The Grace Year(13)

As the hours tick by, and the refreshments disappear, the tension in the room is palpable. I want to believe we can be different, but when I look around the church, at the women comparing the length of their braids, reveling in another woman’s punishment, scheming and clawing for every inch of position, I can’t help thinking the men might be right. Maybe we’re incapable of more. Maybe without the confines placed upon us, we’d rip each other to shreds, like a pack of outskirt dogs.

“The veils are coming, the veils are coming,” Mrs. Wilkerson finally calls down from the bell tower as she pulls the rope—the manic dull clang, the pinching of cheeks, the stomping of heels, kicking up the stench of desperation.

The doors open and a hush falls over the chapel, as if God himself is holding his breath.

Kiersten’s father is the first to step inside, his face a perfect portrait of maudlin hope. As he places the veil on her head, Kiersten looks at every single one of us, making sure we’re all choking on her good fortune. She’s not only been veiled—she’s the first. An honor.

Jenna’s and Jessica’s veils aren’t far behind. No surprise there. They’ve been setting the bait since their ninth year with diminutive gazes and clear-skinned smiles. God help the boys who fell into that trap.

Mr. Fenton walks in, his face ruddy from drink or emotion, maybe both, but when I see him tenderly place the veil on Gertrude’s head, I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness for her. Somehow, against all odds, she showed them all.

One after another the fathers file in, the pretty maids are veiled, and with each one down, I feel the chains begin to loosen around my chest. I’m one step closer to building a life on my own terms.

But when my father enters the chapel, the veil held out in front of him like a stillborn calf, it feels as if I’m being gutted with the dull end of an axe.

“This can’t be…” I stagger back against the sea of women, but they only push me forward, rejecting me like a heavy tide.

Through bleary eyes, I look to my mother. She seems just as surprised as I am, wavering on her feet, but she manages to raise her chin, giving me a stern signal to behave.

I feel the heat take over my face, but it’s not embarrassment. I’m furious. And as I look at the other girls, stationed around the room, who would’ve killed for a veil, I feel a pang of guilt.

How is this even possible? I’ve done nothing to encourage a suitor. In fact, I’ve done just the opposite. I openly ridiculed every boy who showed even a glimmer of interest.

I look to my father. But his eyes won’t leave the veil.

Scraping my memory, I search for a hint of who it might be, when it hits me—Tommy Pearson. My stomach roils when I think of him hollering at me when I dropped the mulberries, the way he looked at me when he said he liked them feisty. I search the room for Mrs. Pearson, to find her looking on with great interest.

Kiersten gives me a ghost of a smile from beneath the lacy gauze, and I wonder if she knew … if Michael’s behind this? Just today, he was defending Tommy, said he wasn’t that bad. Did he talk Tommy into claiming me to save me from the fields? He said he only wanted what’s best for me. Is this what he thinks I deserve?

As my father places the veil on my head, he still can’t meet my eyes. He knows this is nothing but a slow death for me.

I’ve practiced every possible expression from despair to indifference, but I never imagined I’d have to fake happiness.

With trembling fingers, he lowers the veil over my raging eyes.

Through the dainty netting, my eyes dart around the room, the jealousy, the whispers, the knowing glances.

I was the wild card.

Tonight, I became a wife.

All because a boy claimed it so.





While my parents escort me home, my sisters twitter around us, spouting off the names of every eligible boy, trying to gauge Father’s expression, but he stays stone-faced. As per tradition, I won’t know the name of my future husband until he lifts my veil tomorrow morning at the farewell ceremony. But I know. I can still feel Tommy Pearson’s eyes on my skin like a festering rash. And soon his eyes on me will be the least of my worries.

Husband.

The word makes my knees buckle, but my parents only tighten their grip on my elbows, dragging me along until I regain my footing.

I want to spit and scream like a trapped animal, but I can’t risk being cast out, bringing shame on my younger sisters. I need to hold it together until we’re safely behind closed doors. Even then, I must watch my tongue. I have a few skills, but if I were to get thrown out of the county now, the poachers would hunt me down within a fortnight. That much I’m sure of.

As my older sisters pair off to their own homes, and my mother chases my younger siblings off to bed, I’m left alone with my father for the first time in months—the incident at the apothecary still fresh in my mind.

I grip the banister, imagining the wood bruising beneath the weight of my fingertips.

“How could you let this happen?” I whisper.

I hear him swallow. “I know this isn’t what you planned, but—”

“Why did you teach me those things? Show me what it meant to be free, and for what? I’m just like the rest of them now.”

“I wish that were true.”

His words are cutting, but I turn to face him. “Did you even try to stand up for me? You could’ve told him I haven’t bled or I smell bad … anything!”