Not letting go of her hand, Charles pulled Lavinia over to a small path at the side of the lane and sat down on a low stone wall. She sat next to him as he silently looked at the ground, trying to compose his thoughts. He released her hand, and clasped his together for a minute, closing his eyes briefly. She waited.
Finally, he turned and looked into her eyes, "Lavinia, I needed to see you; to talk to you, but I don't even know exactly how to say what I want to say. All of the things I had intended to say, sound so simple now" his voice trailed off. Gazing downward, he seemed to gather his courage before continuing, "I need you to understand, about me. I need you to understand why I'm doing what I'm doing. So you can make your choice."
She was a little confused, "Make my choice?"
"Yes" he said in a rush "because... I would ask you to be mine. But I feel that I cannot ask you that, if you don't understand." With that he reached for her hand again.
Sitting on the cool stone wall, suddenly she could hear the wind in the trees and the rustling of their leaves. The sun on her back was warm, glinting off the dew on the grass, and birds sung lightly overhead. His hand was warm on hers. She was amazed, in this moment, to find that her thoughts were still and composed, like untroubled water. She had not expected Charles to propose, which he just had. She had especially not expected that she would feel so utterly alert and peaceful.
"What is it, then, that you need me to understand?" she asked calmly.
"About my new faith, Lavinia. I can't ask you to marry me and be my wife, if you don't understand this part of me."
At the mention of this strange religion, she suddenly felt an icy coldness course through her veins, but she remained silent. Something in her whispered that now was not the time for her to speak.
And so he began, in a rush, "I met the elders, as you know, in the square. I was just curious--like most people are, I think. I attended their cottage meeting that night, well--you remember. I do not know what I expected, but I went, even though I felt torn, because I wanted to see you as well. But something told me to go.
When I got there, the two elders spoke. The first one spoke of a prophet, like Moses or Elijah, on the earth--right now. The second spoke of a book that he has translated by the power of God, called the Book of Mormon. I was fascinated by the things they talked about--not because of how new they were, but because of how the pieces seemed to make everything fit. Everything made sense. So, I borrowed a copy of this book from one of the elders."
Looking up now, at the trees overhead, Charles seemed to speak more to himself than to her. "I began to read it, and I knew it was true. I didn't even have to pray about it. I just knew. I decided that I would be baptized into their faith. I don't have to tell you, because I am sure that you have already heard, that when I told my uncle of my intentions, he made it very clear that he would disown me if I chose to be baptized. I would lose my apprenticeship. I would be penniless, and I have nowhere else to go. So I have not been baptized."
Lavinia suddenly exhaled in relief. She had not known if he had actually joined this church or not. He had not. So, there was still hope. He looked up at the sound, and stared at her for a moment--trying to understand the reaction.
"I intend to be baptized, Lavinia. As soon as I can be. I have just decided that I will wait until I have saved enough to sail to America, and then I will be baptized, and go to join the other members of my faith there."
With that sentence, all of Lavinia's hopes shriveled inside of her. She felt herself go numb. He was leaving. He was going to be baptized into this church, and then he was going to leave. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she didn't even care if he saw.
His gaze softened as he pressed her tiny hand inside his, "Lavinia, I cannot ask you to marry me, now. To come with me. I know that is not fair. But, I can ask you, please, to at least read this book." At that, he drew a small, tan volume out of his pocket and placed it in her hand. "If you will only read it. Consider it. If you have any feelings for me, at all. If your answer is no..." and his voice caught. He paused a moment. "If your answer is no, then all you have to do is leave the book on my doorstep. But, if your answer is yes..." he looked at her, his eyes shining, "if your answer is yes. Then you can return the book to me, yourself."
Having finished, he looked spent. Lavinia stared at her skirt, and the little book laying there. After a moment, he stood quietly and said "I have to go. Thank you, for listening to me."
She did not say a word.
Showing posts with label historical fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label historical fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Day 137: Lavinia, Chapter 12
Standing among her grandmother's beautiful peonies, Lavinia closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She could smell the damp earth and the soft moss. The faint breath of curling ferns, and heavier perfume of peonies. She felt the tension drain from her shoulders and face, and her thoughts, which had been like a hive of disturbed and angry bees, seemed to quiet and settle.
She opened her eyes and finally admitted, to herself, what was bothering her. She was avoiding Charles on purpose. She was trying to be charming and encouraging to James. But her heart wasn't in it. She couldn't seem to quit hoping to hear Charles' confident step coming up behind her, or listening for the tone of his voice in a crowd. This was a problem.
It was all over their small parish that Charles Mann was taking up with the Mormons. Derisive glares and whispered comments seemed to follow him wherever he walked. It made Lavinia blush defensively for him, but she said nothing. Her brothers, especially, made fun of the baker's apprentice and his new faith. They never teased, to her face, but she knew that her stony silences probably made it pathetically clear that she cared about him. She also knew that his uncle had told everyone that if he joined this new church, he would be out on the street. No apprenticeship. No livelihood.
The thought of that, of everything he was risking and everything he could lose, made her heart feel tight inside her chest. She had the inexplicable sense of her own life slipping through her fingers, and she didn't quite know how to catch it. The anxiety crept back into her shoulders as she sighed and carried the basket of peonies back to her Grandmother Jane.
After a cup of Earl Grey tea and a comfortable silence, she walked out the front door and began walking down the lane. Her eyes were on the road, thoughtful, as she walked. Then, unexpectedly, a shadow fall across her path and she looked up.
She hadn't expected to see him there, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked up into his eyes. Her hand flutter upwards as she realized, with a start, that his eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
He reached out for her hand, and, in an unsteady voice, he quietly but determinedly said "Lavinia, we must talk."
She opened her eyes and finally admitted, to herself, what was bothering her. She was avoiding Charles on purpose. She was trying to be charming and encouraging to James. But her heart wasn't in it. She couldn't seem to quit hoping to hear Charles' confident step coming up behind her, or listening for the tone of his voice in a crowd. This was a problem.
