I didn’t mind staying home to care for Mother. She liked me to read aloud to her when she was awake and I had time for my own writing projects while she slept—after the cooking and the housework and the laundry were done, of course.
Sometimes I got lonely, but Lydia kept me amused each night with hilarious tales of all the latest gossip in Deer Springs. She could describe selling a yard of cloth to crabby old Myrtle Barstow and have me holding my sides with laughter. Then she would ask, ‘‘Did you write any poems today, Betsy? You have to read me one of your poems.’’ Lydia always encouraged me in my writing career.
Most of my poetry described my very limited world—the orchard as it changed with the seasons, the bluebirds and chipmunks feeding on the seeds I scattered for them, the doe and her two fawns drinking from our pond in the evening. But one day Lydia copied two of my poems in her beautiful handwriting and convinced me to mail them to a magazine.
‘‘I swear, if you don’t send them, I will!’’ she said, stomping her foot for emphasis. Lydia worked in the real world every day and had learned to pepper her conversation with scandalous phrases like ‘‘I swear’’ and ‘‘holy smokes.’’
When I finally gave in, she helped me compose a cover letter that sounded as confident and poised as Lydia always did, not meek and apologetic, which was my typical manner. We linked our pinkies for good luck and sent my poems off. Much to my surprise, Garden Magazinepublished one of them and asked me to send more. Lydia and I danced and cried and hugged each other in joy. My payment was only two free copies of the magazine, but I didn’t care. It thrilled me just to see my name—my poems!—in print for the first time.
The next day Lydia brought home the weekly Deer Springs News. She had smiled at the newsboy and he’d given it to her for free.
‘‘Here, this is for you,’’ she told me. ‘‘You mustwrite something for the newspaper.’’ I handed it right back to her.
‘‘I can’t write anything for the News! How can I be an investigative reporter when I’m stuck way out here in a farmhouse all day? I can see the headlines now: ‘Scandal Exposed in Fowler’s Chicken Coop’ or maybe ‘Big Brouhaha in Betty’s Barn.’ ’’
‘‘Write a letter to the editor, Betsy. Didn’t you tell me that’s how Nellie Bly got her start?’’
Lydia was right. According to the story, Nellie had read a column in the Pittsburgh Dispatchstating that women were totally use-less for anything outside of marriage. Outraged, Nellie wrote a scathing reply that so amused the Dispatch’s editor that he offered her a job.
‘‘There isn’t anything in the Deer Springs Newsthat’s worthy of an outraged response,’’ I sighed after reading it from front to back. ‘‘And even if there was, the editor doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. I doubt that he would be amused by me.’’
Against my feeble protests, Lydia chose a short piece I’d written about springtime in an apple orchard and sent it to the editor. We were both thrilled when the newspaper paid me $1.75 for it— my very first paycheck. With our pinkie fingers raised in celebration, I treated Lydia to an ice-cream sundae at the soda fountain in town. Lydia’s smile mesmerized the young man behind the counter and he gave us both double scoops for the price of a single.
Mother never recovered from her illness. After lying bedridden for almost two years, she died the year I turned twenty. By then my father’s health had also started to decline, and at the age of sixty-three, he found it harder and harder to keep up with the farm work. Faced with his own mortality, he recognized his duty to secure a future for Lydia and me. He came up with a plan that most dime novels would call ‘‘nefarious.’’
I was halfheartedly kneading bread dough in the kitchen with A Tale of Two Citiespropped against the flour canister one morning in May when Frank Wyatt arrived to see my father. I knew very little about Frank except that he was a deacon at our church, a bachelor, and about eight or nine years older than me. His forefathers had been the community’s earliest settlers, farming the land that bordered our acreage on the north side. Frank had inherited his father’s entire estate and was slowly buying up all the property he could get his hands on, building Wyatt Orchards into a kingdom with himself as the king.
‘‘Betty, get in here!’’ my father suddenly called from the parlor. He had a voice that made you drop everything and run, whether you had flour on your hands or not. Frank Wyatt rose from his chair like a gentleman when I entered the room, even though he wore overalls.
