The Fallen Fruit, page 7
“You’ve always been reserved, but you’ve never kept secrets from me.”
“There’re a lot of memories here, and many of them aren’t good. They’re . . .” The truth bit the tip of my tongue.
“If you’re hurting, then what can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Give me space.” The churning in my stomach bubbled forth. “In all the years you’ve known me, have I ever given you a reason to believe I’m untrustworthy?”
“No.”
“Then let me finish what I’ve started. Answers are coming. I promise.”
The conversation ended with strained goodbyes and a set date to speak again at the end of the week. While I sagged against the booth’s glass wall, I held on to hope that I had more time. No one else would do this critical work. I had to be the one to figure out why Luke Bridge’s entry in the Bible stood out among the other finely penned words. Someone had scrawled his name with reverence, in large and sloping letters, as if he had been deliberately set apart from my other kin. He even had two distinct lines under the date he fell. His name held power and weight, and I needed to find out why.
Chapter 9
Sabrina Humbles
April 1780
Grandma often said the land around the Bridge family farm had a kind of magic. Unsettled spirits lurked in the low-lying, early morning fog. Ominous forms, not man or beast, slipped between the pitch pine and pignut hickory trees’ thick foliage, and an ever-present silence in the forest gathered in one’s chest when one expected the morning birds to sing.
Less than a year ago, Grandpa had told Sabrina about a boy who’d vanished a couple of miles away from the nearby prisoner encampment. Even with all those British soldiers roaming about, it didn’t surprise her how one person might disappear. There were far too many hiding places. To the east, living in the foothills of Wolfpit Mountain, an entire Negro family had abandoned their cabin. Uncle Stephen had said they got smart and fled before the slave catchers noticed they’d forged their freedom papers. When frost formed on the ground in the fall, Grandpa loved to frighten the children with the tale of a wandering man who never found his way home.
Ever since Bree and Addy were taken in by Grandma and Grandpa Bridge twelve years ago, Bree had heard all these stories and believed they were nothing more than tales to quiet the children before they slept. And yet she was still careful—one never knew what might be found around the corner.
The morning had crawled along, like it always did, with fetching water from the creek and far too many chores. At their ages, seventeen and sixteen, Bree and Addy couldn’t dally, but they still idled here and there with their pails swinging. Dawn had yet to embrace the horizon, and dew dampened their boots. All around them crickets sang their final chorus.
Like always, Bree’s little sister didn’t say much. Even Addy’s delicate footfalls murmured when hers shouted. The swish-swish from Addy’s pail skimming the tall grass beside the footpath told Bree her sister followed two paces behind. Addy hummed a soft hymn while Bree searched for flecks of color in the grass. By the time they reached Ivy Creek, marigolds and daffodils would fill Bree’s apron pocket. She could already imagine the sunshine bleeding into the wool she liked to use for embroidery. She also used these walks to commit the shapes of wildflowers to memory. Bree loved ruminating on the delicate, bell-shaped honeysuckle vines. Or how the meadow rue flower extended its purple petals to the heavens like Aunt Molly raising her hands in prayer.
Her fingers itched to complete a border of violets on the hem of a petticoat for Grandma Bridge. With a month until Addy’s wedding, one would think she had plenty of time, but she had other garments to complete—Addy’s wedding dress in particular.
The sky above the tall birch trees blushed orange and pink once they approached Ivy Creek’s banks. The creek wound its way northeast to Rivanna River. On cooler spring days such as this one, they’d often find other Bridge women drawing water or scrubbing shifts and petticoats. Today, the sisters discovered a clean-shaven man, who brought a flush to Addy’s light-brown cheeks and elicited a sigh from Bree.
Luke Bridge, the eldest son of Grandma Bridge’s second offspring, lay sprawled on the creek bank, his breeches rolled up to his knees while his bare feet dangled in the water. His open shirt revealed defined muscles and smooth brown skin. The small smile on Addy’s cherubic face widened at the sight of her betrothed’s carefree grin and long limbs. Bree glanced elsewhere, but the beguiling curves of Luke’s cheeks and his finely constructed nose were etched in her memory as vividly as the last dress she’d made. Maybe even more so.
