Promptly at six-thirty in the evening, John gripped his walking stick and thumped his way up the steps of Eliza’s house, his cantankerous right knee groaning at him whenever he lifted it.
“I told you, don’t give me trouble tonight,” he muttered to it, then laughed at his own ridiculousness. Talking to his own appendage. He blamed it on his nerves.
At the top of the porch the front door lay open, only the screen door keeping the evening’s gathering mosquitoes from invading the bright rooms within. From inside the house he could smell meat roasting and hear the quiet chatter of women in the kitchen. Gently resting his stick against the wall, he raised his hand and rapped on the screen’s wooden frame with one bare knuckle.
The sounds inside continued unabated, and John reached up to straighten his hat, his tie, his coat. He had dressed slightly more formally than he imagined was called for; it wasn’t like he’d never been to dinner at Eliza’s before. He was sure, in fact, that if he showed up in his dusty, dirty work trousers and an undershirt he would be welcomed in and given a seat at the head of the table.
But there was something special about this night, something that just seemed to call for his Sunday best.
“John,” said Eliza’s father warmly as he came toward him through the foyer. Reaching out, he pushed the screen door open, pausing so that John could hobble out of its way. “Good to see you, son. Come in, come right in.”
Mr. Anceaux ushered John into the house and straight into the sitting room, where he instructed the young man to sit down immediately on a very cushy, comfortable divan.
“How’s the knee doing?” the older man asked as he dragged an ottoman over and lifted John’s foot up onto it.
John smiled. From the very first time he’d met Eliza’s parents, they had treated him as if he were family already; their warmth and caring were so very comforting, especially when he was a little under the weather, as he was that night—though he was loath to admit it, even to himself.
“Doing better, sir,” he replied, adjusting his leg with a barely noticeable wince as Mr. Anceaux took a seat in a nearby chair. “Hardly hurts at all now.”
Mr. Anceaux nodded, gazing down at the knee thoughtfully. “I hurt my leg once real bad—an accident with an old plow out in the field. Laid me up for almost a month! I had to hire a man just to come out and do my work for me.”
He looked up at John then and the sadness in his eyes was apparent. John knew how important the family farm was to Eliza’s father, how dedicated he was to his work. He imagined that he would one day feel the same way about his own land, once he had some, once his plan was in place.
“That must have been hard for you,” he commiserated, and Eliza’s father nodded in silence.
After a moment, though, he brightened again, as if he’d banished all thoughts of it from his mind. “That injury is, too.”
“Yes, I have to admit, I’ve made a good recovery,” John agreed. “Dr. Sherman told me that it could have ended up a lot worse. Of course, he credits Eliza’s excellent care for my speedy return to health.”
John took his own moment to reflect now, thinking back on the last month since he’d had the accident. Ever since she had found him that day in the doctor’s office, Eliza had dedicated so much of her time to nursing him back to health. While he was home from work, she went to his house daily to check on his bandages and change them when need be; she brought him his favorite foods and made sure that he had fresh drinking water in the ewer by his bed. She sat and read to him from some new books she had procured through Mr. Jackson—Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles and Owen Wister’s The Virginian—particularly because she had thought that John might enjoy them. And he had. He could think of nothing more lovely than listening to her speak.
“She is a good girl,” Mr. Anceaux said, a sparkle in his eye. Though Eliza was only one of his many children, John had always sensed that her father had a special spot in his heart for her. She was the oldest, the first born, and such an enormous help to her parents. It was obvious that she had been raised well, so it was no wonder that her father took so much pride in her.
“She is,” John agreed, then looked down at his lap and began to twist an errant string from his coat round and round his finger. “Mr. Anceaux,” he began before he had a chance to lose his nerve, “I was wondering—”
“John, is that you?” Mrs. Anceaux called from the adjacent dining room as she came out and laid down a plate of freshly baked, dark-brown molasses bread. The scent of it, warm and rich, drifted in to John and seemed to swirl around him. He inhaled deeply and felt his mouth begin to water.
“I hope you brought your appetite,” she went on from the other room, leaning in through the doorway to smile at him. “Eliza is helping me in the kitchen, but she’ll be out to see you shortly.”
