“Good afternoon, Miss Trafton.” He tipped his hat.
Mr. Bleu had never sounded so pleasant. I was surprised to feel such gladness at seeing him. “Mr. Bleu! Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays. Precisely.” He’d dressed better than in farmer’s garb. The cut of his jacket like those worn in the city. His hand grasped a curvy walking stick, worn with much use.
A light smile poised over his sturdy chin. “Spring is quite busy on the farm. We’ll be planting next week.”
“Isn’t it too early?”
“Not this far south.”
“Ah. We have been extra busy too. I’ve learned how to wear work-boots—see?”
“Still looks brand new.” He grinned.
Did he not see the multiple scratches? I had earned them with a modicum of pride. I covered the tops with my skirt. One I’d recently patched myself.
“I came to ask the honor of accompanying you to the Cedar Gate Ball.” His face melted into that serious expression I’d known first. His handsome side, his scarred side, all one man.
I did not think twice. “Thank you, Mr. Bleu. You shall save me a thousand humiliations.” I shook my head “I can’t believe I was made the guest of honor. Whatever was she thinking?”
“Imagine how I felt the year I held that position.” His brows rose in complete understanding. Perhaps more.
“Oh, they didn’t!”
He cracked that smile again. “Don’t you think I rather deserved it?” He stepped close and tapped the air at my forehead. “Ah ha, I know what goes through that mind of yours.”
I wanted to crawl into the grave with Mr. Birch. Well, not quite. I had grown accustomed to his features. “You hinted about such feelings.”
“I did indeed.” He leaned against a headstone. “I was horrified. Took every ounce of pride to show this wretched face amongst the roses of Paris.”
My compliment didn’t seem to matter. “I can’t imagine. You are still quite handsome.” My face burned, but I wanted him to know. Perhaps he would never hear this from anyone else.
“Had my pick of them, and could scarce get away for fresh air.” He took a lethal swipe at heady grass with his walking stick.
“What?”
“Surprised, Miss Trafton?”
“Jealous! I’ve personally never been so desired a partner. In fact, I nearly despise balls. They spoil plans and hopes.”
“I agree, one should not put too much hope in them. Honestly, Miss Trafton, each of those Paris roses had been required to dance with me.” He made a silly face. “Mr. MacDonald had paid them off with a length of silk each.”
“Scandalous!”
“Not at all. He wanted to teach me a lesson. Help me get used to this.” His index finger zigzagged across his face.
As if one who had suffered needed to be taught a lesson! A devilish thing to do. “So, you are no longer embarrassed...by the scars?”
His mouth twitched.
Humiliation swept over me like an ocean wave, drenching my thoughts and, thankfully my words.
“You’re turning all shades, Miss Trafton.”
“I do not want you to be self-conscious.” I blubbered.
“Aren’t you also?”
“That’s different.”
“Hardly.”
I stood and the pocket knife slid to the ground. We both stooped to pick it up, but I tumbled a bit forward. His arms slid around me—pushed me to my feet, and I became weak at my knees. He gazed into my eyes like we had an understanding. Like we both needed to be strong for different reasons.
He released me and picked up the knife. “Never forget to close the blade.” And snapped it shut. He handed it to me with a smile.
“This was an extravagant gift.”
He nodded in agreement. “It was time to let it go. Belonged to my sister.”
I looked down at the knife resting in my palm. “You loved her dearly.”
“Yes. I had it made for her twelfth birthday.”
“And the Latin inscription?”
“Fortuis in arduis. Bravery in difficulty.”
He understood. I needed to be brave. What had been his sister’s difficulty? He did not offer an explanation. Nor did I ask.
We walked back to the house slowly in the twilight to the quirky farm music. He took his meal with us and rode back in darkness.
I fingered the pocket knife with more reverence than before. Mr. Bleu’s sister...what had she been like? And gone at such a young age.
We all have had losses. Loss is everywhere, but gain is also. I asked the Lord to show me this kind of harvest. To see more good than tragedy so that I can rise up out of this never ending melancholy.
