by Caryl McAdoo
“Mel told me that, but made me promise not to repeat it.”
With a chuckle, Lucy studied her midsection, one eyebrow raised.
“Now don't be a wiseacre. I was not about to bust a gut. I am certainly able to keep a secret if I want to. It just turns out that most of the time, I don't. But I gave her my word.”
“Papa said a woman who’d lie to you would steal from you as well.”
“Humph! I hope you are not calling me a liar, Lucinda.”
“But I’ve never known you to offer a promise to Melody. Not that I’m disappointed with the truce between you two of late. It’s been much more pleasant around here.”
She accepted a handful of dripping forks. “Anyway, is it going to hurt your heart if Melody marries before you?”
“Maybe, but not much I can do about it. Unless you haven't noticed . . .” Servilia shrugged. “There isn’t a line of suitors at our front door asking for me.”
“Earl thinks we ought to move to his place.”
“You’re talking about you and Harmony, of course. I'm not moving anywhere.”
“What do you think about him coming here?”
“We only have one water closet. And his house is close enough. I can’t see why you’d want to.”
“He mentioned that.” Lucy laughed. “We do still have the outhouse.”
“He can use it, but I never will. That thing freezes you in the winter, and in the summer, the wasps love it too much.”
“We could build on.”
“Sissy, I can live here by myself just fine. Might even take in a boarder. You and Mister Draper need to do whatever is best for you three. Quit your worrying over me.”
Her big sister seemed to melt then held out her arms. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” A good long hug accompanied by a few tears ensued, but as sweet as it was, it couldn't mend the tear in her heart.
The days stayed busy enough to keep the pain at bay, but in the nights, when her eyes became too salty to read, yet the bliss of slumber hadn't overtaken them, she toyed with the possibility of her living out her life alone.
In that house. In the same bed. With the same chores—and no one to help do them, no dear someone to share all of life with . . .
No babies toddling under foot.
That next Sunday, even before she climbed down from the wagon, Jewel Hodges—the postmistress and one of her clutch—ran toward her like the devil and his hordes were right on her heels.
And Jewel never ran. “Vilia! Sweetie!” She waved a paper over her head as she came. “You've got a letter from Chicago!”
Perfect, everyone in the county knew. Servilia jumped down like she was ten again. Her heart threatened to pound right through her chest. A reply so fast? Wow.
Probably because he only sent a quick note of apology. Sorry, but I've married since speaking to my cousin last.
Or, you’re too late, I’m betrothed to another. He might even just tell her he wasn’t interested in some hick farm girl from Texas, or perhaps he’d dropped dead and a neighbor sent it to let her know.
She took the missive and slipped it in her skirt pocket.
“Why, aren't you going to read it, dear?”
Filling her lungs as best she could, she tried unsuccessfully to swallow then shook her head. “No, not now.”
“Well, why not? Aren't you simply dying to know what he said?”
Had to admit, Jewel had her there. She might truly be dying—couldn’t get a good breath. Her heart could possibly give up beating, unable to keep the pace. But . . .
“Friend, if it’s bad news, then it will surely ruin the church service, and if good, then I'll obviously want to answer back so much I couldn't possibly pay attention.” Oh Lord, let it be pleasant, let it be positive. “I do thank you for bringing it. I’m much obliged.”
The news-hound's lips pursed, and her head bobbed. “I see.” She turned.
Servilia grabbed her arm then moved around to face her. “Jewel, I'm bringing Melody and Harmony to school tomorrow. I'll come by the post office, and . . .” She grinned. “I'll let you read it and the reply I'm hoping it warrants.”
“Well.” The older woman offered a weak smile. “I suppose I can wait until then.”
With minutes longer than hours, and hours beyond the pale, she finally found herself at last alone in her room.
Chapter Nine
ear Miss Parker,
D I take it one or both of your parents knew that Servilia Caepionis was the love of Julius Caesar's life. That aside, I must confess I
have labored over this return missive.
My floor is littered with false starts.
Then regarding the fairer sex, what I say—and
what I most often wished I'd said—are miles and many hours of agony of missed opportunity apart.
A legion perhaps contains the number of girls
and young ladies who I fumbled any chance of a good first impression, and it disquiets me to consider how history does repeat itself.
Perhaps a long distance romance could be
exactly what the love doctor ordered. And so, dear lady, I thank you for acting on my cousin’s recommendation that you write.
Three times in my lonely life, I believed I'd found my soulmate. Each happened in the same way: the female in question approached me. The first, an assistant librarian, went out of her way to peak my curiosity, but alas, only desired to cause her intended to be jealous.
Of course, it wounded my heart. Not to mention the forfeiture my purse suffered. I gave gifts. On reflection, perhaps the booty I lavished upon said heartless woman served only to prolong the farce.
In my first year as a full professor, a fellow
worshiper at the Methodist Church seemed to make a
point of being in my presence at all opportunities.
However, I know not why to this very day.
