Homespun Hearts (48 page)

Esme helped her to her feet, and the two walked together to the front of the house. In the distance could be heard the rhythmic melody of tree felling. The smell of fresh-cut pine was in the air, wafting along with honeysuckle in bloom.

The piece of sky overhead was exactly the color Esme wanted to paint the house, and a couple of high white clouds floated along it.

Down near the river Yohan had found a piece of shade and was playing a soft summer tune that had the power to bring a smile to anyone's face.

It almost brought a smile to Esme's until she remembered the errand she was on and the danger and disappointment she saw for the man she loved. For herself, she didn't care. She'd been facing shame for who she was since she was big enough to walk under a wagon. She'd learned how to ignore it, accept it, make herself stronger for it

But Cleav was different. Cleav fought it. Like Esme, for years pride had stuck in his craw. But unlike her, he'd never swallowed it.

This time, for his sake, Esme wasn't swallowing it either. She was as good as anyone else, she'd told herself from childhood Now, for Cleav, she was going to have to prove it

They'd walked to the front of the house, and Mrs. Rhy removed her other glove and tucked both carefully into her gardening apron. Reaching the shade of the porch, Eula untied the ribbons on her hat and gestured for Esme to sit with her on the swing.

"Just like you are thinking," she said, as if no lull in the conversation had existed. "I wanted to be a help to Cleav. I wanted to see that he got the kind of life that he wanted.

"He built this big old house, too big by half, when we'd been living fine for years in the one his granddaddy built. He filled it up with city things and talked about city people and city ways until it nearly scared the life out of me."

Eula shook her head and patted Esme's hand in comfort. "I'm really just a hill girl, not much better off than you," she said. "I've probably had more book learning, but I never thought about being a lady or taking up fancy ways until Cleav came back from Knoxville."

The woman sighed wistfully.

"I hated for him to give up his schooling like that, but after my man died"—Eula looked off into the distance, her expression one of remembered pain—"I just couldn't seem to make it on my own."

Eula's expression was one of self-contempt. "I made him come home from school. Everyone thought it was because I couldn't run the store and didn't have money."

Eula shook her head, and her next words were low and had the ring of sincerity. "I could have managed by myself. But I didn't," she said firmly. "Because I didn't want to."

The confession was hard won. Never having voiced her shameful truth aloud, Eula's eyes momentarily misted, and she wiped them quickly on the cleanest corner of her apron.

"Here was my quiet, confused only son," she said. "He was no longer a boy and not quite a man. And I thought only of what I wanted. He tried to do the right and honorable thing."

Eula shook her head with both sadness and pride.

"Not only did my boy lose the daddy he loved, he lost the life that he loved, too. I stole it from him."

"Oh, Mother Rhy," Esme interrupted. "I'm sure ..."

Eula turned to the younger woman as if to will her to understand. "You're Cleavy's wife now. Let the others believe the kinder lies, but we need to have truth between us.”

Esme nodded.

"When I finally realized how spoiled and selfish I'd been," she continued solemnly, "it was too late to change things."

There was a sad, quiet moment of silence as Esme tried clumsily to comfort the mother of the man she loved.

"I wanted to make things up to him, you see," she explained. "I wanted to do those things that would make him happy. So," she said evenly, "I tried to be a fancy lady."

With a toss of her hand, Eula laughed lightly in self- derision. "Lord knows, I wasn't much good at it"

"You are a lady!" Esme protested.

"No, girl," the older woman insisted "I pretended to be one. It worked more or less, but it made me miserable."

"Miserable?"

"Clearly, I admit it" she said. "There were days after days that I couldn't even get up and face myself in the mirror."

"You were sick," Esme insisted.

Eula nodded. "Yes, I think I was," she said. "I was sick in my heart. I was living the life of a pure hypocrite. I couldn't be who I am, and I couldn't be who I tried to be, either."

