Hugh’s of Blue

The Letter, Missouri 1868

A letter for the Henley's was rare. It was addressed to Bryn’s father, Mr. Andrew Henley, so Jake took advantage of the excuse to ride out to their ranch hoping to sneak a visit with her. Like most of the young men in the area Jake was always trying to catch Andrew’s only daughter’s attention. While she was courteous to all of them, none seemed able to capture her interest. Although appreciative of his effort on her father’s behalf, unsurprisingly, Bryn offered Jake no encouragement to stay and visit. Discouraged, he could only water and rest his horse before heading back out on his journey home.

Bryn was on her own. The letter for her father had arrived out of the blue. It would have to wait. Her father, two of her brothers - Drew and Rob, Earley and the other hands were out on the ranch and would not be in till sundown. Their supper was almost ready. Her mother was still away at Josh and Becky’s helping with their children, Jared and Jessica, as chest colds ran through their family. To be honest Bryn knew she was enjoying the solitude. There were chores to do, but for once, there seemed to be nothing left to do. It was the weather. Her mother always blamed the weather and some habits are easy to pick up and then just plain hard to break. The relentless late summer heat bore down. Bryn’s blouse stuck to her and the tendrils of hair that broke loose from her braid made wet ringlets that clung to the side of her face. There was no escape from it only the shade of the porch. The breeze created by the porch swing felt good.

Bryn kept turning the letter over in her hands as she swung, wondering over the contents, her fingers luxuriating in the feel of the velum. There was a barely discernible postmark. The letter was weather worn; it had traveled a great distance. Word from the outside world was rare. She turned it reverently one more time. The neat even letters held her spellbound, she didn’t recognize the handwriting.

Succumbing to the heat Bryn dozed and woke a little disoriented with a sore neck and stiff back. So much for the comfort of the porch swing as her neck had become wedged in the picketing. Sagging back into the seat, she massaged the soreness out of her neck. Her fingers lazily made their way to the riotous mass of damp curls surrounding her face. The wild curls came from her father, his often looked just like the picture she had once seen of a lion’s mane. She had her father’s hair, but while his was a beautiful warm brown with russet she was unhappy deeming hers to be the color of a wretched field mouse. Her mother had a head of luxurious corn silk waves, very similar to Aunt Lily’s silky blond tresses. Lifting both arms in a soothing long stretch, Bryn looked down at the outline of her rather long, gangly legs as the material of her skirt draped and fell to expose the white of her slip. She pointed her toes and lifted the braid from her neck. The air cooled the sweat that trickled down her back, sucking the cotton material of her blouse to her overheated skin. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she stared across the veranda to the lawn that had been ravaged by the hot summer sun. The scent of mama’s roses, still in bloom, wafted gently in the stillness of the afternoon. Bryn got up; the swing continued to sway in her wake as she made her way to the railing. She leaned over, took a bloom in her hand, and plucked it. The petals were so delicate and yielded nothing to the unpredictable climate of Missouri. The scent would be welcome in the house. Shielding her eyes to the lowering sun as it prepared to bid the world a good evening she picked enough to make a bouquet. It was finally starting to cool down. Bryn stood, still a bit sore and tried to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. Not prone to napping in the afternoon she didn’t feel particularly rested. It was time to check supper preparations. There was no sign yet of her father and the others, but they would be in soon.

Still in a stupor, she made her way to the kitchen, thankful for the years of her mother’s training that fed her compulsion to prepare as much as possible in advance. Wandering through the kitchen Bryn realized she had completely forgotten the pies! They were on the window ledge and were a long time cooled. She rescued them to the pie safe, as the dinner table with no pies would not go unnoticed. Bryn’s mother made the better pies with light flaky pastry, but hers would do in a pinch. Circling around once more she picked up a cloth and entered the dining room. The table was set, but as was her custom Bryn fiddled with each of the place settings, straightening forks and polishing the knives. The scent from the stewing meat permeated the house from the summer kitchen. She set the roses in mama’s crystal vase in the parlor, the Henley women’s favorite room in their home. The room caught the breeze in the summer and boasted the small library that the family had taken pains to collect over the years. Bryn ran her hands over the treasured volumes. Some of these had belonged to her Grandfather Henley, given to her by Aunt Lily. Bryn never really understood the reluctance with which her father allowed these books to be added to their collection. Her father never touched the books of his father. Bryn took down one of her favorites and tried to settle on the settee. This was a book about the Orient, but what attracted her was not the content, but that it always dropped open to the flyleaf and the inscription written there, “To my darling Emmaline, on the occasion of our marriage. I will share the world of these books and beyond with you all the days of my life. Eternally yours, Hugh.” The inscription was faded from the gentle pressure of fingers tracing the words across the page; Bryn’s own fingers had gently followed the pattern many times as well. She held the book comfortably in her lap and gazed off into nowhere, unable to shake the feeling that she’d had a dream. It was on the tip of her conscious mind, daydreaming, Bryn’s knew her family despaired of her flights of fancy.

With that, for the second time today, Bryn heard the sound of horses approaching. Carefully replacing the book, she picked up her wiping cloth and returned to the porch, giving a casual glance at her makeshift bed. There sitting on the swing, where she had lain it down, was the letter. She picked it up and put it in her apron pocket.

Earley and the boys rode past and touched their brims in friendly salute on their way to the stable. Father, Drew, and Rob rode straight up to the front porch. Each dismounted with fluid grace and hitched his horse to the post. For Bryn it was wonderful to see them together again. Rob’s absence the last nine years had been hard on the whole family, but especially their parents. Rob had been left broken hearted by his love, Angela. Then with continued arguments with their father about the ranch Rob had left, seeking sanctuary with Aunt Lily and Uncle John who were recently established in St. Louis. From there, tutored by them, he had become reasonably successful in business. None of his siblings really understood Rob’s penchant for commerce and their father’s resistance to it. Rob had moved even further away to New Orleans to be independent and there he had become quite successful, until the war, and even through it. However, they had all been stunned when he had written defending the Confederate policies.

Bryn did not think about the war much anymore. It had been a dreadful thing to see her brothers and friends riding off. Parents lamented that these boys were filled with a sense of glory as they went off to fight for the ideals of others. There were three Henleys old enough, Edward and the twins, Rob and Josh. To make matters worse, Rob and Josh were on opposite sides of the conflict.