This did not stop him. “And what other truth is there but love, Himself? He is the answer to every question.” He nodded in such certainty.
I stood there mumbling, I believe. I was hardly aware that Mr. Bleu stood behind me. His voice vibrated behind my ear, “Truth is, I’ve neglected you.”
“I’ve been getting to know our well-read preacher.”
He pointed his finger, his wife flushed with embarrassment. “Have you read Martin Chuzzlewit?”
I shook my head.
“Aha. Come ‘round on Tuesday for tea. You can fetch it then.”
I looked to his wife for confirmation. “I’d love to have you.”
“Then I shall see you on Tuesday.” They nodded and swirled around to greet other parishioners.
Mr. Bleu place my hand within his arm again. “I hope you aren’t too bored?”
“Certainly not. They seem very kind.”
“He can talk books all day if you let him.”
“I daresay I might too.”
“Have some mercy on his wife, come Tuesday.” He grinned. “Care to dance?”
He didn’t give me a chance to answer but simply led me to the floor. I had not mentally prepared for this inevitability. How it would be to face him. I reminded myself that he was a friend, not a love match. Yet dancing seems very intimate. Close.
The Charming Waltz presented its trills and glides and we moved along with it. I thought of the myriad of local girls that had been bribed to dance with him. His reaction puzzled me. Instead of anger, he had been grateful for the practice of being seen.
“I would not have needed a bribe.” Had I said this aloud? Surely not.
His lips parted and his eyes bolted to mine. “I didn’t need a bribe to dance with you either.” He raised that brow again. “Although a bolt of burlap might have been a good incentive.” He laughed.
“Burlap? You’d trade a dance with me for common burlap?”
“How do you know I already haven’t?”
Suddenly all humor left me. My arms dropped from his, but he caught them back up.
“Chin up, Miss Trafton. People are watching.”
I continued to dance with him, though a dark cloud hovered.
“My jest was not in good taste.”
I only nodded. I was relieved when the dance was over.
Mrs. MacDonald came to me then and showed me about the various rooms and where supper would be served. She introduced me to the mayor, the sheriff, and their wives. Other dignitaries and a multitude of townsfolk that will take me a long time to remember. Many gracious smiles and swaying plumes atop towering hair, “I recall your mother, dear. She was a saint,” they’d said more than once. What, I wondered, did that make me?
I caught sight of Ernest talking with a sweet looking girl with a long braid tossed over her shoulder. Perhaps he plans to marry soon? Another hard-working mistress on the farm. I stuffed my chagrin and gave him an encouraging nod. He blushed down his collar.
Kirsten and Helen stood in a group of girls by the staircase, glancing up every time a young man walked by, inciting nervous giggles.
The call was made to dinner, and Mr. Bleu arrived to take my arm. I would request to leave soon after. What had the preacher said about truth? I needed to find out if he’d been coerced. “Did my Uncle beg you to escort me?”
“What difference does it make?”
Why did he always turn the question back to me? I felt like stamping a foot.
He leaned in. “It was my prerogative to ask, with or without your uncle. I am surprised this matters to you.”
His answer both inspired and rankled me.
“It matters because I fear I’m being played as a chess piece. If I am, I don’t want to be in the game.”
“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “I play no games, Miss Trafton.”
“Receipts are not a game?”
His jaw tightened. I shouldn’t have mentioned them. “My receipts, as with any other business matters are mine alone and should never be common knowledge.” He pulled a chair for me. “You know why I showed them to you.”
So much for my heartfelt apology and determination to leave the matter be.
He sat down. The long rows of tables, all decked with cascading ivy in silver vases, early roses scattered here and there. “We will discuss this another time. Not here.”
I nodded. Why did I always seem to keep accusing this man of being less than congenial? I am beginning to admire him, and yet I toss out runaway thoughts and mention them before I can check myself.
“I don’t know why I mentioned it. Truly.” He seemed to accept my words.
