Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  Ducks in the millpond,

  Geese in the pasture;

  If you want to marry,

  You’ll have to talk faster.

  I love you little, I love you lots.

  My love for you would fill all the pots,

  Piggins, keelers, kettles, and cans,

  A four-foot tub, and ten dishpans.

  I blinked to discover Zebulon grinning down at me. He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “You were singing of love.”

  My cheeks flamed, and I sat up straight. “I thought I was humming.”

  Jeannie turned to me, smiling. “Sing it again, Fairwyn. The words are lovely.” If she’d heard Zebulon’s whispering, she didn’t let on. I sang the tune softly, and for a long while Jeannie didn’t speak. She just kept her gaze on the passing countryside.

  Zebulon leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

  Six

  The train wound through rolling green hills and across flat-lands with soil so red it seemed on fire. We passed fields high with weeds and burnt-out bones of buildings ten times higher and wider than the double-highs in Dover Town. In some places, great pillars stood quiet and sorrowful with nothing behind but rubble. The war. I frowned and leaned closer to the window.

  “It’ll take decades more for the South to recover,” Zebulon said. “And the carpetbaggers are still set on making it impossible.”

  “Oak Hill is a different picture entirely,” Jeannie said, looking across at Zebulon on the far side of me. “At least our city was spared the horror of Northern aggression.”

  When I gave her a confused look, she went on, “A woman was the cause.” Her tone seemed proud. “General Nicholas Appleby rode into town, itching to set fire to our stately mansions. He came to the grandest house in town, his horse and his men tramping all over Mrs. Hall’s boxwood hedge. She rushed outside, shouting that she didn’t care who they were, she’d planted that boxwood herself, and she would thank him kindly to remove his horses from its midst.

  “The general was a gentleman and ordered his men to remove their horses from the prized hedge. In talking to her, he found out that this woman was the wife of the doctor in charge of the local prison camp. Immediately, he ordered his men to halt their plans to torch the city. He’d already been to the prison, had seen the humane treatment of the Union soldiers, and had a deep respect for Dr. Hall. So, while he used the Hall mansion as his headquarters, he left it intact—silver, china, fine furniture, and Chinese rugs—when his regiment moved on.

  “The city got through the rest of the war untouched, and so Oak Hill retained its glory—and now we’re trying to pick up where we left off,” Jeannie concluded. “Providence College is one of the few fine institutions of higher learning in the South that’s not in shambles.”

  Zebulon leaned forward, obviously ready to take charge of the conversation. “What Jeannie means is that whereas many Southern cities suffered greatly and have much to rebuild, we are fortunate. Many of our families lost husbands and sons—and their suffering will never be erased. But our city stands undefiled.”

  Outside the window, the land raced by at a speed that caused my eyes to dizzy and my fears to return. I reached down to touch my dulcimer case for reassurance.

  Zebulon settled back and crossed his legs. “I’m thinking literature might be of interest to you, Fairwyn. Ancient as well as modern. I would like to have you attend some lectures while you’re with us.”

  “Literature,” I said, my spirit quickening. “You couldn’t please me more.” I imagined the college campus where he lectured, with old oak groves and lush, stately lawns, the library that surely must be there. I almost couldn’t breathe for the wonder of it. “Of course I would love to attend.”

  “I’ve more books for you as well.” He paused, watching my face. “Mark Twain. A humorist and writer who’s making quite a name for himself.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “You must get to know his work.”

  I asked Zebulon question after question about the literature he taught in his class, feeling as if I’d just been led to a clear creek of running water after a long thirst. And he began talking, seeming pleased with the rapt audience he had in me. I memorized everything he said, planning on writing it all to Welsie True come nightfall.

  Jeannie turned to join the conversation, delighting me with stories from Socrates to Edgar Allan Poe, from Cicero to Plinius. Zebulon enjoyed her tales as much as I did, roaring with laughter.

