Stepping out of the gloom of the barn, they walked a few paces out into the arable land. Kneeling, Heldmann picked up a handful of dirt and sifted it through his fingers. It was good, dark earth.
Yes, Heldmann thought, his many years on a farm leading him to a conclusion. Herr Clyde has a good situation. All is much better here than the grandiose Whitehall.
He stood and saw that the siblings were now silent and intently watching him, pleased expectation on their faces.
“Is good,” he said, sweeping his arm to indicate all of the property around them. “I am farmer…I knows…mmm…Is good.”
“Danke, Herr Heldmann.” Herr Clyde held a hand over his chest and dipped his head, smiling. “Danke.”
The sun was nearly setting now, turning the clouds on the horizon red and purple. Jonathan waved his guests back inside the house and they were soon settled in the parlor.
The two eldest Clydes began to talk again while Elliott played with some toy soldiers on the carpet. At first, Miss Sophia would occasionally turn and involve Heldmann by interpreting a few words, letting him know the topic that was being discussed. However, after a while, her efforts became sparse, and Heldmann sensed that the conversation had taken a serious turn. Miss Sophia’s face looked thoughtful as Herr Clyde spoke on and on to her. Heldmann heard the word ‘Foote’ many times.
Yes, where is Foote? Heldmann wondered, but refrained from asking.
“Heldmann.” Young Elliott, nudged his shoulder. “Look. Der Hund.”
The boy held a contorted hand out into the glow of the firelight, casting a malformed shadow on the far wall.
“Ah, is good…” Heldmann nodded.
“Jonathan.” The earnest tone of Miss Sophia’s voice arrested Heldmann’s attention. She continued slowly, deliberately, and Heldmann had no trouble understanding each word as she said, “You must speak with her.”
She was leaning forward, resting her hand on Herr Clyde’s knee, a look of intent sincerity on her face. She repeated herself.
“You must speak with her. Go. Soon.”
Herr Clyde stared into the fire with the most unsettled look Heldmann had ever seen upon his usually jovial face.
Suddenly feeling that he was intruding on an intimate and vulnerable moment, Heldmann turned his attention back to Elliott, who was nearby, still playing with the shadows.
Taking the boy’s little hands in his own, Heldmann gently manipulated them into place, saying, “Ja, ist gut.”
Elliott’s face broke into a grin as he cast the silhouette of a butterfly flittering across the faces of the four ancestors.
Vomiting Porridge
~ Jonathan
The Open Road
Though it was a cool day, Jonathan could feel the perspiration collecting under his arms and dripping down his sides. His palms, too, were clammy as he passed the reins back and forth between them.
Two days earlier, he had started out on this same journey, made it to within half a mile of his destination, and then retraced his steps all the way back to his home.
Well, now I know how to get there, he had told himself.
Now, the clopping of Achilles’ hooves beneath him jarred his innards mercilessly. He’d had no appetite that morning, but knew he had a long ride ahead of him, so he’d forced himself to eat. The few bites of porridge hadn’t settled well.
Inhaling shakily, he thought through what he would say on his arrival.
‘How do you do, Farmwife Smythe?’ No…no. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Widow Smythe.’
He cringed.
Ought I to call her ‘Widow’? I don’t want to remind the woman of her husband’s death the moment that I meet her. Must I call her anything? Well, I would think so. One doesn’t introduce oneself and ignore the fact that the other person has a name. Ugh…
Still unsure on that point, he thought a little further into the conversation and began to practice it aloud.
“Might I speak with…? I…I…mmm, uh, that is…”
Good God, I sound like Heldmann!
Pulling Achilles to an abrupt stop, Jonathan nearly jumped from the horse’s back. Just in time, he planted his hands on his knees before his stomach turned inside out, emptying itself into the dirt. Fortunately, the projected mass missed his top hat, which had tumbled from his head to the ground a second earlier.
Achilles stood by, pawing the ground uneasily, as Jonathan removed a bottle from his saddlebag. Taking a swig of water, Jonathan swished his mouth and spat, then ran a shaky, open hand over his face.
