The Truth in Love – A Short Story

By Leigh Burniston

November 15th, 1852

         “Awful today, isn’t it?”

         I couldn’t quite agree with the speaker–a young boy of Irish descent who bravely bore the name of Archibald–though my nose was as blue as a cornflower, and the thin scraps of my cloak allowed the wind to freeze my red and blue arms. Having grown up in Northern Canada, I had found that the only things we wanted for here in the states were firewood, more churches, and perhaps a ban on alcohol. 

         “It’s quite brisk, I’ll admit that,” I said, kneeling down to shovel snow into my pail. The well having long since frozen over, I’d had to resort to melting snow by whatever fire I could manage to scrounge up. 

         Archie attempted to aid me by pushing snow around with his ax, then pulled back with a satisfied air as I stood. “Need any more firewood? I’m off with some of the men and Pa told me to come along and ask.”

         “You’re very kind…” I faltered, eyes wandering to the windows of the dark house before me. We did need firewood…but Pa was in a bad state now, and he’d be displeased if he thought I was handing off my chores to someone else.

         I was about to decline when Archie suddenly stepped forward, saying with an abruptness that rather startled me, “If you don’t have another cloak, I’m sure Ma would let you borrow one of hers. You really can’t keep wearing that old thing in this weather.” 

         I had barely opened my mouth to defend the tattered garment, the only one Pa could afford to get me, when the front door flew open, and Pa himself stepped out, red-faced, tankard in hand. Catching the door to steady himself, he waved an arm at me. “What’re ya loafing out ‘ere for?  I’m near starvin’ and there’s not a bit of fire,”  He informed Archie, shaking his head. “No more meal either–’aven’t had a good dinner in weeks.” He snorted, nearly doubling over, which action caused him to slip back and forth on the step several times before he got himself into another upright position.

         “I just got some today, Pa.” I said with my most convincing smile, hefting up the pail.

         “Ya spent my money without asking me first? Who do ya think ya are, lass, the president?” Pa raised his arm as if about to hurl his tankard, then thought better of it and retreated into the house, grumbling. 

         Before I could follow him, Archie caught my arm, saying quickly, “Come back to Pa, Leslie, you can’t stay with him.”

         “Of course I can.” I drew back, putting on my most dignified air. “He’s not that bad–it’s just wearing off. I’ll put him to rights, don’t worry.” Seeing Archie’s hesitation, I softened and lowered my voice. “He’s having a hard time, but I can make it better. Give me a few weeks, and he’ll be back to his old self.”

         “Are you sure?” Archie asked as I moved toward the step.

         “Of course.” And I withdrew, adding, as I stepped in the house, “I can make him love me, and stop caring for his liquor. It’s been getting better, and with me to help it on, I’m sure everything will be alright again.” Having quite convinced myself of this fact, I nodded to Archie and closed the door. 

         June 1st, 1853

         “Are you alright?”

         It was quite a necessary question to ask, for, though I looked as healthy as ever, I was slumped in an armchair, a long cut down the side of my face, and one arm tightly bandaged and resting in a sling. 

         Smiling as brightly as I could at Archie, I pulled myself upright, hoping to ease his worries with a cheerful greeting. Uninclined to grant me this opportunity,  Archie dropped into a chair at my right and leaned forward, arms on his knees.

         “I came down as soon as they told me.” “Does it hurt badly?”

         “Not very, unless I move it. But you seem rather pale, Archie, have you eaten dinner?” And gesturing with my good arm toward a pile of goodies on the table before us, I stood to take his hat and coat.  

         Archie stopped me with a wave of the hand, springing up again directly. “No, thank you. I just came to see that you were alright, and I’ll have to be going again.” He surveyed me for a moment, then lowered his voice, as if afraid to venture into dangerous territory. “Why…why didn’t you let me know how bad he’d gotten? I could’ve helped!”

         I’d been expecting the question all day, and had fully intended to reply with a shrug, and a “I had it under control until last night, and wasn’t expecting it.” But somehow the words caught in my throat, and I was surprised to find tears springing to my eyes. 

         Turning away so they wouldn’t be seen, I busied myself with arranging the articles on the table. Knowing an answer would still be expected, I cleared my throat. “I…I thought I could handle it. He’s never been that bad before.” 

