Five Sisters (35 page)

Brook laughed, "You know, Ethan once told me that he and Mary have been hoping for quite some time that you and I would marry someday as well."

Sara blew fiercely, her breath growing short as she struggled to remove the last few seedlings. Her cheeks quickly grew pink with exhaustion, "Mary told me that too. They've been dreaming it up for years. Trying to play matchmakers, I suppose."

"Well they tried hard enough, didn't they?"

"I'll say."

"But you can't blame them for trying. It would be awfully perfect for the pair of them if we were to marry.
Ethan's cousin and Mary's sister.
We'd all be family. Of course, we'd be family anyway because of their marriage, but still."

"I think Mary was really just desperate to find me someone. She thinks I'll end up an old maid in a house filled with nothing but books."

"Same with me.
Only Ethan thinks I'll end up alone with only my paints and my pencils and my canvas to keep me company."

"Are you still alone? I mean, you didn't find some wonderfully beautiful and charming young girl at school to capture your heart away?"

"No . . . There aren't many women at Clarendon, to tell the truth. Mainly men," he paused, casting a furtive glance towards her, "And what about you, my dear? No handsome, roguish sailors to spark your fancy?"

Sara didn't answer, but carefully kept her head down and continued to blow on the dandelion. There were only three little seedlings, three measly little
seedings, that
would not fly away no matter how earnestly Sara sought to remove them. Finally, fed up with the whole ordeal, she narrowed her eyes, stamped her foot, and plucked each one out with her finger.

Brook raised an eyebrow, "They're only dandelions, Sara. Don't upset yourself . . . And I suppose you don't wish to answer my last question? You've been rather quiet."

Sara dropped the bare weed, watching as its winged seedlings were caught in a gust of wind and carried across the countryside, further and further until they disappeared from view. She sighed, "I suppose if you're so eager to know, I can say . . . I, er . . . I did find a, er . . . Well, I-I found someone," she took a deep breath, "Someone who's kind and sweet and honest and so very like me. He loves to read and he's very smart and I've never met someone that I . . . But it, er . . . Well, things didn't go exactly as I might have hoped, let's say."

Brook stuck his hands in his pockets, "I don't really know what to say. I'm sorry."

Sara bit her lip, casting her eyes downward, "He, er . . . he refused me. He made a whole argument, listed his reasons, wrote me a letter, and it was such a nice letter too!
Beautifully written.
It would have been easier if he didn't have to say things so kindly and wisely and carefully. But when we said goodbye he would barely even look me in the eye! And he spoke as though he had to force every word. I just don't understand why it all had to turn out this way . . . And now I'll never see him again and . . ."

"But perhaps you will see him again," Brook suggested, "And perhaps he will change his mind. You never know."

Sara shrugged, "Yes, I suppose so."

"So is this why you've been so melancholy ever since you arrived? I knew something was different, I just could never decide what. That's why I wanted to talk with you alone today. And now that I know it's quite obvious why I could never figure it out. I never even knew this mysterious sailor! But at least now that you're here you can try to forget about him. If he was so foolish as to cast you off, he doesn't deserve you anyway."

Sara smiled.

"But . . ." Brook laughed, "I do have an offer for you."

"Oh really?
And what's that?"

"If both you and I haven't found mates by the time we're, oh, say, thirty years old, how about we get hitched?"

"'Get hitched?' You're really a country boy now, Brook Lindsey."

"No really! Get hitched, exchange rings, tie the knot,
get
married, whatever you'd like to call it. It's more than ten years from now! If we're not married by then we might as well marry each other! I like you and you like me. What could be better than living with a good friend?"

"Living with someone you love?"

"Alright, alright, but what else besides that?"

"I don't know, but . . ."

"But nothing!
Come on, Sara! We've got a good while to go. Whatd'ya
say
?"

Sara raised an eyebrow, "Tell you what . . .
Let's
make it thirty-five and I'll agree."

"Alright then.
Thirty-five.
You and me . . ." Brook laughed. He held a hand to his heart, "I, Brook David Lindsey, promise that, in the event that I have not already found a wife, I will marry Sara St. James once I have reached my thirty-fifth year of life."

Sara giggled.

"Hey now!
You can't just giggle at me! You've gotta promise too! Hand to your heart and recite the vow."

Sara grinned, but repeated, "I, Sara Marietta St. James, promise that, in the event that I have not already found a husband, I will marry Brook Lindsey once I've reached my thirty-fifth year of life."

