Chapter 1

Palmyra: Spring 1827

It is about time, Esther! You’re always the last one here. And look, you still have dirt on your hands.”

It was, as usual, Josephine who scolded me. But then, she was right. I was always the late one. I had been loath to leave the new seedlings I had been planting, and some particles of black fragrant soil still clung to my hands.

I bent over and wiped them along the soft grass. “Someone has to be last,” I replied.

“Last, but not late, Esther. You do not have to be late.”

“I am sorry, Josie.” Unable to help myself, I smiled at her. She looked so fresh and pretty in her new summer frock. She had talked Mother into it last month, when the late March gales still blew their way into April.

“I am marriageable age,” she reminded Mother. “I cannot hope to catch a beau in an outmoded gown.”

You could catch a beau clad in an old gunny sack, I thought. You already have six or seven. But I had not said a word. Mother would give in to her. Mother always gave in to her. She too liked pretty clothes. There was a conspiracy of sorts between them; unstated, but nevertheless unassailable. Perhaps the natural harmony of two beautiful women who understood each other’s needs. I did not know. I had my own pursuits and desires; I cared not overmuch about theirs.

“What is it this time?” Phoebe asked. “Have you something to tell us?”

“Isn’t a perfect day like this reason enough to get together?” Georgie winked at me as she pulled up clumps of long, slender grass with her fists and dropped the sweet stuff into her lap.

“As a matter of fact . . .” Josie drew her words out, enjoying the attention. “I have made up my mind . . .”

We all leaned forward a bit, on cue, anticipating.

“I intend to become engaged before summer is over and to be married by Christmas. I have always wanted a Christmas wedding with sleigh bells and high-laced boots on my feet and thick fur wraps ’round my shoulders.” She hugged her thin arms to her body, immersed in her own delicious imaginings. A scampering breeze lifted her yellow curls and blew them about her head until they looked like a shimmering halo.

“Who is the lucky boy?”

Josephine paused. She let dignity settle over her like a fine silken shawl. “I have not made up my mind.”

“Have any proposed yet?” Georgie’s black eyes were dancing.

“Henry has—for the third time.”

“Henry doesn’t count. He has been proposing to you at least once a year since you were seven.” Theodora spoke with poise and authority as she bent over the teapot and began to freshen our cups.

Josie laughed. “It does not matter who proposes and who doesn’t,” she informed us. “I shall decide.”

We had no doubts that she would. She had never waited for circumstance, for the whims or wishes of others to deter her or to dictate their terms. She knew what she wanted and went after it. It was only that she always wanted so much!

“A wedding will be lovely,” Phoebe sighed.

I felt a little catch at my heart. I knew Phoebe wanted Simon Turner to ask her to marry him. She had been in love with him for as long as I could remember. And he returned her affections, at least in part. But there was Emily, too. Emily’s family had been in Palmyra only three years, but I think Simon fell in love with her the first time he set eyes on her small, delicate, elfin-like face. They say such things can happen. I do not believe he meant to be unfaithful, or even unkind to Phoebe, but what can one do? He was torn; it was easy to see the anguish of his dilemma. But my heart went out to my friend. She had not half the beauty nor charm of her rival. But she had a full-blown woman’s heart, with enough tenderness and devotion, I was certain, to make any man happy and proud. But life does not work as it “should,” nice and tidily, and Beauty, I had often noticed, can lead nine men out of ten around by the nose and very well have her own way.

“What about an autumn date?” Theodora was suggesting. “Would autumn not be better than winter? Such a bitter cold can blow off the lakes in the winter—”

“And such an ocean of sticky mud can clog the streets in the autumn!” Josephine countered. “No, I do not wish to be plastered with leaves and mud, thank you. Christmas! Christmas it shall be!”

She was so unquestioningly sure of herself! It irritated me a little; it always had. If Josie’s disposition had been somewhat sweeter . . . but then, it was no good wishing. She was as proud as a peacock and as spoiled as a princess, and that was that. When we were all children we had worshiped her beauty and her boldness. Now that time had closed up the age gap and we were all young women together, we saw her with different eyes. But we knew she loved us—it was knowing so surely that she loved us that made it easier to put up with her now!

