The Fallen Fruit, page 12
“Unless you got somewhere to be, I plan to sit here,” he finally said.
“I have chores to do—”
“And you’ll do them soon, but you and I need to talk.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “Yes, we need to talk.”
She walked a few steps, hoping he’d follow, but he didn’t. This serious Luke wouldn’t make anything easy for her. With a growing frown, she found a spot to sit nearby.
“Are you still mad at me?” He laughed.
Bree tried to hold on to her stiff demeanor, but Luke’s relaxed smile made her mouth stumble. “I’m not angry. You said twenty-two years have passed, but it’s been only a couple days for us. Honestly, I don’t understand how that’s possible.”
“I don’t either—but what matters to me is how you feel.”
Her head turned sharply in his direction. Luke had never said such things before. “I’m numb.” She licked her dry lips. “And none of this makes any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“You disappeared right in front of Addy and me, and now you show up later looking—”
“Like a filthy muskrat.”
A laugh snuck out of her mouth. “What I meant to say was you appear different, but you feel the same.”
“I’m still the same man.” His face grew pensive. “But I’ve changed. I’ve been places.”
“You mentioned Boston before. Where else did you go?” Anticipation of hearing more drew her closer to him. “Philadelphia?”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re lying.”
He laughed. “I’ve seen many places, but Boston was the best. If I hadn’t wanted to return home, I would’ve settled down there.”
“Boston sounds like another world. Tell me more.”
Luke spoke, and the city unfolded like a night-blooming flower before her eyes as he described sunrises off the bay and the bustle of the endless wharves. On any day, women and children sold baked goods or peddled flowers in the streets. They dodged horse-drawn carriages, which click-clacked as the conveyances rolled up and down narrow cobblestone roads. Bree loved every single detail.
“Why did you return?” she asked. “In a city like that, you could’ve made a living for yourself. Or you could’ve gone to England. Perhaps even farther.”
He stared at her for a bit, and she couldn’t discern his thoughts.
“What?” she asked.
“The thought of boarding one of those massive boats doesn’t scare you?”
“Not in the least bit. If I ever had the chance—and I’m not a fool to think it’s likely—I’m certain I’d go.”
“Not me. Home is home. Have you always felt that way?”
She sighed. “This farm is my home, but I often wonder if I could find my way . . . like you did.”
“Could you stay for a while? I’ve recently returned.” He sounded wistful.
“I’ve wanted to leave for a long time now, but I didn’t want to leave our grandparents alone. I never had the courage to talk about it. I’m thinking Richmond or Charlottesville.”
He slowly nodded and scooted closer to her left side. They sat in silence again until he spoke. “Hard to believe I’m getting married soon.” Regret colored his words.
“Twenty-two years is quite the engagement.” Her voice was hollow, but like always, she added a smile.
“I missed everyone.”
“We missed you too.”
“I’ve waited a long time to speak with you.”
Tension gathered in Bree’s chest. His right hand was closer to hers than before, but she told herself that meant nothing.
“Now that I’m here, I don’t want you to go.” Luke paused. “We’ve grown up together. Seen each other through trouble and times of good health. I don’t want to lose my friend.”
“We’ll always be friends. Weren’t you always friendly with that trader who comes by every season to barter for tools?”
“That’s not the same.” His relaxed expression darkened. “He’s a part of the world outside this farm, and that place is far more frightening than you can imagine.”
“What happened to you?”
Luke reached over and grasped her hand. She stiffened, waiting for him to release her, all the while her heartbeat quickening like a cornered winter hare.
“Plenty happened, but it doesn’t matter. Why do you think I spent twenty-two years doing everything I could to get home?”
After many hitched breaths, she felt him finally let go of her hand. The skin of her palm burned for him to touch her again.
“Whatever you decide to do,” he said, “I’ll be there for you.”
She managed a nod.
“I’ve been waiting many years to say what’s in my heart.” Luke’s voice shook a little.