“Steady, boy. Steady,” he said, perhaps to Achilles, then leaned his forehead against the animal’s warm neck.
He rested there a long moment before climbing back into the saddle.
Abandoning a Letter
~ Lydia
Hillcrest Farm
The rotten tooth’s eviction was
Concluded with a yank,
A wrench so strong it…
It what…?
Lydia sat at the kitchen table, biting the end of her pen, and thinking.
What rhymes with ‘yank’? ‘Prank’, ‘clank’, stank’? No, none of those will work.
In his latest contribution, Elliott had requested that Lydia write a poem about his long-ago tooth extraction. She was working diligently, hoping to have the verse done and sealed in an envelope by the time the postman arrived.
Older letters from the Clydes formed a mountainous pile in front of her. Too fat and rounded to stack neatly, they had slipped off of each other, and were scattered across the table’s top. Earlier that morning, Sally had joked that soon Lydia would need to store them in their own pen in the barn.
A wrench so strong…
Lydia bit the pen harder.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of a jangling stirrup outside the kitchen door.
Oh, no! He’s never here this early! she thought, disappointed for once at the postman’s arrival. Still, he must have a letter to deliver, or he wouldn’t likely have stopped at all.
With the unfinished letter in hand, she arose from the table, grabbed a penny from the windowsill, and opened the door.
“You’re early today!” she called out to the rider in the drive. “I’ve not fini…”
Her words were cut off by a mixture of rapturous, yet horrified, shock.
There, in the yard of Hillcrest Farm, sitting astride his fine horse, wearing his top hat and riding coat, was Sir Jonathan.
Lydia clutched at the doorjamb as the penny fell from her grasp.
She and Jonathan regarded each other in silence, their mouths slightly open, their eyes wide.
Why…? What…?
Lydia’s legs began to quiver beneath her.
At the same moment, her mother’s steady hand was on her shoulder.
“You may tie your horse to the post by the water trough, sir,” Sally said from behind her. “And then please come inside for a cup of tea.”
Jonathan dipped his head and turned Achilles toward the trough.
“Go, seat yourself in the parlor,” Sally whispered while smoothing Lydia’s hair down from the crown of her head.
“But I…I…” Lydia stammered.
“Shhh, dearest,” Sally soothed. “Go to the parlor.”
Lydia somehow wobbled her way there and sat on the room’s one settee. She struggled to arrange her legs in a way to stop them from shaking.
What is he…? What will I…?
In a moment, Jonathan was filling the doorway, and then settling himself in the chair beside her.
Looking down, Lydia saw that she still held the paper.
“I was just writing to you…and Elliott,” Lydia murmured, loosening her fingers’ hold on the now severely crumpled sheet.
Jonathan nodded mutely, staring at the paper in her hand.
As he did so, she studied his face, seeing details she had nearly forgotten in the year of his absence. She gazed at the length of his eyelashes, th
e straightness of his nose, the way his upper lip protruded slightly further than his lower one. He had removed his hat, which now rested on his knee, and his dark hair was stuck to his head, damp in places.
He is here, she thought, her heart thumping wildly, sitting, just feet away. He is here, with me.
She eyed the sparse growth of stubble on his chin, the faint flush of color in his cheeks.
From the doorway, Sally cleared her throat.
“You must be Sir Jonathan,” she said, stepping into the room, extending her hand. “I am Lydia’s mother, Sally Smythe.”
Jonathan shot up out of his chair, his hat tumbling to the ground. “Yes…yes, I am and…you are…That is…might I…might I speak with you?”
“Speak with me?” Sally raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, ummm, privat…that is…alone?”
What can he mean by this? Lydia thought incredulously.
“Uhh…yes,” Sally looked around the room. “Umm, in the kitchen perhaps?” She motioned toward the doorway, and threw Lydia a wondering glance.
Jonathan shut the door as he left.