I try to imagine myself in a scene of upmost happiness: what does it look like and include? I placed myself before the old fireplace at home, always, with books, chocolates, toast and tea—I’m never alone. My favorite two people cannot enter the scene again because they are gone!
I’m struck by the idea that I need new favorites to fill these places. Is that possible? Because the fireplace is soothing by oneself for a short time before I must have a friend to share it with. A contented gathering is joy.
I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and crept downstairs to the parlor. The grate lay empty and perfectly swept. No need for cozy scenes until autumn arrives. I traced the square millwork in the moonlight knowing I must choose this hearth inasmuch as I was chosen for it.
No mistake. I’m meant to be here. This time, the knowledge didn’t stab sharply, but secured me.
Aunt and Uncle’s soft laughter flowed from the other end of the house. Ernst joined them. Helen and Kirsten sang a song in soft tones from their snug feather bed. I prayed nothing ever happens to disturb this sweet family life.
Chapter 16
MAY 2, 1880
Morning sun pried my eyes open. Realization, after the deepest of sleeps, keeps me from closing them again until I have recorded every thought and happening. Last night I attended Cedar Gate Ball on the strong arm of Mr. Bleu.
I had this feeling that he would need to cancel, have a farm emergency or some such misadventure. I would go alone as I’d done so many times before. This was not to be the case.
Helen, Kirsten, and I worked on our gowns in our spare time in the few weeks before hand. Helen added pink medallions around her skirts, Kirsten embroidered blue bells across the entire gown. In the end, we all pitched in to have it done in time.
Mine was new from last season and needed minimal repair—I added just a few rosettes at the waist. My heart wasn’t in them, though. I had been worried about dancing while in mourning, and in colors—but Aunt said I was the guest of honor and she believed it would be acceptable if I wore my white silk as long as I tied a black ribbon around one sleeve. “Your parents would want you to dance today. I know they would!” She had a happy glimmer in her eye. I was willing to believe her.
I tried to return the beaming smile. Truth is, I longed to feel as hopeful and excited as my silly cousins.
I wondered if Aunt and Uncle were concerned about my meeting any beaus. If I married one, the deed to the farm would transfer to my husband. And then what should happen to them? But meeting beaus never occurs, so they should put their mind at ease on that score...at least if I told them how terrible I am at enchanting young men.
Such thoughts carried me to stoic Mr. Bleu. I tried to be generous in thinking of Aunt and Uncle’s motives concerning my life, but I wondered most seriously if this is why he planned to take me to the ball. To guard me from romance? Be the valiant defender of Uncle’s livelihood to the last?
And then another kind of thought struck me—so much that I stopped stitching momentarily on Kirsten’s gown. Are they matching Mr. Bleu and me? Of course! No better way to keep their farms intact, their livelihood safe from the meddling hands of another man.
I thought Mr. Bleu was merely being polite, but maybe I was wrong. I had no romantic notions towards him...I...My face burned and my thoughts turned i
nto a jumble of frustration and sheer nerves.
I excused myself and closeted in my room to think clearly. Did I see him as a potential husband? Oh, how my thoughts bred guilt. I hadn’t a right to think this way. And yet my heart pounded so that I could scarcely breathe. The question had been in the back of my mind, unwillingly. I knew such ideas couldn’t possibly come to fruition. He is like a brother to the family, and must be like one to me.
Bit by bit, I calmed. The idea tossed into the sea of fiction in my daydreams. I could relax and be grateful he is becoming a friend. But then I spied the pocket knife on my dressing table. Such a priceless item. Did he mean something more by it? And so, my thoughts ran away again. It was awhile before the fluttering in my stomach settled.
Soon, the hour of the gala arrived and I arrayed myself in the waiting finery. I didn’t know my reflection after several months in the same two black dresses! I’d arranged my hair simply, a braided bun with little ribbons streaming from it. The curling iron had been traded between Helen and Kirsten amongst constant bickering all day. Aunt had performed matching hairstyles— pulled back with graduating spirals. Helen was a bit pernicious about this until I added ribbons to her hair, and a shell comb to Kirsten’s.
