Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  “Was the money for your farm?” I knew this was the obvious answer.

  “No.”

  “What was it for then, if not for purchasing horses and cattle and whatever else you need to run a place like this...” I rambled on.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  I stiffened.

  “Why I needed that money is none of your business.” He propped his elbows on the table and sported his confident smirk. It fit him well. Almost as if he defied the world and their thoughts about his scars. He could face anyone and be better than they.

  While this likely works often in his favor, at the moment it did not work in mine. I don’t like being defied for any reason. “But you were supposed to answer my question!”

  He opened his mouth, surprised. “I did.”

  I shook my head. “No. You didn’t.”

  “Maybe you didn’t ask the right question.” His voice softened. Disconcertingly.

  Perhaps I had not been bold enough. Certainly polite. I leaned over to whisper. “Why have you and Uncle been afraid of me? Or maybe you are afraid I will find something out about my Father...” I pointed my finger at him without thinking. “Do I own all of your property too? Is that it?”

  He laughed. The man actually laughed in my face!

  He lifted the teapot and poured me another cup of tea. “Relax, Miss.”

  “I was trying to relax until you showed up and tread upon me like dirt.”

  “I apologized for that.” With a sweep of his hand, he motioned at the pot. “The tea to prove it.”

  Another small, meaningless gesture. “You and Uncle aren’t hiding anything?”

  “I’m not. Don’t know about him, though.” He raised his good eyebrow dramatically.

  “Do not toy with me.”

  “Perhaps you read too many dime novels.”

  “Not at all.”

  “There is no mystery. My business is my business. Talk to your Uncle if you have any questions for him.”

  “I...”

  “Why ask me about him? I thought you despise a go-between.”

  “Is that all you were?” I dared show my suspicions yet again.

  “No. For a while I was Quasimodo spooking those around Notre Dame de Paris.”

  If not for the twinkle in his eye, I would have taken him more seriously. “And who is this Quasimodo?”

  “A devil or a saint. You decide.”

  “I believe we are far from my question.”

  “Miss Trafton, perhaps it is you who are far from the truth.”

  “Me? You will not directly answer my questions.”

  “I have. You are not pleased with my answer.”

  Me...far from the truth. The truth is what I wish to know. Have I built this suspicion on a shaky foundation? Must I begin afresh and toss out every frustration I’ve had since coming? The idea sounds tempting, but forgetting is hard. I thought back to the first night Mr. Bleu had come. “Why do they call you David?”

  He seemed taken aback by my question.

  “Now that—I give you permission to ask your Uncle about. It’s the name he gave me.” He shrugged his shoulders but raised his brow yet again. “I must warn you, though, the story’s ugly.”

  I gazed into my tea. Did he speak of his scars?

  He stood and tucked his chair under the table. “Was the brew to your liking?”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure why I apologized just at that moment. The word sorry can cover so many feelings.

  He cocked his head to the side, “You don’t like the tea?”

  “For the other, I mean.”

  “Now why should you apologize? Isn’t it I who have made your stay here misery?”

  His sarcasm made me sorrier. “I might have made my own unfair assumptions.” I suddenly didn’t know what ground I had to stand on or for what reason. I had never felt more disconnected from the safety of my parents. Living by their plan and will, yet floundering without them—worse than a bird shoved from its nest.

  I am thankful that Aunt is loving, but my mother embraced me completely. Fully. I was her life she once told me.

  I leaned my chin on my hand. “The tea is excellent. Thank you.”

  He nodded, suddenly distant and weary of sparring. “Good night, Miss Trafton.” He poured himself a second cup, to take with him, I supposed.

  “Good night, David.”

  He looked up at me in surprise. To my utter embarrassment, I realized I’d called him David. Oh, crumb.

  Ernest limped in, still sore from his accident and looked at us. “I hope you can forgive my family, Dorothy. My sisters can be confusing sometimes.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll all be forgivin’ each other often, I am sure.” Ernest appeared defeated, yet accepting.

