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

Self-consciousness swirled around me in a terrifying merry-go-round. If only he’d turn back so I didn’t have to face this curious crowd. Or wonder what he was thinking.

The evening weather was quite perfect, though I could hardly enjoy it. Warm without heat, breezes, no sign of rain. We spoke little as we rattled down the only gravel road leading to Cedar Gate.

Dozens of wagons and gigs were parked around the barn and torches lined the path to the steps. I hardly noticed being helped down, and found some moments later, my arm in Mr. Bleu’s. We climbed the porch steps.

Uncle stood at the doorway, hands in his pockets. “You waited for us. Thank you, Uncle!” How kind of him.

He answered with a weak smile. Another man came up the steps and clapped him on the back. “Ready to see the mares?”

And off he went, without regard to helping me be introduced. My own father would not abandon me like this. I tightened my hand around Mr. Bleu’s arm as he propelled me through the large gathering and into the foyer where Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald stood greeting everyone. Chess and his brother ended the line with a gaggle of girls making eyes at them.

I spied Helen on the outskirts. She mustn’t seem obvious. What a poor chicken she looked, hardly able to smile but still hoping for his glance all the same. This was the moment she’d pinned too many wild hopes on these several weeks. Kirsten stood directly behind her. Aunt needed to be here, needed to teach them a little more decorum. I certainly couldn’t help.

A small hand touched mine. “Our honored guest! I wish you a delightful evening!” Mrs. MacDonald had that same all-knowing glimmer in her eyes as the day we had tea. “Let me introduce my husband.”

I curtsied. “Mr. MacDonald. What a fine looking farm you have.”

He gave a quiet bow. “It only looks fine with a profit, mind you.”

Mr. Bleu threw his head back and laughed. Had I missed a joke of sorts?

“All the same. You have the best views in the county, I shouldn’t wonder.” I hoped to please him with these words.

“Aha! You haven’t seen James’s acreage yet if you dare to say that.” He grinned. “You’ll have to give the little lady a tour. See what she’s missed.”

I snapped my head to see Mr. Bleu’s expression and saw nothing there. Not a hint of anticipation.

Perhaps he isn’t interested in making a match, I thought. Surely, he would have been more agreeable to the idea if he was. Strange to think that I have been here for a few months and have never been invited to see his holding.

This brought an immediate serving of scant relief, followed by a heaping dish of mortification. If I couldn’t even catch a fellow such as scarred Mr. Bleu, then spinsterhood would likely be my lot. No, no, no! I shan’t think such hopeless thoughts, besides being unfair to him...This gala was bringing out the worst of my vanities. I quieted my catty thoughts.

Music began in the ballroom, strings and woodwinds mingled together, tuning up, then dipping into light music.

Chess shook my hand. “And here’s the May Day queen herself.” He and his brother gave exaggerated bows. “Might I have the fourth dance?”

“Oh, why yes. Of course. Thank you.”

“Sure.” He winked. His brother abandoned his post.

Mr. Bleu pulled me to the punch table and offered me lemonade. Crystal and candlelight sparkled on every surface, leaving his scars to the shadows. The man before me was perfectly handsome. I could hardly swallow the sweet tart liquid for staring.

“I thought you’d be thirsty after the ride. Ah, here comes Mr. MacDonald.”

He gave his light bow again. “We are to open the dancefloor. If you please.” He held out his arm and I had to take it. Why hadn’t anyone warned me? I should have realized this would be expected.

The waltz began. Mr. MacDonald was good enough on his feet to make this fairly easy, and yet I felt the eyes of every person. I’m thankful I can’t hear their opinions or mutterings. If only my imagination would stay calm.

I tried to find Mr. Bleu. His back was turned, in deep conversation, gesturing with his hands, nodding as if in on a secret.

Other couples joined us. The waltz went on for a long time, and hardly a bit of conversation between us. Mr. MacDonald is a quiet man compared to his wife.

Then Mr. Bleu swirled past me, Helen on his arm. She laughed at something he’d said—her posture dictated comfort. A brother of sorts was no threat to her ego. He is good to the family.

The song ended and Mr. MacDonald led me off the floor, back to the punch table. He quickly introduced the minister and his wife and took his leave. They were very polite people, agreeable to any sort of conversation. “How did I like Paris? How good it is to live with family. How fortunate I am to have them.”  My “Yes, indeed!” easily answered these simple queries. I wondered if the minister could ask or answer true questions. Not just the polite ones.

“How do you swallow the ever-coming tide of death?” Of course, I could not speak this out loud. And I already knew the answer. One can’t simply gulp down that analogy. Especially not in pleasant company. I turned my mind back to happier thoughts, such as God showing me what I had to live for right now. His ever-present gifts. I gazed around, averting my eyes from the kind minister’s wife to the glitter and glory—

She patted my hand with her lace-covered ones, and with eyes that reminded me of uncloudy sky, spoke, “You are absolutely beautiful this evening!”  The roses in her cheeks lifted into a smile as though she actually believed what she said.

I had hoped and imagined for true questions and answers with this couple. I also knew it wasn’t the time or