         I should have been able to handle it, too. Perhaps I hadn’t tried hard enough. If I could be given another chance, a little more time…

         But I would never be able to make him prefer me to his ugly bottles of liquor. 

         Archie watched me for a minute, then seemed to grasp my mood, and changed the subject with the grace of a gentleman–though, unfortunately, with none of the tact. “When’s the funeral?”

         “Two days. Mr. Westover’s got everything nicely arranged.”

         “That’s good to hear. Do you plan to stay with them?”

         I gave a sharp nod. “Until I can get my own place again, or find a way to pay the board. You know I don’t take favors.”

         But perhaps if I had accepted a few, let someone help, Pa would still be alive. 

         I wasn’t used to my brain making these remarks, and the tears were aroused with a vengeance. It was hard enough to accept your mistakes–but learning them after the fact, knowing you could have changed the outcome of everything….that was ten times worse. 

         What on earth had made me believe I could be enough for him?

         The tears were threatening to break free now. Turning my back to Archie, I dropped back down into the armchair. “I think I’d best get some sleep.”

         “Of course!” Archie hurried to the door. “I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Ehm…rest well.”

         I gave no reply, only took a deep, shaky breath. He wasn’t halfway gone before several tears had found their way down my cheeks.

         Why, oh why hadn’t I done more? Why hadn’t I asked for help? Someone could have been good enough…someone could have made Pa happy again. 

         But now it was too late. 

         I’d failed. 

        August 6th, 1853

         “Hullo! Need a hand?”

         Glancing up from my wheelbarrow–whose overflowing contents had been at risk of an upset long before my one-armed self attempted to steer it–I found myself directly in the path of what appeared to be a bandit fleeing for his life, for the boy before me was charging as if he had twenty stallions at his heel. 

         “Take care of the–” But my warning came too late as he suddenly tripped over a spade that had been lying unseen in the grass. He was down and up again before I could blink, and bounded up to me, grinning. 

         “There we are, can I help you?” 

         “I think I’ve got it.” I shifted my grip on the wheelbarrow’s handle. “This is the last load.”

         “Ah, but you’re not in much condition to be taking it, are you?” He nodded to my arm as he spoke, and I flushed, wishing I’d thought to wear my cloak. Still, that wouldn’t have been enough to hide the tell-tale sleeve of my dress, which had been cut and pinned up at my shoulder to keep out of the way.

         “I can handle the tools just fine–I don’t see how a barrow’s any different.” I said firmly, giving a push to the ‘barrow’ as I did. 

         At that unfortunate moment, the front wheel caught in a rut, and the whole thing would have been upset if the boy hadn’t caught the side with a merry “Watch now! You’d best let me take it from here, ma’am.”

         Yielding with a sigh, I stepped back, and he soon had us walking through the field at a rapid pace, heading for Mr. Tanner’s barn. 

         “What happened, anyway?” The boy eventually asked, nodding at my shoulder. “Born like that?”

         “No, an accident.” I pulled open the door, and he set the wheelbarrow down in a far corner. “Thank you.”

         “Very welcome.” Brushing off his hands, he turned back to me. “That’s some bit of luck, your arm. You ought to take advantage of it–why be out here working when you could let all them fine folks in town be waiting on you? I know I’d much prefer a siesta myself.”

         “That hardly seems honest. Besides, I have to earn my keep.”

         “Ah, you’re one of them, then.” And the boy seemed rather disappointed at this prospect. 

         “Who’s ‘them’, if you please?”

         “Those self-righteous folks who can’t take a favor.” He shook his head. “Spoils even the finest of folk–ruined my Pa, in the end, and he was the best man I knew.”

         Unsure of how to respond to that comment, I pressed my lips together and made my way out of the barn. “Thanks for your help, anyway. What’s your name?”

         “Ridley. Paul Ridley. Just moved into town. And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?” 

         I gave him my name, and permitted him to accompany me back to the Tanners’. There he bid me goodbye, and disappeared down the road as quickly as he had come, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

         “Well,” I said to the poppies that had just begun to raise their heads in Mrs. Tanner’s front garden bed, “That was certainly…odd. What was his motive, I wonder?”

         The poppies gave me a questioning look. 

         “Well, he had to have one! There’s not much reason to help me.” The poppies didn’t have a reply to this, so I stood in meditative silence, trying to work out the meaning until Mrs. Tanner could be heard, calling me to dinner. 

