by Leen Elle
Brook raised an eyebrow, "They're only dandelions, Sara. Don't upset yourself . . . And I suppose you don't wish to answer my last question? You've been rather quiet."
Sara dropped the bare weed, watching as its winged seedlings were caught in a gust of wind and carried across the countryside, further and further until they disappeared from view. She sighed, "I suppose if you're so eager to know, I can say . . . I, er . . . I did find a, er . . . Well, I-I found someone," she took a deep breath, "Someone who's kind and sweet and honest and so very like me. He loves to read and he's very smart and I've never met someone that I . . . But it, er . . . Well, things didn't go exactly as I might have hoped, let's say."
Brook stuck his hands in his pockets, "I don't really know what to say. I'm sorry."
Sara bit her lip, casting her eyes downward, "He, er . . . he refused me. He made a whole argument, listed his reasons, wrote me a letter, and it was such a nice letter too! Beautifully written. It would have been easier if he didn't have to say things so kindly and wisely and carefully. But when we said goodbye he would barely even look me in the eye! And he spoke as though he had to force every word. I just don't understand why it all had to turn out this way . . . And now I'll never see him again and . . ."
"But perhaps you will see him again," Brook suggested, "And perhaps he will change his mind. You never know."
Sara shrugged, "Yes, I suppose so."
"So is this why you've been so melancholy ever since you arrived? I knew something was different, I just could never decide what. That's why I wanted to talk with you alone today. And now that I know it's quite obvious why I could never figure it out. I never even knew this mysterious sailor! But at least now that you're here you can try to forget about him. If he was so foolish as to cast you off, he doesn't deserve you anyway."
Sara smiled.
"But . . ." Brook laughed, "I do have an offer for you."
"Oh really? And what's that?"
"If both you and I haven't found mates by the time we're, oh, say, thirty years old, how about we get hitched?"
"'Get hitched?' You're really a country boy now, Brook Lindsey."
"No really! Get hitched, exchange rings, tie the knot, get married, whatever you'd like to call it. It's more than ten years from now! If we're not married by then we might as well marry each other! I like you and you like me. What could be better than living with a good friend?"
"Living with someone you love?"
"Alright, alright, but what else besides that?"
"I don't know, but . . ."
"But nothing! Come on, Sara! We've got a good while to go. Whatd'ya say?"
Sara raised an eyebrow, "Tell you what . . . Let's make it thirty-five and I'll agree."
"Alright then. Thirty-five. You and me . . ." Brook laughed. He held a hand to his heart, "I, Brook David Lindsey, promise that, in the event that I have not already found a wife, I will marry Sara St. James once I have reached my thirty-fifth year of life."
Sara giggled.
"Hey now! You can't just giggle at me! You've gotta promise too! Hand to your heart and recite the vow."
Sara grinned, but repeated, "I, Sara Marietta St. James, promise that, in the event that I have not already found a husband, I will marry Brook Lindsey once I've reached my thirty-fifth year of life."
"So we've got a deal?"
"We've got a deal," laughed Sara.
*****
Nora drew her card reluctantly, adding it in to the growing number in her hand. With a groan she discarded and mumbled, "I swear I'm having the worst luck today. It's ridiculous!"
"Luck of the draw, milady. Luck of the draw," crooned Ethan, taking his turn.
Gail frowned, "I'm not doing very well either. This'll be the third game Ethan's won in a row!"
"Now, now. It's not over yet. Who's to say I'll win again?"
"I do! We've got nothing over here!"
Gail threw down another card from her terrible hand and huffed indignantly. She wasn't one to enjoy a game when she wasn't in the lead. But Ethan was quick to uplift her spirits.
"Say, I've got some news I meant to tell you earlier, Gaily," he said, "Only found out this morning, but I wanted to tell you as soon as I could. I've heard a bit about your friend Nathaniel."
Gail's eyes widened and she nearly dropped her cards, "Well? What did you find out? Is he . . . Or . . ."
"Look, I don't know much yet. All I've heard is that he's definitely not still at the St. Francis County Hospital. The man I talked to wasn't exactly sure of all the information, but he was certain that the room occupied by a man named Mr. West was emptied out on the first day he arrived. So I suppose he's at Wickensville now. I wouldn't be surprised. They're really better at handling the more difficult ailments than St. Francis."
Gail bit her lip, nodding, "And that's all you found out? You don't know if he's . . . you know . . . Your friend didn't check the obituaries?"
Ethan shook his head, "He's promised to find out as much as he can though. I'm sure we'll find out more within a day or so."
Gail managed a smile. "Of course. Thank you, Ethan."
*****
Once Brook and Sara returned from their walk, laughing and talking as much as ever, Sara found comfort in her book once more while Brook sharpened his pencil and continued to sketch. Emy, whom he sat beside, brightened up as soon as the pair arrived. She wished they wouldn't look so happy, but as long as she just continued reminding herself of where Sara's heart truly lay, things didn't seem quite so bad.
