I softened and reached for his face.
“Where is Clara?” he asked, retreating from my touch.
My eyes opened. The image disintegrated into morning light. I inhaled. Only a dream, I repeated over and over in my mind. But the heat in my chest, the perspiration dotting my face, and the haunting in my heart told me otherwise. Grief washed over me. I had lost something, whether it was the trees or the valley or George. Perhaps it was all of it, and yet … my emotion hinted at something more.
First it was the letter from Paul and the reminiscing of home, but now—dreaming of George? I did not want to contemplate what it meant. Like the rest of the valley, I had left him, and the sentimental feelings, behind.
I blinked back tears. My breath staggered, and I rolled over to face the window.
Nora sat on the edge of the bed. “I did not want to wake you,” she said, tilting her head. “Are you all right?”
I rubbed my eyes, attempting to turn my yawn into a smile. “It was just a dream.”
“Ah,” she said. Her dimples betrayed her excitement. “Happy birthday, Elizabeth, dear. Fifteen is the start of womanhood,” she said, brushing her fingers through my hair. “I have so much planned.”
I sat upright, leaning into my aunt’s arms. “You shouldn’t have.”
Her lips parted into a mischievous grin, and she gestured to the dress draped over my dressing table. “Posh. Get dressed and come downstairs. Julia and the rest of us will be waiting for you.”
Lavender. Uncle Johnny had asked my favorite color. I had not realized it was for a birthday dress. The fabric was light and soft, a welcome change from my dream.
I blushed the whole way down the stairs, torn between not wanting such attention and adoring it. The breakfast table was set with Nora’s fine china, and there was a brown package at my setting. The aroma of hotcakes, sausage, and chocolate filled the room. It was summer, but a cup of hot chocolate was placed near the package. It was my favorite, and Nora would not allow anything less.
She hit her spoon against a glass, leading a harmonious rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Uncle Johnny was no singer, and I stifled a giggle. At least, I tried to. Clara sang as pretty as ever, her blank gaze resting on me. At least she was there.
Julia beamed. “Happy birthday, Elizabeth.”
“Now,” Nora said, pulling back my chair herself, “be seated and open your first present.”
I recognized the handwriting on the package, looped and slanted. It was from Mama. I dropped to my chair and pulled the string, ripping back the brown paper as carefully as I could. Ladies showed restraint.
Dearest Elizabeth,
I wish I could be there with you—to sing to you, to kiss you, to tell you of my love on this special day. Happy birthday, my love! I take comfort in knowing my sister will, no doubt, be spoiling you. I only wish to send a piece of home on your birthday.
Love,
Mama
I hiccupped back a sob and smiled. Inside the package was a purple-filled jar—huckleberry syrup for my birthday breakfast.
“My sister always was thoughtful,” Nora said, putting her arms around my shoulders.
I wiped a tear and nodded. Mama must have known I would be missing the berries this time of year.
Julia handed me her present. “Happy birthday, Elizabeth. I’m so glad you’ve come to school here.”
I flashed her a look of mock reprimand. “You shouldn’t have,” I said in my practiced lady-voice. I had almost perfected the Virginian way of speaking. I had learned to accentuate each consonant, while giving less emphasis to the vowels I was used to dragging out. I did not force the Virginian drawl, but I tried to cover my country habits.
She grinned. “Open it.”
I smiled, succumbing to my excitement. I pulled open the box, and my eyes widened at the sight of the gold locket. “Julia,” I gasped. “It is beautiful.”
She waved her hand. “Oh, it is nothing.”
I glanced up. “Will you put it on me?”
She nodded, indulging me.
Clara stepped forward and took my hand. “Happy birthday.” She had nothing for me. I wanted to tell her it was fine, that I had not expected anything, but I knew saying so would only embarrass her further. Our birthdays were not anything special back home.
Uncle Johnny lifted his glass of juice. “How about a morning toast to our girl, Lizzie?”
Nora scooted to her seat next to mine.