‘‘Good morning, Miss Fowler,’’ he said, bowing slightly. Frank was very attractive in a rugged, austere sort of way, with a cleft in his granite chin, hair like pale winter sunshine, and eyes the color of a glacial stream. His movements were stiff, as if he was ill-at-ease in his own broad-shouldered body, and whether sitting or standing, Frank always looked as though he was posing for a photograph. The expression on his stern, unsmiling face when he passed me the collection plate on Sunday always made me feel so miserly I wanted to dump the entire contents of my purse into the basket. But Frank Wyatt had such a spotless reputation in the church and in the community that God might have chiseled him out of the same hunk of stone as the Ten Commandments.
‘‘Bring us some coffee,’’ my father ordered.
‘‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fowler,’’ Frank said, spreading his massive hands. ‘‘I can’t stay long. I just dropped by to see how you were doing. The pastor announced in church last Sunday that you were ill again—’’
‘‘Not that it’s any of hisbusiness,’’ Father said with a grunt.
‘‘And so I wondered if you could use some help. I have a crew coming to my place later this week and—’’
‘‘You don’t fool me with your cool manners,’’ Father said, interrupting him. ‘‘You’ve been hovering around here ever since you heard I took sick last winter. You’re still looking to get your hands on my property, aren’t you?’’ My father’s response to Mr. Wyatt’s kind offer was so rude that I turned to escape into the kitchen. ‘‘Betty, get back in here and sit down,’’ Father shouted. ‘‘I want you to hear what I have to say, too.’’
I did as Father commanded. I sat, staring at Frank Wyatt’s scuffed work boots, my cheeks burning.
‘‘It’s my pond you’re after, right?’’ Father asked him.
‘‘Your pond is the envy of every farmer around here, Mr. Fowler, and—’’ ‘‘Last winter you offered to buy my land if I ever wanted to sell it, remember?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Still interested?’’
I glanced up at Frank. He was practically salivating with anticipation. He battled to hide his excitement behind a calm facade. ‘‘I feel it’s my Christian duty to help others in their time of need. That’s the only reason I’m here, sir. Nevertheless, my offer still stands should you decide to sell.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact I don’twant to sell. I didn’t work hard all these years to build this place up just so I could sell it off to strangers someday. I worked so that my children and grandchildren would have something to inherit when I’m gone. Now, I’ve put a lot of labor into my land. Unfortunately, the Almighty only saw fit to give me daughters. So here’s my decision. I’m deeding everything to my daughter Betty here, for a wedding gift. If you want my land, you’ll have to marry her.’’
I don’t know which was greater—my absolute horror or my utter humiliation. How could Father offer his own daughter as part of a package deal, as if I were a prize-winning farm animal or a new plow? How unfair to force Mr. Wyatt to decide if he wanted our land badly enough to marry me as part of the bargain. I knew how Leah, the ugly older sister in the Bible, must have felt listening to scheming Jacob and cheating Laban haggle over her. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to burst into tears or to run from the room.
But if my father’s blunt offer repulsed Frank, he never showed it. ‘‘You’re much too generous, Mr. Fowler,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘Any man in Deer Springs would be h
onored to marry a fine Christian woman like your daughter, even if she had no land at all.’’
I felt a rush of gratitude toward him for taking some of the sting out of my father’s words, even if it was pure poppycock. Every man in Deer Springs longed to marry Lydia, not me.
My father stood, a signal that the bargaining had ended. ‘‘Now you know the way it is, Wyatt,’’ he said with a frown. ‘‘If you’re interested, you can begin with a proper courtship. You have permission to call on my daughter.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Frank said, rising as well. He hesitated a moment, as if mulling something over in his mind. ‘‘I believe there is an ice-cream social at church next Saturday afternoon. I would be pleased if you would accompany me, Miss Fowler.’’ I managed to nod but couldn’t bring myself to look at him. ‘‘Good. I’ll stop by for you around two o’clock.’’
He said good-bye then, leaving me alone with my father. I felt desolate, bereaved. I couldn’t seem to move from my chair. ‘‘Mr. Wyatt doesn’t want to marry me,’’ I whimpered.
