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

Mrs. Dearberg, one of mother’s friends, wished to inquire if I had satisfactory lodgings and invited me to be a companion. She is kind, but I can’t abide her four cats. Or the smell of her town house. Kind but unthinkable. I shall reply directly in the negative.

The second was a long missive from Mrs. Smith, a family acquaintance. It has given me the most pause...I still do not know what I shall do. I am invited to the lake this summer. The lake... I’ll say nothing to Aunt and Uncle yet. A swell of hope flooded my heart at this prospect. Of course I shall go.

I spent the day stitching happily at little Ruby’s hems thinking only of the lake and who might be there. How could I know that by evening all such notions would have to be abandoned?

Violets grow in profusion here. Aunt has me picking every last one of them to turn into both medicinal ointment and syrup. This is happy work comparably. Helen and Kirsten sing songs to keep their minds occupied while helping in the vegetable garden. The farm has a different tempo now that Mr. Bleu isn’t here. He lent a solid presence to this place, though I can’t explain why.

I watched time tick by on the mantel piece, tiny human-shaped clock hands at the end, pointing with open palms as if time itself is an offering. I had been helping Aunt wash down the iron bedframe with a scalding bucket of lye soap water.  I glanced out the wavy window glass to see Chess ride up on his unmatched Thoroughbred. Thus, my secret escape to my beloved lake, irretrievable. I waited too long to reveal my plans or set them in stone.

Wreathed in smiles, Helen ran to Aunt, holding a scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. “It’s here!”

“You’ll no doubt be ready to start sewing on your white gown.” Aunt smiled back.

“Here,” Helen handed me the scroll without looking. “I already know what’s inside.” I lay my rag aside and dried my hands on my apron. I slid the ribbon off. An invitation. I should have known.

I scanned the words, but Helen cut in, speaking swiftly. “The most important event all year. Cedar Gate’s ball must be attended at all costs!”

“Well, hopefully without too much cost, my dear.” Aunt smiled.

“A ball...” I had been to a few galas like this. Miserable affairs. All hopes for romance were always quashed with sticky spilled punch and beauty unnoted. I would sit for most of the event with moping school friends who were equally shunned in favor of highly polished living dolls. I did not despise the beauties. I despaired at the boys who failed to be gentlemen.

Helen obviously enjoys this annual ball, I might yet hope.

Aunt placed her hands on her hips and nodded to me. “You are to be the guest of honor.”

Heat flooded my face and moved clear down my arms. “Why on earth would I be the guest of honor?!” How very strange and unexpected...

“Mrs. MacDonald has taken a liking to you,” Helen said. “Last year she chose the minister.”

I’d never heard of such a thing. I peeked at the invitation, and there, in finely scripted hand, was my name. What? “How many people usually come to this?”

“Oh, never less than four hundred.”

Four hundred souls would see my name scribed as a guest of honor, the date smack when it shouldn’t be. My opportunity to join the lake party gone. I couldn’t possibly reject this invitation and snub a community I hoped would become my home.

Aunt noticed my consternation. “Don’t worry, dear. Think of it as a community event.”

Helen grinned, “And a chance to meet the local bachelors!”

“Bachelors...” Only one face came to mind.

“You do know how to dance?” Helen spun in a circle.

“Yes, a little.”

“Good thing we have a month to practice.”

I smiled, knowing I needed to appear pleased about this. True, I enjoy elaborate hair styles and ball gowns, but I know that I won’t feel a Cinderella-beauty in a black dress. Going could be advantageous. Truth will seep out and I will see this town’s character under bright, glistening candles.

I fingered the pocket knife tucked within my apron pocket. Does Mr. Bleu go to dances? Or hide behind the mirror?

JAMES OPENED HIS INVITATION yet again, marveling at Dorothy’s name embossed in the center as the guest of honor. He could not have predicted this. To be invited was one thing, but to be the honored guest meant meeting nearly every soul in town. Could she handle their studied assessment? Being observed under a magnifying glass? Gosh, if she only knew the whole of it, life would become easier. Still, Hammond insisted they wait. But he’d promised her no more secrets. Ah, well. Wasn’t his secret to reveal. Or was it?

He struggled all afternoon. Prayed. She needed help to get through this night. Hammond would not be sufficient, if he even dared show his face in the ballroom. But yes, he’d be there for her when eyebrows raised at her name. When and if anyone told tales. That is, if she’d have him.

APRIL 21, 1880

April flew by with tilling, planting, and birthing. I went along with each household duty like a tolerated servant. Did I think I’d earn the freedom trust brings? No. More work instead, though I work considerably slower than my cousins. I didn’t inherit a farm, I inherited work. How much more embarrassing would it be to sit idle and watch everyone else go about securing our daily rations?

True, I did delight in the blossoming trees. In my spare moments I also delighted, surprisingly, in the silent graveyard. Little by little, I wished my parents had been buried here. I began chatting to mother’s first husband. Am I going crazy? I’d pull out the pocket knife Mr. Bleu gave me and accustomed myself to carving on all manner of stems and sticks.