“Mrs. Anceaux, I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation of tonight’s feast!” John replied, and it was the truth. Eliza’s mother—just as Eliza herself—was a chef of enormous talent. Every meal he’d been offered at their house had left him more than satisfied—and so full he could have rolled himself home. He’d been looking forward to this dinner for most of the week.
“And please,” he added, “give Eliza my regards. Tell her I’m enjoying some time with her father and I’ll see her at the table when we sit down to partake of the delicious meal you two have prepared for us.”
Eliza’s mother smiled and nodded at him. “Will do, dear,” she said, then turned and headed back into the kitchen, a puff of flour whisking off of her apron as she went.
“Ah, like mother, like daughter,” Mr. Anceaux intoned, appreciatively watching his wife going back to her duties. “I could not have asked for a better pair, and I don’t know what I would do without either of them.”
Turning his attention back to John then, he lowered his brow as if reemerging himself into a serious conversation. “What were you saying, then, John? Before we were interrupted by that bread’s distracting aroma?”
John grew serious then as well, clearing his throat and tugging at the tie around his neck; all of a sudden, it seemed to be colluding with his collar to strangle him. He paused, trying to get himself into the right frame of mind.
“Sir,” he finally began, deciding to forego the speech he’d practiced earlier at home and just speak from his heart. “I’ve been thinking… Eliza and I have spent almost every day together since we met, and as you mentioned just now, I, too, cannot imagine my life without her.”
He looked squarely at Mr. Anceaux, hoping that the old man would understand his motivation and, surprisingly, not embarrassed in the least to be bearing his soul this way. Somehow, confessing his love for Eliza had emboldened him.
“She has become my beacon of light in an otherwise dark world,” he went on. “And my future, I believe, depends on her. We are so much alike that sometimes it almost frightens me. But I know that we are meant to be together, not just today but forever.”
Mr. Anceaux did not answer, but waited for him to continue.
“I love her,” John offered, but still no reply.
“Sir, I want to ask for your permission to marry your daughter.”
Mr. Anceaux simply looked back at him, his expression neither shocked nor surprised. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. After a moment, it chimed softly, playing out its song and then sounding three times to mark the quarter of the hour.
John hadn’t planned to get into this so early in the evening, but there, he’d done it. There was no taking it back.
As if I would want to, he told himself, then steeled himself for whatever answer was forthcoming.
“Well,” Eliza’s father began, putting a rough hand up to rub his scruffy chin. For the first time, John noticed that the older man was still in his work clothes; he must have come in from the fields only moments before John had gotten there. Mr. Anceaux always worked from sunup to sundown; he was that dedicated to supporting his family. John hoped that Eliza’s father believed he would do the same for Eliza.
For a minute, he began to believe that he would never get an answer, that Eliza’s father would leave him hanging in indecision. But then, Mr. Anceaux’s face broke out into an enormous smile.
“Of course!” he practically shouted as he rushed toward John to shake his hand, nearly falling over the ottoman in the process. “John Barrett, I couldn’t imagine a better husband for my eldest daughter—or a finer son-in-law for my wife and myself. We would be so pleased to welcome you into the family. We’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”
Waiting for me to ask? John remarked silently, the wind taken out of him. Had they really already marked him as marriage material, maybe even discussed the possibility of his marrying Eliza? Had Mr. Anceaux or his wife possibly even broached the subject with their daughter?
“Sir, I have to ask you one more thing,” John went on hurriedly, with a glance toward the kitchen. The sounds in there were growing louder and he imagined that Eliza and her mother would be bursting into the dining room at any moment, full platters and bowls in hand, one of the younger children following behind to ring the dinner bell.
“Yes, yes, whatever you need!” Mr. Anceaux said, sitting down next John on the divan and putting an arm around his shoulders. John almost laughed at this; the old man’s excitement was truly contagious.
“Sir, I have to ask you—to beg you—not to mention this to Eliza. I would like to keep it a secret for now. I would like her to be surprised.”
Mr. Anceaux nodded his head vigorously as he actually leaned in for a hug. He seemed unable to contain himself.
“Yes, of course, not a word, not a word!” he said, enfolding John in his arms and clapping him roughly on the back.
And then, John was able to relax. Letting out a deep breath, he raised an arm and patted Mr. Anceaux’s shoulder as well.
Well, that was one major hurdle passed.
Now, he just had to find a way to ask Eliza.