  “I hope to never give offense, in any case.” I smiled.

  “Lofty desires, Miss Trafton.” Mr. Bleu walked out the back door, letting the screen door slap behind him.

  JAMES SIPPED THE REMAINDER of his tea, lost in thought. How easy it would have been to tell her. He sipped again. Wiped his lips with his shirtsleeve and set the teacup down on the upturned crate serving as a table. Suspicious creature. Who knew exactly what she thought of him?

  If the complete truth came out, it would create a wedge in his relationship with this family he loved like his own. He’d been forbidden, but he’d done it anyway. Gave freely, or so he thought. It was easier, knowing the hands that had held the farm deed were trustworthy. But why God let the whole thing fall to Dorothy’s womanly will was beyond him.

  But he’d chosen to trust God. Not doubt Him. Question Him, perhaps, as life unfolds all manner of curious happenings. Couldn’t help the questions. No man could.

  He’d tried to be kind to her, but she had her own confronting to do. No doubt his lack of manners had caused doubt and grief. It took some ill words tossed in her direction. If he’d been nice to start with, she wouldn’t have known there was a can of worms to open. And he wouldn’t have added wounds to her pain.

  She was right about assumptions being like lies. Good thing he told the truth. He had borrowed her father, for certain, if not his money. The past was not her business. Not at all.

  Chapter 11

  MARCH 9, 1880

  Nightmares leave me exhausted, as though I had never slept. I remembered the pale, thinned faces of my parents as they suffered together. In my dream, I stood glancing from bed to bed, as I often had, checking that their lean bodies had been tucked into fresh, clean linens. The nurse poured beef tea through a spout between Mother’s lips. In my arms I carried a sheaf of lavender, fresh and pungent. I’d brought them life. Beauty. My flowers caught fire and blackened, smoke choked me and filled the room. My parents were gone when the air cleared and I jolted awake. I have no wish to return to those searing, hopeless moments.

  I had hoped the morning would dawn sunny and not this blasted rain. I shouldn’t have said blasted. I see the creek swelling from my bedroom window. Glad this home was built on higher ground, but what of my walk to Cedar Gate for true tea? Aunt’s umbrella is a ratty old affair. The grand Mrs. MacDonald will need to take what she gets.

  I swept my unsettling dream back into the past where it belonged. I need not have worried as the rain lightened considerably by the time I put on my cloak.

  Mr. Bleu accompanied me, having business with Mr. MacDonald. Our easy conversation dwelled much on surrounding farms and production. Purely business. An easy conversation—though we still have this low wall between us. At least I can see somewhat clearly on his side. I know I may not step over unless invited.

  His unwillingness to tell me about my father was proof of that. Not that I knew everything that my father did every day. I’m not sure many of us girls knew the fine details of our father’s occupations. Money, business, lawyer, banker. My friends and I never thought twice about it! Nowadays, it’s a downright itch that must be scratched. It’s plain I didn’t know my dear father as well as I assum
ed. Or maybe it’s my assumptions that are the problem.

  When we arrived at Cedar Gate Farm, I was unprepared for the vast stretch of land—surely the best in the county. Fields were already being plowed for tobacco seedlings. A steam plow chugged long straight lines on the left while men and mules worked together on the right.

  The estate stood facing these fields. I envisioned a courtyard but instead, overgrown maples stretched high and round, as if here for the home’s sake, and not their own. I imagined them covered with leaves, casting a shade cool and rich in the summer’s heat. The red brick mansion with elongated windows and a low whitewashed veranda snaking around both sides threw jealousy in my mind. Now this would have been lovely to inherit! The Grecian columns were giants compared to the scrawny pair that guarded our small porch in Cincinnati.

  When we approached the steps, Mr. Bleu offered me his arm. I took it. I mustn’t be seen without manners. I gulped at the jeweled stained-glass door. It opened before Mr. Bleu rang the bell.