  Darkness fell on the passing fallow fields and burnt-carcass plantations, and soon the train slowed as we approached the Oak Hill station.

  Zebulon pointed out the single carriage waiting just beyond the platform. As he escorted Jeannie and me toward it, I scarce could walk for my aching feet and wide-eyed wonder. One train had been nearly too much to take in during a single day, but now I counted seven of the beasts all lined up on the silver tracks, spewing steam like dragons in fairy tales.

  Finally, his “man,” as he called the carriage driver with the midnight face, opened the door of the fancy rig, and Jeannie and I climbed in. Zebulon followed, settling in beside me, leaving Jeannie alone on the seat across from us.

  “My parents are expecting us. I sent a telegram from Dover,” Zebulon said.

  “I’ll be mighty pleased to meet them,” I said.

  He leaned back in the plush, upholstered seat, crossing his legs at the ankles. “The guest room is on the top floor with a wonderful view of the gardens. I think you’ll be comfortable with us.”

  The carriage passed by ashen trees and fields, then tall-pillared houses scattered here and there, light glowing from their windows. We made our way along the winding road, the horses’ hooves clacking along the cobbles.

  We stopped first at Jeannie’s family home just south of Oak Hill. Never had I seen such a mansion. Double pillars stood on either side of a wide porch. Lace curtains hung from windows tall as a hundred-year-old chestnut tree back home. A welcoming glow of lamps shone through the glass.

  Jeannie said her good-byes and reached to give me a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said with a smile that again made me think of the promise of friendship.

  A few minutes later we rounded the corner to Bank Street. Zebulon gazed at me from across the carriage, his eyes bright with pride. “This is home,” he said.

  It must have been the sound of the jangling reins and clopping hooves that drew his mother and father to the broad porch, because they appeared just as we drove up the winding road near the front of the house.

  “Halt!” Zebulon’s father called up to the driver, and the man indeed slowed the prancing horses to a standstill, then climbed off the tall bench where he’d been driving and opened the door for us. He took my hand as I stepped to the ground then stopped dead still. I gawked in wonder, letting my gaze travel upward, taking in the magnificence of this house.

  With a prideful grin, Zebulon let go of my hand and raced to his mother and father, hugging his mother first, a pretty woman who looked as prim and proper as Jeannie, only older, and then his father, a tall, stately man. He wore a mustache that curved down to his chin, giving his face the appearance of a perpetual frown.

  “Mother,” Zebulon said after a moment, “I would like for you to meet Fairwyn March of Sycamore Creek.”

  He turned to me with an encouraging smile. “My mother, Charlotte Deforest.”

  I moved to close the distance between us and stuck out my hand. She smiled and reached for it. I shook hard just as Poppy had taught me, but she looked alarmed and withdrew her fingers. “What an unusual name,” she said with a honeyed voice.

  “ ’Tis a family name,” I said. “It comes from Wales.”

  Mrs. Deforest did not once stop smiling, just nodded, and said, “How nice.”

  Zebulon guided me toward his father. “Meet Zebulon Deforest, the Second,” Zebulon said.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deforest,” I said.

  His answering smile warmed my heart
. I wondered if Zebulon knew how blessed he was to have both a mother and a father.

  Mr. Deforest bent over my hand and kissed it. I couldn’t stop smiling when he straightened.

  Zebulon’s mother stepped closer as if to scrutinize me in the dim light. “Dear,” she said in the same slow, honey-sweet voice. “You must be utterly exhausted. Let me show you to your room. You must surely want to refresh yourself.”

  I followed her through the tall front door then stopped, dumbfounded, in the entry. A chandelier, grander than any I’d ever read of, hung from the second-story ceiling. I turned in a slow circle, taking in the curved banister, the gold-framed paintings of folks in old-fashioned garb lining the walls.

