A Season of the Heart

Ellen glanced at her mother studying the fashions in the new Godey’s Lady’sMagazine she’d received, drew breath to speak, then exhaled and turned back to the fire. She’d started to ask her mother if she would donate trims left over from dress orders at least a dozen times since dinner and then stopped. It would be best to wait a few days, until the costumes were finished but for the final touches. Coward. She frowned at her lack of will and pulled her wrap closer about her bare shoulders. The silk gown she’d donned before her parents came home was stylish but chilly.

“You seem restless tonight, Ellen. I hope you’re not feeling adrift because of the lack of suitable society in Pinewood.”

“No, Mother, I’ve been spending time visiting with Willa. And I had Asa drive me out to see Sadie today. I’m only...thinking.”

“You took the cutter out to Butternut Hill in this weather?” Her mother gave her an astounded look. “Whatever for?”

She drew breath to explain about the pine boughs for the church, then swallowed back her words. “I wanted to see Sadie.”

Her father lowered his book and peered up at her. She held still, determined not to fidget beneath his penetrating gaze. Her answer had been the truth—as far as it went.

“Are you any closer to a decision as to which gentleman you will accept as your husband?”

“No, Father.” She’d been so busy she hadn’t even thought about her beaux today. Only Daniel. But that was natural, since he’d been present—and annoying. She leaned down and added a piece of log to the fire lest her father read the truth in her expression, and she read disapproval in his as a consequence.

“Well, you tend to what your mother and I say. Don’t allow your old friends to talk you into accepting less than you can achieve in life by a good marriage.”

“Indeed.” Her mother looked up at her, a hint of a frown on her face. “Willa, Callie and Sadie have done quite well for themselves considering they have settled for village life. But we have groomed you for the greater, more important things of high society, Ellen. You mustn’t forget that. Now go and cream your hands. And don’t handle any more rough wood, dear. You want your appearance to be perfect when Mr. Lodge and Mr. Cuthbert arrive.”

* * *

Suitable society. Ellen rubbed cream into her face and hands, swirled her silk-and-lace dressing gown on over her nightdress and stepped to her bedroom window. Cold air seeped from beneath the hems of the winter drapes her mother had fashioned from a woven bed coverlet and chilled her slippered feet. She drew her dressing gown close and pushed one drape aside far enough to look out. Large snowflakes fell through the moonlight that shone on the rutted ribbon of Oak Street and glistened on the snow-covered ground across the way.

Beyond the park stood the new parsonage, but the snowfall was so thick all she could distinguish was a small glow of lamplight from a window. Had she made a mistake by offering to help Willa? Performing such mundane tasks would lessen her worth in Mr. Lodge’s and Mr. Cuthbert’s opinions. If she could even do them. And her mother was right. What about her hands? What if she suffered needle pricks? Or if her skin became roughened and dry from handling the pine boughs? Oh, why had she let Daniel’s words prod her into saying she would help? It would, of a certainty, displease her parents as well as her beaux. Still...

Cold coming off the window chilled her. She let the drape fall back into place and crossed the room to her bed. She’d felt odd but nice all afternoon. The truth was, she had enjoyed helping Willa. Still, there was no possible way she could do the work without it becoming known. There were no secrets in Pinewood.

A wry smile tugged at her lips. That was one thing she and her friends had learned while very young. No matter what secret adventure they set off on, it was always already known by the time they returned home. Or soon confessed. Especially if they faced Callie’s aunt Sophia. The woman was formidable! She laughed and shook her head. The truth was, she’d always been a little frightened of Sophia Sheffield in spite of her kindness. What a timid child she’d been....

The silk of her dressing gown whispered softly as she shrugged it off her shoulders and down her arms. A chill slithered down her spine in spite of the fire as she stepped out of her slippers. She slid beneath the covers searching out the heated, towel-wrapped soapstone at the foot of the mattress with her cold feet. “Ahh.” Warmth caressed her toes as she tucked them in a fold of the warm cloth. Did Willa enjoy even such a small luxury as this? Likely not, even though she was married to Reverend Calvert and had Bertha Franklin for their housekeeper.

Suitable society.

A twinge of apprehension tingled through her. How would she entertain her beaux? Reverend Calvert and Willa would qualify as suitable society, but neither Mr. Lodge nor Mr. Cuthbert cared about church—except for appearances’ sake. Callie and her husband would qualify—Ezra Ryder was wealthier than either Mr. Lodge or Mr. Cuthbert. Unfortunately, Callie and Ezra were away visiting Ezra’s sister for the Christmas season. Sadie and Cole? No. Sadie spent her time looking after her grandmother and grandfather, and Cole—well, Cole was too straightforward to get on well with her beaux.

