Today's post is a long one, so perhaps bookmark it for when you have time to enjoy your favorite drink and put your feet up.
In honor of Independence Day, tomorrow, I'm sharing an excerpt from "Before The Blood: Bryony Simons," which includes an Independence Day celebration.
The main character, Bryony Marseilles, is being raised in a fictional fishing village in Northern Michigan (Munsonville), by her stern, bitter, and strict widower father, pastor of a rather generic little church.
Her father runs a Thursday night "humanities" society at the parsonage, which is where Bryony, at seventeen and extremely sheltered, meets her future husband, who's more than a decade older than she (as you can imagine, that marriage doesn't go well).
John Simons is an internationally renowned pianist and composer, who wound up visiting Munsonville for reasons too convulated to mention here.
This excerpt opens with an ice cream social in honor of Munsonville's founder Owen Munson and object of Bryony's childhood infatuation (her teen infatuation was with Henry Matthews, whom her father had hired to paint her portrait for not the most honorable reasons).
Owen had died unexpectedly five years prior to the event, which is where Bryony runs into John (literally runs into him) for the second time.
This excerpt also introduces a slew of other characters who are attending both events.
BEFORE THE BLOOD, BRYONY SIMONS, CHAPTER 2: ICE CREAM SOCIAL
Thou hast ravished my heart with one of
thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. (Song of Solomon, Canticle 4:9)
On Tuesday June 28, the villagers
held an ice cream social in honor of the fifth annual Munson Day.
"Ice
cream social" was a misnomer, for in addition to the sweet treat served up
at Munsonville Inn for five cents a half-cup serving, the Ladies Aid held a
picnic on the church lawn and charged a quarter.
Some
men grilled fish on metal grates; some drank Grandpa Clyde’s cold brew from oak
barrels banded in nickel brass; and some did both. The smoky air promised a
succulent feast. For Bryony, even though she still ate meat, a stewed rib had
nothing on a charred walleye.
Women
spread out their garden bounties, as well as boiled beans, potato salad, bread,
and short cake with berries with help from the angelic, and very Irish,
"ministering spirits."
All
seven girls had a rose tint to their flaxen hair; all seven had rounded limbs
and cherubic faces; all seven were nimble with a needle. Only their
personalities differed.
Alannah,
sixteen, was calm and sensible. Briana, fourteen, was impulsive and energetic.
Caitlin, eleven, was sunny and pleasant. Dana, ten, was smart in a bookish sort
of way. Erin, nine, was outspoken and self-assured. Fiona, eight, could not
speak; indeed, she had never spoken, although she had the most expressive blue
eyes. Isleen, seven, made up for her sister's silence. She was the family
chatterbox.
Under
the wing of, and along with, their mother Kate Miller, these girls of willing
hands and hearts served wherever needed: young mothers with husbands on
extended fishing or lumbering trips; single men who had no one to cook, clean,
and mend for them; and invalids whose families required respite with the
feeding, bathing, and changing of bed linens.
But
today, even the youngest of the village's children helped by dutifully rolling
pewter flatware into squares of clean cloth and setting them into a tub for
serving.
The
resulting funds would help purchase "morally sound books" for the
Munsonville Library, to help offset the "flabby minds" novel-reading
was producing,
Or so Mrs.
Parks spouted one afternoon while she and Bryony snapped green beans for
dinner.
"So
you're cancelling your subscription to the Times?"
"Don't
get fresh with me. It's a modern woman's duty to be aware of the world."
"As
in serials and the society page."
Mrs.
Parks smacked Bryony's cheek. "Impudence! Your father might tolerate your
back talk, but don't try it with me!"
Subdued,
Bryony kept snapping. Mrs. Parks hadn't struck her for years, not since Bryony
had grown tall enough to scream in her face. What had gotten into her?
Now,
on Munson Day, Bryony watched the crowds as she and Susan helped make lemonade.
A couple hundred now dwelled in Munsonville, Reverend had said last week in a
disgusted tone, and these included the visitors staying at the inn, who'd heard
Lake Munson was an excellent location for walleye fishing.
"Fuck
dem outsiders," Gus Griffith said loud enough for Bryony and Susan to
hear. The old lumberjack’s face and hands were as rugged and brown as the bark
of a sugar maple, but with all its vitality. "We left the world for a
reason."
The
girls glanced at each other as they stirred lemon syrup into pitchers of water.
"Why
would he say that?" Bryony wondered aloud. "More people means more
ideas. It's like a giant meeting of Father's Society for the Humanities.
"More
people means more trouble. Nosy people. Sticking their noses in our business.
Wish they'd go home."
"You're
just afraid someone will lure Erland away," Bryony teased her and then
stopped at the panic in Susan's cornflower eyes as they roamed to the crude
table where the tall, blond, muscular
Scandinavian twins quickly filleted one fish after another.
"Girls!
A little less talking and a little more mixing, please."
"Yes,
Mrs. Bass," they said in unison.
Now
that Mrs. Sally Bass had grown stout; her blonde curls were graying; and the
mole by her mouth was fleshy and sprouted hair, she'd swapped flirting for
bossing, although she was still, arguably, the best cook in the village.
"I
am not afraid," Susan whispered once Mrs. Bass started cutting bread and
gossiping with an even larger Mrs. Maybelle Fisher, the mother of the deceased
Fisher girls, whose abundant brown hair was just showing streaks of gray.
"If the twins were 'lurable,' Millicent Gothart would have already done
it. Bryony, I truly believe she has an evil eye."
