The Heavenly Surrender (7 page)

Genieva sighed, discouraged, as Brenna explained, “It takes the whole day long, it does, Genieva. The ladies, married and not, all come and quilt on the piece ’til it’s finished. They gossip somethin’ awful the long of it…and that can be a good thing, it can. For ya be learnin’ all ya ever need to know about anybody.” Brenna smiled with reassurance, “And besides, Lita and me…we’ll be there with ya, we will. It won’t all be strangers ya’re sittin’ with.”

Still, sleep was elusive for Genieva that night. She thought back over the past few days. She still could not believe all that had happened. The great change in direction of her destiny was nearly incomprehensible. Almost overnight she had gone from the life she had known in aristocratic Chicago to the life she knew now—that of a woman married to a hard-working, ambitious, and stupendously handsome farmer, with instant relatives, responsibilities, and completely unfamiliar experiences. She was also beginning to understand why it would be greatly advantageous to work herself into a deep fatigue each day. It kept her mind from wandering to romantic daydreams of Brevan McLean. And he was ever so easy to daydream about. Simply watching him talk with Brian and Travis at the end of each day was mesmerizing—the way his jaw clenched tightly when he was irritated or the way his smile brightened his face when he was amused. Realizing that once again her thoughts had wandered to him, Genieva forced herself back into anxious contemplation of the quilting bee.



“There you are, dear!” Mrs. Fenton chimed as she entered the farmhouse the next morning. “Yes…yes…you are as charming as I remember!” the lady giggled, putting a friendly arm about Genieva’s shoulders. “Now let’s get this frame set up before the others get here,” she mused, looking about. “We’ve got to make certain you’ve got some help in keeping that man warm at night, don’t we?” Mrs. Fenton winked at her, and Genieva was eternally grateful for Lita’s intervention at that moment—for Mrs. Fenton’s rather private remark had sent her blushing to fever.

“We were thinking it might be best to have the bee in the orchard, Mrs. Fenton. The trees will provide shade and it is un área más grande…a larger area,” Lita suggested.

“Yes. What do ya think, Lilly?” Brenna added.

“I think that’s a lovely notion, girls!” Mrs. Fenton chirped. “And won’t our dear little bride think of the fragrance of blossoms each time she lays beneath the quilt with…”

“Yes, yes,” Brenna interrupted. “Now, if you’ll show us to the frame…we’ll have Brian and Travis build it in the orchard, we will.”

“You’ve lost all the colores from your face, Genieva,” Lita whispered, softly pinching Genieva’s cheeks as Brenna and Mrs. Fenton left the house. “It will be fine. It will be fine,” she assured her, smiling with kindness.

Genieva looked into the beautiful brown of Lita’s eyes and smiled. “She says such rather shocking things, Lita,” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Doesn’t she realize we only married for convenience?”

“No. She does not. And…it would go best if you let her believe that all is…that all is…normal between you and Brevan. She is the biggest gossip in the world. Smile your pretty smile, Genieva. The day will go quickly, and then you can share the quilt with Brevan.”

Genieva’s eyes widened with indignation, and Lita giggled, “I’m sorry, mí amiga. I could not resist it.”

Genieva sighed and smiled herself. Lita and Brenna were wonderful women. She could not have wished for more perfect friends. It seemed pure miraculous luck that she should find two women as dear as they were so near to her now.

Half an hour later, Genieva found herself all too well settled next to Mrs. Fenton as nearly ten women worked simultaneously on the quilt. Most of the time there were several different conversations being held by small groups of individuals, but once in a while the entire group would involve each member in the same topic. As Genieva had feared, it wasn’t long before the subject of the poor Amy Wilburn arose.

“I think it’s just a pity…” one woman said. Genieva was nearly certain this woman’s name was Mary Clawson. She was the blacksmith’s wife—if she remembered correctly. “Poor Amy.” Mrs. Clawson sighed. Nearly everyone else at the frame followed suit.

“Still…a woman has responsibilities to her own reputation. Her own well-being,” Bertha Baumgardner reminded the group. Bertha was elderly, and impatient. She’d already sworn under her breath once at having to pick out two stitches. “I find it hard to be too
sympathetic with her situation.”

Genieva struggled to hold her tongue—to quiet her own opinion.

