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

Realization, after the deepest of sleeps, keeps me from closing them again until I have recorded every thought and happening. Last night I attended Cedar Gate Ball on the strong arm of Mr. Bleu.

I had this feeling that he would need to cancel, have a farm emergency or some such misadventure. I would go alone as I’d done so many times before. This was not to be the case.

Helen, Kirsten, and I worked on our gowns in our spare time in the few weeks before hand. Helen added pink medallions around her skirts, Kirsten embroidered blue bells across the entire gown. In the end, we all pitched in to have it done in time.

Mine was new from last season and needed minimal repair—I added just a few rosettes at the waist. My heart wasn’t in them, though. I had been worried about dancing while in mourning, and in colors—but Aunt said I was the guest of honor and she believed it would be acceptable if I wore my white silk as long as I tied a black ribbon around one sleeve. “Your parents would want you to dance today. I know they would!” She had a happy glimmer in her eye. I was willing to believe her.

I tried to return the beaming smile. Truth is, I longed to feel as hopeful and excited as my silly cousins.

I wondered if Aunt and Uncle were concerned about my meeting any beaus. If I married one, the deed to the farm would transfer to my husband. And then what should happen to them? But meeting beaus never occurs, so they should put their mind at ease on that score...at least if I told them how terrible I am at enchanting young men.

Such thoughts carried me to stoic Mr. Bleu. I tried to be generous in thinking of Aunt and Uncle’s motives concerning my life, but I wondered most seriously if this is why he planned to take me to the ball. To guard me from romance? Be the valiant defender of Uncle’s livelihood to the last?

And then another kind of thought struck me—so much that I stopped stitching momentarily on Kirsten’s gown. Are they matching Mr. Bleu and me? Of course! No better way to keep their farms intact, their livelihood safe from the meddling hands of another man.

I thought Mr. Bleu was merely being polite, but maybe I was wrong. I had no romantic notions towards him...I...My face burned and my thoughts turned into a jumble of frustration and sheer nerves.

I excused myself and closeted in my room to think clearly. Did I see him as a potential husband? Oh, how my thoughts bred guilt. I hadn’t a right to think this way. And yet my heart pounded so that I could scarcely breathe. The question had been in the back of my mind, unwillingly. I knew such ideas couldn’t possibly come to fruition. He is like a brother to the family, and must be like one to me.

Bit by bit, I calmed. The idea tossed into the sea of fiction in my daydreams. I could relax and be grateful he is becoming a friend. But then I spied the pocket knife on my dressing table. Such a priceless item. Did he mean something more by it? And so, my thoughts ran away again. It was awhile before the fluttering in my stomach settled.

Soon, the hour of the gala arrived and I arrayed myself in the waiting finery. I didn’t know my reflection after several months in the same two black dresses! I’d arranged my hair simply, a braided bun with little ribbons streaming from it. The curling iron had been traded between Helen and Kirsten amongst constant bickering all day. Aunt had performed matching hairstyles— pulled back with graduating spirals. Helen was a bit pernicious about this until I added ribbons to her hair, and a shell comb to Kirsten’s.

“How do you have so many nice things?” Kirsten posed in the mirror, intrigued by the fancy changes.

“Well...” How should I answer her? It’s obvious my father was well off—for a time at least. “Why don’t you keep the comb?” I felt obligated to make the offer.

“Really?”

“Truly.” As I spoke, the old grief surfaced. The comb had been a gift from Mother.

Aunt got wind of it and promptly reprimanded her. “Do not pine for another’s possessions! You may certainly not keep it.”

I can’t deny relief, yet I sense Kirsten’s embarrassment. I needn’t have worried. Excitement washed away my concerns when Uncle and Ernst came ‘round with the wagon.

Soon after, Mr. Bleu came for me in his own gig. I have to admit slight mortification when I saw him arrive. I know I flushed apple red. I have never been seen with another man alone in a gig. Such conveyances are for courting.

Aunt walked me onto the porch. I wished she would attend with me! Her matronly strength would fortify me sufficiently. Alas, she must tend the home fires and care for my young cousins.

Little Ruby was downright tearful at the sight of us dressed in our finest. Mr. Bleu caught sight of her lurking in the doorway, jumped from his gig, and made a beeline for her.

He placed his arms akimbo. “What’s this?” He looked only at her.

“I can’t go!” She wailed.

“But you will someday.”

“I want to go with you! Now!”

Aunt wiped Ruby’s face with a kerchief.

“Why don’t we have a dance?” He offered his hands to her.

“Really?” She grabbed his hands and began to turn a circle before he had a chance. “Ring around the rosie...” Until they both fell down.

Her eyes brightened and giggles arose in hiccups. Mr. Bleu dusted himself off and gave a bow to her.

I whispered to Aunt. “Goodbye. Will you pray for me?”

She seemed surprised that I would ask.

“Why, I do, my dear. I do.” She squeezed my hand.

Mr. Bleu assessed me and bowed. “You are lovely tonight.” And offered his arm to the gig, handed me in and we took off. I confess pride at