It was all over their small parish that Charles Mann was taking up with the Mormons. Derisive glares and whispered comments seemed to follow him wherever he walked. It made Lavinia blush defensively for him, but she said nothing. Her brothers, especially, made fun of the baker's apprentice and his new faith. They never teased, to her face, but she knew that her stony silences probably made it pathetically clear that she cared about him. She also knew that his uncle had told everyone that if he joined this new church, he would be out on the street. No apprenticeship. No livelihood.
The thought of that, of everything he was risking and everything he could lose, made her heart feel tight inside her chest. She had the inexplicable sense of her own life slipping through her fingers, and she didn't quite know how to catch it. The anxiety crept back into her shoulders as she sighed and carried the basket of peonies back to her Grandmother Jane.
After a cup of Earl Grey tea and a comfortable silence, she walked out the front door and began walking down the lane. Her eyes were on the road, thoughtful, as she walked. Then, unexpectedly, a shadow fall across her path and she looked up.
She hadn't expected to see him there, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked up into his eyes. Her hand flutter upwards as she realized, with a start, that his eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
He reached out for her hand, and, in an unsteady voice, he quietly but determinedly said "Lavinia, we must talk."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Day 136: Lavinia, Chapter 11
She was constantly irritable. Melina avoided her. Teddy spent the majority of his time hiding in the study with his tutor, or working with their father. She felt her mother's eyes on her constantly as she stormed about their house, first picking up a book and then laying it aside, then picking up some stitching only to let it fall in her lap as she gazed out the window. She could hardly even stand to be around herself. Finally, she pulled a shawl around her shoulders and headed down the lane to visit her grandmother.
Many people found Jane Dunwell to be harsh and proud, even by the kindest of standards, but Lavinia always found her presence to be soothing and stabilizing. She was a very strong woman, with hair that was almost black, pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. She reminded Lavinia of a bird, with her penetrating eyes and in the way that she tilted her head and moved swiftly wherever she went. Born to privilege late in the last century, Jane Wyatt married well enough to please her demanding parents--a promising officer in the British Navy, John Dunwell. But then, after only months of marriage, her young husband had died at sea, leaving her alone and expecting their first child: a boy. Lavinia had never heard her grandmother speak her late husband's name, or talk about him in any way. When she asked her, once, what he was like, Grandmother Jane had tersely replied "I don't remember. I hardly knew him."
As she walked, Lavinia wondered, again, what her Grandfather John had been like. She wondered if Jane Wyatt had loved him, when she was young. She wondered if her grandmother had forgotten, after all this time, how it felt to gaze into deep brown eyes. How it felt to be young.
She approached the door of her Grandmother's lovely, but modest, home and knocked politely. Mary, one of two servants in the house, opened the door at the familiar knock and smiled. She took Lavinia's shawl and led her into the breakfast parlor, where her Grandmother stood at the window, looking out.
Seeing Lavinia enter the room, a warm light entered her eyes, even though she did not rush forward to meet her. Lavinia was her favorite grandchild, and she always enjoyed her company. She could often sense the child's moods and whims, and was happy to be silent as she talked. "The young need to talk," she thought. Even before her granddaughter had spoken, she could sense agitation in the air around her, so she bent down and picked up a basket near her feet that had some shears in it.
"Lavinia, please go into my garden and gather some flowers for me. Peonies, please--they'll be past their peak soon, and I want to enjoy them in the house. Be careful of the forget-me-nots or you'll trample them." she instructed with authority.
Lavinia almost sighed with relief as she took the basket from her grandmother and went outside. She knew that she wouldn't have to think here, that her grandmother would give her things to occupy her mind.
Behind her, Jane Dunwell had turned back to the window and watched Lavinia's willowy figure as it moved around the garden. Something was definitely bothering the girl. She wondered if it involved James Fenwick, whom she knew that her son and his wife had been encouraging in his attentions to their daughter. Somehow, she didn't think so. James Fenwick reminded Jane of a hummingbird: flashy and appealing, but entirely unpredictable and undependable. No. She didn't think that James was a good match for her Lavinia.
But, if it wasn't James, then who?
Many people found Jane Dunwell to be harsh and proud, even by the kindest of standards, but Lavinia always found her presence to be soothing and stabilizing. She was a very strong woman, with hair that was almost black, pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. She reminded Lavinia of a bird, with her penetrating eyes and in the way that she tilted her head and moved swiftly wherever she went. Born to privilege late in the last century, Jane Wyatt married well enough to please her demanding parents--a promising officer in the British Navy, John Dunwell. But then, after only months of marriage, her young husband had died at sea, leaving her alone and expecting their first child: a boy. Lavinia had never heard her grandmother speak her late husband's name, or talk about him in any way. When she asked her, once, what he was like, Grandmother Jane had tersely replied "I don't remember. I hardly knew him."
As she walked, Lavinia wondered, again, what her Grandfather John had been like. She wondered if Jane Wyatt had loved him, when she was young. She wondered if her grandmother had forgotten, after all this time, how it felt to gaze into deep brown eyes. How it felt to be young.
She approached the door of her Grandmother's lovely, but modest, home and knocked politely. Mary, one of two servants in the house, opened the door at the familiar knock and smiled. She took Lavinia's shawl and led her into the breakfast parlor, where her Grandmother stood at the window, looking out.
Seeing Lavinia enter the room, a warm light entered her eyes, even though she did not rush forward to meet her. Lavinia was her favorite grandchild, and she always enjoyed her company. She could often sense the child's moods and whims, and was happy to be silent as she talked. "The young need to talk," she thought. Even before her granddaughter had spoken, she could sense agitation in the air around her, so she bent down and picked up a basket near her feet that had some shears in it.
"Lavinia, please go into my garden and gather some flowers for me. Peonies, please--they'll be past their peak soon, and I want to enjoy them in the house. Be careful of the forget-me-nots or you'll trample them." she instructed with authority.
