by Pamela Morsi
He meant to be kinder, to add more soothing words as he broke her heart. But he still trembled from their embrace. His hard-fought battle with his own conscience was barely won. If he did not break it cleanly, honestly now, Cleav knew he might well be tempted not to break it at all.
"You deserve better than I offer, Esme," he said. "Because to a foolish hill girl like you, I offer nothing."
Chapter Nine
“Well, good morning," Eula Rhy greeted her son as he stepped into the kitchen.
Nodding politely, Cleav returned her greeting sleepily. "What are you doing up so early, Mother? Obviously, you must feel better today."
"I'm fine," she replied and then hastily corrected herself. "I'm not well, of course, but I'm having one of my better days."
"I'm glad to hear that," Cleav said sincerely as he accepted the steaming cup of coffee cradled daintily in the bone china saucer she held out to him. He could remember when his mother started his day, and his father's, with hearty breakfasts of pone and sausage. These days Mrs. Rhy cooked only sporadically, more often than not for company rather than her son.
"I needed to speak to you this morning," she told him. "I waited for you last night, but you came in so late." Eula shook her head with disapproval. "What in the world do you do down at those ponds until near midnight? Shouldn't those foolish trout go to bed at a decent hour like the rest of us?"
Cleav managed a crooked grin at his mother's complaint. Last night it was the people who were restless, not the fish.
"What did you want to speak to me about?" he asked, unwilling to examine more closely his own unsettled condition.
"I spoke with Mabel Tewksbury yesterday—" Eula ended the phrase with a heightened lilt designed to convey excitement.
"Oh?" Cleav said, seemingly unconcerned.
Mrs. Rhy put out a frying pan on the stove and began stirring the cornmeal and water mixture that boiled in a pot beside it. "Mrs. Tewksbury says Sophrona won't breathe a word to her about the little spat you two had last weekend." She glanced back at her son at the table. "It's very sad for a mother when a child won't confide those things."
Cleav kept his eyes on the contents of his delicately patterned coffee cup, and Eula sighed with annoyance.
"Mabel's been trying to find out what happened, but that girl has been as silent as a stone."
The fat in the pan began its noisy sizzle, and Eula focused her attention on it for a moment before pouring the thickened corn paste into the hot grease. "But yesterday," she continued without bothering to look back at Cleavis, "Sophrona says that she may have been unfair and judged you too harshly."
Eula turned to face her son, hoping to see a positive reaction to her words. His face revealed nothing.
"Mabel and I think that she's ready to forgive and forget and that you should strike while the iron is hot."
Cleav looked up at his mother but didn't respond.
Eula was exasperated. "I'm coming to the store early today. You pick up a nice little bunch of flowers for Miss Sophrona and go over there and see if you two can make it up."
Cleav raised his eyes to his mother's, but there was no obedient young son in his look. "Mother, Miss Sophrona and I are no concern of Mabel Tewksbury or yourself."
His mother's expression was incredulous. "No concern? You are our children. Whatever else are we supposed to be concerned about?"
He looked at his mother with eyes that were not particularly sympathetic. "I will make it up with Miss Sophrona in my own way, in my own time," he said flatly.
Eula Rhy smiled at him with just the right measures of approval and condescension. "Of course you will, Cleav," she told him. "I'm just letting you know that today is the right time and this afternoon at the Tewksbury parsonage is the right place." Mrs. Rhy plopped a generous amount of the thick, yellow fried contents of the pan onto Cleav's plate and set it before him.
He eyed it with disapproval.
"Mother, you know I don't care for mush."
"It's for your stomach."
"My stomach? There's nothing wrong with my stomach."
Eula shook a finger at him in maternal correction. "You can't fool me, young man," she told him. "I heard you myself way late in the night. Moaning in your sleep, like you was set to die."
Cleav's eyes widened perceptibly, and his face flushed redder than hot coals under molasses. His gaze dropped to the unappetizing mush on his plate, and dutifully he picked up his spoon and took a bite.