"I
don't believe in such things," Bryony said too quickly.
She
would never forget the pregnant Mrs. Fisher sprawled on the ground, scratched and bleeding, clutching loyal Blue
as he writhed, snarled, and tore up the ground.
The smile on
Millicent's face as it happened...chilling.
And
then, because Susan looked so miserable, Bryony added, "But if evil eyes
did exist, Millicent would own two."
A
squeal and then "Mama! Mama!" as five-year-old Jasmine Fisher grabbed
Mrs. Fisher's skirts with her chubby fists as eight-year-old-Matilda Drake
tapped her, screaming, "You're it!"
Two-year-old
Violet Fisher, napping on a blanket near Mrs. Fisher's feet while Mrs. Fisher
talked to Mrs. Drake, woke up and wailed, adding to the chorus. She, along with
Jasmine and Marigold, also eight, had the dark ringlets of their older sisters,
and it hurt Bryony to look at them, for it made her remember serene summer
evenings, when she and Rose gossiped and brushed each other's hair.
"Remember
when we played 'hide and seek,' Bryony?"
"Yes.
In the cemetery."
Bryony
didn't add "with Freddie" but Susan remembered anyway and brushed her
sleeve across her eyes.
"And
now he's dead. And so's Robbie and Mama. And most of our Fisher sisters.
Bryony, why do things change?"
Susan
naturally didn't mention the death of her oldest brother Denny. Because Denny
had hurt Susan. And then Susan hurt him back. It was the first secret she and
Susan shared, and they never shared it again.
"I'm
not 'it!' I'm not! I'm not!"
Mrs.
Fisher wrapped an arm around Jasmine as she bent over her thick waist to soothe
a cranky Violet. "It' all right, honey, it's all right. Shhh, Violet,
Mama's here."
In
vain, Matilda brushed away the wispy hair clinging to her pink cheeks while
squatting down to pat the plump little girl, too.
"I
don't want to be it!" Jasmine pouted.
"If
you don't want to be 'it,' honey, you have to catch someone."
"Catch
me, Jasmine!" called Matilda's eleven-year-old brother Norton who had the
same flaxen hair as his little sister, just neatly combed. "Catch
me!"
"Go
on, honey." Mrs. Fisher gave her a little nudge. "Go play the game.
You'll have ever so much fun. Chase him and see if I'm not right."
Jasmine
scrunched her fists and charged in Norton's direction as fast as her fat little
legs allowed. But somehow Norton couldn't run very quickly, and he tripped over
a stick on the ground, even though Bryony couldn't see one.
"It!"
Jasmine triumphantly yelled as she slapped his shoulder and tumbled over him.
"Ow!"
Norton shouted. "You got me!"
Marigold
screamed and good-naturedly pushed five-year-old Abe Betts, Susan's nephew, who
watched the fun with wide eyes and fingers hanging from his mouth.
"Run,
run!" Marigold yelled.
Abe's
four-year-old brother Ned, as slender and sandy-haired as Abe, tripped after
them whooping like an Indian, not understanding the commotion, but happy to add
to it.
"Ladies
and gentlemen!" Mayor James Fisher bellowed into a megaphone. "Pastor
Demars will now say grace!"
Mayor
Fisher passed the megaphone to Prince Charming. Rounder than ever, Mayor Fisher
still wore a full beard, although his face had lost its "baby" look,
and he no longer needed the camouflage. The recent deaths of his oldest
daughters had left deep furrows in his brow and a sad dullness in his eyes.
"Bow
your heads," Pastor Demars boomed.
A
hush fell over the crowd as the revelers complied, broken only by an infant's
cry and Mr. Parks' oblivious, "And that durned fish, Teddy..."
"Shhhh!"
Mr.
Parks reddened at this chastisement from mousey Ida Betts, scarcely older than
Bryony and swollen in the middle with her third child, as she held onto her
wriggling sons by their shirt sleeves.
"For
what we are about to receive," Pastor Demars shouted, "May the Lord
make us truly grateful."
Resounding
"Amens!" and the chatter began anew as the celebration swarmed to the
food tables.
"Double
lines!" Mr. Teddy Bass, Sally's husband, shouted as he jumped on a chair
and cupped his hands on either side of his smooth-shaven pockmarked face.
"Form! Double! Lines!"
Ida
let go of Abe and Ned, and they sped off, unaware the game had dissipated. Paulie Betts, their
father and one of Susan's skinny brothers, walked up with a plate of food, took
Ida by the hand, and led her to a tree.
Bryony
glanced at Luther and quickly glanced away. Luther would offer no such
gallantry today. He and his brother Leo, and even their parents Dick and Lula
Hassett, were meandering the grounds, writing descriptions and jotting
comments.
How
funny to see lean Mr. Hasset in his red-spotted bowtie and handlebar mustache,
and elegant Mrs. Hasset in her slate gown with the high lace color and tiny
pearl buttons, helping with the interviews.
"The
Times needs more staff," Susan said aloud. "I told you. Too many
people."
"Then
it shouldn't be hard to find more reporters." Bryony picked up a plate.
"C'mom. Let's get some food and sit near the twins."
"Oh,
I couldn't!" Susan stopped short at Bryony's grin. "You! Besides,
they're preoccupied. Look."
Erland
and Erasmus Borgstrum, each with a shock of blond hair that flopped onto their
foreheads at identical angles, sat Indian-style across the yard beneath an old
oak, devouring fish sandwiches and conversing with Millicent Gothart, who had
positioned herself on a chair in front of them, plate on her lap, like an
redheaded queen holding court.