“May she continue to grow into such a promising young lady, full of spunk and determination.”
“Here, here,” Julia said, nodding in agreement.
Laughter reached my lips before the glass. I took a swallow and then doused my hotcakes with huckleberry syrup.
“I thought we might take a trip to Granger’s Farms,” Uncle Johnny said between bites. “I spoke to Mr. Granger, and he has agreed to let us go blueberry picking.”
I did not even try to hide my excitement. “Oh, Uncle Johnny,” I said, nearly falling out of my chair. Perhaps a lady was allowed to squeal on her birthday.
His eyes fell on Nora, and tenderness passed between the two.
“Your uncle is determined to make a day of it,” Nora said before wiping at the syrup on her cheek. “I’d say you have him wrapped around your finger, Elizabeth.”
He chuckled, the richness of his laughter covering me like a warm blanket. “Just a trip to the patch, my dear,” he said. “It is not like I have bought her a pony.”
Nora craned her neck to the side. “Please tell me you did not!”
He raised his brows, one after the other, and the playful curve of his lip was his only reply.
She reached across the table to swat his arm.
The edges of my cheeks burned, but still I smiled. It was impossible not to when Uncle Johnny teased Nora.
“Calm yourself,” he said at last, straightening his coat. “I settled on something much more modest.”
My aunt scowled, her beautiful features twisted into seeming disdain. But her eyes glistened from laughter and filled with something else—admiration, I supposed.
The dream from the morning made little sense; there was no reason to feel at a loss. I was surrounded by kindness and affection, laughter and friendship. How on earth could my heart ache when I was near Nora and Johnny, Julia and Clara?
Chapter Thirteen
FASTIDIOUS. SCINTILLATING. BELEAGUER. QUIXOTIC. ENNUI.
Only six months in, and already my lists were shorter. My mornings spent in the gardens had become the highlight of each day. The pages of the dictionary were more worn than my skirts, something I never imagined possible. I flipped through the B section.
Beleaguer: beset with difficulties.
I nodded. That one was easy enough. Then to E.
Ennui: a feeling of listlessness or dissatisfaction.
It might as well have read, Ennui: Elizabeth Pratt.
Just the other day, Uncle Johnny had asked me to accompany him to the school. It was a Sunday, after church service, so I agreed, thankful to get outdoors. The road between Wieser Street and the academy was smooth, and the autumn sun was the perfect addition to our company. We arrived, and I begged Uncle Johnny to let me wait outside. As usual, he agreed.
“I should not worry on a day such as today,” he had said. “Not a cloud in the sky, and not a single soul to bother you. Take a walk in the front gardens.”
The front gardens were small but well kept. Students weren’t allowed to roam them under normal circumstances, so I had jumped at the chance. The produce had already been cleared from the plots. The flowers were long past gone.
A bare-branched white oak stood alone amidst the garden beds. Its trunk was large, the roots thicker and stronger than I had noticed—popping from the ground like vines and winding around each other and over and under the path. I ran my fingers along the trunk, drawn to its knots and ridges.
It was the perfect tree for climbing.
I had closed my eyes, trying to remem
ber the last time I had climbed one. Not since the valley—and even then, I had not climbed trees in winter. It was much too difficult with iced-over bark. No, it had been almost a year. A year. I never would have imagined I would last that long.
My fingers had curled around the bark, the sudden urge to climb the tree pulsing through me. I had stepped forward, then back. Forward and back once more. Why had I hesitated?
I had leaned forward and gripped a knot, but my arms could not pull my weight. I fell back. I stumbled to keep my balance. The tips of my fingers had been red, and they stung from the tree’s jagged edges. It was clear; I was no longer conditioned for climbing trees.
Unexpected sadness had poured over me, and for a moment I had felt much like that tree—like a part of me was dying, like my life was tangled and knotted along the path. Like I was bare for all to see. Like I had no purpose.
I only wished I were as strong as the tree. I felt rooted to nothing.
When Uncle Johnny returned twenty minutes later, I was waiting for him in the carriage.