He missed his mother's smile of approval, unwilling to raise his head to look her in the eye. He had been moaning in his sleep last night, but it hadn't been the dyspepsia that pained him. Esme Crabb had haunted his dreams. Since that illicit kiss beside the pond, her image had become a most frequent visitor through his sleep.
Unlike the erotic dreams of his boyhood, where he'd felt satisfied and rested the next morning, today's morning light found him edgy, restless, and plagued by thoughts that were increasingly carnal.
Night after night her long, bare legs teased and tempted him, clutching at him in wantonness. Last night she'd wrapped them around his neck, and whimpering and begging, she'd pulled him to her closer, closer…
He'd awakened, disappointed, with a mouth full of pillow feathers and an ache that could not be soothed with a glass of fresh milk and a bowl of mush.
Just recalling the wicked fantasy made him stiffen at his own breakfast table. Not exactly the most respectable way for a gentleman to act. Certainly, very inappropriate when sitting across the table from one's mother as she chattered on about the woman one is supposed to be planning to marry.
He took no pride in his illicit imaginings about Esme Crabb. Clearly, however, the situation was out of his control. He'd warned the young woman that his intentions were dishonorable, and he'd expected, hoped, that would be the end of her girlish infatuation. Still, she persisted in following him around like a shadow, flaunting herself brazenly before him.
"Sophrona is exactly the kind of daughter-in-law that I've always wanted," his mother was saying.
"Yes, Mother," Cleav answered absently. "She is without question the perfect choice for a wife."
"Then you mustn't delay a minute longer," she insisted. "This afternoon when she agrees to forgive you, you should propose immediately!"
"Mother!" Cleav's annoyance was tangible. "I told you that I will do things in my own time and in my own way."
Eula Rhy sniffed with disapproval. "Well, your 'own time' better be soon," she warned. "That horrible Crabb girl is making you the talk of this town. Miss Sophrona may not be interested in you if this goes on much longer."
"She's not 'that horrible Crabb girl,'" Cleav said hotly. "She's just young and confused and fancies herself in love with me."
His mother raised a skeptical eyebrow and sniffed with disdain. "Seems to me she may be getting older and wiser every day."
"Mornin', Esme," Rog Wicker called as he stepped through the front door of the store. "Mornin', Cleav," he added almost as an afterthought.
"Good morning," Cleav answered, but his jaw was set in disapproval. It had been that way all morning.
Denny, Tyree, Fat Blanchard, even Brother Oswald came waltzing into his store, greeting Esme as if she belonged there. And worse yet, Esme acted as if she did. She eagerly hurried to help the customers whenever Cleav was busy, and she knew the inventory and location of almost every item.
It was clear Esme loved the store. She enjoyed the order and accessibility of everything from fabric to crackers. Having all the things that she considered so dear right at her fingertips had a compelling appeal. When customers came in, Esme was smiling, friendly, happy, and the folks who came to the store smiled right back.
They smiled at Esme. The standard approach to Cleav these days was curiosity tinged with disapproval. No one knew what was going on, why Esme Crabb spent her every waking hour in the company of a man who was supposedly courting the preacher's daughter. But they blamed him.
In the normal c
ourse of things, the woman would be suspect. But human nature being what it was, people tended to root for the underdog. Esme was a good-hearted, church-going, hill girl. Cleavis Rhy had spent years establishing himself as the prosperous and genteel storekeeper. His relative affluence was not a mark in his favor.
Although Cleav didn't know it, every eye in town was on the General Merchandise, and every word of gossip had his name attached.
"What do you think is going on between them two?" Toady Winthrop asked Sarah Mayfield.
"Heaven only knows," Sarah had replied in a scandalized whisper, "but for sure it's something. Have you seen the way he looks at her?"
Both Toady and her friend Madge nodded resolutely.
"Why, the man can hardly take his eyes off her," Madge answered. "It just ain't decent at all."
