Mama, on her private mission, refused to let the pretty Rachel cast me in the shade. She lost no time in promoting me to our neighbor. “Have you sampled Harriet’s blackberry wine yet, Mr. Long?”
I snorted. She knew perfectly well he had. She’d poured him his first cup.
“I’d better try some more.” He smiled at me. “Still experimenting with the spirits, I see.”
I narrowed my eyes but merely said, “This is from last year’s berry crop.”
“Tasty. Does the beverage improve with age?”
“It certainly gets more potent. Drink up, Mr. Long, and we’ll see how well you navigate the maze.”
Betsy, putting her devious mind to good use, had designed this year’s turf maze and directed our brothers, in accordance to the configuration of her planned paths and openings, to turn up the sod. She called it Betsy’s Bower.
Not only had Mama not fretted about the foolishness mazes were wont to encourage, but she banked on this foolishness. Ever vigilant, ever hopeful, ever plotting, she offered, “I can send Harriet in with you, so you don’t get lost.”
“Why, that’s a very good idea.” His smile widened at my expression. “Would you mind guiding me and my befuddled senses, Miss Winter?”
Why ask me? Is it because Miss Goodrich isn’t here to escort you? “I don’t know that I should.” I took a swig of the blackberry wine. “I’m foxed, you see.”
Mama shot me a fierce frown. “You are not.”
He laughed. “Then we’ll just teeter and topple our way through together.”
This image appealed to my sense of the ridiculous, and a laugh escaped me.
He must have taken my humored response as acquiescence, because, a few minutes later, while most of the others, stuffed silly, languished at the tables in desultory conversation or, in the children’s cases, lolled on the ground, he stood and eyed me expectantly. “Ready?”
I rose slowly, nervous and self-conscious. Silently we passed the benches and the children playing in the grass.
“Watch this, Mr. Long,” Grace called. She knelt by the makeshift table we’d used as a buffet. Almost nothing remained in the serving dishes now, but on one end, the toy farm boy that Mr. Long had made for her tapped his hoe onto a surface board, up and down, again and again, until the weight hanging like a pendulum behind the balancing figure stilled. Grace raised her wondering gaze to her benefactor and announced reverently, “I love it.”
“I’m glad.” To me, he said, “I’ve been wondering what other versions of this toy I might make. Maybe a washwoman slapping a shirt against a rock?”
“Or a boy with a fishing pole,” Grace suggested.
Mr. Long nodded. “Or a man bobbing on a horse.”
“How about a person digging a grave?” I asked.
Grace wrinkled her nose, but Mr. Long grinned. “Morbid. I like it.”
We wandered toward the old hayfield Papa had agreed to let us spoil for the sake of the maze. Across the land, harvest stacks gleamed like little circular thatch-roofed houses. Cicadas buzzed in the trees behind us. The family’s and friends’ voices softened into another kind of buzz. By the time we reached the maze, we were quite alone.
Feeling stupidly flustered, I stole a peek at my companion. Something about his profile jarred me. A moment passed before I realized precisely what it was. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he also looked very young. Daniel Long so capably handled his farm that I often forgot he was only two years older than me.
I was mulling over this fact when he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Miss Winter, and I’m glad we have a moment alone, so I can do so.”
My mouth dropped open.
Did this mean what I thought it meant? Heaven help me, what was I to do? Say? Think? Heat stole into my face. I threw a desperate look around us and burst out with, “Yes, well, here we are, Betsy’s Bower, and if we’re going to find our way through it, we’d best get started, because my sister has enough wit to make this thing a challenge. You can see we take our mazes seriously here. No mere sheaves of wheat scattered across the grass for us. Oh no, we dig up an entire field. Betsy says the puzzle covers at least a mile of twists and turns, and after that meal I just inhaled, I’m feeling ready for some activity, so let’s not tarry. Shall we? Ah! Here’s the labyrinth’s opening. Watch your feet. If you trip over a clump of sod, rescue won’t be easy, and I’ll be hard-pressed to carry you on my back. Ha-ha-ha-ha…”
Mr. Long listened to my maniacal chatter with a bemused expression. When my false laugh petered out (much in the same way the mechanical toy’s hoe had stuttered to a standstill), he began leading the way through the maze and said over his shoulder, “I was wondering if—”
No, no! I wasn’t ready! I hadn’t decided! Absolutely certain the moment of truth had arrived, the critical moment that Mama, with her tricks and ploys, dash it all, had done her upmost to hasten, I interrupted wildly, “Did you know the Puritans banned all maze games by law? How sad to have to acknowledge our ancestors. What dead bores they must have been, praying morning, noon, and night, only breaking the monotony with hard work and the occasional witch hanging. Oh, those prosy Puritans! Makes me sick, just thinking about them, preaching left and right, never giving anyone any peace but thrusting their judgments down everyone’s throat.”
“Harriet?”
“Yes?”
“Will you please shut up? You’re rattling on so, I can’t think which way to turn.”
We’d worked ourselves into a corner with no exit. In my prattling panic, I’d not only failed to exercise the least bit of strategy in solving the maze’s route, I’d also afforded Mr. Long the very privacy I should have been preventing. “Sorry.” I gulped, closed my eyes, and took a few steadying breaths through my mouth. “Go ahead.” I steeled myself for the marriage proposal, my mind spinning in a state of electrified indecision.
He didn’t say anything.
I opened my eyes.
He wasn’t even looking at me. His head was cocked, and he wore a frown of concentration. He put his finger to his mouth.
And then I heard it: a rustle. Not the slither of a snake, not the frisking of a squirrel, not the flutter of a bird, but the sounds of a bothersome Betsy shuffling behind a haystack, her ears undoubtedly pricked.
The little sneak.
Loud and clear, I said, “I’m glad you let me bring you here, Mr. Long, because what I have to say isn’t the sort of thing Mama and Papa will want to hear. The truth is, I’m concerned about Betsy.” I winked.
He grinned. “Ah, yes, Betsy. She’s something else.”
“It’s not just her inquisitiveness that worries me. Sure, everyone knows her for being the most obnoxious, horrid, tedious Nosy Nelly in all of Middleton.” I heard a gasp a few yards away and had to swallow my chuckle. “That’s nothing new. What really troubles me is the peculiar fanaticism I perceive in her prying tendencies, the crazy glitter that lights her eyes. Let me be frank, Mr. Long. Her curiosity has become a sickness. In short, I’m convinced Betsy is utterly deranged. Mad, through and through. And I can think of no easy way to disclose her madness to our parents without breaking their poor hearts.”
A growl had replaced the gasp, and as Betsy made her outraged exit from her secret lair, I called after her stomping figure, “Let this be a lesson to you, Busybody Betsy!” To Mr. Long, I laughed. “Wait until she gets to my mother, starts tattling, and ends up admitting to the eavesdropping. Getting caught in her own snare. Good. She’ll give proof to my insults, and I hope Mama boxes her ears for the offense.”
“‘Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.’”
“Hamlet.” I stared at him, impressed. “Do you read a great deal?”
“And whittle.” He smiled. “They’re pleasant ways to pass the quieter months.” His expression turned serious. “I’m afraid you might accuse me of being as tedious as Betsy or the Bard’s spying Polonius with what I want to ask you.”