Others joined us at the table—some of Mr. Bleu’s friends and their wives. He introduced me and I received the same respectable nod, “How do you do?” but little else. I knew none of whom they talked about, leaving me at a loss besides what lay in my plate. Chicken croquettes with white sauce, minted peas, rolls, jellies, ham...A safe quietness stole over my heart. A smile bubbled. Perhaps Aunt’s silent suppers are rubbing off on me.
I should have endeavored more meaningfully with the other ladies. Would have, if I’d not been interrupted by a stunning introduction. What is Chess up to? Perhaps he does not know realize the connections...
Chess pasted on a ridiculous smile. “I can’t pass this evening up without introducing you to this amazing duo. Miss Kate Birch and her brother Mr. Charles Birch.”
Birch. Minted peas stuck in my throat. This was not a coincidence. My eyes darted at the retreating Chess.
I somehow managed to speak. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Mr. Bleu stood and shook their hands. “Good to see you again.”
Was there an edge to his voice? What was coming?
I allowed myself to look into their young faces. Tall, to be sure, pale and blonde, but with evident sun in their cheeks.
Kate spoke up first. “We caught sight of you in town last week.”
Charles turned to his sister. “She’ll think we’ve been spying.”
She gave him a saucy smile. “But we have!” she looked to me again. “I hope you don’t mind. We heard you were moving here. Mother quite holds her breath to see you.”
“Kate.” Charles spat.
“We must become acquainted. There are connections between our families, you know.” Her eyes twinkled with expectation.
She said this as if making my acquaintance ought to be a happy event. As if I’d known who they were all along and must be equally anxious.
Mr. Bleu draped his arm around the back of my chair. “Fortuis in arduis,” he whispered.
“Our mother was your mother’s best friend in their school days,” Kate continued. “Married brothers, you know.”
“No. I’m sorry. My mother never spoke of your family.” So much I didn’t know and failed to ask. Frustration simmered.
Kate tugged one of her gloves at the wrist. “Did she not? Well, I suppose she had her reasons.”
“Death often renders one speechless,” I said.
“You’ve done it, Kate.” Charles rolled his eyes.
Her chin quivered. “Honestly, it happened before I was born. But I’ve heard the stories all of my life, so I thought...”
Stories? I knew nothing of them. “I’ve only just discovered that Mother had married a Mr. Birch before my father.”
“Our Uncle,” Charles confirmed. “Grandmother’s favorite.”
I thought of the detailed sketchbook, the trunkful of buried past. I owned the leftover bits but none of the memories.
Mr. Bleu saved the conversation by engaging the two in a talk of rabbit raising. Apparently, an interesting enough topic and an activity the siblings engaged in for extra income. How very quaint.
I reached for my iced water, soothing down the unknown fears. Clearing my head.
Chess soon arrived for our dance. For as much as I complained to Mr. Bleu of being the rarely-asked girl, I have been a most unwilling partner. I wonder, if at al
l the past balls that my expression begged not to be asked to dance, and so I hadn’t been. If I’d listened to my mother’s encouragement to smile more...
Chess whispered in my ear. “Mother has scolded and forbidden me cake for a year. I didn’t know about the um, issue betwixt your families. Forgive me?” He seemed serious for once. I nodded assent as we twirled. Not sure I believed his excuse. And I wasn’t aware of an issue between our families.
The Birch siblings were just being kind. Why else would they venture over to meet me? They had not grown up in complete ignorance of the facts as I had. And they hadn’t a clue of its unmentionable nature in Uncle’s household.
If my coming is hard for anyone, it would be the grandmother, I should think. If she lives. I suppose meeting my deceased half-sibling’s cousins is slightly shocking.
Chess tightened his hold and looked for someone over my shoulder. I wondered who he was trying to make jealous. He then looked into my eyes. Bold of him. “Your hands are very soft. They aren’t making you do too much farm work, are they?”
I’d left my gloves at the dinner table. “I hope to be able to do my fair share.” Should I be defending my family?