“I thought you were going to look at the gardens,” he had said, a question looming behind his gray eyes. He had recently grown a mustache again, and it twitched whenever he spoke.
“I did, but I’m afraid there wasn’t much to look at.”
Then Uncle Johnny turned, stole a glance at the front of the school, and pursed his lips. “I suppose you are right, though I do love the white oaks this time of year—the bare branches stretched in all directions. They are lovely.”
I had scowled. “They look so empty and sad.”
His eyes had only widened. “Oh, is that how you see it?” He rubbed one hand along the back of his neck. “I always saw beauty in the lines and curves of the branches. It must be nice for trees to lose their leaves now and again.” He grinned. “They must feel much lighter.”
The memory seemed to stop, frozen on his last words.
Ennui: a feeling of listlessness or dissatisfaction.
I wished to be free of that weight. It hung, much like the leaves of a tree, always close to my heart. I wasn’t sure why I felt so listless, or so dissatisfied. I was happy, after all. Uncle Johnny and Nora were so good to me, better than anyone had ever been. I had no reason to be dissatisfied.
I closed the dictionary. A breeze blew across my cheek, and with it came something else—soft laughter. It had been too long since I had heard it, and I hardly recognized it.
Thomas Allred stooped beneath the low ceiling of the porch. He held a book. And my sister’s arm.
I started and, for a reason I could not explain, slipped behind the garden shed.
They walked down the steps, and he pulled her toward the bench I had been sitting on, my bench.
I tiptoed closer, ducking behind a statue.
“Please tell me you haven’t forgotten,” Thomas said.
There was a subdued quality in his voice, and I knew it was not right to keep listening. Perhaps it was the embarrassment at being found that kept me there—or my curiosity. How had Thomas recovered Clara’s laughter?
Clara grinned. Her bottom lip trembled as if she might break out in laughter once more. Her glance was gentle, bare; it was beautiful. The thought of my uncle’s words seared through my memory once more. Perhaps there was beauty in vulnerability.
Thomas touched her hand. “Please say you remember what we spoke of in your last lesson.”
She pulled her arm away, but there was a reluctance in her movement. “Of course. You spoke of the siege at Yorktown. I remember.”
The wind lapped against the shed. I shivered, second-guessing my decision to hide.
Thomas stood. “Yes,” he said, pacing in front of her. “But have you thought about the other topic I touched upon?”
Clara clasped her hands and shook her head. “You are my tutor.”
He frowned. “Clara, I would—that is, I would hope you understand the earnestness of my intentions—” He stopped, dropping his head into his hands. “I suppose I have done this all wrong.”
Clara touched his hand. “Thomas.”
His eyes lit at the tenderness in her voice. “I cannot tell if you mean to give me hope.” He raised one hand, grazing a finger against her cheek. “But I must know. I cannot keep tutoring you if your answer is no. Already it is torture.”
She colored at his touch. “I hardly know how to answer. I cannot imagine it is easy for you to express your affection so openly. I wish I knew how.” She bit her bottom lip.
“But you do mean to give me hope?” Thomas asked, inching closer.
Her eyes grew misty. “Yes.”
Quiet laughter—sounding more like relief—spread between them. Thomas touched her face once more, leaning further still. “Clara.”
Their lips met.
My mouth flew open. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, trying to steady my breathing. It was beyond improper. No lady kissed a man before they were engaged. At least, that is what Clara had told me on many occasions.
Yet there she was, kissing him.
Thomas pulled back, his hands still cupping her face. “Please let me speak to your uncle.”
Clara nodded, her face suffused in pink.
He laughed aloud. Joy was written across his every feature. He stood and pulled her to his side. “I must take my leave. Please, let me walk you back to the parlor.”
I did not move until long after they had left. Anger burned in my chest; it throbbed at my temples and clinched at my teeth. Thomas had kissed my sister. He had stolen her affection, her laughter, her everything from me. I wanted to scratch his handsome eyes out.