"So we've got a deal?"

"We've got a deal," laughed Sara.

*****

Nora drew her card reluctantly, adding it in to the growing number in her hand. With a groan she discarded and mumbled, "I swear I'm having the
worst
luck today. It's ridiculous!"

"Luck of the draw, milady. Luck of the draw," crooned Ethan, taking his turn.

Gail frowned, "I'm not doing very well either. This'll be the third game Ethan's won in a row!"

"Now, now.
It's not over yet. Who's to say I'll win again?"

"I do! We've got nothing over here!"

Gail threw down another card from her terrible hand and huffed indignantly. She wasn't one to enjoy a game when she wasn't in the lead. But Ethan was quick to uplift her spirits.

"Say, I've got some news I meant to tell you earlier, Gaily," he said, "Only found out this morning, but I wanted to tell you as soon as I could. I've heard a bit about your friend Nathaniel."

Gail's eyes widened and she nearly dropped her cards, "Well? What did you find out? Is he . . . Or . . ."

"Look, I don't know much yet. All I've heard is that he's definitely not still at the St. Francis County Hospital. The man I talked to wasn't exactly sure of all the information, but he was certain that the room occupied by a man named Mr. West was emptied out on the first day he arrived. So I suppose he's at Wickensville now. I wouldn't be surprised. They're really better at handling the more difficult ailments than St. Francis."

Gail bit her lip, nodding, "And that's all you found out? You don't know if he's . . . you know . . . Your friend didn't check the obituaries?"

Ethan shook his head, "He's promised to find out as much as he can though. I'm sure we'll find out more within a day or so."

Gail managed a smile.
"Of course.
Thank you, Ethan."

*****

Once Brook and Sara returned from their walk, laughing and talking as much as ever, Sara found comfort in her book once more while Brook sharpened his pencil and continued to sketch. Emy, whom he sat beside, brightened up as soon as the pair arrived. She wished they wouldn't look so happy, but as long as she just continued reminding herself of where Sara's heart truly lay, things didn't seem quite so bad.

"Why are you lookin' so glum, Em?"
Brook asked, casting a sideways glance her way as he drew the outlines of the trees and the hills in the distance.

With a shrug, Emy replied, "Oh I'm fine. Just a little bored is all."

"Well hey, want something to do? I've got the most fantastic, exciting activity you've ever heard of. Care to give it a try?"

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"Drawing, of course!"

Brook ripped out a sheet of parchment for Emy and handed her one of his spare pencils.

"There! That's all you need. Now just find something to sketch and you'll find yourself occupied in no time at all!"

"But what should I sketch?"

"Anything!
The hills, the trees, the shrubs.
Your sisters, the grass, the bark of this tree, the clouds.
Your shoes, those cards . . ."

Emy giggled, "Alright, alright. I get the idea. It's so easy for you though. For me, nothing ever seems to come out as I meant it to."

"It's not so hard, really. What is it you're going to draw?"

"That tree," Emy replied, pointing it out to him.

"Well then, you've got a nice start there. See, it's all about hand-eye coordination. Try not to look at the paper so much though. Focus on the tree and let your hand do the work. Constant glancing up and down can ruin the placement and the proportion. Sketching is all about trusting your hand. Let your eyes remain on the tree while your hand takes that image from your head and traces it on to the paper.
Lightly though.
You only want very faint lines at first. Later you can go back and darken them a bit. There. That's good. But, er . . . Here, see, you don't want to go in so far for that branch," Brook leaned over and took Emy's hand; a shiver went down her spine, "Don't look down. Just let the hand do the work."

With his fingers lightly grasped around her own, he led her hand across the paper, chastising her when she let her eyes glimpse downward and constantly reminding her to not press so hard. Of course to Emy all of this went unnoticed. Her heart was beating so quickly she could barely breathe. It seemed as though her hand were shaking and she only hoped that Brook didn't notice. With his hand upon her own, his shoulder brushing against hers, and his warm breath coming down lightly upon her cheeks as he whispered, Emy was truly beside herself. She'd lost her heart long ago and it seemed now that she'd never gain it back again.

As it had for the past twenty years, in the second and third week of November an art festival was held at the Clarendon Art Institute. The school's top students displayed their work alongside the paintings, sculptures, and pottery of the day's leading artists.