My throat began to sting and I could hardly swallow a bite of bread as sickness took hold. A slow soft knock presented. “Yes?”
Ernest opened the door. “I’m sorry, Dorothy.” His eyes were sad.
I shrugged. “It’s a history neither of us can help.”
He waited, as if needing a benediction. But what can I give him?
“I best be at chores.” He retracted his steps back and handed me a blooming crocus in a tiny vase. A bright yellow forbearer of spring.
Yesterday was too much and I am ill. My throat plagues me, my eyes burn. From fever and tears. Aunt has brought me willow bark tea—I’ll drink any imposter to push away this pain.
Mr. Bleu still plays—how long will he? Strum after strum, King David...Oh what an odd thought. His nickname rankles me. I doubt Uncle will ever tell me the story if he can’t manage to tell me about my own mother. My parents had always been forthright. At least until they died and revealed what I’d never known.
Helen brought two hot bricks and tucked them into the end of my bed. She seems more at peace since our talk. I pray no more walls between any of us.
I slept. Mr. Bleu no longer played and moonlight slipped between the curtains. Someone has been here and turned down the oil lamp to a low burn. I ventured to write in the dim light.
Something caught my attention by the door. At first, I thought it was a mouse, but after a few minutes, the creature didn’t move. I slid from my bed and retrieved a small packet, tied with a blue ribbon. A note scrolled beneath the knot, like an ancient message.
“I meant to give this to you on your birthday, but the time never presented itself. Please accept this belated gift. I pray you a prosperous year, J. Bleu.”
Prosperous indeed. I opened the packet, expecting more Ceylon tea. A pocket knife tumbled to my palm. Small and thin, inlay with bone colored flowers and tipped with silver. Has a loop on one end for wearing on a chatelaine. I sniffed, grabbing one of my new handkerchiefs. I’ve never owned such an item. I opened the blade with my thumbnail and looked down the tip in the candlelight. I saw my reflection, yet something more. An engraving, “fortuis in arduis.” What does it mean?
I was surprised by this extravagant gesture. I closed the blade and lay the knife next to the scroll on the bedside table. I supposed it would be useful while living here.
MARCH 19, 1880
I’m a little better today. Fever is gone, yet Mother’s trunk sits in my room burning a hole in the floor. A hot coal of history. I don’t know whether to be warmed or wounded by it. One moment I want it removed from sight—such little it has to do with me. The next, I want to bury myself in its contents if only to be near her.
A thought slipped into my mind. Did father have such a trunk filled with a previous life? Not father. Surely not. And if he had, what could I do? I’d be tossed into cogitation and never emerge.
I sat downstairs in the parlor today, putting a few hours into knitting stockings and a few more hours working on an embroidery piece featuring miniature forest creatures and tiny pinecones. Aunt looked longingly at my pile of multi-colored cotton twists. I held some unused portions to her. Like most of this family, she refused to accept any gift I offer.
The house buzzed with an awakened spirit—the fruit trees had started blooming, lending a snowy brightness to the sky. Ernest says that I’ll be spending hours upon hours in the kitchen come harvest. He’s the only one that sees me completely merging with this place...not sitting here on display like the only silver spoon in Aunt’s hutch. I have a goodly stack of aprons. That’s a start.
Aunt served a large dinner tonight, and later I discovered why. Mr. Bleu rides back to his farm come sundown. All foals are safely born, and I am safely informed. Any other secrets this family has will have to work themselves out slowly, like a splinter. I won’t do the plucking. Too much to ponder...
“Cows are soon to calve,” Ernest said.
Mr. Bleu looked up from his pork chop. “How many?”
“Thirty-three. We’ll be right busy.”
Uncle pointed his butter knife to Ernest, “Gotta check ‘em every day.”
“Enough.” Aunt said. It was then I realized that evening supper silence had been broken. I’d been too bewildered by how on earth Ernst could possibly know how many cows were expecting.
The quiet lasted only a few minutes. My young cousins giggled, the boys sat on the edge of their seats.
“We don’t want to rush David out of here, boys.” Aunt grinned knowingly.
