Unconventional Love

The journey from Southern Ohio had been a long, grueling one for the Biersack family, particularly their eighteen-year-old son, Andrew. He had what seemed to be limitless pent-up energy, although he tried to control it by drawing out how he felt. That led to him being a very talented artist, though he refused to share his art with the world. Only his parents knew of his talent, among a couple other very private things, and that was just how he preferred it.

He’d thought that, if he told his parents that he preferred the company of men, they’d disown him. It was the mid-nineteenth century, the Civil War raging ever onward, and if the uptight ways of most people weren’t enough to make him fear his parents’ reaction, their religion was. They were both devout Catholics, having moved West in their younger years shortly after marrying from their home state of New York. Although he pretended he was just as devout a Catholic in public, they both knew their son was an Atheist at heart, and far from conventional. Still, they accepted and loved him all the same, which led to their current predicament.

After being chased from their home, they’d decided to settle in central Eastern Tennessee in a town smaller than the one from which they came. One of the mornings that he’d pled illness to get out of going to church, his parents had met what was apparently a friendly couple by the name of Logan and Daisy Purdy. They didn’t have much time to talk, saying their daughter was ill and needed to them.

They managed to do a bit of digging around town over the following weeks, discovering a couple of sad things about the quiet couple. They’d had a son at the same time as their daughter, for they were twins, but the little boy had died at least a decade ago from scarlet fever. How his twin sister had survived was a miracle beyond comprehension in this small town, but then again, the overall intelligence level didn’t seem very high, and common sense seemed to be sorely lacking. After their only son’s death, the couple had tried to have another child, but had failed to be blessed in such a way again. Now they’d put their daughter on the marriage mart, despite her tender age of fourteen.

“Please tell me we are almost there,” he begged, trying not to fidget too badly.

“Only a mile or so more, son,” his father, Christopher, answered.

“Thank you!” the young man cried, visibly slumping in his seat.

“Sit up, Andrew,” his mother, Amy, scolded. “You mustn’t forget your breeding and let your posture go bad. Nor can you wrinkle your suit.”

“Mother!” he whined, but still did as he was told.

“You do not want to be unpresentable upon seeing your bride, do you?” she asked. Having had him at the tender age of sixteen herself, one couldn’t call her middle-aged since she was but thirty-four.

“No, Mother.”

The rest of the ride to the Purdy ranch, Testa di Lupo, was passed in silence by the trio. The only sounds to be heard were the turning of their carriage’s wheels, along with the soft beats of their horses’ hooves in the Tennessean red clay. Just as his father’d said, there was only another mile or so to go before the carriage began to slow, soon jerking to a halt before their destination.

Since they lacked footmen on their short journey, Christopher disembarked first, followed by his son, before helping his wife down. Amy held her skirts up to avoid soiling them, her free hand resting on her husband’s elbow as he led her to the front door of the small farmhouse. Their son trailed quietly behind them, peeking out from behind hair that needed a trim at his surroundings. They were definitely different from where he’d grown up, but nothing he couldn’t adjust to. In fact, they were quiet, serene, and that was just what the young man liked, since city life was too loud and hectic.

Christopher knocked briskly on the front door, the trio taking a step back as they waited patiently for an answer. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a farmer’s wife who was clearly of Indian descent, and considering the region in which they lived, it was likely Cherokee. Although being a poor farmer’s wife, she’d obviously done her best to clean up and look good for this occasion, wearing what was obviously her best dress with her hair pinned back at her nape just so.

“Christopher, Amy, how wonderful to see you again,” she said with a smile. “And this must be your son, Andrew.”

“Indeed, Daisy,” the older man answered, nodding.

“Won’t you come in? Logan is still cleaning up from the morning chores.”

Nodding once again, Christopher led his wife and son into the house, the three of them taking a seat on a sofa across from their hostess in what was obviously their parlor.

“May I get you any refreshments?” she asked, clearly a bit nervous.

“No thank you, Daisy,” Amy answered.

“Ah, I see you have arrived safely.” All heads turned toward the doorway as another voice spoke. “Great to see you again, Christopher. You, too, Amy.”

“Likewise, Logan,” the pair answered in unison, their voices blending in perfect harmony.

“This must be your son, Andrew,” the man, whom he now assumed was Logan Purdy, said.

