Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  “I heard your mother and father this morning, speaking of me. They are set against any union between us.”

  Zeb turned to take my hands, examined my fingertips and palms, then kissed them tenderly. “I’m sorry you had to hear their sorrow.”

  Sorrow? I was just beginning to see how in this household harsh truths were buried under flowery words. Pushing aside these thoughts, I shook my head and raised my eyes to him. “You stood up for me. Thank you.”

  Still gently holding my hands, he helped me rise. “Nothing has changed. I feel more strongly than ever that this is the right course for us.”

  I was trembling now, relief flooding through my veins, and Zeb gathered me into his arms. “Do you want to marry me, Fairwyn?”

  The voices inside me started up again, voices telling me how silly I would be to say no, telling of the grand life I would have as the wife of Zebulon Deforest III. Especially telling of the learning that would be mine, the riches of knowing all that my heart desired.

  When I didn’t answer, he went on, his voice low and tender. “Oh, my sweet Fairwyn, I care not what anyone else thinks. We are the ones that matter. We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us, together.”

  “But your life here, your career … I don’t want you to lose it all because of me.”

  He kissed my fingertips. “We’ll show them it doesn’t have to be that way.” He paused. “But I’ll need your help.”

  I nodded.

  “You must learn how to be a faculty wife—one who knows how to entertain, fulfill the responsibilities required of that position.”

  I nodded again.

  “Jeannie’s father is the president of Providence; that may add some additional hurdles.” He laughed lightly. “We’ll be starting over together.”

  I reached up and brushed a shock of hair away from his forehead. “I’ll help you however I can.”

  He looked proud. “I know you’ll learn fast.”

  “I’ll learn to pour tea, to chatter about clothes and recipes … as long as you promise me that I can take advantage of the college lectures. I want to study literature and music, history …”

  He threw back his head in a hearty laugh. “Ma’am, you drive a hard bargain.”

  I smiled, already dreaming of the day I would enter the classroom as a student.

  “You still haven’t said yes.” He leaned back against his desktop, feet outstretched, ankles crossed, and raised a brow playfully. “Before you give me your answer, come to the college with me today.” He chuckled again. “Perhaps you’ll see why my world is the one you belong in.” At his words my heart began to lighten.

  For a moment the only sound in the room was the mantel clock. Then, standing, he pulled me close and kissed me again.

  It was going to the college that made up my mind, just as Zeb knew it would. He ushered me into the biggest room I had ever seen, seated me in the back row, and disappeared. The floor had a slope like the inside of a mountain cove, curving rows of seats falling away to the platform in front.

  A group of young scholars filed down the center stairs and took their places in the rows before me. There were a few curious glances in my direction, but mostly I was ignored.

  A door to the side of the platform opened, and a reverent hush fell over the students. There was a rustle of cloth behind the doorway, and Zeb stepped forth, resplendent in black robes, a red and gold sash draped over his broad shoulders and circling his back.

  He drew his forehead into a scholarly scowl and stepped onto the platform. When he began to speak, my mouth dropped open, and I nearly forgot to close it. His deep voice was resonant with authority and confidence as he told of an ancient poem called the Odyssey by a poet-scribe from the faraway land of Greece and of Odysseus, a warrior and leader of outstanding wisdom whose endurance, resourcefulness, and courage captured my imagination.

  Zeb’s depth of knowledge was like brilliance itself, shining brighter than the sun on a summer day, his voice like that of the siren’s song he spoke of. To me, he was Odysseus, just as he’d become Mr. Joe from Great Expectations with the flaxen hair and eyes of undecided blue. I watched as he moved about the platform, his fist pounding the lectern, barking questions to the scholars or answering theirs in turn. He seemed taller than before and in such command of his world, this landscape of his creation. I could not take my eyes from him.

  Long after the students left, I sat still, my head filled with images and ideas I’d just glimpsed.

  His robe swishing with each step, Zeb came up the stairs to me, more handsome than I’d ever seen him. He reached to help me stand. “How did you like it?” he asked.

  I stared into his pale eyes. “I adored every moment.”