She gave Esme a hopeful smile. "I was just waiting for the day when Cleavy would marry himself a real lady."

Esme's cheeks stained with fire, and she looked down with shame.

"I wanted him to marry dear little Sophrona," Eula said "because I thought she was what he needed. She'd never have to pretend the way I did"

"She was perfect for him," Esme whispered dejectedly.

Mrs. Rhy laughed at her words. "Seems that you're as wrong about that as I was," she told Esme, chucking her lightly under the chin.

"Wrong?"

"Completely, totally, a mile off, wrong."

Esme considered her words for a moment "You mean because Sophrona fell in love with Armon?" Esme asked

With a spurt of mirthful laughter Eula wrapped an arm around Esme's shoulder and squeezed "Now, that was a sight, wasn't it? Lord, I thought I'd die laughing for sure when Old Man Tyree threw that bucket of water on Mabel Tewksbury, and she came up spurting like a hog in vermin dip."

Laughing with Eula, Esme recalled the last evening of the revival vividly. Armon had quickly gone to his mother-in- law's aid, but after he'd helped Mrs. Tewksbury to her feet, she'd taken one look at her rescuer and slugged poor Armon in the stomach like a prizefighter at the county fair.

As their laughter faded away, Eula said, "That isn't why I was wrong about a wife for Cleavy."

"Then why?" Esme asked.

Eula smiled brightly, and Esme noticed for the first time that the mother's eyes were just exactly like her son's. They were the eyes that Esme wanted to give to her own children.

"Because Cleavy's done fallen in love with you," Eula said simply.

"What?" Esme was momentarily stunned to silence.

"Can't you see it? It's right in front of your nose, young lady. Have you taken a good look at that man that you've married lately?" Eula asked.

"Cleav doesn't . . ." Esme sputtered with embarrassment. "I mean, it's not like . . . well, I know he has the highest regard for me and—"

"Regard!" Eula hooted with laughter. "That boy is calf-eyed crazy about you, and everybody in town knows it."

Staring mutely at her mother-in-law, a vehement denial came to Esme's lips. She forced herself, however, not to voice it. Eula Rhy loved her son. No matter how she'd acted in the past, it was clear the woman genuinely cared for Cleavis Rhy. Undoubtedly it eased her mind to think that he was blissfully happy in his marriage.

Esme would not, could not, be so cruel as to dampen Cleav's mother's contentment. Especially since she'd been so cheerful and healthy these last couple of months. It would be the worst type of unkindness to reveal the sad truth.

"Still," Esme began tactfully, "I do feel that I should properly entertain these city folks when they're here," she said. "They probably eat special food, on special tablecloths with special utensils. And what they must talk about is a pure-d mystery to me. I plainly have got no idea about any of it, and I really need your help."

Eula laughed and shook her head with determination. "Don't you give that nonsense another thought," she said. "I don't want you trying to be anybody but Esme Rhy," she stated firmly. "If those northern gentlemen are offended by a sweet, open young woman like yourself, then heaven knows, I want to be around to watch when that son of mine and husband of yours kicks their fancy behinds right out his front door!"

“
T
his is a passel of foolishness
, if you're asking me!" Yo Crabb's words were adamant with disapproval, but they only garnered a warning look from Esme and a sweet throaty giggle from Sophrona Hightower.

"Now, Mr. Crabb," the young woman answered him patiently. "Good manners are never foolish."

The old man tried to scowl, but it was difficult when looking into such a pretty face.

"Got no quotation, do ya, Miss Sophrona?" His question was presented as a statement. "That's 'cause the Good Book don't care a tinker's damn about such foolishness."

The young woman placed a tiny, delicate finger to her temple near her neat reddish-blond hairline, as if thinking momentarily. A smile suddenly lit her face, and she raised it to the older man.

"Mr. Crabb, Paul does state that God suffered the manners of the children of Israel in the wilderness for forty years," she said. "How old are you now, sir?"