“And what’s that?”
“That I’ve always wanted to be with you.”
Bree’s heart stumbled. Had she heard him clearly? Never in the years she’d known him had he revealed such feelings. When had he changed his mind? And why? She stared at him, wondering what he’d gain by her staying since he would marry her sister.
“You look like you want to drown me in the creek, Bree.”
“How long can you hold your breath?” she asked sternly.
“I like it better when you’re mad at me.” Luke smiled. “You’ve always been the strong one. You’ve come a long way since I helped you and Addy twelve years ago.”
She stiffened. “What did you say?”
His smile widened. “Do you remember the time before Grandpa found you? You and Addy were lost in the mountains.”
She slowly nodded.
“I found you first.”
“But I don’t remember you.” Her heart beat so fast, she swore she’d misheard him.
Luke told her with uncanny detail how he’d encountered the two girls, what they’d worn, and how he’d left food for them to eat.
“I tried to keep you safe,” he added. “I hadn’t expected to see you like this.”
“Like this?”
He motioned to her left leg. “When did that happen?”
“On the way to the farm with Grandpa, a snake bit my ankle. Aunt Emily did all she could, but after the swelling went away, I couldn’t walk as fast.”
“How did you get the scar on your face?” he pressed.
“At twelve, I fell and scraped my face against a tree.”
He stared off into the forest, past the swaying pine and birch trees, before he glanced at her leg. “I wish I’d known you’d end up hurt.”
She opened and closed her mouth, not understanding. “Are you saying you don’t remember?”
He shook his head. “Before I left, however that happened, your ankle and face were fine. The events over the years have changed and I don’t know why.”
She shuddered. How could there be another Bree? None of what he said made sense, yet he spoke of things she’d experienced and hadn’t shared with him. Perhaps what he said was true.
“If I had known helping you and Addy would’ve hurt you, I wouldn’t have changed the past. Will you do well out in the world?”
“I’m seventeen years old. I know how to care for myself, and if you can support yourself, I can do the same.” She shifted away from him.
“You’re the most capable person I know, but I’ve seen the filth out there. They prowl the streets and take advantage of the disabled. They’ll see you and—”
“And what? They’ll believe I can’t run away? They’ll think they can hurt me? I’m not scared of what might happen. I’m more scared of standing still, of waiting and watching the man I love marry someone else. I must find my way like you did.”
Luke went rigid and stared at her. She’d never revealed how she felt before, and her admission left her breathless, yet relieved.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she forced herself to stand and take her pail. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say. No matter how much she loved him, she’d never betray her sister. The more she thought about it, she wondered what had happened. Had one of his parents forced him to marry Addy? Perhaps Grandpa? There had to be a reason he had chosen Addy over her, but that didn’t matter. What was done was done.
Bree marched uphill, letting the sun warm her shoulders and the song of the morning birds ease her mind. She waited for Luke to steal the bucket again, but this time, he didn’t follow.
* * *
The days leading up to the wedding went by faster than a vengeful summer storm. The mornings were swallowed by the rush of wind, a rain’s rage. In the aftermath, there was nothing left but sorrowful puddles, linens dripping on the lines, and the arrival of suffocating dampness. The morning of the wedding crept up on Bree—just like Addy, who squirmed and wiggled beside her long before the sun peeked above the horizon. Addy leaned over her and kissed her cheek.
“I’m getting married,” Addy whispered.
“Yes, my dear heart.” Bree faced her sister with the smile she wore every day, then she took in the bundles of flowers she’d hung from the ceiling. During the tepid summers, she loved to lie up here and get lost in counting the dried petals. Many of them were shrunken and withered, but some—the stubborn ones, like the black-eyed Susans and catmints—held firm to their shape. Time was an ever-present ally and enemy.
After stretching her arms, Bree asked, “Are you hungry?” She knew the answer. Addy never had an appetite in the mornings.