  Mrs. Deforest stood back, seeming pleased with my admiration. “These are Zebulon’s forebears,” she said with pride. “A portrait of him will join them someday. With that of his wife.” She seemed to be studying my expression, and I felt my face grow warm. “You’ve already met his intended, I believe.”

  “Intended?”

  She nodded and half turned on the bottom stair to begin her ascent. “He’s betrothed to Jeannie Barton, the daughter of Providence’s president.”

  A small gasp escaped my lips. “They are engaged to be married?”

  “Oh yes, my dear. I thought surely they would have told you.”

  I trailed her as she climbed the stairs, one delicate hand on the rail, the other daintily gathering her full skirts. Her back erect, she didn’t turn when she spoke again. “Their union has been planned since they were children.”

  We reached the landing, and I stared blindly at a hunting scene, trying to push the stark dismay from my mind. Not only had Zebulon been trifling with my feelings, just as Poppy had suspected, but he had acted as if he were free to court me.

  Blinking back my tears, I tried to concentrate on the plush and colorful rugs, the ornate carved furnishings. “ ’Tis grander than I could have imagined,” I said in a hushed voice. “Books about such décor can’t begin to describe finery like this.”

  Mrs. Deforest smiled, seeming pleased. “Well now, dear. I thank you for your kind words. It really isn’t much. Truly.” She turned and pushed open the first door on her right.

  When she had shown me around the guest room and placed clean towels in my hands, she turned to leave. “Join us again when you’re refreshed, dear. We’ll have a light supper at nine o’clock.”

  I nodded, and she turned to leave.

  “May I ask you something?” I said.

  She turned. “Of course.”

  “I will be writing to a friend while I am here, and it’s important that I post the letter right away. Is it possible?”

  She flicked her fingertips. “We have servants for such tasks. You write your letter, and we’ll make sure it is posted. Tomorrow, if you like.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  “Your friend … is this someone you met at school?”

  I laughed without meaning to be rude, but she blanched at the sound. “Oh, goodness no. For one thing, I’ve never been to school.” I shrugged. “There’s no schoolhouse in Sycamore Creek. No schoolmarm has ever set foot in our valley.”

  “Really.”

  “And to answer your question about Welsie True. I’ve never met her. She’s written to me for as long as I can remember. Before Poppy’s eyes went bad—when I was just a lap baby—he read her letters to me.”

  “And you’ve corresponded all these years. My.”

  “She won’t answer questions about who she is to me or why she writes, but she has been my friend, my mother, my sister, even a kind of teacher to me through all my years.”

  Mrs. Deforest stepped back across the thick carpet to where I stood and placed a hand on mine. “Zebulon hasn’t mentioned much about your family. When he was here last, he did say that you’re fatherless and motherless.” She looked distressed.

  I smiled gently, trying to put her at ease. “My mother died when I was an infant.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” she said. “How did she … succumb?”

  I wondered how much I was required to answer, and studied her face for a moment while I decided.

  “I’m much too nosy,” she said, filling in the silence. “You must forgive me.”

  “Childbirth,” I said at last. “My mother died bearing me. And I never knew my father. No one has ever said if he’s dead or alive.”

  A small gasp escaped her lips. “You’re not …” Her voice trailed off in hushed horror.

  “Illegitimate?” I finished for her. “I truly don’t know. No one will say.”

  Her complexion had turned the pale hue of the lace-trimmed linens on the tall, four-poster bed. She squared her shoulders, and when she spoke again, her voice had a slight edge. “About your letter,” she said. “You write to your friend. One of our boys will take it to the post office.”

  Mrs. Deforest closed the bedroom door without a sound, leaving me standing in the center of the room, trying to sort out the whirl of emotions that the silken voices in this place had stirred in my heart.

  Oak Hill

  October 16, 18 and 82

  Dearest Welsie True,

  Today I came by train to Oak Hill, and I am so overwhelmed by all I’ve seen and done it would take sheet upon sheet of writing paper to begin to tell you every detail.