"I'm
sure it's innocent," Bryony said with a reassuring pat to Susan's thin
shoulder. "Though they seem less shy now that their English has
improved."
"I'm
glad Mr. Borgstrom is gone. He skeered me."
"Me,
too."
"And
it's good for the Basses, the twins livin' with them. They ain't fightin' as
much. I don' remember the last time either one got a black eye."
While
a black eye on Sally Bass spoilt her complexion, a black eye on Teddy Bass
accentuated his "Man in the Moon" appearance, especially when he
grinned.
Bryony
laughed aloud. "They also don't have Mr. Munson to break up their fights
anymore." Something hurt inside at the mention of her cowboy's name, so
she handed Susan a plate and diverted the subject. "When is Lillian and
Milty's wedding?"
Lillian
was the Hasset's only daughter, now working as a copy editor at the Jenson
Reporter. Milty was Susan's other living brother, slender but not lanky, blond
like the rest of the Betts offspring, and the most book-smart of them all,
which is why Munsonville's former mayor Boswell Pike, chair of the philosophy
department at Jenson College of Liberal Arts, selected Milty to personally
assist him.
"They're
discussing June of next year, but they haven't set a date."
And
that's when Bryony saw him, sitting at the head of a faraway table, eating and
addressing a gathering of rapt listeners. Susan saw him, too.
"You
know why he's still here, Bryony."
"Yes.
Father said he needs time to relax. His performance schedule is busy and
full."
Susan
smiled archly at her. "Then that makes two reasons."
Neither
spoke as they ate. Susan was too busy watching Erland watch Millicent; Bryony
was too busy watching the stranger. She never saw anyone command this type of
attention, not even Father during his Sunday morning sermons.
"The
program will begin soon," Bryony finally said. "We'd better get our
ice cream."
They
stacked their plates in one of the hampers and cut across the grass to Main
Street and then to the inn, each making a side trip to one of the public
outhouses behind the shop buildings.
Bryony
still wasn't used to seeing the three-story building that comprised the inn,
especially a building with a turret. Naturally Father didn't like it, but
Bryony found it exciting and supposed he'd better get used it. With the
school's growth and subsequent additions, the village was discussing the
possibility of building a new school building, one with three stories.
Cyrus
Newton, a skinny little braggart with crooked teeth and thick eyebrows, manned
the front desk of his own inn. In the lobby, three women were scooping up ice
cream out of the round wooden freezers and serving them into pretty fluted
saucers.
These
were Mrs. Bass and the Irish sisters who'd married fishermen: Mrs. Kate Miller,
a tall broad-shouldered woman with thick russet hair and a warm smile; and Mrs.
Mary Cooper, who looked like Kate except her dull locks were brown; her face
was drawn; and she was missing a few teeth.
"Vanilla
or berry?" Mrs. Bass asked.
"Berry,
please," Bryony said.
"Vanilla,
please," Susan said.
In
silence they sucked the frozen treat from their spoons as they wandered back to
the celebration. They could hear Mayor Fisher's voice through the megaphone,
extolling the benefits of living in Munsonville and posthumously lauding Mr.
Owen Munson for founding it.
They
reached the grounds just as the musical program began. The stranger had
vanished.
"He's
gone," Susan whispered.
"I
know," Bryony whispered back.
The
twins were now sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Bass, their guardians ever since their
father's hanging. Mr. and Mrs. Parks were sitting there, too. The other seats
at that table were empty.
"This
way, Susan."
Bryony
took Susan's sweaty hand and led her past the table where the Fishers gathered
with the Drakes and Mr. Griffin and past the tree where Paulie had his arm
around Ida as she rested her head on his shoulder.
"Teddy,
you shoulda seen it," Mr. Parks punctuated his words with a sweep of his
beer mug; the buttons on his homespun shirt strained with pride and extra
helpings; his furry brown mustache glistened with Grandpa Clyde's brew.
"Three feet long from nose to tail."
"Huh.
And where is he now?"
"You
ate 'im for dinner."
"Yeah,
sure."
Bryony
nudged Susan to the empty chair near Erland, which left Bryony sitting next to
Mrs. Parks, and then turned her attention to the program, so she could not see
Erasmus watching Susan watch Erland while Erland watched everyone but Susan.
Hulky
brothers-in-law Mr. Mitch Cooper (head and face full of dark wiry curls) and
Mr. Eugene Miller (whiskerless, receding blond hair), husbands of Mary and
Kate, proved they could sing as well as fish.
They
presented a duet of six of Mr. Munson's favorite cowboy songs, starting with
the fun ones:
I'm lonesome
since I crossed the hill
And over the
moor that's sedgy
Such lonely
thoughts my heart do fill
Since parting
with my Betsey
I seek for
one as fair and gay
But find none
to remind me
How sweet the
hours I passed away
With the girl
I left behind me
Bryony's throat stung and she closed her eyes, the better
to see a stocky
man of average height, cowboy hat topping his bushy black hair, strutted across
Main Street beaming and singing his heart out.
By the end of the first song, many were tapping their
feet and clapping their hands, even Bryony, although ever so lightly. Their
response fueled the vocal fire in these thick-set men as they projected their
rich voices across the yard without a megaphone.
I've
been where the lightning, the lightning, tangled in my eyes;
The cattle I could scarcely hold.
I think I heard my boss man say,
"I want all brave-hearted men who ain't
afraid to die
To whoop up the cattle from morning till night
'Way up on the Kansas line."