  Chess stood with an arm stretched out “My heart keeps open house, my doors are widely flung!” followed by laughter.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Longfellow, Miss Trafton. David, will you stay?”

  “Thank you, but I need to meet with your father in the stables.”

  “Ah. He wants me there too. Tea sounds more fun.” Chess winked at me, the gall.

  Mr. Bleu knowingly smiled. “There must be cake if you are willing to incur your father’s wrath.”

  “Indeed there is.” He bowed acquiescence. “However, we shall hope Miss Trafton isn’t a glutton, though we can see plainly that she isn’t.” His glance hardly took me in, “Skin and bones.” He blinked his eyes like an overgrown child. “You won’t eat it all, will you?”

  This whimpering puppy toyed with me. As if his brown eyes had an instant effect on all young women. I am not swayed in the least.

  “I make no promises.” I curtsied.

  “Well, well, well.” He bowed in return. “I leave my fate in your hands, Miss Trafton.”

  Mr. Bleu had a merry wrinkle around his eyes. I looked away, just in time to see a woman sweep down the foyer stairway. This lady of the house, no doubt Mrs. MacDonald, wore a deep russet gown trimmed in black that matched her upswept raven hair. She warmly took my gloved hand in hers and drew me away without any attention to her son or Mr. Bleu.

  “I shan’t leave you standing there without mercy! Chess can be quite the court jester.” She led me to a kind of music room. An ancient pianoforte dominated the space. At rest on the mantelpiece were flutes and pipes of every kind, in the other corner a lightly carved harp stood without a cover...as if someone had recently been playing.

  “Come, sit here.” She gestured towards an elegant corner with a table already set with two rather fine Chippendale chairs on either end. The sun peeked out just then, through large windows that overlooked a small courtyard. I knew there had to be a courtyard.

  I drew out my own chair and sat, glad that Philip and Chess were not in attendance after all. Helen would have no further reason to ignore me when I relay my visit. But I dreaded the many questions I knew was coming.

  Her dark eyes slowly took in my form clad in black silk before she spoke. “I have lived here for over twenty years, and this room is still my favorite.” She pronounced with a firm smile.

  Nerves rose, I couldn’t gather why. I dashed about for something to say. “I see you are rather musical. Which instrument do you play?”

  “All of them, my dear.” Her smile turned soft. I noticed then that she had a few gray strands, though not many. I know, gray strands do not make a person, yet she seemed so young, and so very knowing at the same time.

  “I will, perhaps, preform for you another day. I want to get to know all about you.”

  Of course. This interview was to be about myself, as I suspected.

  “I must apologize for not being in attendance at your home-coming party.”

  It wasn’t a home-coming, but a home leaving. I didn’t correct her.

  A maid stepped in just then with a tea cart, the wheels made soft squeaks as she drew near us. She lay our cups and set a silver pot before Mrs. MacDonald. On a low plate sat the cake, studded with almonds and dried cherries.

  “Have you settled in?”

  “I am thankful to have my own furnishings. Makes my room at the farm a little more like home.”

  She leaned forward slightly, as if she were an old friend. “I know just what you mean.” She paused to cut thin slices of cake with the most dainty knife I’ve ever seen. She served me without asking if I wanted any.

  “I was sixteen and pawned off on relatives when my father died. I was allowed to keep my flutes...” she motioned to the mantle-collection, “and precious few books.”

  “Aunt and Uncle have been kind enough to take me in. Everyone has done their best to make me feel at home.” The last part felt like a lie.

  She poured the brew, a rich China green. I added a tiny spoonful of sugar. How can I finish my thoughts? I cannot open up to a complete stranger. Yet she opened me, I hardly felt her gentle prying.

  “It’s not at all home yet, I understand. In me, you have a companion.” She nodded lightly, “I know the sorrow of losing both parents.”

