"The charity basket," he whispered to himself as he watched her racing away, her shapely legs scandalously displayed. Remembering the raised chin and blush of shame as her family had accepted the handout, he knew with certainty the measure of pride she'd swallowed to wear the dress.
He looked at the scattered flowers at his feet. Squatting down, he picked up one blue-violet blossom and held it before him, examining it closely. The five little petals spread in perfect symmetry from the dark purple center. It was the natural beauty of the mountains, ungilded by human expectation. He compared the discarded phlox to the cut flowers he held in his other hand. The bright mix of roses and hyacinths was very pretty but appeared almost garish and overblown beside the simplicity of the wildflower.
When he looked up again, he could barely make out Esme in the distance. Quickly he shrugged out of his coat and hung it neatly on one white-washed picket, topping it with his hat. The flowers he fit snugly against the rail. Scooping up the rest of the wild phlox, he hurried after the young woman in the white lawn hand-me-down.
Esme's chestwas screaming for relief, but her heart wanted to run forever. She might have done exactly that had she not felt her stylish curls suddenly loose and flowing around her.
"Agrippa's ribbon!" she screamed at herself as she stopped abruptly. Frantically she began to backtrack, searching the grass for the plain piece of white satin as the tears continued to hamper her vision. Her mind was numb with pain and shame. She refused to think at all, only to search and weep. She'd crested a small hill and hurried across a just-budding meadow, and Cleav's house was at last out of sight. Somehow, she felt safer. As if leaving the sight of her humiliation could make her unexpected humbling less acute.
The ribbon was visible, a small expanse of pristine white amid a flourishing patch of vivid green clover. Esme pulled her skirts high out of the staining grass and dropped to her knees in the clover.
The ribbon seemed none the worse for being temporarily lost, and Esme stared at it, determinedly forcing back her tears. She was glad she'd found it; her sisters had been so generous. The dress had been meant for the twins, of course. Sophrona knew how they loved pretty clothes, and she had purposely included it in the basket. The twins would have been unconcerned with the former owner, knowing, with perfect honesty, that the dress would look better on them than any female in Vader.
Esme, however, had no such confidence to rely on. She was a shabby hill girl in another woman's made-over dress. And Cleavis Rhy had found her pathetic, not pretty.
Looking now at the dress she had so admired, she wanted to rip it from her body. She wished she could shred it into a hundred pieces and bury it in a rat hole.
Setting her jaw with practical firmness, she knew she could not do that. Even hating the dress, it was the best she owned. Her sisters had worked long and hard to add the sash she now found tacky and the flounce which seemed ridiculous, so now she would have to wear it until it was no more than a rag hanging from her shoulders. She blinked back more annoying tears, secretly hoping that white lawn would not be a very durable fabric.
As she bravely raised her chin, resigning herself to her fate, she heard the sound of running feet on the path behind her.
Before she had time to scamper into hiding, she turned back to see Cleav topping the hill. When their eyes met, he slowed to a walk.
Esme turned her attention back to the clover in front of her. She couldn't just be sitting here, she thought desperately. She'd die if he knew she'd been sitting there crying over him. Praying that her face was not tearstained, she anxiously sought some purposeful work for her hands.
The clover was rife with young blossoms. As if suddenly returning to younger days, Esme pulled up two. Running a fingernail through the lower stem of the first, she created a narrow slit through which she threaded the stem of the second blossom. Treating it likewise, she pulled another blooming clover and wove it, also.
As Cleav crested the hill,the sun setting over the mountain in a splash of pink-tinted sky was the perfect backdrop for the young woman in a swirl of white skirts seated in the bright green clover. The vision touched unfamiliar feelings in his heart. Almost casually he approached her until he stood with her at his feet in the grass.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he watched her nimble fingers weaving the tiny white puffs of grass.
"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.
