Hidden Places (17 page)

‘‘Ah, then we are very much alike,’’ he said, lifting his coffee cup in salute. ‘‘By the way, dinner is delicious. My compliments to the chef.’’ ‘‘Thank you.’’ I felt a surge of pleasure. I couldn’t recall Frank Wyatt ever complimenting my cooking.

‘‘Are you really the chef? Your husband is a fortunate man.’’

‘‘I’m not married. I live with my father and younger sister. You probably met Lydia at the dry goods store where the sign was posted.’’

‘‘Did I? I can’t recall.’’

For some reason, that pleased me more than anything else he’d said. For the next hour, Walter and I talked about everything from American poets to the Greek classics while he slowly savored his dinner. I was unaware of how much time had passed until I noticed that the room had grown dark enough to need lamps.

‘‘I should go!’’ I said, jumping to my feet. ‘‘If I don’t lock up Father’s chickens before dark, the foxes will be celebrating Thanksgiving.’’

‘‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you—’’

‘‘Oh, don’t be. I’m certainly not. Shall I light the lamps for you before I go?’’

‘‘Yes, please. And then have a look through those boxes again and see if there’s anything you’d like to take along to read.’’

‘‘Are you serious? You would really let me borrow one of your books?’’

‘‘Borrow as many as you’d like, Betsy—but there is one condition. You must sit down and tell me your opinion of each one when you return it.’’

I floated back to the house carrying
Nicholas Nickelby
. For the next two weeks, bringing Walter his meals was the highlight of my day. I would have gladly walked down to the cottage a dozen times a day if I hadn’t feared making a pest of myself. For a man seeking solitude he certainly loved to converse. And I thoroughly enjoyed conversing with him. We didn’t always agree on who the best authors were and which plots were too melodramatic or too contrived, but the lively debates we had were great fun.

On the first Sunday in August, Frank Wyatt drove me home from church and stayed for dinner as usual. I paid little attention to the conversation as I bided my time, waiting for Frank to go home so I could bring Walter his lunch and finish discussing Walt Whitman’s poetry with him. Suddenly Lydia gave me a hard kick beneath the table. I returned from my reverie in time to hear Frank say, ‘‘Then with your permission, Mr. Fowler, Betty and I will be married as soon as the harvest is finished.’’

I nearly shouted, ‘‘No!’’—until I saw the broad grin on my father’s face.

‘‘Just remember, young man,’’ he said, trying to look stern, ‘‘you promised to call our merger Wyatt & Fowler Orchards.’’

‘‘Yes, sir. I remember.’’ They shook hands. I heard a terrible rushing sound in my ears and for a moment I thought I might faint. Suddenly Lydia was beside me, hugging me.

‘‘Smile, you ninny!’’ she whispered urgently in my ear. ‘‘For pete’s sake, smile! You’re engaged!’’

I was engaged—without a single gesture or token of affection passing between Frank and myself. The smile I quickly manufactured felt more like a grimace of pain.

I heard myself agree to an after-dinner tour of Wyatt Orchards and the house that would soon be mine. I heard my father declining to come along. I heard my sister insisting that I go ahead and leave the dishes to her. But the worst moment came when Lydia took the plate I had fixed for Walter out of the warming oven and disappeared through the back door to take it to him. If I could have stopped her from going, stopped Walter Gibson from ever meeting my beautiful younger sister, I would have gladly sacrificed everything I owned. But as Frank Wyatt escorted me out the front door to his carriage, there wasn’t a thing in the world I could do.

Frank did all the talking as he drove his carriage around his property. I listened in numb silence to his grand plans for planting a new section with peaches and experimenting with cherry trees next spring, but all I could think about was Walter’s smile and the faint dimple that would crease his cheek when Lydia walked through his door.

I followed Frank inside the Wyatt house for the first time in my life—that beautiful white house on the hill with the dark green shutters and the graceful front porch, the house that would soon be mine—and I found it overburdened with other people’s stuff to the point of suffocation. I longed to clear every shelf and dresser and sideboard of all its knickknacks and replace them with books—leather-bound books with gold-embossed titles and sweetsmelling pages. I imagined my sister laughing at something Walter said and lightly touching his arm the way she’d shown me, and I longed to sink down in the middle of Frank’s parlor and weep.

That afternoon I saw a clear picture of what my life with Frank Wyatt would be like—everything would revolve around Frank as if he were the great sun in the center of the universe, and I would have to fit myself into his solar system someplace, like all the other possessions in his overstuffed parlor. Even so, I might have been able to tolerate that existence if Walter Gibson hadn’t come into my life to talk with me and listen to me and laugh with me and to show me what I was going to miss.

I followed Frank out through the kitchen door in blind misery, walking across the backyard, past the barn, and through the apple orchard. We stopped at the top of the hill overlooking my father’s property. The pond and the little stone cottage lay below us, and I wondered if Lydia was still inside talking with Walter, laughing together while he ate his meal.

I turned to the man I was now engaged to marry and said, ‘‘I think the pond needs a name, don’t you Frank? I think we should name it Walden Pond.’’

