened, burned like fire. I have wounded him. She sat, almost falling into her seat, as her knees refused to bear her up any longer. “That is to say, no. I have no objection,” she heard herself say in a breathless voice. Knowing she had hurt him with her single spiteful word caused her heart to shrink, to collapse upon itself and beat with such pitiful action that she thought she would cease to exist.

  How would she survive if she demeaned Roderick Owen, if she made him feel insignificant by a heedless word or deed? She must not play coquettish games with him, as Camilla was wont to do. Of that, she was sure. Doing such would destroy their tenuous relationship.

  She watched as he gazed at her, unsure, unmanned, as though she had struck him a blow upon his heart. After a long, painful silence, she saw a transformation as it dawned on him that she had changed her mind, had given him leave to pay court to her. Little by little, he became a man again, regaining his confidence and his mettle, that verve that had drawn her to him in the first instance. He breathed, his chest expanded, and the afternoon sunshine shone its golden rays upon his face.

  He squinted against the light, and then he said, “I'll be here on Sunday evening, Miss Julia, and I'll see you then.”

  Chapter 3

  Once Mr. Owen had risen from his seat and left, and Uncle Phillip had gone about his day's business, Julia sat in the parlor, immobile. She could not find strength in her limbs to get to her feet, so she sat and pondered.

  I know his Christian name!

  That seemed the most important fact she had learned. That and where he lived, and that his business was horses. All else was immaterial. Except that he would return on Sunday. She could scarcely wait to see his lean face again, to hear the deep, velvet tones of his voice, to gaze into his blue eyes. Ah, what magic!

  She longed to put her hands into the golden locks on his head, to run her fingers through the burnished strands.

  Julia! She sat erect and her cheeks burned with shame at the feelings that swept through her body. Running her hands through his hair was an action that she imagined a wife would do, and she was not his wife. She hoped he had not had a wife. Brief jealousy roiled in her stomach, but she pushed it away as an unworthy emotion.

  Despite her embarrassment at her powerful feelings, she ached to feel his arms around her, to hear his voice crooning her name in her ear. He said it in such a lovely way. With his drawling speech, it came out “Miz Julie.” She liked that. It made her ordinary name extraordinary. It made her body vibrate.

  I've never felt this way before. With a bit of difficulty, she shook off the shame and reveled in the peculiar sensations coursing through her. Will I always feel like this when I think about Mr. Owen? She hoped so. The sensations made her feel more alive than ever before in her life. She could hear insects buzzing in the hedge outside the window. She wanted to rise and dance around the room, but restrained herself in fear that Camilla or a servant would discover her.

  She hugged herself, marveling at the new emotion, then it struck her that in the blink of an eye, she had developed an intense interest in a total stranger. But he did not seem a stranger any longer. Out of the blue, blue sky, the man had asked her to marry him, and bless her soul, she intended to do just that— if he did not own slaves.

  A sobering thought came to mind. If she married Roderick Owen, she would not return home to Cumberland County. She would likely never see Jonathan again after her marriage. Did the angels or God know she would meet Mr. Owen, that he would ask her to marry him? Perhaps that accounted for her strange fit of sadness when she had left her home. If she marri— no, when she married Mr. Owen, her home would be in Virginia. She would live in Shenandoah County. With him.

  She sat in the silent parlor and for the first time in her life, she wondered about connubial relations. At the thought of spending time alone with Mr. Owen, the core of her being dissolved, like butter melting into the empty spaces of a hot biscuit.

  She had no notion of what a man and wife did in their marriage bed. She had not known her mother, who died of hemorrhage shortly after Julia's birth, so she had never seen an example of matrimonial touch between her parents. But somehow, she knew that should she and Mr. Owen actually marry, his hands upon her flesh would be such a marvelous event that she might evaporate into the vapors of the night.

  The only standard she had was the Biblical account of Adam and Eve. In the Book of Genesis, the Lord God had made a woman for Adam. She got up and found the passage in the Roush family Bible at the end of chapter two, then repeated the words of the last two verses in a whisper.

  Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. Naked. She shivered.

  She kept reading. In the next chapter, there was the to-do with the serpent, then God drove Adam and Eve out of the garden of Eden. She went back and re-read verse sixteen, for one phrase had burned into her mind: thy desire shall be to thy husband. Never mind the sorrow part, Eve was to want to be one flesh with Adam. Julia had no idea how that was accomplished.

  She started chapter four. The beginning phrase, And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, sent such a hot rush of blood coursing through her, that she immediately put away the Bible and drew the drapes. She sat in the dark room, wondering about the “knowing.” She suspected that it was a very intimate process, something that would bind her to her husband forever, and she very much wanted that husband to be Roderick Owen.