Lavinia almost sighed with relief as she took the basket from her grandmother and went outside. She knew that she wouldn't have to think here, that her grandmother would give her things to occupy her mind.
Behind her, Jane Dunwell had turned back to the window and watched Lavinia's willowy figure as it moved around the garden. Something was definitely bothering the girl. She wondered if it involved James Fenwick, whom she knew that her son and his wife had been encouraging in his attentions to their daughter. Somehow, she didn't think so. James Fenwick reminded Jane of a hummingbird: flashy and appealing, but entirely unpredictable and undependable. No. She didn't think that James was a good match for her Lavinia.
But, if it wasn't James, then who?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Day 133: Lavinia, Chapter 9
It was a few days later that Charles caught up to her as she was walking down the tree lined streets that led into town. He seemed a little breathless as he fell into step, and smiled down at her with sparkling brown eyes. She didn't allow herself to linger on his gaze, but turned her eyes forward, setting her jaw determinedly, as she greeted him coolly. As the walked, she continued listening to Milena as she babbled in her perfectly nine year old way, trying to act oblivious to the man next to her.
Charles ignored Lavinia's aloof greeting and teased Milena until both of them were laughing, and then told her that if she wanted to run to his uncle's bakery, that she could have a treat of a fresh, warm bun. With a squeal of delight, Milena raced ahead of them, while they continued on in silence.
Lavinia waited for an apology, or an explanation, for his absence three nights before, but Charles seemed content to be silent, lost in his own thoughts. Irritated that she cared what he was thinking, she walked a little faster, but he kept up without even seeming to notice.
"Did you have a good party, the other night?" he finally offered.
"Yes." she practically snapped back.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I had every intention of coming." he said cheerfully.
"Oh well, I'm sure that it must have been something very important. James and I spent hours talking--the time just flew" she lied, glancing sidelong to see his face. This last remark had finally bothered him, she noted with satisfaction. Good.
"Don't you want to know where I was?"
"I hardly see how it's any of my concern, Charles. If you couldn't be there, you couldn't be there. It wasn't as if I invited you." Somewhere in her mind a little alarm went off. She was being unforgivably rude.
He stopped walking and turned to her, and she hesitated next to him. His silence drew her gaze to his face. His eyes, she saw to her surprise, seemed to be brimming with happiness--of something he was anxious to tell her.
"Lavinia, I went to that cottage meeting. With the preachers from the Mormon church. I didn't mean to stay. I only planned to listen for a few minutes, and then leave and join you. But, once I started listening, I was captivated..."
Cutting him off, she began to walk quickly again.
"I don't want to hear about it." she replied, unable to keep the hurt and disappointment out of her voice.
Catching up with her, he reached for her arm, which she snatched away. The sparkle had dimmed and his brown eyes seemed to plead with her to listen, "Lavinia, I..."
"No, Charles. It's no good. No."
She left him standing there in the street, looking after her as she gathered her skirts and hurried away.
Charles ignored Lavinia's aloof greeting and teased Milena until both of them were laughing, and then told her that if she wanted to run to his uncle's bakery, that she could have a treat of a fresh, warm bun. With a squeal of delight, Milena raced ahead of them, while they continued on in silence.
Lavinia waited for an apology, or an explanation, for his absence three nights before, but Charles seemed content to be silent, lost in his own thoughts. Irritated that she cared what he was thinking, she walked a little faster, but he kept up without even seeming to notice.
"Did you have a good party, the other night?" he finally offered.
"Yes." she practically snapped back.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I had every intention of coming." he said cheerfully.
"Oh well, I'm sure that it must have been something very important. James and I spent hours talking--the time just flew" she lied, glancing sidelong to see his face. This last remark had finally bothered him, she noted with satisfaction. Good.
"Don't you want to know where I was?"
"I hardly see how it's any of my concern, Charles. If you couldn't be there, you couldn't be there. It wasn't as if I invited you." Somewhere in her mind a little alarm went off. She was being unforgivably rude.
He stopped walking and turned to her, and she hesitated next to him. His silence drew her gaze to his face. His eyes, she saw to her surprise, seemed to be brimming with happiness--of something he was anxious to tell her.
"Lavinia, I went to that cottage meeting. With the preachers from the Mormon church. I didn't mean to stay. I only planned to listen for a few minutes, and then leave and join you. But, once I started listening, I was captivated..."
Cutting him off, she began to walk quickly again.
"I don't want to hear about it." she replied, unable to keep the hurt and disappointment out of her voice.
Catching up with her, he reached for her arm, which she snatched away. The sparkle had dimmed and his brown eyes seemed to plead with her to listen, "Lavinia, I..."
"No, Charles. It's no good. No."
She left him standing there in the street, looking after her as she gathered her skirts and hurried away.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Day 131: Lavinia, Chapter 7 and on vacation
I'm headed out on vacation until this coming Sunday, and won't be able to post the next chapters in my story until then, but Pleaaaaaaase don't go away. I will certainly be working on my next installment, and I want your feedback!!!!!
Until then, I'll leave you with this...He never came. She tried, the whole party, to make conversation with James--to be amenable and agreeable to everyone, but she was afraid that her disappointment showed plainly on her face. She just couldn't recover her staggering hopes. She finally sought out William, and he agreed to leave a bit early, much to Ted's frustration as he was deeply engaged in conversation with the lovely Jane Bellweather by the window.
On the quiet ride home, her disappointment turned to annoyance. He had told her that he would come, if he were invited. She'd made a fool of herself, chasing after him. Who was he, anyway? But the thought of his brown eyes turned her annoyance away from him and to another source.
Those Mormon preachers. She was sure that he had missed the party to go to that cottage meeting. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. By the time they pulled up to their gate, she was furious. What kind of people came to a foreign country, just to make trouble and spread lies? She had found them curious, and a bit pathetic. Now, thrusting her chin slightly into the air, she determined that they were more than that--they were base and evil. She loathed them, and determined, from that moment, to ignore them completely, and at any cost.
To be continued on Monday....