“How do you have so many nice things?” Kirsten posed in the mirror, intrigued by the fancy changes.
“Well...” How should I answer her? It’s obvious my father was well off—for a time at least. “Why don’t you keep the comb?” I felt obligated to make the offer.
“Really?”
“Truly.” As I spoke, the old grief surfaced. The comb had been a gift from Mother.
Aunt got wind of it and promptly reprimanded her. “Do not pine for another’s possessions! You may certainly not keep it.”
I can’t deny relief, yet I sense Kirsten’s embarrassment. I needn’t have worried. Excitement washed away my concerns when Uncle and Ernst came ‘round with the wagon.
Soon after, Mr. Bleu came for me in his own gig. I have to admit slight mortification when I saw him arrive. I know I flushed apple red. I have never been seen with another man alone in a gig. Such conveyances are for courting.
Aunt walked me onto the porch. I wished she would attend with me! Her matronly strength would fortify me sufficiently. Alas, she must tend the home fires and care for my young cousins.
Little Ruby was downright tearful at the sight of us dressed in our finest. Mr. Bleu caught sight of her lurking in the doorway, jumped from his gig, and made a beeline for her.
He placed his arms akimbo. “What’s this?” He looked only at her.
“I can’t go!” She wailed.
“But you will someday.”
“I want to go with you! Now!”
Aunt wiped Ruby’s face with a kerchief.
“Why don’t we have a dance?” He offered his hands to her.
“Really?” She grabbed his hands and began to turn a circle before he had a chance. “Ring around the rosie...” Until they both fell down.
Her eyes brightened and giggles arose in hiccups. Mr. Bleu dusted himself off and gave a bow to her.
I whispered to Aunt. “Goodbye. Will you pray for me?”
She seemed surprised that I would ask.
“Why, I do, my dear. I do.” She squeezed my hand.
Mr. Bleu assessed me and bowed. “You are lovely tonight.” And offered his arm to the gig, handed me in and we took off. I confess pride at his compliment. Was I lovely? To him?
Self-consciousness swirled around me in a terrifying merry-go-round. If only he’d turn back so I didn’t have to face this curious crowd. Or wonder what he was thinking.
The evening weather was quite perfect, though I could hardly enjoy it. Warm without heat, breezes, no sign of rain. We spoke little as we rattled down the only gravel road leading to Cedar Gate.
Dozens of wagons and gigs were parked around the barn and torches lined the path to the steps. I hardly noticed being helped down, and found some moments later, my arm in Mr. Bleu’s. We climbed the porch steps.
Uncle stood at the doorway, hands in his pockets. “You waited for us. Thank you, Uncle!” How kind of him.
He answered with a weak smile. Another man came up the steps and clapped him on the back. “Ready to see the mares?”
And off he went, without regard to helping me be introduced. My own father would not abandon me like this. I tightened my hand around Mr. Bleu’s arm as he propelled me through the large gathering and into the foyer where Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald stood greeting everyone. Chess and his brother ended the line with a gaggle of girls making eyes at them.
I spied Helen on the outskirts. She mustn’t seem obvious. What a poor chicken she looked, hardly able to smile but still hoping for his glance all the same. This was the moment she’d pinned too many wild hopes on these several weeks. Kirsten stood directly behind her. Aunt needed to be here, needed to teach them a little more decorum. I certainly couldn’t help.
A small hand touched mine. “Our honored guest! I wish you a delightful evening!” Mrs. MacDonald had that same all-knowing glimmer in her eyes as the day we had tea. “Let me introduce my husband.”
I curtsied. “Mr. MacDonald. What a fine looking farm you have.”
He gave a quiet bow. “It only looks fine with a profit, mind you.”
Mr. Bleu threw his head back and laughed. Had I missed a joke of sorts?
“All the same. You have the best views in the county, I shouldn’t wonder.” I hoped to please him with these words.
“Aha! You haven’t seen James’s acreage yet if you dare to say that.” He grinned. “You’ll have to give the little lady a tour. See what she’s missed.”