  “I knew you would love this as I do.” He turned me toward the door, his hand on the small of my back as we walked. “You may attend every class, Fairwyn, if you like.”

  Outside the students milled and chatted on their way between classes. Here and there the robed figures of the professors and deans were hurrying across the grassy knolls and along stone-lined pathways.

  The air seemed electrified—as if before a lightning storm in summer—with the excitement of new discovery and ideas. And when he took me around to meet some of his teaching colleagues, introducing me as the one who had helped him with his book research, my heart fluttered in my chest like a brown phoebe readying to take flight.

  Later on, when most folks had left the grounds, Zeb stood by my side, and we surveyed the long shadows falling across the campus. He cocked his head and smiled into my eyes. “Well?”

  I knew what it was he waited for. I knew my answer.

  “You must ask Poppy for my hand,” I said.

  Nine

  Our visit to Poppy filled me with sorrow. He refused to give our marriage his blessing, which Zeb said was “ignorant” and “stubborn.” I tried to make peace between them, telling Poppy about all that Zeb could offer me and explaining to Zeb that Poppy’s stubbornness was born out of his deep caring and being responsible for me all these years. But Zeb’s anger grew inside him with each word Poppy spoke against our union. Finally Zeb went off by himself, not speaking at all.

  Poppy still fussed and stewed at Zeb, paying no mind that my beau wasn’t talking back. And all the while, Poppy watched me with sorrowful eyes that nearly broke my heart.

  When Zeb had gone across the meadow and down the trace to Lettie Jameson’s boardinghouse, Poppy and I sat alone by the fire.

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” I said.

  “I reckon.”

  “Please come to Oak Hill with us,” I pleaded. “I can’t get married without you.”

  His eyes bright and damp, he snapped his galluses and shook his head. “ ’Tis a mistake ye are makin’, lass. Ye mark my words. Ye’ll rue the day.”

  I touched his arm. “Poppy, please. It’s a different world there. One you can’t know unless you visit. You’ll set your heart at ease if you’ll come see for yourself.”

  “I canna,” he said, his face turned away from me.

  “Can you give me your blessing, Poppy, even if you won’t bless us both in marriage? It’s a new life I’m starting. I’ll need your blessing for that, leastwise.” Tears filled my eyes.

  “I canna, lass,” he said turning to me at last. “Aye, I’ll pray for ye every day of yer life. But I canna give ye my blessing. My heart breaks hard, and I want ye to change yer mind.”

  I fell to my knees beside him. “Pray for me then, Poppy. Pray for me.”

  “So like her,” he said, turning his face away from me. “Jes’ like her.”

  I buried my face in my hands, and silent sobs shook my shoulders. “I’m afraid, Poppy. Sore afraid.” I looked up at him, tears streaming from my face and dripping from my chin. “You warn me about my mother, but you don’t tell me what she did to hurt you so. And never once have you even mentioned my father’s name. Does he still live? Can I find him and know him? Every wee lass needs a da—and you in your bitterness
and sorrow have kept him from me.”

  Never had I spoken to my beloved Poppy with such spirit. I went on. “You’ve nursed your own heartaches, never once thinking of my own. And now, when it seems I’ve at last found some happiness, you won’t even give me a proper send-off.” I bowed my head, afraid to look up.

  His rough fingers tilted my chin until I was looking him in the face. I saw the sorrow in his eyes and felt ashamed, because I knew—oh yes, I knew—his deep ponderings about my union with Zeb Deforest. Without words, he told me about his fears, no doubt the same fears he’d had for my mother. He told me about his unfulfilled hopes for me. He told me about the music in my heart, music that belonged to God and no one else. All without words.

  I turned my face away from the pain I saw in his eyes. Then I felt Poppy’s big hand on my head.

  “Father God,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “I bring ye yer daughter Fairwyn March. She belongs to ye, naught anyone else. Watch over her, guide her according to yer precepts. Keep her mind fixed on ye.”

  Holding my breath, I waited for his blessing, hoping he would relent. But he remained still and quiet as if waiting for me to pray. I couldn’t bring myself to utter a word, so frozen was my heart.

  When he finally went on, his voice was trembling, and so was his hand. I realized then that he had been too overcome with weeping to speak.

