inside the house.”
“Maybe so, but you work long days and come home exhausted. You’re a smart girl; you can do better than that.”
“Better? Marrying Henry Keller and getting stuck on his papa’s farm for the rest of my life, that’s better? I’d sooner jump off the top of Thunderhill Mountain.”
“There are things besides marrying Henry.”
“Not for me.”
“Yes, there is, Abigail Anne. I don’t know what, just yet, but you give me a bit of time and I’ll think up another way to handle this situation.”
“Don’t come out to our place, Miss Troy! I swear, Papa will shoot you dead!”
Judith Troy assured the girl that she wouldn’t come near the Lannigan farm, but when they left the storage room the teacher was wearing that same far away look as Abigail Anne. She told the class it was time for a recess and then she took a piece of paper from her desk and started to write. After she’d penned three pages, she signed her name, folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Miss Ida Jean Meredith, 10 Jefferson Square, Richmond, Virginia.
A fter that, things went along pretty much the way they had been. Henry came to supper most every night and ate so much that his gauntness began to disappear. His face grew rosy and round, so much so that even his mother noticed. “That girl’s having a mighty fine effect on you,” she told her the lad.
As Henry blossomed, Abigail faded. Her eyes developed dark circles and lost their sparkle; ridges furrowed her brow and her face took on the hollow-cheeked look of misery. Most nights she’d lie awake for hours—counting and re-counting the number of days she had before her sixteenth birthday. When the numbers became too painful to count, she listened to the cawing of crows that had taken up residence in the maple tree right outside her window. As the number of days grew shorter and her troubles became more intense, the crows squawked louder and louder—until she finally began to believe the birds were trying to warn her of something. Although crows were troublesome birds that most people would have shooed away, Abigail took to leaving seed at the base of the tree. Every time she’d pass that maple she’d look up and find seven or eight black crows with beady eyes staring back at her. “What are you trying to tell me?” she’d ask—but the crows just sat there like a line of black-robed hangmen.
Her father occasionally took notice and would make mention of her peaked look; but such comments were short-lived because minutes later he’d be talking to Henry about breeding cows or planting crops.
Not much was said about the upcoming marriage; but everyone certainly assumed that such a thing would happen. Henry left no doubt about it, because he was forever reminding William of the advantages he planned to provide for Abigail. “We’ve got a brand-new ice cream maker and a water pump inside the house,” he’d say, “She’s gonna love that!” He’d gobble down a few more bites of pie and then add something about a flower bed alongside the porch steps.
As Henry told of the luxuries that awaited Abigail, her father sat there smiling and nodding his approval. Long before there was even a trace of spring in the air, William came home from Buena Vista with a bolt of white organdy tucked beneath his arm. He handed it to Abigail Anne and said, “This here is for your wedding dress.”
“But, Papa…” she gasped.
“No buts about it; Will can take of your chores for a few days. Now, you get inside and start sewing. Make something real pretty; something like your mama would make,” he said. He gave Abigail a kiss on the cheek and smiled like a man who was truly proud of himself.
For almost three days Will fixed the supper, fed the chickens, and slopped the dirty clothes up and down the washboard while Abigail hunched over the sewing machine. She pumped the foot pedal back and forth just as Livonia had
“Maybe so, but you work long days and come home exhausted. You’re a smart girl; you can do better than that.”
“Better? Marrying Henry Keller and getting stuck on his papa’s farm for the rest of my life, that’s better? I’d sooner jump off the top of Thunderhill Mountain.”
“There are things besides marrying Henry.”
“Not for me.”
“Yes, there is, Abigail Anne. I don’t know what, just yet, but you give me a bit of time and I’ll think up another way to handle this situation.”
“Don’t come out to our place, Miss Troy! I swear, Papa will shoot you dead!”
Judith Troy assured the girl that she wouldn’t come near the Lannigan farm, but when they left the storage room the teacher was wearing that same far away look as Abigail Anne. She told the class it was time for a recess and then she took a piece of paper from her desk and started to write. After she’d penned three pages, she signed her name, folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Miss Ida Jean Meredith, 10 Jefferson Square, Richmond, Virginia.
A fter that, things went along pretty much the way they had been. Henry came to supper most every night and ate so much that his gauntness began to disappear. His face grew rosy and round, so much so that even his mother noticed. “That girl’s having a mighty fine effect on you,” she told her the lad.
As Henry blossomed, Abigail faded. Her eyes developed dark circles and lost their sparkle; ridges furrowed her brow and her face took on the hollow-cheeked look of misery. Most nights she’d lie awake for hours—counting and re-counting the number of days she had before her sixteenth birthday. When the numbers became too painful to count, she listened to the cawing of crows that had taken up residence in the maple tree right outside her window. As the number of days grew shorter and her troubles became more intense, the crows squawked louder and louder—until she finally began to believe the birds were trying to warn her of something. Although crows were troublesome birds that most people would have shooed away, Abigail took to leaving seed at the base of the tree. Every time she’d pass that maple she’d look up and find seven or eight black crows with beady eyes staring back at her. “What are you trying to tell me?” she’d ask—but the crows just sat there like a line of black-robed hangmen.
Her father occasionally took notice and would make mention of her peaked look; but such comments were short-lived because minutes later he’d be talking to Henry about breeding cows or planting crops.
Not much was said about the upcoming marriage; but everyone certainly assumed that such a thing would happen. Henry left no doubt about it, because he was forever reminding William of the advantages he planned to provide for Abigail. “We’ve got a brand-new ice cream maker and a water pump inside the house,” he’d say, “She’s gonna love that!” He’d gobble down a few more bites of pie and then add something about a flower bed alongside the porch steps.
As Henry told of the luxuries that awaited Abigail, her father sat there smiling and nodding his approval. Long before there was even a trace of spring in the air, William came home from Buena Vista with a bolt of white organdy tucked beneath his arm. He handed it to Abigail Anne and said, “This here is for your wedding dress.”
“But, Papa…” she gasped.
“No buts about it; Will can take of your chores for a few days. Now, you get inside and start sewing. Make something real pretty; something like your mama would make,” he said. He gave Abigail a kiss on the cheek and smiled like a man who was truly proud of himself.
For almost three days Will fixed the supper, fed the chickens, and slopped the dirty clothes up and down the washboard while Abigail hunched over the sewing machine. She pumped the foot pedal back and forth just as Livonia had
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