Bless the Lord above, that was prior to asking for the lady's hand, He revealed we were no match. She took exception to any and every stance I seized on any subject.
A lifetime of weighing each and every comment seemed too high a price to pay for companionship, though I had indeed convinced myself I could love the woman.
Then the war widow who I supposed would become my Servilia, approached perfection. Smart and self-assured, fair of face, a tad plumper than I might have wished, but her cooking was superior. Alas, the fly that buzzed our bliss wore short britches.
The scamp needed a strong hand, yet the woman made it quite apparent, I would not have been free to administer a dose of the same salve I received as a child. Spare not the rod.
So you have a brief history of my love life or lack thereof. If you wish, I am happy to provide more detail when we meet in person—if that most pleasant of prospects takes place. Or not, as you wish.
Those ladies are most definitely in my past and hold no sway over me or my heart which I am free to offer should the right young woman come along.
If relationships were akin to mathematical equations, then perhaps I could have derived a solution by now. At thirty-four, I pray you won’t think it forward of me when I say, I long to be settled.
Hopefully, Ezekiel's assessment is accurate and we truly equivalence one to the other. As you, I guard the truth. You may ask me anything.
Mercy, Servilia. I find my anticipation quite heightened by the prospect of meeting a kindred spirit. It's getting late, and I have an early class on the morrow.
If only you were here to converse face to face. We might visit the night away, share the dawn, then I could day dream through my lecture.
Perhaps I will anyway, as your letter has pulled me out of the morass. I think it improper that I should profess love in my salutation, but I’m comfortable—if you are concluding my heart is ready and willing.
Your servant,
Rupert Sheffield, Master Professor of Mathematics
Servilia held the letter to her bosom, slipped off her chair, and looked heaven
ward.
“Thank you, Lord. Bless Your Holy Name.” She continued praising God until the desire to respond almost overwhelmed her. She stood and smoothed her dress then fetched paper, quill, and ink.
My dearest Rupert,
What a most wonderful first impression you have
made.
Yes, it would indeed be grand to talk the night
away—if we could convince one of my sisters to properly chaperone, but then . . . perhaps, we will need none. My heart, too, is willing and ready to love and cherish the right man.
Hopefully, my future brother-in-law is as skilled in match-making as teaching those unfortunate deaf children to speak with their hands.
My four-year-old niece, Harmony, has never heard a sound, according to the doctor. Born deaf, she could only grunt or squeal her displeasure. That was prior to your cousin coming to Texas; since Zeke, at last count, she now knows over a hundred words and twenty-six gestures.
She's even teaching me the alphabet.
Verbs are hardest, but we've had several fun sessions acting out words.
I believe I mentioned that we three sisters farm. So,
as you might imagine, I am no stranger to work. Did I
mention that already? I should have made a copy of my
first letter, so that I wouldn't repeat myself.
Were you here, I'd show you my poor calloused
hands to testify to that fact. My first impression of the
three ladies you mentioned was to take matters in hand and treat them as the ingrates they obviously are, but on reflection,
I am pleased that they didn't latch onto you, sir. It
appears to me that you're still waters, running very deep, and those who treated you so badly, shallow
wretches who desire only to gaze upon their own reflections.
In regard to meeting in person, I am bound to the land until harvest, and that is still several weeks away. I don't know if you've ever experienced the utterly distasteful chore of chopping cotton, but our burden until the plants canopy is heavy.
Once they shade any new grass or weed growth, the responsibility lessens. Except even then, we usually hoe the rows one more time to open the ground to grab every bit of moisture the Texas summer has to offer.
When the bolls are ready, that's when the worst
part comes. We will have to pick, and pick, then pick some more! Oh! What a glorious day it is when we carry that last load of lint to the gin.
Then, Lord willing and prices keep firm, we'll finally
have time and ready cash to travel north. Depending on the pounds per acre, harvesting can take upwards to
three weeks in itself.
Or it may be six to eight weeks until that divine time when the season is finished at last.
If you are of the same mind and can arrange the time, we might meet in the middle. Zeke has mentioned Saint Joseph.
I've not studied the map nor had any personal knowledge beyond this beloved Red River Valley—surely the prettiest country in all of Texas. Papa did take us to Dallas once as children—we saw a live play—but that's south and west of home here.
I fear I must close as I have neither figured a sane
way to silence our rooster nor to sleep with fingers in both my ears to sleep through his infernal noise. The beast thinks he must crow or the sun will not rise.
Your soon to be cousin-in-law for certain . . . and hopefully much more.
Blessings, kind sir,
Servilia Parker
She read and reread the missive then took the time to make a copy. While she waited for sleep, one word in his letter to her kept worming its way to the forefront. On awaking the next morning, it remained on her lips.
Morass.
Was the man given to melancholy? And if so, how severe might it be? She needed to quiz Zeke about his cousin's moods.
Soon as she dropped the two song girls off at the school, she hied herself to DeKalb. True to her promise, she let the postmistress read both letters.
