The next day, Brigit stared at the material and pondered what to do. This, like farming, would take some planning. It wouldn’t be right to just cut into the cloth, willy-nilly. She had to be in the right frame of mind, ready to focus.
The fields called to her, a ready excuse. The harvest needed to come in. That couldn’t wait, whereas a dress—oh, how long would it take to sew some seams together?
The next day, she wasn’t prepared to cut into the material, nor the next day, nor the next.
“How are the preparations for the wedding going?” Peter asked her as they strolled down past the poplars once again.
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Fine,” she lied, and then, because she couldn’t bear such dishonesty, changed from an outright lie to a little fib. “There isn’t much that can be done, not with such short notice. The ladies of the church are putting together a reception, and they’re decorating the church with some flowers. That will be about it.”
“I’ve asked Reverend Armstrong to read Proverbs 31 as one of the scriptures. It reminds me of you.”
Proverbs 31 reminded him of her? Was she misremembering it?
“You have such talents,” he continued, “like cooking—that was a wonderful dinner you made when I first came to town. You’re superb at entertaining as I saw with the tea. Plus, you’re making your wedding dress, and I’m sure it’ll be breathtaking.”
Yes, she thought, it easily could be.
She needed to stop him, to tell him the truth, but she couldn’t. She loved him so much that she couldn’t imagine not spending her life with him.
He hugged her waist. “I’m counting the hours until we become man and wife. When you walk down the aisle toward me in your green dress.”
Her mind guiltily fled to the pile of green fabric on her bed. Every day she had duly spread it out, and every day she had packed it back up.
Tonight she would begin.
“At some point, you will have to cut the cloth,” her father said gently that evening.
“I’m afraid,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I’m afraid I will make a mess of it, just as I made a mess of the dinner, and the tea, and everything else. And now I’ve waited so long that I can guarantee you it will not work out at all well, and the Armstrongs will think I’m not good for Peter, and what’s worse, Peter will know that I won’t be a good wife.”
“What have you done about it?” he asked.
She shook her head, and half of her bun came unpinned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Who have you talked to about it?”
“Mary Rose, of course. And, well, you.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “Have you talked to God about it?”
“God isn’t going to sew my dress, Papa!”
“No, but He has certainly helped you out before, hasn’t He? It seems to me that the dinner went fine. The tea was a success. Why don’t you trust Him now? Ask for His help. At least do that.”
She picked up the well-worn Bible. “For a woman who’s marrying a minister, I certainly have been wrapped up in my own worldly issues, haven’t I?”
“Brigit.” He stopped.
“Papa?”
“I never told you what your mother said to you with her last breath, did I?” His words were thick and his eyes moist.
She could only shake her head no.
“She kissed you and …” His voice broke. “She told you why she chose Brigit as your name. It means strong. She wanted you to be strong. Brigit, she would have been so proud of you. You’re strong and capable, and I know that you’ve made your mother very proud in heaven.”
She stood up, and as she dropped a kiss on the top of his head, a few tears mingled in. “Thanks, Papa.”
By the next afternoon, it was quite clear to Brigit that God was not going to step in and save her. She had already taken apart her favorite dress to use as a pattern. The first lesson she’d learned about sewing was that she had to lay the pieces out carefully or she’d run out of room.
One arm of the dress was going to be spliced from two end pieces, thanks to her carelessness in not laying the pieces out neatly.
The second lesson was that she should cut slowly. The collar looked like it might end up lopsided, because there were some scraps of the pattern dress laying on the floor, and she knew that wasn’t right.
The third was that fabric was very slippery and should be pinned or held down while being cut. Pieces that were supposed to be the same certainly didn’t look the same.
The fourth lesson had to do with seam allowances, and the fifth and final one was that it was always a good idea to know what piece went where. She had long thin bits that could be sleeves, or they could be—well, she didn’t know. But she couldn’t be sure they weren’t sleeves.
The needles pricked her fingers mercilessly, and she was forever swabbing blood droplets from the pale fabric.
People do this for a living, she thought with amazement. She’d rather muck out pigpens than do this.
Someone knocked at the door, and she smiled. This was the help that God was going to send her, at last. Mary Rose wasn’t due back until the evening train, but perhaps she had gotten home early.