"Why are you lookin' so glum, Em?" Brook asked, casting a sideways glance her way as he drew the outlines of the trees and the hills in the distance.
With a shrug, Emy replied, "Oh I'm fine. Just a little bored is all."
"Well hey, want something to do? I've got the most fantastic, exciting activity you've ever heard of. Care to give it a try?"
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"Drawing, of course!"
Brook ripped out a sheet of parchment for Emy and handed her one of his spare pencils.
"There! That's all you need. Now just find something to sketch and you'll find yourself occupied in no time at all!"
"But what should I sketch?"
"Anything! The hills, the trees, the shrubs. Your sisters, the grass, the bark of this tree, the clouds. Your shoes, those cards . . ."
Emy giggled, "Alright, alright. I get the idea. It's so easy for you though. For me, nothing ever seems to come out as I meant it to."
"It's not so hard, really. What is it you're going to draw?"
"That tree," Emy replied, pointing it out to him.
"Well then, you've got a nice start there. See, it's all about hand-eye coordination. Try not to look at the paper so much though. Focus on the tree and let your hand do the work. Constant glancing up and down can ruin the placement and the proportion. Sketching is all about trusting your hand. Let your eyes remain on the tree while your hand takes that image from your head and traces it on to the paper. Lightly though. You only want very faint lines at first. Later you can go back and darken them a bit. There. That's good. But, er . . . Here, see, you don't want to go in so far for that branch," Brook leaned over and took Emy's hand; a shiver went down her spine, "Don't look down. Just let the hand do the work."
With his fingers lightly grasped around her own, he led her hand across the paper, chastising her when she let her eyes glimpse downward and constantly reminding her to not press so hard. Of course to Emy all of this went unnoticed. Her heart was beating so quickly she could barely breathe. It seemed as though her hand were shaking and she only hoped that Brook didn't notice. With his hand upon her own, his shoulder brushing against hers, and his warm breath coming down lightly upon her cheeks as he whispered, Emy was truly beside herself. She'd lost her heart long ago and it seemed now that she'd never gain it back again.
CHAPTER 29
The Art Festival
As it had for the past twenty years, in the second and third week of Novemb
er an art festival was held at the Clarendon Art Institute. The school's top students displayed their work alongside the paintings, sculptures, and pottery of the day's leading artists.
Gigantic white tents, billowing structures that rippled in the wind, were set up in the fields of countryside behind the red-brick dormitories. There, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pieces of artwork were set up on easels and tables to be sold. The students' work, not quite as developed as the experienced artists', was sold rather cheaply, while some of the most talented artists present were able to exchange their work for more than a thousand dollars apiece.
Inside the school, in the display rooms and dining hall and parlors and library, artwork was set up as well. But this art was most certainly not for sale. It was the accomplishments of some of the most famous artists our world has ever seen. Men and woman, never speaking more loudly than a whisper, walked by slowly to admire it, wondering which acclaimed artisans' work would adorn the walls this year.
Seminars and speeches were given in the auditorium, educating the listeners in all sorts of topics ranging from the history of pottery to the different types of paintbrushes available to the most famous works of the Italian renaissance.
The festival always beheld a magnificent display of work and thousands of people came to see. The school's students made up a large portion of the guests, but because the Institute didn't want their festival to become too crowded with only students and their acquaintances, each student was given only two tickets of entrance- one for themselves and one for a friend.
Those guests who were so consumed with the world of art that even after two weeks of a marvelous festival they were eager for more headed over to Norrance, a town north of Clarendon. It took nearly two days to arrive there by carriage, but it was worth it. Norrance was the home of many talented sculptors and potters as well as other patrons of the arts- poets, writers, actors, playwrights, musicians, and craftsmen. The streets were flooded with eager musicians, desperate to share their songs, and proud poets, desperate to share their words. At night the many theaters were flooded with guests, listening to talented actors performing the work of playwrights past as well as the newest playwrights around, and art auctions were a common occurrence. In all the nation, not a town nor province could compare to the brilliance of Norrance's museums and theaters. It was the mecca of artisans.
And Brook, although he'd been leaving so near Norrance for months, had been waiting until the festival to visit it. He couldn't wait to go. An entire month of art- the idea rang through his ears, echoing in his mind everywhere he went. It sounded perfect. It sounded like heaven. And he would be leaving in just two days time. Only one conflict stood in his way- Who should he take with him?
*****
The day was a cold one and anyone who chose to leave the warm comforts of their home to head outdoors was forced to dressed warmly or they would quickly catch pneumonia in the freezing winds and bitter cold. But no weather could keep Ethan and the St. James girls inside on a Saturday.
