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A week later, Brad began the first of a series of carefully-planned visits to Jemima’s house. They were intended to help him build up friendship, trust, and eventually, an interview.
His first visit was a Hail Mary, and could have ended disastrously, but luck was with him. He arrived in the middle of the day, when the Duchess’ old man was out somewhere, and she was working outside again.
It had been hard to get out to her place without attracting attention, but lucky for him, the place adjoined a piece of public land, an overgrown forest tract owned by the county. He had simply parked on the other side of that property, and hiked over.
By the time he had slogged to the edge of her family’s farm, his slacks were torn by briars and he was covered in cockleburs.
He took a minute to pick the little prickly pods off of his clothing, before climbing over the fence.
He kept to the edge of the tree line, being careful not to walk out over the lawn. He had learned that the old man was a blacksmith and that if he was home, you could hear him from a distance away, but the house was quiet.
The red giant was gone.
Brad kept behind the bushes, working his way back to the spot where he had met Jemima before. It was an ideal hiding spot; he could see the whole house and garden without being seen himself. He returned to it, and sure enough, there was the Duchess, sitting in a little folding chair on one side of the garden. There was another, empty chair facing her.
He shot a glance at the house. The best he could tell, a big line of flowering bushes screened Jemima from the house, so if he stepped out from his hiding place, he should be safe, unless–
He ducked down. Unless, she had a visitor.
He crouched low, cursing softly under his breath. Some pretty farm boy had come out to see her. He sat down in the empty chair facing Jemima.
Brad grimaced. The guy was actually wearing a straw hat.
He was close enough to hear what they were saying, though he devoutly wished he wasn’t because, of course, the guy was trying to romance the Duchess, and it was painful to watch.
The hat guy gave her a piece of paper. Brad craned his neck, wondering what it was.
Jemima looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, Joseph, another poem! This is so sweet,” she murmured.
Brad shook his head. You’re dying, buddy, he told the stranger. Sweet is for babies and lapdogs.
The guy looked down at his hands, as though he couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes to her face. “Read it, Jemima,” he pleaded.
She looked startled, and Brad shook his head. Poor girl!
She cleared her throat, and coughed. “You are like a...strong mare, with a shiny red coat.”
She looked up at him doubtfully, but he nodded encouragement, and she continued: “You are a hard worker, and work well with others. Yoke and...harness will be no hardship for you, because you are mild and gentle.”
Brad laughed out loud, and Jemima’s head jerked up suddenly. “What was that? Did you hear something, Joseph?”
Joseph shook his head, and his eyes returned to the paper.
She scanned the bushes again, and continued, less placidly: “Your road will be smooth and happy, and you will never run it alone.”
Jemima finished, and looked up at the young man. “That’s a – that’s a lovely poem, Joseph.”
Brad made a decision, and stood up suddenly. He stepped boldly onto the lawn, waved the forms over his head, and pointed to them.
Jemima’s eyes met his over her visitor’s shoulder. She shrieked and dropped the paper, and Brad ducked back into the bushes.
Joseph looked almost as alarmed as Jemima. He jumped up, and then sat down again, abruptly.
“What’s wrong, Mima?” he asked earnestly.
Jemima’s eyes scanned the bushes crazily. “I-I thought I saw something!” she stammered.
The young man turned and looked in the direction of her gaze. “I don’t see anything, Mima,” he said, in a puzzled tone. He turned back to her. “Maybe – you’re a little nervous.” The thought seemed to please him; he smiled a bit.
“Was I too – too ardent?”
Jemima uttered a choking sound that she abruptly swallowed, and then pressed a hand to her head. “No, no, Joseph! It’s just that – well, maybe you’re right, I am a bit nervous today. I’m sorry.”
Her visitor smiled serenely. He dared to pat her hand. “That’s all right,” he told her. “I won’t press you, Jemima.”
Jemima raised her head and cast a fiery look at the bushes. “I wish everyone had your courtesy, Joseph!” she cried.
He stood up, hat in hand. “May I call on you again – Mima?”
She was still looking out into the trees. “Yes, yes. Anytime you like! I mean – well, you’ll have to ask my Daed.” She raised her voice. “He’ll be back any minute!”
Joseph nodded. “There’s no hurry, Mima. I’ll see you at worship Sunday.” He leaned forward, and paused.
Jemima looked up at him, bit her lip, and allowed him to kiss her cheek.
After her visitor had disappeared around the side of the house, climbed into his buggy, and driven off down the road, she turned to the bushes, hands on hips.
Brad stepped out of them, laughing crazily.
“How dare you come out here when I told you not to!” Jemima cried, eyes blazing. “And you spied on me! How can you stand there laughing! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Brad wiped his eyes and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jemima,” he sputtered. “I wasn’t trying to spy, and I didn’t mean to listen. I just didn’t want to interrupt. I came out to bring you the auction contract. I figured it would be faster and safer than mailing it.”
“Leave this minute!” she told him, pointing back to the bushes. “I specifically told you not to come. Don’t you pay attention to anything that other people say?”
Brad raised his hands in the air. “Okay, okay,” he shrugged. “Though it isn’t very polite to insult me, after I took the trouble to make a special trip all the way out here.”
That line of reasoning seemed to give her pause. Some of the fire died out of her eyes. She sputtered, “Just, just go now, before my father comes home. Because this time, I won’t protect you!”
Brad looked up at her sharply, and grinned. She gasped, went beet red, stamped her foot, turned, and ran.
Brad set the contract down on the neatly-mown lawn, turned, and beat a strategic retreat. Because if there was any chance that she was right, he had better demonstrate the better part of valor.
Before he experienced the better part of a thrashing.