“Come in,” she sang out.
“Brigit, Rever—” Peter’s voice stopped midword as he surveyed the scene in front of him. Behind him, the Armstrongs stepped into the room, and she could see the shock in their eyes. The room was chaotic, and she was not better.
She leaped up from the floor where the pieces of the dresses were strewn about, and as she did so, the pins holding the bun on the back of her head sprayed out, and her hair, tangled and curling wildly like a madwoman’s, showered around her shoulders.
“It’s good to … please excuse the … I’m a bit …” She couldn’t pull the words together.
“It looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Is there, uh, anything I can do?” She looked at the disarray doubtfully.
Brigit summoned a smile. “Oh no. Just last-minute things. I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow!”
She didn’t dare look at Peter for fear of what she might see in his eyes.
She probably pushed them out the door rudely, she thought, but other things were more important, like making the pieces turn into a dress.
Proverbs 31 ran through her mind endlessly. Everything God expected of a wife was right there. She got the Bible from the table and read through it again with a sinking heart. Peter was wrong: this was everything she was not.
Brigit looked at the destruction around her. “She maketh fine linen,” but Brigit cut it up. “She maketh herself coverings of tapestry,” but Brigit couldn’t get the needle threaded. “Strength and honor are her clothing,” but Brigit had been living a lie to Peter.
She shouldn’t marry him. He needed a wife who wouldn’t be an embarrassment to him.
She heard his voice outside. Her father had come home, and Peter and the Armstrongs were still there.
Brigit gathered up the bits of the soft-green cotton and called to him from the door. “Peter, please come here. I—I have something I must say.”
The sunlight glinted across his hair as he turned to her, and from the way his smile flashed at her, she knew that whatever else might be wrong in her life, he was the one thing that was right. She loved him. He loved her. They needed to be together.
Nothing else mattered.
“Brigit, did you want to say something?” Peter asked as he came back to the house from the wagon.
She smiled at him. “I love you. Just that, I love you.”
Reverend Armstrong called from the wagon, “We’d better go, Peter. The poor girl has enough to do without our interference. Remember, she’s getting married tomorrow!”
Brigit stood in front of the altar of the small church, and it all seemed like a reverie. Reverend Armstrong read the marriage ceremony, and from somewhere in a dream, she heard herself saying, “I do,” and saw Peter’s warm gaze.
And then it was over.
The congregation surrounded them with good wishes and congratulations. Even Milo Farnsworth, although he seemed puzzled by the whole matter, shook Peter’s hand heartily and nodded awkwardly at Brigit, clearly not sure what to say and finally settling for a vague, “Yes, yes, excellent.”
Mary Rose, though, knew exactly what to do. She hugged her good friend. “Mrs. Collins! Who knew you’d be able to marry for love!”
“The dress is lovely on you,” Mrs. Armstrong said when the crowd had thinned.
“Don’t look too closely at it. If I take a deep breath, the seams are likely to spring apart,” Brigit said confidingly.
“We do what we need to do,” the presiding elder’s wife said wisely, “and we learn. My dear, I have one more gift for you—a sewing basket. Life is going to give your heart more rips and rends than a simple silver needle pulling thread can fix, but it’s a start. God bless you, dear.”
Brigit hugged Mrs. Armstrong, wondering if the woman had any idea how inapt the gift was. Already the seams of the green dress were loosening, but it didn’t matter.
The dress, Brigit realized as her handsome new husband joined them, was just outerwear. It was the love that she and Peter shared that was important.
Her father’s eyes were suspiciously red as he approached them. “Peter, she’s my girl. She’s always been my girl, and she always will be. I have just one request of her.”
“Yes, sir?”
“She’s part of this land, you know. She was born in Dakota and raised here, too. Farming’s in her blood.”
Peter smiled as Mr. Streeter continued. “So I think we should tell her what the surprise is.”
Brigit’s new husband turned to her. “I’ve been living in a rented house. It’s small and cramped and no place to raise twigs.”
“Twigs?” she asked blankly.
“Twigs, on our family tree,” he explained. “Children.”
The thought of their children warmed her heart.
“Your father is building us a house on the farm,” he went on. “We can live there and farm together, all of us, your father, you, me, our children—”
“Our twigs,” she added laughingly.