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

I caught sight of Helen’s wistful face as she stood at the edge of the crowd. How she wishes to be where I am. I wished she were as well.

“Thank you for the honor of dancing,” he bowed. He nodded to Mr. Bleu, who leaned alone against a Grecian pillar in the ball room.

He pushed away from the pillar. “Care for a walk about the grounds?”

“A bench under a tree so I can catch my breath!” I dabbed my kerchief across my forehead.

He led me to a stone bench near the courtyard I’d seen from the music room. He didn’t fill the air with talk, but let me sit in the quiet. I was grateful. I needed time to gather and collect the strange feelings to make room for new delightful ones, if they were to be had.

I had hoped to go home early, but at this suggestion, Mr. Bleu shook his head. “The guest of honor must stay for dessert and at least another dance.” He reached his hand for mine. “Come.” It was not a request.

Back into the fray we went, more introductions, flatteries, waving fans. Strawberries and cream eaten.

Helen and Kirsten were dancing with boys and looking quite more grown up than they’d seemed when I first moved to the farm—even half an hour ago. They’d remembered to be a little more reserved.

A country dance—and Mr. Bleu propelled me to join the line-up. I have to say that I enjoyed this more than any other so far. Mr. Bleu smiled a great deal, regardless of the slight scar twisting at his lip. It was as though we were supposed have some silliness for that moment. As if God looked down and gladly joined the frolic.

Light hearted, light footed. I was caught in a tangle with Helen and we both laughed as if this had been a barn dance. I’d thought that care-free part of me was gone. Not so.

Mr. Bleu and I promenaded beneath the arch of arms, followed by the rest of the dancers. The danced slowed and became more formal and softened to a stop. Abundance spilled out of my heart—and all I’d done was dance.

Moments later, a more serious dirge began. The crowd backed away to reveal Mrs. MacDonald seated on a fringed ottoman, flute poised to her lips. She played solo for several minutes—a tune I’d never heard before. Other flutes joined in and then the violins... beginning in soft earnest tones, then bursting upward and outward.  Deep questions contrasted with rich answers leaping from flute to violin in conversation. The question and answer twined with understanding and trailed off into a distant peace.

I glanced at Mr. Bleu, seemingly lost in this otherworldly melody. He must have felt my gaze, his eyes captured mine.

I knew without a doubt then. Though I dared not label it for what it was. Nor will I yet.

We thanked our hosts and Mr. Bleu left to retrieve the gig and take me home. I stood lonely on the porch, in the starry night wondering much, but thinking little. My heart couldn’t hold it all in.

We drove home in near silence. When we arrived, he spoke. “You must come see my farm. I will set a plan with you all in the morning.” He nodded as if the details were settled.

“Thank you for helping me through tonight. Would have been most difficult without you.” I stole a glance at his profile.

He helped me down and released me. Aunt stood at the front door in her wrapper, lantern in hand. “Come, have some tea before you retire.”

Uncle let the girls off at the door. I hadn’t seen him all night, but he had a ridiculous grin on his face and a large basket for Aunt. “Mrs. MacDonald sends her best!”

“Well, she certainly does!” Aunt pawed through the wares.

Helen and Kirsten moved wistfully into their home, as if in a dream. We all gathered around the table with teacups in our hands, too tired to speak. I felt myself melting into the cup, and betook myself to bed.

I did hear Uncle mumbling some tidbit to Mr. Bleu. They continued mumbling for the next several minutes...Uncle’s baritone voice traveled on the very beams of this house. I knew they would discuss me. But drowsiness dulled my irritation by half. I crawled between my sheets with no other longing but sleep.

Mr. Bleu didn’t bother to trek home but made his way to the attic cot, his tread leaving no sign but the stair squeak. I could not keep the memory of his gaze even if I wanted to. Dark and drowsy, down, down I went.

My eyes still prickle from exhaustion, but at least the story is scribbled down for modernity. Aunt is cooking a large breakfast. I think this time, I will not pass up her coffee.

Chapter 17

MAY 11, 1880

I must have gaped when Aunt told me. “I reckon you can walk to town on your own now.” Her head gave a little dip, a gentle shove from the nest.

Everyone else was much too occupied to walk with me. I involuntarily shivered. The minister and his wife expected me within the hour. This forced both my independence and a breathless stride. I’d be dusty upon arrival.

Helen tossed her mother a pleading look, which was expertly ignored. Her life, more than mine, was completely tied to the farm except for Sundays and the occasional invitation. Her school days over, she must long for companionship—and a chance to beam at the young men in town. No wonder she’d had only eyes for Chess—the only single male who did occasionally come by. I wondered why she’d ignored his brother.

What if I met strangers or snakes along the way?  I felt for the pocket knife. Never mind that I’d been trekking about the farm on my own for a few weeks now and hadn’t experienced anything frightful.  Little good it would