        April 1st, 1863

         “You’ve decided to do what?”

         “Go to war!” Said Paul cheerfully, dropping into an armchair by the fire. I swung the door closed behind him and leaned against it, as if there was some support to be gained from that ever-reliable quarter. “Isn’t it splendid?”

         Go to war…

         I gave myself a little shake, attempting to pull my scattering thoughts back together with the same motion. “You volunteered for the army?” 

         “That is the general idea of ‘go to war’.” Paul propped his feet up on a footstool and looked back into my face. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased.” 

         Pleased that the man I was going to marry was leaving for war? Three months before we were to be married? I opened my mouth to voice this fact, then hesitated, eyes drifting over his face. He clearly expected me to be happy for him…and he deserved that, didn’t he?

         Rearranging my expression, I drew myself up and smiled. “I was just surprised. When do you leave?”

         “Tomorrow, I expect.” 

         “To–tomorrow.” I swallowed hard, then–anxious for any means to redirect my emotions–walked quickly into the kitchen and began kneading the bread dough I’d left out to rise. “So soon! You’ve already packed, I expect? Is there anything I can do?”

         Paul waved a hand, turning his gaze back to the fire. “It’s all been sorted. I applied Monday, you see, so I’ve had loads of time.”

         “Indeed.” I agreed, pummeling my traitorous thoughts and the bread at the same time. Paul was allowed to tell me his news whenever he liked. I certainly didn’t have the right to force myself into his affairs. Engagement or not. 

         With one final hit to the dough, I brushed the flour off my hands and reached for a pan. “I suppose…I suppose you’ll be gone a long while?”

         “I should say so. At least a year.” He rubbed his chin for a moment, then bolted upright. “I’d completely forgotten–you’d best send out letters canceling our wedding. There’s no way I’ll be back in time for that. I might not come back at all, you know–so many good men die in these wars.”

         From the sound of it, one would be inclined to think that Paul rather wished he could sacrifice his life like one of his nobel countrymen. Clenching my jaw, I turned back to the bread, eyes closed against the tears that threatened to slip down my flour-coated cheeks. 

         Paul wanted this. He deserved it. And I’d done things on my own for most of my life–I could go a little longer. One year, maybe two, and then Paul would be home again. 

         He would come home. 

         He had to. 

         August 24th, 1863

         “Still nothing from Paul?” Archie asked me as I entered the smithy one morning. 

         I gave up my attempt at a cheerful countenance and looked at him regretfully. “Do I really seem that bad? I thought I hid it pretty well.”

         “You do, but I’ve known you for years, and your tricks don’t work on me.” Archie set down his hammer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

         I shook my head. “There’s not much to say, only I wish I knew if he was alright, and I’ve gone so far as to send him a few letters of my own…which, clearly, haven’t been delivered to him.” 

         The fact that he could have gotten them and simply hadn’t replied had crossed my mind, of course, but I couldn’t believe Paul would do something like that.

         Unless…perhaps I was pestering him? I felt my face flame at the thought. 

         “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Archie said lightly. “You know how these things go–one can go a long while without hearing anything, and then have several letters all at once. Paul can handle himself just fine out there.”

         “Do you really think so?” I asked, hope springing up to brighten the world once again.

         “Absolutely.” Archie came to the counter and opened the register. “Now, what can I do for you?”

         It took a good ten minutes to get affairs in order–I was coming on behalf of several families needing new horseshoes or buckles–and by the time we’d finished, my mind was much lighter. 

         Of course Paul was alright–how could I have ever thought otherwise? He was simply too preoccupied with the fighting to think about home. A few more weeks, perhaps, and then there’d be some news. 

         In the meantime, I would carry on, doing all I could to be ready for when he came back. 

         Maybe I could finally learn to be good enough for him. 

         Quite cheerful with this thought, I bid farewell to Archie and started off towards home.

         April 3rd, 1864

         “It’s come!” Was all Archie had time to say before I had snatched the white envelope from his hands. 

         “It’s really from Paul?” I demanded, hands trembling so fiercely that I couldn’t break the seal. 

         Archie finally had to take it from me, and with a neat, “See for yourself, and set your mind at ease.” he bestowed the paper upon me. 

