by Caryl McAdoo
“Really? You offered, and he refused?”
“Yes, ma'am. What? Do you think that makes me a trollop?”
“No, of course not.” Truth be known, she and Jake had been sparking long before the wedding, but no one needed to know such details. “Makes me like the man even more though.”
“He's so wonderful! You can't even imagine how wonderful that man is. God sent him for me. I know He did.” Her baby sister beamed. “So good! It's a yes then?”
Lucy held her hand up and closed her eyes. Would she be able to withstand these three constantly pestering? Was that bit of knowledge about the man's honor enough to tip the scales?
Not much on the negative side except the time—or lack thereof. Why did being mother and father have to be so hard? She peeked. All three of them stared at her.
Her precious slipped from her chair then climbed into her lap. She took both her little hands and held Lucy's face by both cheeks, then started signing. 'Ma, Teacher loves Auntie. Auntie loves him. Let them love.'
Then she made the gesture for please, rubbing her flat hand over the center of her chest.
“Fine. Then you can. I give you my blessing. I do want—”
The hoopla drowned her out. Tears and cheers turned into dancing. Round and round the kitchen, she and all her girls leapt and twirled. Finally, the lack of breath drove her to sit. The others followed, each in her seat, gulping great breaths.
Servilia caught hers first. “We need to get Mama's dress down. It will take some doing, but we can alter it.”
The bride-to-be sucked extra hard then shook her head. “No. You can wear it like it is. You should have it. I'll be thrilled to wear her lace veil though.”
“It was Grandmother's before Ma's. You knew that, didn't you? She brought it all the way from Jerusalem when they came to America.”
A thought suddenly interrupted her story.
“Hold it.” She faced her closest sister. “Why are you offering to alter Ma's dress? What have you got planned?”
Chapter Ten
C
ouldn't get anything by her
big sister. Servilia looked away, but Lucy should know. She might want to go, too.
“Well . . . you know I've been corresponding with Mister Sheffield's cousin. We've spoken of meeting in person, and well . . . I've decided to leave with Zeke and Melody. Rupert will come south to Saint Joseph, so we can . . . meet.” She cleared her throat.
“And . . . well, I suppose . . .” She hiked one shoulder then grinned. “If the man asks me to wed and return to Illinois with him . . . then . . . Guess I'll have the dress, and—”
“Are you crazy? Mercy, Vili! You don't know that man at all! How can you even be contemplating marriage?”
“He's Zeke's cousin! He's vouched for him! And we've got at least six more weeks to write back and forth. We know we can't leave before the cotton is ready! I posted my second letter today, and what better way to learn about a man than through his writing?”
“What if . . .” Lucy seemed to melt into her chair, as though the weight of the world pushed her down, merging with its wooden slats and seat.
“No. Don't. Please. We never dreamed Jake and Papa would run off and get themselves killed in that stupid war. I'm twenty years old! I have no suitors, Sister!
“If I should discover one day of pure happiness with Rupert, than it will all be worth it! If he's half the man he seems from his letter, half the husband I think he is sure to be, then we'll be fine. I promise.”
“But you'll be hundreds of miles away! I'll never see you again.”
“Not true! We can come here, and you and Mel can go there, and we all love getting letters.”
Her sister stared off as if hunting for any straw to grab, but there wasn't one. Servilia wanted her chance at the brass ring! To marry Rupert Sheffield appeared to be like winning a pure gold one.
Lucy leaned forward and hiked one eyebrow. “A boon, sweet Servilia?”
Though not exactly sure she wanted to play that game, she figured it couldn't hurt to inquire. “Up to half my kingdom. But please, kind lady, deny me not the love of my Sheffield.”
Once upon a time, she'd loved the game. But she'd not even thought of it in years. Where might Lucy be thinking of going with it?
“Would you allow me to read his letters?” She hiked both brows. “And your responses.”
“Me, too. I want to read them!”