A lull settled over the expanse when
Mr. Cooper and Mr. Miller each raised a burly hand
palm-up in the air, hands that had prevailed over the strongest fish and
choppiest waters and now carried the weight of their song, as they quieted
their voices, and harmonized the haunting:
Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Maid with golden hair;
Sunshine came along with thee,
And swallows in the air.
"Why, little Miss Bryony,"
Mr. Munson brandished his handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Why so blue
today?
Because you are gone, Bryony
thought as she watched the two fishermen sing her cowboy's songs. Because you
are never coming back.
O
when I die
Take
my saddle from the wall
Put
it on my pony
Lead
him out of his stall
Tie
my bones to his back
Turn
our faces to the west
And we'll ride the prairies
That
we love the best
"The whole of it." Mr.
Munson stretched his arms as wide as
they would go. "The woods, the water, the hills, the land: it's all
mine.
Tell
me the tales that to me were so dear
Long, long ago, long, long ago
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear
Long, long ago, long long ago
"Look,
little miss, I'm the richest man alive, for the angels tuck me in at night, and
I have a little girl to love." He tapped her cheek twice.
So come sit by my side if you love me.
Do not hasten to bid me adieu.
Just remember the Red River Valley,
And the cowboy that has loved you so
true.
"Now
run along and play with the others. And no more feelin' sorry for me. It's a
wasted feelin' if I'm not feelin' it. Capisci?"
Capisci, Bryony lied in her
heart as the last song ended.
The
schoolchildren's program began. One child after another read brief original
compositions on various aspects of Owen Munson's life, starting with the three
youngest Cooper children (because their oldest sister Mona Griffith taught at
the school), who presented on the topic of codfish.
"To understand why Mr. Munson favored
gill nets for cod, one must understand why..." fourteen-year-old Matt
Cooper slowly read, drawing out each word.
An
accomplished fisherman like his father with the light brown hair of his mother
Mary (on his head and above his upper lip) Matt's baby fat was melting now that
he was growing taller.
"The
best way to debone a cod is to..." chubby ten-year-old Miles read with a
lilt in his voice.
Miles
preferred mending nets to casting them, and fabricating fish to catching them,
whistling all the while, although he could cast and catch with the best when
necessary.
"Mash
codfish and potatoes together for..." nine-year-old Maudie Cooper read
breathlessly, the way she performed most activities, as if she'd just run a
race, which this time she just had, with
eight-year-old Marigold Fisher.
Maudie
blew her disheveled hair off face before she continued with, "the bestest
breakfast..."
"Let this," Mr. Munson said as he
buried the last evidence with his toe, "be our secret. I don't want to
alarm the rest."
She'd let envy rule her heart
instead of good sense. And now her cowboy was never coming back. Father was
right. Envy really was a deadly sin.
The
Harper children read next. Topic: codfish.
"When
salting codfish, remember to completely cover..." fifteen-year-old Maggie,
a confident plump brunette, read in a loud strong voice, holding the paper in
her pudgy right hand while demonstrating the action with her left.
Maggie
would know. The Harpers came from restaurant stock, or so Mrs. Parks had said,
and salted codfish twice as fast as anyone else, which helped expand the
industry into Jenson. When she wasn't in school, Maggie even helped her mother
Linda, also brunette and also plump, cook at Munsonville Inn.
"Pack
codfish carefully in a box before...," thirteen-year-old Percy droned,
scrunching his thin face, trying not to yawn.
Trim
and muscular, an outdoor boy through and through, Percy would rather pack
codfish than read about packing codfish. And it showed in his lackluster
delivery.
"Latht
year, Jenthon ordered more thalted codfith than even..."
Despite
his lisp, twelve-year-old Jasper enjoyed reading his work aloud, especially
when the topic was fishing. Jasper dearly loved to fish, but he was lame and
walked with a crutch, and the damp air often induced a fit of coughing.
Many
times Bryony had watched Jasper bravely wave at his father and Percy as they
headed out onto the lake while he cheerfully contented himself with dropping a
line off the dock.
But,
despite his frequent absences, Jasper was one of the school's top students due
to never neglecting his studies, even when confined to bed with a poultice on
his chest.
"Maple
syruping actually begins in the summer," read twelve-year-old Lila Brown,
an aspiring schoolteacher and a blonde, despite her surname. "According to
Mr. Munson, you must identify which maple trees should..."
If
Bryony listened to anymore, she'd surely cry. She leaned into Mrs. Parks and
whispered, "I'm visiting Mrs. Murphy."
Engrossed,
Mrs. Parks nodded and waved her off. Forcing back hot tears, Bryony blindly
trudged in the direction of the outhouses behind the church, and then skirted
around the other side toward the road. A sob broke out, and she bumped into a
man.
Startled
and embarrassed, she stepped back and looked up. The stranger!
"Oh!
I'm so sorry! Please forgi..."
"Who
are you?"
So
he had forgotten her!
She
ducked around a tree to wipe her eyes, and the stranger popped out on the other
end.
"Mr.
Simons, please!"
She turned to leave, but he took a step, bent near, and seized her wet cheeks. That
alone alarmed her, but it was the intense gleam in his blue eyes that...
"Who
are you?" the stranger repeated. "You are not Munsonville."
"Wha...I..."
"Where
can we talk?"
"Talk?
But we are tal..."
"Privately."
She
glanced back at Mrs. Parks intently nodding her head as fourteen-year-old
Addison Drake shared Mr. Munson's establishment of the lumber trade. No one
would miss her. The stranger's request was most inappropriate, this Bryony knew
from all of Mrs. Parks' lectures, but...well...how dangerous could a
world-famous musician be, especially in a crowd?