"It's that city life," Pearly Beachum assured Madge not an hour later as the latter helped her carry in the laundry. "In Knoxville he no doubt saw them rich city men taking advantage of poor helpless girls like Esme."
Madge tutted with disapproval.
"As soon as I get this laundry put away," Pearly promised, "I'm headed down to that store to see for myself what kind of carryings-on that Rhy is up to."
"So you think he's up to no good?" Madge asked.
"He's always wanted to be one of those city men," Pearly told her levelly. "I'm thinking that he's planning on making poor, precious little Esme his mistress.''
The last word was more mouthed than spoken, still Madge gave a little cry of shock and covered her ears.
That did not stop Madge, of course, from repeating it to no less than half a dozen other women that day.
"It's getting worse every day," Mabel Tewksbury confided to Eula Rhy. "The talk is just getting out of hand."
Mrs. Rhy gave the preacher's wife a worried nod of agreement. "There is nothing to it," she said flatly. "I'm convinced that the only feeling my dear Cleavis has for that girl is pity."
Mabel was not completely convinced, but she didn't say so. "The truth doesn't matter in these things," she admitted. "In matters of hearsay, appearance is everything."
Eula knew Mrs. Tewksbury was right.
"I've tried to keep the rumors away from Sophrona," Mabel confided. "But I can't lock the girl in her room. Someone is going to say something to her, that's certain."
"The best way to squelch these stories is a very public and prompt betrothal," Eula said.
Mrs. Tewksbury sighed with relief. "I couldn't agree with you more."
"I've told Cleav that the time is right to press his suit. I can only hope that he takes my advice."
Mabel gave a nod of sympathetic understanding. "I've spent hours trying to impress upon Sophrona that gentlemen with Mr. Rhy's civility and resources are extremely scarce in this part of the world. My prayers are that she will accept his proposal immediately."
Neither woman was certain that their perfect solution was on the horizon.
It was not only from the tongues of women that gossip flew that day in Vader. Across the checkerboard old man Denny asked Tyree.
"What do you think about him and the girl?"
"What?"
"I said, what do you think about him and the girl?" Denny repeated a bit louder.
Tyree huffed with disapproval. "I may be half-blind," he stated. "But that don't mean I cain't see what's right under my nose."
"You think those two have been frolicking in the path of damnation?"
Tyree avoided the straight answer. "I'm thinking that if’n I was Yohan Crabb, I'd be coming down off that mountain with my shotgun loaded!"
As the temper of the community heated up, Esme remained blissfully unaware. The thrill of Cleav's wonderful kiss could still bring a blissful glow to her cheeks whenever she thought of it. And she thought of it often. Even his wounding words about never marrying her couldn't darken her optimism. He just needs to get used to the idea, she assured herself. He wanted a wife, and one wife was pretty much the same as another. Once he became accustomed to having her around, it would just seem natural to marry up.
Any self-reproach that she felt about Sophrona, she quickly explained away. If Sophrona wanted him, and it wasn't clear any longer that she did, she only wanted Cleav for herself. Esme needed him for her whole family. Humming to herself, again she imagined the Crabb family sitting comfortably on the porch of the biggest white—no, make that blue—house in Vader.
Cleav was too caught up in handling his own errant thoughts to worry about what others were thinking.
At first, he was angry that Esme hadn't run from him after his deliberately wounding comments. It had taken all of his strength to treat her so coldly, and she appeared unaffected. Then he became angry at himself because he was glad she was still around. Although he was a gentleman, where Esme Crabb was concerned, he couldn't keep his thoughts in check. She'd reach for an item on the top shelf, and he'd imagine running his hand from her wrist to her ankle. He would imagine molding her soft breast with his fingertip, exploring her nipped waist and caressing the generous hip, before staking his territory on those long, luscious limbs.
He had vivid memories of the hot, secret kiss they had shared and the eager way she had pressed her body against him.
