~*~
Farm work is a strange occupation. One must endeavor to work as hard and as fast as one can when the work is needed, but once the work is done there is such a lull, it’s driven many men mad. Hurry, hurry, then wait—that is farming. The waiting requires much patience and the insight of a god. For one needs to be able to foresee the future and what weather can be approaching. It had been such a calm winter, and such a warm spring that no one knew what to do. It was getting towards late March, and usually the fields would have at least five inches if not feet of snow laying in wait to melt for April or as late as May. Planting did not come ‘til April. Without Mr. Jones to help me cogitate if I should gamble and risk sowing some seeds soon, I found myself standing in the middle of my earthen fields, the very next day after I’d returned from Boston. The bright yellow sun already drenched me with warmth, and the blue sky had not a cloud in sight. The ever-enlarging Concord River strolled by on her merry way.
The usual time for meeting Jacque was around noon, but it was barely ten in the morning, and already I felt so restless that I wanted to tug my hair out and scream at the sky. My God, what was I doing? What was I thinking? Last night with Mathew had been passionate and sweet. Why then was I still going to meet with Jacque? Mathew was . . . he talked to me like I was his treasure. What woman doesn’t wish to be cherished by her husband?
So why still meet with Jacque?
Simply, it felt like I’d be ripping off my own arm if I didn’t.
On the western line of my family’s land lay a small orchard. Two lines of peach, apple, and crabapple trees were strung together next to the stone and split-rail fence, which dispersed itself into the woods that lay on the hill to the north of my land. Above that squat hill was a larger one with even denser deciduous and evergreen trees called, Punkatasset Hill.
All the leaf bearing trees held tiny, minute buds in their branches that were just cracking and beginning to bloom. Spring was surely coming. I plucked a delicate apple branch and smelled the green growth. While fiddling with the branch’s promise, I pondered if I should sow maybe a fourth of the field, then the gamble wouldn’t be too great if the snow would come again and destroy the seeds in the ground.
I grew barley and oats; although, I was considering a nice red wheat. I loved watching the grain grasses grow. Some blades of grass trudged through the Massachusetts black-brown soil like the elderly, rounded and stooped; some cut through the dirt like a claymore, its dagger-like end shooting straight for the sky. Yet in the end, they would all grow uniform, Roman sentry hats of straight, proud, golden-red plumes of fruit waving toward the heavens and finally falling shame-faced back toward the earth when the grain was ready for harvest.
I was proud that I possessed the knowledge of how grain grows, pleased with myself that I knew how to irrigate from the swollen waters of the Concord. Becoming a farmer, I was rewarded with being able to see how my labor provided for my mother and sister and Jonah, but I had never selected it for my occupation. Jacque had asked me once what I would choose, if given the opportunity. I could only tell him that I, being a woman, would never be given the chance.
That twist of irony didn’t get by me. I was walking into the forest that I knew as well as the deer and squirrels that vacated the lush land, and yet I was not free, while many men in Lexington, men of high rank and patriots to the core, were arguing how to gain more freedom from our mother country.
What would I do with freedom? Who would I be? I smiled as I thought about moving to Paris to eat chocolate and let French men coo over me. But I knew I didn’t want that. Or would I? I smiled, shaking my head. If given complete freedom to choose my own partner in life, who would I choose? Mathew was so sweet and kind and . . . if I could renegotiate with Mathew, and still be considered a woman of virtue, would I ask Jacque to be mine? I laughed at the absurdity. Why even think of freedom when I knew my fate was handed to me the day I was born? Yes, it was best just to put freedom, true love, and fairy tales on a high shelf far away.
But why, then, was my heart tormented so? Why did I even have these thoughts? Why couldn’t I just build a resistance against Jacque and wanting more from life?
Although it was too early, I ventured to where Jacque and I would meet. I let down my hair and inserted the natural design of the branch to loop through my locks.
My father had told me stories of the Fae people, and one wood nymph who fell so in love with her forest she married it. With my heart lingering on a man I would never get to hold in my arms, I didn’t think marrying nature was as crazy as I had when I was a child. Now I understood why a fairy would want to cling to the copse. I had more fondness for the woods than farming. I knew more about how to walk without a trail than I did about grain. And I had always found such comfort in the trees outstretched arms, the soft floor of needles and leaves and occasional patches of grass or wild flowers.
But, again, why even think of such frivolous things when life pressed on me?
Would I spend the rest of my nights in bed with Mathew, yet during the days run to the forest, run to Jacque?
The sun’s rays extended down on a boulder close to where Jacque and I were to meet, and I reclined on it, letting the warmth of the rock sink into my skin. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the peace in the yellow solitude. Somewhere above a tiny bird chirped a lazy song.
While in the woods on this stone, mayhap I could indulge in a different kind of destiny—in my imagination I could have a life where I had freedom to love Jacque, to imagine Jacque surround me with his arms. My hands fluttered to my chest, and I smiled. My chest rose and fell at a fast pace when I thought of his eyes scanning my neck, then his lids would droop slightly as he’d peek at my chest. My next inhale was shaky, which made me giggle. Then, I allowed myself the thought of what his hands would feel like instead of his eyes.
Placing my fingertips along my neck, I simulated what he might do. I bit my lips for the much needed touch—a kiss. Turning to my side, I laid still, one hand on my neck the other on my lips.
“Violet?”
I jumped, immediately landing on my feet but stumbling forward—forward momentum—toward Jacque.
Newton’s second law of motion: force can be measured by mass and acceleration. What was the mass of my heart? How fast had my heart fallen for him? I staggered into his arms, Jacque’s capable arms.