"There's
a place. Near the lake. Private because of the oaks, but in the open."
"I'll
follow you."
Bewildered,
Bryony lifted her skirts and traipsed in the direction of her cowboy's cabin,
now one of the storehouses for fishing gear.
She
didn't look back, proof she had listened to Mrs. Parks' teachings, but gazed
only ahead as she left the churchyard as if she didn't care if he followed or
not. He mustn't think she was a fast girl.
Not
a person walked the side road, and she saw only a few on Main Street,
stragglers with their ice cream heading back to the entertainment. Had they
noticed the stranger trailing her, if he indeed he still was? Or did he
prudently keep to the shadows until they passed?
She
crossed Main Street where the fishing cabins lined up and straight for her
favorite tree, an ancient sturdy oak near Mr. Munson's old cabin, where she
often liked to sit, think, smell the fishy spray of the rolling lake, and hum
his old songs.
With
so many homes on the hill now, hardly anyone actually lived in the fishing
cabins, except for single men like Mr. Alex Fate, even though he drove a hack
and didn't fish.
Instead
most of the cabins served as storage space, a meeting place, or an
out-of-the-elements sleeping place for a displaced husband following a marital
spat.
Only
after Bryony settled on the ground and smoothed her skirts did she turn to look
at the stranger, who'd stayed behind the entire time. This man, who walked in
worlds she'd never seen and played before audiences larger than Munsonville's
population, settled on the grassy mound beside her as easily as he might a silk
cushion.
"I
want to know everything about you." He was smiling, not Mr. Munson's broad
smile, Mr. Matthews' taunting smile, or Luther's caring smile, but a trace of a
smile, one Bryony couldn't decipher. "Start at the beginning; don't skip a
detail."
Having
never been formally courted, not even by Luther, Bryony didn't know if the
stranger's question was proper, improper, or part of normal courting behavior.
No
one ever wanted to know anything about her, but why would they? She knew them,
and they knew her.
With
a heavy sigh, she faced the sloshing waters.
"We'll
start slowly. When did you come to Munsonville?"
She was
the lake...
Bryony
looked at him. His face was impassive, his eyes penetrating. She looked away.
"I was born here."
"Here?
In this spot? Or in this village?"
"Well,
almost both. I was born in a cabin, three doors down.
She
pointed to the one. He strained to look.
"How
long did you live there?"
"I
don't know. I was too little."
"Then
how do you know?"
"Mr.
Munson told me."
"Who's
Mr. Munson?"
"Our
leader. He...he died." Her throat caught. Five years, and it still hurt to
say it. "He's the reason for today's celebration."
"Where
is your mother?"
"There."
Bryony pointed back to the hill.
He
turned around. "Where?"
"The
cemetery. She died, too. When I was three."
He
turned back. "Of what?"
"Pneumonia."
"What
was she like?"
"I
don't remember her."
"But
photographs: you have seen those?"
"No,
sir."
"Your
father, perhaps, has described her?"
"No,
sir. He rarely mentions her."
"But
he loved her?"
"I
believe so."
"He
told you she died from pneumonia?"
"No.
Aunt Bertha told me."
"Who
is Aunt Bertha?"
"Our
housekeeper."
"The
witch with the gray beehive and bossy airs?"
A
laugh rang out before she could stop it."The very one."
His
intensity paled to blue crystal. Sharp eyes but full of light. She relaxed,
slightly.
"What
of your other relations?"
"Relations?"
"Brothers,
sisters, grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunties?"
"I've
only Uncle Orville and Aunt Bertha. And Father, of course."
"They
were born here, too?"
"No."
"Then
where?"
"I
don't know."
"And
you're not curious?"
Curious?
Bryony never thought to be curious. But the question from this stranger aroused
her curiosity.
"I
don't know...Mr. Simons."
How
daring to speak such a famous name aloud to the man who owned it!
"Even
if I was curious, I wouldn't comprehend the answer. I only know other places
from books."
She
noted a tinge of incredulity on his face. This change in emotion strangely
emboldened her.
"How
old are you?"
"Seventeen,
Mr. Simons."
"In
all your seventeen years, you've never left this village?"
"Of
course I have left this village. I've been in a boat on the lake. I've been
berry picking in the woods. I've spent summers on Fisher Farm."
"Where
is Fisher Farm?"
"Around
here." Bryony pointed beyond John to the northwest.
"Unbelievable,"
he murmured. "So sheltered, so innocent..."
She
sat up straight. "You act as if I'm ignorant. I may not be a world
traveler, but I know two people you know."
He
chuckled softly and leaned against the trunk. "Indeed? Tell me."
"Well,
I don't exactly know the first one. But I know of him."
"And
who might that be?"
"Seymour
Cassidy."
The
man's smile faded, and so did his color. He moved forward until his nose almost
touched hers. "How?"
Intimidated,
Bryony drew back. "Mrs. Parks said my parents heard him play piano in
Chicago before he moved here. That's why Father wanted to meet you. Because
you're his apprentice."
"And
who might the second person be?"
"Mr.
Henry Matthews."
"Now
how would you know Henry?"
"Father
hired him five years ago to paint my portrait."
"How
does your father know him?"
"A
society man introduced him. You met him at the meeting. Professor Clarke."
He
looked long and hard at her. "Henry is my good friend. He brought me here,
I believe now, to meet you."
"Mr.
Matthews did? But why? Did he...mention me?"