The question was rhetorical, and Yohan chose to answer it only with a disgusted "humph!" However, he made no further complaints.

"The flatwear is laid out by order of its use," Sophrona explained. "Working from the outside toward the plate. It's the latest in etiquette to place the knife at the top of the dinner plate. That reminds the diner not to use it."

"Why in tarnation do ya have it, if you ain't going to use it?" Yo asked her.

Sophrona smiled politely. "You may use it to cut your food. But you can't use it to eat."

Yo glanced down at the mock meal before him with a dismal sigh. "There's enough metal around this plate to forge a good-sized plow."

Esme, seated across the table from her father, found herself reluctantly agreeing with him but hastily stifled the thought. She should be grateful to have someone teach her and her family the proper way of things. Although Eula Rhy had encouraged her to be herself, Esme had wanted what was best for Cleav. She still believed what was best was a ladylike wife. And if Esme wanted to learn to be like Sophrona, the person to teach her was Sophrona herself. With that in mind Esme had issued an invitation to the new Mrs. Hightower. Terrified that she might not come, Esme scribbled a personal note in her carefully penned block letters that read: “pleese come, we mus tawk.''

But Sophrona showed no hesitation, eager to let bygones be bygones.

"I'm so glad you've invited me over," Sophrona had greeted her, throwing her arms around Esme like a long-lost friend. "I've been wanting to speak to you, to thank you, but I've just been so busy."

"Thank me?" Esme was more than curious.

"My dear, beloved Armon told me how you put the idea of courting me into his head," Sophrona explained.

Esme's face flushed a bright red. She'd forgotten about that trick, and it came back to her in a rush of guilt. She could almost hear Armon calling this lovely, sweet young woman "Tits Tewksbury."

"I'm sorry . . ." Esme began.

Sophrona hugged her. "How you knew that we loved each other," she said, "when we didn't even know ourselves has got to be one of God's great miracles."

Esme stuttered. "I didn't ... I mean, I didn't actually: think . . . I . . ."

A delighted giggle escaped Sophrona's throat. "Of course you didn't think," she said cheerfully. "You spoke from your heart, just as the Lord intended." Reaching for Esme's hand, Sophrona squeezed it lovingly. "'The Lord works in mysterious ways.'"

Esme couldn't help but agree. And bringing Sophrona to her side for this onslaught of important company was surely a reprieve from heaven.

They'd spent the morning devising the menu.

"Of course, you'll want to serve trout," Sophrona guessed accurately.

"Yes," Esme said, though she looked uncertain. "But if I'm in the kitchen, how am I supposed to be a hostess?"

Sophrona nodded in agreement.

"Well, you certainly can't be cook and lady of the house at the same time," she said. "So we'd best devise a dish that can be fully prepared and ready when you announce dinner."

They went through a year's worth of back issues of Home Companion before Sophrona found the perfect recipe. Baking the fish in mushrooms and mussels would definitely heat up the kitchen, but it would free Esme to be the gentleman's lady at the dinner table.

Sophrona reached into the top of the cabinet and retrieved a large two-part serving plate.

"Lord, what is this?" Esme asked.

"It's a chafing dish," Sophrona explained. "You put boiling water in this outer part and it will keep your main course warm throughout dinner."

"You put this right on the table?" Esme asked doubtfully. "Save to graces, it looks like a chamber pot! I'm supposed to serve these folks food out of it?"

Sophrona couldn't hold back a delighted giggle. "It does look somewhat like that other vessel," she admitted. "But it is all the rage in the cities now. With only the rich being able to afford servants, a normal family must find a way to serve elegantly without the hostess popping up to play scullery maid every second."

Esme nodded at the reasoning but still couldn't quite get past her first impression of the chafing dish.

The two women sorted the linens, both exclaiming over the abundance and quality.

"This tablecloth is beautiful," Sophrona said, pulling the slightly worn white crochet out of one of the drawers.