Why not? It would save her at least thousands of words, convincing the woman how wonderful Zeke's cousin was. What a boon Ezekiel coming to town had been.
How could she ever have thought for even a minute his presence would be a negative?
She did love being the center of attention. How many times over the years had she envied brides, flitting from this group to that, receiving congratulations and pats on the back.
To her way of thinking, only showing off a new baby could bring more joy. Servilia wanted children above all, but only with the right man.
While enjoying her time in town, she toyed with the notion of living in a big city with only a house to keep clean and meals to cook. Definitely would not miss all the hard work, but she also hated being bored.
Would there be enough to keep her engaged? And though canned goods weren't bad, they could not compare to the flavor of fresh.
Did Rupert live at the university?
Would there be room for a garden?
Would the other wives consider her an unlearned rube?
How silly! Counting herself already married.
What if Mister Sheffield only wanted one baby? She could never be fully herself without a daughter, could she? He would want a boy, of course.
A list of questions she wanted to ask might be in order as she thought of them. She could keep a journal then post it to him once a week when she brought Harmony to school. Hopefully, she'd receive a letter from him each week.
If prone to melancholy, had he turned to drink like some she'd heard about?
Too soon, time came to fetch her sister and niece.
During the trip from DeKalb to the Simpson's place, Servilia practiced exactly how she would ask about Rupert. Once there, no true order had presented itself.
With the team in hand and the brake set, she climbed down and marched straight to the parlor. Her sister and niece, as expected, sat the little table, laughing and visiting with Zeke.
Melody was so lucky. Servilia had told her so, too, only to be rebuked. Seemed Ezekiel had convinced her sister no such thing as luck even existed, debating that all good things came from God, so said the scriptures.
If there was no good luck, there would be no bad either. Only blessings and curses, the little roly-poly repeated all starry-eyed in love.
How Servilia longed for the experience!
Might Rupert be the one? She believed so with all her heart.
Ezekiel's words trailed off as she neared the trio.
“I need a word, sir.” That hadn't sounded too sharp, had it?
He smiled then spelled out 'speak on.' If she'd caught it correctly.
“Would it be too much . . . uh . . . I'd like to know about your cousin.” Why was she beating about the mulberry tree? “Do you have any knowledge of him drinking hard liquor?”
Zeke looked to Melody, his hands flashing. She watched a minute before going on.
“He says not regular, eggnog if it's made right. That he's known him to imbibe a hot toddy on a particularly cold night. Wine perhaps with a meal. He wants to know why you ask?”
“Only because his letter mentioned being in a morass. I wondered if he was prone to much melancholy. Not that a bit can't be tolerated. I mean . . .”
Again her sister interrupted.
“Grandfather Sheffield said once that gloom followed him around like a red dog he could not shake, but also taught him to do as King David and encourage himself in the Lord. It was how he kept the hound at bay, and we have done the same.”
“We? Yourself included, sir?” Wow, she would never have thought the handsome, intelligent teacher suffered from melancholy.
“He says, yes ma'am, but I must say, Servilia, you certainly are probing into personal matters.” She hated her younger sister scolding her, but chose to ignore it.
“So Rupert is not a drunk?”
“Mercy, Servilia!” The man shook his head, then spoke with his hands. “He says heavens
no. Strong drink has never been a problem with any of the Sheffields.”
“Good.” She glared at her sister. “See? That's good. Now I know. When are we leaving for Saint Joseph?”
“Well, certainly not before we are married.” Melody shook her head. “And Mister Sheffield here keeps telling me we must acquire Lucy's blessing to proceed.”
“So our sister holds both our fates in her hands?”
“Appears so.”
“That doesn't seem fair . . .”
Harmony jumped to her feet, her hands flashing. 'I say we tickle her until she says yes!'
Melody burst out laughing then interpreted. They all joined in, Servilia, too. Her teacher lifted the baby into the air and swung her around. Happy smiles and giggles continued while in turn each gave hugs and kisses to the four-year-old. But maybe . . . that just might be exactly what their big stuffy sister needed.
Sometimes it seemed to Lucy that she had three daughters. And right that minute, the trio had joined together like a pack of wolves and took turns nipping at her flanks. Even baby girl had offered an opinion, except she was blinded by her love for Ezekiel.
Slapping both palms on the table, Lucy pushed herself up. “Enough! You three have dishes, and I need some peace and quiet to think.”
Melody jumped to her feet, glared for a double handful of heartbeats, then quite remarkably, smiled.
“Yes, ma'am.” She glanced at Servilia then back. “Come on, she's right. We have dishes to do, and sister here needs some time alone to think. You know . . .” She nodded toward the sink. “. . . so that she can make the right and proper decision.”
“Is that a threat, young lady?”
“Heavens, no. I already told you we'd elope, but unfortunately, Mister Sheffield refuses that solution or . . .” Tears pooled, then overflowed.
“Or what?”
She sniffed. “When we agreed to marry, I asked him to seal our deal with a kiss, but he refused. Said we should wait until we were properly married.”