“This is no place to bathe,” Bree said curtly. “Cover yourself.”
Luke fell into an easy smile, then he took his time to fasten the front ties.
Bree’s heartbeat skittered. She searched for a distraction and found none. At the age of nineteen, that boy had a nonchalant nature that bothered her to no end.
“Oh, Bree.” He sighed. “You could’ve gone farther downstream.” His drawl didn’t reflect annoyance but amusement.
“That water is not fit for pigs,” she muttered while he stood. “Last time we brought a bucket home from that spot, Grandma made us get rid of it.”
Luke gently took the bucket from Addy, then he tugged Bree’s from her tight grip. He filled Addy’s bucket to the brim and hers barely had a sip’s worth.
Bree exhaled between clenched teeth. She had always been the subject of his pranks.
In a huff, she collected more water and returned to march up the riverbank before she could hear their conversation or Addy’s giggle. The pair followed her uphill, and she walked ten paces ahead instead of their standard two.
Somehow their trio had withstood the test of time. Early on, they spent each springtime playing in the pastures or doing penance for Luke’s troublemaking.
Another spring had arrived, but soon their trio would dwindle down to a pair. A familiar hollow feeling coursed through Bree. She quickened her steps, but Luke’s wide strides caught up with her. His rough palm brushed against hers as he took her bucket.
Addy hurried to keep up with him and soon the pair walked ahead of Bree. The light from the rising sun briefly blinded her. She focused on the wet grass darkening the hem of Addy’s blue petticoat instead of the gentle sway of her sister’s hips whenever he was near. If she blinked often enough, she’d miss the complimentary sweep of his gaze as his betrothed approached him.
But the view never helped, so Bree shielded her eyes behind an invisible cloak. This cloak kept her smiling whenever she thought about Addy leaving home to go live with him. But most of all, it would shelter her heart at the thought of her friends leaving her behind.
“Did you sleep well, Addy?” Luke asked.
“Well enough. Last night Ben kept barking at the raccoons.”
The two chatted about Grandpa’s ornery cocker spaniel while their path uphill weaved through the glen surrounding the homes of the Bridge family sons. Their cabins were nestled on over two hundred acres of land. In the middle of this property lay the family orchard.
They meandered past Uncle Stephen’s cabin and the pasture where his cows grazed. Beyond the enclosed field, they strolled into a grove of apple trees. The sun kissed the tops of the trees and the breeze tugged at the branches holding fragrant buds. Addy loved the sight every spring—Bree not so much. Not that she didn’t appreciate them. These first trees had taken the Bridge family five years to cultivate. It still amazed her how these plants had once been saplings, but she’d seen trees grow from seeds and the buds blossom into apples many times. Bree wanted to see new things. And that meant she had to leave the safety of Bridge land for less muddied waters, but the wilderness and the few cities she’d seen were no safe place for a Negro woman. Monacan Indians still lived in villages to the northwest. To the south was Hawkins land—a white merchant family. Even farther into the woods and east was Shadwell, the Jefferson family’s plantation with over fifty Negro slaves working the tobacco fields along the foothills of the Southwest Mountains. Here, they encountered few traders and travelers—most of them didn’t want the Bridge family’s hard cider—but the one or two they did see came with rumors about Shadwell, along with Monticello, the Jefferson family’s newest plantation.
There were far fewer free Negro families in the outlying areas too. Bree could count the number of farms on one hand, but if they had etched a better living for themselves, why couldn’t she? Maybe up north, past the plantations and slavery, other Negroes had ventured beyond the restrictions of their freedom papers. Perhaps there she could start a new life.
“Are you coming, Bree?” Luke glanced over his shoulder. The pair had left her behind while her mind had wandered.