The boys loved him. Why would Aunt think them eager? I hoped for a quiet moment to thank him for the pocket knife. And to ask what the Latin inscription meant...
Minutes later, we sat on the porch while the boys lined up with drums and raised sticks. Mr. Bleu sat atop his horse like a general, and saluted the boys. They drummed a rousing pattern while Ernest played a fife—like I’d seen in Fourth of July parades in Cincinnati. Drumsticks tossed back and forth—Sully in the Middle—as they boys marched, serenading him back to his farm. They played until they reached the top of the hill and ran like wild rabbits all the way back.
When had they practiced? Mr. Bleu had no doubt been their teacher.
I have not thanked him.
Chapter 14
JAMES LIT THE OIL LAMP and settled down in his most comfortable chair. A lone letter lay on the desk beside him. He snatched it up, noting the feminine hand. Couldn’t be from his mother. She never wrote. He flipped it over. Hmmm. Miss Trafton? More questions, no doubt. Ones he wasn’t willing to answer.
He slid his finger along the seal and tugged out the message.
Dear Mr. Bleu,
I’d be remiss if I didn’t promptly thank you for your gift of the pocket knife. I’ve never seen one so beautifully crafted. “Fortuis in arduis”? If only Uncle had a Latin textbook, I might decipher these words on my own. This is an extravagant gift, I wonder why or how you decided I should have it? You and I have not had the best of beginnings.
I don’t say this to reprimand you in any way. You’ve made your apologies, but I have not. Before my birthday arrived, I made a terrible mistake. I seem to make short jumps to fury these days, as if I expect to be provoked at each turn and am ready to deflect.
You handed me receipts in good faith that I would keep the contents to myself. When I opened them—this is difficult to confess—I thought you were deceiving me in some way. I could make no sense of them. Just numbers and dates. Without paying closer attention, I thrust them back to you in anger and in front of Uncle, who for some reason only known to you, needed to be left in the dark.
Mr. Bleu, I’m an absolute dunce. I should have looked closely, taken my time with them. I broke my quickly given promise.
James dropped the note to his lap, swiped one hand across his mouth. She was apologizing? He read on...
I am sorry. What can I do to repair what I’ve done? Without knowing how the pieces fit, I endeavor to live at peace with my family. But you, Mr. Bleu, hold all the cards to your chest. I don’t know why it is difficult for you to share your past business with my father or why Uncle shouldn’t know everything as well. Or why you have been in the thick of my farm ownership at all, unless Uncle truly needs a keen financial eye. This must be the case.
I want you to know that while I greatly desire the truth, I will let the issue lie. I have given this frustration to God. I don’t say this to be pious. If you have done wrong, He will take care of it. But I don’t believe you have done wrong. Not at all. Which leaves me with the opposite suspicion. You must have done something right.
His heart beat faster.
Lastly, I want to thank you for standing in the gap and helping Uncle navigate my ownership. I’ve been angry about that too, but I see now that you have been a devoted friend to him and—I dare say—me as well. My arrival must have set you both to wondering what a stranger would do. You’ve been far more patient than me.
Sincerely, Dorothy Trafton
Guilt spread over him
like an unnaturally heavy quilt. He had not been as patient as she’d declared. Hardly. Yet he’d seen the sheer grief that stunned her features when she didn’t know anyone was looking. Shock at learning she owned the land, a twist in her wound when she learned of her mother’s past. He knew the pain that life-changing events brought. How had he not been more compassionate? More understanding. More observant of her grief. Instead he’d been selfish. Worried about his scars and her reaction to him than what she was going through.
If she only knew. She’d be furious if she found out he took her father’s box of business papers. Should’ve refused Hammond’s foolish request. They needed her trust. She should be able to trust them also.
She wonders why he’d chosen to give her the pocket knife? Guilt, mostly. And the message on the blade. An everyday tool beautified by inlay and silver. Her life may bear a more rustic outlook on the farm instead of the city, but he believed it possible to guild one’s future with purpose. Make it shine with intent. But how to say this to her? Wasn’t his place.