         I nearly tore the letter as I forced the envelope open, eyes pricking with tears of relief as I quickly scanned through the contents. About halfway through, I slowed, eyes widening. When it became quite clear that I wasn’t imagining what was on the paper, I forced myself to begin again. 

         My dear Leslie, 

         I hope this letter finds you well. The war will soon be over, I think. The General seems quite convinced of it, and the rest of the boys value his opinion highly. Therefore, I think it would be best to state the truth of the matter before Davis or somebody gets home and ‘spills the beans’ as they say.

         I am not coming back. 

         As I regard farming as a rather miserable profession, and, quite frankly, don’t feel suited to country life, I feel no obligation to return. Nothing binds me there, and I have no restraints or concerns to hinder me from remaining here and marrying the woman I’ve fallen in love with. She’s quite pretty, and rich, and I feel sure you would have liked her. 

         As for the small matter of our engagement….well, we both know I couldn’t really love you, Leslie, and I don’t think you ever loved me either. Hopefully you can agree that this is for the best. 

         Your friend, 

         Paul Ridley 

         I stared at the words, unable to come up with a fathomable explanation for what I was seeing. Paul wasn’t coming home? He was getting married? 

         He didn’t love me?

         “Leslie?” Archie broke me from my trance, and the entire weight seemed to collapse upon me in one swift strike. Thrusting the paper at him, I dropped down into my seat and buried my head in my hands.

         Paul wasn’t coming back. He didn’t love me. 

         After a moment of scanning through the contents of the letter, Archie sat down beside me, staring at the paper as though it had suddenly begun to speak to him. “I…I’m not sure what I should say. It’s rotten, that’s what it is. He had no right to–”

         “Of course he had a right!” I shot upright, the movement bringing a thousand memories to my mind. Every word I’d spoken to Paul, every moment with him seemed to play out before me at once. “I should have done something differently–I should have tried harder!” Lowering my voice, I wrapped my arm around myself, desperate for any bit of comfort I could find. “But I wasn’t good enough for him.”

         “Is that what you–” Archie pressed a hand to his head. “Leslie, is that really what you think?” 

         “Don’t tell me you don’t think it too.” I said bitterly. “You’ve always known that I hadn’t been good enough for Pa–I only wish you’d put this stupid nonsense with Paul out of my head sooner.”

         “Nonsense?” Archie sprang to his feet. “The only nonsense is the fact that you were allowed to grow up believing–I don’t even know what it is you believe, but it’s wrong!” Lowering his voice to a softer tone, he put a hand on my arm. “Your pa was a great man, Leslie, but he made his mistakes. And his biggest one was letting you think that you were earning his love.”

         “But–”

         “Did you really love Paul, Leslie?”

         What? Was he honestly going to ask me that? After everything I’d been through? Drawing myself up with my most superior air, I looked him squarely in the eye. “Of course I loved him. He was everything I had.”

         “Why was that? Because you didn’t love anyone else? Or because you didn’t think anyone else would ever love you?”

         “I–”

         I couldn’t seem to find a reply. That…that couldn’t be true–love was earned, I’d always known that. I’d spent my whole life trying to make Pa see it. People had to see something of worth to love it…

         Didn’t they? 

         “If love had to be earned, you would have been kicked out on the streets as soon as your Pa was dead.” Archie said quietly. “The Westovers never would have taken you in. The Tanners never would have given you a job. I never would have been there for you.” He added softly. I almost didn’t hear it. 

         But I did, and–with tears streaming down my face–I met his eyes. “You…really love me.” 

         “Yes.” 

         Only one word, but it seemed to change everything I’d ever thought about the world. He loved me. So many people loved me. 

         I didn’t have to earn anything.

         I don’t remember much of what happened after that realization. I only know that it took me several days to fully wrap my head around it, and several more years before my heart was ready to accept it–and the love of the wonderful man who brought it about.

         It’s hard enough to accept your mistakes–but learning them after the fact, knowing you could have changed the outcome of everything….that makes it ten times worse. Unless, like me, you learned to see God’s providence in the pain, and have decided to use it–in whatever way you need–to bless others. 

         Which brings me, reader, to my closing point:

         You don’t have to be good enough. Love is given, it is not earned. Those who truly care for you don’t love because of what you can give them–they love because of who you are. Broken, yes, and in need of fixing, but still beautiful. 

         I’ve come to accept and believe that. 

         Have you?