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Day 130: Lavinia, Chapter 6
Jenna, it turned out, was going to be a great roommate.
After Lavinia met the missionaries from down the hall, and had learned that her new roommate was a Mormon, she worried that Jenna would be a weirdo who prayed over her constantly.
Instead, Jenna was a dark haired girl with hazel eyes. She worked at a local library, while studying for her degree in library science. She laughed easily, and--best of all--gave Lavinia plenty of space. She was always friendly, and would leave notes on the fridge that said things like "Thanks for doing the dishes. Have a good one." Never any awkward glances on her way out the door, wondering if she should include Lavinia. No forced invitations. Live and let live.
It was the perfect level of roommate commitment for Lavinia. She didn't need a best friend or a pseudo-sister. She just wanted someplace to sleep, read, and think clearly. She felt best when she was able to focus on her casework at a local homeless shelter, comfortable in her professional detachment from the people she worked with every day. A roommate like Jenna was just what she needed.
And, as for being a Mormon, she watched her carefully, trying to figure out the implications of that. She knew that there was never any wine or coffee in the apartment. She never had to worry about her stumbling through the doorway and passing out on the couch, or having men suddenly sleeping over. As far as she could tell, it just meant that Jenna's lifestyle didn't interfere with her own. Maybe, this time, she'd be able to stay in one place a little longer.
Sometimes Lavinia would see the missionaries on their way in or out of the building. They would nod and smile at her, but never said anything.
Unlike Jenna, it began to bother her, just a little, that they never invited her to learn more. Wasn't that their job? From what little she knew, weren't they supposed to be chasing people down? Wasn't she good enough? It annoyed her. She wanted the chance to tell them she wasn't interested, and then remembered, blushing, that she had told them exactly that when they'd come to borrow some sugar. And she wasn't interested.
But, still. Why didn't they ask?
Given their distance, and the space that Jenna always gave her, it surprised her one morning to find a note on the fridge that said "Ice cream tonight? Here. 8:00."
Ice cream? What did that mean? Was it an invitation, or a warning that there would be other people at the apartment? Lavinia didn't know what to make of it. She might have something else to do, at 8:00. She could go see a movie, by herself. There was always something going on, somewhere in this city.
But, deep down, she was surprised to realize that the thought of ice cream and visiting sounded fun. She wished she knew who else was going to be there. She thought about it as she pedaled her mint green bike to the shelter, and again as she pedaled home. She stopped at Ralph's and grabbed a quart of pistachio, her favorite, just in case. When she got home, she shoved it to the back of the freezer, and went to her room.
Her stomach was in knots. She just didn't do well--meeting new people. She corrected that thought, she did fine with meeting new people at work or school. But new people, in her home, made her cringe. She glanced at the clock--there was still enough time to jump on her bike and head to Westwood village for a movie. She could use some air.
Then she heard the door open, and two female voices chattering and rustling plastic bags.
She recognized Jenna's voice, but who was the other one?
Then she heard a third woman's voice. So, three girls. A girl's night in.
A knock at the door, and she froze when she heard some men's voices from the hallway coming in. Not a girl's night, then. A whole party. A lot of people. At least 5, that she could hear. She wanted to panic, but then felt silly. She knew that Jenna wouldn't care if she sauntered past the whole crowd, waved at them, and walked out the door. The part of her that had wanted to join in was growing ever smaller. She just wanted out.
She jumped when there was a light tap at her door, and Jenna's voice "Hey, 'vinia? You want some ice cream?"
Vinia? She had a nickname? No one had ever given her a nickname before. She liked it.
Throwing her shoulders back and plastering a smile on her bewildered face, she opened the door.
After Lavinia met the missionaries from down the hall, and had learned that her new roommate was a Mormon, she worried that Jenna would be a weirdo who prayed over her constantly.
Instead, Jenna was a dark haired girl with hazel eyes. She worked at a local library, while studying for her degree in library science. She laughed easily, and--best of all--gave Lavinia plenty of space. She was always friendly, and would leave notes on the fridge that said things like "Thanks for doing the dishes. Have a good one." Never any awkward glances on her way out the door, wondering if she should include Lavinia. No forced invitations. Live and let live.
It was the perfect level of roommate commitment for Lavinia. She didn't need a best friend or a pseudo-sister. She just wanted someplace to sleep, read, and think clearly. She felt best when she was able to focus on her casework at a local homeless shelter, comfortable in her professional detachment from the people she worked with every day. A roommate like Jenna was just what she needed.
And, as for being a Mormon, she watched her carefully, trying to figure out the implications of that. She knew that there was never any wine or coffee in the apartment. She never had to worry about her stumbling through the doorway and passing out on the couch, or having men suddenly sleeping over. As far as she could tell, it just meant that Jenna's lifestyle didn't interfere with her own. Maybe, this time, she'd be able to stay in one place a little longer.
Sometimes Lavinia would see the missionaries on their way in or out of the building. They would nod and smile at her, but never said anything.
Unlike Jenna, it began to bother her, just a little, that they never invited her to learn more. Wasn't that their job? From what little she knew, weren't they supposed to be chasing people down? Wasn't she good enough? It annoyed her. She wanted the chance to tell them she wasn't interested, and then remembered, blushing, that she had told them exactly that when they'd come to borrow some sugar. And she wasn't interested.
But, still. Why didn't they ask?
Given their distance, and the space that Jenna always gave her, it surprised her one morning to find a note on the fridge that said "Ice cream tonight? Here. 8:00."
Ice cream? What did that mean? Was it an invitation, or a warning that there would be other people at the apartment? Lavinia didn't know what to make of it. She might have something else to do, at 8:00. She could go see a movie, by herself. There was always something going on, somewhere in this city.
But, deep down, she was surprised to realize that the thought of ice cream and visiting sounded fun. She wished she knew who else was going to be there. She thought about it as she pedaled her mint green bike to the shelter, and again as she pedaled home. She stopped at Ralph's and grabbed a quart of pistachio, her favorite, just in case. When she got home, she shoved it to the back of the freezer, and went to her room.