Esme glanced at the cloth in her hand and blushed with shame. "My mother made that," Esme stated with deliberate quiet "I'm sure Mrs. Rhy has more lovely things to use."

Sophrona looked at her curiously. "But this is beautiful. And it's older and more sedate." Running her hand gently across the material, she added softly, "It was obviously made with love."

The young woman's smile was warm and winning. "That's what's truly important in a family. Love is the ultimate in quality."

"It was the nicest thing my mother owned," Esme said without emotion.

"And it's the nicest thing you will own, also," Sophrona said easily, running her hands along the fabric. "Because she made it"

Esme, too, tenderly caressed the work of her mother's hands. "It's too small for the table," she said, practically. Sophrona shook it out and agreed with a sigh. "What a shame," she said. "Well, perhaps you can save it for a special dinner for just Mr. Rhy and yourself," smiling as the young woman let her fancy take her away. "Maybe you should save it for the night you announce to him about your first child."

"Sophrona!" Esme exclaimed in a harsh whisper. "Ladies don't talk about such things."

"I thought you didn't know how ladies act," she said.

With menu, dishes, and linens chosen, Sophrona had agreed to make suggestions for the family wardrobe.

The twins were lovely in identical designs, one in pink, one in blue. Sophrona fairly gushed over them.

"No wonder you two turned my dear husband's head," she said. "I declare, no man would be safe with this much beauty around."

Adelaide and Agrippa, who had formerly declared their adamant dislike of "the red-haired cow-teated man stealer," discovered their resentment quick to melt in the warmth and sincerity of the new Mrs. Hightower.

Esme was still worried.

Sighing as she stared into the doors of her wardrobe, she turned to Sophrona with dismay.

"It don't seem to matter what I wear," Esme told her sorrowfully. "They's no way on God's earth that I'm going to ever look as pretty as you and the twins."

Sophrona waved away Esme's foolishness. "Obviously Mr. Rhy does not share your opinion," she said. "All women have blessings and curses. Why, this horrible red hair has been a veil of shame to me nearly all my life!" She leaned closer and confided to Esme in a whisper, "But my dear Armon says the sight of it just makes him 'pure weak in the knees.'"

Esme's startled expression set both women to giggling.

Discussion of marital secrets was something new for the both of them and quickly formed a strong friendship from what was formerly just a pleasant acquaintance.

"Tell me, what do you think your best features are?" Sophrona insisted finally.

"Well," Esme admitted, still smiling, "Cleavis is mighty fond of my legs, but I don't think he'd be wanting me to show 'em off to company."

With a trilling giggle, Sophrona agreed. "You probably shouldn't serve dinner skirtless," she said with mock civility. "But there is no reason why the right gown shouldn't be able to accent your hidden beauty."

And accent it, she did.

Sophrona pinned the seams of a plain prim white gown narrowly against Esme's thighs. "The straightness will emphasize the length of your legs," she said. "And you are so lucky, this is absolutely the latest style. No woman in the city will be more up-to-date."

The only real argument Sophrona received was from Esme's father.

"I look like I'm about to be buried!" the old man complained of the fine broadcloth suit of dignified black.

"Pa!" Esme snapped waspishly. "I won't have you looking like you just stepped out of a cave."

Yohan raised his chin defiantly. "Well, Esme-girl," he said, "the fact is, I did just step out of a cave, not more than a month ago. I'm a poor, simple man and trying to look like anything else is the same as lying."

"Pa!"

Sophrona quickly intervened in the threatened father-daughter fireworks.

"Surely it is not a lie to show yourself as a sober and attractive man of middle years," the pretty redhead suggested.

Yo Crabb immediately puffed up as proud as a bantam rooster. Smoothing down the perfectly cut lapels, he asked, "You don't think I'm reaching beyond myself?"

"Indeed not," Sophrona insisted. "Sackcloth and ashes doesn't make one humble. Humility comes from the heart."

