Authors: Traitorous Hearts
"I really wish," her mother was continuing, "you
would consider going to Maryland. You know your Aunt Sarah would be more than
happy to have you visit for a while."
Maryland again. Bennie didn't know how Maryland had gotten the
reputation as a place where even the most desperate of women could find a
husband the instant they set foot inside its borders, but her mother clearly
believed this to be so.
"I'm not going to Maryland. I have no overwhelming wish to
get married."
"Who said anything about getting married?" Mary asked
innocently. "I just think you should go visit your aunt."
Bennie shook her head. She knew it would do little good to
protest; her mother, gentle though she was, could be as immovable as any of the
Joneses. Bennie wasn't the kind of woman a man wanted for a wife; she was too
tall, too strong, too much like her brothers. But Mary never seemed to give up.
"Well, if you won't go for a visit, why don't we at least see
about making you a new dress for the mustering? I have a lovely forest green
wool that would look very stately on you. If you had a beautiful gown, I'm sure
you wouldn't feel the need to go running around in your brother's castoffs."
"I'm only wearing these now because I'm going for a walk, and
my skirts always catch on the undergrowth. I got tired of mending them, and you
know I don't have your talent with a needle. I'll make sure no one sees
me."
"You're going out to Finnigan's Wood again, aren't you?"
Bennie sighed heavily. "Yes."
"I'm just concerned about you. Do you really think it's safe
for a woman to go tramping around in the woods alone?"
"I'll be just fine," Bennie assured her quietly.
"Who would bother me?" There were some advantages, few though they
might be, to being her size. She intended to exploit them fully.
"I suppose you're going out to play that thing, aren't
you?"
"Yes."
"Really, Elizabeth, I'd be more than happy to get you a more
appropriate instrument, something more befitting a young lady. A spinet, or
perhaps a harpsichord? If music is your talent, I think you should explore all
aspects of it."
"Mother. I am not young, nor am I much of a lady. The violin
suits me just fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go practice."
Bennie slipped past her mother and strode across the clearing, choosing the
path running behind the tavern and directly into a thick copse of trees.
Setting her basket down, Mary leaned against the doorframe,
concern etching tiny lines around her lovely, delicate features. She loved her
daughter completely and treasured her in the way only the mother of eight sons
could cherish a lone daughter. But she didn't understand her.
Mary's hands fluttered up, checking to see if her hair was still
tidy. She had known, back when she was seventeen, that the town had thought it
a step down when one of the two daughters of the reverend of the First
Congregational Church of New Wexford had agreed to marry the young, blustery giant,
Cadwallader Jones. Thirty-three years later, she was still sure she'd made the
right choice.
She'd known even then that Cad had loved her wholly and without
reservation. She came first with him, and always would. For a young woman whose
father had often put faith and duty above family, it had been a seductive lure,
and one she'd never regretted succumbing to.
She loved Cad with a quiet devotion. She understood him, for he
was an open man, honest, proud, and uncomplicated. All her sons, too, she loved
and understood; seven because they were just like their father, and Brendan
because he was so much like her. Brendan, as did she, needed to think things
through, to reason, to depend on intellect rather than treacherous and
unpredictable emotions.
Bennie, despite her clear resemblance to Cad, was different. She
didn't have her father's elemental nature. She hid so much. There was never any
anger, any pain, any grief, not with Bennie—at least, not where it would show.
She seemed satisfied, perhaps, but never content. Too much turbulence hid in
those dark eyes. Too many ruthlessly suppressed dreams.
There seemed to be nothing Mary could do; at any rate, nothing
she'd tried so far had worked.
But if there was one thing Mary had learned in more than three
decades of being a Jones, it was steady determination always paid
off—eventually. And Mary was nothing if not steady.
Finally taking her gaze from the place where Bennie had
disappeared into the dark trees, Mary bent and scooped up her basket. There was
nothing she could do now, and she had hungry men to feed. Later... well, later
she'd see.
***
Bennie walked slowly through the woods, still lugging her case. A
few lonely brown leaves clung to the rough, twisted branches of the oaks,
maples, and other trees growing in disorderly profusion. The air was cool and
fresh, as crisp as the leaves crunching satisfyingly underfoot.
Bennie loved the forest. The ground here was rocky, overgrown, and
creased with small ravines; there were many acres nearby which were more easily
tilled, and so this patch of growth had been left alone. The area was not vast
by any means; but securely cloaked from prying, judging eyes by the
accommodating trees, here she could feel comfortable. Here she felt like
Elizabeth Jones, and not some freak everyone kept trying to shove into one slot
or another, slots she could never manage to squeeze into, no matter how hard
she tried.
Reaching her destination, she sank to the ground, unmindful of the
slight dampness. A stream meandered through a miniature gorge; trees like tall
sentinels marched along its edge. The brook was small. It didn't rush and
burble along its bed; instead, it flowed smoothly, the sound quiet and
soothing.
For a long time she just stared at the water. Shadowed by
overhanging limbs, the clear stream waved the long, slender weeds growing
lushly along its bottom.
Like Brendan, she'd thought she was immune to the damage words
could do. She'd spent her youth being called gawk and giant and boy-girl. She'd
dealt with it by becoming strong and proud and controlled. Yet she couldn't
help the small but keenly sharp pain she felt when she failed, once again, to
live up to her mother's expectations.
Dragging her case toward her, she undid the clasps, pushed up the
lid, and lifted out her violin, trailing her fingers lovingly over the rich,
smooth wood, lightly plucking the taut strings, listening to the true, resonant
notes produced.
