The Evening Spider by Emily Arsenault Page A

22
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  May 7, 1879
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I haven’t sewn a stitch since my last entry. Yesterday was such a brilliant sunny day that Martha and I walked all the way to Beebe’s store, where I was delighted to find a new selection of fabrics. There will be more summer dresses and bonnets for Martha, as I purchased a yard of each of the three prettiest.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  As we arrived back home from Beebe’s, I noticed the beginnings of the tulips peeking out from beneath last autumn’s leaves—the patch by the side of the door, which Mrs. Lawton helped me plant when I was a new bride. Because Martha was sleeping contentedly in her carriage, I busied myself clearing away the old leaves and pulled up two tiny saplings that were trying to establish themselves among them. And as Martha was still sleeping after that, I fetched my old sketchbook—with some effort, as I hadn’t seen it in many months—and attempted to draw the charming little plants. There is something about that flower’s first unfurling that is most beguiling. I could not capture it with my pencil. My drawings looked like soiled fingers with ragged nails, reaching up from the dirt. (“They look a bit frightful, ma’am,” Tessa admitted when I showed her my work. “But wasn’t that how you intended it?”)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  My attempt today was considerably better, and dear Martha slept through all of my sketching, but the effort delayed my supper plans by an hour or two. I had to serve Matthew bread before the soup was ready, as his stomach was growling so viciously.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  May 12, 1879
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Clara made an unexpected visit yesterday. I was surprised to see she had her carpet bag with her—bulging with clothes for several nights. It appears Matthew wrote Jonathan and suggested I’d appreciate a visit. I certainly am enjoying the company, but it is out of character for Matthew to forget to tell me something like this. I would have done some special baking for my sister. Now that she is here, we are baking cider loaves together. She so enjoys holding Martha and singing to her. Her voice is so much lovelier than mine. I wonder if Martha notices the difference. I sing to her when I am certain nobody else can hear. Soon she will understand the distinction between a sweet voice and an unmelodic one. I like to think, however, that in the earliest days, her mother’s was nonetheless her favorite.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  May 14, 1879
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I have tucked in here my last attempt I made at drawing the early tulip leaves. I drew it on the first day Clara was here. She held Martha while I went outdoors after Matthew had gone. This will be the last drawing untilnext year, as they have all bloomed now. I don’t have as strong a desire to draw the actual blooms. They are perhaps too ostentatious. The early leaves, just emerging, are like impish little secrets, every one. That is what I most wanted to capture. I don’t know if I’ve done so very successfully, but I’ll save the attempt until next year and compare the two.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Clara asked, when she saw what I had done, if I had recently taken up botany more seriously. I told her no and tried to explain to her the singular attraction of the early tulip leaves, rolled up so coyly. She replied with a doubtful smile, as if I’d said that I expected winged fairies to crop up from the soil.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I did not show her my drawings. I don’t begrudge her her older-sisterly airs—I simply wish my