“Too bad young Joseph Smith just got married,” Tillie said out of nowhere. “He is a bright, handsome lad.”

Josephine laughed. “He is altogether too strange for me, thank you.”

The suggestion was meant to be largely a joke. But I recalled to myself the several times Joseph had worked for my father and how polite and kind he had been. Surely he would make a good husband, I thought. There is something in his eyes when he looks at you that holds you, that draws you—that makes you feel warm, even safe, inside. There was still talk about him—angels and visitations—but I paid it no mind. It is the nature of some people to look after everyone’s affairs but their own. I had little interest in what did not concern me. And I had much to concern me right now.

This scatter-brain marriage scheme of Josie’s came at an awkward time. Our mother had passed the seventh month of her pregnancy and would soon approach her confinement; this, in itself, was a miracle. Josephine had been her first child, I her second. Then there had followed a series of years when she had suffered from the loss of a full half dozen children to as many different causes and ailments: two little sons dying at the same time from scarlet fever; an infant daughter from influenza; two others living only hours after their birth; and four-year-old Thomas, whom I remembered, drowning in the canal. A dismal catechism. But things looked hopeful now, truly hopeful. And Mother was being patient and taking such care! If this child was born safe and well, a marriage would not prove a hurdle; I could take over much of the work of it, and we could rejoice all together. But if otherwise—tragedy and the emotional chaos that would follow! I shut the picture out of my mind. One day at a time, I reminded myself. Do not court trouble. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

Our conversation at length shifted from weddings to half a dozen other topics; we five could talk about nothing and anything for hours on end. It was good just to be together, just to feel spring at last gentling the earth. Our lives were ahead of us. And in the thin new air our dreams hovered, like so many angel shapes, their wings brushing our hair, their voices humming hope almost audible in our ears.

I was the last to arrive and also the first to leave. I had a few dozen plants to set out still, and someone had to get supper started. Georgeanna was a schoolteacher, so her evenings and weekends were her own. Phoebe did fine handwork for the fanciest dress shop in town. Theodora and Josephine were not employed in the business of producing a living for themselves. Tillie’s father was a banker and made sufficient money to keep his family in style. Josie, to be fair, helped with the household chores and, from time to time, with the farm work; but she was too fastidious and high-strung to be of much use in the real, dogged, slug-it-out kind of work. It was in the kitchen that she came into her own. But even there she needed time and first-rate ingredients to make her culinary magic shine. I knew she would follow in an hour or so and stir up something to tempt Mother’s appetite. I was content to get back to my garden, to work out of doors until the frosty fingers of the evening shadows crept over the darkening earth and drove me inside.

I hummed under my breath as I walked away, and kissed my fingers to my pretty friends, dotting the green lawn with their soft colorful gowns, gracing it more surely than flowers. I am happy simply to be here, in this place, I thought. I am glad just to be alive as this fair spring comes in.

Phoebe made May Day frocks for all five of us. She is a wizard with a needle. Mine was the soft blue of a robin’s egg with bound leaves of almost chartreuse green festooning the shoulders and a broad sash that matched the green of the leaves. I was pleased; the shades went well with my coloring—my green eyes and the strawberry blonde of my hair. Josie wore rose, as muted and faded as old brocade, with her lemon bright curls tumbling over the braided roses tucked at her shoulders. Phoebe wore white, but her gown boasted very full gigot sleeves which tapered down to her tiny wrists. Tillie too wore white, but with an abundance of lace; lace was her passion and trademark. Georgie had chosen a jaunty fabric with bunches of forget-me-nots tied up in a colorful string scattered throughout the cloth. And, in keeping with the smartest fashion, each of our gowns was belled out by an abundance of undergarments, and we definitely swished as we walked.