Lydia longed to flee, but the smallness of the farmhouse, its kitchen and parlor below stairs and its three bedrooms above, offered no practical place to hide without it being clear to all that hiding was one’s objective. So there she sat, her stomach turning over.
Why would he want to speak with her?
She gasped, convinced of her own perceptiveness.
He’s going to offer me a place to serve at his new property! His mother can’t spare any of her staff, so he needs to find more servants! When I left Whitehall I told him that Mama needed me here, so he’s come to persuade her to let me go.
Her mind flew back to that final conversation in the study at Whitehall when he had filled her hand with money, and then held it gently for a long moment in his own.
What did I say then? That I hoped he would consider me for future employment? No! I wouldn’t have!
And I can’t! I can’t go back to living under the same roof! Seeing him every day…hearing his voice…watching his hand as he lifts a glass to his mouth…
The corners of her eyes began to sting as she plucked at the settee cushion agitatedly.
I can’t. I won’t.
The letters, they’re torturous enough, reminding me that he exists…that he’s walking, breathing, laughing somewhere in England…but to see him day by day, alive and real right before me…
No. I won’t.
Outside the window, the sun shone brightly. Lydia considered lifting the lower sash and climbing through, into the yard.
But then, he was there again, coming back through the parlor door, alone this time.
“Mama?” Lydia called, peering past him down the hallway, her voice shaking.
Jonathan waited a moment, his hand on the door, but Sally gave no response, and he shut it.
Slowly, he walked a few steps closer to where Lydia sat.
Lydia’s mind was reeling. How can I decline graciously…and believably?
“Miss Lydia,” Jonathan said, then paused.
Lydia turned her face to him, composing her own as serenely as she could.
He looks unwell, she thought, surprised.
Oh, but what am I to say?
“Miss Lydia,” he began again. “I…I hoped to come here and...and ask you…that is, I must first tell you that…mmm, I mean…”
To Lydia’s humiliation, she felt tears begin to run down her face, washing away any pretense of her composure.
“Sir Jonathan,” she cut in, her lower lip quivering. “I…I…”
Then she was interrupted by an abrupt sob heaving up out of her chest.
Damn these emotions!
There was a creak of a floorboard just outside the door in the hallway.
“Why…?” he asked, his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and horror as another sob escaped her lips. “Why are you…crying?”
The parlor door flew open and both young people turned to behold Sally, standing there in the doorway, tears streaming down her own face.
“Tell her!” she said, marching up to Jonathan, looking small and worn next to his tall, hale form.
The look of confused alarm had not faded from Jonathan’s face as he looked at the woman.
“Tell her!” Sally repeated, wiping her eyes, then motioning wildly with her hands. “Tell her what you told me!”
Lydia’s sobs were arrested at a new mortifying thought.
Has Mama gone mad?
“I…I…” Jonathan stuttered. “I…
Apparently losing hope in the fellow’s ability to finish his sentence, Sally broke into a fresh round of tears as she turned to Lydia and announced, “He loves you! He wants to marry you, but…”
Here, the woman paused and began to chuckle. The malapropos sound grew, swelling into a rolling belly laugh though Sally’s cheeks were still streaked with tears.
“But he -- heh heh -- he hasn’t got a vast fortune.” She struggled against the laughter as she continued. “All he’s got is a -- ha ha -- a farm of 200 acres and -- ha ha! -- and forty head of Herefords!
“And he’s afraid -- HA HA HA!” She bent over, holding her sides as she convulsed with mirth, and howled, “He’s afraid you won’t want him!”
Jonathan stared, aghast, at the woman.
Lydia stood as the unbelievable meaning of Sally’s words sank into her mind.
Suddenly, her now giggling mother was holding her, kissing her face. “My dear, dear girl…”
Stunned, Lydia was immobile as Sally grabbed ahold of her hands.
Standing four feet away, Jonathan’s face was as pale as milk.
Nothing was said or done for a lingering moment until, having somewhat recovered herself, Sally looked back and forth between her daughter and the young man.
