Garters.htm (14 page)

"Making a clover chain," she answered simply, as if such an occupation were perfectly acceptable for a fully grown woman on a deserted hillside on a Saturday evening.

Cleav watched her progress for a moment and then without invitation seated himself beside her. Gently he laid the handful of wild phlox on the ground before them.

When Esme saw her discarded flowers, a rush of tears filled her throat, but she forced her gaze back to the stems of clover and continued her work with diligence.

Cleav adjusted his position to make himself comfortable. He stretched out one long leg before him and bent the other at the knee. Leaning back, he was almost supine until he turned on one hip and rested his upper body on his elbow.

To Esme it felt strangely familiar to have him practically lying next to her. Without speaking they sat together for several minutes
adjusting to the unaccustomed intimacy
that surrounded them.

Esme glanced down and noted with surprise that Cleav had taken up the loose end of the chain and was himself calmly weaving the clover blooms.

He looked up and caught her watching him.

"Boys learn how to do this, too, you know," he told her, his voice as soothing as hot molasses on a winter night. "I was about seven, I guess," he said as he reached, not for the clover, but for one of the wild phlox blooms that lay before him. "I made what I think was the longest clover chain in the state of Tennessee." There was self-mocking laughter in his claim. "I swear I combed these hills for a week trying to find enough blossoms."

His gaze was so warm and wry, Esme found herself compelled to smile back.

"It was so long I carried it around in a sack!" he told her,shaking his head. "When it started to die and break up, I wrapped it around the barn for a decoration."

His pale blue eyes were bright with mischief. "Our old Bossy ate every piece of it, and Mama threatened to take a strap to me for feeding clover to the cow!"

Esme's peal of laughter was genuine and once Cleav had her smiling again, he proceeded toward his purpose. "I owe you an apology, Esme," he began.

She shook her head. "You did the right thing," she assured him bravely. "If you think somebody has stole something, you've got to confront 'em."

Cleav felt a stab of self-directed anger.

"I never thought you'd stolen the dress, Esme. I know that you do not steal." His eyes upon her gave her more will than she had thought available.

"No," she stated without boast. "I do not steal."

She raised her chin as if to gaze across the horizon. Cleav found himself admiring her profile, not for its beauty or femininity, but for its strength. He had wounded her, but she would not show him her pain.

"I know how you feel, Esme."

The words brought her focus back to his face. There were unspoken words of derisive disbelief evident in her expression.

"It's true," he insisted calmly. "I've been there myself." He reached for one of the phlox. The stem was not as easy to slit as the clover, but he managed to do it and added the colorful blossom to the strand, where it stood out among the more ordinary clovers.

"You know that I went off to Knoxville to school?" he asked, looking off in the distance.

"Yes."

"I was so excited about that,'' he recalled, his voice calm and matter of fact. "I had been wanting schooling, oh, it seems like all my life. I'd wished for it, but I never dared to hope." He wove a second phlox into the clover chain, making a companion for the first outsider.

"My father drove me to the train station in Russellville. I could hardly sit still the whole way, talking and squirming like I was six instead of almost fourteen."

Esme smiled, trying to imagine the calm, confident man before her as a fourteen-year-old with jitters in his legs.

"Mama had made me a new suit from the finest brown wool we had in the store," he told her. "It fit me perfectly the day I left and had lots of extra fabric at the seams and in the hem to accommodate a young man with a good deal of growing yet to do."

Cleav wove a plain white clover into the chain with no hesitation in his story. "The train ride was pure pleasure," he said. "I told everyone in the coach about my new suit and my new school." His grin was wry as he continued. "The porter must have thought me the greenest boy ever to come down from the mountain. But he, and everyone else, listened to my wild enthusiasm, offered words of advice on city life, and wished me well."

Esme tried to imagine herself on a noisy train heading for the city and talking to strangers. It seemed a wonderful adventure.

"Knoxville was bigger, busier, noisier, more exciting than all my wildest fantasies. I was probably close to death a half dozen times as I made my way across town to the school."

Carefully weaving another clover into the pattern, he shook his head derisively.

"I was bug-eyed at the scenes around me. I had not one thought to caution in the busy streets. That hectic flurry of rigs and wagons was intent on running me down. More than one angry driver cursed my ancestry."

Esme giggled, earning her a playful rise of his eyebrows.

"The school was just as I imagined it," he said. "I remember stopping in front to read the name carved into the stone: Halpeith Academy for Gentlemen of Good Family. I knew that I was going to learn so much there."

Cleav's smile brightened with remembrance but just as quickly faded to a sober line.

"And I did, but not at all what I expected."

Cleav sat up. Cross-legged, he faced Esme. Her eyes were wide with wonder and curiosity. Never had he confessed his secrets to a soul. Instinctively he knew that Esme could be trusted with the most mortifying of truths. "What I learned at the Halperth Academy,'' he began, his voice now slightly roughened with anger, "is that a storekeeper's son from the hills is
not
considered a gentleman of good family."

Cleav swallowed heavily, tasting again the bitter gall of disgrace. Unwilling to allow himself the privilege of privacy, he raised his eyes to Esme. He had made her feel shame, so he showed her his own.

"They laughed at me," he told her quietly. "The other boys in the school, the people in the town, even the professors laughed at the way I talked, the way I ate, the things I said."

