by Dinah McLeod
“You’re right—all these years when I turned a blind eye to Libby’s willfulness, her tantrums, I should have done something. You spoiled her and I allowed it and look what’s become of her. That was exactly what I was thinking when I saw young Swift tend to the task I should have seen to myself.”
Libby finally gave up the fight to get back to sleep and sat up. Her mother’s sharp, shrill voice raised in loud disagreement with her father had roused her from her slumber.
For the first time since this had begun, however, she couldn’t help but wonder if her mother had a point. She’d had such a nice time yesterday. Wesley had made her laugh more in a few hours than she could remember doing in her lifetime. And when he’d taken her hand… her tummy had been full of butterflies from the moment she’d first seen him come in for dinner, but after his hand had clutched hers, they’d taken flight, leaving her feeling deliriously light and free.
They’d had a good conversation, too, and she’d felt more secure than ever in her feelings for him. It had been a most perfect afternoon, until it had been time for her to go. She’d gone in to bid Mrs. Swift and Maggie goodbye before Wesley took her home. She’d been pulled into Mrs. Swift’s warm embrace, and had thought nothing of it when Maggie gave her a brief hug and walked her to the door.
But then the elder Swift had smiled at her, her face guileless even as she lowered her voice for Libby’s ears only.
“I know what you’re up to, Libby Park, and you won’t get away with it.”
She’d looked into that friendly, smiling face and started in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“As well you should—and my mother’s and brothers’, too. They’ve let you in here, welcomed you into our home, and you’re doing nothing but using them, abusing their kindness.”
Libby cast her eyes to the kitchen, where Mrs. Swift had retreated. She’d hoped the older woman would hear and come to her rescue, but Maggie was too smart. She was keeping her voice too low to be overheard. “Maggie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you play dumb with me,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing into slits and her smile dropping for the first time. “I know you, remember? You’ve tormented me for well over a decade! But you are not going to hurt my brother, you hear?”
“I don’t want to hurt him, I promise. I—”
“Save it,” she snapped. “I don’t care a fig for your promises.”
Libby could feel tears fill her eyes as what she’d thought was the perfect day was ruined. She stubbornly blinked them back and lifted her chin. She wouldn’t let Maggie see that her words had hurt her. “If you’re so worried, why not tell Wesley all this?”
Maggie’s brow furrowed. “I have, but he’s so blinded by that pretty face that he won’t hear a word of it.”
She felt her heart lift for a moment, triumphant with hope, but as Maggie continued, it dropped again.
“But believe you me, I’m going to make sure he sees you for what you really are. And then he’ll bring a girl home who’s suitable for this family.”
Before she could reply—not that she had a clue what she would have said in her own defense—Wesley came to the door.
“You ready?” he asked, as though not a thing was amiss. And to be fair, he didn’t know that anything was.
“It was so nice visitin’ with you, Libby,” Maggie said, her smile back in place and her voice sweet as fancy white sugar.
In that instant, Libby hated her. She’d held grudges against the girl before, and perhaps they’d been unfair, but this time Maggie had brought it on herself and she seethed with hatred. “I’m sure I’ll see you again real soon,” she’d told the girl, reaching for her hand. She’d held it for as long as she dared and squeezed it as hard as she could. But Maggie didn’t so much as flinch and she’d known then that a challenge had been issued. May the best woman win.
It was ironic, she reflected from her bed. There were now two women claiming she wasn’t right for the Swift family, though they disagreed on why. Her mother felt she was too good for them, Maggie thought she wasn’t good enough. Was it possible that one of them was right? It made her head ache just to think about it, not to mention her heart.
She wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and sleep the day away, but she knew that given her mother’s current state, she wouldn’t be allowed to sleep even if she could. She would be banging around the house and cursing everyone who dared to breathe in her direction today. Best to get up and get away as soon as possible. Maybe, while she was at it, she could come up with a plan on how to deal with Maggie.
* * *
“Libby!” Her mother’s crisp voice cut through the still air like a knife. “Isn’t that your best bonnet?”
Her hand lifted to caress it. It was a pale blue, trimmed with lace. It always brought out the blue in her eyes and was reserved for special occasions.
“Really, dear,” her mother snorted without waiting for her reply. “I’d think your second best, or even your third would do just as well. Are you truly trying to impress that Swift boy?” She said his name like it was an insult all on its own. “If I were you, I’d save your energy. He comes from a long line of farm folk, dear. You won’t impress him with pretty clothes. I imagine all he cares about at the end of a long day is a woman with child-bearing hips.” Her eyes lingered on Libby’s waistline for a moment before she shook her head, her way of saying that even those left much to be desired.
Libby gritted her teeth and bore the assault without comment. Wouldn’t Wesley be proud of her if he were here to see! Oddly, the thought comforted her a great deal. “Yes, Mother,” she replied before turning on her heel to leave before she could find something else to criticize.
When she returned she was not wearing her third-best bonnet, but instead a plain, everyday white one that had been stuffed inside her closet and had probably been intended for charity long ago.