  Is this feeling desire? Or is it lust, a sin? She could not quench the fire raging in her body. She did not want to extinguish it. She only wanted to see Roderick Owen again. She must see him very soon, before she burnt to an ember.

  ***

  When Rod Owen entered his home in the twilight of that evening, he lit a lamp and went to a shelf he devoted to books. He pulled down a book of poetry he had purchased to improve his mind. He sat in his armchair, and thumbing through the volume, came upon the title, “She Walks in Beauty.”

  “Oh, she does, indeed,” he muttered, and began to read, noting that the author was the lauded, but somewhat scandalous, English poet, Lord Byron.

  He read the poem once, then again, and a third time he recited it aloud, barely needing to view the words as he did.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  “One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impaired the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

  “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!”

  As
he read, he imagined that each attribute resided in the person of Miss Julia Helm. He wondered how she looked in moonlight. He knew nothing of her beyond what he had gleaned from his very short interview with her at the porch, and later, their very brief conversation in the parlor. He thought she must spend her days doing good, for was she not here to assist in her cousin's wedding preparations? She had been working on the dress, after all. That exhausting labor had to be a good deed.

  Despite his scanty knowledge of her true nature, he was very sure that Miss Julia— his Julie, as he now characterized her— was the embodiment of his dream wife, for the mere thought of her stirred such passion in him that he scarcely could sleep that night, and sleepily arose the next day to do his work, yearning for the next Sunday to come so he could see her again.

  ***

  Sunday came at last.

  A liveried butler ushered Rod into the parlor. Rod made his pleasantries to Mr. Roush and the fair Miss Julie, and was told to seat himself. He chose the chair nearest to the girl and sank onto the cushion.

  One of Mr. Roush’s slave women brought in a platter holding a pitcher of lemonade, glass tumblers, slices of apple pie already plated, and sliced cheese on a separate plate. Three forks lay to the side. The delicious scent of baked apples and cinnamon tweaked Rod’s nose as she walked by and set the tray beside the girl he had come to court.

  Julia did the amenities. When she handed Rod his plate, she whispered, “I baked the pie after church services. I hope it meets with your approval.”

  Rod took a bite and rolled his eyes in ecstasy. The crust was flaky, melting in his mouth. The sugary apple filling was perfectly spiced. She can make an apple pie!

  When the woman had returned and cleared away the dishes, Rod inquired of Mr. Roush how the mare was faring. Mr. Roush inquired of Rod how the farm did. Rod noticed that Julia sat in silence as the men made their polite conversation.

  Mr. Roush finally lit his pipe in signal that he had finished making small talk, and Rod turned to Julia to begin his courtship.

  He conversed with her in low tones for some time, eventually learning the circumstances of her being an orphan except for a brother ten years her senior. He spoke of his own dead parents. Moonlight sifted through the partially closed draperies. Remembering Lord Byron’s poem, he wondered again how she would look in the rays of the moon.

  When he could no longer bear to waste the moonlight, he asked leave of Mr. Roush to take a turn around the flower garden at the side of the house with Miss Julia.

  Mr. Roush gave his permission and rang for a maid to act as chaperone.

  They left the parlor with the maid, who sat herself on a bench beside the parlor door and let Rod and Julia wander through the paths bordered with beds full of silver-lit blossoms.

  “Are you acquainted with the poems of Lord Byron?” he asked, gently patting the hand he'd tucked into the crook of his elbow as they walked.

  “I don't believe so,” Julia answered.

  He felt her shiver, but the evening was not yet chilly, so he did not fear for her health. He stopped strolling, let her hand loose from his arm and turned to look at her, positioning himself in such a way as to see her face under the tender light cast upon it by the soft moon. She raised her hand to her cheek. He sucked in a breath and stilled himself, not daring to stir lest his movement disturb the beauty of the sight.

  At length, she lowered her arm. Recovering himself, he took both of her hands in his and began to recite the poem he had memorized during the past few days.

  By the time he finished, he could see that the words had greatly affected her. Moisture glazed her eyes, which he hoped was a good sign.

  “Is that how you see me?” she whispered.

  “All the live-long day,” he answered.

  “I'm not going to pretend that my mind is 'at peace with all below.' It's been in a muddle since— since you brought the horse.”

  He had to strain to hear the last words Julia uttered, but they thrilled him. “I can think of nothing but you, Miss Julie. You invade my thoughts and inhabit my dreams. I even got bucked off a horse this week.” He smiled at the lapse into reverie that had caused the mishap, enjoying the play of moonlight on her face.