“I am,” he answered, nodding.

“Great to meet you, Andrew.” He extended his hand, which was tanned and callused from his constant work on his farm.

“Andy, if you please,” he told him. “I will not say I abhor my given name, but I prefer its shortening.”

Logan turned a curious look to his parents.

“When in private, he and I respond to shortened versions of our names,” Christopher explained. “In public, we respond to them as given.”

“Ah, I see. Daisy and I cannot shorten our names like that, and most in this town do not, if they can,” the other man told them.

“So where is your daughter?” Amy asked curiously. They had yet to see another female besides her or their hostess.

“I will go make sure she is ready and bring her down,” Daisy answered, rising from the sofa on which she sat.

With the departure of his wife, Logan turned his attention back to his guests. “So, Andrew…tell me a bit about yourself.”

“As I am sure you know, I was born and raised in the heart of Cincinnati, Ohio. We recently moved here, but I have always enjoyed the fine arts,” Andy began after clearing his throat. “Most do not know just how talented I am in them, and that is how I prefer it. Only my parents know just how truly talented I am, for I am shy about showing off my works.”

“Some are just like that,” he said understandingly. “My beautiful Ashley…so gifted with her voice, but she will not sing in front of just anyone. In fact, she rarely sings at all, anymore.”

“Such a shame,” Amy said sadly. “We are quite the musical family, and not only take pride in our own abilities, but applaud those of others, as well.”

As she closed her mouth on her remark, footsteps could be heard coming down the staircase they’d seen upon entering. They quietly approached the doorway of the parlor, soon revealing Daisy with someone trailing behind her. Andy looked up to see that a young girl, easily no older than twelve or thirteen, if his estimate was right, trailing meekly behind her mother. Her head was bowed so that, to those who didn’t look closely, she appeared polite, but he knew she was painfully shy.

The pair took a seat on the sofa next to Logan, who forced the girl to look up and greet their guests, and he got a good look at his young bride. Her chocolate-brown eyes were wide and ringed in what looked like black paint, which only enhanced their color, and sat above high, beautifully sculpted cheekbones. Her nose was a gentle slope leading down to full, pink lips that he could kiss for days on end. Her chin appeared a bit stubborn looking, but that was no matter; he liked it when people, especially women, showed a bit of spark and said what was on their mind, as did his parents. There was even a stubborn sparkle to her beautiful eyes that said she was biting her tongue, and he wondered why she’d bite her tongue.

However, there was something different about this young girl that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was obvious that her corset was laced extremely tight, and it still barely accented the few curves she had. She also didn’t have much to fill it out, if one caught his drift, and he wondered if she’d even gone beyond the cusp of womanhood. To top that off, the neck of her dress was ungodly high, which could only be beyond uncomfortable in the June heat surrounding them. Andy felt sorry for the poor girl, and knew that once they were wed, he wouldn’t force her to wear such high-necked dresses again in her life if she didn’t want to.

“Say hello to your groom, Ashley,” Logan demanded, looking at his daughter.

“Hello,” she said, her words so soft they barely heard them.

“Speak up, child,” Daisy demanded.

“It is okay, Daisy,” Amy stepped in to say. “Andrew can be very quiet himself around new people, so we have trained our ears for quiet responses.”

Ashley appeared to breathe a sigh of relief, but didn’t say anything more.

“Shall we be off to the church now?” her father asked. “We planned this wedding out already.”

“Yes, let us be off to the church,” Christopher agreed, rising from the sofa the Biersacks occupied. He extended a hand to his wife, just as Logan did to his.

Seeing that no one was going to be so courteous to the young girl, although he wondered why, Andy took a couple tentative steps toward her and extended his hand. She gasped as he held his hand palm-up in front of her, those beautiful eyes widening as she looked up at him. He gave her a gentle smile, silently coaxing her to allow him to help her up from where she sat.

It was when she gingerly placed her hand in his that he realized just how big it was for a girl of her age. Maybe she just wasn’t as fair-boned as he’d originally thought, or was older than she appeared, but he thought the appendage was too big, either way. Regardless, it suited her, for it was in perfect proportion with the rest of her body, so he said nothing about it. Once she was on her feet, he extended his elbow, smiling when she gently placed her hand on it the same way their mothers had done with their fathers, and quietly led her out the door behind their parents.

Notes