"No."
Her
hopes crashed. So stupid to have wished...
"As
to the 'why,' I can't say until I know for certain."
"But
you will tell me? When you discover the reason?"
"Yes."
The
swoosh of gray-blue waves in the approaching twilight rippled into words she
never meant to say aloud: "I wish he hadn't left so soon."
"Oh?"
She
pulled her attention away from the waves and back to the stranger, his
countenance once again impermeable and incognizant to anything but her.
"Because
he missed the meeting."
"He
did."
"It's
sad about his uncle."
"Very."
"And
about...Agnes King."
"Bryony!"
She
jerked at the sound and then giggled at the sight of Mrs. Parks trying to run
with her skirt held high, which made her look like a galloping centaur. Bryony
jumped to her feet, brushed away twigs with a hasty, "I must go," and
hurried in the direction of the scandalized housekeeper.
Mrs.
Parks upbraided Bryony for her imprudence all the way to the parsonage and
berated Reverend for his careless neglect of his fatherly duties far into the
night.
The following morning,
John left Reverend his card and a note: "May I escort Bryony to the
Independence Day celebration?"
Bryony
silently cheered from the top of the stairs as Mrs. Parks screeched out the
message and screamed for Reverend to come out of his office "this very
instant!"
"I
cannot tolerate his brashness any longer!"
"Mrs.
Parks..."
"First,
he ogles her, then he whisks her away, and now this!"
"Mrs.
Parks, steady yourself. You'll have a fit of apoplexy."
"Reverend,
with all respect due you, I fear your plan will fail."
"My
plan, Mrs. Parks?"
"Yes.
I know full well Luther Hasset wants to court Bryony. And you think by giving
her a taste of hoity-toity, the child herself will want no part of him."
"Mrs.
Parks, this conversation is finished."
"She's
growing up!" Mrs. Parks stormed down the hall after him as he stormed to
his office. "As much as you hate to admit it and can't stand to see it,
she's growing up! And unless you want her to be an old maid who keeps house for
you when daisies are planted over me, you need to..."
Slam!
And
a click.
"You're
making a molehill out of a mountain!"
No
reply from behind the closed door.
"And
you'll rue the day you did!"
She
glared at Bryony and then stomped to the kitchen.
Mr.
Simons arrived promptly at seven Thursday night for the society meeting. For
the first time ever, Reverend banished Bryony from the discussion. But instead
of remaining in her room, Bryony huddled on the stairs and listened for sounds
of the stranger's voice.
He
stayed a long time after the meeting talking with Reverend, the conversation
too muffled to discern through her cracked-open bedroom door.
Neither
Reverend nor Mrs. Parks mentioned Independence Day again.
But
Mr. Simons was still in town. On Saturday, Bryony and Susan stood outside the
inn debating which room held him.
"The
turret," Susan suggested. "Because he's an artist."
Suddenly
uncomfortable with the topic and afraid the stranger would appear and see them
gawking with their necks craned for a better view, Bryony abruptly took off
towards Mr. Drake's store with Susan at her heels.
"So
are you going to the celebration with him?" Susan asked when she caught
up.
"I
don't know. No one's talking at home. Are you going with Erland?"
Susan's
face darkened. "He never asked."
"Maybe
he will."
Susan
didn't reply. Bryony squeezed her hand. "We don't need escorts to have a
good time."
The
villagers would pack picnic lunches and gather on the grass for games during
the day; a brass band from Jenson College of Liberal Arts would play at
twilight after the reading of the Declaration; and artillery officers from
Thornton would light fireworks when it was dark.
For
the first time, Munsonville's Independence Day celebration would feature people
from outside Munsonville, due to the public relations efforts of Misters Betts
and Ashmore.
Munsonville
Inn would also sell a frosted loaf, popular in Thornton, known as Independence
Cake, and Bryony longed to try this food from a land so far away.
More
than once, she and Susan read the advertisement in the window, boasting it was
"flavored with wine and brandy," as well as "rich with nutmeg,
cinnamon, cloves, mace, and citron," and "heavily speckled with currants
and raisins."
"I
can't wait to wear my new dress," Susan said.
"Me
neither."
At
least Susan was happy about something.
Some
of the women, Mrs. Parks, Bryony, and Susan included, had sewn Stars and
Stripes dresses for the grand event, which added to Reverend's disgust even as
it made Mrs. Parks feel "as one" with Betsy Ross.
"The
entire business is flippant and sacrilegious," Reverend said as he reached
for the fish cakes, "and a disgrace to the sobriety of our Founding
Fathers."
"Father,
there's nothing wrong with showing our gratitude for freedom on the outside as
well as the inside. The dresses are modest and pretty."
"If
Sebastian and Blair wanted to live in a city, they should have stayed in one.
This conversation is done."
Whereupon
Reverend opened A discourse Concerning
God's Judgements; Resolving many weighty questions and cases Relating to them and
began reading. Mrs. Parks sighed loudly and poured the coffee.
Bryony
sipped tea, worked her way clockwise around the breakfast plate (fish cakes,
fried potatoes, biscuits, and berries), and gazed past the fluttering curtains
to the old oaks, their leaves bright green in the morning sunshine. Like Susan,
she couldn't wait.
Mr.
Simons called for her the next afternoon promptly at two o'clock. In one hand,
he carried a large picnic basket; in the other, a folded blanket from the inn,
which surely might have caused Mrs. Parks to faint if she'd hadn't been at
home, packing a basket for her and Mr. Parks.