“Well,” she sighed, letting go of Lydia’s hands. “I’ll go put the kettle on.”
She left, shutting the door behind her with a final chuckle.
Is it true?
Unsure where to look, Lydia stared at the floor. She heard Jonathan’s shaky inhalation.
“Miss Lydia.” He moved two steps closer and reached out toward her. “May I take your hand in mine?”
Though her heart was in her throat, Lydia lifted her hand to meet his and raised her eyes to his face.
“Though this is not the manner in which I hoped to declare myself, what your mother has said is true…all of it.”
His gray eyes were solemn as he continued, “Just before you left Whitehall, I learned that the wealth I had always…that everyone had always believed existed, had dwindled, not entirely…but I was forced to sell Whitehall. It is lost to my family forever, and I wanted you to know that before I asked you if you would consider…I’ve bought a farm not far from here, where we could live comfortably, and I…that is…”
He sank to the floor on one knee, barely fitting between the settee and the little table in front of it.
Lydia, suddenly light-headed, lowered herself onto the settee, feeling the firm grasp of his hand around hers.
“Miss Lydia,” he asked, his eyes steadily gazing into her own. “Would you consent to be my wife?”
Picking Pony a New Name
~ Elliott, age 9
Ignoble Acres
Elliott’s eyelids fluttered open as the rooster’s crowing roused him from his slumber. In the past several months, this had been a daily occurrence, but on this particular day he did not immediately drift back to sleep.
It’s my birthday, he recalled drowsily. Sophie wrote that she will arrive today and Jonathan said the German Warrior was coming to visit as well. Oh, and Pony said she’d bake me a nougat almond cake.
‘Pony’, he thought, suddenly realizing how juvenile it sounded. A nine-year-old shouldn’t call anyone ‘Pony’.
But what ought I to call her? ‘Foote?’ No, no one calls her that anymore. ‘Lydia’? Hmmm…that j
ust seems so strange.
And I wonder if she’s forgotten that there’s still wedding cake left over. She mightn’t bake me a birthday cake if she knows there’s still some of the other.
Groggily, he gazed at the ceiling above him, pondering these dilemmas as the first rays of light filtered in through the window.
The wedding had taken place a week earlier at a church near Pony’s home. Sophia had been there, though Elliott’s mama had decided to remain in London with Cook and Glaser that day. Widcombe and his sister, Amelia, as well as Hodges, were also there.
While sipping punch after the ceremony, Elliott was studying the furry, lavender hat Amelia was wearing when he saw her lean toward Widdy and whisper, “I knew she wasn’t really a maid.”
Elliott had gone to stay with Sophia and his mama for that night and the next, but on the third day, Jonathan had brought him and Pony back to the farm.
When she first walked into the farmhouse, Pony had gasped at the many bookshelves, hurrying from room to room to see them all.
Like Sophia, she had giggled at the sight of the paintings of the grandfathers.
“I’m so glad you didn’t leave those Clyde Fellows behind at Whitehall,” she had said, reaching for Jonathan’s hand. “I wonder how they enjoy gazing out over such ignoble acres as these.”
“‘Ignoble Acres’? Hmmm…I like the sound of that,” Jonathan had said. “I think you’ve just renamed the farm, my dear.”
Elliott had felt pleased as he saw Jonathan lift Pony’s hand to kiss it.
He fondly recalled this as he resettled deeply into his warm down mattress.
But I still don’t know what I ought to call her now…
And it was this thought that slipped out of his drowsy head as he drifted back to sleep.
THE END
This story is dedicated to
A Man Called Jeff
Whom I adore
And for whose presence in my life
I am daily grateful
Gratitude and Possible Apologies
Thank you to my daughter who, at the age of fifteen, showed me how a serious writer commits herself to birthing a story, no matter how vexing the process becomes. Your pep talks quelled my frustrations and warmed my maternal heart. I continue to learn so much from you.
Thank you to my wonderful parents for paying my tuition as I earned a degree in Creative Writing twenty years ago. (Look! I finally did something with it!)