Might never be.
He read the letter again—slowly—and stuffed it back into the envelope. Deep in the desk drawer. He picked up his guitar, his fingers finding the music without thought. Played until his eyes blurred with exhaustion in the dim lamplight.
Chapter 15
APRIL 2, 1880
Black snakes have been nesting in the root cellar. Ernest killed them enthusiastically with a hoe while he assured me that they were quite harmless. I don’t agree. Snakes are cursed. Anything that bites and slithers is wretched. He tells me they eat mice and are good for the farm. I remain unconvinced.
Perhaps I am the one that is not good for this place. I wonder if Mr. Bleu has received my letter? I had to find a way to mail it secretly when last in town. I know Uncle wouldn’t have approved me writing to a single man, though he is a dear family friend.
I’ve carried Abraham Birch’s sketchbook to his grave site and sketched his head stone on the final empty page of his book. How ironic. I added the smaller headstones of my half siblings, grouped as though resting within their father’s arms.
I’m trying to make peace with him, or rather, his existence in Mother’s life. After all, he lived first. Should I be thankful he died so that Mother could marry Father? If he had not died, I would not exist. He most certainly did not die for this reason, though I must believe God did indeed make me with purpose. Odd to think that my life came from his death.
Here I am, parroting again. I can almost feel my wings flapping! My parents have always told me I was made with a purpose. A brief purpose or a lengthy one? As always, time will tell. I simply can’t believe that Mother and Father’s fleeting life—or Mr. Birch’s life—or my own life—account for nothing more than another’s short memory.
I’ve been pouring over his sketchbook. If I were a mother, I might count these farm life tidbits as precious. He was terribly precise—the smallest nail on a post, ivy tendrils that creep up buildings—coupled with the small quotes and poetry lines. So sweet and romantic.
There is a sketch of mother in a sunbonnet. Those youthful, hope-filled eyes stared back at me. Dreamy and unknowing. I felt a flash of fear for her future, but it dissipated in the sunlight. I thought of only the hard times, and truthfully, my growing up years were good and she was contented. We’d been the best of friends. I peered back at her face again, this time thinking of who she is—where she is—now at this very moment. Happier than the happiness I’ve ever encountered. The youthful sparkle back in her eyes. It must be true.
I wonder if I have the same sparkle? When I look in the mirror, I only see a girl that doesn’t much like looking at herself for fear her soul might leak through her carefully mending heart.
I MADE USE OF MY KNIFE today. Perfect for opening letters. Likely not what Mr. Bleu had in mind. Was I supposed to whittle like a mountain man with it? Anyway, I received two letters today. I wonder why they took so long?
Mrs. Dearberg, one of mother’s friends, wished to inquire if I had satisfactory lodgings and invited me to be a companion. She is kind, but I can’t abide her four cats. Or the smell of her town house. Kind but unthinkable. I shall reply directly in the negative.
The second was a long missive from Mrs. Smith, a family acquaintance. It has given me the most pause...I still do not know what I shall do. I am invited to the lake this summer. The lake... I’ll say nothing to Aunt and Uncle yet. A swell of hope flooded my heart at this prospect. Of course I shall go.
I spent the day stitching happily at little Ruby’s hems thinking only of the lake and who might be there. How could I know that by evening all such notions would have to be abandoned?
Violets grow in profusion here. Aunt has me picking every last one of them to turn into both medicinal ointment and syrup. This is happy work comparably. Helen and Kirsten sing songs to keep their minds occupied while helping in the vegetable garden. The farm has a different tempo now that Mr. Bleu isn’t here. He lent a solid presence to this place, though I can’t explain why.
I watched time tick by on the mantel piece, tiny human-shaped clock hands at the end, pointing with open palms as if time itself is an offering. I had been helping Aunt wash down the iron bedframe with a scalding bucket of lye soap water. I glanced out the wavy window glass to see Chess ride up on his unmatched Thoroughbred. Thus, my secret escape to my beloved lake, irretrievable. I waited too long to reveal my plans or set them in stone.