  “Our father in heaven,” he whispered at last, “I ken I am a stubborn old man, and when tryin’ to fathom yer ways, allus pick the wrongun. Bless this yer lassie through all her days. Allus be her light in the night. Allus be her sun in the day. Remind Fairwyn March ye’re nigh even when her darkness turns into midnight. May she ne’er forget ye’re with her unto the ends of the earth. Yea, ye’ll ne’er leave her alone.”

  He laid his hand on my head then, and when I opened my eyes, Poppy was staring hard at me, his own eyes bright. “Do not go, Fairy lass. Do not. As sartin as I’m asittin’ here, I know it’s a wrong thing ye’re aplannin’.”

  “I love him, Poppy.”

  “I see the change in ye already,” Poppy said. “And I fear the love ye think ye have is only attraction fer what he can give ye.” He paused, nodding slowly. “There’s a new brittle cover to yer heart like frost on the edge of a pond. Ye know what is right, but ye’re stubborn as yer Poppy, and surely ye’re going to do what ye will.”

  “It’s only book learning you see in me,” I argued. “My eyes are beginning to open to the world outside. I’ve gained a wealth of knowledge already, and it’s only begun. I’m still your Fairwyn March, Poppy. My heart will not change. Ever.”

  “Dinna go,” Poppy repeated as I stood. He caught my hand. “I fear for ye, lass. Dinna go.”

  That night, long after I lay on my corn-tick, Poppy sat out in the cold, rocking on the porch and smoking on his clay pipe. I could not sleep for the worry of him as I listened to the creak of the chair runners.

  A hoot owl cried, and in the far distance, coyotes yipped and sang. Hot tears filled my eyes as I turned on my side and let them run onto my pillow.

  On June the third of 18 and 83, I stood before Zebulon, gazing into his eyes, and spoke the words that bound me to him forever.

  We stood beneath a rose-covered arbor in the garden behind the Deforest house, the fragrance of fresh-planted gardenias, everlastings, and daylilies drifting on the light spring breeze. A small string ensemble played softly a few yards from the arbor, and in the distance the splash of the water fountain blended its music with that of the violin, viola, and cello.

  Zebulon squeezed my fingers when the ceremony was done, and my heart quickened at the love and adoration in his eyes. And when we turned to our guests and Dr. Merriam Browne, the college chaplain, pronounced us man and wife, I caught my breath and almost forgot to breathe. Plain, uneducated, mountain-born, old-maid Fairwyn March was Mrs. Zebulon Deforest III! I wanted to kick up my heels, but instead I remembered my new manners and gazed up at Zeb adoringly.

  As soon as the ceremony was done, I tucked my arm in Zeb’s and strolled with him across the sweeping lawns to greet our guests. I moved gracefully with my head tilted upward. Think of it! Mrs. Zebulon Deforest III. I was in my glory.

  When the wedding supper was served, I daintily picked up the proper utensils in the right order, and from the corner of my eye saw Charlotte Deforest’s nod of approval. I properly chose the correct sterling implement for everything from honey ham to the sugary white wedding cake, lifting the correct crystal goblets, with my pinkie finger poised, for sweet teas and mint juleps.

  I wore an imported gown, chosen for me by Mother Charlotte. I had memorized every detail of the description that accompanied it from Belgium, quizzing myself at night, and with Zeb’s help learning the foreign words so I could share them with Welsie True.

  My bride’s toilette was made of ivory mousseline de soie trimmed with garlands of roses and greenery. My draped bodice, also of mousseline, was held in place with a spray of orange blossoms, a trim repeated around the draped layers in the skirt. Attached to a halo of roses, my veil was fashioned of tulle. Underneath it all I was dressed in silk lingerie, from my empire matinee to my flounced petticoat. Even my shoes were made of silk.

  Zeb patted my hand as we walked toward a group of deans and their wives. My heart pounded with nervousness, being presented as Zeb’s wife, their equal. If they had misgivings about our union, they didn’t show it. One by one, they congratulated us both, kissing my cheek and shaking my husband’s hand.

