The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (11 page)

Jacque

I neatly, ever so carefully, folded the note, all the while my solar plexus exploded, and my body burst with Chinese fireworks. I felt as flush as the bleeding sky. My skin so tight, I itched, prickled, fevered and such heat exploded from between my legs. I trapped the note to my breast where my corset would hold it close to my heart. Then I ran. I ran after the sky grew into the vast color of Jacque’s eyes, and the midnight blue streaked then morphed into black, and still I ran. I ran while seeing the golden yellow owl’s eyes scowl at me; I chased the whitetail deer who had tried to find a fitting place to retire for the night; I raced the deer, jumping over logs, flying through the air until, at last, my body could hardly move.

Prone, I lay heaving for air in the forest’s tall grass, knowing at that moment I was the most alive I had ever been. Alive, yet not free.

I made it back to my family’s house on heavy legs. I ventured toward the porch that was on the east side of our house, the side closest to the Concord River.

“Violet! Are you hurt?”

I stopped walking, not sure who was calling out to me, and finally I saw Mathew’s shadowed form chase out to me. The kitchen window was glowing with stove fire and candlelight, and I could just make out Mathew’s blond hair and concerned face.

“Mathew.” I smiled and opened my arms to him.

He scooped me up and rushed me to the porch.

“No, please, Mathew, I don’t want to be inside just now. It’s such a lovely night. Let’s enjoy each other’s company outside.”

He stalled and looked down at me, his face drawn tight. “Dear, you’re drenched. Did you fall in the river?”

“No. It’s my perspiration. I’m disgusting, hmm?”

His worried face cracked with a tiny smile that lay only on one side of his face. “No. I—no. This is all from your toiling away on your farm? I . . . I will employ someone besides Mr. Jones. You need more help on the farm—”

“I wasn’t working, Mathew. I was . . . running. You can put me down. I know I must be revolting to touch.”

To my surprise he didn’t release me, but found an old wicker chair and sat with me on his lap.

“Do you remember Reverend Jonas Clarke from Lexington?”

I nodded, while Mathew caressed one of my arms. “Of course,” I said. “He was one of the reverends who came here to meet me after I’d read Song of Solomon in the meetinghouse.” I cringed, remembering the humiliation of reading that carnal chapter. “In my defense I was only eleven at the time and thought it was a metaphor or something I didn’t quite comprehend, but reasoned since I’d found it in the bible it must be holy. All the same, I’m sure he thought I was a devilish girl.”

“No, no, on the contrary I was talking to him, and told him who my fiancée was, and he wished me a hearty congratulations. He said he thought only a sturdy Acton boy or some man from the wild frontier would be able to win your heart. He remembers you well and fondly, if I do say so. He thought you were a force to be reckoned with, those were his exact words.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

Mathew’s hand roamed up to my shoulder, then my chin, where he moved my face to look more directly at him. “I’m honored you are engaged to me, Violet. Honored. I know you don’t see it, but you
are
a force to be reckoned with, like a Noreastern storm. I love your fierce devotion to your family, and will do my best to provide for your mother and sister, so you never have to worry about them again, my love. I will give them a big house, and ensure that Hannah marries a respectable man. I want you to never worry again, my darling. I will take care of Mr. Jones too; whatever you’d like me to do, I will. My darling, I know, I know how very lucky I am to have you. I love you—”

And then I kissed him. Mathew was such a good, good man. Perhaps if he would just kiss me, pour all his passion into my body, my soul would finally set fire to the right man, the man in front of me.

I released his lips and shyly looked away. He hadn’t kissed me back. I sighed, hoping Mathew didn’t think me too forward. Then, he grabbed my face in his hands and with reckless abandon pushed his lips upon mine. I was so surprised, I had my mouth partly open, and to my complete astonishment, Mathew slid his tongue between my lips. He had never kissed me like that, and at first I felt invaded, but then his tongue softened and caressed my own delicately. Just as I was figuring out how to reciprocate his kiss, he gripped at my waist, then my back. With my legs sitting across him, he captured me uncomfortably, then, in a swift and I thought rather accomplished move, he laid his hands on my hips and lifted me; somehow my legs widened and I was sitting astride him.