When Brook arrived that afternoon at the Lindsey's home, he was first greeted by Ethan, Nora, and Gail, who were engaged in a rather competitive and almost rowdy game of croquet in the front yard. From there his eye traveled to Sara, who sat lounging on a wicker chair upon the porch- her wool-socked feet in the air, her hair pulled back, and her nose stuck in a book- and Emy, sitting upon the front steps with a thickly knitted scarf of violet encircling her neck and the beginnings of a quilt to keep her occupied. And finally, he caught sight of Mary in the window of the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up and her hands stained orange and covered in seeds as she helped Betsy prepare a pumpkin pie for supper.
Each of the girls, as well as Ethan, wore their thickest coats and warmest mittens, as well as scarves and hats and earmuffs. One might have thought them all crazy for spending the day outdoors when a fire sat upon the hearth just inside the parlor, but they were enjoying themselves far too much to go back inside.
"Hey there, Brook!" called Ethan, "Care to join us?"
"We could use a fourth player," agreed Nora.
But Brook shook his head, "Sorry. Thought I'd head inside first though, get a little something to drink. Coffee, perhaps. My nose is so cold it's bound to fall off if I don't thaw it out a little."
Gail laughed, "Too cold for you?"
"No, no. But you might be a little frozen too if you'd ridden all the way here on horseback! The wind's the killer. Turned me to ice," he shivered, "Because you know it's quite a long way from Clarendon. Not just a little ride through the park."
"Oh, go in then!" jested Ethan, "We never wanted you anyway!"
"Fine! I'm sure Betsy and Mary will be happy to see me! And I'd rather be eating their pie dough than playing with your silly wooden sticks!"
Brook headed up to the front door, tipping his hat to Sara and Emy as he did so, and entered the house, rejoicing in its warmth. He'd only just greeted his aunt and Mary and gotten himself a cup of coffee when Sara and Emy joined him, dropping their coats and scarves at the door before taking a seat in the kitchen.
"You poor boy," cooed Betsy, petting his dark hair, "Why in the world did you ride to Brighton when it's so cold out? If you're not careful you're going to get sick. Drink up and let me get you something to eat."
He really was a sorry sight. A ride to the Lindsey's from Clarendon was nearly a full day's ride on horseback. Brook had been riding through the bitter winds for almost eight hours and he looked it. His hair was sticking up in all directions, an effect of both the wind and his winter hat, and his cheeks and nose had turned as crimson as cherries. Although he'd taken off his hat, he didn't dare remove his coat, scarf, or mittens just yet. He was still shivering like mad.
"Want a blanket or something?" offered Sara, "Or we could go sit in the parlor, by the fire, if you want."
"No, no. I like it in here," he assured, his teeth chattering, "That pie smells wonderful, Mary, and the oven's nice and hot."
Emy was still working on her quilt, her needle gliding smoothly and quickly through the fabric, "If this quilt were done you could have it," she said, "But sadly, it's only a few squares big at the moment."
Brook smiled, "Well thanks anyway. I'm sure it'll be very nice once you've finished."
Emy blushed and returned to her work. Even the smallest compliment set her cheeks aglow.
Betsy set some bread and butter before Brook and Mary slipped him a bit of pie dough. Before long, he'd taken off his mittens and scarf. And then his coat came off as well. His cheeks returned to their normal paleness and his nose gradually lost it's color, though it still retained a soft pink hue. His teeth stopped chattering and he no longer shivered, the warmth of the house finally taking its effects on him. In no time at all he was back to normal and playing a game of cards with Sara at the kitchen table.
Once the family had eaten dinner and dined on Mary's delicious pumpkin pie, they separated out into their own areas of the house.
Betsy, Mary, and Emy went into the parlor with their sewing supplies and were soon joined by Sara, carrying several new books from the Lindsey's library. John took Nora and Gail into the library, where they all sat down upon the braided rug and were taught how to play backgammon. And the two cousins, Ethan and Brook, sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and scraping leftovers out of the pie pan as they played a game of poker.
"So why'd you come all the way up here anyway?" Ethan asked, flipping through his cards before drawing one from the deck, "You don't usually make a habit of stopping by on Thursday afternoons. Don't you have classes tomorrow you've got to get back for?"
"No, the school's closed tomorrow. They're getting ready for the festival so all classes have been canceled."
"Oh, I almost forgot about that. You've been talking about it for months though. When is it? Saturday?"
Brook nodded, "That's why I came. I've got two tickets. One for me and one for a guest."
"Why I'm flattered, dear cousin, but you know I'm really not a fan of the
arts. I just can't understand all the silly splotches of color or why anyone would pay hundreds of dollars for some paint on canvas."
"Well then you should be happy that I've chosen not to bring you along. I know you'd be bored out of your mind and you'd bring me down as well, I'll bet."
"Then who are you planning on bringing?"
Brook shrugged, "That's why I came. I need to decide."
"One of the girls?"
"I suppose so. I feel bad only taking one though. I wish I could bring everyone along."