‘‘Nonsense. He wants our land. He’s a hard-working man. He’ll make a good son-in-law.’’ Father had analyzed the situation in terms of himself. He’d never questioned what my wishes or dreams might be. I felt trapped.
‘‘But...but what if I don’t want to marry him?’’
‘‘You’ll do as you’re told,’’ my father said. ‘‘I know what’s best for you—understand?’’ The tears I had struggled to hold back began rolling down my cheeks. Father didn’t seem to notice my misery as he savored his triumph. ‘‘Young Wyatt has always coveted my property, but what he doesn’t realize is that I’ve coveted Wyatt Orchards just as much. He thinks he’s getting my land, but he’s forgetting that I’m also getting his. My grandson will own Wyatt Orchards someday. I’ll insist that he renames it Wyatt &Fowler Orchards.’’
‘‘I’m sure Mr. Wyatt would much rather marry Lydia than me,’’ I said, wiping my eyes. ‘‘Maybe you should give him a choice, Father.’’
‘‘Lydia!’’ he said in surprise. ‘‘She won’t have any trouble finding a husband or getting on in life. This way I’ll make sure that you’re married off, too—and married well.’’
I felt torn between wanting to please my father to finally win his love and approval after all these years and with longing to run away from this terrifying arrangement and applying for a job as a reporter in some big city. In spite of my limited writing success, I had no self-confidence at all. I was terrified of the unknown—of marriage as well as of life alone in a strange city. I poured out all my woe to Lydia in our bedroom that night.
‘‘Jeepers creepers, Betsy, that’s wonderful news!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Frank Wyatt is a real good-looker.’’
‘‘Sure—if you like courting a fence post.’’ I marched stiffly across the narrow room in pantomime.
‘‘Maybe he is a bit prim,’’ she said, laughing. ‘‘But holy smokes, he’s rich! He’s one of Deer Springs’ most eligible bachelors.’’ ‘‘I don’t know how I can even face him under these circumstances,’’ I moaned, flopping backward onto the bed. ‘‘Father is practically forcing him to marry me.’’
‘‘Horse feathers! Mr. Wyatt won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, even for land. Besides, if there’s going to be a stampede of men trying to marry you to inherit this farm, it’s better that Mr. Wyatt gets there first than a lot of other drips I could name.’’
I covered my face. ‘‘He’s taking me to the ice-cream social this Saturday, and I don’t know what on earth to say to him all afternoon.’’
‘‘You want to know what I think? I think Mr. Wyatt is just as shy as you are. Why else would he remain a bachelor all this time?’’ Lydia tugged my hands away, pulling on them until I sat up. ‘‘Come on, I’ll teach you a few tricks that drive men crazy.’’
When it came to men, Lydia was an expert. She secretly led a wild life, breaking a different boy’s heart every week. I helped her concoct elaborate excuses, saying she was visiting shut-ins or working late at the store doing inventory, and poor Father believed us. I would hear the fascinating details of her escapades when she returned home at night—a party at the forbidden dance hall, a moonlit bonfire at the lake, a secret rendezvous with a traveling salesman—and I wrote down each installment as if it were the latest chapter in a romance novel.
‘‘First of all,’’ she began, ‘‘when Mr. Wyatt helps you up into his carriage, let your hand linger in his a moment, pressing ever so slightly—like this.’’
‘‘You mean I have to take his hand? He’s such a statue I’m afraid his touch will turn me into stone, too!’’
‘‘More likely gold. I swear, everything he touches turns to gold, Betsy, not stone. And make sure you sit close enough for your thigh to accidentally brush against his—like so.’’
I shuddered involuntarily. ‘‘Oh, Lydia, I couldn’t! The very idea makes my skin crawl.’’
‘‘Don’t be a pantywaist. Now listen, if he says something funny, even if it really isn’t, laugh like this—’’ she demonstrated with a happy, tinkling chuckle—‘‘and touch his arm or his chest ever so briefly, like this, while you do.’’
‘‘I can’t imagine Frank Wyatt cracking jokes.’’
‘‘You’re right,’’ Lydia said with a frown, ‘‘me either. Okay then, tell him how wonderful he is. Flatter him. Men love flattery.’’