She saw the way her mother’s eyes lifted, the way her mouth worked to say something. But she couldn’t, because to criticize her daughter for wearing something that, frankly, Libby knew she wouldn’t want to be worn outside the house would mean that Libby should indeed dress finer for a farmer.
In her own way, Libby was still engaging in battle and, if her mother’s puckered lips were any indication, she’d just won this one. Which was one of the reasons that her smile was especially bright and her eyes were dancing when she answered his knock at the door.
“Hello.” His eyes lit appreciatively at the sight of her, she couldn’t help but notice, which only made her smile stretch wider.
“Howdy, Libby. Might I come in?”
She dutifully stepped aside to allow him entry.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Park.”
“Hello, Wesley.” Her mother’s tone held a distinct coolness to it. “How are you?”
Why did she ask, Libby wondered, when she clearly couldn’t care less about his answer? Something to do with those fancy, eastern-bred manners she always claimed to have, she guessed.
“I’m farin’ fine, thank you, ma’am. And yourself?”
“Well enough, thank you.”
“I’ve come to take Libby to dinner. Tomorrow my ma’s shelling peas and wondered if Libby would like to come along.”
“Oh, how very thrilling,” she remarked dryly, arching her brows at her daughter, who pretended not to notice. “You won’t get any argument from me. I suppose Libby will need to learn how to shell peas.” She said the word as though it were the name of a particularly frightening insect.
“I’ll let my ma know. Would you like us to bring you back a bag?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure we’ll manage somehow without peas from your farm.”
“Shall we go?” Libby asked, unable to bear her frosty remarks for another second.
“If it’s alright with your mother.”
“Oh, do run on. The sooner you go, the sooner you can be back.”
Libby’s cheeks were burning by t
he time they made it to his buggy. She’d always known her mother was a snob, but it had never bothered her more than this moment. She wanted to apologize somehow, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. Thankfully, Wesley seemed indifferent and didn’t mention the incident once as he helped her in or on their ride to the restaurant. Instead, he talked about the work he and his brother had done that day, and what they would be doing in the week ahead. By the time they finally reached Miz Watkins’ restaurant, she had relaxed, even if the shame hadn’t died down.
Wesley was, as usual, the perfect gentleman. He probably knew she was embarrassed, but he’d never mention it.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he commented as he pulled out a chair for her. “The pork is almost as good as my ma’s—though I’ll deny it if you ever tell her.”
She relaxed even further at their normal playful banter. “And hurt her feelings? You ought to be ashamed, thinking I’d ever do such a thing.”
“I’m glad you two get on.”
She waited then, to see if he’d mention his sister. Surely, Maggie would have given him an earful about her—she’d promised she would. But Wesley looked at her with the same guileless expression as always. “I can’t see how anyone could help but love your mama.”
“Well, we’re pretty fond of her, for the most part. Although,” he added, his eyes twinkling, “there was a time or three when I was younger when I might not have said that. She can swing a mean switch, that woman.”
Libby was giggling before she could stop herself. It was hard to imagine gentle, nurturing Kathleen Swift as a disciplinarian. But the way that Wesley winced showed that his memories belied her doubts.
“You haven’t really had a sore bottom until you’ve felt the sting of a switch.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Really? You’ve never…?”
She shook her head. “My mother prefers tongue lashings. Although, those can leave marks too if you’re not smart enough to get out of the way.” She made a face. “Which you already know. Which reminds me… I mean, about earlier…” Libby did her best to search for the right words, but try as she might she kept coming up empty. She didn’t have much practice in making apologies, not even for her own actions, so it was harder than one would think to apologize for someone else’s.
“Libby.” Wesley put his hand on hers and waited until she met his eyes. “Please, don’t worry about it. Now, what do you say we talk about what you’d like for dinner?”
Giving him a small, grateful smile, she nodded. And right then and there, she knew what to do. She’d do the only thing she could do. She’d fight for him. And it didn’t matter one whit what Maggie or even her mother thought about that, because she knew what she wanted. She was looking at him.
* * *
As promised, Wesley came by the next afternoon to collect her. If he wondered why she was quieter than usual, he didn’t ask. Libby was determined to follow through with the promise she’d made herself yesterday at dinner—she was going to fight for Wesley, and nothing Maggie Swift said or did would deter her.
But knowing it didn’t mean that she wasn’t still nervous. Just the tiniest bit.
It didn’t matter that Maggie, along with Mrs. Swift and Trent, greeted her warmly when she walked in. She knew from last time that the smile on the other girl’s face was far from genuine. At least this time she was on her guard.
“We do this twice a year,” Mrs. Swift explained as they each sat down with a bowl full of butterbeans in front of them. “It’s tiresome work, but it’s well worth it when they’re cooked and on the table.”
“Mama makes the most delicious butterbeans you’ve ever tasted,” Trent added.
“Standing over the stove is tiresome work, too, but it’s worth it to feed these three. I swear they all have hollow legs.”
“Begging your pardon,” Maggie cut in, turning her nose up in the air dramatically. “But I eat like a bird, as a lady should.”