Phoebe was a dear: because of her, when we gathered with the other young people in the wide, tree-shaded lot behind the Presby-terian chapel at the corner of Main and Church Streets, we clearly outshone every other girl there. “Belle of the ball!” Josie whispered, excitement coloring her white cheeks with an attractive blush. I did not care about that. But I will admit I felt pretty, as though the gentle May morn had been born for my pleasure and mine alone.

“Here we come a-Maying in the clear, fair morn . . .” We were singing all the lovely ditties we had sung since childhood. For a moment I closed my eyes. How easy it was to go back, to see all five of us in pigtails and pinafores: me with ink stains on my fingers because I was always scribbling something; Josephine with the ends of her hair caked with ink, because the boys were always teasing her; Georgie with her quite beautiful nose stuck in a book; Phoebe carrying—

“Esther!”

I jumped, startled, as a firm hand shook me.

“Come back, will you, Esther? They’re choosing partners.” Eugene bent half over in an exaggerated bow. “Will you, m’lady?”

I blushed—I always blush, and have discovered no way of stopping it!—and gave him my hand.

He pulled me into the circle that was forming. I noticed, with a sinking heart, that Simon was dancing with Emily, and Phoebe stood by the side. The music started, and the intricate pattern claimed my attention: circle left, circle right, two balance steps forward, four running steps backward. Dancing has never been easy for me. But I still felt beautiful, and my heart thrilled when we reached the part where the boys walk forward, kneel on one knee, and unfasten the ribbons—the long rainbow-bright ribbons which have been floating like butterflies—then return bearing one for themselves and one for their partner. I curtsied low, with as much grace as I could muster, and felt my cheeks grow warm at the expression in Eugene’s eyes when he raised me up and looked at me.

As the intricate weaving began—clockwise, under the boy’s ribbon, with eight skips—I saw that Phoebe did have a partner, though not the partner her heart cried for. I had forgotten to look for which lad Josephine had deigned to bestow her favors upon as she began her campaign of entrapment, but the very thought made me smile.

“Thank you for being with me,” Eugene murmured, closing his fingers with ardent pressure over mine. “In this whole array of beautiful women, Esther, you are the fairest.”

I cast my eyes down. I did not know what to do, what to say, when he behaved like this. I possessed no coquettish skills like my sister and could not return him a quick, clever rejoinder. Yet his words were sincerely spoken; what good would coquetry do? I found myself merely pressing his warm hand in return and feeling the hot blood flow to my cheeks.

I’ve been rambling all this night,
And some time of this day,
And now returning back again,
I brought you a branch of May . . .
Awake, awake, O pretty, pretty maid,
From out your drowsy dream,
And step into your dairy here,
And fetch me a bowl of cream.

As we sang the words a meadowlark rose from the fringes of our grassy meadow, mere feet away, his lilting trill a harmonious accompaniment to our melody.

If not a bowl of your sweet cream,
A cup to bring you cheer,
For God knows when we’ll meet again
To be maying another year . . .

A sudden chill shivered over me. Is this what growing up means? I wondered. Never before had those closing words held special meaning for me. Now, as I glanced around at the bright faces of the lads and girls I had known since childhood, I wondered where the next year would find us—and the next, and the next—as life pulled us in dozens of different directions and shaped and molded our futures anew.

When the cavorting circle broke up at last it was to flock to the long tables which literally sagged with their burden of food. This day we ate dainties which would not be offered again for another year: candied violets, cookies flavored with rose water, strawberry cordial, mint syllabus, rhubarb tarts, elder flower pudding, iced honey cakes, and red currant ice cream.

I stayed beside Eugene and tried not to worry about the others; they had not dubbed me “Mother Hen” when I was only seven for nothing! But it was curiosity that drove me to cast my eyes every now and again in my sister’s direction. Her admirers, as usual, were hovering around, like obedient knights in a queen’s court. I knew there were three or four who could be dismissed without thought, who were not really “in the running,” as the saying goes: patient, faithful Henry, Timothy Ikins, Ralph Jensen . . . and probably James Sadler, though James would make a good husband, especially to one as high-strung as Josie. But, alas, he was not handsome nor dashing enough. Robert Sumsion, whose looks could melt the heart of any girl who happened to turn her eyes upon him, was like a bright, pretty toy Josephine played with—something to delight her fancy, but not serious marriage material, for he had no family connections, no promising trade, and only fair to middling prospects. The poor boy did not realize that.