He stopped kissing me, yet pulled me closer to him, carefully gauging my reaction. He let me first feel his chest against my own, then his stomach with mine, then . . .

“Oh,” I whispered, very surprised, indeed.

In another quick motion, I was standing with him holding onto my arms. Other than his hands on me, not one part of him touched me, and my body ached to have his close again.

“I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m being . . . imprudent. Forgive me, please.”

I tilted my head not sure what he was talking about. Forgive him? For what? I liked whatever that was. Well, I knew what
that
was, but I had no idea that if he pressed against me in that way, I would feel . . . oh, I quite liked that.

He kissed my hand then shook his head. “Again, I’m so sorry, dear. I’ll . . . Tomorrow is the first day of the congress. I have no idea how long it will run, but I’ll be here as soon as we can retire for the night. I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

Could he sit on the chair again and let me try to get close to him? That would be a lovely way to make up to me. That was . . . well, it was much nicer than I thought it would be. It was just the tiniest bit of a rub, but, oh, the sensation was delicious, delirious, and even more fireworks were bursting through my body. But instead of asking for what I wanted—and really, how does a lady ask for a tiny more rub, please?–I nodded, tripped on my own feet, and smiled.

Farm work is a strange occupation. One must endeavor to work as hard and as fast as one can when the work is needed, but once the work is done there is such a lull, it’s driven many men mad. Hurry, hurry, then wait—that is farming. The waiting requires much patience and the insight of a god. For one needs to be able to foresee the future and what weather can be approaching. It had been such a calm winter, and such a warm spring that no one knew what to do. It was getting towards late March, and usually the fields would have at least five inches if not feet of snow laying in wait to melt for April or as late as May. Planting did not come ‘til April. Without Mr. Jones to help me cogitate if I should gamble and risk sowing some seeds soon, I found myself standing in the middle of my earthen fields, the very next day after I’d returned from Boston. The bright yellow sun already drenched me with warmth, and the blue sky had not a cloud in sight, and I watched the ever enlarging Concord River stroll by on her merry way.

The usual time for meeting Jacque was around noon, but it was barely ten in the morning and already I felt so restless that I wanted to tug my hair out and scream at the sky. My God, what was I doing? What was I thinking? Last night with Mathew had been passionate and sweet. Why then was I still going to meet with Jacque? Mathew was . . . he talked to me like I was his treasure. What woman doesn’t wish to be cherished by her husband?

So why was I still going to meet with Jacque?

Simply, it felt like I would be ripping off my own arm if I weren’t going to meet him.

On the western line of my family’s land lay a small orchard. Two lines of peach, apple and crabapple trees were strung together next to the stone and split-plank fence, which dispersed itself into the woods that lay on the hill to the north of my land. Above that squat hill was a larger one with even denser deciduous and evergreen trees called, Punkatasset Hill.

All the leaf bearing trees held tiny, minute buds in their branches that were just cracking and beginning to bloom. Spring was surely coming. I plucked a delicate apple branch and smelled the green growth. While fiddling with the apple branch’s promise, I pondered if I should sow maybe a fourth of the field, then the gamble wouldn’t be too great if the snow would come again and destroy the seeds in the ground.

I grew barley and oats; although, I was considering a nice red wheat. I loved watching the grain grasses grow. Some blades of grass would cut through the Massachusetts black-brown soil like the elderly, rounded and stooped; some would grow like a claymore, its dagger-like end shooting straight for the sky. Yet in the end, they would all grow uniform, Roman sentry hats of straight, proud, golden-red plumes of fruit waving toward the heavens and finally falling shame-faced back toward the earth when the grain was ready for harvest.

