by Pamela Morsi
Gidry might well fail without help from the townsfolk, he mused. They had no reason to want him or trust him. He wasn't sure even if they would be willing to accept him back. He'd left in a high blown hubbub. And his shabby treatment of his bride-to-be was blatantly unforgivable.
Gidry's brow furrowed as that moment, he saw his former fiancée at the back of the house next door. She was somewhat obscured within the glow of the lantern she carried as she left the back of Aunt Hen's home and hurried with almost furtive haste to the ill kept and ramshackle milking shed on the back edge of the property.
Her destination sparked Gidry's curiosity. From the look of the shed, Aunt Hen had not kept a cow in at least twenty years.
To his complete surprise the shed door was opened from the inside as she arrived.
His jaw dropped open immediately, but it took a couple of seconds for his mind completely to form the conclusion that his thoughts were drawing. Prudence Belmont was making a secret assignation.
Gidry was momentarily shocked almost beyond belief. Chavistown was a very upright and moral community. In that he was certain the place had not changed overmuch. Even the mildest peccadillo was not easily overlooked. His own youthful rowdiness was cause for much disapproval, and his jilting of a perfectly acceptable young woman had put him almost completely beyond the pale.
But a single female meeting a man in secret was far more scandalous than any circumstance that he could conjure up. If found out, she could likely find herself tarred and feathered. It would take a hasty marriage and lifetime of virtuous living even to begin to overcome it. Why would Prudence Belmont risk such a thing?
Why indeed. Gidry shook his head in wry acceptance. He'd learned a few things about the ways of the world in the last eight years. People would cheerfully destroy their own lives and the lives of those around them as well. They did it for love. Love.
He knew from personal experience that Prudence was a woman capable of deep and healing love. She had loved Gidry with all her heart and soul and mind. It had been an all encompassing and all consuming love. And he had neither understood nor appreciated it.
She had offered her whole being, her life, her future to him as a precious gift. He had accepted it with about the same amount of awe and pride as the scrap of ribbon given him for winning the sack race at the Fourth of July picnic.
He had been her closest confidant and best friend, but the mystery of her deeper nature had never sparked his interest.
It had, apparently, sparked the interest of others. Pru was not an unattractive woman, although she'd looked less than her best this afternoon. It would be no great surprise that men in Chavistown would find her of interest. Hadn't she just told him this afternoon that she'd had offers.
Apparently not all of them included marriage.
Chapter Six
The early morning sun slanted through the kitchen windows, affording enough light for Prudence to read the latest bulletins from the American Rose Society. Although the group was mainly for commercial growers, Pru prided herself upon being as knowledgeable on the subject as any professional.
She tutted with concern over an article comparing blossom production in urban areas with rural sites. In the past it was thought that soil content and overuse might be the cause of this disparity. This author, however, postulated that it was the noise of trains and trolleys and the herds of humans moving along on sidewalks that was jarring plant root systems and inhibiting growth.
The changes in modern life, being untrue to nature, are a threat to plant and flower production.
Pru shook her head. It was all true, of course. She had seen the smoky, smelly cities. It took no convincing for her to agree that nothing was a bigger danger to her roses than the hubbub of industrialized society. She was so fortunate to live in a quiet place like Chavistown, where her plants could grow and prosper as God intended that they should.
She had a difficult time concentrating upon her reading this morning since Gidry had been summoned home. Having come face-to-face with him yesterday was as close to a waking nightmare as she ever wanted to imagine.
It had been eight years. Eight long years, yet in some part of her heart it was as close as yesterday. His walk, his voice, the expressions on his face, the slightly crooked grin and the straight shouldered stance were as familiar to her now as if they had been imprinted upon her soul.
She could not remember when she did not love him. He had always been a part of her from the first day she had arrived in Chavistown following her mother's death. After years of rootlessness and travel, she had fallen in love with her solid new home and everything about it. The causal friendliness Gidry had bestowed on her younger self had seemed the most perfect part after the drama of her first twelve years.
Her father, Harvey Belmont, had been a handsome gambling man, forever pursuing that lucky streak that would put him in clover. And where he went, her mother followed, despite that all Evelyn Pauling had ever wanted was her own little house and a gaggle of children. Pru never doubted her parents loved each other from the day they'd met till the day her mother died, but the jealous arguments, money problems, her father's fondness for bourbon, her mother's declining health from consumption, and the constant moves from flophouse to grand hotel had been draining.
They buried her mother in Dubuque, Iowa, and Pru had boarded a train to Texas to live for good. She had been blessed enough to find the home her young heart had yearned for, and Gidry became an inextricable part of that dream. In the gangly years that followed, she had been his shadow. At first he had treated her with the benign tolerance of an older brother. But as she matured, and as she pored out her love and admiration for him as generously as springwater in a flood, he beamed with pride at her and claimed her as his own.
