by L. S. Young
I was wearing my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes; my red and brown calico, a straw hat, and lace gloves. I stared at my small hands where they clutched the hymnal in my lap and spread them out to make them more visible. A lady’s hands, Mama had always said, shapely and beautiful.
I raised my head and saw that he was looking at me. I darted my eyes at him, and he only smiled. When the singing began, I glanced at him a few times from the corner of my eye and thought I could tell by the look on his face that, like me, the hymns were his favorite part of church.
When the sermon was over, he walked outside with us into the sunshine and stood next to me as Daddy talked with different church members. Colleen leaned on Daddy’s arm, attempting to hide her belly with her thin summer shawl. Her face was pale, and she was sweating. I felt a pang of worry for her. She was nearing her sixth month and an early confinement. It was her wont to miscarry in the third or fourth month, and the last time had nearly killed her. Only that morning, I had begged her to stay home rather than take the bumpy carriage ride to church, but she would not hear of it. Church was the only social interaction she had.
Lily stood between the twins, holding onto their hands. I noticed Emmett standing at a distance, looking at her. He was a gangly redhead with a frolicsome temperament, always pulling some prank or causing laughter and slight upheaval, but today he looked as forlorn as a whipped cur, his thin shoulders stooped. Lily was making a point not to return his stare.
I suddenly felt that my coldness to William in church had been unjust. He was standing next to me now, but if I continued to keep him at arm’s length, how long would he stay? Suddenly, the thought of his permanent absence was daunting.
Just as I turned to speak to him he said, “You have a fine singing voice, Miss Andrews.”
“Oh. Thank you. Are you planning to attend the singing and dinner on the grounds next Sunday?” I asked. The singing had been announced before the sermon.
“Will you be there?” he replied.
“I will.”
“Well, I shall be out of town on Friday and Saturday, picking up some supplies for planting, but Sunday I will be here.”
“And shall you come to dinner today?”
“Not today. I’ve been invited by the Harmons.”
Bill Harmon’s daughters, at sixteen and eighteen, were some of the most eligible girls in the county, and the loveliest. I couldn’t see their father marrying either of them to a younger son like William, even if he was from an old family. He was merely extending the hand of generosity. All the same, Bess and Cora Harmon were gorgeous and rich. I thought of the day in the cotton field when he had so tenderly touched my face beneath the old oak, and felt a stab of longing and jealousy. I brushed the thought away like a troublesome fly.
“You’ll have much better fare at their table,” I said.
“Perhaps, but not so good of company.”
“That’s kind of you to say. I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“I will. I shall see you next Sunday.” We bowed to one another, and I watched as he made off through the crowd.
At church the following Sunday, I waited anxiously for him to join us in our pew, but he never did. A few times I searched the room for his face, but it was overcrowded, and I did not see him. Finally, as everyone was filing out after the very last hymn, I saw him across the room. I tried for a moment to catch his eye, until Bess Harmon stepped up to him, her expression jovial. I turned and fled the stifling sanctuary then, seeking the solace of a breeze out of doors.
Outside, beneath the live oaks, one long table was piled with savory foods of every kind: fried chicken, country ham, chicken pot pie, boiled potatoes and carrots, barbecued ribs, collard greens in pot liquor, bread and butter pickles, deviled eggs, potato salad, biscuits, cornbread, and homemade bread. Another was covered with various pies, cakes, and preserves. I helped the married women and grown girls my age to serve the food as the men and children seated themselves at the tables beneath the trees with full plates. Finally, everyone had been served and commenced to eat. I seated myself at a distance from the crowd in the shade of a live oak. A while later I was joined by Lily, carrying two tin plates. She handed me one, and I thanked her. It was laden with food: greens, two pieces of cornbread, a sweet potato, a slice of ham, and three deviled eggs.
“This looks like heaven. No fried chicken?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “It went in the first ten minutes.”
“Always does.”
When we had finished eating, I filled two cups with lemonade, no longer cold, but sweet and good. Lily gulped hers, but I drank mine slowly to savor the taste. If anything, the tartness of it only parched my tongue and made me thirstier, so I went to drink from the spring that ran behind the cemetery. As I was kneeling to scoop the water with my hands, I heard William’s voice, to my right and very close.
“Here, allow me.” He stooped beside me and filled a tin cup.
I accepted it.
“There was lemonade in it before, if you don’t mind drinking after me.”
I raised the cup to my lips in answer, and he smiled, his eyes fixed on me as I drank. My own appraised him over the rim. I shook out the last few drops before returning the cup to him.
“I didn’t see you during the singing.”
“Arrived late and had to take the back pew.”
“Did you enjoy last Sunday dinner? I saw you speaking with Bess Harmon after.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Yes. Bess and Cora are nice girls, but I missed my usual company.”
I was filled with relief at his words, and I knew it showed on my face and in my voice as I said, “How was your trip to town? Productive?”