That thought gave her pause. She frowned, closed her eyes and directed her thoughts away from the unflattering comparison. Her parents would simply have to entertain her beaux—there was no one else who would be...compatible. She would keep her word and help Willa, but she must finish the tasks quickly. It would not do for her beaux to come and find her working like one of their servants. That would not do at all.

How long would it take to make the children’s costumes? She was certainly not skilled at sewing, and Willa had the baby and Joshua and Sally, as well as her husband and home to care for. A smile curved her lips. Sally was a sweet little girl. And she would make a beautiful angel with her fair skin and her golden curls. The white lace tablecloth would make her a lovely flowing gown. But what of a halo? Or— Her old gowns! Perhaps she wouldn’t have to ask her mother for leftover dress trimmings after all.

She threw the covers aside, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers and hurried across the bedroom to open the large chest that held some of her old dresses. There was a yellow watered silk with a narrow band of gold braid that tied around the waist....

Firelight flickered on the various fabrics as she dropped to her knees and looked through the piles. Rose...green...silver—she’d always liked that dress—blue...copper...yellow. Ah! There it was. She slipped the yellow dress out of the pile and sat back on her heels to free the band of gold braid. It was stiff enough to hold a circular shape. A perfect halo. Wait until she showed Willa. A tiny twinge of excitement wiggled through her. She smiled and set the gold braid aside, put the dress back in the trunk.

Some of us don’t have the luxury of sitting around idle.

The words grated. She shoved her curls back over her shoulders and tossed her head. She’d show Daniel Braynard. He’d have to swallow those words when he saw the work she did with Willa on the costumes and the decorations—and she hoped he choked on them!

She leaned forward onto her knees and plowed through the pile of dresses again. The lace-edged net of the overskirt on the silver gown would make lovely wings. She yanked the gown from the pile, dropped it on the floor beside her and dove back into her search. There had to be other things she could find that would be helpful in making the costumes. She’d show Daniel! She’d make the best costumes Pinewood had ever seen!

* * *

Silence reigned, the only sounds the soft, muted thud of the Belgian’s hoofs and the whisper of the pung’s runners over the deep snow. It was as if the forest were holding its breath. Daniel smiled at the whimsical thought, looked up at the snowflakes shimmering in the moonlight that lit the forest track and wished he had a wife beside him to witness the beauty.

Ellen.

His imagination placed her beside him, their shoulders touching, their laps covered by a thick, warm blanket. He frowned and glanced at the folded, snow-covered horse blanket on the seat to disperse the yearning. That dream had died years ago. There would be no wife, only grim reality. He would not subject any woman to the sort of life his mother had known—most certainly not the spoiled Ellen Hall with her fancy gowns and fur-trimmed bonnet and cloak.

“Hup, Big Boy, hup!” He snapped his wrists and rippled the lines, and the huge Belgian dragged the pung off the track into a small clearing, his great muscles rippling as he plodded through the knee-high snow. He reined the gelding to the right, around the edge of the clearing to a spot a short way beyond a small thickly branched hemlock. “That’s far enough. Whoa, Big Boy.”

The Belgian stopped, tossed his head and snorted. Hot breath puffed from his nostrils, forming small gray clouds. He pawed the snow with his right front hoof and snorted again.

“I know. You don’t like having to work tonight. But orders are orders. And it’s to help Willa.” He grabbed the horse blanket beside him, jumped from his seat, then tossed it up over Big Boy’s back and tugged it into place. The buckle on the hold strap glinted against the gelding’s massive chest. “There you are, fellow.” He patted the thick neck and went back for the feedbag. “This will keep you content while I work.” He slipped the bag on, adjusted it and left Big Boy munching on his oats and bran while he lifted his ax out of the pung and trudged through the snow toward the hemlock.

The moonlight gleamed on the snow-covered ground and reflected off of the snow-burdened branches of the trees that circled the small clearing, protecting it from the worst of the winter storm. Wind rose, tossed the tops of the towering pines and whistled softly through their lower limbs, its power diminished by the thickness of the forest.

At least he could see. He smacked the hemlock’s branches with the flat side of the blade to knock off the snow and grimaced at the shower of white that rained down on him as the limbs flew up to their normal position. He yanked off a glove and swiped the cold, moist flakes from his face and neck. The things he did in the name of friendship! No. It was more than that. He tugged his glove back on, took hold of the ax and lopped off the lower limbs. Willa and Callie and Sadie and Ellen had pestered him mercilessly when they were kids, but he’d grown to love them like sisters. All except Ellen. What he had felt for her had nothing to do with brotherly affection. Would that it had.