“Perhaps there be more to that story than most of us know,” Brenna interjected. Every needle stopped mid-air as all eyes turned to stare at Brenna. Brenna shrugged and continued to stitch. “Has anyone here actually spoken with the lass since…since her condition was found out?”

“There’s no need to speak with her, Brenna,” one of the young, unmarried women corrected. “She’s with child and not married. There’s nothing more to be said.”

Genieva drew in a deep breath—stabbed at the fabric beneath her fingers. This was Jenny Evans. Jenny had been the young woman to imply in the store, only days before, that Genieva was incapable as Brevan’s wife. Jenny was an attractive young woman. Genieva could not deny that. Her hair was the color of morning sunshine, yet her eyelashes dark, long, and flattering to her blue eyes. “But then again,” Jenny continued, “we all understand why
you
might feel inclined to defend her, Brenna.”

Once again every needle halted—all eyes settling on Genieva.

Genieva could feel their burning, inquisitive stares but somehow managed to appear calm as she said, “I’m surprised a young lady, appearing to be so well-mannered, would imply such a thing at an event that is supposedly in my honor.” Genieva looked up, meeting Jenny’s resentful glare. “Would anyone here like to tell me why it is that Brevan has been branded the miscreant in this situation?” All eyes dropped to the quilt as every hand began busily stitching. “Come now, ladies,” Genieva coaxed, smiling. “Do you really suppose that were there any truth to this invented rumor…do you really think I would have married the man you all find so easy to slander?”

“He courted her just before…just before her condition became known,” Jenny answered brazenly.

“
He spurned her just before it! And well ya know it to be true, Jenny Evans!” Brenna growled.

“That’s right. Brevan never courted Amy Wilburn,” Mrs. Fenton agreed. “It’s because she refuses to name the father that you all look to place the blame on him.”

“And it’s because all of you unmarried girls resent the young buck passing ya by that ya pin the deed on Brevan McLean,” Mary Clawson added.

“So, am I to understand that Brevan never courted this Amy?” Genieva asked, staring at Jenny.

“Never,” Mary confirmed.

“Still…it’s the men like Brevan…the handsome and lustful ones who are, more often than not, responsible for the fatherless children in a town,” Bertha grunted.

“
Actually, that’s not true. Isn’t it more often the older, more established business-type men who begin to think themselves better than others, deserving of more, that leave a trail of poor desperate women with fatherless children in their wake?” Genieva suggested—pointedly looking to Bertha. She knew Bertha Baumgardner’s husband had been mayor before his death.

Brenna stifled a giggle, and another elderly woman drew in her breath abruptly.

“A man’s being handsome does not instantly mean he is lustful,” Mrs. Fenton added. “More often it is the women of a town—the ones who blame him with lust—that are envious at not having him themselves. They’re the ones who brand him as lustful.”

Genieva looked up to Jenny, whose eyes smoldered like cinders at her. She sat between the other two girls that had been at the store, each of whom raised their eyebrows and looked expectantly at their friend.

“She’s right,” another woman whose name Genieva had forgotten added. “Brevan McLean is probably the most upstanding citizen in this community. And it does make a woman wonder at the other citizens in it who would suggest such a thing at his wife’s bee.”

Genieva smiled at the woman—noticing the guilt and glumness apparent on every face save Jenny’s.

“
Come now, ladies. Let’s enjoy our time together. Actually, I’m very flattered that so many of you would find Brevan so attractive that you would assume any woman would be unable to resist him. And, I assure you, I realize now that we are wed you will cease to slander my husband’s good name…knowing full well I would never slander any of yours. As for poor Amy…I believe there are almost always extenuating circumstances in these situations, and perhaps we should all be more forgiving and less judgmental.” Genieva resumed her stitching. “Now, do tell me….is it always this dry here? Or is it just particularly so this year?”



“Humble pie! That’s what they call it here, it is, Brevan!” Brenna laughed later that evening.

“Sí, Sí!” Lita exclaimed, laughing so heartily she doubled over with the weight of her mirth. “Humble pie. The most humble ever baked!”

“Come now, brother Brev,” Brian addressed him. “Don’t ya find it amusin’? To see the look on Bertha Baumgardner’s face alone would’ve been worth havin’ yar toenails torn out for!”

“Amy Wilburn deserves far more sympathy than this town or the likes of all of you give her, for that matter. She’s a poor soul led astray by some charmer among us, she is,” Brevan growled.