“No.” Addy flashed her a smile bright enough to drive away the darkness of the days.
“You’ll be hungry soon.”
“Don’t go.” Addy reached up and took her hand. “I’m not hungry yet. Tell me the story of Mama and that little hen.”
“Oh, Addy.” She tried to lower her voice. “You could recite that story forwards and backwards.”
“I like the way you tell it.” Addy leaned her head against Bree’s shoulder. “I can’t remember Mother, but whenever you tell the story, I pretend she looked like you.”
Before Bree could escape, Addy placed her head on Bree’s lap. Warmth from her younger sister’s side seeped into her, and her hands moved of their own volition to play with the thick twists of Addy’s hair.
“Once upon a time, there was a red hen who followed Mama everywhere she went,” she began. “The hen could fit in your palm, but she clucked the loudest and bounded this way and that, determined to follow Mama to the fields.”
She covered Addy’s face with her palms. “During the day, the hen hid under the tobacco leaves until the overseer released the slaves in the evening. At night, she curled up at the back of the henhouse. Alone. Cold.”
Addy slowly shook her head, playing her part.
“Now, the plantation cook, a horrible woman by the name of Mala, wanted to chop up that poor chicken and serve it in a stew for the master, but Mama would have no such nonsense. She picked up the hen—”
“—and tucked the animal away in the beautiful cotton cloth she’d used to carry her children in,” Addy finished softly.
“That’s right.” Bree trailed her fingers along the curve of Addy’s round cheeks. “The hen no longer had to hide under the tobacco or sleep all alone. Mama took care of it. Nurtured it.”
“She loved it,” her sister added.
“Yes, but love isn’t always easy. One day Mama woke up and the hen was gone. She cried and cried after searching all day. Days passed, and a week later, Mama came upon a chicken stew bubbling in the pot and the master smacking his lips from his fine meal. That poor woman’s heart broke in two. All she had left was a tiny feather no bigger than her fingernail. She struggled to work, day in and day out, until she heard a familiar cluck from the henhouse. She crept up and peeked inside.”
Addy’s grin widened.
“Mama had found her precious hen, but the bird didn’t need her no more. Now four tiny chicks followed the tiny hen. Her baby hadn’t gone—she’d become a mama herself.”
Addy’s sweet smile never wavered. “That’s the beautiful thing about love. It lives on.”
“Forever and ever,” Bree added wistfully.
They couldn’t lie around and tell more stories, for on a day like this one, they had much to do. The previous evening, in preparation for the feast, Stephen had butchered a pig, and Molly had baked apple bread long into the night.
A flurry of activity carried decadent smells, sweet and savory, across the farm. Mary roasted trout over a fire, and the aroma of slow-cooked greens wafted from Emily’s pots. In the middle of the pasture in front of the cabin, Grandma and Bree got Addy ready. Earlier in the day, her little sister had packed what little she owned: a shawl Bree had knitted over the past winter, a new shift, and two dresses Bree had recently mended. Bree’s breath caught to see her sister donned in her wedding dress. The garment swallowed Addy’s narrow waist and fell over her flat chest, but Addy glowed as if the fabric had been spun from gold.
By midday, the time had come. The regret Bree held tightly to her bosom melted away as family members slipped through the trees. Everyone gathered before the circle of stone Grandma and Bree had fashioned. The Bridges became a sea of dandelions, humming and swaying in the wind, but Bree didn’t want to move with them.
This pain shall pass, she thought. This ache you’re feeling while Addy puts her hands into Luke’s will eventually come to its end—just like a summer storm.
The rise and fall of her family’s voices singing a joyful noise lulled and lifted her. One moment she closed her eyes in prayer, and in the next, she opened them to see the handfasting rope wrapped around their wrists. Congratulations, whoops, and cheers filled the field, but to her, their blessings swelled as one until Bree heard nothing but the roar of her heartbeat.
It is done.
