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

those who have affection for him. As this family seems to have. Perhaps he loathed meeting another person unfamiliar with the story his scars.

Apple juice dripped and gathered between my fingers becoming as grubby as a street urchin’s. I slipped out of the room behind Helen who ran to get Mr. Bleu an apple for roasting.

I met her in the kitchen. “Who is he?” And why was he shown such favor?

“Father’s friend from war days.” Her eyes were wide. “He comes sometimes.”

“Why?”

“To visit us, of course!”  She ran out, too enthralled with the company to regard me with real answers.

I sat at the table and devoured the rest of my apple in a way that made me glad no one was around to see. I rinsed my fingers under icy cold pump water, wiped them on my apron, and walked back to the parlor to bid them good night. My adieu was hardly noted.

Their laughter continued as I wrestled off that beast of a black gown and took down my hair. I sat in front of the vanity mirror and leaned forward. With difficulty, I imagined his scars were my own and allowed the shame I deserved to fill my heart. Why couldn’t I bear to see him? I have sketched my version of my scarred face here so that I won’t forget. His physical shortcoming shouldn’t cause me such cold fear. Yet they did. It isn’t as if I’ve never seen these war-survivors before.

And how very odd that he introduced himself as James...

JAMES EASED ON HIS attic cot, reluctant to be away from the glowing fire and dear friends downstairs. She had his room now, and no doubt was a good deal warmer. He slid off his boots and blew out the lantern. He wasn’t here to be pampered. He tugged the wool blankets around his chin and buried his head into the feather pillow.

Nothing, no nothing could dispel first impressions. His face, her eyes. The lift of her brows, the slight parting of her lips. A hint of distress. Uncertainty. Could she touch him without being scarred too? He’d seen the looks, time and time again. And they replayed through his mind, all of them, right down to his mother’s. He felt a frightful squeeze of horror rather than a hug. She fell into a fit—a stroke, the doctor called it. Screamed unceasingly the next time she’d seen him. His wealthy socialite of a mother didn’t have a son so disfigured. Couldn’t James still be out there somewhere, trying to make his way home? Who is this imposter? She’d demanded of his father.

The years after the war at Bleu Manor were nightmarish. His father did all he could for him. Refusing him a place in college, he’d educated James in the manor’s sufficient library. Rules crowded him, protected him. He must never bother his mother again. Never go near her. Must not join the family at dinner, eat only in the kitchen. His father and sister joined him there at times, when Mother was indisposed. All of it a great charade to keep Mother from being sent to an asylum.  How could she not accept the affections of her war-torn son?

He had run away—but—Miss Trafton’s face pushed away the past. He stopped the zoetrope before it spun out of control. Miss Dorothy Trafton had not behaved any worse than anyone else. While she’d been taken back by his looks, he’d expected it.

He rubbed the unmarred side of his face and grinned. Still a good-looking guy at least half of the time. His personal joke never failed to lift his spirit. What she thinks doesn’t matter. But what she will do, oh that was a praying matter. He grinned again. Couldn’t help it. Had she been hiding a sticky apple behind her back?

Chapter 5

FEBRUARY 28, 1880

Despite needing sleep, I tossed amid my blankets from one cold side to the other for hours, unable to shake his image. His face. I dreamt that tragic Mr. Bleu reintroduced himself over and again and I repeatedly imitated dramatic shock—swooning like a gothic maiden. Baby mice jumped from his coat pockets by the hundreds. Ridiculous rodents. Must have tasted too many sweets yesterday.

I am exhausted and in need of a large pot of real tea. Aunt and Uncle prefer coffee or chamomile. Suppose that will have to do. As soon as the roads clear of deep snow drifts, muddy or not, I intend to walk to the mercantile and purchase a few tins of Chinese green and perhaps even some orange pekoe. A sliver of my inheritance is well worth a bit of normalcy. I believe I need lemons too. Will the others think me spoiled? Honestly, I care not.

I have spot-cleaned the black silk gown as best as I can manage, shoved a fresh handkerchief in my pocket, and daubed lavender water on my wrists. And folded my thin arms.  What should be done next? Simple day-to-day doings should not perplex me, but they do at times. Especially here. What if my simple day-to-day doings don’t matter a jot within the scope of existence? What if I don’t matter to anyone but myself?

I knew what to do. I knelt by the trunk and lifted the lid. A carefully wrapped package waited, snug between newspaper and straw. I thought not to open this trunk again until I married, but a clean break between past and present isn’t to be.

I unwrapped the simple Brown Betty tea pot, the glaze still shiny after years of daily washing. My blue-striped china cup cradled perfectly between my hands, delicate by comparison. Mismatched for sure, but a ritual nonetheless. Always preserved for my breakfasts and afternoons. Had it mattered to me, I could have saved the silver set Mother used for company—more impressive by far. I sold it to the judge’s wife and guarded this pair as the greater treasure. These are some of the things I can bear to use. I believe I