  Jeannie stood behind them slightly and off to one side. She looked up and met my gaze with a ready smile, but in her eyes I saw a depth of sadness that nearly took my breath away. I skirted the group of Zeb’s colleagues and their wives to reach her, Zeb a few steps behind me. By the time I stood in front of Jeannie and held out my arms, her expression had changed. Though pale, she laughed happily, and gave me a warm hug. She took Zeb’s hand and simply said, “Congratulations, Zeb.”

  Jeannie’s heart was kind. From the beginning she had been my friend. She had kept her distance during the wedding preparations, and Zeb and I hadn’t pressed her to be part of our celebration. I’d wanted to ask her to stand with me as my maid of honor, but I knew that might hurt her even more, so I kept my silence.

  Jeannie wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, yet Zeb and I had hurt her. I sought out her eyes again, wanting her to know how sorry I was, but she kept her gaze turned away. Just as she had done on every social occasion since the announcement of our betrothal.

  I didn’t encounter her again until after the wedding dance. Zeb and I had whirled and dipped and laughed with our guests. I danced with Zeb, his father, and every colleague from Providence. Even Jeannie’s father.

  As blisters rose on my heels, I asked Zeb to escort me to one of the linen-covered chairs. Gratefully I sank into it. At the same time the ensemble began to play, Jeannie walked from the garden alone.

  “Darling,” Zeb smiled at me. “It’s Stephen Foster. We must dance this one.”

  “I can’t,” I groaned. “My feet …”

  But Zeb wasn’t listening. His worried gaze was on Jeannie. He turned to me, an eyebrow raised, asking a silent question.

  I nodded. “Ask her,” I whispered.

  By the end of the first stanza, I was sorry I’d given my approval. “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair” floated out across the night air as Zeb took my friend’s hand in his, and soon she was floating lightly in his arms.

  She gazed up at him with adoration, and for a moment their eyes met, Jeannie’s filled with tears. Our guests, conversing in small knots across the lawn, hushed their voices and turned to watch.

  After Zeb escorted her from the dance floor, he returned to me. As we sat out the next song, we spoke of everything else but his dance with Jeannie.

  That night, when we had retired to Zeb’s suite of rooms in his parents’ house, I sat down on the edge of Zeb’s tall-poster bed, and Zeb knelt before me to remove my shoes. I stared at the top of his head
as he unlaced my shoe.

  Now that the ceremony was over, the confusion and misgivings I’d had for months began to creep back into my mind. The layers of mousseline de soie wedding gown, the Stephen Foster music, the laughter and conversation, my day of proving to everyone that I was indeed good enough for Zebulon Deforest III, all of it gone.

  My beautiful day was over, and my life with Zeb was about to begin.

  I stared at my new husband, thinking of my wedding vows. Everyone had been against our union, from Poppy to Charlotte to Zebulon II. What if they were right? What if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life?

  My heart thudded in fear, and the threat of tears stung my eyes. This was forever. I had just given myself to this man … to have and to hold every day for the rest of my life.

  Zeb broke into my thoughts as he unfastened my stocking and let it fall in silken folds down my calf. He let out a low whistle as he examined my heel. “Oh, these blisters, darling …” He frowned. “You should have said something.”

  “I did,” I whispered. But you weren’t listening.

  He found the lace garter on my left leg, then unrolled the second stocking, lightly touching my toes, my arch, my heel, as the silken material slid off. So carried away he was with bathing my feet with his kisses he seemed oblivious to my wince at his every touch.

  After a moment, he rocked back on his haunches, staring into my eyes with deep yearning. “How I’ve waited for this night,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. He lifted my hand and kissed my fingertips, letting his lips linger on my palm. The new ring on my finger glittered in the lamplight. “From the first moment I saw you, I’ve waited. Oh my beautiful Fairwyn, how I’ve longed for you.” His last words came out in a soft moan.

  Then lifting himself to sit beside me on the bed, he turned me gently and began working the long row of pearl buttons on the back of my wedding gown. After a moment he extinguished the lamp.

  Long after Zeb had fallen asleep at my side, I lay awake, staring into the dark, wondering where the music in my heart had gone.