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

end of my bed. She seems more at peace since our talk. I pray no more walls between any of us.

I slept. Mr. Bleu no longer played and moonlight slipped between the curtains. Someone has been here and turned down the oil lamp to a low burn. I ventured to write in the dim light.

Something caught my attention by the door. At first, I thought it was a mouse, but after a few minutes, the creature didn’t move. I slid from my bed and retrieved a small packet, tied with a blue ribbon. A note scrolled beneath the knot, like an ancient message.

“I meant to give this to you on your birthday, but the time never presented itself. Please accept this belated gift. I pray you a prosperous year, J. Bleu.”

Prosperous indeed. I opened the packet, expecting more Ceylon tea. A pocket knife tumbled to my palm. Small and thin, inlay with bone colored flowers and tipped with silver. Has a loop on one end for wearing on a chatelaine. I sniffed, grabbing one of my new handkerchiefs. I’ve never owned such an item. I opened the blade with my thumbnail and looked down the tip in the candlelight. I saw my reflection, yet something more. An engraving, “fortuis in arduis.” What does it mean?

I was surprised by this extravagant gesture.  I closed the blade and lay the knife next to the scroll on the bedside table. I supposed it would be useful while living here.

MARCH 19, 1880

I’m a little better today. Fever is gone, yet Mother’s trunk sits in my room burning a hole in the floor. A hot coal of history. I don’t know whether to be warmed or wounded by it. One moment I want it removed from sight—such little it has to do with me. The next, I want to bury myself in its contents if only to be near her.

A thought slipped into my mind. Did father have such a trunk filled with a previous life? Not father. Surely not. And if he had, what could I do? I’d be tossed into cogitation and never emerge.

I sat downstairs in the parlor today, putting a few hours into knitting stockings and a few more hours working on an embroidery piece featuring miniature forest creatures and tiny pinecones. Aunt looked longingly at my pile of multi-colored cotton twists. I held some unused portions to her. Like most of this family, she refused to accept any gift I offer.

The house buzzed with an awakened spirit—the fruit trees had started blooming, lending a snowy brightness to the sky.  Ernest says that I’ll be spending hours upon hours in the kitchen come harvest. He’s the only one that sees me completely merging with this place...not sitting here on display like the only silver spoon in Aunt’s hutch. I have a goodly stack of aprons. That’s a start.

Aunt served a large dinner tonight, and later I discovered why. Mr. Bleu rides back to his farm come sundown. All foals are safely born, and I am safely informed. Any other secrets this family has will have to work themselves out slowly, like a splinter. I won’t do the plucking. Too much to ponder...

“Cows are soon to calve,” Ernest said.

Mr. Bleu looked up from his pork chop. “How many?”

“Thirty-three. We’ll be right busy.”

Uncle pointed his butter knife to Ernest, “Gotta check ‘em every day.”

“Enough.” Aunt said. It was then I realized that evening supper silence had been broken. I’d been too bewildered by how on earth Ernst could possibly know how many cows were expecting.

The quiet lasted only a few minutes. My young cousins giggled, the boys sat on the edge of their seats.

“We don’t want to rush David out of here, boys.” Aunt grinned knowingly.

The boys loved him. Why would Aunt think them eager? I hoped for a quiet moment to thank him for the pocket knife. And to ask what the Latin inscription meant...

Minutes later, we sat on the porch while the boys lined up with drums and raised sticks. Mr. Bleu sat atop his horse like a general, and saluted the boys. They drummed a rousing pattern while Ernest played a fife—like I’d seen in Fourth of July parades in Cincinnati. Drumsticks tossed back and forth—Sully in the Middle—as they boys marched, serenading him back to his farm. They played until they reached the top of the hill and ran like wild rabbits all the way back.

When had they practiced? Mr. Bleu had no doubt been their teacher.

I have not thanked him.

Chapter 14

JAMES LIT THE OIL LAMP and settled down in his most comfortable chair. A lone letter lay on the desk beside him. He snatched it up, noting the feminine hand. Couldn’t be from his mother. She never wrote. He flipped it over. Hmmm. Miss Trafton? More questions, no doubt. Ones he wasn’t willing to answer.

He slid his finger along the seal and tugged out the message.

Dear Mr. Bleu,

I’d be remiss if I didn’t promptly thank you for your gift of the pocket knife. I’ve never seen one so beautifully crafted. “Fortuis in arduis”? If only Uncle had a Latin textbook, I might decipher these words on my own. This is an extravagant gift, I wonder why or how you decided I should have it? You and I have not had the best of beginnings.

I don’t say this to reprimand you in any way. You’ve made your apologies, but I have not. Before my birthday arrived, I made a terrible mistake. I seem to make short jumps to fury these days, as if I expect to be provoked at each turn and am ready to deflect.

You handed me receipts in good faith that I would keep the contents to myself. When I opened them—this is difficult to confess—I thought you were deceiving me in some way. I could make no sense of them. Just numbers and dates. Without paying closer attention, I thrust them back to you in anger and in front of Uncle, who