I snapped my head to see Mr. Bleu’s expression and saw nothing there. Not a hint of anticipation.
Perhaps he isn’t interested in making a match, I thought. Surely, he would have been more agreeable to the idea if he was. Strange to think that I have been here for a few months and have never been invited to see his holding.
This brought an immediate serving of scant relief, followed by a heaping dish of mortification. If I couldn’t even catch a fellow such as scarred Mr. Bleu, then spinsterhood would likely be my lot. No, no, no! I shan’t think such hopeless thoughts, besides being unfair to him...This gala was bringing out the worst of my vanities. I quieted my catty thoughts.
Music began in the ballroom, strings and woodwinds mingled together, tuning up, then dipping into light music.
Chess shook my hand. “And here’s the May Day queen herself.” He and his brother gave exaggerated bows. “Might I have the fourth dance?”
“Oh, why yes. Of course. Thank you.”
“Sure.” He winked. His brother abandoned his post.
Mr. Bleu pulled me to the punch table and offered me lemonade. Crystal and candlelight sparkled on every surface, leaving his scars to the shadows. The man before me was perfectly handsome. I could hardly swallow the sweet tart liquid for staring.
“I thought you’d be thirsty after the ride. Ah, here comes Mr. MacDonald.”
He gave his light bow again. “We are to open the dancefloor. If you please.” He held out his arm and I had to take it. Why hadn’t anyone warned me? I should have realized this would be expected.
The waltz began. Mr. MacDonald was good enough on his feet to make this fairly easy, and yet I felt the eyes of every person. I’m thankful I can’t hear their opinions or mutterings. If only my imagination would stay calm.
I tried to find Mr. Bleu. His back was turned, in deep conversation, gesturing with his hands, nodding as if in on a secret.
Other couples joined us. The waltz went on for a long time, and hardly a bit of conversation between us. Mr. MacDonald is a quiet man compared to his wife.
Then Mr. Bleu swirled past me, Helen on his arm. She laughed at something he’d said—her posture dictated comfort. A brother of sorts was no threat to her ego. He is good to the family.
The song ended and Mr. MacDonald led me off the floor, back to the
punch table. He quickly introduced the minister and his wife and took his leave. They were very polite people, agreeable to any sort of conversation. “How did I like Paris? How good it is to live with family. How fortunate I am to have them.” My “Yes, indeed!” easily answered these simple queries. I wondered if the minister could ask or answer true questions. Not just the polite ones.
“How do you swallow the ever-coming tide of death?” Of course, I could not speak this out loud. And I already knew the answer. One can’t simply gulp down that analogy. Especially not in pleasant company. I turned my mind back to happier thoughts, such as God showing me what I had to live for right now. His ever-present gifts. I gazed around, averting my eyes from the kind minister’s wife to the glitter and glory—
She patted my hand with her lace-covered ones, and with eyes that reminded me of uncloudy sky, spoke, “You are absolutely beautiful this evening!” The roses in her cheeks lifted into a smile as though she actually believed what she said.
I had hoped and imagined for true questions and answers with this couple. I also knew it wasn’t the time or place. And yet, when she spoke, I had difficulty believing it. I wanted to believe that I was beautiful. Desperately. As much as every woman wants. But I felt her words were meant to strengthen me rather than make me vain. That God’s creation would be, could be nothing less. Even me.
Her husband gave me more lemonade and began to discuss what books I enjoyed reading. At first, I suspected him of assessing my character by identifying how I took my pleasure, but found I had a mutual friend when it came to despising Edgar Poe’s poetry and thoroughly enjoying Mr. Dicken’s Nicholas Nickleby.
“Mr. Dickens understands that humanity needs little help from the devil to destroy itself and others in the wake of sin.” His keen eyes blinked to see if I held onto his meaning. “But truth, truth will break it all to pieces and set life aright. Ken my meaning?”
“I do, sir.”
His wife admonished. “It’s not Sunday, Dearest.”
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 12