Ada and Grace were in the dining room when Bea had found his courage to head back inside. They talked amongst themselves as they busied themselves with dusting and sweeping. Bea had friendships within both of them, and they loved him like a brother. When Bea dreamed of saving his earnings and heading off to bigger things, he often thought of the girls, and it saddened him to think of leaving them behind. Ada and Grace weren’t selfish. He knew they’d let him go.
“Oh, Bea! We were just wondering where you were off to,” Ada lifted her head. Strands of fluffy dark hair escaped the usual neat bun she kept her hair in, and the heat had caused her cheeks to flush red.
“I was at the market with Mr. Godwin,” he answered. “He asked me to accompany him.”
Grace smiled. “What do you think of Mr. Godwin?”
Bea pressed his back against the wall, eyes making contact with the floor. “I find him downright insufferable, Grace. And quite selfish, if I may say so.”
Grace was the eldest of the three, and had worked in the Godwin’s manor longer than either Ada or Bea. She was more soft-spoken than Ada, but just as kind. Bea would never forget her sitting with him on his second week in the kitchen as he tearfully confessed that he missed his grandfather and his bed back home. She had braided his chin-length hair and hadn’t said much at first, but finally assured him it was alright and that he could use her ink to write a letter back home.
“He can be hotheaded,” Grace agreed. She had known Oakley before he had left for his important job in the city.
“Yes, and smug,” Bea added.
“I think he can be rather kind, even still,” Grace offered. “He never bothered me much.”
Embarrassment at his blind statements spoken in frustration caused him to shy away. The truth was, no one in the house spoke much of Oakley in his absence, and Bea had very little to judge his character on, besides his own brief experiences. It seemed strange that despite Mr. and Mrs. Godwin excitement for Oakley to be visiting, they were quiet about their son and his success, but Bea chalked up their silence as parents still grieving over their child flying the nest. He knew better than to pry into the Godwin’s private affairs. If he didn’t ask questions, he had an income and an opportunity to head to the city himself. No matter how slowly he worked at it, he was going to be an artist and paint in the cafes and on the waterfront. His portraits and landscapes would be something to reckon with. For now, he had his small bound sketchbook he had made himself, filling steadily with drawings when he had time.
“I ought to get tea ready.”
Bea pulled away from the wall and headed off to the kitchen. The basket full of potatoes and carrots had been set on the pine table. Otto was in the small chair by the door, his cot now rolled up and away into the pantry so the floor was more spacious. He set his newspaper down against his knee and looked up to Bea.
“You were missing all morning, boy. I almost thought to make tea myself.”
The jab was meant to be humorous. Bea gave him a shake of his head and began to put water on to boil.
“I made it in time, Otto,” he smiled.
Otto made a grunt and returned back to his newspaper. After warming the pot, Bea placed the leaves inside and poured more water over them. As the tea steeped, he quickly put together small sandwiches with cream cheese and leftover vegetables and arranged them on a plate to be served with cream and sugar for the tea. Usually there would be scones or pastries he had baked in the morning after breakfast, but of course it hadn’t happened today. With the tea prepared, he set the array down in the drawing room, where Clementine was waiting with her knitting tools in tow and dressed quite plainly. Bea liked Clementine for her quietness and politeness; she carried none of the pride or arrogance of her brother.
“Oh, bless you, Bea,” Mrs. Godwin said as she entered the room. He found the women of the Godwin family kind and agreeable in general, but the men evidently had poor temperaments. “I do doubt Oakley and Claude will have any. They are so…” She paused, a frown creasing her delicate brow, but she thought better of what she was about to say and finished with, “preoccupied.”
Bea nodded graciously and left them to relax on their own. Back in the kitchen, he wrapped a slice of bread and the vegetables he didn’t want to spoil in a towel, and since there was no prepping for an extravagant meal like yesterday’s to be done at the moment, he headed off out the back door with a gentle goodbye to Otto. The pond was the only place he could think. From around front, he heard Oakley’s voice rise with Mr. Godwin’s and coming closer, so he quickened his pace down the path through the grass. The sun shone down warm on his back and no breeze could be detected. Lazy wildflowers bobbed along his walk, and the weeds had grown up tall around the pond, but he cleared a space and sat with his light meal cradled in his lap. He nibbled on the bread and finished the vegetables until he fell back into the weeds and the grass, the towel resting on his stomach. Bea felt silly, perpetually silly, and admittedly angry for a brief moment. He hadn’t been himself since less than a day ago, and it was wearing on him already. He wanted the house back. It wasn’t his, but it felt like it had been taken from him. Not even the pond felt sacred anymore because part of him wished that Oakley had seen him heading this way and would decide to join him. Maybe he’d lie beside him on the ground and they’d watch the clouds pass by overhead, all of the hard feelings Bea was harboring floating away with them. That would be enough.