  She took in a sharp breath. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” he said softly, shaking his head to assure her of the fact. “Not my body. Only my pride.”

  She looked away, breathing rapidly, and he wondered if his mention of his body had caused her reaction. Polite folks didn't talk about bodies, but his yearning to marry her had ruled his thoughts all week.

  “I don't know if I have a 'heart whose love is innocent,' “ she murmured, and looked him full in the face.

  He groaned, said, “Oh, my Julie,” and pulled her into his arms.

  The maid cleared her throat. Loudly.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, letting Julia loose and stepping back. “I was overwrought.”

  She looked at him, her face wistful. “I cannot say I am displeased.”

  He gazed at her, soaking in her wondrous words, wishing he could take her in his arms again, but knowing the maid was watching. “You fill up the hole in my soul.”

  After a moment, she looked away, her face working as though she were dealing with an unpleasant thought. “My brother will come to take me home after Camilla’s wedding.”

  “Are you saying you require a long courtship?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  Chapter 4

  Julia left Mr. Owen standing in the path as she walked away several steps. Her heart pounded as she tried to formulate a way to ask the vital question that burned in her mind. You're being silly, Julia. You have only to ask. She took a few breaths to expand her courage, then turned and strode back to confront him.

  “Do you own slaves?”

  “No!”

  She could tell from the clipped response that he had no intention of ever doing so, but she had to be sure.

  “Do you aspire to own slaves someday?”

  A look of annoyance, almost of anger, flashed across his face. “I work my farm myself. Someday I hope to have sons to help me, and a wife who will teach them that oppressing others is an act of deviltry.”

  Joy leaped from her breast into her throat. It filled her body so completely that it needed an outlet, and she was sure it must be shining through her eyes.

  Mr. Owen's anger had softened, to gauge from the look in his eyes. She put out her hand and laid it on his arm.

  His arm jumped in reaction to her touch. She held on, although her own hand shook as though a lightning bolt had struck her.

  Before she knew it, he held her lightly by the shoulders, and the lightning sparked still, a sharp tingling spreading down her arms and to her hands, which somehow lay upon his chest. His heart thundered underneath her palm, echoing her own.

  “You will be my wife?” he asked, his voice choked.

  She stared into his eyes, recalling the poem he had recited moments earlier. The words, the eloquent words— she lowered her eyelids for a moment— he had learned them for her, in her honor, to help him express how he felt about her. She wondered if a poetess somewhere in the world had written words equal to those, words that could tell him how she felt.

  She opened her eyes, met his gaze, felt her soul melting again into a puddle. But even as she knew she had developed an abiding affection for Roderick Owen, she remembered the harsh truth. From now on, she would live far from the place in which she had grown up, the house she had so loved making into a home, a place of safety and calm. If only she had something from that home. She stood wrapped in melancholy for several moments, then it came to her.

  She spoke in a rush before she could give in to doubt at asking an outlandish favor. “Will you bring me my father's chair?”

  Mr. Owen's hands tightened. “Oh my Julie,” he moaned, “anything you desire.”

  She gulped. She could not speak of her desire. At last she said, “I want something to remind me o
f my family.”

  “I reckon I understand.” His voice sounded strangled. “Will you wed me?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Gathered herself together. Let out a sigh. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Her eyes flew open. “I have no wedding dress.”

  He grinned. “I don't mind. I'd marry you naked.”

  She gasped. She choked. She fanned her hand in front of her face, remembering the Bible verse. After a moment, when she had recovered her wits, she said, “You are a perverse man, Roderick Owen, but yes, I will marry you as soon as it can be arranged.”

  He grinned at her. “You hang the sun and the moon, Julie Helm.” He looked upward. “See it movin’ across the sky, sheddin’ a tender light.” He looked at her. “You walk in beauty, my innocent girl.”

  He kissed her brow, then her nose, then her lips, gently.

  She didn't mind at all, and ignored the maid's increasing protestations. The touch of his lips on hers had ignited another lightning bolt, and the fire melted her bones. In order to save her sanity, the sooner she could be his bride, the better.

  ***

  Rod pulled back from a deeply satisfactory kiss and swore his heart was fluttering in a manner suitable for a maiden. Joy enveloped him, enlivening his nerves. He wondered if the servant girl now standing by the door— huffing her displeasure at him taking liberties with her charge, and probably some measure of fright, as well— was up for dancing a jig with him. He had to move, and he had no idea if his Julie danced. He looked at her dear face, glowing with happiness under the radiant moon. She will be my wife as soon as may be. Then he wondered what his next step had to be. He had flouted so many social niceties. Now he had to show respect for them and do things in order.