“But we’re not makin’ light of poor Amy’s situation, Brevan,” Brenna assured him. “It’s quite the opposite, it is. For that matter, Genieva nearly championed her.”

Brevan shook his head and looked to Genieva, sitting solemn and without mirth herself.

“I’ll say this for ya, I will,” he began, “ya’ve got your wits about ya, and yar dealin’ with those gossipin’ hags today deserves more notin’ than anythin’ else ya’ve done thus far, lass.” He shook his head as he stood and stretched his arms out at his sides. “I’d not spend an afternoon with them to save me own life.”

“Ya look beat with a broom, Genieva,” Brenna observed aloud. “It’s best ya be gettin’ to bed. ’Twas a long and tedious day of it. And before ya go…have ya shown that quilt we labored over so long to yar husband yet?”

“Oh,” Genieva startled. “No. I haven’t.” Her bones and muscles ached as she went to her room and removed the quilt from the place she had laid it at the foot of her bed. It really was a beautiful piece of work. It held red and green squares and shapes of apples and leaves—a truly beautiful quilt.

“You see, Brevan,” she said as she held it out for him to view, “it really is lovely, after all.”

“It be a nice quilt,” he bluntly responded. “’Twill keep ya warm this cold winter.”

“Now, brother Brevan,” Brian chuckled as he walked quickly toward the door, “I thought that be yar own job!” And with a barrage of laughter, he jaunted out the door followed closely by his wife, sister, and brother-in-law, who all bid good night to Genieva.

Genieva smiled as she watched the couples disappear into the darkness—their playful conversation and laughter echoing on the breeze.

“He’s a bleedin’ idiot, that one,” Brevan grumbled, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

“I think he’s a breath of fresh air,” Genieva sighed, turning toward her room.

“Well, he’s been already inhaled, lass.” The annoyance in Brevan’s voice was so obvious that Genieva turned to look back at him. She found he stood angry before her. “Ya’re strapped with the stale stench that’s left in the family…namely Brevan McLean…the grouchy, philanderin’, slave-drivin’ Irishman!” he bellowed. He stormed past her and down the hall, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.

Genieva tenderly folded the quilt—placing it in the linens trunk at the foot of her bed. She studied its crafted beauty one last time before closing the trunk’s lid, noting how uniform all the stitches were, how tastily red were the apple pieces, and how the tiny cloth bees seemed to buzz—their soft noise humming in her mind. But as she closed the lid, her sweet thoughts vanished, replaced once more by uncertainty. Brevan had defended Amy Wilburn so vehemently. Was there truth, in fact, to the rumors? She shook her head, trying to dispel the disloyal thinking. Brevan was an honest, moral man. She was certain of it. She wouldn’t have married him if her instincts had told her anything different.

But as she climbed into her squeaky yet comfortable bed, she wondered again how she had ever managed to find herself in such a position. She was not a farmer. She had no knowledge of farming. She was not a wife. And she had no knowledge of how to go about being married to a man, living with him day in and day out, and pretending everything was as normal as ever. She thought of her family, and a rush of guilt flooded her body. It had been a selfish act. Or had it merely been an act of independence?

Brevan nearly tore the shirt from his back as he removed it, angrily storming across his bedroom.
Why?
he wondered. Why was his name forever slandered, dragged through the dirt, whenever a scandal was about town? Why wasn’t the finger pointed in the direction of the true and responsible culprit?

Amy Wilburn. He’d never given the girl the time of day—though he’d always been polite to her. Never had he given cause for gossip in her direction where he was concerned. Yet he pitied her—for he sensed the situation was not exactly what it appeared to be.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he put a hand to his forehead.

And that poor lass in the other room. Poor Genieva
, he thought. He was angry all over again for what the old and young biddies of the town had put her through. He knew she must doubt his honesty, his chastity. She hardly knew him from Santa Claus! And he’d snapped at her so. She was undeserving of it. After all, Brian was a jester—a freshness to any conversation. He’d been tired and taken offense at her complimenting his brother. Inhaling a breath of determination, he opened his door and marched out into the hall. Not pausing to knock, he pushed at the door to Genieva’s room, barging in. He nearly laughed aloud when he saw her clutch the blankets to her throat—sitting prim and pristine in her bed.