One
“The promise land,” that is what they all had called it. It was an undiscovered realm where the people of England could escape to and relish in the rich soil and the new found independence. The soil was indeed a marvelous thing, but what were we to harvest? We all came from cities and towns where we went to markets for our feasts and linens. There was nothing to do but build and hunt as if we were pure savages. Of course there was that fine day where we were able to persuade these fine beasts to trade with us, their farming techniques for our…hospitality? Well, we just wouldn’t kill them as often.
I’ve said “we” quite a few times and I feel that I should correct this. I was not a part of this piece of history. I was born in this village, years after all this had already occurred. We have our houses and each with its own little farm. We trade amongst our neighbors to acquire the necessary foods and fabrics to survive. We, being a community, can survive as such. Only, however, if we all learn to get along.
Acting civil towards each other has been a growing problem in my home as far back as I can remember, and probably before that as well. My mother never gave birth again. She must have been scared that another child would be born with another terrible deformity and she just simply could not bear that pain again.
“Lucinda!” my mother called. “Lucinda, please! Get away from that window!”
My mother, Margaret Alexander, is one for the hysterics. I’ve never heard her speak a single word at a monotone level. She once had dark brown hair, but it is now streaked with grey. It was also very long and had voluptuous curls. She never bothers with it anymore. She just simply ties it up on the crown of her head. Every so often, she will be working so hard in the garden or the kitchen that a few silver curls breaks loose from the bundle and falls down to frame her face. My mother is truly a respectable woman and any normal daughter would appreciate her hard work.
“Will you stop day dreaming, foolish girl!” She grabbed my arm to pull me away from my chair. My father made me that chair when I was very little. I would grab the window sill and try to pull myself up to see when I was far too young to take a peak. I’d stand on that chair with my forehead pressed against the glass for hours, just hoping.
“What is it, mother?”
She shook her head at me and moved towards the kitchen, knowing I’d follow.
“Lucinda,” my mother said again. Lucinda, she named me. When she is in a good mood she calls me Lucy. Lucy…so close to lucky. It is almost cruel.
“Mother, what is the trouble?”
My mother shook her head and began kneading some dough on her table. “There is talk in the village.”
I scoffed. “Talk? Why must everyone in this place gossip so much? It’s the only reason why I must—”
“Lucy, please. I am in far too good of a mood to be brought down by such guilty remarks.”
I nodded. “What is this talk?”
She placed each flour covered hand on the table and looked up at me with an expression of pure joy. “There is talk of newcomers to the village.”
“Newcomers?” A flash of a very young couple holding the hand of a child walking into the church on Sunday comes to mind. Every member of the village turns to stare at them. The child, a very young boy, wears a dark blue suit. The wife has curls of gold and a light pink hat that matches her fine dressing. The husband is a broad shouldered man with a hand in his suit as if too bold and proud for his own good.
“Yes! Newcomers! I hear a banker from back in England is to bring his family here.”
“A banker? What business would he have in such a small village? Our currency is nothing more than livestock, timber and whatever we can grow in the ground.”
“It seems that he is a retired banker. He is a man of quite some age. He looks to settle in a quiet country village and he found some quaint happiness here.” That didn’t even occur to me.
“That is a lot of information for just talk. When does the family come?”
My mother began to knead the dough some more. “When you are a woman of my age and a grown daughter who looks after herself for most of the day, you can then tell me what else will fill your day.” After some time, she began to speak again. “They come this very Sunday, just in time for our mass.”
I stood, intending to aid her in her baking. Her hands shot out, flinging a cloud of flower towards my face.
“No, no. I am in no need of your company. Go help your father in the garden. Keep busy. No day dreaming for the rest of the day.”
“What?” I smiled. “Go outside? In broad daylight?” I teased.
Even though she attempted to keep a stern look on her face as she pointed to the door, I heard a snicker escape her lips as I began putting on my wrap and coat.