It stung deep that Bea couldn’t figure out if he wanted him gone or not now.
His grandfather always told him he had a firm sense of what was right and wrong, and he knew somewhere in his heart that he no longer held the same belief about himself. What a stupid thing his heart was. It fluttered too fast and beat too confusingly to a rhythm he didn’t care to understand. What could a man do when he couldn’t have faith in his own heart?
Oakley never came. The grass remained empty and lonely next to him. Rubbing his eyes from the vibrant sun, Bea slowly roused and started on his way back.
Bea did keep his kindness close to him. It was the last trait he could count on, since his goodness and rationality had disappeared overnight. He would offer it to Oakley, even if he didn’t return the courtesy, and especially even if it ached. August would sweep in eventually and turn the days sticky hot; Oakley would be gone by then. He would have his kitchen back. He would have his pond back. His days would be filled with cooking again and maybe by next year or two he would say goodbye to the Godwins. He’d have enough for transportation to New York and to find an apartment for a few months and buy the paints he saw in the corner shop just inside town past the market.
Yes, he’d have it back and he had the rest of his life to plan. He comforted himself with that to distract from the glaringly obvious fact that he knew for a long time he would feel like the morning after, standing in the market trying not to look. He wouldn’t think about the alternative because there wasn’t one.
Inside the manor once again, Bea felt faint and sleepy. He thought it was the sun. Perhaps the bread was old. He wished to nap, but Nathan and Griggs had brought in fresh food stuffs and he knew Otto would like his help. It reminded him how pointless his and Oakley’s venture was. The potatoes and carrots still sat undisturbed on the table, so he lifted the basket up and took it upon himself to carry them to the cellar outside.
“I can head off now, if you want,” Oakley’s voice startled Bea. “I am not against it.”
Claude Godwin and Oakley were by the bench Bea had sat on that morning with his oranges.
“Your mother is happy you’re here. I’m asking you to think of her.”
Bea opened the cellar doors and ducked down. The conversation was clearly something he shouldn’t be hearing. He had thought Oakley was guarded and condescending with him, but the chill cutting his voice when speaking to Mr. Godwin was new. It reassured Bea to some degree as well. Perhaps Oakley was just hostile on a general principle. He placed the root vegetables on the dirt floor and came back up the cellar stairs, stealing a glance over at the two men. Oakley held his head high as his father spoke too low for Bea to hear it, and he quickly went back inside.
At night, after supper had been eaten, Bea had placed his body down in a crossed position on his cot. The faintness had passed. Nathan and Griggs were still outside tending to the horses for the night, so he had the room entirely to himself. Pale blue evening light filled up the room through the open windows, and was bright enough to see his sketchbook by. The strokes his charcoal made against the rough pages were slow and gentle; Bea wasn’t in any rush to finish what he was working on. It was mostly just something to pass the time with before he slept. The sketch on the page became more and more familiar as the minutes went by. Powerful cheekbones formed, a strong jaw blossomed under his hand. He feathered in the eyebrows, angled downward in a commanding expression. The eyes were drawn in fierce, and he wondered what they looked like when fixated upon someone they loved. Did they soften any?
Bea pulled back, setting the charcoal piece down by his thigh, and he stared down at the man on the paper. It hadn’t started off intentional, but his thoughts carried him away off to somewhere else, as usual. As levelheaded as Bea often claimed to be, he dreamed a lot. He looked up out beyond the window, where low, rolling hills feathered in reeds of grass and bordered in thick forest of pine trees were delved into the same blue hue of light. The trees reminded him of Oakley, as they stood taller than anything else on the landscape outside, and stronger. Bea’s eyes cast downward again to the sketch, and his absentminded finger trailed across the cheek. The charcoal smudged, causing his brows to furrow downward. An anxious lump in his throat formed. Bea quickly snapped shut his sketchbook and shoved it beneath his flimsy pillow, which he dropped down on. His shoulders had a dull ache from the day’s work, and his eyes felt heavy with sleep even though it was merely evening. The most pressing ailment was the flutter in his chest, and he wanted to quell it, but it felt as if that would be an impossible deed to accomplish. So, he buried his face deep in his pillow, hands curling into the thin sheets. Maybe he’d wake up renewed with a lighter chest and a less buzzing mind. He favored the thought and got comfortable on the cot, the blanket pulled up under his chin as he formed into a fetal position.
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