He'd told himself that he'd been trying to frighten her, make her understand that her reputation was at risk. But he knew, in all honesty, that he'd kissed her because he'd wanted to. And he'd only stopped because in another minute he wouldn't have been able to…
Clearing his throat, Cleav focused on his surroundings. Rog Wicker was still looking around the store, Esme was searching down his horseshoe nails. She'd immediately gone to the correct bin, not five feet from where Cleav was standing, to fill Rog's order. That didn't please Cleav, but what she did there pleased him a little too much.
Since the bin was nearly empty, Esme had to lean far into the wide cask to retrieve the nails. The position raised her derriere, prominently outlining the curve faultlessly. Cleav's eyes flew to Wicker in anger that he made such a request. The man had continued to browse through the store, completely unaware of the vision of shapely buttocks that was being exhibited on the far side of the room.
Imprudently, Cleav's gaze returned to the bountiful backside of Esme Crabb. His mouth went dry as he realized he need only take one step closer and he'd be able to touch her.
He did not allow himself to take that step, but warmth pooled to his groin as strongly as if he had.
"Damn it!" he cursed silently and slammed his fist in fury against the counter.
Both Wicker and Esme glanced up at him questioningly.
Cleav flushed with embarrassment. "I've made an error in the accounts," he explained lamely.
It was an especially lame excuse for Esme, who could see that he did not have the accounts in front of him, but rather a drummer's catalog. She looked at him curiously but didn't comment.
Cleav felt her gaze and moved closer to the counter. The last thing he needed was for her to learn how easily he could be affected by her.
Esme carefully weighed the nails at the scale, dropping two back into the bin before she got the amount exact. She folded them in paper so that none of the horseshoe nails would spill. After laying the package on the counter along with Wicker's other supplies, she returned to her dusting of the washtubs.
Perhaps his mother was correct, Cleav concluded suddenly. This was undoubtedly the perfect time to get married, and Sophrona Tewksbury was the perfect person to marry. Esme had not believed him when he'd said that he would never wed her. A betrothal to another woman would surely go a long way in convincing her.
As he surreptitiously adjusted the fit of his trousers, he decided that a betrothal was not enough. He might not sleep more with a woman in his bed, but he would certainly sleep more contentedly. And a man who was satisfied at night was surely less bothered by temptation in the daytime.
Yes, he resolved to himself. This afternoon he would propose to Miss Sophrona. And he would insist that the enga
gement be as short as decently possible. If he'd married her months ago when he first thought of it, this whole regrettable situation with Esme would never have occurred.
Stealing unwelcome into his thoughts was the knowledge that he didn't exactly regret these past weeks with Esme. It was a heady feeling to be the recipient of a woman's adoration and longing. Never had any female made him feel so desired, so fascinating. If only his own passions had remained uninvolved. If only the woman in question were more suitable. If only it were Sophrona, not Esme, who lusted after him.
That brought him up short. Sophrona feeling lust? It was difficult to imagine. Certainly, she'd be a dutiful wife, and he would try to please her, but the hungers of the flesh were surely incongruous to a lady of Miss Sophrona's refinement.
The fantasy of Sophrona Tewksbury whining and begging as she wrapped her legs around his neck was not only difficult for him to imagine but strictly ludicrous. A good part of the reason that he had never attempted to take liberties with the young lady—except on one fateful occasion—was simply that he couldn't imagine her allowing them. And if the slap he'd received under the maple tree was any indication, his judgment had been correct.
Still, a wife would be a wife, and a wife was exactly what he needed to get Esme Crabb out of his life for good.
Rog Wicker, apparently finished with his inspection of the available goods, walked to the counter to settle up.
"Will that be all?" Cleav asked as he totaled the price of the goods for purchase in his head.
"Need some tobacco," Wicker said as an afterthought.
"Red Leaf?" Cleav asked, already reaching for it.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, the man shook his head. "I smoke Carolina Blue," he said a little louder than necessary. "It's a lot smoother than that old cheap Red Leaf."
Cleav couldn't stop himself from taking a hasty look toward Esme, then wished he hadn't. She was grinning ear to ear and looked positively ready to swagger.