The Growing Years
Time passed quickly. Patricia mused, It has been good to spend time with the horses again. I enjoy spending time with Jasper too. He knows so much about horses. He always teaches me so much. Jasper liked her too, for her interest in his knowledge, her love for the horses, and her ability to talk to them. Why doesn’t Mother like me spending time in the stable? I just love the book Father gave me as a birthday gift. She read the inscription again, “To my daughter Patricia, on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday. Father.” It wasn’t just any book, however. It was her very own copy of Poems by John Keats, her favorite poet.
She was on her way now, book and daisy in hand, to her special spot on the grounds, her special tree, wanting to drink in every last word of that book. Hearing the sounds of wood being chopped and knowing John was close by comforted her.
Engrossed in her book, Patricia didn’t see him pass with the fresh-cut wood. John finished stacking and watched her intently as he washed up in the trough.
On retiring to her room for the night, Patricia was surprised at what she found. Strewn about the open window, on the sill and the floor beneath were daises. Gathering them up, Patricia filled her tableside vase and arranged them in it. One from the sill fell back outside. Replacing the vase, she was still trying to figure out how they had gotten there. As she wondered, she took one and put it in her hair.
In the morning, the daisy was still in her hair, where it remained for the rest of the day. “Good morning, Miss Patricia.”
“Good morning to you, John.”
The slightest smile crossed each of their faces. Patricia found herself reaching to touch the daisy every so often that day. It began to wilt from lack of water and excess of sun. To save it, Patricia pressed it in her book of poetry.
One late summer afternoon after Patricia’s fifteenth birthday, she found herself out walking again, enjoying the sights and sounds of the oncoming autumn. Feeling the light breezes dancing in her hair, Patricia watched the new-fallen leaves racing across the meadow, hurrying to nowhere, took in the sweet, fresh scent of the air. Autumn is a very busy, very alive time, she thought. It is my favorite time of the year.
Walking and not paying particular attention to where she was going, she suddenly awoke from her own little world. She bumped into one of the trees in the meadow, landing abruptly on a clump of clover. Taken aback by the suddenness of it all, she sat there a moment, trying to catch her breath. Gathering herself, she heard something off in the distance that sounded like splashing. But it couldn’t be; she was alone in the meadow. Getting up, Patricia walked toward the sound.
She came to the shack by the creek and thought, It has been fixed up. It no longer looks like an old shack; it looks like a home! Walking in, she was surprised to see curtains on the windows, a hand-carved table and chairs in one corner, and a beautiful bed made of cedar in another. It looks so homey! Did John make all of this by hand? She had been so surprised, she momentarily forgot her pursuit of the strange sound). Having left the door open when she entered, she again heard the sounds of splashing.
Quickly, silently, she exited the shack and walked toward the creek. There, swimming in the sparkling water, was John McDougal. The sight of him embarrassed Patricia. She wanted to run away but was awestruck by the sight of him; never having seen a man before, as she was just fifteen. Again, something deep within her stirred. I mustn’t be seen! She crouched behind the trees as John swam in her direction, his body glistening in the bright sunlight. She spied his clothes nearby. Picking up his handkerchief, with one last quick look, she ran all the way back to the estate.
Sometime later, one evening as she was alone in her room, she began thinking. He doesn’t know I exist. Why did I take this? Tracing the embroidered initials with her fingers, she thought, He’s just an ordinary man. But deep down inside, she knew differently. She knew the answer to her question. Tucking away the handkerchief in a secret spot, she dressed for bed.
Mother came in directly, as she did every night. Sitting together on the bed, Mother brushed Patricia’s beautiful, long hair as they talked. Patricia always cherished this time alone with her mother. Hearing rustling outside, Patricia inquired. “Did you hear something outside?”
“No, dear, why?” The pair walked to the window but saw nothing when they looked outside. Patricia walked over to the window again when she was alone. She saw nothing unusual, just the lamp in the hayloft and a form she assumed to be that of John McDougal. He had moved to the barn last week; Jasper (a distant relative working as a farmhand) had been living in the barn for two years now. She didn’t know why John had been moved, but it made her happy to think of him so close. She ran her fingers across his handkerchief with this thought lingering Smiling contentedly, she went to bed, dismissing the sounds outside completely.
John had become drawn to Patricia, and told Jasper his feelings. He had to know if she was just like all the others or if she was truly as different as she appeared. Almost every night, John rolled his blankets so that if anyone looked, they would assume he was there. Then he would stand beneath Patricia’s window. His feelings for her had grown in such a short time. He marveled at the thought of her in her room in her nightclothes, speaking to her mother so innocently. Could she be as young as she appeared and hide her worldliness from her mother? Was she that good an actress? John had known many who were. No man would touch a girl who had been sullied. John was no different. When he did settle down, he wanted a virgin for a wife. After several weeks of listening, he came to believe that Patricia was truly still innocent. She was not acting.
Maybe this is the time to talk to her, Patricia thought. As Mother finished brushing her hair, she placed her nightcap on her head. Playfully, Patricia took it off and tossed it aside. “I hate this nightcap, Mother!” Mother picked it up and again placed it on her daughter’s head. As she did so, she buttoned Patricia’s nightgown to her neck as she always did. As she bent down to kiss her on her forehead, Patricia began tugging at the buttons. “They’re choking me! I’m afraid I’ll never be a woman!” she blurted out loudly.
Mother looked at her for a minute, smiled a big, warm smile, and hugged her reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll be a woman soon enough.” She sat down on the bed and undid the top button on Patricia’s gown. “It will be our secret,” Mother said as she rose to her feet.
In a wink, the mood turned from playful to serious. Mother sat down again at Patricia’s side. “Patricia, you are becoming a woman. Your father has decided it is time for you to begin receiving gentleman callers immediately. He has set up some proper suitors for you. They will begin arriving the day after tomorrow. It is time for you to begin looking for a husband, my young one.”
Mother’s eyes were filled with tears, Patricia’s with fear. “But Mother, what will I do?”
“You will receive each gentleman caller graciously and spend some time getting to know each of them. We will discuss this more tomorrow, Patricia.”
Most of Klaus’s business was conducted behind closed doors, so Patricia saw very little of her father. Each evening after supper, however, he enjoyed a glass of brandy and a smoke on the front porch swing. Ritually, he would settle himself down on the swing with his freshly poured brandy and savor it from the first drink until the glass was sufficiently empty.
This was a private evening ritual, but if one were to sneak a look, they would see him examining the glass, almost inspecting it, holding it up to the fading light and turning it between drinks. He seemed to become a different person when he was indulging himself each evening. The businesslike facade would slowly fade. What remained was a less stuffy but still reserved man, a man who wanted to let go but couldn’t. Margaret had tired many months earlier of Klaus’s “evening ritual,” so she began watering down his brandy.
One night, he complained loudly of his brandy tasting weak and unacceptable. It was later discovered that some of the brandy had been poured out and replaced with molasses water.
Another evening, Father came out to the porch swing after having his brandy, to complete the ritual. After having trouble lighting his pipe, he settled back and inhaled deeply as always. Immediately he lunged forward, beginning to choke; Cook frantically rushed a cup of water to him. Mother ran outside fretting. No one had ever heard such sounds from Mr. Heifelmeyer. There was quite a flurry of activity around the house that night. When he had recovered his composure, Father dumped the pipe’s contents out on the ground, hitting the bowl angrily against the swing, making sure it was empty. He bent forward to pick up the tobacco. As he brought it closer, he noticed the stench of horse manure! Jasper took the blame for that, even though it had been John who had switched the tobacco for manure.