He scowled, dragged the branches he’d cut off to the pung, tossed them into the box and returned to the tree. His first hefty swing buried the blade deep into the exposed trunk. He yanked it free and swung again, the power of his strong shoulders behind the stroke. Thunk! A chip flew from the trunk and buried itself in the snow. More chips followed in rapid succession. There was a creaking, cracking, splintering sound.

He leaped aside, watched the small tree wobble, then fall with a soft thud across the track made by the pung. Perfect! He hurried to the downed tree and lopped off the smaller top branches with one stroke each. In five minutes he had denuded the top of the tree. He buried the blade of his ax in the bared trunk and used both arms to scoop up the small branches. Snow packed in between his gloves and the sleeves of his jacket, chilled his flesh. He pulled off his gloves, shook the snow out of his sleeves, then tugged his gloves back on and picked up the ax.

Willa and Sadie were going to pay for this. It would cost Sadie a batch of those good molasses cookies she made, and Willa would have to let him take Joshua and Sally skating on his next weekend in town. It was as close as he’d ever get to being a father. He pressed his lips together against the pain of the thought and went back to work.

The snow came faster. It piled on his shoulders, hat and collar of his jacket, found the bare spot between them and melted against his neck. He ignored the shivers it caused and looked around for a small pine. None offered.

He trudged through the snow to the smallest pine standing on the edge of the clearing, eyed the snow-laden branches and frowned. He’d really get a snow shower this time.

The quick, sharp blows of his ax shook the tree. Snow cascaded from the upper branches, fell in large clumps that plopped against the ground and broke into pieces against his head and shoulders. That was two batches of cookies for Sadie! And an added afternoon of sledding with Willa’s children. No penalty for Ellen, though he knew the one he’d like to claim. He’d like to send her back to Buffalo! As much as she hated the cold weather, how had Willa talked her into going out to Butternut Hill to ask Manning Townsend to donate boughs, anyway? He swung again and the large limb split from the trunk and fell at his feet. He dragged it out of the way and took his frustration out on the next one. Snow showered down on him as he chopped it off.

He dragged it over beside the other one. It was dangerous to fell a tree this large alone using only one notch. When the trunk got thin enough, the tree could twist and fall in the wrong spot. He frowned and swept his gaze over the area at the tree’s base. The snow was too deep and the branches of the trees too tangled together for him to get behind it to make a second notch. He eyed the branches on the back side of the tree. They were half-buried by the snow. It was possible they would hold the tree from twisting or kicking out and toppling before he could get out of the way.

“I’m going to need Your help with this one, Lord. Please let the trunk hold until I can get free.” He shot a look toward the sky, took a firm grip on his ax and swung it again and again, watching the trunk as the chips flew off into the snow, listening to the sound as each stroke hit. There was a creak. The trunk trembled. The far edge of the thin remaining piece of trunk splintered. The tree lurched and twisted, the buried back branches bursting out of the snow into the air.

He threw his ax through the branches of the neighboring pine and dove after it, hit the snow and rolled toward the massive trunk.

Craaack! The hewed tree slammed against the pine. A shudder traveled down the trunk. He curled tighter, covered his head. Snow and sheared-off branches rained down. “Lord Jesus, be with me!” The falling tree slid down the pine’s trunk and crashed onto the limb over him, its large branches driving deep into the snow, cracking and splintering when they hit the frozen ground.

Silence. Nothing but the whisper of the pine needles on the quivering branches, the soft plop of bits of snow sliding off to hit the ground. The snapping and shattering of wood had stopped.

He pulled his hands away, raised his head and opened his eyes. Pieces of broken branches, pine needles and shreds of bark littered the snow, while larger boughs formed a tangled tent over him. A weight pressed against his back, pushed down on his shoulders. He craned his neck around, eyed the deep crack in the broken limb above him and the trunk of the fallen tree that rested across it, its branches buried in white. “Thank You, Lord, for the deep snow.”

His words were swallowed by the night. A cautious sweep of his arm cleared away the debris between him and the pine’s trunk. He said another quick prayer for the cracked branch to hold, pawed the snow from beneath his chest and slithered out from under the damaged limb. Free!

The end of his ax handle was sticking up out of the snow at the base of the sheltering pine. He grasped it in his trembling hand and pushed through the snarl of broken branches, then looked up at the sky. “Thank You, Lord, for Your protection. I’ll take You for my partner over any other, anytime.”

His hat was dangling from the nub of one of the small offshoot limbs he’d broken when he dove for safety. He shook it free of snow and debris, tugged it on, then hacked his way clear and went back to work, tossing the branches into a pile.

The snow came thicker and faster, closing out the moonlight. Time to quit. He shouldered his ax, tromped through the snow to the pung, removed Big Boy’s feedbag and led him toward the downed pine’s skeleton. There would be another five or six inches by morning, and it was already too deep for safely logging and hauling out timber—as he’d just proved.