Bree gave a short nod and followed them to the cabin. Grandma and Grandpa Bridge’s home was the oldest one on the farm. The walls kept them warm in the winter but retained far too much heat during the summer. She trudged inside to find Grandma’s and Grandpa’s chairs empty. This early in the day, even elderly folk tended to the orchard. Once the snow melted and Grandpa’s aches in his knees quieted from the cold, the couple spent more time with their other children: the pippin apple trees.
Immediately, she got to work outside on the day’s wash, trying not to pay any mind to the hushed chatter behind her.
Didn’t Luke and Addy also have chores?
Uncle John, Luke’s father, had complained the other day how Luke needed to start new stacks of firewood now that the families had used up their winter supply. And Addy had piles of carded wool from the spring shearing to spin into woolen yarn.
Once Bree finished hanging up the clothes, she went inside to mend some of Grandpa’s shirts. The stone fireplace held nothing more than dying embers, but spite seared Bree’s face. Here they were, chatting about the weather, not caring if Addy got a tongue lashing when Grandma returned home.
After some time, she said, “Addy, we only have so much daylight before Grandma returns.”
Now that got her sister moving. The memory of Grandma fussing until Bree had to make excuses for Addy added haste to her step. Ever since they were little, Addy had never been in a hurry. Bree barely remembered their lives before escaping a plantation in South Carolina, but she did recall the day their papa let go of her hand while on the outskirts of Richmond. Bree was five. She had held on to her sister as the girls wandered away from town, searching for him without screaming out his name.
“Always, always stay by me,” Papa had said. “Don’t speak to anyone. We’ll get to New York soon.”
But he’d released Bree’s hand and disappeared into the trees. Just like those people Grandma warned them about.
It was Grandpa Bridge who’d found them starving out in the wilderness outside Charlottesville. He still marveled at how Bree had kept her sister alive for so long.
When they’d first arrived here, Addison clung to her older sister’s dirty petticoats and sucked her thumb. Even then, Bree didn’t need to be told how to wash clothes or tend to babies. Whippings and other punishments had burned a work ethic into her bones. She always did what was needed.
And right now she needed silence.
Bree wiped sweat off the back of her neck. Held her breath and forced a smile.
Jealousy isn’t becoming for a godly woman, Sabrina, she reminded herself.
“After we finish our chores, I can make progress on your wedding dress,” she offered.
While Addy busied herself with gathering the cards of wool she’d need for spinning at her wheel in one corner of the cabin, Luke lingered in the doorway. He stuffed his hands in his work apron’s pockets. The weight of his gaze touched Bree’s back, but she ignored him and sewed faster to close a hole in the sleeve. Eventually, he’d speak.
Luke Bridge always had something to say.
“I’ll return after supper,” he finally said with Bree’s back still turned.
He’d left many times. Why should she bother seeing him leave? Wasn’t Addy his betrothed?
But Sabrina was unable to resist peeking over her shoulder. She managed to catch his retreating back as he ventured west to the orchard.
* * *
With Luke gone, Bree and her sister settled into a familiar rhythm. The whoosh-whoosh of Addy’s spinning wheel filled the cabin, and Bree perched on a stool to examine her stitches.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Bree had to bring Grandpa his lunch. Often he refused a midday meal, but then his hands would shake, and he’d stare at the ground before he sat down.
When the eldest Bridge ate, her aunts and uncles worried less about him during the workday. And whenever she brought him food, the others often sat with him to keep him company. Most of the time, Luke would join too, but lately he’d been taking off to wander the woods.
Grandpa munched on rye bread covered in blackberry jam as Ben rested his head against his master’s boot. Meanwhile Uncle Stephen regaled everyone with his never-ending war tales from four years ago. Stephen’s wife, Molly, complained that her husband used the time as an excuse to work his mouth instead of his hands, but she smiled with each jest. She sat among the other women who lounged underneath the birch trees lining the orchard. Grandma rested while Molly’s deft fingers braided strands of her hair, as long as a river.
“There were men as far as you could see,” Stephen said with flair. “Up in New Jersey, there are just as many hills like you see around here. The new Continental Army recruits were taking in the scenery while men like Papa couldn’t load their muskets.”