Was it her imagination, or was that a dig at her? If it was, she was the only one who thought so, because the rest of the family began to laugh and tease Maggie. She had nothing to add, and for the first time, felt strangely out of place in the midst of their warm family dynamic. Maybe it was knowing that at least one of the people present thought she didn’t belong at all. And what if Trent felt the same? And Mrs. Swift? Perhaps she too thought that Libby wasn’t good enough for her son, but hid it beneath smiles and sweet words, a trick her own daughter hadn’t learned yet. It was enough to drive a person mad.
“Libby? You don’t look to be makin’ much progress with your beans, dear.”
She looked up, flushing defensively at the observation. “Well, I—”
“Oh, of course!” Maggie jumped in. “How silly of us not to realize sooner! Of course Libby’s never shelled beans before. Isn’t that right?”
All she could do was stare back resentfully at the girl. They both knew it was true.
“Here, let me show you.” Maggie dutifully held up a pod of lima beans. “These can be a bit tricky, because you can’t just pop them open, like peas. With these, you have to use your nails to slit them open. Like this.” She expertly slid her own fingernail down the pod and pried it open, showing Libby the three light green beans nestled inside. “Works every time. Now, let’s see you do it.”
Now she knew it wasn’t her imagination. Maggie was smirking at her, and Libby flushed darker as she felt everyone’s eyes on her. She didn’t normally mind being the center of attention, but this was a little much. Still, she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge either, so meeting Maggie’s eye, she did exactly as the other girl had. Only, much to her surprise, nothing happened. She looked quizzically at the bean pod in her hand that had stubbornly stayed shut. Maggie couldn’t have made that happen, could she?
“You have to dig in deeper than that,” Maggie said, her voice sugary sweet. “You have to get your hands dirty, I’m afraid.”
That clearly was an insult. She looked up, glowering, but the other girl didn’t so much as flinch. She looked around at Wesley, but he didn’t look as though anything was amiss.
“Go on,” he encouraged. “Give it a try.”
Gritting her teeth against the frustrated scream that threatened, she sank her nails into the pod and pulled it wide open. Instead of staying neatly inside the pod, however, her beans all fell into her lap.
“Nicely done,” Maggie said. “It’ll get easier as you get used to it—though no less messy.”
Libby just barely resisted the urge to pick up a bean and hurl it right at her hateful, sickly sweet smile.
* * *
It seemed like days before they were finished. Tiresome work, Mrs. Swift had called it—she could think of a few others words for it, come to think of it, but she was sure it wouldn’t be prudent to say them. She thought them, though, every time she looked up and saw Maggie’s small smirk as she bent over her bowl, or the fact that the other girl’s bowl seemed twice as full of beans as her own. Every time she noticed the grime on her nails, or had to dig deeper to open a pod, she thought those words. It was her silent defiance, and it was the only thing that kept her going.
When they were finished and the beans collected, Mrs. Swift suggested that she bake up some biscuits for the weary workers. Maggie eagerly offered to help, so Libby did the same. Mrs. Swift beamed at the pair of them as she accepted.
Libby wanted to believe that Wesley’s mother really liked her—she sure seemed like she did—but it was there at the back of her mind that she might be wearing herself out trying to impress someone who, like her daughter, had already made up her mind about her.
She quickly realized, to her dismay, that along with dirty fingernails she was going to be stuck with dough-covered hands as well. Still, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and set to work. By the time they had done a pan of biscuits each—Mrs. Swift had supervised each of them, but didn’t offer so much as a word of criticism—Libby was well and truly worn
out.
“I hope you’ll be able to stay and enjoy the fruits of your labor this time,” Mrs. Swift commented, laying a hand on her shoulder.
Libby groaned inwardly. All she wanted right now was her bed. But when she looked over and saw Maggie watching them, her blue eyes lit with fire, she raised her chin and managed a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”
“I’m happy to hear it. I’m going to wash up. You girls should do the same.”
Libby watched the matriarch leave the kitchen. Then she became aware of Maggie’s eyes, still on her.
“How long do you think you can keep this up?”
She met her stare and set her mouth in a firm line. “Oh, I don’t know. I was kind of thinking forever. How long do you think you can keep it up?” she hissed.
Before Maggie could reply, Wesley poked his head in.
“Libby, would you like to join me outside? I thought maybe you’d like some fresh air after being in this hot kitchen.”
She smiled, including Maggie in her satisfied smirk. “How thoughtful, Wesley. Yes, thank you—I’d love to.” And she turned on her heel and made a dramatic exit with her head held high.
To tell the truth, his company and the fresh air were both a welcome respite. As soon as they were off the porch, he took her hand in his. It had quickly become a habit with them and she wasn’t complaining. Libby had never been in love before. Heck, she’d hardly even found a guy she’d liked well enough to let him touch her. So every time he did it, it shocked her how much she enjoyed the feeling of his skin against hers. Each and every time it felt new—joy sang through her blood loud enough to make her forget everything else when she was alone with him. It was enough to make a girl never want to go back into that house with his hateful sister. And that was saying something, seeing as how she was far from the outdoors kind.
“Are you enjoyin’ yourself?”