  Suddenly, all her glamor didn’t make sense. My black gown seemed ridiculous. I needed to sit across from her in pale yellow, confident, with every intricate detail of my life making perfect sense. None of these feelings that squash together like a bad blend of Friday night hash. She seemed so beautiful and happy. I knew that I was neither.

  I looked down to my cake studded with a glistening red cherry.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand.”

  I ventured forward. “I know little of country life. I wish my parents were still here. They were my true home.”

  She nodded. “My mother died when I was six years old. My father, ten years later. He and I were the best of friends. I baked his bread and filled his pipe.” She smiled at the memory. “He read to me every evening before bed. My Aunt and Uncle didn’t not read at all. Didn’t allow me novels.”

  I stared aghast. Life without novels...

  “Quite true. If they had known about my poetry collection, I daresay they would have made a bonfire of them.”

  “How could they be so cruel?”

  “They weren’t especially cruel, not in the worst sense of the word. Just old-fashioned. Not used to the idea that a girl can be as intelligent as any man.”

  I laughed behind my napkin. “They let you keep music, it seems.”

  “I threw hours of my day into practice. Don’t you know? Stories can be found in music.”

  She folded her hands around her teacup and actually leaned back in her chair.

  “Now tell me, is there anything that you have lost that I can replace for you? If you have need of novels, we have quite a library.”

  “Thank you. I do have a trunk of books, but one can never have too many.”

  “Is there any service we might render you?” She seemed so eager to help. My needs, however, couldn’t be touched.

  I shook my head. “My material wants are met at the moment. You are too kind.”

  “Nonsense. We orphaned girls must stick together.”

  Orphan is a lonely word. She made it sound like an opportunity for friendship. “I can tell you honestly that I do need scope.”

  “Scope?”

  “More understanding of my new position...do you know?”

  “That you own your Uncle’s farm? Yes.”

  “No one bothered to tell me until a few days ago.”

  “Did they not? How shocking.”

  “I am not sure how this fact changes anything. One moment I feel like Queen Elizabeth, ready to order soldiers to the hen house, the next moment I feel like I am an inconvenient bystander.”

  “Ah. I might suggest nestling into your new home, and see what comes? Occupy yourself with something worthwh
ile. You don’t need to have the future figured out. Simply too stressful and it rarely goes as we plan.”

  She meant to tell me that I did not need to worry. Of course she was right. I took a nibble of my cake just then, and caught an almond between my front teeth. I worked it out of the way before too much silence had passed. “Thank you. It’s the worthwhile doings that I have trouble with too.” Did I really tell her my heart?

  “Take one moment at a time, if you need to. One step, one knit stitch, one moment, then the next. Worthwhile doings will come to you in good time. You are grieving.”

  Understanding drenched the moment. She looked at me as if she and I were dear to one another—or rather she wished to be, but the friendship was up to me. I could accept her congenial hand or reject it. Nothing in between. Scarcity of friends makes me want to grasp her unspoken offer.

  We talked of music for the rest of the hour until Mr. Bleu showed up to escort me home. Chess might be irritated when he finds that his mother sent the remainder of the cake home with us for the children. I can laugh about him now.

  Mr. Bleu seemed in good spirits all the way back to the farm. Some tightly wound emotions uncoiled within me, those droplets of peace that I’d received came pouring out. With every step towards my new home, my farm, my spirit bloomed a little.

  Mr. Bleu pointed left and right, making more comments about the surrounding land—too much information to gather at once.

  “And where is your farm? I thought you were only next door.”

  “Five more miles to the east.”

  “And you grow cattle?” Yes, I asked possibly the most ignorant question of all time.

  His mouth twitched. “About two-hundred head a year. Sell them at market.”

  “It provides?”

  His eyes darkened. I suppose that was a prying question. “Ernest can teach you to convert cattle into dollars, but we don’t expect you to...”

  “I was just curious. You know quite well that I don’t know a thing about farming.”

  Mr. Bleu pointed to home, just over the next two gently sloping hills. A wagon stood in front. Two people, a man and woman held a child between them.