Her stomach was in knots. She just didn't do well--meeting new people. She corrected that thought, she did fine with meeting new people at work or school. But new people, in her home, made her cringe. She glanced at the clock--there was still enough time to jump on her bike and head to Westwood village for a movie. She could use some air.
Then she heard the door open, and two female voices chattering and rustling plastic bags.
She recognized Jenna's voice, but who was the other one?
Then she heard a third woman's voice. So, three girls. A girl's night in.
A knock at the door, and she froze when she heard some men's voices from the hallway coming in. Not a girl's night, then. A whole party. A lot of people. At least 5, that she could hear. She wanted to panic, but then felt silly. She knew that Jenna wouldn't care if she sauntered past the whole crowd, waved at them, and walked out the door. The part of her that had wanted to join in was growing ever smaller. She just wanted out.
She jumped when there was a light tap at her door, and Jenna's voice "Hey, 'vinia? You want some ice cream?"
Vinia? She had a nickname? No one had ever given her a nickname before. She liked it.
Throwing her shoulders back and plastering a smile on her bewildered face, she opened the door.
Day 129: Lavinia, Chapter 5
She spent extra time, that day, on her appearance. She tried to get each curl to set just right. She chose one dress, and then another. It was just a small gathering, mostly family and friends that she'd known her whole life. But, if he came, she wanted to look her very best.
William and his young wife, Beth, would be her chaperones for the evening. She guessed, by the care he'd taken, Ted was also hoping to see a particular someone at the small party, but she said nothing.
They arrived at the house, brilliantly lit in the falling summer night. William and Beth entered, but she held Ted back just a moment to linger a little over the beauty of the evening sky. Her family liked to tease her about her love of nature--they told her to take up her walking stick and follow Wordsworth over the hills, writing poetry. She soaked in a moment of the peace and stillness, before she allowed herself to be led inside, where Ted quickly disentangled himself to go and join a game of cards already in progress.
Lavinia walked once around the room, stopping to chat with her friends, then finally settled herself on a chair at one end of the room facing the door.
Charles was not there, but her cousin Anne had assured her that they had sent over an invitation, as she had requested. She tried to assure herself that he would come.
Within a few minutes, the chair next to her was occupied by a long familiar face with blue eyes: James. Her parents, she knew, would have loved for her to pay more attention to the young man. As he talked now, she observed him. His face was long and thin, with a high nose. He smiled readily, and his blue eyes often sparkled beneath his curly blonde hair.
She had tried to like him. She knew that he favored her. In fact, she wouldn't be suprised if, one day soon, he approached her father. And what would he say? What would she do? He stood to inherit a substantial piece of property, that he was already busy managing. He was a devoted son to his parents, and a wonderful brother to his siblings. He was her friend.
But then why, she wondered, did she wish that his blue eyes were brown?
William and his young wife, Beth, would be her chaperones for the evening. She guessed, by the care he'd taken, Ted was also hoping to see a particular someone at the small party, but she said nothing.
They arrived at the house, brilliantly lit in the falling summer night. William and Beth entered, but she held Ted back just a moment to linger a little over the beauty of the evening sky. Her family liked to tease her about her love of nature--they told her to take up her walking stick and follow Wordsworth over the hills, writing poetry. She soaked in a moment of the peace and stillness, before she allowed herself to be led inside, where Ted quickly disentangled himself to go and join a game of cards already in progress.
Lavinia walked once around the room, stopping to chat with her friends, then finally settled herself on a chair at one end of the room facing the door.
Charles was not there, but her cousin Anne had assured her that they had sent over an invitation, as she had requested. She tried to assure herself that he would come.
Within a few minutes, the chair next to her was occupied by a long familiar face with blue eyes: James. Her parents, she knew, would have loved for her to pay more attention to the young man. As he talked now, she observed him. His face was long and thin, with a high nose. He smiled readily, and his blue eyes often sparkled beneath his curly blonde hair.
She had tried to like him. She knew that he favored her. In fact, she wouldn't be suprised if, one day soon, he approached her father. And what would he say? What would she do? He stood to inherit a substantial piece of property, that he was already busy managing. He was a devoted son to his parents, and a wonderful brother to his siblings. He was her friend.
But then why, she wondered, did she wish that his blue eyes were brown?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Day 128: Lavinia, Chapter 4
Lavinia groaned inwardly, and almost couldn't help the grimace that surely showed on her face.
Two Mormon sister missionaries. Standing there. Smiling at her.
She had been in the apartment a total of maybe one hour, and they'd found her already? They must have a radar for fresh audiences.
Pulling the door open a bit wider, before they could say anything, she said "Look, guys. I'm new here. I'm really busy. And besides, I'm just not interested."
The two women, probably around her own age, exchanged glances before one sheepishly held up a measuring cup.
"Sorry. We just wondered if we could borrow some sugar. And an egg. We're you're neighbors, just down the hall, and we're making cookies."
Lavinia blushed profusely. "Oh, um. Well--I don't...have any sugar yet. Or eggs."
"Oh. Well, uh--you're roommate? Jenna? She's a member of our church, and she said..." the girl finished lamely.
"Okay. I mean, Jenna isn't home right now. I haven't even met her, but if she said it was alright."
Opening the door, she turned and walked into the generic kitchen and started opening random cupboards. The two girls followed her in and stood silently as she pushed aside boxes of pasta and cans of tuna fish, looking for the sugar. Finding it, she handed one the bag, and then grabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge.
Shoving it at them, she said "Here. You can just return what you don't use."
They thanked her and moved for the door.
"I'll tell Jenna you came by." Lavinia said, in a voice full of forced cheerfulness.
"Great, thanks. It was nice to meet you."
Closing the door behind them and bolting all the locks, Lavinia shook her head.
Somehow, she would've expected Mormon missionaries to be different.
Two Mormon sister missionaries. Standing there. Smiling at her.