The coldness with which Josie regarded these flesh-and-blood men was something I had not stomach enough to dwell upon. Instead, I slipped my arm through Eugene’s and counted myself lucky to have his attentions. I had been fond of Eugene for quite a long time. Odd that he was the brother of Emily, my dearest friend’s rival. Yet he shared her same sweet disposition and had inherited the same trim, compact figure, Dresden china features, and arresting blue eyes.

“He is too short,” Josephine had criticized from the beginning. “He looks like a boy, though he’s a year older than I am.”

“Yes, and he will always look fresh and young like a boy. When he is forty and fifty—even sixty.”

She had dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Suit yourself, Esther. You have always had your own tastes . . .” Indicating quite clearly inferior tastes, especially to mine.

I looked over to see Theodora’s brothers approaching, waving their arms to attract my attention. “We’ve got news!” Peter cried.

“You’re hired on!” I guessed. “The canal company accepted you two skinny half-pints. Must be through your father’s influence,” I teased.

Randolph beamed. They were used to me. “Told you she’d guess, Pete.”

“I’m happy for both of you! When do you start work?” I cried.

“Day after tomorrow. The spring rush is already in full swing and they need extra hands.”

I nodded. “Pay attention when they train you, and follow the safety rules. And be polite to the women—always. That will not go unnoticed.”

Peter inclined his head in playful acquiescence. “Anything you say, ma’am. We will follow your instructions to the letter.”

“You could do worse!” I countered. I was most fond of both these boys. Randolph was fifteen and Peter fourteen. I would not have let my own sons associate with the rough canal men at such a tender age. But Lawrence Swift held a stubborn belief in a work ethic that overwhelmed all other considerations. He may have been born to wealth and influence, but he had extended his advantages by his labors, both of mind and of hand.

I watched them frolic off to tell the next person, then turned to Eugene. “Do you think Simon will ask Emily to marry him?”

My question took him a bit by surprise.

“Do you know if he has broached the subject with her?”

“She would not tell me, Esther! Especially because of you.”

I sighed. “I am fond of Emily,” I told him truthfully, “and would be more so if my loyalty to Phoebe did not get in the way.”

“Emily cannot help the situation! She has done nothing petty or underhanded—”

“I know that!” I placed my other hand on his arm, my eyes entreating him. “ ’Tis merely one of the terrible misfortunes of life, Eugene, that one person’s happiness will spell misery and bitter disappointment for another.” I leaned my head against his cheek and could feel his sun-warmed flesh through the thin veil of my hair. “You understand.”

“Yes, but if Emily marries Simon, you five will ostracize and abandon them both, and in a village this size that will be no small thing.”

Ostracize and exclude, perhaps. But abandon was a strong word for Eugene to choose. I peered at my companion closely. “Is Emily really concerned about such a thing happening?”

“Of course she is! Would not you be, in her shoes?”

His question pierced through me. What mischief, what heady truth potion had the May Day air carried that it should affect me in this way? I chaffed at the irritating burden of my own concern over Emily’s happiness. Her well-being, if she married Simon, did not rest with me.

“There you go, furrowing your brow in that way again,” Eugene said, watching me. “I want you to take my words to heart, but I do not want you to fret yourself over them.”

“ ’Tis one and the same.”

“With you it is, more than with any other.” He was scolding me gently, but I could see pride in his eyes. It pleased him to know that my temperament was different from Josie’s. He was one of the few never taken in by her beauty and flirtatious ways.

“Come, Esther,” he said, “I must get you a plate before all the choice morsels are picked over.”

I walked along, enjoying the touch of him, aware that his presence delighted and warmed me and enhanced every other pleasurable sensation I was feeling on this gentle spring day.