But I could not fool myself. He had stolen nothing. Clara had given him every piece of it—and I realized it was not just anger; I was heartbroken.
Along with the valley and trees, I had lost my sister. I had staked all my hopes on her returning to me once she recovered from this mental ailment, that she would return to the girl I knew back home—the one who wore high-helled boots to the barn and covered my trail from the prying Mrs. Foster.
Did the Clara from my childhood still exist? I hoped that somewhere, beneath the sorrow and the struggles and silence, my friend was waiting for me as I waited for her. But for now, I decided I would try to know this new one—this reserved and distant one, this sister who kept too many secrets and kissed a man before she was engaged.
Chapter Fourteen
THE DRONING SPEECH OF MR. WITHERS carried on and on, like a game of cards that had gone terribly wrong. It was insufferable. I tried to make sense of him, but even after learning lists and lists of new words, his words were foreign. Instead, I watched the way his eyes widened when he spoke words like antidisestablishmentarianism. His lips curled; his cheeks pinked. Such a thrill from a mere word, a word most people did not even understand.
But Mr. Withers was his own type—the type who delighted in words more than friends, who preferred polished shoes over an enjoyable outing, who believed in history more than the present. He was wide around the middle, but he tried to hide it with fancy coats and shiny brooches pinned to his tie. The waxed ends of his mustache often held my attention better than his lectures.
“The western territories—consider it, ladies—were uncivilized just fifty or sixty years ago, in my lifetime. It was a perilous land, full of unpredictability and escapades. Carousing, manslaughter, embezzlement, and even wayward men of the law. These were the barbarous realities faced by those willing to attempt it. Why, the idea of people seeking out such risk is inconceivable,” he said, his lips twisted in disgust. “Scholars assure us it is quite civilized now, though how a place recovers from such vile circumstances escapes me.”
I straightened, for once intrigued by his words. Did he think the West was full of gunslingers and robbers? Yes, things still happened, and talk of Butch Cassidy still filled the minds of school children. But mostly they pretended to be him. It had been a couple years since Butch had fled to South America.
Mr. Withers stopped, his gaze fal
ling on me. “Perhaps the Misses Pratt might enlighten us on the state of the West today.”
Clara fixed me with a look of entreaty.
I cleared my throat. “I can only speak for our valley,” I said, licking my lips. The eyes of the room turned toward me, anticipation flooding from my classmates’ expressions. They wanted a story. I could not conceal the smile that sprung to my lips. “We are quite civilized in the ways of the world. We have plumbing and electricity, much like here. There are dances and parties and beautiful homes.” I swallowed. My heart took flight as I contemplated. “However, I was taught from an early age how to shoot a gun. You never know when you might need it.”
It was not a lie; Daddy had taught me, and I was a better shot than Paul. Yet the reality of why we might need protection … it was a far cry from bandits or gunslingers. Bears and moose, and even wolves, were more common than ruffians.
Gasps and movement broke out about me.
“Have you really touched a gun?” one girl asked.
“Have you had to use one?” another whispered.
Clara shot me a look of warning.
I ignored her and stood, pacing to the front of the class. “It is about survival there. One day may seem pleasant enough, but another could bring a Black Jack or Doc Holliday.” I paused, wiping at my temples. It was too late to turn back. I straightened and continued. “Once, when I returned home after school, I caught the tail end of a shootout on the town’s main drag. I tried to hide, but the bare trees of autumn left little cover. The gang turned on me. As you can imagine, it is dangerous to be a woman in those parts,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “I was forced to draw my gun from my knapsack.”
They were drinking it in, like cool lemonade in the heat of summer.
Mr. Withers sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. Worry creased his brow. “Tell me,” he said, his usual superiority vanishing, “did you shoot?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, rising to my feet. I placed a hand to my heart. “He was hit here. Blood colored his shirt like a storm rolling in. He fell to his knees, clutching his wound. Then he gasped, gurgling blood. It splatted across my shoe, and I saw his eyes roll backward.”
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 9