Spindle(12)

Today Briar struggled to concentrate on the sermon. She found herself constantly glancing over at Henry’s family to get any hints if they knew what he was planning and if they approved.

The Princes sat in her line of sight. Mr. Prince was a lumberjack of a man, with a graying beard and mustache and incredible concentration on the sermon, only belied by the occasional twitch of a facial muscle as he clenched his jaw. Mrs. Prince was his opposite: a lace parasol, elegant and frilly, hovering over Henry. She kept glancing at her son like she wanted to whisper something in his ear, but kept changing her mind and glanced at her husband instead.

They didn’t approve. Or at least, they had reservations.

The service was ending and Briar lost what little focus she had after the preacher told everyone to make sure they said good-bye to Henry. The congregation stood to sing “It is Well with My Soul.” They’d sung it so often she could say the words and be thinking about Henry leaving at the same time. But despite what she sang today, her soul was not well; it was troubled.

The children scattered as soon as the preacher said “Amen,” and the rest of the congregation swarmed around Henry with questions and well-wishes: Where was he going? Why was he leaving? It was about time a Prince went on an adventure.

They kept him so busy with their questions he didn’t have time to look her way as she hovered at the edge of the crowd. Pesky Henry Prince. As much as he could exasperate her, she didn’t want him to leave. She’d never admit it to him because it would only swell his head, but she had come to rely on him for so many things. Not only for fixing her spinning frame, but for keeping her level-headed about Wheeler, and the business with the children. Sometimes he was a better chum than her room-mates.

Meanwhile, several ladies busied themselves setting up the tables and laying out the food for potluck. The news must have gone out last night for all the church ladies to be prepared with food to share. The children were shuffled through first, and by the time the last adult had filled a plate, the kids were off playing again.

“So glad you’re leaving, Henry,” Benny said as he ran by with cake crumbs on his lips.

Henry caught Briar’s eye and she shrugged. They knew what Benny meant. He was excited about a party. But as soon as the memory of a rare dessert left, he’d be missing Henry something fierce. They all would. Henry shared with the boys a love of the forest, spending much of his free time home exploring with them. And Pansy, she liked everything about Henry. Especially how he included her in their forest explorations. Since the twins were so close to one another, Pansy often felt left out.

Pansy shyly held out her hand to him now. “You’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind,” she said in her sweet voice, quoting Da and sounding very grown-up. “Good-bye, and Godspeed.”

Henry solemnly shook hands. “Words of wisdom, Pansy. And I aim to act on them.”

Unexpectedly, Pansy burst into tears. “Y-you shouldn’t leave,” she said. “Briar, don’t let him leave. You should marry him, ’cause then you’d be a princess.”

Briar blushed while Henry grinned in amusement. He knelt down to her level. “How would that make her a princess, little one?”

“Because that’s what happens. When a girl marries a prince she becomes a princess.” She looked up at Briar. Her innocent eyes wide; her best dress a plain cotton shift. Her head filled with fairy tales. “Don’t you want to be a princess?”

Briar shared an amused look with Henry. “That’s not quite how it works,” she said. She was about to explain the difference between last names and royalty, but Pansy’s determined look quieted her. Let Pansy believe Henry could make Briar a princess if that helped her deal with his leaving. At that age, Briar would have thought the same thing and come up with some elaborately tragic love story. Now that she’d grown up, Briar knew that life was just tragic. Parents died. Children were orphaned. And older sisters failed at supporting their siblings properly.

Another group of well-wishers called Henry over to say good-bye, and Pansy, in that resilient way children have, put a smile back on her face and ran off to play in a new game of Red Rover.

Briar made polite conversation with the older ladies but kept her eye on Henry. She fingered the letter in her pocket, hoping he didn’t think she was being ridiculous, sending him on a mission with odds as good as tossing a bottle into the ocean.

Finally, the folks said all they needed to, and the circle around Henry dwindled to his parents. They would say good-bye here, and then Henry and Briar would walk into town together. A Sunday afternoon ritual that Briar had never put much thought into before. Henry was always supposed to be there because he always had been.

Henry took all the attention in stride. He was a favorite in the valley and no one was about to let him go without saying their piece. Briar wondered if she were the one leaving, if anyone would notice. She hadn’t the time to socialize like Henry seemed to. Too much work to do at the mill and then with the children. Speaking of… She searched the edges of the churchyard where the young ones tended to go—as far from the adults as they dared. One, two, three. All accounted for.

Briar hung back as Henry said good-bye to his parents. His mother adjusted his cloak, reiterated what she had packed for him. Touched his cheek. His dad stood with arms crossed, his face stoic.

“If it doesn’t work, just come home. We’ll continue what we’ve always done.”