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Show Page 33 being most enormous large, so large that whenever I thought of Edward Littlefield I always thought of oxen. For Edward, an ironworker with great brawny shoulders, shaggy black hair and huge gnarled hands, had the look and strength of an ox of the field. But he also had the gentleness of eye and manner, the patience for which that beast was held dear. "I do not think it meet that a maid must rely on an unmarried man for her keep," said Mistress Pierce when she had heard my explanation, her gentle face creased with a frown. "It is likely Edward's duty will be only to find me a good home and some form of maintenance," I reassured her. With that answer the good lady was well-satisfied and Captain Pierce went off to see what he could discover. An hour later he was back, the spiky tufts of his beetle brows drawn downward, a dour look upon his face. My heart sank, for his manner told me I was to receive sad news. "I'm sorry, my dear," Captain Pierce said, taking my hand between his huge ones. "Edward Littlefield is dead." I expected the tears to come in a flood. I expected the world to stand still, or the boards 'neath my feet to go all a-tremble, just as the earth had when we first came ashore. None of that happened. In truth, I felt like a limp rag that had been dipped in water and wrung until there was not a drop of water left to wring. I had not one tear left to weep. Not one tear left for Edward. |