“It was. Speaking of, something caught my eye as I was there. I thought you might like it.” He held out a paper package that had been tucked under his arm during our talk.
I hesitated, unsure of myself. I was certain it could not be proper to open the parcel in front of him, but he was watching me. Finally, I unfastened the twine and unfolded the brown paper, revealing a silk shawl. It had blue flowers embroidered on a brown background, with a heavy gold fringe.
“Won’t do you much good on a hot day such as this, but autumn will come before you know it.”
“It-it’s the finest present anyone’s ever given me, but I shouldn’t accept it. Daddy wouldn’t like it.” I hated myself for saying it, but I could never seem to hold my tongue when there was a harsh truth to be dealt.
I had gone with Henry Miller for six months, and he had never once given me a gift. As for William, I knew he liked me, but the need for caution was ever present in my mind.
“Don’t you like it?”
“William! It’s lovely.”
“Then keep it. Can you see me wearing that to town?”
I laughed and draped the shawl over my arm. It seemed I was always laughing in Will’s presence. It was something I liked about him. He seemed unperturbed by my assertion that the gift was too forward and at last I was obliged to keep it. I felt dreadfully conspicuous with it draped over my arm as we walked back to the tables under the trees. When I reached home that afternoon, I showed it to Lily.
“What’ll I do with it?” I asked.
“Wear it?”
“It’s surely not a proper gift to accept from a gentleman.”
“He must like you. Did you kiss him for it?”
“At church?”
We laughed at the thought of kissing in church, and I folded the shawl with a sprig of lavender tucked inside it and placed it in my hope chest. It was too lovely to be worn as I did chores, cooked, and cleaned house. Too lovely for my life, like William himself.
The following weekend there was a barn raising for a newly married couple, and Daddy went to lend his strength as well as his banjo
-picking skills. Colleen was nearing confinement, but she allowed me and Lily to choose who should accompany him and who should stay home to help mind the children. Unable to agree who deserved the outing most, we drew straws, and I won.
As always was the case at a barn raising, the women cooked while the men worked, and food, dancing, and revelry followed the construction of the building itself. Lights, lanterns, and candles were lit and strung, and refreshments were placed on long tables. I was overjoyed during the building to see that Will was in attendance. When I had time, I allowed my eyes to follow his broad shoulders as he went about his work with the other men.
I had hoped to dance with him when the music began that evening, but he divided his time between playing the fiddle and harmonica with the other musicians and the punch table, so I sat by and watched the dancers until I was approached by Henry Miller, with his wife on his arm. Although they visited often, they did not attend the Methodist church, and it was the first time I had seen her since our first meeting four years before, when he introduced her as his fiancée.
She was a willowy thing with the figure of a twelve-year-old, and she had soft, dark hair and large brown eyes in an exquisite face. Her skin was parasol perfect, and her hands had never seen a day’s work. She gave me a smile as they approached, and although it was a tad haughty, there was something else in it; you could tell at first glance that she was light-hearted and enjoyed a good time.
Before I could say a word, Henry kissed me on the cheek and cried, “Lander Anders!” using his pet name for me from childhood. “It’s been a coon’s age since I saw you, darlin’ girl!” He held his hand out to his wife and said, “Della, you remember Landra. I grew up runnin’ wild with her and her brother Eric in the pinewoods. She’s like a sister to me.”
She smiled that pretty smile again. “No. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“We met once,” I answered, “on the occasion of your betrothal.”
“Oh goodness! Oh yes, of course! I do beg your pardon.” She gave me her hand.
“I hope you’ll let me stand up with her, Della,” said Henry, his dark eyes dancing.
“Of course,” she said good-humoredly. “I wouldn’t separate lifelong friends such as yourselves. I shall go and find some punch.”
Before I knew it, she was gone, and Henry was sweeping me into a waltz. “You ought to have told us you were in town,” I said. “My father likes to hear how you’re getting on.”
“But you were cold at our last meetin’. I felt most unwelcome.”
“Perhaps I was.”
He looked sheepish at this response, and I said, “I am sorry if I was uncivil.”
“There’s no need for that. I know I done you wrong, and I apologize. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“It was all such a very long time ago.” I looked over his shoulder as I said this, trying to remain passive.
“Now don’t be like that. We’ve been friends too long.”
I looked at him and narrowed my eyes. “How can I be any other way? Civility is all I can manage, and you ought to be thankful. Engaged to a girl from Tallahassee in just under three months. How you managed the train fare is beyond me.”
He snorted, dumbfounded, and I moved my gaze above his shoulder again.
“She was here, visitin’ relatives,” he explained. “There was no other way,” he continued in a low tone. “Mama was sick. The girls were in rags. You know what farmin’ does to a man. I’d lie awake at night and think about a wife, another mouth to feed, and then a baby every year . . .”
He sighed. I ventured a glance at him and was surprised to see that he was pale, with sweat breaking out on his brow.