That got a laugh from Grandpa. “At least my aim is better than yours.”
“True. Back at Brandywine, I was shaking worse than Papa on a good day.” Stephen tucked snuff from a tiny tin box under his lower lip.
“One would think Stephen’s aim would’ve improved with people shooting at him.” Aunt Emily, Uncle John’s wife, laughed, and soon they all joined her. Bree took in each face, each of them familiar and comforting. Every Bridge elder was here. Chatting. Laughing. Bree stooped beside Grandpa and let everyone’s mood lift hers. If she ever left, she’d miss these moments.
“You brag too much, Stephen,” Aunt Molly said.
“The only one of us that fired faster was Edwin,” Grandpa said softly. “He could do it with his eyes closed, I say.”
At the mention of Edwin, silence fell. The smiling face of his wife, Mary, stiffened. After the men had returned home without her husband, she’d rarely talked about him.
Once the quiet grew too thick, John brought up something else. It was for the best—Bree couldn’t go anywhere around here without seeing land Edwin had helped clear or fences he’d repaired. It was Edwin who had sheared the sheep every spring and tended to the fall-lambing ewes. Every single cabin was painted with memories of him, but God saw fit to take his life during the war.
After the family heard about the men’s enlistment—a tale Bree had heard many a time—she took what remained of Grandpa’s meal and returned home.
She gathered the eggs from the coop, and even managed to clear out the rotten vegetables from the root cellar, but no more than a minute into embroidering another flower along the hem of Addy’s wedding dress, Bree spotted Luke.
This time, he came to her instead of Addy with a simple request.
“Can I borrow your neckerchief, Bree?” With sweat lining his brow, Luke stooped on one knee before her. Hints of his labors tending to the apple orchard trailed after him.
Behind her, Addy paused, her sister’s spinning wheel quieting at the sound of his question.
Bree trained her eyes away from the intricate stitches of bluebells she was sewing to meet his dark-brown eyes. To him, it was just another day. Another workday during which he likely had misplaced his neckerchief and now wished to take hers.
Bree bit her lower lip and retrieved the dark-blue neckerchief from her apron pocket. The frayed edges tickled her neck when she wore it, but the linen fabric kept her skin covered and cool.
“I want it back,” she whispered stiffly.
He gave her his lopsided smirk. The long, pale scar along his chin from a tree fall winked at her. Bree wanted to glance elsewhere. If she stared at Luke for too long, she’d see he didn’t look at her the way he looked at Addy.
Luke opened his mouth to speak.
One moment the April midday sun bled around him, causing the burnt-orange light to spill to the cabin’s dirt floor and cast his shadow toward her, and in her next sharp inhale, the full breadth of the sun’s rays left her blinking.
“What did you say?” she asked.
No one answered.
Addy gasped.
He wasn’t in the room.
“Luke, I tire of your tricks.” Bree rose from her seat and marched out the cabin door with heat gathering in her stomach. That man played far too many children’s games for someone who planned to wed soon.
Nothing suspicious stirred outside. No footsteps trailed away from the cabin in the dark soil. She expected to glimpse his retreating back heading to the orchard, but she fixed her gaze only upon swaying pine and elm trees beyond the clearing leading away from their home. Chirps from nearby yellow-rumped warblers amplified in the open space.
“Where did he go?” Addy’s quiet voice didn’t calm Bree’s hitched breaths.
“I don’t know.”
They circled the cabin. Traces of sweat from Luke’s labors were the only evidence he’d been here.
Bree called his name, even whistling three times, a signal from when they’d played together as children.
They waited for his reply, but none came.
“Had we imagined him?” Addy asked.
“No.” Bree reached into her apron, finding only the flowers she’d gathered. “He asked for my neckerchief, and I gave it to him.”
They explored beyond the enclosure to their garden to the small field where Grandma’s sole cow roamed. From there they ventured away from the cabin, down the beaten path between the trees to the orchard.
Did they miss him leaving the house to return to work?
