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

place. And yet, when she spoke, I had difficulty believing it. I wanted to believe that I was beautiful. Desperately. As much as every woman wants. But I felt her words were meant to strengthen me rather than make me vain. That God’s creation would be, could be nothing less. Even me.

Her husband gave me more lemonade and began to discuss what books I enjoyed reading. At first, I suspected him of assessing my character by identifying how I took my pleasure, but found I had a mutual friend when it came to despising Edgar Poe’s poetry and thoroughly enjoying Mr. Dicken’s Nicholas Nickleby.

“Mr. Dickens understands that humanity needs little help from the devil to destroy itself and others in the wake of sin.” His keen eyes blinked to see if I held onto his meaning. “But truth, truth will break it all to pieces and set life aright. Ken my meaning?”

“I do, sir.”

His wife admonished. “It’s not Sunday, Dearest.”

This did not stop him. “And what other truth is there but love, Himself? He is the answer to every question.” He nodded in such certainty.

I stood there mumbling, I believe. I was hardly aware that Mr. Bleu stood behind me. His voice vibrated behind my ear, “Truth is, I’ve neglected you.”

“I’ve been getting to know our well-read preacher.”

He pointed his finger, his wife flushed with embarrassment. “Have you read Martin Chuzzlewit?”

I shook my head.

“Aha. Come ‘round on Tuesday for tea. You can fetch it then.”

I looked to his wife for confirmation. “I’d love to have you.”

“Then I shall see you on Tuesday.” They nodded and swirled around to greet other parishioners.

Mr. Bleu place my hand within his arm again. “I hope you aren’t too bored?”

“Certainly not. They seem very kind.”

“He can talk books all day if you let him.”

“I daresay I might too.”

“Have some mercy on his wife, come Tuesday.” He grinned. “Care to dance?”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer but simply led me to the floor. I had not mentally prepared for this inevitability. How it would be to face him. I reminded myself that he was a friend, not a love match. Yet dancing seems very intimate. Close.

The Charming Waltz presented its trills and glides and we moved along with it. I thought of the myriad of local girls that had been bribed to dance with him. His reaction puzzled me. Instead of anger, he had been grateful for the practice of being seen.

“I would not have needed a bribe.” Had I said this aloud? Surely not.

His lips parted and his eyes bolted to mine. “I didn’t need a bribe to dance with you either.” He raised that brow again. “Although a bolt of burlap might have been a good incentive.” He laughed.

“Burlap? You’d trade a dance with me for common burlap?”

“How do you know I already haven’t?”

Suddenly all humor left me. My arms dropped from his, but he caught them back up.

“Chin up, Miss Trafton. People are watching.”

I continued to dance with him, though a dark cloud hovered.

“My jest was not in good taste.”

I only nodded. I was relieved when the dance was over.

Mrs. MacDonald came to me then and showed me about the various rooms and where supper would be served. She introduced me to the mayor, the sheriff, and their wives. Other dignitaries and a multitude of townsfolk that will take me a long time to remember. Many gracious smiles and swaying plumes atop towering hair, “I recall your mother, dear. She was a saint,” they’d said more than once. What, I wondered, did that make me?

I caught sight of Ernest talking with a sweet looking girl with a long braid tossed over her shoulder. Perhaps he plans to marry soon? Another hard-working mistress on the farm. I stuffed my chagrin and gave him an encouraging nod. He blushed down his collar.

Kirsten and Helen stood in a group of girls by the staircase, glancing up every time a young man walked by, inciting nervous giggles.

The call was made to dinner, and Mr. Bleu arrived to take my arm. I would request to leave soon after. What had the preacher said about truth? I needed to find out if he’d been coerced. “Did my Uncle beg you to escort me?”

“What difference does it make?”

Why did he always turn the question back to me? I felt like stamping a foot.

He leaned in. “It was my prerogative to ask, with or without your uncle. I am surprised this matters to you.”

His answer both inspired and rankled me.

“It matters because I fear I’m being played as a chess piece. If I am, I don’t want to be in the game.”

“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “I play no games, Miss Trafton.”

“Receipts are not a game?”

His jaw tightened. I shouldn’t have mentioned them. “My receipts, as with any other business matters are mine alone and should never be common knowledge.” He pulled a chair for me. “You know why I showed them to you.”

So much for my heartfelt apology and determination to leave the matter be.

He sat down. The long rows of tables, all decked with cascading ivy in silver vases, early roses scattered here and there. “We will discuss this another time. Not here.”

I nodded. Why did I always seem to keep accusing this man of being less than congenial? I am beginning to admire him, and yet I toss out runaway thoughts and mention them before I can check myself.

“I don’t know why I mentioned it. Truly.” He seemed to accept my words.

Others joined us at the table—some of Mr. Bleu’s friends and their wives. He introduced me and I received the same respectable nod, “How do you do?” but little else. I knew none of whom they talked about, leaving me at a loss besides what lay in my plate. Chicken croquettes with white sauce, minted peas, rolls, jellies, ham...A safe quietness stole over my heart. A smile bubbled. Perhaps Aunt’s silent suppers are rubbing off on me.

I should have endeavored more meaningfully with the other