Servilia glanced at Mel then back to Lucy. “Agreed. But if he asks for my hand—and he is as I have in my mind—I'm saying yes then and there. No matter what you two think. I'm a grown woman.
“I'd like your blessing, but it cannot be a spoiler. I won't let it. I wanted you to know my heart. I thought . . . you might want to come, too.”
“Fair enough.”
Days stacked upon each other. A dreary sweat-soaked week passed by. The heat baked everything. The garden had almost played out.
Only the okra kept producing. Earl called, as did Melody's man, but no missive arrived. Had he lost interest? Perhaps, she'd been too bold.
Oh, she hoped not. She couldn't bear to think she had, but she must have said something wrong.
Why didn't he write?
Treating him as he deserved would be no problem. She would make him a good wife.
If only he'd give her the chance.
Her heart and feet wanted to rush north, but her head ruled the day. Floods and fire and any manner of delay could have kept his response from a timely arrival she told herself late of a night.
Hugging her pillow, she allowed tears to flow and wet her sheets, thinking of one more scenario that might have been.
By the second Sunday morning, she'd convinced herself it was over. He'd found another, someone closer. Or . . . perhaps some horrible accident had caused his demise. If so, she'd die of a broken heart.
With the mules secured and a sister on each hip—little Harmony leading the way—Servilia marched toward the church building, her best go-to-meeting smile plastered on her forlorn mug.
Short of the door, a blur turned her head.
“Vilia!” The postmistress, her dress hiked above her ankles, feet scurrying rather unladylike, rushed toward her. She grinned ear to ear. “Two! You have two letters! Both from Chicago! Can I read them?”
Her heart burst then gathered itself and thumped to beat the nines. She stepped forward then spun and faced Lucy. “Would it be . . . Oh, may I? I . . . I can't stand not . . . Please? I'll hurry, I promise.”
Her oldest sister smiled. “Skipping Sunday school will be fine, but I want you in the worship service, no matter what. Understood?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” She twirled then raced to Jewel. “Oh, thank you!”
Resting under the oak that once upon a time she climbed and chunked acorns at the boys, she carefully opened the envelope with the oldest mark.
Dearest darling Servilia,
I will move heaven and earth if needed, to be in Saint Joseph at the appointed time. Give as much notice as possible. Does DeKalb have a telegraph office? If so, I will arrange for reverse charges to my account.
I can arrange for others to conduct my classes for a week even ten days. Hopefully, by then we
will know if we're the match Zeke thinks. My prayer is that you find me so.
Your letters have revealed a heart I hope to treasure for all of eternity.
What a dunce. We've not spoken to each other. Yet . . . your written words have stirred me as no other. I pray my boldness will not frighten you off. I fear I may be setting myself up for another dagger to my heart?
Time will tell. But still, here I stand, ready and willing to risk that most tender of organs for the chance of caring for you—protecting you and making each day of your life better than the last.
No, dear lady—too sweet in my humble opinion for such physical labor—I have never worked the land, though I sweated plenty helping in Grandfather's store. There is where I came to my career.
&n
bsp; At the register, soon enough, my ability to manipulate numbers landed me behind a desk, working my brain instead of my brawn.
Never knew growing cotton required such labor. If there, I would take your hoe if you would walk backwards and talk to me while I chopped. What a fun way to spend a day.
Having a peer's sweet words in my ears, and her fair features for my eyes to feast upon—I trust Zeke's judgment,
his letter was appreciated, I only hoped for more news of you.
What a reward for each stroke wrought against the water sucking weeds! More than even a dozen labors' wages.
Regrettably these few words have exhausted my ink.
Again I will not mention love, but as before I'm ready and willing.
Your servant,
Rupert
After the second time through, Servilia carefully folded it back into its envelope. How had the man remained unmarried for so long?
It had to be the Lord. She glanced heavenward. “Thank you, Father.” She opened the second, dated three days after the first.