She had been in the apartment a total of maybe one hour, and they'd found her already? They must have a radar for fresh audiences.
Pulling the door open a bit wider, before they could say anything, she said "Look, guys. I'm new here. I'm really busy. And besides, I'm just not interested."
The two women, probably around her own age, exchanged glances before one sheepishly held up a measuring cup.
"Sorry. We just wondered if we could borrow some sugar. And an egg. We're you're neighbors, just down the hall, and we're making cookies."
Lavinia blushed profusely. "Oh, um. Well--I don't...have any sugar yet. Or eggs."
"Oh. Well, uh--you're roommate? Jenna? She's a member of our church, and she said..." the girl finished lamely.
"Okay. I mean, Jenna isn't home right now. I haven't even met her, but if she said it was alright."
Opening the door, she turned and walked into the generic kitchen and started opening random cupboards. The two girls followed her in and stood silently as she pushed aside boxes of pasta and cans of tuna fish, looking for the sugar. Finding it, she handed one the bag, and then grabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge.
Shoving it at them, she said "Here. You can just return what you don't use."
They thanked her and moved for the door.
"I'll tell Jenna you came by." Lavinia said, in a voice full of forced cheerfulness.
"Great, thanks. It was nice to meet you."
Closing the door behind them and bolting all the locks, Lavinia shook her head.
Somehow, she would've expected Mormon missionaries to be different.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Day 127: Lavinia, chapter 3
Lavinia strode distractedly up high street. She tried to look like she wasn't looking for someone, when she was. Holding her younger sister Malina's hand, she hardly heard her protests about wanting to stop and look at ribbons. In her distraction, she walked right past the shop she had come to visit.
Up ahead, she saw a small crowd gathered, and a smile dawned on her young face. Malina was truly protesting now and tugging at her hand. She let her go, and told her to go find Ted at the printer's shop, giving her a playful swat as her sister darted away. Then she turned back to the crowd up ahead.
She smoothed the front of her pale pink gown with her hands, even as she remembered her brother William's taunting remarks about wearing a ballgown just to walk into town. Now, it was worth it.
As she approached, she tried to come at an angle that he couldn't help but see her--even though she could see that he was engaged in conversing with some men at the center of the circle. She saw his deep brown eyes rise for a moment and catch her figure as she approached lightly, smiling quietly. A smile lit his face for just a moment before he returned to his discussion.
Wanting an excuse to talk with him, she stood at the back of the circle to listen and then recoiled as she realized that the men in the center of the circle were preachers--Mormon missionaries. She had heard of them, but never seen any. She was curious, but suddenly nervous. She knew that if her father or brothers saw her, she would have a hard time answering their questions. She glanced over her shoulder and stepped back a pace. Then, she heard his voice--so steady and clear, questioning the men. Her heart picked up it's pace, and she felt a flush of pride. He may be just an apprentice with no father, but he was intelligent and quick. His question was pointed and logical. She knew he would put these liars in their places, and felt far less uncomfortable suddenly.
But his tone was not attacking, simply honest. He had no intention of making fools of them, although she sensed that he easily could've. They announced that they would be preaching that night, at a cottage meeting and invited the listeners to attend. People muttered lowly and turned to walk away.
Not wanting to seem bold, she had started walking slowly back down the street, stopping to admire a new display in a shop when she heard his sure footstep fall easily behind her.
She turned to him, standing close behind her, and smiled. His deep brown eyes smiled back, and he offered to escort her back to her father's printing business. She nodded slightly and they began to walk, side by side.
She commented, politely, on his question to the Mormon ministers, and then complimented him on trying to help them to see the error of their doctrine.
He was silent a moment before replying, "Yes. But their arguments are sound, even if they aren't logical. They speak with conviction. I admire that."
Turning to him slightly, "But, surely, you don't intend to attend their cottage meeting tonight, Charles?"
He was quiet, before proceeding thoughtfully, "I hear much of them--the bad and the good. I wish only to see for myself."
Lavinia realized that her hands were clasped quite tightly into fists as they had walked. She had a small pit in her stomach.
She knew, deep down, what an uphill battle was facing her in regards to Charles William Mann. As far as her family, and their whole community, was concerned--he was a no one. No family connections. His only prospects due entirely to an uncle who had taken him in out of charity, and who owned his whole life until his apprenticeship was finished. Although she loved the sight of his brown eyes and the sound of his deep voice, she knew that there would be no point in hoping, if he chose to mix with this new faith.
Impulsively, she asked if he wasn't planning to attend a small gathering of friends that night at Honeywick, her cousin's home. She blushed, and realized how forward and obvious she was being. He would guess, surely, that she was just trying to keep him away from that cottage meeting. Trying to be in the same place that he was.
He only smiled as they reached her father's print shop and said "If your cousins were to extend the invitation, I could not refuse." He looked down at her for a brief moment, and then turned and strode away.
Up ahead, she saw a small crowd gathered, and a smile dawned on her young face. Malina was truly protesting now and tugging at her hand. She let her go, and told her to go find Ted at the printer's shop, giving her a playful swat as her sister darted away. Then she turned back to the crowd up ahead.
She smoothed the front of her pale pink gown with her hands, even as she remembered her brother William's taunting remarks about wearing a ballgown just to walk into town. Now, it was worth it.
As she approached, she tried to come at an angle that he couldn't help but see her--even though she could see that he was engaged in conversing with some men at the center of the circle. She saw his deep brown eyes rise for a moment and catch her figure as she approached lightly, smiling quietly. A smile lit his face for just a moment before he returned to his discussion.
Wanting an excuse to talk with him, she stood at the back of the circle to listen and then recoiled as she realized that the men in the center of the circle were preachers--Mormon missionaries. She had heard of them, but never seen any. She was curious, but suddenly nervous. She knew that if her father or brothers saw her, she would have a hard time answering their questions. She glanced over her shoulder and stepped back a pace. Then, she heard his voice--so steady and clear, questioning the men. Her heart picked up it's pace, and she felt a flush of pride. He may be just an apprentice with no father, but he was intelligent and quick. His question was pointed and logical. She knew he would put these liars in their places, and felt far less uncomfortable suddenly.
