The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [8]
“Trust me in this, Clara. A mother knows what can happen between the servants and the men of the house.”
“How does a mother know such a thing?” I asked.
She didn’t speak, kneaded the bread a little harder, pushing out the scent of yeast. “We know. It is a mother’s duty to anticipate.”
“He does like me, Mama, but he’s a gentleman and would never do anything—”
“You don’t know.”
“All I did was wait for Forest so I could tell him good-bye. I hope that was all right with you,” I snapped and chopped the onions smaller. She said nothing, leaving me to savor my last moments in memory.
I’d waited beneath the large elm tree near the corner of the lot, out of sight from the house. Forest’s face lit up when he saw me, I know it did. He removed his hat, set his briefcase down. “Clara,” he said. “Are you off to the store for my mother?” He stood taller than I by two inches, and a section of his blond hair hung straight over his right eye, so it always looked as though he was peeking at me from behind a golden drape. His slender fingers and perfectly filed nails lifted the strand of hair to free both his eyes. His smile was butter to my bread.
“No,” I croaked. Clearing my voice I said, “I’m … I’m leaving. On a trip. I won’t be here for a time. Maybe never again.” I hoped he’d look sad at my parting.
“Nonsense,” he said. He looked behind me, toward the Stapleton home. I turned to look too, leaning out from behind the tree. Leafed out, the branches blocked a view of the window that his mother might look through if she still ruled in the parlor. He moved closer, smiled, and I pressed my back against the tree trunk, the bark scratchy and firm against my thin jacket. He checked the house again, then stared into my eyes. He leaned an arm over me, resting it on the tree, and with his other hand, he lifted my chin. So very close. “You’ll be back. Trips don’t last forever.”
“This one will take seven months at least,” I said. I swallowed, relishing his closeness, fearing it. He touched the back of his finger to my cheek, stroking gently, then to my neck, where blood pounded. His touch felt like lightning crackling in a summer storm. He left his hand there, my veins disclosing the secrets of my heart. “Your mother will fill you in, I’m certain of that,” I said. I wanted him to move his hand, and yet I didn’t. “She thinks the trip a foolish one. So do I.”
“Don’t let Mother frighten you,” he said. “I’ve read about it, your journey. You’re … brave, Clara. I wish I’d known of your adventurous streak.”
I hadn’t thought of bravery or being adventurous, only that I was obedient. His gaze caused my mouth to dry up like creeks in autumn.
He leaned away then, removed his fingers from my throat, empty cool air replacing them.
“Well, I shall miss our little chats,” he said.
“I could write,” I whispered. “Send a postcard.”
He shook his head. “Mother always checks the mail first.”
“Maybe I could send letters to one of your friend’s addresses?”
He smiled, touched my soft curls as though they might break, wrapped one around his finger. “Write and keep them, and when you return, perhaps you can hand them to me in person. We can … have lunch together.”
“All right,” I said. He invited me to lunch. “They’ll be my diary.” He returned his hat, picked up his case. “You could write to me,” I said. “The newspapers along the way will receive our mail and—”
“It wouldn’t be wise for a Stapleton to send messages to a newspaper,” he said. “Possible publicity, you know. Bad for my father’s bank.”
“I suppose … not.” I lowered my eyes. I’d embarrassed myself with such a suggestion.
“You write things down, Clara.” He sounded like one of my teachers indulging my enthusiasm for a subject unrelated to their classes. He stood in front of me, both hands on his briefcase. I no longer needed to lean back into the tree. “You can tell me all about it when you return.