Yohan pursed his lips, thoughtfully considering her words before finally nodding. "I suspect you're right, Miss Sophrona."

Esme marveled at Sophrona's ability to maneuver her family. Assuming that such ability was part of being a lady, Esme could hardly wait for the conduct portion of Sophrona's lessons.

Now sitting at the table with her family and Mrs. Rhy, who was observing the lesson skeptically, Esme decided that it was not as easy to act like a lady as it was to look like one.

"The important thing," Sophrona stated firmly, "is to make everyone at the table feel comfortable and relaxed."

"That shouldn't be too difficult," Esme stated. "Why, fancy northern gentlemen like these probably always feel at home."

"Not necessarily," Sophrona told her. "Everyone feels out of place at times. Tennessee is a completely new world for these men. They are strangers here, and you'll have to do whatever you can to make them feel welcome."

"Welcome is one thing," Esme said. "But they're going to be here near to ten days. We've only got the first one planned."

Nodding with agreement, Sophrona took her hand encouragingly. "Making a good first impression is all that's really important," she said. "The men are here to meet Cleavis and discuss those horrid fish after all."

The twins giggled.

"Once the gentlemen are favorably impressed by your home and your lifestyle," she said, "they will relax and fit right in."

Esme worried the nail on her index finger with her front teeth. "But just how am I going to 'favorably impress' them?"

"You won't be alone," Sophrona assured her. "Your entire family will be here to help."

Esme looked around the table. The twins were like fancy meringue, pretty and inviting, but with nearly no substance at all. Pa was just Pa. A fiddle-playing ne'er-do-well who was almost proud of being the "laziest man in Vader, Tennessee."

Looking back at Sophrona with desperation in her eyes, Esme entreated, "Teach us!"

Glancing around the table, Sophrona cleared her throat and began. "The most important thing about gentility is fine conversation."

"You mean just talking?" Pa asked skeptically. "I suspect we can all manage that."

"Fine conversation," Sophrona corrected, "is not the same as simply speaking to another person."

"It's talking prissy like Cleav," Esme suggested.

Sophrona was unable to stifle a giggle. "No, no," she said. "It's not the way you talk. It's the things that you say."

"Like quoting the Bible all the time, instead of speaking for yourself?" Agrippa asked.

A pretty blush suffused Sophrona's cheeks. "No, not really," she admitted. "I find myself falling back on Bible verses when I'm nervous and lack anything substantial to say." With a self-deprecating smile she added, "The art of fine conversation is something I haven't quite mastered, either."

"Well, if you don't know how to do it," Yohan said, "I don't suspect these gals and I can learn in a few days."

"Oh, I do know how," Sophrona corrected. "Though I must confess that I am far from competent at it."

"You always seem to have the right thing to say to Cleavis," Esme said.

Smiling across at her, Sophrona's eyes lighted with mischief. "These days he does seem significantly more interested in what you have to say."

There was a chuckle of good humor around the table. It was clear that no hard feelings existed between the two women.

"The key, I believe," Sophrona said, "is to allow the men to talk about the things that they want to talk about."

"What kind of things will that be?" Esme asked.

Sophrona shrugged. "I really couldn't say. The interests of gentlemen vary. At least we know that, like Cleavis, these men are interested in pisciculture."

The twins moaned in unison.

"You mean we're going to fix a fancy dinner and get all dressed up so we can sit around the dining room table talking about some smelly fish!" Adelaide's words were incredulous.

"Well, perhaps fish will not be their only interest," Sophrona suggested hopefully. "Conceivably, gentlemen from the city will have an interest in art and music."

"We don't know anything about either," Esme complained.

"Speak for yourself, youngun," Pa interrupted. "I know dad-blamed everything there is to know about fiddle-playing."

"That's true," Sophrona agreed delightedly. "Your father's musical abilities could make fine parlor discourse."