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When Saturday arrived, it dawned clear and crisp and cool under a cloudless blue sky. The rolling countryside around the King farm was as neat and trim as a postcard – white farmhouses, red barns, and green hills spattered with glorious color: fire red, copper orange, lemon yellow.
But Jemima hardly noticed the fine weather. She spent most of the day in the living room mending clothes, and the hours seemed to crawl. Every time she glanced at the old clock on the mantle, the hands seemed frozen to the same position they’d held the last time she looked.
The time dragged to noon. Jacob came in from his workshop, and they all ate lunch: thick slabs of bologna and homemade cheddar between Rachel’s sourdough bread, homemade cream of chicken soup with baked butter crackers, a big bowl of potato salad with egg and dill, creamed corn, coffee and tea. Jacob and Rachel talked and laughed together, Deborah looked sour, and Jemima picked at her food, said little and glanced at the clock.
They finished lunch. Jacob kissed Rachel and went back to work. Jemima and Deborah helped their mother clear away the plates and glasses, and Jemima returned to the living room and went back to mending clothes and watching the clock.
A few more hours limped by. At five o’clock they all assembled again for dinner: meatloaf and gravy, biscuits, peas, pickled beets, more potatoes and apple pie with cheddar cheese on top. Jacob and Rachel talked and laughed together, Deborah looked sour, and Jemima picked at her food, remained mostly silent and watched the clock.
After dinner Jemima waited until her parents were occupied, then escaped upstairs. She ducked into the bathroom that she shared with Deborah and shut out the world.
Then she locked the door and ran a hot, fragrant bath.
When the tub was full of steaming water, Jemima peeled off her clothes, stepped gingerly into the hot water, and gradually eased herself into its enveloping warmth.
She sank down into the water until it had closed over her ears like two hands. The radiant heat slowly drew all the tension and all the frustration of a long wait out of her.
She lathered her hands with a bar of soap until the suds were running through her fingers, then washed her hair and face and body. The soap was deliciously fragrant of honeysuckle, and the aroma filled the tiny room with the last whisper of summer.
Jemima luxuriated in the silky bubbles, breathed the perfume in deeply, and then rinsed it away with cool, clear water. She stepped out of the tub, dried herself, sat down on the edge and smoothed on honeysuckle lotion over her face and neck, all down her arms and legs, and her hands and feet. It felt silky smooth, and to Jemima’s delight, the lotion made her skin as soft as a baby’s.
After she had he wrapped herself in a bathrobe and her hair in a towel, Jemima slipped into her own room and stretched out on the bed to watch the sun go down through her windows.
The sky gradually melted from pale blue, to blue tinged with pink, to rose red, and then to lavender. Jemima watched it change with rising anticipation. When the sky outside her window deepened from lavender to indigo, she shook her luxurious hair out of the towel and brushed it to a high sheen. Then she pinned it into a coiling bun at the nape of her neck, and dressed in fresh clothes with more than her usual care.
She stood in front the mirror, pinned her cap in place, and then stared at her own reflection. Her eyes looked dilated, her cheeks were flushed and her lips looked slightly swollen.
She turned to the window and looked out across the fields to the horizon. There was now only the faintest glow where the sun had been. The evening star burned high in the sky.
Behind the closed door, she could hear Deborah stump down the hall, shuffle into her own room and slam the door behind her. Farther away, she could hear the muffled sounds of her parent’s voices, then the faint sound of their own door closing.
The sky deepened to dark blue and more stars began to glow here and there. All across the valley, Jemima watched as their neighbors’ window lights winked out, one by one.
A deep quiet settled down over the house. The creaks and pops of an old house at night, and the sound of an owl calling outside sounded loud in the silence.
An hour passed...two hours...three. The sound of her father’s snores wafted down the hall from her parent’s bedroom. Jemima checked her bedside clock, walked to her bed and knelt down on the floor.
She pulled the picnic basket out and set it on the bed. She opened it, gave it one last check and saw that everything was neatly tucked inside. She closed it, locked it and folded the quilt on top of it.
Then she threw a shawl around her shoulders, pulled on her stockings and shoes, picked up the basket and crept downstairs.
The air was sharp and chill when Jemima stepped out onto the porch. She hurried to the swing, draped the quilt over the seat back, and set the picnic basket down on the floor. Then she turned and took the now-familiar path to their meeting place.
There was only a crescent moon that night, and it was harder to see, but Jemima knew the way: across the lawn, across the bare, fallow ground that had been her mother’s summer garden, through the thinning underbrush and on to the fence that divided their farm from the overgrown field next door.
There was little more than starlight, and Jemima leaned forward across the fence, peering out into the darkness. She saw nothing and heard nothing except the night sounds of small unseen animals somewhere in the field beyond – soft chirps and clicks.
Jemima turned her gaze to the road on the far side of the field. There were no visible lights.
She exhaled in disappointment, and rubbed her hands together under her shawl. The night was deepening, and it was cold.
A tiny sound off to the right made Jemima turn her head.
Suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth, and another hand slid around her waist. Jemima uttered a smothered scream and rolled terrified eyes to a dark face hovering over her own.
The stranger yanked her to his chest and kissed her. But though she couldn’t see his face, Jemima recognized the feel of Brad’s kiss. She went limp with relief, then twisted to throw her arms around him.
“You scared me to death!” she gasped, but it was all she had time to say before he stopped her mouth with another fierce greeting.
Brad broke off and nuzzled her cheek. “I thought this week would never end! Oh, you smell so good,” he murmured, and buried his face into her white neck.
Jemima rolled her eyes up and gasped. She was discovering that she loved the feel of Brad’s lips on the tender skin just under her ear; she loved the way his lips teased their way down her neck – and set every spot on fire.
“Come to the house,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “Everyone is asleep, we can sit on the porch. I brought a big quilt, and food.”
She slid her hand down his arm, found his hand and clasped it. “It’s too cold out here. Come with me.”
But he paid no attention. He kissed her again, mussed her hair and knocked her cap askew. Jemima put a distracted hand to her head. Hairpins were falling out everywhere, and now—
“Oh, my hair—” she cried softly. The shining skeins unraveled and fell to her waist like rivulets of water. Brad looked down momentarily, and captured one of the skeins with one hand and rubbed it between his fingers like silk.
Jemima took advantage of his momentary distraction. “Come with me, come. It’s too cold out here.”
Still he didn’t move, so Jemima pulled out of his arms and, on a mischievous impulse, fled from him.
“Duchess!” His exasperated voice hissed out of the darkness, followed by sputtering laughter. “Where did you go? You know this isn’t my—”
There was the sound of someone crashing into a bush, and stumbling footsteps. “When I catch you—”
Jemima laughed breathlessly, darted to him, grabbed his hand and pulled him across the garden plot and the lawn. He followed, laughing, and they ran up to the brink of the porch steps.
Jemima turned on him and caught him in her arms. “Hissht! Be quiet, or my father will hear!”
He stole another kiss before she pulled away again and led him up the steps and to the swing.
