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We peered into the dress shop for anything new, but sadly she had yet to restock her inventory. Mrs. Hall’s hat shop was rather lucrative, with each of us purchasing a couple of pheasant feathered day hats. It was nothing out of the ordinary for a town stroll, the drama of the prior week falling from my mind with each breath.
My mind feeling clearer, we lazily strolled toward the town bookstore. I felt a chilled hand wrap around my arm, whirling in place to find a very tall and attractive young man bowing. The smile that beamed from me was purely genuine. Too genuine.
“Mr. Blackwell,” I exhaled in relief, he released my arm.
“Ladies,” he greeted, holding his hat to his chest.
“Mr. Blackwell! We were just talking about you not a moment ago!” Ursula announced. I could have kicked her for that, but instead I scowled.
“You were?” Mr. Blackwell asked, a crooked smile on his mouth. I was fixed under his gaze, his intense, green gaze. Ursula cleared her throat.
“Miss Williams is being silly,” I fidgeted, “we were just talking about new reading material.”
“Oh, Rose! You are too much of a lady! We were talking aboutyou, Mr. Blackwell, and whether or not you had served in the war.” She grinned as we continued inside the bookstore. I wanted to kill her.
“Well, ladies, I did not fight in the war. I am from London, after all, I did not happen to make it out this way until around the Battle of Gettysburg, actually.” The words escaped his lips for me, slowly and drawn, as if I had entered some sort of break in time. Instantly, Ursula looked at me helplessly as I reacted, freezing in place. I could not hold back the pain which I knew was plain on my face.
“What is the matter, Miss Abbott?” Mr. Blackwell asked low, urgently, resting his hand on my arm. This was the third time he’d touched me…
“My brother was killed in that battle, sir.” The tears surged, but I fought to keep them back. His face, formal before, turned soft as he slid his hands up to my shoulders and wiped away the stray tear from my cheek with the tip of his calloused thumb.
Such an intimate gesture, the grief melted into something molten, something different.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to bring up a terrible memory.”
“No, please. My brother would not want me to always be so upset whenever it is mentioned.” I cleared my throat, raising my chin. It was true, Adam would rather see me dead than have me be pained every time a thought of him entered my mind. Mr. Blackwell slowly pulled his hands from my shoulders, admiration clear on his face.
“I–I had a friend staying in Pennsylvania, I’d visited him from New York. Unfortunately, we caught the tail end of it in passing; it was truly horrific.” We all agreed, for it was.
“Your parents, Mr. Blackwell?” Ursula asked, flipping through a book as we followed her down the row.
“Dead. They passed when I was just a boy.”
“I am so sorry!” I gripped his arm in a rush of sympathy. He smiled.
“No need, I have made quite the living raising myself, I am sure my mother and father would be very proud of me.”
“I certainly agree. We hear many wonderful things about you,” Ursula continued, smirking.
“That is lovely, Miss Williams, as I hear the same of you and Miss Abbott.” His grin was genuine and broke my heart with its beauty. “Please forgive me, but I must be leaving.” He took my hand once more, his lips gently pressing themselves to the top of it before bowing and loping out the door. I watched what I could of him leaving from the window in the overcast weather. He dashed across the street in graceful strides, meeting up with two older men and an older woman.
Ursula giggled.
“He kissed your hand, my dear!”
“Oh! Stop it!” I shushed her.
“Did he kiss mine? No!”
***
There was a morning not long after the day we had met in town, that I had come up with a devilish plan. William had encompassed nearly all of my thoughts–despite my mother’s protesting when I mentioned having him over for dinner–and I let my mind wander to the possibility of truly wooing him, creating a legacy with him. Every refusal Mother uttered was a blow to my very being, it seemed. I had to see him, needed to see him.
Ursula had heard of the McCloudes having William for midmorning tea, likely to discuss his betrothal to Greta, as they had pushed so ardently since Thanksgiving to procure the match. I simply could not allow it, bitterness the driving force for hatching my strategy. I had Mary dress me in one of my finer gowns, green satin fabric with rows of ruffles toward the floor. She helped me situate a thick black velvet coat, pinning a matching feathered hat onto my head. I called for Michael to have the carriage readied for my departure. It would be genius.
Mother met me at the door, parasol in hand should the sun break through the gray clouds which hung in the late autumn sky, the thick woolen blanket of the heavens.
“Just what do you think you are doing, young lady?” she implored. I smiled in response, twirling the parasol.
