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I admit those three years drug on, Mother and I had wondered if we’d truly lost Father along with Adam. He didn't attend any social gatherings until that year, and when he did, he stood by the wall waiting for my mother to come join him after making her rounds of friends. Itwasprogress, and that's what Adam would have wanted, that’s what any of us wanted.
Despite all of that, every Christmas without my brother was the same. Adam loved Christmas; it was his favorite. He'd be nothing but smiles, going around and helping to decorate. He would pick out the cards we would send to Mother's family in New York, light the candles on the tree, and help Mary cook the dinner feast.
He would buy us all several gifts and sneak them under the tree on Christmas Eve, spending most of the week wildly drunk. Without him, Christmas was cheerless and hollow. We missed him during this season most of all, for no one gave or received gifts; we’d refused to put up a tree, only attending the church service as was required it seemed, and the servants often hid in their quarters with their own celebrations in hopes of some sort of joy.
Thanksgiving, although a relatively new tradition in America at the time, was tolerable. The novelty of it had made it a lively time, and our neighbors, the McCloude family, were always more than willing to throw a feast.
We went to their festival annually without fail, which promised drunk laughter and overstuffed men. It always seemed that the entire half of the county joined in when it came to a McCloude gathering. I’d hoped this year would be productive and I might finally find a suitable man to take Adam’s role for my mother.
When we arrived in front of the McCloude estate that evening for Thanksgiving, Mother fixed a few misplaced curls from in front of my eyes and kissed my hand before Samuel, our driver, opened the carriage door. My father stepped out first, guiding my mother and I as a crisp wind blew our skirts.
He ushered us into the stately brick home which bustled with guests. Already there were twenty-five or so, each spread apart in random corners of the house. Some had drinks in their hands, others a small hors d’oeuvres. The whole place smelled of tobacco smoke and cooking poultry. There was the typical small band of four men playing various string instruments in the cleared-out parlor for those who freely wished to dance, and the dining room was blocked off by a flurry of servants readying the table for the glorious meal to come.
The three of us walked swiftly toward Mr. and Mrs. McCloude, who smiled brightly, always pleased to see my parents out. Their son, too, died at Gettysburg.
“Oh, good to see you, Abbott!” Mr. McCloude roared, taking my father in a firm hug as Mrs. McCloude kissed the cheek of my mother and I.
“You, too, McCloude,” Father replied dryly. Mr. McCloude offered a gentle smile, handing my father his glass of amber liquid, one could but assume was brandy. Father took it gratefully, swigging from the glass, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
“Have you heard about that Blackwell boy I invited?” asked Mr. McCloude, lowering his voice. My mother leaned in, apparently, she had heard the gossip. I pulled the sleeves of my dress down a bit, feeling a tad uncomfortable by the look on Mrs. McCloude’s face before scanning the room for Ursula, my only friend.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I have not,” Father replied in a hushed tone, “do go on,”
“Well, I met him in the city this summer. Smart young man, sharp as a tack! Handsome, too! Makes more money than the two of us combined and then some, I’d say. Nevertheless, I invited him tonight, he’s over there next to Greta. What do you think? I do so believe they’ll be married within the year.”
I followed everyone’s gaze toward Greta McCloude, a dreadfully plain and flat girl, she was red in the face for once, biting her lip as she smiled up at someone. Someone so stunning, I could but for a moment stare.
Greta—petite, dirty blonde hair tightly bound behind her head—stood in front of a man her exact opposite. He was tall, slender, and well built, that was obvious beneath his navy suit. His profile was nearly perfect, each angle sharp and defined as if it had been carved by a devoted, obsessive hand. His eyes were not on her, though, his brow furrowed and red-brown hair falling slightly in front of them. Long, spidery fingers curved around a glass of the same amber liquid as my father’s, which he sipped as Greta rambled on about something I surmised as unimportant.
“He is a fine young man…” my mother whispered, awe coloring her tone. Mrs. McCloude beamed at her.
“Oh! I know it! He and Greta would make a perfect wedding couple!” She was entirely too excited. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Plain Greta and Handsome Stranger? It was comical. I felt a tiny pang of jealousy, though, despite relishing the fact that this Mr. Blackwell did not seem to want to be around Greta at all from his body language.
“We don’t know the name,” my father mused.
“I know! Fresh blood and money. Boy has no family and seems to be making it quite well, I believe he may be from London.” Mr. McCloude praised him as if he were his own son.
“We’d be perfect for him, wouldn’t we, Edith?” Mrs. McCloude asked giddily. My mother, probably thinking my very thought, nodded woodenly. “Oh, Rosemary! I apologize, dear! Please go have some fun! Edith, I must tell you about what he said the other day, we have had him call several times—"
Mrs. McCloude, lacing her arm around my mother’s, pulled her off into the distance as I slyly moved toward where the eyes were most directed. Greta was staring into the stranger’s own eyes deeply, fluttering her lashes in a very experienced fashion; though, we all knew she was the opposite of experienced. Her dress was almost the color of her pale skin, and really very beautiful. I was not entirely sure if it was the effect of the flirtation or her dress which made her a little less plain than usual, but my envy grew.
Greta and I were not friends, much to the disappointment of our mothers. We were always very formal and pleasant to one another, but each had a jealousy for the other I did not always understand. I envied Greta for her ability to be so calming and lady-like no matter the situation, Greta was always in control of how she appeared to others and herself. Her tone of voice was soft and mother-like, her smile pleasant enough if you did not gaze into her shrew-like eyes. Why she envied me, Mother assumed it was because I was sought after in society. Yes, I was handsome enough; yes, I wore beautiful dresses; yes, I was able to talk to a man without becoming flustered… but behind that exterior was a young woman with a plethora of pain and trauma. Boredom, sadness, a void of bleakness… who would envy that?
I approached Greta in the same manner I would Ursula, my closest friend, placing a perfect fake smile on my lips and widening my eyes a bit to seem excited. I grabbed her thin arm and tugged gently.
“Greta McCloude! Here I am asyourguest, and you have not come over once to bid me welcome into your home! I am hurt, darling!”
Greta turned to me, eyes wide and caught off guard. I laced my arm with hers as her mother had done to mine and smirked wickedly.
“Miss Abbott, I am sure that my parents have welcomed you. Now please, if you would excuse us.” Greta tried to disengage my arm, gazing up to the young man for help. I shook my head, looking up at him myself.
The breath was sucked from my lungs.
This young man had emerald green eyes, emerald green eyes which peered directly into my soul. It was as if he had stripped me bare, saw the void within my heart. Right into the pit. My heart quickened and a tingling sensation went throughout my chest.
I am sure my mouth gaped a little as I stared right back into his soul, searching. His eyes seemed more expansive than the night sky. I was swimming in the greenery of them, unable to resurface for air. He had me trapped.
“Miss Abbott,” he greeted me, bowing slightly, his English accent thick and his voice a musical tenor. I barely managed a nod in reply, still not breaking contact with thoseeyes. They were like a thriving summer forest.
