Of Needles and Haystacks Ann Fryer (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

Her boldness surprised me so that I spilled ink down the inside crease of this journal.

“I never saw my husband and David have words before.” Her mouth set in a firm line. “I want to know why.”

Gone were my illusions of being the great Queen Elizabeth. Now I was the trapped Lady Jane, plotting some way to get out of a mess others had caught me up in.

I was as honest as I could be. “Mr. Bleu had some business dealings with my father, I wanted to know what. Nosey of me...but you must understand my confusion. His behavior to me has been—”

“Say nothing against David.” She held up a hand.

That firm line stayed across her face. Here, I saw unwavering trust in the man they loved as a brother. But all good people sin and do wrong sometimes. “He and I have attempted to build a bridge, though I’m not sure I won’t burn my side.” I allowed myself the shadow of a smile.

She was not amused.

I took her hand into mine, breathing a quick prayer. This was not a moment for made-up spiders. “They were receipts of his dealings with my father. I don’t know why he won’t show them to Uncle or why he chose to let me see them.”

Aunt’s lips parted. “They angered you for some reason.”

“Because they are meaningless. I suspect Mr. Bleu has dealt with my father on many occasions, borrowed money when we were short...I don’t know. I’ve been confused. I wanted to know what the transactions had been about. Especially since I’m to own this place.”

Aunt’s face relaxed. “Well then, let’s leave the business to the men, shall we? No more of this confusion.” She released her hands and patted my cheek...

I shook free from last night’s scene. I left Helen, still working amongst the strawberry plants toward that open, empty field that begged to show me more of Mother’s stifled country heart. If only I would look. I turned around. Helen raised her hand to me in friendship. I nodded. A fine dress failed to mend the rift, but the quick and honest words we shared healed the breach. How simple.

Uncle approached me, but I turned from him and continued to walk on. This was not a good idea. His large hand gripped around my arm, but when I turned to face him, a hint of Mother’s worried expression swept across his face. My mouth seemed to go dry.

He began to ask something, odd sounds snaked up his throat as if the weight of his words required strength.

I knew what he wanted. His questions need to be presented to Mr. Bleu—not myself. I spoke up. “I believe that Mr. Bleu merely endeavored to acquaint me in the ways of business.” This was the most generic idea—not quite a lie—that I could think of. He clearly needed answers. I know the feeling. Looked as though Mr. Bleu has secrets from both of us.

“Can you tell me,” Uncle cleared his throat, “what manner of receipts are they?”

A goose honked overhead. An entire flock followed, filling the silence with a messy melody.

“Why does he not show you?”

“Just tell me, Dorothy. I feel I stand in place of your father.” He cleared his throat. “I believe that’s what he would have wanted.”

I nearly twirled away from him. I didn’t want to hear that. No man could take his place.

“I scarcely knew what I was looking at.” And this was the honest truth. “I wasn’t raised to understand business. Perhaps Ernest can teach me to read the ledgers someday.”

“The ledgers? Don’t worry yourself about my ledgers.”

I nodded, what else could I do? The men here want me to have no part in understanding the financial workings of this farm. I don’t even expect to be good at such juggling. But if I am to own this place hook, line, and sinker, then I needed some sort of understanding. I already felt immense embarrassment at the situation I’d caused. What stupidity I have exhibited to Mr. Bleu!

Even as I was thinking this, I remembered the small chest of father’s personal business papers, locked and under my bedstead with other keepsakes. How much would I find? My heart pounded with anticipation. I wanted to look immediately, rectify my ignorance. I had time before my walk to town with Aunt to buy a pair of thick farm boots.

Father’s chest of papers is neither beneath my bed nor hidden within my wardrobe. Not in any of the crowded crates in my corner of the attic. I did discover where Mr. Bleu has been residing these several nights. A cot covered in a downy quilt was positioned by a window on the other side of the attic, along with a chair and a small table with an oil lamp. A dingy carpet bag sat at the end of the cot.

Hams hung on hooks high above my head, assuring this family will not be out of pork any time soon. Made the air salty sweet. I wondered if the greasy spots on my ceiling were the result of these cured meats?

If I dared, I might find those receipts and reread them. Perhaps with a smidgen more understanding. Footsteps pounded towards me as I rifled through the final crate. Mr. Bleu. I dared not look into his face.

I sorted through candlesticks, some antique delft tile said to have been my Dutch great grandmother’s, and five salt cellars with tiny spoons. When I was a little girl, I thought they were porridge bowls for fairies. I wasn’t in fairy-land now but very much alone in an attic room with a single man.

I must leave. I rewrapped my precious past with old newspaper and tacked the lids back on the crates as best as I could.

He walked over and stood beside me, his leg brushing against the black billowed skirts of my grief. “What are you looking for?”

“Answers. You know that.”

His silence condemned me.

“Mr. Bleu, I...I’ve made a mistake.” Only