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

One afternoon, I carved notches down a smooth twig, small dips spaced an inch apart. Perhaps to organize colored threads as I embroidered. Its rustic, useful nature attracted me. I must have appeared very pleased with myself. Soft footsteps jolted me from my project—I only hoped it wasn’t an escaped bull. Quite the opposite.

“Good afternoon, Miss Trafton.” He tipped his hat.

Mr. Bleu had never sounded so pleasant. I was surprised to feel such gladness at seeing him. “Mr. Bleu! Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays. Precisely.” He’d dressed better than in farmer’s garb. The cut of his jacket like those worn in the city. His hand grasped a curvy walking stick, worn with much use.

A light smile poised over his sturdy chin. “Spring is quite busy on the farm. We’ll be planting next week.”

“Isn’t it too early?”

“Not this far south.”

“Ah. We have been extra busy too. I’ve learned how to wear work-boots—see?”

“Still looks brand new.” He grinned.

Did he not see the multiple scratches? I had earned them with a modicum of pride. I covered the tops with my skirt. One I’d recently patched myself.

“I came to ask the honor of accompanying you to the Cedar Gate Ball.” His face melted into that serious expression I’d known first. His handsome side, his scarred side, all one man.

I did not think twice. “Thank you, Mr. Bleu. You shall save me a thousand humiliations.” I shook my head “I can’t believe I was made the guest of honor. Whatever was she thinking?”

“Imagine how I felt the year I held that position.” His brows rose in complete understanding. Perhaps more.

“Oh, they didn’t!”

He cracked that smile again. “Don’t you think I rather deserved it?” He stepped close and tapped the air at my forehead. “Ah ha, I know what goes through that mind of yours.”

I wanted to crawl into the grave with Mr. Birch. Well, not quite. I had grown accustomed to his features. “You hinted about such feelings.”

“I did indeed.” He leaned against a headstone. “I was horrified. Took every ounce of pride to show this wretched face amongst the roses of Paris.”

My compliment didn’t seem to matter. “I can’t imagine. You are still quite handsome.” My face burned, but I wanted him to know. Perhaps he would never hear this from anyone else.

“Had my pick of them, and could scarce get away for fresh air.” He took a lethal swipe at heady grass with his walking stick.

“What?”

“Surprised, Miss Trafton?”

“Jealous! I’ve personally never been so desired a partner. In fact, I nearly despise balls. They spoil plans and hopes.”

“I agree, one should not put too much hope in them. Honestly, Miss Trafton, each of those Paris roses had been required to dance with me.” He made a silly face. “Mr. MacDonald had paid them off with a length of silk each.”

“Scandalous!”

“Not at all. He wanted to teach me a lesson. Help me get used to this.” His index finger zigzagged across his face.

As if one who had suffered needed to be taught a lesson! A devilish thing to do. “So, you are no longer embarrassed...by the scars?”

His mouth twitched.

Humiliation swept over me like an ocean wave, drenching my thoughts and, thankfully my words.

“You’re turning all shades, Miss Trafton.”

“I do not want you to be self-conscious.” I blubbered.

“Aren’t you also?”

“That’s different.”

“Hardly.”

I stood and the pocket knife slid to the ground. We both stooped to pick it up, but I tumbled a bit forward. His arms slid around me—pushed me to my feet, and I became weak at my knees. He gazed into my eyes like we had an understanding. Like we both needed to be strong for different reasons.

He released me and picked up the knife. “Never forget to close the blade.” And snapped it shut. He handed it to me with a smile.

“This was an extravagant gift.”

He nodded in agreement. “It was time to let it go. Belonged to my sister.”

I looked down at the knife resting in my palm. “You loved her dearly.”

“Yes. I had it made for her twelfth birthday.”

“And the Latin inscription?”

“Fortuis in arduis. Bravery in difficulty.”

He understood. I needed to be brave. What had been his sister’s difficulty? He did not offer an explanation. Nor did I ask.

We walked back to the house slowly in the twilight to the quirky farm music. He took his meal with us and rode back in darkness.

I fingered the pocket knife with more reverence than before. Mr. Bleu’s sister...what had she been like? And gone at such a young age.

We all have had losses. Loss is everywhere, but gain is also. I asked the Lord to show me this kind of harvest.  To see more good than tragedy so that I can rise up out of this never ending melancholy.

I try to imagine myself in a scene of upmost happiness: what does it look like and include? I placed myself before the old fireplace at home, always, with books, chocolates, toast and tea—I’m never alone. My favorite two people cannot enter the scene again because they are gone!

I’m struck by the idea that I need new favorites to fill these places. Is that possible? Because the fireplace is soothing by oneself for a short time before I must have a friend to share it with. A contented gathering is joy.

I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and crept downstairs to the parlor. The grate lay empty and perfectly swept. No need for cozy scenes until autumn arrives. I traced the square millwork in the moonlight knowing I must choose this hearth inasmuch as I was chosen for it.

No mistake. I’m meant to be here. This time, the knowledge didn’t stab sharply, but secured me.

Aunt and Uncle’s soft laughter flowed from the other end of the house. Ernst joined them. Helen and Kirsten sang a song in soft tones from their snug feather bed. I prayed nothing ever happens to disturb this sweet family life.

Chapter 16

MAY 2, 1880

Morning sun pried my eyes open.