“For heaven’s sake, let us change the subject,” I pleaded.
“Please.”
“Your wife seems like an amusing person.”
“She is. I do love her, Landra, even if we did marry for convenience, but I hope you know you’ll always be in my heart.”
I tried to pull away from him instinctively at this drivel, which did not work out, as we were in the middle of a turn. I plowed into the couple behind us. After several angry protests from the lady that I had tread on her hem and hurried apologies from me, I found myself back in Henry’s grasp.
“I thought this was goin’ so well,” he laughed. “Are you dead set on makin’ a scene?”
“Only as set as you are on making a fool of me. Asking your childhood sweetheart to dance and then talking such nonsense. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“I only said what is true.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Very well. I shall always be in your heart, like a sister, as you said to your wife.”
“No. Not like a sister. Like my first love.”
I said nothing.
“Well? Ain’t ya goin’ to say you’ll always care for me too?”
I put my chin up. “Go to the devil, Henry Miller. I don’t think of you above twice a year.”
He laughed. “You conceited little minx. I’ll have them play something that’ll make you think of me.”
The waltz was ending, and before the next began, Henry sidled up to the musicians and asked them to play a local tune that had been written by Daddy and one of the other men he picked with. I had written lyrics for it when Henry and I were courting, and they signified my innocent romanticism. They went:
The fields were ripe, the sea azure,
The winds rippled on water,
Yet I was blind to hill and wave
For love o’ the crofter’s daughter.
Eyes of gray and hair of gold;
So had the crofter’s daughter.
A laugh like wine, and a look as bold;
God gave the crofter’s daughter.
I met her coming from the dell:
Her mouth o’erflowed with laughter.
Her arms were full o’ blossoms fair,
The lovely crofter’s daughter.
The meadow gleamed like a fiery gem,
The leaves blew swirling over,
Yet I was deaf to breeze and glen,
For love o’ the crofter’s daughter.
I took her to the Kirk yard old
All clad in white and muslin.
The bells were ringing bright and cold.
The children followed laughing.
Since I wed her on that frosty morn
The years have flown right past us.
Her hair grown silver, beauty worn,
Oh Time, it does come after.
The trees are felled and the field is shorn,
The lambs all gone to slaughter,
Yet I am lost to all save one,
My own, the crofter’s daughter.
The words and the feel of his hand against the small of my back brought back the memory of sensations and sounds I had wished to forget. The rustle of leaves in a field of ripe corn. The feel of sand, cool against my bare feet and then beneath my back. Henry’s coppery brown head silhouetted against a bright blue sky. I had been humming the last few notes.
“Why would you do such a thing?” I asked breathlessly. It was a long waltz, and I was growing tired.
“Why not? It reminds me of our old days.”
“Yes, exactly. It isn’t proper.”
“It’s perfect.”
I bit my lip angrily, and we finished the waltz in silence. Henry had a wild, merry mischief that was downright contrary at its most powerful. His nature had always been a match for my determination, and at sixteen and twenty, sparks had flown between us. Every bit of our brief romance had been laced with joy, anger, and passion.
When we returned to our original spot, we found Della, chatting politely with William. Sensing my discomfort, though not it
s source, he came to me.
“There you are, Miss Andrews! We have not stood up together tonight,” he said. “Will you do me the honor?”
I gave him my hand, looking over my shoulder in time to see Henry staring after us with a furrowed brow as Della tugged at his sleeve. We danced two reels and a waltz, and then he found a place for me to sit while he fetched us some punch. He fanned me as I sipped the beverage.
“You know him well? The man you were dancing with?” His gaze was easy as he asked this, but the question was direct.
“Yes. The Millers and my folks go way back. We grew up together and were sweethearts once.”
“Long ago?”
“Four or five years now.”
He smiled. “A veritable lifetime.”
I was always forgetting the difference in our ages. What four years seemed to me at twenty was very little to him at twenty-eight.
“May I ask, did you part badly?”
“Yes. . .”
“You don’t have to speak of it.”
“No, I don’t mind but . . . perhaps not here.”
He nodded. We spent the rest of the evening in one another’s company, both emboldened by punch. We talked and laughed for much of it. As the dancing ended, he asked if he might see me home.
“You may, but you’ll have to ask my father.”
Much to my surprise, Daddy agreed, and before I knew it, Will and I were riding alone in a wagon together beneath the stars of a June sky.
“I told you I would explain my connection to Henry Miller, and I shall,” I said, regretfully breaking the silence. “It’s something you should know as my b—” I stopped myself, realizing I thought of Will as my beau, but he had never openly acknowledged it.
“Your beau?”
“I-I didn’t mean to say it!”
There was the hint of a smile in his voice as he replied, “I’m afraid I don’t always express myself as I ought, Miss Andrews. I’m not a flowers and poetry sort of man, but I care for you.”
