“Good afternoon, Alma,” I said. It was the first time I had spoken directly to her.
She paused and glanced up, confused and seemingly dismayed.
Nevertheless, I grinned, just as I had imagined I would do. “Good afternoon,” I said again.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she whispered.
“Not ‘sir,’” I said. “Edward.”
She stared down at her hands, saying nothing more. I was suddenly aware that the men were watching us.
“You could call me Edward,” I said softly, hoping they didn’t hear.
Still she said nothing, nor did she look up, but she did turn an unnerving shade of red.
“I have something,” I murmured, pulling out the cloth-wrapped packet. “Would you like a tea cake?”
“No, sir,” she whispered, her face still turned away. “No, thank you.”
“I have two. I can’t eat them both.” I pulled open the packet so that she could see, but she didn’t look.
“I will have one and you may take the other.” I made a big show of withdrawing one tea cake and taking a bite, but it was all lost on her because she still wasn’t watching.
“Well then,” I said, uncertain of my next move. My daydreams had not anticipated this lack of response. Or for an audience of men, for that matter, who stared stone-faced at me. In my imagination, Alma would by now have succumbed to my blandishments, but now I hardly knew what to do. “Well then,” I said again, “I will just leave it here for when it suits you to eat it.” And I beat a retreat, uncertain what else I could have done or said, but quite sure that this time, at least, there was nothing else left for me. When next I came to the sorting crib, the tea cake was gone and the cloth neatly folded where I was sure to see it.
From time to time, I left a few more gifts for her: a raisin bun, a raspberry tart. Always they disappeared, and though I had no way of knowing who was benefiting from my generosity, I convinced myself it was Alma. After a while, I stopped bringing those tokens and indeed stopped going to the sorting crib at all unless it was absolutely necessary—when in fact it almost never had been necessary. If I happened to come into close proximity to her, I would nod and hurry on, as if a response from her was not only not needed, but neither expected nor even desired. In short, in my clumsy way, I tried to let her think that I had lost all interest. But in fact, it was all I could do to keep myself from stopping to say a word, to hear her voice, to gaze into those blue eyes. Her beauty was all I knew of her, but it would not let me go.
It happened that one mild, summer Sunday afternoon, I wandered down toward the bottoms, that section of the town where haphazard houses leaned against one another and ragged children played amid the middens, and I saw Alma making her cautious way between the streams of offal that encumbered the path. I watched for a few moments, assuring myself that she was alone, for I had no desire to approach her again in front of an audience. I watched longer, curious as to where she was going and why. My body stirred at the very sight of her, at her careful step, the ripple of her skirt as she walked, and I followed her.
In a short while she turned off the path, taking a narrower way that led behind the Crown Inn, and beyond, turning northward toward Newnan. We were into the countryside now; the birds chirped in the hedgerows, and in the distance a cow lowed and, curiously, a lamb bleated in response. Suddenly, as if she sensed she was not alone, she turned and started at the sight of me, but she turned back and hurried on her way. But now that I was found out there was no point in silently following her, so I ran a bit to catch up to her. “Good day, Alma,” I said.
“Good day, sir,” she whispered.
“Not ‘sir,’” I said, “Edward.” And with my hand I turned her flushed face toward me. “Edward,” I prompted again, insistently.
“Edward,” she whispered. What I had dreamed of: the sound of my name from her lips, and I could not help but respond. I did not plan it or intentionally do it, but my lips were on hers almost before she had finished my name, my arms around her, pressing her close.
I felt her body stiffen within my arms, and she pulled back away from me, pushing her hands against my chest. “Sir,” she said, “please, please, sir.”
Sir? I was not sir; I was Edward. I thought she had understood that. Confused, I watched as she turned and fled, and I was left staring after her.
That is what happened, for she was a pretty girl and I was a lonely boy with no older brother to give advice—Carrot would have told me, no doubt, but he was gone from my life, and I would not have dared ask Mrs. Wilson how one approaches girls. It is not enough, but this is the only poor excuse I can give; and I suddenly knew that I had been wrong, though it was some time before I understood how wrong, for it is never right for a man to take advantage of a girl whose living depends on him.
And there would be much worse to come.
That was the last time I saw Alma. She never came back to the mill, and though I always looked for her whenever I was on the street, and even walked a few times down toward the meager cottages in the bottoms beyond the river, where I assumed she lived, I did not see her. I would have liked to apologize, even as I did not fully understand for what, but I knew in my bones that I had wronged her and I wished for a chance to somehow make it right. After that, I began to notice that the other young people at the mill turned their backs to me and never spoke in my presence if they could at all avoid it.
Chapter 7
The next autumn my brother came. I had gone to the bank as usual for a record of the week’s postings, and when I returned there was a young man, a dandy from the look of him, seated beside Mr. Wilson’s desk, and they were engaged in what seemed like a confidential conversation. The room we called the countinghouse was quite small, but it had never seemed a problem, for we were all three working to the same ends and quite often it was convenient to have one another close to hand to answer a query or share a piece of information. Even in that limited space, I could not see the young man’s face, as his back was to the door, but I could tell that his hair was fair, held back with a slim ribbon. I set the postings on the edge of Mr. Wrisley’s desk, not wanting to disturb Mr. Wilson just then. Still, he glanced at me, back at his guest, then at me again, and a kind of wry smile spread over his face. “Rochester, come here a moment,” he said.
I did as I was told, but I did not pay attention to the young man until Mr. Wilson said, “I think you know my visitor.”
The face seemed like something I had once seen in an almost-forgotten dream. I stared, the features coming together in a way that should have been familiar.
“Well, Toad,” the young man said, grinning, “aren’t you going to greet me as a brother should?”