I was proud that I possessed all the knowledge of how grain grows; I was pleased with myself that I knew how to irrigate from the swollen waters of the Concord. Becoming a farmer, I was rewarded with being able to see how my labor provided for my mother and sister and Jonah, but I had never selected it for my occupation. Jacque had asked me once what I would choose, if given the opportunity. I could only tell him that I, being a woman, would never be given the opportunity.

That twist of irony didn’t get by me. I was walking into the forest that I knew as well as the deer and squirrels that vacated the lush land, and yet I was not free, while many men in Lexington, men of high rank and patriots to the core, were arguing how to gain more freedom from our mother country.

What would I do with freedom? Who would I be? I smiled as I thought about moving to Paris to eat chocolate and let French men coo over me. But I knew I didn’t want that. Or would I? I smiled, shaking my head. If given complete freedom to choose my own partner in life who would I choose? Mathew was so sweet and kind and . . . If I could renegotiate with Mathew, and still be considered a woman of virtue in society, would I ask Jacque to be mine? I laughed at the absurdity. Why even think of freedom when I knew my fate was handed to me the day I was born? Yes, it was best just to put freedom, true love, and fairy tales on a high shelf far away from me.

But why, then, was my heart tormented so? Why did I even have these thoughts? Why couldn’t I just build a resistance against Jacque and wanting more from life?

Although it was too early, I ventured to where Jacque and I would meet. I let down my hair and inserted the natural design of the branch to loop through my locks.  

    My father had told me stories of the Fae people, and one wood nymph who fell so in love with her forest she married it. With my heart lingering on a man I would never get to hold in my arms, I didn’t think marrying nature was so crazy as I had when I had heard the tale as a child. Now I understood why a fairy would want to cling to the copse. I had more fondness for the woods than farming. I knew more about how to walk without a trail than I did about grain. And I had always found such comfort in the trees outstretched arms, the soft floor of needles and leaves and occasional patches of grass or wild flowers.

But, again, why even think of such frivolous things when life was pressing on me?

Would I spend the rest of my nights in bed with Mathew while running away in the day to the forest in the hopes of another talk with Jacque?

The sun’s rays extended down on a large rock close to where Jacque and I were to meet, and I reclined on it, letting the warmth of the rock sink into my skin. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the peace in the yellow solitude.

While in the woods on this rock, mayhap I could indulge in a different kind of destiny—in my imagination I could have a life where I had freedom to love Jacque, to imagine Jacque surround me with his arms. My hands fluttered to my chest and I smiled. My chest rose and fell at a fast pace when I thought of Jacque’s eyes, his eyes scanning my neck then his lids would droop slightly as he would peek at my chest. My next inhale was shaky which made me giggle. Then, I allowed myself the thought of what his hands would feel like instead of his eyes on me.

I placed my fingertips along my neck simulating what his fingers might do if he gently touched and caressed me. I bit my lips for the much needed touch—a kiss. Turning to my side, I laid still, one hand on my neck the other on my lips. I kept my eyes closed as I pretended he lay next to me, looking at me while his hands feathered me.

“Violet?”

I jumped, immediately landing on my feet but stumbling forward—forward momentum—toward Jacque.

Newton’s second law of motion: force can be measured by mass and acceleration. What was the mass of my heart? How fast had my heart fallen for him? I staggered into his arms, Jacque’s capable arms.

My own chest was flat against his, my stomach and hips curled into his too. My heart slammed into his ribcage where I felt his do the same.

I looked up at him, my face under his chin. He looked down; his breath on me was warm and quick.

“You’re early too.” His lips moved close my own.

I nodded as I possessed no real words to communicate. Odd shreds of philosophy and science whirled in my brain. If men were born with rights and certain liberties, what was I? If I was born into submission why did my heart–nay, my soul—wish to be free? Why, oh, why did I want to kiss him?