They had been inseparable. And they had done everything right. He had escorted her to church every Sunday morning. Promenaded with her in the park in the afternoon. She attended every social function and Chautauqua lecture upon his arm. And chatted endlessly together in the relative privacy of the garden bench. They played endless games of Parcheesi and Twenty Questions under the watchful eye of his father. And tried their hands at pyrography with the help of Aunt Hen. Together they decided what furnishings to have in their house. What wonders they would visit on their honeymoon trip. And what names they would give to the nine sons they would have. Nine boys. Gidry had insisted. Enough to field a Chavis family baseball team.
It was a warm and beautiful fantasy. Burst as easily and irrevocably as a soap bubble in the Wednesday wash. He was still the youthful desire of her heart. But her heart no longer desired youth.
She had become a woman. On one long remembered night of sleeplessness followed by a simple terse letter.
My dearest Prudence,
I have determined that it is best that we do not wed.
You are my truest friend, so I know that you will understand.
I am off to find new people and places and to do at last, the things that I want to do.
I am not the man who can make you happy. Please forgive me and recall me with fondness.
Goodbye,
Gidry Chavis
She had not wanted to believe that it was true. He'd only gotten cold feet, she'd assured herself. The things that he wanted to do, included marrying her, having a family. She did know him. She did know what he wanted. It was all some terrible misunderstanding. She would joke with him about it. Tease him out of it. They were meant to be together and would be for all time. Theirs was a perfect romance and nothing could tarnish it. She was certain of that.
It was only after receiving the pitying glances of the town gossips and hearing the whispered speculation of his affair with Mabel Merriman that she began to understand that it was really so. That after gladly giving everything of her heart, her self, she had been cast aside almost carelessly. She had loved him utterly. And apparently he had loved her not at all.
The hurt had been sharp, paralyzing, agonizing. More than her foolish
young heart was able to bear. To survive the pain of it, Pru had taught herself not to feel—and not to love. Pride was her comfort now. And what a dependable, faithful comfort it was.
"Good morning."
Pru glanced up from her reading as Aunt Hen entered the kitchen. The old woman's housedress was scrupulously clean and pressed, and every hair upon her head was neatly in place. But she looked older than her fifty years, tired and thin, with dark circles under her eyes.
"Oh, I was hoping that you would sleep late," she said.
The old woman shook her head, as if the idea itself was preposterous. "Who can sleep when the sun has come up?" she asked rhetorically.
"You're putting in so many hours at the Chavis house, you really need to rest," Pru told her.
"I'll rest when I'm dead," she answered. "Until then I'd best stay busy. The day is plenty short enough as it is without wasting any of it."
"Well, at least sit and allow me to fix you a good breakfast," Pru said. "All you ever eat anymore is cold biscuit and jam."
"I like cold biscuit and jam," Aunt Hen insisted as she stepped over to the larder to retrieve exactly that. "And I haven't time for anything else. I need to get over to the house."
Pru closed her pamphlet and looked up at her aunt, her brow furrowing with worry.
"Surely you don't need to rush over there now that Gidry is home," she said.
"As much as ever," her aunt replied as she seated herself at the table. Her plate held two cold biscuits, yesterday's fare. Next to them she spooned out a generous portion of plum jelly from a blue mason jar. "Gidry will be needing to go down to the gin. With the place closed down, there'll be work and trouble piling up all over the place and every businessman in town will be itching to talk to him and the rest of us will be wanting to hear what he has to say."
"I can't imagine what people think that Gidry might have to tell them," Pru related tersely. "He's been away from the cotton business for eight years. And it seems to me that even when he lived here, he was not a common sight down at the gin."
Aunt Hen settled a big dollop of jam upon her biscuit.
"He was just a boy back then," she pointed out.
"He was twenty-one," Pru reminded her. 'Twenty-one years old, lazy, self indulgent, and spoiled."
Aunt Hen chewed her biscuit thoughtfully. "Is that why you fell in love with him?"
Prudence had the good grace to blush. "I was a child myself," she admitted painfully. "And it certainly wasn't love."
The older woman raised her eyebrow and gave her niece a long look. 'That's sure what it seemed like at the time."
Pru met her aunt's speculative gaze with one as equally stubborn. "It's so long ago, I don't know how you can even recall it. I barely remember it myself."
Her aunt laughed aloud at that.
"Well anyway," Pru continued, "I am quite pleased to see Gidry back in town. It is his responsibility to take care of his father, and that certainly frees you from any obligation you might have."
"It is good that the boy's back," Aunt Hen agreed. "I think having him home may be good for his father. But a sick man needs a feminine touch. I'd best be there to watch over Peer in Gidry's absence."
Pru looked at her aunt's haggard features. The lingering illness of Peer Chavis was as visible on the lines of her face as the old man's own. Prudence loved her aunt and could not imagine why she should risk her own health. She steeled herself to voice disapproval.
"Now Aunt Hen," she chided. "I know that Mr. Chavis has been a good neighbor to us always. But he has a nurse employed for his care."
Her aunt sniffed derisively as she jellied another biscuit. “The woman's only half lazy," she replied. "And even if she weren't, folks in their last days shouldn't be left to strangers."
"I'm sure that after these weeks, Mrs. Butts' face is no longer strange to Mr. Chavis," Pru replied. "And he's a married man, Aunt Hen. It is Mrs. Chavis who ought to be here taking care of him."