My own chest was flat against his, my stomach and hips curled into his too. My heart slammed into his ribcage, where I felt his do the same.
I looked up at him, my face under his chin. He looked down, his breath warm and quick.
“You’re early too.” His lips moved close my own.
I nodded as I possessed no real words to communicate. Odd shreds of philosophy and science whirled in my brain. If men were born with rights and certain liberties, what was I? If I was born into submission why did my heart—nay, my soul—wish to be free? Why, oh, why did I want to kiss him?
My arms pressed into his chest. My hands rested on either side of his neck. One of his arms wrapped around the back of my waist, the other held me higher, pressing me even further into him.
“Why did you come early?” Jacque’s voice was low and tremulous. His eyes suddenly adjusted to the deeper, more lucid color I loved. Just as his eyes made the adjustment, he pushed me away.
Holding me at his arm’s length, I noticed his chest heaving, his eyebrows cast down, and his nose flared.
I shook my head, wondering if he was angry with me. “I . . . I wanted to see you. I couldn’t just wait—”
“Why did you want to see me?”
I kept shaking my head. “I enjoy our time together, as friends often do.”
He slumped his shoulders. “Of course . . . mon ami.”
“Is something the matter? Are you not well?”
“I am leaving, leaving Massachusetts, perhaps leaving America.”
He said it so quickly I didn’t know what exactly he had said, then I wondered if I h
ad heard him correctly.
“No,” I whispered.
He looked surprised with a tiny smile. “No?”
I blinked, completely shocked with myself too. I thought I would ask him to forgive my impertinence, but instead out of my mouth came, “That’s right, I said no. You cannot leave.”
He drily chuckled then shook his head. “Am I to understand this correctly? That you are commanding me to stay?”
I nodded, swallowed, and nodded again. “Yes. Since the Regulars had the standoff with Salem, all the militias in Massachusetts have been drilling for something similar to happen. They need your help and would not ask you to leave. I seriously doubt your country would ask you to leave either with all the tension building. Therefore, I can only deduce that you have not actually been ordered to leave.”
Jacque didn’t speak for almost a full minute, but then his jaw moved slowly, as if he had a toothache. “I did not say I was ordered to leave.”
“You’re leaving because you want to? What could have happened that would make you want to leave?”
His naturally flared nostrils distended more, which I worshiped, but when he shook his head and let his hands strengthen in their grip around my arms, I knew I had overstepped his boundaries.
But in an instant the red anger was gone, and his eyes were diverted to my hair. “You have a twig in your tresses.” He retrieved it, slightly pulling my locks too. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
He soothed my hair, my scalp. I slightly shook my head, not wanting to do anything to make him stop touching me.
“Why are you leaving?” My voice sounded gritty and on the cusp of desperate.
“I must.” He slowly retracted his hands from me.
I stepped closer, hungry for his touch, searching those dark, dark eyes. “You’re not telling me something, and you promised me that I would be your confidante.”
He laughed with a sharp, brutal tone, one side of his face lifting in a sarcastic smile. “Such a smart girl.”
“Are you mocking me?” I heaved, and cursed myself as I felt the sting of tears in my eyes.
“Non. If anything I am mocking myself.”
I shook, trembling not from being cold, and not from our strange enigma of a conversation. I loved him, and he was leaving me. Yes, I knew I loved him. As much as I shouldn’t have, I did love him. Yes, I knew I couldn’t have him be mine, but I could have him close, couldn’t I? I could grow old while we talked in the woods. I could have my children with Mathew, but have our blessed dialogue in the wilds. Please, couldn’t I, please, have this one thing?
I hit him on the shoulder, enough to make him take a step back.
“No!” I yelled, stepping closer to hit his other shoulder. “No, you cannot leave.”
I was about to hit him again, when he caught my fists. I’d fought so hard not to let one tear fall, but Jacque hadn’t. Two tears spilled over when I looked up at him.
He shook me as he growled. “You know why I leave. You know it.”
“No, you cannot do this to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If I stay . . . I cannot stay. I am not strong enough.”
I clutched at his overcoat, making fists with the fabric, slightly pounding my balled hands into his firm chest. “Find the strength! I beg of you. Please. I,” I choked and felt two cold tears leave my own eyes, “I haven’t asked for anything in—in almost three years time. Not one thing. I—I picked up the pieces after my da died. I started farming because we couldn’t afford another hired man. I didn’t complain. I just did it. I never asked for one thing, but I’m begging you, please, don’t leave.”
Another one of his tears cascaded out of his eye, trailed down his hollowed cheek where black whiskers skimmed the moisture to nothing. He shook his head at the suddenly gray sky. When had the sky turned so bitter?
“I cannot stay. I cannot.”
I grasped onto his coat more. “Why are you doing this to me? I have no friends—”
“I am not your friend!”
His voice was so loud I flinched, as if his words had slapped my cheek.
He pulled on my arms, looking down at me with his brutal honesty. “You know. You have to know it. I’ve tried to hide it from you, but I know it’s become obvious. I think even Mathew knows of my . . . emotions regarding you.”
“Your emotions? You’re not my friend?”
He actually chuckled then. “You know how to compute integral calculus with a stick for your pen and the earth for your paper, but you are unsure what I’m discussing? Are you mocking moi?”
“No.” I pushed on his chest with my fists.
“You really don’t know,” he said as he penetrated my eyes with his stare. “It is such a bizarre world, you know? You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, but you are by far the most unassuming. Such a strange combination. Lovely, but I know in a hundred years more time, I’ll never meet another woman like you.”
I swallowed.
He finally choked, “I am not your friend because a true friend would not have fallen in love with you.”
Chapter Nine: Consequences