Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

“Ah. He wants me there too. Tea sounds more fun.” Chess winked at me, the gall.

Mr. Bleu knowingly smiled. “There must be cake if you are willing to incur your father’s wrath.”

“Indeed there is.” He bowed acquiescence. “However, we shall hope Miss Trafton isn’t a glutton, though we can see plainly that she isn’t.” His glance hardly took me in, “Skin and bones.” He blinked his eyes like an overgrown child. “You won’t eat it all, will you?”

This whimpering puppy toyed with me. As if his brown eyes had an instant effect on all young women. I am not swayed in the least.

“I make no promises.” I curtsied.

“Well, well, well.” He bowed in return. “I leave my fate in your hands, Miss Trafton.”

Mr. Bleu had a merry wrinkle around his eyes. I looked away, just in time to see a woman sweep down the foyer stairway. This lady of the house, no doubt Mrs. MacDonald, wore a deep russet gown trimmed in black that matched her upswept raven hair. She warmly took my gloved hand in hers and drew me away without any attention to her son or Mr. Bleu.

“I shan’t leave you standing there without mercy! Chess can be quite the court jester.” She led me to a kind of music room. An ancient pianoforte dominated the space. At rest on the mantelpiece were flutes and pipes of every kind, in the other corner a lightly carved harp stood without a cover...as if someone had recently been playing.

“Come, sit here.” She gestured towards an elegant corner with a table already set with two rather fine Chippendale chairs on either end. The sun peeked out just then, through large windows that overlooked a small courtyard. I knew there had to be a courtyard.

I drew out my own chair and sat, glad that Philip and Chess were not in attendance after all. Helen would have no further reason to ignore me when I relay my visit. But I dreaded the many questions I knew was coming.

Her dark eyes slowly took in my form clad in black silk before she spoke. “I have lived here for over twenty years, and this room is still my favorite.” She pronounced with a firm smile.

Nerves rose, I couldn’t gather why. I dashed about for something to say. “I see you are rather musical. Which instrument do you play?”

“All of them, my dear.” Her smile turned soft. I noticed then that she had a few gray strands, though not many. I know, gray strands do not make a person, yet she seemed so young, and so very knowing at the same time.

“I will, perhaps, preform for you another day. I want to get to know all about you.”

Of course. This interview was to be about myself, as I suspected.

“I must apologize for not being in attendance at your home-coming party.”

It wasn’t a home-coming, but a home leaving. I didn’t correct her.

A maid stepped in just then with a tea cart, the wheels made soft squeaks as she drew near us. She lay our cups and set a silver pot before Mrs. MacDonald. On a low plate sat the cake, studded with almonds and dried cherries.

“Have you settled in?”

“I am thankful to have my own furnishings. Makes my room at the farm a little more like home.”

She leaned forward slightly, as if she were an old friend. “I know just what you mean.” She paused to cut thin slices of cake with the most dainty knife I’ve ever seen. She served me without asking if I wanted any.

“I was sixteen and pawned off on relatives when my father died. I was allowed to keep my flutes...” she motioned to the mantle-collection, “and precious few books.”

“Aunt and Uncle have been kind enough to take me in. Everyone has done their best to make me feel at home.” The last part felt like a lie.

She poured the brew, a rich China green. I added a tiny spoonful of sugar. How can I finish my thoughts? I cannot open up to a complete stranger. Yet she opened me, I hardly felt her gentle prying.

“It’s not at all home yet, I understand. In me, you have a companion.” She nodded lightly, “I know the sorrow of losing both parents.”

Suddenly, all her glamor didn’t make sense. My black gown seemed ridiculous. I needed to sit across from her in pale yellow, confident, with every intricate detail of my life making perfect sense. None of these feelings that squash together like a bad blend of Friday night hash. She seemed so beautiful and happy. I knew that I was neither.

I looked down to my cake studded with a glistening red cherry.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand.”

I ventured forward. “I know little of country life. I wish my parents were still here. They were my true home.”

She nodded. “My mother died when I was six years old. My father, ten years later. He and I were the best of friends. I baked his bread and filled his pipe.” She smiled at the memory. “He read to me every evening before bed. My Aunt and Uncle didn’t not read at all. Didn’t allow me novels.”

I stared aghast. Life without novels...

“Quite true. If they had known about my poetry collection, I daresay they would have made a bonfire of them.”

“How could they be so cruel?”

“They weren’t especially cruel, not in the worst sense of the word. Just old-fashioned. Not used to the idea that a girl can be as intelligent as any man.”

I laughed behind my napkin. “They let you keep music, it seems.”

“I threw hours of my day into practice. Don’t you know? Stories can be found in music.”

She folded her hands around her teacup and actually leaned back in her chair.

“Now tell me, is there anything that you have lost that I can replace for you? If you have need of novels, we have quite a library.”

“Thank you. I do have