Dearest Servilia,
I have laid in two bottles of ink and a box of paper, my quiver is full of quills but alas I fear the words I pen are no indication of my heart. I would quote the song of songs or even Shakespeare, but . . . am I a fool who has mistaken your interest?
Should I only write of trivial matters? How my day was spent, trying to pound reasoning into dense young minds? Or perhaps the petty politics of our institution of higher learning?
While I loathe the former, it is how I eat. The latter I detest, but am embroiled in no less. Others have put my name forward ahead of much older men, more tenured, to head this University's Mathematics Department.
While it would be a great honor, I suspect the only laurels I will receive is being mentioned.
Seems the firebrands among us want the old out and the new in. Of the full professors, I am the newest and . . . dare I say it? The brightest. But then with age comes wisdom, or so I have been told.
Oh, if only I could prattle on about ladies fashion, something to interest you. But I haven't a clue.
I do know I'd love lavishing you with the latest Paris or New York or wherever the wives come up with their gowns and wraps. I have lived frugally and have a nice horde put away to lavish with.
If, of course, I'm ever blessed with such an opportunity . . . Will I ever have the chance? Do you ponder such things?
Perhaps I am only an old curmudgeon, but I rather fancy myself a hopeless romantic.
Is there a way to make cotton grow faster? Or perhaps a potion I could swill to make the days speed faster by? For I long to meet you in person, let my eyes feast on your beauty, and my ears be sated with your melodious voice.
As it must be—though I've known a pretty lady who did not have a soft and soothing voice.
I have thought of coming there, but next to having you by my side, I desire being head of our department, and while there remains any chance of being promoted, I must remain here.
My bed beckons, as of now, I can only be with you in my dreams. Blessings, and with a ready and willing heart, I bid you good night.
Yours dear Servilia,
Rupert
Carefully, she put the letter away then daydreamed the rest of the hour, leaning against the great oak.
Once the classes broke, she strolled to her place on the Parker pew, content in the knowledge her future was set. Servilia Sheffield—she'd always loved alliteration—wife of Rupert, head of Mathematics Department at the University of Chicago.
Or perhaps Harvard might steal him and her away. Preacher droned on, but she teased her mind's eye with the ready-made dresses he would lavish on her. She couldn't deserve such a life.
No one could deny that God's hand guided the union. She almost giggled. She'd be like a mail-order bride, only in reverse.
Nothing dampened her good mood, not even the two-hour ride home. But while she put off her sisters all through the trip, it came time to let them have their due.
She told them her first letter best she could remember then passed around second and his third. Melody finished first then Lucy right on her heels.
Gathering the pages, Servilia put them back in their respective envelopes then looked around the table. Neither sister betrayed her thoughts.
“Well? What do y'all think? Isn't he wonderful? Just like I said?”
Melody grinned. “I like him fine. Sounds nice enough, real smart.”
“Those Sheffields have intelligence aplenty.”
“Just think, he'll be my cousin-in-law and brother-in-law. Isn't that fun?”
“Mercy, girl.” Lucy shook her head. “The measure of the man cannot be taken until you look him in the eyes, and . . .” She frowned. “What if he's got a dead fish handshake?”
“Mercy yourself, sister! Don't go quoting Papa.” Servilia looked to her new bosom buddy. “Does Zeke have a weak grip?”
Melody laughed. “Not at all.” She sat a bit taller then brought her chin up, but stopped short of haughty. “The few times I noticed, seemed to me the men who clasped hands with him got all they wanted and more.”
“See? Rupert's cut from the same cloth.”
“Really? A bookkeeper? What kind of man keeps books?”
“One smart enough to use his mind instead of working himself into an early grave.” Servilia glared at her tormentor. “My kind.”
“You're not concerned he'll be boring? And what about living up North? It gets so cold in the winter. You'll hate not feeling your toes.”
“Who told you that?” Servilia rolled her eyes. “Sure won't miss one day of these Texas summers. And Chicago is on one of the Great Lakes. It's almost like an ocean.”