‘‘Ugh! I’d probably throw up.’’
‘‘Make something up. This is your chance to write fiction, Betsy. Give it a try. And don’t back away if he tries to kiss you, either.’’
‘‘His lips are so thin and tight his kiss would probably bounce right off.’’
‘‘You’re so funny,’’ she said, hugging me tightly. ‘‘Just be your wonderful, witty self and I swear he’ll fall head over heels in love with you!’’
I wasn’t so sure.
On the afternoon of the ice-cream social, Lydia fixed my hair and let me borrow her best silk shirtwaist with the leg-of-mutton sleeves to wear with my Sunday skirt. She had brought a brandnew, long-waist, five-hook, bust-perfecto corset home from the dry goods store and crammed me into it, yanking on the laces until the rolls of fat around my middle had no place to go but up, lifting my tiny bosom along with them. I stared in disbelief at my reflection in the mirror. For the first time in my life my waist looked tiny and my bust looked full.
‘‘There! You’re gorgeous!’’ my sister cried.
‘‘Lydia, I can’t breathe!’’ I gasped.
‘‘Then don’t.’’
‘‘But what if I faint? I’m feeling light-headed already and I haven’t even tried to walk.’’
‘‘Good. You’re allowed to swoon. That’s what smelling salts are for. Mr. Wyatt will think it’s your dainty, feminine constitution and it will make him feel manly to catch you in his arms.’’
‘‘Ha! He’s more likely to let me drop to the floor like a log.’’
Lydia put on all the finishing touches—a dab of rouge on my chubby cheeks, her own beaded comb in my hair, Mother’s cameo brooch at my throat. I felt like a schoolgirl playing dress-up. Then I heard the plod of horses in the lane below our windows. Frank Wyatt had arrived, right on time.
‘‘Get the wash basin, Lydia! I’m going to throw up!’’
‘‘No, you’re not. Don’t be a ninny.’’ She smiled, tucking a springy strand of my hair behind my ear. ‘‘What are you so afraid of? He’s just an ordinary person—not even half as wonderful as you are. Hold your head up, Betsy. He’s lucky to have the privilege of stepping out with you.’’
‘‘Stepping out...’’ I moaned. ‘‘I...I’ve never done this before. What on earth will I talk about all afternoon?’’
‘‘Listen to me,’’ she said sternly. ‘‘Calm down! It’s his job to start the conversation, not yours. Just don’t stop it dead by giving yes and no answers. Keep it going. Ask him a related question back.’’
I held my breath as I walked do
wn the stairs. I had no choice— the corset was that tight. If the laces ever snapped I would look like an exploding watermelon. Lydia’s shirt buttons would go flying in all directions and my skirt would probably split wide open like a gutted fish. I had half a mind to call the whole thing off— until I glimpsed the expression on my father’s face. It was the closest he had ever come to smiling. He was already dreaming of the magnificent orchard he would soon be part-owner of, thanks to me, and I couldn’t let him down. I just couldn’t.
I tried to smile, to breathe normally, to remember everything Lydia had told me as I said farewell and set off for the ice-cream social. At least I had good posture for the first time in my life, thanks to the corset stays. I couldn’t have slouched if I’d tried.
Frank held our front door open for me, then offered me his hand to help me up into his surrey. He looked so cold and formal in his Sunday suit and starched collar that the warmth of his palm took me by surprise and I forgot all about squeezing it until it was too late. When he sat down on the carriage seat beside me he left a discreet space between us and it would have been much too obvious to try to rearrange myself closer so our thighs could ‘‘accidentally’’ brush. Besides, I feared I might get frostbite. He held himself so aloof that I would have needed an ice pick to chip through the invisible shield that surrounded him.
‘‘Are you comfortable, Miss Fowler?’’ he asked suddenly.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘May I call you Betty?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Oh no! I was already giving yes and no answers! I nearly smacked my forehead in despair, but I hadn’t tested the corset’s full range of motion. It would look ridiculous if my arm didn’t reach that high and I ended up smacking thin air. Or worse still, what if I smacked too hard and I fell over backward and couldn’t right myself again? I’d once seen a box turtle in the same predicament.