But his tone was not attacking, simply honest. He had no intention of making fools of them, although she sensed that he easily could've. They announced that they would be preaching that night, at a cottage meeting and invited the listeners to attend. People muttered lowly and turned to walk away.
Not wanting to seem bold, she had started walking slowly back down the street, stopping to admire a new display in a shop when she heard his sure footstep fall easily behind her.
She turned to him, standing close behind her, and smiled. His deep brown eyes smiled back, and he offered to escort her back to her father's printing business. She nodded slightly and they began to walk, side by side.
She commented, politely, on his question to the Mormon ministers, and then complimented him on trying to help them to see the error of their doctrine.
He was silent a moment before replying, "Yes. But their arguments are sound, even if they aren't logical. They speak with conviction. I admire that."
Turning to him slightly, "But, surely, you don't intend to attend their cottage meeting tonight, Charles?"
He was quiet, before proceeding thoughtfully, "I hear much of them--the bad and the good. I wish only to see for myself."
Lavinia realized that her hands were clasped quite tightly into fists as they had walked. She had a small pit in her stomach.
She knew, deep down, what an uphill battle was facing her in regards to Charles William Mann. As far as her family, and their whole community, was concerned--he was a no one. No family connections. His only prospects due entirely to an uncle who had taken him in out of charity, and who owned his whole life until his apprenticeship was finished. Although she loved the sight of his brown eyes and the sound of his deep voice, she knew that there would be no point in hoping, if he chose to mix with this new faith.
Impulsively, she asked if he wasn't planning to attend a small gathering of friends that night at Honeywick, her cousin's home. She blushed, and realized how forward and obvious she was being. He would guess, surely, that she was just trying to keep him away from that cottage meeting. Trying to be in the same place that he was.
He only smiled as they reached her father's print shop and said "If your cousins were to extend the invitation, I could not refuse." He looked down at her for a brief moment, and then turned and strode away.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Day 126: Lavinia, chapter 2
Standing with her hands on her hips, Lavinia looked around the tiny bedroom and sighed.
Another apartment. Different roommates. A new job. Everything changing, all over again, but everything staying the same.
She pulled a box to the middle of the floor and opened the top, then began to pull out picture frames, books, a mirror--things that would make the place feel like home. Make it feel the same as any other place she'd ever lived.
From another box she pulled out her blue sheets and stretched them over the twin bed in the corner. On the night stand, she put her eiffel tower lamp and alarm clock. It really was a tiny room, and the bed and nightstand practically filled it.
Moving to the window, she looked out at the view of the back parking lot, a fence, and another apartment building behind. She checked the window to see if it had a lock, and realized that a piece of pvc pipe, cut to fit, was in place to keep it from being slid open. It would be safe enough, she guessed, on the second floor.
Turning again to her room, she knew what this room really needed: something green.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Her roommate, whom she hadn't met yet, wasn't home. She hesitated. It wouldn't be for her. She didn't know a single person in this city. Maybe she should just ignore it and finish unpacking.
It buzzed again, and she moved into the dingy hallway with it's generic white paint and brown door. There was no peep hole, so there was no way to see who was on the other side. She gently pulled back the dead bolt, but leaving the chain lock in place and opened the door a crack.
On the other side, brown eyes smiled down at her.
Another apartment. Different roommates. A new job. Everything changing, all over again, but everything staying the same.
She pulled a box to the middle of the floor and opened the top, then began to pull out picture frames, books, a mirror--things that would make the place feel like home. Make it feel the same as any other place she'd ever lived.
From another box she pulled out her blue sheets and stretched them over the twin bed in the corner. On the night stand, she put her eiffel tower lamp and alarm clock. It really was a tiny room, and the bed and nightstand practically filled it.
Moving to the window, she looked out at the view of the back parking lot, a fence, and another apartment building behind. She checked the window to see if it had a lock, and realized that a piece of pvc pipe, cut to fit, was in place to keep it from being slid open. It would be safe enough, she guessed, on the second floor.
Turning again to her room, she knew what this room really needed: something green.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Her roommate, whom she hadn't met yet, wasn't home. She hesitated. It wouldn't be for her. She didn't know a single person in this city. Maybe she should just ignore it and finish unpacking.
It buzzed again, and she moved into the dingy hallway with it's generic white paint and brown door. There was no peep hole, so there was no way to see who was on the other side. She gently pulled back the dead bolt, but leaving the chain lock in place and opened the door a crack.
On the other side, brown eyes smiled down at her.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Day 125: Lavinia
Green was all she had ever known. Rising out of cracks and crevices, smoothing lines of stone. Gazing into the tumbling brooks or wide, clear streams--it gazed back at you. Even in winter, it never fully retreated, but instead became a muted backdrop. In summer, it burst forth in profusion, greeting you with it's heavy scent and rustling branches. It was all green.
Lavinia was born on a warm summer day--the first day of July. Wrapped in a cool linen blanket, her grandmother had carried her over to the broad window and held her up to the sun dappled afternoon light. She had studied her tiny, bruised face and stroked the clenched fist. Her mother Hannah, in an exhausted sleep, did not see her stern mother-in-law lift the tiny child to her face and place her cheek against the dark hair, rocking gently.
She was the third child. There was nothing remarkable about being the third. But the first girl. And there was certainly something special in that.
In the next room, her father William tried to quiet 4 year old William and 2 year old Edwin, called Ted. The boys were tired of being cooped up all day. They wanted their mother. Short of that, they wanted their father to swing them up to the ceiling like he normally did, and not constantly shush at them.
Grandmother Jane laid the baby softly in the beautifully carved wooden cradle, her soft smile fading, and then, setting her face, she turned and brushed out of the tiny bedroom.