Reverend
was out of sight. His office door was shut. He never attended village
festivities.
"Miss
Marseilles, thank you for the honor."
"You're
welcome."
They
took their time down the dusty road,
where revelers strolled in both directions. The air smelled of sulfur
and reverberated with intermittent booms, which she felt beneath her feet and
in her breast, where her heart beat excitedly at spending an afternoon alone
with the stranger.
They
passed the church yard. Horseshoes, graces, and bowls were already in progress.
Lasses in long skirts and lads in breeches chased hoops while their parents
reclined on blankets amid the feast of their own picnic baskets.
One
little boy repeatedly whacked the trunk of a thick oak with a stick, and Bryony
wondered if John realized that little towhead Benjy Brown, just six, couldn't
wait to be a lumberjack like his father Ben. One never saw Benjy without also
seeing his "ax," which he faithfully used to "fell" the
village's trees.
But
then Bryony saw Luther and his family moving among the picnickers, asking
questions, scribbling responses. Bryony felt a twinge and ducked her head, glad
Luther hadn't seen her.
On
Main Street, men lit firecrackers in the middle of the road while women stood
on the plank walks, watched with covered ears, and admired each other's
patriotic dresses above the din. Bryony glanced at her cotton gown: red and
white striped with white stars printed on the blue cuffs and sash. Addison had
special-ordered the bolts of cloth.
"Shall
we sit at 'our place?'" Mr. Simons asked.
Bryony
blushed. She couldn't help it. How lovely his words sounded! But she couldn't
say that to him. She only said, "Yes, Mr. Simons."
They
headed to Mr. Munson's old cabin, in view of the fun and in sight of the
others. Misters Miller and Cooper sat on a nearby dock with their fishing
poles; wide-brimmed hats shaded their eyes from the water's glare. All in the
open and proper. Mrs. Parks would have no reason to fuss.
Mr.
Simons unfolded the blanket and spread it on the ground, gesturing her to sit.
She sat at one edge, he on the opposite side. Then he opened the basket and
laid out its contents: cold baked fish between buttered buns, an entire meat
and rice pie, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, watermelon from Fisher Farm, cold
lemonade, and two generous slices of the coveted Independence Cake.
It was a lot of food, and they
took their time eating it, silently, while Bryony watched the sun glisten on
the lake, and Mr. Simons watched her.
"Your
dress is pretty," was all he said.
"Thank
you, Mr. Simons."
When
the afternoon grew late, Mayor Fisher donned a megaphone in the middle of Main
Street, called for attention, and began reading the words that separated
America from every country under the sun.
When, in the course of human events,
it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which
have...
America is just like
Munsonville, Bryony thought. Nearly everyone here is from somewhere else and
came here by choice, to "dissolve the bonds" of other ways of life to
create a perfect one here.
Could
anyplace in the world be as wonderful as Munsonville?
She
might never had thought these thoughts were it not for the stranger sitting
across from her, a stranger who only last week questioned her about things
she'd accepted all her life without question. She sat straighter and prouder in
her patriotic dress, feeling like a Founding Father.
We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit
of happiness. That to secure these rights...
She looked at the villagers
gathered in the street and standing in solidarity. She looked at John looking at her with acute concentration.
...with a firm reliance on the protection of
Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and
our sacred honor.
A roaring of cheers that faded
into lively exuberance as the various horns of Jenson College's brass band
struck up its first piece.
"Shall
we visit the inn?" Mr. Simons asked. "To return the picnic
basket?"
"Yes,
thank you."
He
led the way through the crowds to the inn, where he deposited the picnic basket
in the lobby, and then out the back door, where he turned left, and she turned
right.
Neither
mentioned the side trip to the outhouses. They simply met back in the lobby and
proceeded back to the concert. It was Bryony's first experience with horns of
any kind, brilliant and vigorous, but still...
"And?"
"And,
what, Mr. Simons?"
"Explain
the pensive look on your face."
"I
wasn't thinking. I was wishing."
"Wishing?"
Applause
from the crowds as the piece ended.
"That
I could hear you play. Piano. Even just once."
"Have
you no piano?"
"Yes,
inside the church. But only Mrs. Parks is allowed to play it. And it doesn't
sound...right...when she does it."
"Do
you have a key?"
"No."
"Don't tell me. Only
'Father.'"
"And
Pastor Demars.
"Pastor
Demars?"
"Yes.
From the society meeting. He and his wife run the school. Father gave him a key
in case of emergencies."
"Would
Pastor Demars lend it to you?"
Puzzled,
she looked up at him and beheld a strange glimmer in his eyes. "Why would
he lend it to me?"
"So
I could play the piano for you."
Bryony
gasped. "Would you? Truly?"
"If
you get the key."
"I'll
ask now."
"I'll
wait near the church. We should not go together."
Bryony
stood on tiptoe, searching this way and that. She did not see him. So she wove her way through the swaying and the
clapping, dodging the occasional barrel and staggering man.
Finally
she spied Gretchen Demars talking with Neta Ashmore in front of Village Hall
and set off in their direction.
Gretchen,
her round cheeks extra rosy in the heat, and the blonde frizz on her forehead
even frizzier, saw her coming and frowned.
"Why,
Bryony, you're alone? What happened to..."
"Where
is Pastor Demars? I must speak to him right away."
Alarm
leaped into Gretchen's eyes. She quickly glanced at Neta, who also appeared
distressed, and then grasped Bryony's
arm. "Child! Are you all..."
"Yes,
of course, I'm fine. I just need Pastor Demars."