He shook his head. “I can’t see you milking the cow or getting all tanned.”
“Do you always say what you think?”
“Nearly so.”
“If I decide to start milking the cow, then you would think less of me?”
“I’ll think neither less nor more. But I do think you fit on the side of an educated civilization.”
“Who will still need to drink milk by some means.”
“True. And there will be always someone else to do it. I believe you were made for another kind of life.”
“How judicious of you.”
“But don’t you feel that it’s true? You weren’t raised on farmland, but on books and city streets.”
“None of us can help to what we are born.”
“I agree. And to what we are born, we continue.”
Not necessarily. I stumbled on my thought flow. I did not know how to respond. He is quick with words. Does he enjoy making guests uncomfortable?
“I suppose you will go home and learn to milk that cow just to defy me. Or you won’t, to prove yourself right.” He shrugged. “Either way, won’t come naturally. But it’ll be your intellect rather than need that drives your decision.”
“What if all of mankind became too smart to milk cows?” I ventured.
“Easy. They’ll just draw straws.” He grinned like a victor.
“I have done many things in the past several months that didn’t, as you say, come naturally to me. Burying my parents, for one. I can think of nothing more strange than lowering a loved one into a dark pit.”
Chess slowed the dance. “Now you’ve come a long way from cow milking and books. I only meant that you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Farm work is tough. Don’t feel bad if you can’t manage something. Your education makes you unique.”
His brown eyes held the genuine warmth they’d lacked before. And his hand was plenty calloused. Born on the land, worked it too. I’d misunderstood too much.
I laughed. “Yes, indeed. I might be fit for sketching—the farm offers plenty of sights. But unfortunately, my stacks of crude drawings are more fit for a bon fire.”
“Show them to me sometime.” He gave a curt nod as if I’d have to obey.
I caught sight of Helen’s wistful face as she stood at the edge of the crowd. How she wishes to be where I am. I wished she were as well.
“Thank you for the honor of dancing,” he bowed. He nodded to Mr. Bleu, who leaned alone against a Grecian pillar in the ball room.
He pushed away from the pillar. “Care for a walk about the grounds?”
“A bench under a tree so I can catch my breath!” I dabbed my kerchief across my forehead.
He led me to a stone bench near the courtyard I’d seen from the music room. He didn’t fill the air with talk, but let me sit in the quiet. I was grateful. I needed time to gather and collect the strange feelings to make room for new delightful ones, if they were to be had.
I had hoped to go home early, but at this suggestion, Mr. Bleu shook his head. “The guest of honor must stay for dessert and at least another dance.” He reached his hand for mine. “Come.” It was not a request.
Back into the fray we went, more introductions, flatteries, waving fans. Strawberries and cream eaten.
Helen and Kirsten were dancing with boys and looking quite more grown up than they’d seemed when I first moved to the farm—even half an hour ago. They’d remembered to be a little more reserved.
A country dance—and Mr. Bleu propelled me to join the line-up. I have to say that I enjoyed this more than any other so far. Mr. Bleu smiled a great deal, regardless of the slight scar twisting at his lip. It was as though we were supposed have some silliness for that moment. As if God looked down and gladly joined the frolic.
Light hearted, light footed. I was caught in a tangle with Helen and we both laughed as if this had been a barn dance. I’d thought that care-free part of me was gone. Not so.
Mr. Bleu and I promenaded beneath the arch of arms, followed by the rest of the dancers. The danced slowed and became more formal and softened to a stop. Abundance spilled out of my heart—and all I’d done was dance.
Moments later, a more serious dirge began. The crowd backed away to reveal Mrs. MacDonald seated on a fringed ottoman, flute poised to her lips. She played solo for several minutes—a tune I’d never heard before. Other flutes joined in and then the violins... beginning in soft earnest tones, then bursting upward and outward. Deep questions contrasted with rich answers leaping from flute to violin in conversation. The question and answer twined with understanding and trailed off into a distant peace.