He didn't stint on the truth.

"They even laughed at the new brown suit my mama made me. Their suits were fitted at the tailor's. They called mine homemade cracker clothes. Just perfect, one of the upperclassmen declared, for Cleavis Clodhopper the hillbilly boy." Even after long years of success and achievement, the hated nickname conjured up rancor.

"At first I thought I could prove myself," he told her. "I studied harder than anyone. I perfected my manners. I was determined that I could make them see me as an equal." He sighed and shook his head. "Of course, they never did."

As Esme watched him, there was no pity in her eyes, but there was understanding.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't all for the bad, though," he said honestly. "With no friends and resolved to succeed, I spent untold hours in the library. I would lose my unhappiness in the excitement of science."

Smiling wryly, he added, "My biology text was so well-thumbed it looked like a risque' novel."

Esme felt suddenly closer to him. She wanted to touch him, to comfort him. She wanted to feel what he felt.

With his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, he looked at Esme, willing her to understand. "The people of Vader, probably even yourself," he said, "think that I am a
gentleman
. And here, well, I guess that I am. But I know that I would never have been seen as such in the city."

The statement was plain fact, not bitterness.

Esme reached across and touched his hand. The gesture surprised and pleased him.

"I'm not looking for your sympathy," Cleav told her, taking up her end of the clover chain and webbing it with his. "I'm trying to say that I do know a portion of how I made you feel. I'm sorry for what I said about the dress."

"It doesn't matter," Esme told him, and strange as it seemed at that moment, it did not.

"It matters to me," Cleav insisted. "I hurt you. That matters."

Esme felt her hand tremble as it lay against his, and she hastily removed it.

"I don't know too much about you, Esme," he said. "But what I do see in you is pride. You believe in yourself and don't allow the opinions of others to make you doubt. I can admire that. I wouldn't want to be the cause of changing it."

"You haven't," Esme assured him.

"That's good." He raised his eyes to look at her, to take in all of the vision before him. "And I wasn't honest, either. I need to apologize for that, too."

"You weren't honest?" Esme was confused.

Cleav shook his head. "When you stepped out from behind that chestnut tree, I thought you were as pretty as any girl I'd ever seen."

At Esme's quick intake of breath, Cleav moved closer. The sweet smell of her tempted him, but he didn't allow himself the luxury of letting his attentions forego his better judgment.

Casually he draped the clover chain around her neck. Like a wreath, he looped the chains over her head, allowing them to drop gently across her bosom.

"You are like a wild mountain princess," he told her, his words soft and warm. "A true creation of Mother Nature."

She stared down at the flowers. The two wild phlox blooms added a bright touch to the pretty green and white clover.

He sat back, his hands on his knees as his gaze wandered across her face, her strong young shoulders, and the profuse garland of flowers that flowed from her throat to her waist.

"Esme Crabb." His voice was a husky whisper that prickled her skin like a ghostly visage on a moonless night. "You are as pretty a young woman as I have ever seen in my life. Any man who says differently is a liar."

She felt her cheeks heat, but she shook her head at the compliment.

"You are kind, Cleavis," she answered, her own whisper sounding strange to her ears. "But I'm sure you were right the first time. The dress is probably not too fashionable."

Cleavis bent toward her, his eyes strangely hot and intent. With two tentative fingers he adjusted the clover chain to his satisfaction.

Esme felt a wildly charged prickle at the gentleness of his touch, and suddenly the white lawn bodice felt too tight.

"Vader is not the place for those who are slaves to fashion."

Esme's answering giggle was as much nerves as humor. He was so handsome and so kind and so, so close.

"That I'm not," she said. "I never cared about clothes at all before…"

Esme didn't need to finish the sentence.

"Do you really think that I am pretty?" she asked, her voice not sounding at all like her own. In that instant her whole world seemed balanced on his answer.

His eyes darkened.

"Yes, Esme." His words were almost a whisper. "You are very pretty."

Her heart pounding within her breast, Esme looked longingly at the man before her and dared to hope. A kiss, she begged silently, a kiss.

As if he heard her mute plea, his eyes focused on her lips, causing them to part invitingly.

"Very pretty," he whispered again.

Was he going to kiss her? The dream rushed through her thoughts like a rat in a snake's nest. Here, in this tender moment, would
he
kiss
her
!

Oh, yes, please, was her silent prayer.

Esme wanted to feel his lips on hers; to breathe in the spicy smell of his throat, to be enfolded in those strong, masculine arms.

She trembled in anticipation, the way she had that day beside the pond. But Esme would not throw herself at him again. She'd wait this time. She'd wait for him to make the move.

His eyes assessed her, caressed her. She could almost feel the kiss in his gaze.

Cleav hesitated.

Esme panicked.

He wasn't ready to kiss her. Maybe he didn't really want to kiss her. Maybe he didn't really think she was pretty. Was he humoring a pitiful mountain girl?

She had to know for sure. She had to be certain. She threw out a challenge. "Am I pretty enough to take to the taffy pull?" she asked.

Cleavis sat frozen, staring at her for an instant. It took more than a few seconds for the idyll to end and for reality to come crashing down around him. More than that before his eyes widened in shock.

"I'm late!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Jerking the watch from his pocket, he glanced at its face in dismay. "I was supposed to pick up Miss Sophrona nearly an hour ago!"