Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📗

“Is there any service we might render you?” She seemed so eager to help. My needs, however, couldn’t be touched.

I shook my head. “My material wants are met at the moment. You are too kind.”

“Nonsense. We orphaned girls must stick together.”

Orphan is a lonely word. She made it sound like an opportunity for friendship. “I can tell you honestly that I do need scope.”

“Scope?”

“More understanding of my new position...do you know?”

“That you own your Uncle’s farm? Yes.”

“No one bothered to tell me until a few days ago.”

“Did they not? How shocking.”

“I am not sure how this fact changes anything. One moment I feel like Queen Elizabeth, ready to order soldiers to the hen house, the next moment I feel like I am an inconvenient bystander.”

“Ah. I might suggest nestling into your new home, and see what comes? Occupy yourself with something worthwhile. You don’t need to have the future figured out. Simply too stressful and it rarely goes as we plan.”

She meant to tell me that I did not need to worry. Of course she was right. I took a nibble of my cake just then, and caught an almond between my front teeth. I worked it out of the way before too much silence had passed. “Thank you. It’s the worthwhile doings that I have trouble with too.” Did I really tell her my heart?

“Take one moment at a time, if you need to. One step, one knit stitch, one moment, then the next. Worthwhile doings will come to you in good time. You are grieving.”

Understanding drenched the moment. She looked at me as if she and I were dear to one another—or rather she wished to be, but the friendship was up to me. I could accept her congenial hand or reject it. Nothing in between. Scarcity of friends makes me want to grasp her unspoken offer.

We talked of music for the rest of the hour until Mr. Bleu showed up to escort me home. Chess might be irritated when he finds that his mother sent the remainder of the cake home with us for the children. I can laugh about him now.

Mr. Bleu seemed in good spirits all the way back to the farm. Some tightly wound emotions uncoiled within me, those droplets of peace that I’d received came pouring out. With every step towards my new home, my farm, my spirit bloomed a little.

Mr. Bleu pointed left and right, making more comments about the surrounding land—too much information to gather at once.

“And where is your farm? I thought you were only next door.”

“Five more miles to the east.”

“And you grow cattle?” Yes, I asked possibly the most ignorant question of all time.

His mouth twitched. “About two-hundred head a year. Sell them at market.”

“It provides?”

His eyes darkened. I suppose that was a prying question. “Ernest can teach you to convert cattle into dollars, but we don’t expect you to...”

“I was just curious. You know quite well that I don’t know a thing about farming.”

Mr. Bleu pointed to home, just over the next two gently sloping hills. A wagon stood in front. Two people, a man and woman held a child between them.

“Toliver!” I yelled without thinking. I started to run but slowed as Mr. Bleu caught up with me. “What are they doing with him?” I strained to see.  The boy struggled to be released from the woman’s arms. “Toliver!”

“Hush!” Mr. Bleu spoke. “Don’t make matters worse.”

The wagon lurched forward. Toliver’s screams echoed over the hills, straight to my heart. His cries hurt that deep place. My peace was gone.

I stopped, eyelids burning, and reached for my handkerchief. Mr. Bleu’s throat worked, his hands trembled. I knew what was happening. No one had to tell me. Anger surged.

I supposed that they thought Toliver belonged with his own kind. This didn’t feel right, though my head would have proclaimed this truth before now. We loved Toliver. I loved Toliver. He was ours.

His first words to me were “Mamma die...” Perhaps God was giving him another chance at maternal comfort. Did these people have proper housing? Did they live in an old, nasty shanty from slave days?

When we stepped back into the house, Mr. Bleu went to the water pump and I went straight to Aunt. Here I am, about to own this place, but evidently not the people within. It’s the people I want to keep safe. Together. Oh, the irony. A building may last for generations, yet people...

I truly do not wish to write more melancholy words. My afternoon was delightful, after all. Common sense says that Toliver needed to be with relatives, as Aunt pointed out that they were.

Her eyes had been red and raw from crying. The anger I’d felt moments before changed when I saw her. She can’t help the circumstances in life any more than I can. Ownership is a poor playing card.

I threw myself into kitchen work, scrubbing and blackening the stove for Aunt. Kirsten sat in the corner, forever thumping the butter press, her eyes dreamy with thoughts she didn’t share. Helen still avoided me, hardly asking about my visit with Mrs. MacDonald at all. The boys ate the remainder of the cake, the girls boycotted it altogether. Stubborn young women.

The day has been mostly good, so why—on the cusp of new friendships must my cousins step away? If they’d lost everything perhaps they’d not be so cruel.

Somehow, I must reach out to them. My new gowns...what if I give them one apiece? I hesitated. Mother helped me choose them. Could I part with them? Before greed convinced me otherwise, I ran upstairs and pulled all eight of them on the bed. I’d be left with three summer gowns and three winter...and the bolt of green moray on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I ran my hand down the deep rose-colored gown, thinking how much I loved that one. This should be for Helen. And my second favorite, the blue