I glanced at Mr. Bleu, seemingly lost in this otherworldly melody. He must have felt my gaze, his eyes captured mine.
I knew without a doubt then. Though I dared not label it for what it was. Nor will I yet.
We thanked our hosts and Mr. Bleu left to retrieve the gig and take me home. I stood lonely on the porch, in the starry night wondering much, but thinking little. My heart couldn’t hold it all in.
We drove home in near silence. When we arrived, he spoke. “You must come see my farm. I will set a plan with you all in the morning.” He nodded as if the details were settled.
“Thank you for helping me through tonight. Would have been most difficult without you.” I stole a glance at his profile.
He helped me down and released me. Aunt stood at the front door in her wrapper, lantern in hand. “Come, have some tea before you retire.”
Uncle let the girls off at the door. I hadn’t seen him all night, but he had a ridiculous grin on his face and a large basket for Aunt. “Mrs. MacDonald sends her best!”
“Well, she certainly does!” Aunt pawed through the wares.
Helen and Kirsten moved wistfully into their home, as if in a dream. We all gathered around the table with teacups in our hands, too tired to speak. I felt myself melting into the cup, and betook myself to bed.
I did hear Uncle mumbling some tidbit to Mr. Bleu. They continued mumbling for the next several minutes...Uncle’s baritone voice traveled on the very beams of this house. I knew they would discuss me. But drowsiness dulled my irritation by half. I crawled between my sheets with no other longing but sleep.
Mr. Bleu didn’t bother to trek home but made his way to the attic cot, his tread leaving no sign but the stair squeak. I could not keep the memory of his gaze even if I wanted to. Dark and drowsy, down, down I went.
My eyes still prickle from exhaustion, but at least the story is scribbled down for modernity. Aunt is cooking a large breakfast. I think this time, I will not pass up her coffee.
Chapter 17
MAY 11, 1880
I must have gaped when Aunt told me. “I reckon you can walk to town on your own now.” Her head gave a little dip, a gentle shove from the nest.
Everyone else was much too occupied to walk with me. I involuntarily shivered. The minister and his wife expected me within the hour. This forced both my independence and a breathless stride. I’d be dusty upon arrival.
Helen tossed her mother a pleading look, which was expertly ignored. Her life, more than mine, was completely tied to the farm except for Sundays and the occasional invitation. Her school days over, she must long for companionship—and a chance to beam at the young men in town. No wonder she’d had only eyes for Chess—the only single male who did occasionally come by. I wondered why she’d ignored his brother.
What if I met strangers or snakes along the way? I felt for the pocket knife. Never mind that I’d been trekking about the farm on my own for a few weeks now and hadn’t experienced anything frightful. Little good it would do if I did chance upon danger.
Ernest handed me a walking stick, curiously twisted about as if it could have been a vine but was sturdy as steel and smooth with use, much like Mr. Bleu’s. With my black gown and shawl, I must have appeared a crooked old lady!
When I arrived at the crossroads, I placed the stick behind a low stone fence for the journey back. The day was lovely and I made better pace without the third leg. Of course, fear makes one’s pace quicken. Perhaps I should have kept the stick.
Several minutes later, horse hooves came flying far behind me, I scarce gave the rider a glance and moved nearer the ditch, walking in moist overgrowth for several minutes. I didn’t dare look behind me again—such a glance would be blatant. The horseman slowed as he approached me. I angled my head sideways. Mr. Bleu.
“Whoa, Bucephalus.” He nodded. “Saw you from my hill—overlooking the crossroads.”
Where I squirreled away the stick. He’d been watching. I smiled up at him.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course.” Relief and intensity mingled. My heart began to pound. I waited for him as he dismounted.
We walked for a few minutes in silence as he led the horse behind us. “Are you well rested from the gala?” He smiled, his characteristic lip catching upward, unhindered by the scars.
“Only just,” I smiled back.
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