“Uh, I'm not sure where I heard that. I may have read it somewhere, but . . .” Lucy's glistening eyes overflowed and a single tear raced to her chin. “Oh, Vili, I don't want to see you hurt, and—”
“And what?”
Lucy stared at a spot on the table right in front of her. Finally, she looked up. “The other wives. You won't know anyone, and they will all be friends. Maybe all have degrees from the university. And no telling what else.”
“So what are you saying? That I'm only a backwater farm girl that ain't got a lick of sense? They're only people, Lucy! I'll be fine. I can hold my own. Parker women got backbone!”
“Of course that is not what I am saying, Servilia. Not at all. It's just, they're different. They're . . . well, Yankees are . . .”
“Oh, my goodness, Sister! Are what? Spit it out.”
“Different, they're not friendly. Everyone knows Yankees are rude, and I'm so scared you'll get up there and hate it, get hurt, want to come home, but you'll be stuck. Not to mention that I'll miss you so much. No one could possibly be as good as Rupert makes himself out to be.”
“Ezekiel is.” Melody stood and moved to Servilia's chair, standing behind and slightly to the side with a hand on her shoulder.
“It's her life, Lucy. And it's wrong to judge like that, say all Yankees are unfriendly and rude. Zeke certainly isn't. You can't put them all in a pot and call them anything. I'm certain Illinois has its good folk and its bad, just like Red River County!”
“You're right.” She gazed at the floor a minute then looked to the one Parker sister not engaged to be married. Her heart broke.
“You are my sister, and I can't stand the thought of you being so far away. I know you only want to be happy, Vili, and that's what I want, too.” Tears flowed freely. She dropped her forehead to her arm on the table and boohooed.
Rising, Servilia beat Melody to her. One on each side, she and Mel cried along.
Everything was changing. And in such a short time. How had it all happened so fast? But . . . it would seem she and both her sisters had found love.
Wasn't that a good thing?
God was love.
Somehow, a bit of happy obviously got ahold of dear Lucy. She grabbed her and Melody's hands, pulled her into a circle, then
danced. Harmony jumped up and down, clapping and bouncing around the kitchen, kicking her feet out to some unheard, rhythmic music.
Her favorite aunt—so obvious from the start the child preferred the youngest sister—shot one hand high above her head. “Lord, You have turned our weeping into dancing.” Melody picked the baby up and twirled with her. “The joy of the Lord is our strength.”
Whatever had delayed his letter for those two horrible weeks never reared its ugly, no-good head again. At least one letter a week arrived promptly, sometimes two.
Lucy claimed if you'd heard one of the man's missives, you'd heard them all, but Servilia cherished each pen stroke, and getting to hear a little of the other professors, at least their names and who was married to whom.
The information would serve her well when . . . if only she knew the date.
That no decision would be made on the appointment of the new department head until the new year, she hated. How unfair to keep her love hanging, except . . . he hadn't used that word yet.
Nor had she, though quite certain Rupert Sheffield was the one God created in his mother's womb to be her husband, the one love of her life.
Of that, she was sure. Same as she knew beyond a doubt that loud-mouthed rooster would crow the sun up each day, Rupert Sheffield and she were made for each other.
Not wanting to steal any of Melody's thunder, Lucy tied the knot with Earl after a rather festive dinner on the grounds at church.
Other than a new lock on the water-closet door, not much changed. Harmony no longer got to slip into her mama's bed of a morning, but her Aunt Mel still always welcomed baby girl.
Servilia liked Mister Draper well enough, but couldn't get past the injustice of the eldest having a second husband when she and Mel hadn't had their first. Preparations for Melody and Zeke's coming nuptials took center stage, especially with the big wait on.
Other than regular chores, not much to do until the lint got ready.
Unlike the modest ceremony that turned her oldest sister into Mis'ess Earl Draper, Melody and Zeke's affair grew more grand by the day. Late into each night—as the Parker sister who threw the best stitch, Servilia worked on her sister's new dress.