Still
apprehensive, Gretchen motioned to the grassy field at the west end of Main
Street. "He's consulting with the artillery officers from Thornton."
"Thank
you, Mrs. Demars."
Bryony
lifted her skirts and hurried to the open field, averting her eyes away from
the indecent Mr. Fate and his even more indecent eel, who obviously preferred
grass to outhouses. She spied the pastor among the officers.
"Pastor
Demars," Bryony panted when she reached him, heedless of manners, launch
tubes, and recently dug holes, "May I please borrow the church key?"
"Church
key?" His breath smelled like beer. "Whatever for?"
One
of the officers looked up. "Pastor, if we start with a..."
Absently,
Pastor Demars reached into his pocket, pulled out a string of keys, and handed
them to Bryony. She swiftly removed the church key and handed the jumbled mess
back to the pastor, who just as absently stuffed them in his trouser pocket.
With
a quick glimpse at the crowds, Bryony crossed the road and hastened to the
church by way of the remote end of town, lest she encounter Mrs. Demars and her
questions again, or worse: Mrs. Parks.
A
pinch of trepidation and a stitch in her side as she passed Pike Street forced
Bryony to slacken her pace and rub the cramp, but she daren't dwell on her
destination. Many a girl had come to ruin on actions less brash than hers this
evening, or so Mrs. Parks had always cautioned, but Bryony either couldn't help
it...or didn't want to help it. An unseen force she could not identify spurred
her on.
Blue
Gill Road came and went.
The
church yard was empty now that dusk was settling and the band was playing, just
a couple of balls and a hoop forgotten in the excitement. Bryony didn't see Mr.
Simons out front but surmised he might be waiting at the rear door. She rounded
the corner and there he was, hands behind his back and gazing at the sky.
He
didn't notice her approach until she reached him. She held up the key. He took
it without a word, unlocked the door, and held out his hand. Gingerly, Bryony
accepted it. His fingers, warm and strong, closed over hers. She had never
touched a man's bare hand, not even her father's. A tremor ran through her as
he led her inside the coal-black and airless sanctuary.
"Wait
here," he said.
She
heard him fumble, a scritch, and then a flame flickered on a long taper.
Holding his beacon high, Mr. Simons lit the way to the old piano and then set
the candle into a nearby holder.
He
ran his fingertips over the lid before lifting it. Without looking at Bryony,
he sat on the bench and patted the place beside him. Marveling at her own
daring, Bryony obeyed, but on the edge, avoiding contact. Not even her dress
sleeve touched his coat sleeve.
"Ready?"
"Yes,
sir."
With
cool decisiveness, he pressed his choice of keys, and magic tinkled out, high
light notes Bryony would later describe as fairy bells, and they bore her on
gossamer wings to an exquisite place of indefinable enchantment.
The
tinkles rose to tingling chimes, encircling her with the floaty serenity of
drowsy waves, the type one felt before succumbing to sleep. And yet, Bryony
never felt more electrified and alive.
Higher
and higher the music swelled, dark and distended, thundering notes that plunged
her heart and bound her tightly to the stranger, who pounded them out with
closed eyes and contorted features.
Beyond him, the candle spat and reeled to his
refrains.
He
plundered shades; he scaled heaven and shot past comets; he spun her around and
around a downward spiral and landed with an abrupt hard chord, damp locks, and
a glistening forehead.
The
ensuing silence in the oppression was loud, intrusive, and long.
Then,
before she quite realized it, Bryony found herself saying. "I want to know
everything about you. Start at the beginning; don't skip a detail."
Her
words echoed in the empty church, a million repetitions. A confirmation or a
mockery?
The
stranger snickered and pulled out his handkerchief. "What would you like
to know?"
"Where
do you live?"
He
dabbed his face; the candle burned low. "All over the world. But I'm from
New York."
"Relations?"
A
shadow. He looked aside and absently played a brisk trill. He left off in the
middle and fixed his gaze on her.
“My
mother is encased in her sad little world,” the stranger said quietly. "And
my father is dead.”
“How can you be so calm when you say such
things?”
“Because
they happened long ago. I have moved on and away.”
BOOM!
The
candle went out.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!
Bryony
jumped and clutched her throat. "Oh, the fireworks! We're missing
them!"
"No,
we shan't. Follow me."
Once
again the stranger, this famous Mr. Simons and master pianist, took her
hesitant hand into his sure one, and guided the course of their movements as
easily as he'd navigated Mrs. Parks' temperamental instrument.
She
could not see her way, but she knew the direction their footsteps took them, to
the belfry stairs while explosions rained around them.
Up
and up they climbed, a turn left and up some more. She met a dim light at the
top, moonlight and streaks of gunpowder shaking the night with bold flashes of
color.
"Oh!"
she breathed. "It's beautiful."
"No."
His
voice was so hushed and gruff, Bryony daren't look at him. But he slid his
hands in her hair and pulled her face up to his, piercing blue eyes that...
"You're
beautiful."
All
at once, Bryony remembered the fortune strip from Iris Pike's birthday party,
the one hidden away in Grimm's Fairy
Tales: True love will make music in
thy heart.
The belfry was sweltering and
not only because it was July.
Impressions...Reverend's
dominance, Mrs. Parks' fussiness, Luther's devotion, her infatuation with
dashing Mr. Matthews...faded to gray... slipped awa...
A
towering stranger inching close, a firm hand grasping her hot cheeks, her
racing heart, a brush of warm lips, a devouring, a...
While
outside, iridescent combustions heralded an independence that finally arrived.