  First I will tell you about this mansion that Zebulon calls home and his mother says “really isn’t much.” It is filled with the grandest furnishings you might ever imagine. Sofas of brocade with a shine prettier than sunlight dancing on a meadow. Striped drapes and lace hang before windows that are taller than the old chestnut out back of Poppy’s cabin. And the bed is so soft and high I get dizzy just looking at it.

  I will write more tomorrow, because my eyes are almost closing of their own accord. I’ll tell you then of the devastation I’ve seen from the War, also the fascinating story of what happened to this town during the occupation.

  I’ll explore the grounds, gardens, and fountains and report on it all, for I know you are interested more in those things than the house itself.

  You’ve always encouraged me to stretch my wings like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. You would be proud of me for coming here. Tomorrow I shall begin to fly.

  I remain

  Your loving friend in Oak Hill,

  Fairwyn March

  P.S. I haven’t been entirely honest in what I wrote so far. Instead of being ecstatic with wonder as it appears above, my heart is troubled. I didn’t want you to worry, so I hesitated to say anything. But you always seem to guess what I’m “writing between the lines,” so I will tell you that my mind is a bundle of confusion right now. I thought I might have been falling in love with Zebulon only to find he’s promised to another.

  Back in Sycamore Creek he kissed me, Welsie True! And he spoke words of love. Were they empty words?

  I will write more tomorrow.—FM

  As the sun rose the next morning, I stretched out on the big feather-tick, confused for a time about my surroundings. The room was flooded with warm light. Two round lamps with painted roses sat atop table-stands that flanked the bed. A wardrobe of shining wood such as Poppy might’ve used for a fiddle or dulcimer stood in the corner, and on the ceiling just above me was a golden chandelier holding more gaslights than I could count.

  I stretched again, threw back my counterpane, and stepped to the floor. In the corner was an oval looking glass in a frame as big as me. Surprised, I ran to it, almost not recognizing myself. I was wearing sleep garments belonging to Zeb’s mother. They were made of the softest lace and cotton. They flowed to the ground like a queen’s train.

  I walked to the window, opened the shutters, and leaned out to take in the view. Though the grasses were brown with the season, I saw the outline of what surely would be a glorious garden come spring. My eyes widened. I’d read of fountains but had never seen one before. This fountain rose up through the center of four perfectly round bowls and then spilled over th
e edge of each in a wondrous waterfall.

  With a cry of delight, I raced from my bedroom in my flowing nightclothes, down the wide staircase, through the long hall on the first floor, and searched for a door leading outside. Open-mouthed servants stopped their dusting and stared.

  Mrs. Deforest rounded a corner, coming from the room Zebulon had told me was the library, and froze dead still, looking me up and down.

  Thinking she’d stopped to greet me, I nodded and continued my quest to reach the back of the house. When I didn’t stop, she followed me, her stride nearly matching mine.

  “Go find Zeb,” she muttered to a servant who was brushing off a chandelier with long feathers. “And hurry. Tell him to get in here now.”

  Finally, I spotted a glass door that led outdoors. With no one between and Mrs. Deforest on my heels, I hurried toward it, only to have it open before I got there.

  Jeannie and Zebulon stood in front of me, blocking my way. My confusion about their relationship flooded again into my mind. I looked at them uncertainly.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Zebulon’s voice was stern.

  I stared at him in surprise.

  Mrs. Deforest’s gaze flew to her son’s, but her voice was in perfect control when she spoke. “What will the neighbors think, Zeb? Please, do something.”

  “The neighbors?” I said as I looked to Jeannie, whose face held the only kindness in the group, but even her perplexity was evident.

  Jeannie circled her arm around my shoulders and led me a few steps away from the others. “It’s your dress,” she said gently. “It isn’t proper to be seen in your, ah, nightclothes.” She reddened. “It’s considered indecent.”

  Ashamed, I put my hand to my mouth and, blushing furiously, backed away from the three and fled upstairs.