Wreathed in smiles, Helen ran to Aunt, holding a scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. “It’s here!”
“You’ll no doubt be ready to start sewing on your white gown.” Aunt smiled back.
“Here,” Helen handed me the scroll without looking. “I already know what’s inside.” I lay my rag aside and dried my hands on my apron. I slid the ribbon off. An invitation. I should have known.
I scanned the words, but Helen cut in, speaking swiftly. “The most important event all year. Cedar Gate’s ball must be attended at all costs!”
“Well, hopefully without too much cost, my dear.” Aunt smiled.
“A ball...” I had been to a few galas like this. Miserable affairs. All hopes for romance were always quashed with sticky spilled punch and beauty unnoted. I would sit for most of the event with moping school friends who were equally shunned in favor of highly polished living dolls. I did not despise the beauties. I despaired at the boys who failed to be gentlemen.
Helen obviously enjoys this annual ball, I might yet hope.
Aunt placed her hands on her hips and nodded to me. “You are to be the guest of honor.”
Heat flooded my face and moved clear down my arms. “Why on earth would I be the guest of honor?!” How very strange and unexpected...
“Mrs. MacDonald has taken a liking to you,” Helen said. “Last year she chose the minister.”
I’d never heard of such a thing. I peeked at the invitation, and there, in finely scripted hand, was my name. What? “How many people usually come to this?”
“Oh, never less than four hundred.”
Four hundred souls would see my name scribed as a guest of honor, the date smack when it shouldn’t be. My opportunity to join the lake party gone. I couldn’t possibly reject this invitation and snub a community I hoped would become my home.
Aunt noticed my consternation. “Don’t worry, dear. Think of it as a community event.”
Helen grinned, “And a chance to meet the local bachelors!”
“Bachelors...” Only one face came to mind.
“You do know how to dance?” Helen spun in a circle.
“Yes, a little.”
“Good thing we have a month to practice.”
I smiled, knowing I needed to appear pleased about this. True, I enjoy elaborate hair styles and ball gowns, but I know that I won’t feel a Cinderella-beauty in a black dress. Going could be advantageous. Truth will seep out and I will see this town’s character under bright, glistening candles.
I fingered the pocket knife t
ucked within my apron pocket. Does Mr. Bleu go to dances? Or hide behind the mirror?
JAMES OPENED HIS INVITATION yet again, marveling at Dorothy’s name embossed in the center as the guest of honor. He could not have predicted this. To be invited was one thing, but to be the honored guest meant meeting nearly every soul in town. Could she handle their studied assessment? Being observed under a magnifying glass? Gosh, if she only knew the whole of it, life would become easier. Still, Hammond insisted they wait. But he’d promised her no more secrets. Ah, well. Wasn’t his secret to reveal. Or was it?
He struggled all afternoon. Prayed. She needed help to get through this night. Hammond would not be sufficient, if he even dared show his face in the ballroom. But yes, he’d be there for her when eyebrows raised at her name. When and if anyone told tales. That is, if she’d have him.
APRIL 21, 1880
April flew by with tilling, planting, and birthing. I went along with each household duty like a tolerated servant. Did I think I’d earn the freedom trust brings? No. More work instead, though I work considerably slower than my cousins. I didn’t inherit a farm, I inherited work. How much more embarrassing would it be to sit idle and watch everyone else go about securing our daily rations?
True, I did delight in the blossoming trees. In my spare moments I also delighted, surprisingly, in the silent graveyard. Little by little, I wished my parents had been buried here. I began chatting to mother’s first husband. Am I going crazy? I’d pull out the pocket knife Mr. Bleu gave me and accustomed myself to carving on all manner of stems and sticks. I’m no longer skiddish to wield such a blade.
One afternoon, I carved notches down a smooth twig, small dips spaced an inch apart. Perhaps to organize colored threads as I embroidered. Its rustic, useful nature attracted me. I must have appeared very pleased with myself. Soft footsteps jolted me from my project—I only hoped it wasn’t an escaped bull. Quite the opposite.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 11