The violin had been a gift from her grandfather to the Jones
children. Till the day he'd died, he'd never given up trying to
"civilize" his daughter's family, and he considered an appreciation
of fine music a gentlemanly trait. To his disappointment, none of the Jones
boys had even the slightest interest in learning to play the
"fiddle"—a term he considered an insult to the carefully crafted instrument.
The lone exception was Brendan, and he, unfortunately, was completely devoid of
talent.
After it had gathered dust in a corner for years, Bennie had
discovered the violin. Her father considered music lessons a useless frivolity;
her mother urged her to try a more ladylike instrument. But Bennie had been
drawn to it somehow, fascinated by the process of making a lifeless object
sing.
There'd been no one to teach her to play, so she had taught
herself. Whenever a fiddler had played at a festival, she'd watched him
carefully, studying how he moved his fingers, how he held his bow, how he
strummed and plucked and drew music from strings and wood.
Doggedly, she'd practiced, hour after hour; in the winter, hidden
in the loft of the barn, her fingers stiff and chilled, and in the summer in
the private sheltered depths of Finnigan's Wood. At first she was awful; the
violin had squealed and squawked like a tortured cat, but as she experimented,
occasionally there had been a single, pure note like the notes she heard in her
head. And then, sometimes, there were two notes, and three, and finally, a
collection she could call music.
Now the music was hers, the one thing in her life she could truly
know belonged to her alone; her fingers flew over the strings, and playing came
to her as naturally and easily as breathing air. And it was nearly as
essential. She could play any song she'd heard, never missing a beat or a note,
but mostly she just played, matching the music to scenes in her head, creating
a mood, giving voice to an emotion.
Tucking the instrument firmly under her chin, she drew the bow
across the strings once, letting the rich note fade, absorbed into the forest.
Satisfied the tone was good, she sent her fingers flying in a series of quick
notes that loosened her joints and reestablished her easy acquaintance with the
instrument.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax, to concentrate only
on the violin, searching herself for the music she would try to express.
Loud, enthusiastic applause startled her from her comfortable
isolation. She jumped to her feet and whirled, automatically hiding the violin
behind her back.
Jon Leighton, grinning hugely, clapping wildly, leaned against a
stout tree. When she faced him, he straightened abruptly and snatched off his
dusty, silver-trimmed tricorn, nearly crushing it in his hands.
"Hello, Bennie-girl," he mumbled.
"Hello, Lieutenant Leighton," she said, relaxing
slightly. "What are you doing out here?"
He shuffled his feet awkwardly, sheepishness creeping into his
deep, husky voice. "I saw you go into the woods. I followed." He
rolled his big shoulders. "I listened. Sorry."
"That's all right." She found, to her surprise, that she
meant it. She knew there would be no judgment from Jon. "Why aren't you
with your company?"
"There's no work today. The captain said I should go have
fun."
"Surely there's something you could do that you like better
than tramping through the woods."
"The others were playing cards, gambling." He frowned,
distress written clearly on his handsome features. "Captain told them they
shouldn't play with me. I'll lose all my money."
"Oh," she said softly. Clearly, he was hurt by his
fellow soldiers' refusal to allow him to play, and she had an absurd desire to
soothe him.
"Besides, you need me. Girls shouldn't be out alone." He
thumped his chest. "I'll protect you."
"But I don't..." Her voice trailed off. She had been
going to answer, as always, that she didn't need protection, but what would it
hurt to let him think she did? "You're absolutely right, Jon. It was silly
of me. I would certainly appreciate your looking out for me."
He beamed immediately, and Bennie was caught off guard by the
beauty of his smile. He belonged in a painting, or on the ceiling of a
church—or in a woman's dreams.
"I can stay?" he asked hopefully.
"You can stay." What was she going to do with him? She'd
never played for anyone else, and she wasn't sure she could do it now. Her
music was private, not for sharing. "What do you like to do?"
"Everything."
"Everything?"
"The woods." He waved his arms at the trees encircling
them. "I like to watch. To listen." Dropping his gaze, he stared at
the violin she held loosely against her side. "I like music."
Like an offering, she extended her instrument. "Would you
like to try my violin?"
Beneath his half lowered lids, something light and unidentifiable
flared briefly in his pale eyes. "No." He looked sadly at his hands.
"Too clumsy."
"Oh, no you're not. Try it," she urged.
"I might break it."
"You won't."
He tossed his hat aside and it sailed away to land at the base of
a twisted oak tree. Nervously, he rubbed his hands on his breeches, then
tentatively reached for the instrument. As soon as he touched the dark wood, he
snatched back his hands as if he were afraid that that slight touch would do
irreparable damage.
His pleading expression was irresistible. Bennie didn't even try.
"Would you like me to help you?"
Jon nodded eagerly. Bennie went to stand behind him, placing her
arms around him, and found she had to stand on tiptoe to reach the proper
height. For the first time she could remember, she felt normal-size. Almost
small.
With her left hand, she lifted the violin and placed it snugly
beneath Jon's chin, where he could cradle it securely with his neck and
shoulder.
"Now you should hold it," she suggested.
"Wait a minute." He rolled up the loose sleeves of his
shirt, exposing thick forearms, solidly sculpted muscle traced by prominent
veins. Carefully, gently, he wrapped his hand around the neck of the violin.
She was amazed at the delicacy of touch his big hands were capable of, and she
was reminded of the similar way he had held her hand in the tavern the evening
before.
Concentrating on placing his fingers on the strings, she tried to
ignore how close she was to him, how the muscles in his back bunched and
shifted as he moved. It was almost an embrace, and Bennie wondered if this was
how it would feel if he held her—this heat, this almost breathless
anticipation.