Her head swam at the thought, but a steady hand grasped her elbow. Emily pulled her away from the others as the world slammed into place. Her aunt’s tiny hand offered not a celebratory grip but a consolatory one. Aunt Em threaded her fingers with Bree’s and squeezed over and over again.
Bree tugged to pull them back toward the ceremony, but Luke’s mother had the strength of ten men. Once the forest embraced them, Bree took in the tear streaks on her aunt’s cheeks, the tremble in her hands, the empathetic line of her mouth. She held tight, feeling the familiar jagged scar on Emily’s right palm.
Her aunt rarely cried. Even after a child died last year, she’d held the strength of the base of a tree trunk. Unmoving. Steadfast.
“You’re going to be all right,” Em murmured. “It’s done now.” Emily wiped her cheeks. “These are tears of joy, sweet pea.”
“Tears of joy,” Bree repeated back, squeezing her aunt’s hands until she could clutch them no more.
Spent and relieved of her stress, Bree returned with Aunt Emily to the others. There was plenty to do and children to mind instead of seeing Addy and Luke side by side. Platters of food needed to be given to the elders. When Grace fussed in Fanny’s arms, Bree swept in to sing to the sweet girl. More children gathered around her, and soon she lost the evening in laughter and games. Her ankle ached from running after them, but these children would sleep well tonight. The burdens of loss and sadness had no place in their minds.
Bree had to do the same.
Her sister was married now. Bree had done her part. Mama would’ve wanted her to guide Addy like that baby chick so Addy could find her own way. Luke wouldn’t abandon Addy like Daddy Humbles had. That thought sprouted in her chest and blossomed there.
Long into the night, Bree’s limp became more pronounced, but she danced and sang until all she could do was sit before the fire between Aunt Molly and Aunt Mary. Stephen tittered from imbibing too much cider when someone Bree didn’t recognize entered the glen. Her eyes followed the boy while he skirted along the line of trees, slinking in and out of the shadows. He had to be no more than ten or twelve. With tears wetting his cheeks, the boy tentatively approached the fire, revealing his high-waisted dark-blue breeches and the ripped sleeves of his white linen shirt.
“Who’s that poor child?” she caught Grandma saying.
“Must’ve smelled the food,” Grandpa said. “Bring him here.”
John rose, but Emily held him back. She motioned for Luke to join her. They approached the boy, and he rushed into Emily’s arms and sobbed against her bosom. The dancing ceased as everyone stared.
“You know him?” Mary asked Molly.
“I’ve never seen him before.” Molly shook her head and cradled her baby. “Poor child.”
Emily gave the boy a once-over before she drew him off to the side, away from everyone else. Luke fetched the child some cider, and the wretched thing drank deeply. The stew they gave him vanished just as quickly. Slaves on the run posed a danger to the farm if slave catchers came searching for him and rounded them up too, but the boy’s clothes, although dirty, didn’t seem as worn and thin as a slave’s.
“He’s a quiet one,” Bree remarked to Grandma.
“He might have nothing to say. Or plenty,” the elderly woman replied.
“Are we going to send him away?”
“He’ll sleep here tonight,” Grandma said softly as the fire cast a glow on her wrinkled cheeks. She turned away from Bree. “We’ve celebrated a fruitful union tonight. My ancestors are restless, and I fear what he’ll find out there.”
Chapter 14
Sabrina Humbles
May 1780
After Bree’s sister left to go live in Luke’s home, the cabin took shallow breaths. The home had just as many inhabitants once the boy, whom Grandma called Olu, after her father, came to live with them, but there were too many empty spaces. The spinning wheel now sat in Addy’s new home, and Olu ate from the bowl Addy had used for her meals. The quiet boy also slept beside Bree up in the loft. He struggled the most at night, sobbing until she drew him into her arms. Over and over, he cried out for his mother.
“Mama Bear, where are you?” was all he ever said.
Everyone kept asking the boy for his name, but he never gave it. He merely shook his head and cried.