"As if that woman even cares if he lives or dies," Aunt Hen pointed out. "She walked out on a faithful husband and an infant child because it was just too hot in Texas."
Prudence knew well her aunt's opinion of the absent Mrs. Chavis.
Her aunt huffed angrily. "I hope Alabama has been hotter than hell itself for the last twenty-five years."
Pru tutted reproachfully. "Now Aunt Hen, we don't know all of the circumstances behind their marital troubles. It's not for us to judge."
"I'm not judging, I'm stating the facts," Aunt Hen insisted. "And the fact is, his wife will not be coming back here to take care of him. In the absence of family it is friends who ought to be by his side."
Pru wasn't willing to let it rest. "I don't see any of the other women in town wearing themselves to a frazzle to take care of him," she said.
"Other women have their own families to attend to," her aunt countered.
Prudence didn't agree. "Other women also have more experience tending the sick."
Her aunt bristled at the criticism.
"I tended my own father until his passing," she said, rather affronted. "I do what I can, and I believe my help is appreciated."
Pru regretted her words. "I did not mean that you aren't a blessing to the old man. You're far too good to him."
"Peer Chavis has been very good to me, Prudence," she said. "And he's been good to you as well. When I couldn't pay the taxes on this place five years ago, he quietly bought it up himself so no one would know, and the two of us have lived here without paying so much as a penny of rent."
"He doesn't need our money," Pru pointed out. "He owns half the county; one tiny little cottage and a rose garden wouldn't count for much."
"Still he's never said so much as a word," Aunt Hen reiterated.
"Yes, yes, he's been a wonderful neighbor. And I know.. . well, I know that he always felt bad about the... the problem between me and Gidry and perhaps ..."
"He didn't do any of it because of you and Gidry," Aunt Hen said with certainty. "I don't want you believing that. It had nothing to do with his generosity at all."
"Well, no matter what his reasoning," Pru replied. "I am grateful that he helped us out. But maiden ladies do not care for the personal needs of ailing older men."
Her aunt actually chuckled at that.
"A man is a man is a man," she said. "I've seen nothing yet to scandalize me."
"But still, people talk," her niece insisted.
Aunt Hen shook her head.
"Pru, you give the weight of other people's opinions far more concern than is healthy," she said.
The younger woman was stung by the truth of her aunt's words. For eight long years Prudence Belmont had been the epitome of moral behavior and social decorum. At first she had done it to quiet any scandal that Gidry's behavior might have caused. And then she had done it because ... because it just seemed the easiest way to live, taking no chances, running no risks.
Lately, of course, she had begun to risk more than she'd ever imagined herself willing to do. She gave a quick glance out the back window toward the little milk shed at the back edge of the property. She had not meant for it to happen, but it had. She had begun by risking the pity and scorn of the community and had now, it seemed, begun to risk her heart.
"Following the rules of society is not something for which I should apologize," she answered defensively.
"I wouldn't have you facing the world in any other way," the older woman said. "But if you look to other people for approval, you may often find yourself being disappointed."
"I enjoy the approval, but I do not seek it," Pru said. "I live up to the highest standards of my community because I choose to do so for myself. I take some pride in my impeccable behavior."
Aunt Hen raised an assessing eyebrow. "They do say pride goeth before a fall."
Pru glanced guiltily out the back window once more. God only knew what the people of Chavistown would think of that aspect of her impeccable behavior.
Chapter Seven
<
br /> Gidry stood out in the room full of gentleman like a wild animal among a complacent flock of neatly sheared sheep. His cowboy clothes were casual and plain in the formal setting of the Commercial Club.
He had not intended to appear so out of place, but there was no help for it. He'd found his dress suits still hanging in the wardrobe of his old room. But his shoulders had grown much too broad for the fancy cut coats. Though he could have worn one of his old dress shirts, they were all designed for button-on linen collars and not one of those, starched and ready in his chest of drawers, would fit comfortably around his thickened neck.
So he'd come downtown looking like a stranger, but the men around him knew him very well. Or at least they knew the young man that he used to be.
Conrad Peterson was a well-to-do farmer whose land holdings rivaled Chavis' own. Albert Fenton had run the dry goods store since Gidry was a boy. Oscar Tatum owned the livery stable and Silas Crane the cigar store. Of course Reverend Hathaway was there, along with old fellows like Amos Wilburn, Plug Whitstone, and Judge Ramey.
There were also men closer to his own age. He and the young banker, Elmer Corsen, had attended primary school together. Oscar Tatum's son Henry was only a few years ahead of him. And the young lawyer, Stanley Honnebuzz, to whom he'd taken an immediate dislike, was in his late twenties or early thirties, too, he supposed.
He needn't have worried about his mode of dress. The men were so busy firing questions at him, he doubted they had time to criticize his inappropriate garb.
"With the price of fiber as low as it is, I don't see how any of us are going to make enough to get us through next winter, let alone show a profit," Albert Fenton complained.
"Farming has never been a sure living," Plug Whitstone declared philosophically. "We've been riding high for a lot of years now. I suspect it's time for a downturn."