Lavinia was born on a warm summer day--the first day of July. Wrapped in a cool linen blanket, her grandmother had carried her over to the broad window and held her up to the sun dappled afternoon light. She had studied her tiny, bruised face and stroked the clenched fist. Her mother Hannah, in an exhausted sleep, did not see her stern mother-in-law lift the tiny child to her face and place her cheek against the dark hair, rocking gently.
She was the third child. There was nothing remarkable about being the third. But the first girl. And there was certainly something special in that.
In the next room, her father William tried to quiet 4 year old William and 2 year old Edwin, called Ted. The boys were tired of being cooped up all day. They wanted their mother. Short of that, they wanted their father to swing them up to the ceiling like he normally did, and not constantly shush at them.
Grandmother Jane laid the baby softly in the beautifully carved wooden cradle, her soft smile fading, and then, setting her face, she turned and brushed out of the tiny bedroom.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Day 54: You Wore a Tulip
Growing up, my parents would sing old songs. "Let Me Call You Sweetheart", "Daisy, Daisy", and "Mairsy Dotes" were some I remember. My favorite was one about a big yellow tulip. Do you know the lyrics? It goes:
You wore a tulip, a big yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose.
When you caressed me twas then heaven blessed me, what a blessing no one knows.
You made life cheery when you called me deary, way down where the blue grass grows.
Your lips were sweeter than julep, when you wore that tulip, and I wore a big red rose.
Tonight, I piled my kids into our car in the freezing cold and went on a drive just after the sun set. The house was feeling big and empty, and we needed to fill some time before bed. The radio is broken in our wonderful van, so, as I drove, I sang those old songs. When I came to that one, I couldn't help but smile. Then I wondered if I had the talent to guess at the love story behind it. So, I thought I would try...
***
If you ever visit Kentucky, make sure it is in the month of May. The soft green of early spring bursts forth into the multi-hued exuberance of coming summer. Horses on a track in Louisville. Fireworks over the Ohio River. Colts chasing behind straight fences in cropped green pastures. The heart of Kentucky can be found in the month of May.
That spring, my love and I would meet at the end of a lane--Happy Jack Hollow. He was always there first, somehow. Sitting on the low, moss-covered stone wall the rambled quietly on one side. At it's base, daffodils planted many years before bloomed. A very few tulips remained. He would rise, smiling, and take my hand. We would walk down the lane--talking, making plans. It was our favorite place.
On this May morning, I could see him, seated already--slowly twirling the last of the yellow tulips in his hands. As I approached, he rose and strode quietly toward me. With a soft, sad smile, he placed the tulip in the chocolate brown curls of my hair. Taking my hand, we began to walk silently.
The stream criss-crossed our path several times, overflowing from recent rains. But it ran clear, and shallow, across the slabs of slate. Stopping at one crossing, I peered down into the water and could see both of us reflected. He leaped lightly across the stream, and helped me gently across. A swarm of tiny, violet butterflies rose around us--fluttering in the rays of sunlight making their way through the trees.
We did not talk of the war in France. We did not talk of him leaving. I did not then dream of fields of poppies under clear blue skies. We thought only of each other, in a silence so brittle that neither of us dared breathe, let alone speak. Walking again, slowly, we came upon a wild rose bush with the first tiny rosebuds of summer on it. I reached out and broke off one stem and placed it in the buttonhole of his shirt.
Looking up at him, we kissed softly once. Sweeter than julep. He released my hand and turned to go. I wanted to run after him. To tell him to come back to me. To tell him that I would be waiting. But he was already gone.
***
PS. Yes. Happy Jack Hollow is real. And I've been there in May. :)
You wore a tulip, a big yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose.
When you caressed me twas then heaven blessed me, what a blessing no one knows.
You made life cheery when you called me deary, way down where the blue grass grows.
Your lips were sweeter than julep, when you wore that tulip, and I wore a big red rose.
Tonight, I piled my kids into our car in the freezing cold and went on a drive just after the sun set. The house was feeling big and empty, and we needed to fill some time before bed. The radio is broken in our wonderful van, so, as I drove, I sang those old songs. When I came to that one, I couldn't help but smile. Then I wondered if I had the talent to guess at the love story behind it. So, I thought I would try...
***
If you ever visit Kentucky, make sure it is in the month of May. The soft green of early spring bursts forth into the multi-hued exuberance of coming summer. Horses on a track in Louisville. Fireworks over the Ohio River. Colts chasing behind straight fences in cropped green pastures. The heart of Kentucky can be found in the month of May.
That spring, my love and I would meet at the end of a lane--Happy Jack Hollow. He was always there first, somehow. Sitting on the low, moss-covered stone wall the rambled quietly on one side. At it's base, daffodils planted many years before bloomed. A very few tulips remained. He would rise, smiling, and take my hand. We would walk down the lane--talking, making plans. It was our favorite place.
On this May morning, I could see him, seated already--slowly twirling the last of the yellow tulips in his hands. As I approached, he rose and strode quietly toward me. With a soft, sad smile, he placed the tulip in the chocolate brown curls of my hair. Taking my hand, we began to walk silently.
The stream criss-crossed our path several times, overflowing from recent rains. But it ran clear, and shallow, across the slabs of slate. Stopping at one crossing, I peered down into the water and could see both of us reflected. He leaped lightly across the stream, and helped me gently across. A swarm of tiny, violet butterflies rose around us--fluttering in the rays of sunlight making their way through the trees.
We did not talk of the war in France. We did not talk of him leaving. I did not then dream of fields of poppies under clear blue skies. We thought only of each other, in a silence so brittle that neither of us dared breathe, let alone speak. Walking again, slowly, we came upon a wild rose bush with the first tiny rosebuds of summer on it. I reached out and broke off one stem and placed it in the buttonhole of his shirt.
Looking up at him, we kissed softly once. Sweeter than julep. He released my hand and turned to go. I wanted to run after him. To tell him to come back to me. To tell him that I would be waiting. But he was already gone.
***
PS. Yes. Happy Jack Hollow is real. And I've been there in May. :)
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