‘‘What? Where did that ridiculous name come from?’’ He had a way of looking directly at people when he was irritated with them that always made them squirm. I felt like a bug at the mercy of a bully, as though his eyes had me pinned to a piece of cardboard.

‘‘You know, Frank, from the book
Walden Pond
by Henry David Thoreau? He was a disciple of Emerson? It’s a famous book.’’

‘‘I’m not interested.’’

‘‘Not interested in naming the pond or in Thoreau’s book?’’

‘‘Either one. Once the pond becomes part of Wyatt Orchards it will probably be called Wyatt’s Pond. And as far as books are concerned, they’re a waste of valuable time.’’

My stomach made a slow, sickening turn. ‘‘I can understand not having time to read during the summer or at harvest time, but surely during the long winter months—’’

‘‘All books, except for the Bible, are frivolous—and most of them are of the devil.’’

‘‘You’re joking. Books are of the
devil
?’’

He wasn’t joking.

‘‘The Bible calls Satan ‘the father of lies’ and novels are nothing but lies, created from man’s own evil imagination. I won’t allow them in my house.’’

I battled my growing panic. ‘‘What about
Pilgrim’s Progress
and—’’

‘‘A rare exception. Listen, Betty, we need to choose a date.’’

I stared at him blankly.

‘‘For the wedding,’’ he explained. ‘‘Would the first Saturday in October give you enough time to prepare?’’

Eternity wouldn’t be enough time to prepare for a life without books—nevermind a lifetime with Frank Wyatt. Yet in two short months I would vow to spend my life with this man, to honor him and obey him. I forced myself to remember Father’s joy at the dinner table and said, ‘‘That date will be fine with me.’’

‘‘Good. I’ll drive you home now.’’

‘‘I’d much rather walk, Frank,’’ I said quickly. ‘‘And thanks for the tour. Good-bye.’’

I set off the down the hill at a brisk pace, praying that he wouldn’t follow. My tears had already begun to fall, and like the stones rolling down the hill beneath my stumbling feet, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to stop them.

Walter was sitting outside in his Adirondack chair—another ‘‘necessity’’ he had brought from home—when I arrived with his supper tray that night. He looked up from his book when he heard me approach and smiled.

‘‘There you are, Betsy. I missed you at lunch today.’’

I collapsed to the ground at his feet and wept, grief and relief all tangled together like a skein of yarn. Walter caught the tray just in time and set it on the grass. ‘‘Betsy...what’s wrong?’’ he asked gently.

I drew several shaky breaths. ‘‘The man who’s been courting me...asked to marry me.’’

‘‘I see. Those don’t exactly look like tears of joy. Was he upset when you refused him, then?’’

‘‘I didn’t refuse. I couldn’t refuse. My father—’’ I couldn’t finish. Walter pressed his handkerchief into my hand. I lifted it to my face to dry my tears, and when I smelled Walter’s clean, lemony scent I cried harder still.

‘‘I’m so sorry, Betsy.’’ He said softly. ‘‘I wish I knew what to say.’’

‘‘Thanks. I’ll be all right.’’ I struggled to pull myself together. ‘‘I just need time to get used to the idea.’’

‘‘Do you think love might grow, given time?’’ he asked.

‘‘I’m sure it will,’’ I lied. But I wondered how I could possibly learn to love a man who hated books. I drew another shaky breath. ‘‘Did you love your wife when you first married her?’’

He looked at me for a long moment. ‘‘I’m not married, Betsy. I’m engaged to be, but the wedding has been indefinitely postponed until I recover my health.’’

‘‘I’m surprised your fiance
e doesn’t want to be near you so she can take care of you and help you recuperate faster.’’

Walter sighed. ‘‘Maybe that’s the way it works in novels, but seldom in real life. My marriage will be just another one of my father’s many business arrangements—a socially significant and financially useful match for his only son and heir. Neither the young woman nor I would dare to argue with Howard Knowles Gibson. I’ve met her, of course, but we don’t know each other very well. My illness has made it difficult to have a proper courtship.’’

I dared to look up at him for the first time. ‘‘Then I’m not the only one being married against my will?’’

‘‘It’s a small consolation I’m sure, but no, you’re not the only one. In the social circles I was born into, most marriages are matters of convenience. Love and romance are seldom involved.’’

I plucked idly at some blades of grass at his feet, then tossed them away on the wind. ‘‘I can learn to live without love I suppose, but I don’t know how I will ever live without books. The man I’m going to marry hates them. He says he won’t allow any book in his house except the Bible...and maybe
Pilgrim’s Progress
.’’ I had to smile, in spite of my tears, at the sheer absurdity of Frank’s intolerance. Walter smiled in return.

‘‘
Pilgrim’s Progress
, eh? I’m quite certain that my fiance
e has never even heard of it.’’

We laughed then, and I felt laughter’s healing power salving my wounds. I couldn’t recall ever laughing with Frank Wyatt, and it occurred to me that a lifetime without laughter might be even worse than a lifetime without books.

Suddenly, without knowing how or when it had happened, I realized that Walter was holding my hand between his own to comfort me. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

‘‘Do you remember the first day we met, Betsy? Remember the line you quoted from Thoreau about pursuing your dreams? I just realized something—I’ve never asked you what those dreams were.’’