Too Early for Primroses

by Angelica Sarmiento

The Hunt

I tip-toe through the forest, making my way to the bridge that leads into town. The damp cold from the melting snow seeps into the seams of my worn boots, but I do not mind as my feet pad the mulch and ice. I am on the hunt for late winter primroses to bring to Aunt Clara. A gift to remind her she once lived in the country, that the river between us is not so wide. She has outgrown us, and now lives in a flat above her shop that outpaces the tallest trees in this place.

“There is some!” I exclaim to no one.

I rush over to little pale buds, too small a bouquet to offer. It is still early yet, they will not come out of hiding for another few weeks. By then, it would be too late. I am needed in the city in tomorrow. It is only two more hours to the road, then the coach, then a train ride. I will find something else to trade her for her stories, something better, perhaps, not from home. Planning out my yearly adventure, I slip on a bit of wet tree trunk, my hands bracing against the earth to keep me from falling face-first into a small pool of water gathered at the base of these roots that have outgrown the ground. I see my face in the dark auburn water, and wished painfully that I was less ordinary. My freckled, sun-worn cheeks and birch bark hair gave away my unromantic existence of reading and gardening, playing piano in the evening, baking in the morning. A life of working and working, followed by my whiling away the evening hours, keeping busy and being useful until the candles burned low for nothing. One day like the next, only varied by the weather and what roots to put in with the leeks at dinner. I wished for so many things in that moment: golden hair, hazel eyes, a life in the city, soft clean hands, and a dress uncovered in mud. I pushed off from my reflection and brushed the clay and dirt off myself. I still had a long journey to go. I must end the hunt and arrive empty handed. I had to accept it was not a river; it was an ocean between Aunt Clara and I—an ocean that a bunch of flowers could never bridge.

I pick up my satchel and parcels, continuing on my way. Finally, my damp shoes and I make it to the road. I look up at the sun, then the trees. The shadows mark about two-o’clock. I am always too late or too early. I sit on the stones by the side of the roadway, daydreaming until the coach arrives recalling Aunt Clara telling me stories of my mother. I close my eyes and I feel I am there with her at her favorite corner bakery. I smell her rose perfume mixed with that of burnt butter, sugar, and tea.

“Your mother’s hair was lighter than mine. She always wore green and brown...had curly hair in braids like yours. You remind me of her. Do you miss her?” she asked while stirring milk into her tea so delicately.

“I try to, but I do not have any memories of her. Grandma and Pop never had the heart to speak of her. I think it is too hard for them to remember. They don’t speak of anything from before, only the harvest and things to fix around the farm. Was she beautiful? What kind of books did she like to read?” I replied, eager for more details.

“Mother and father always thought it was best to move on from hard memories. Pa always said, ‘You always need to move forward in life, ain’t no use looking back.’ I’m sorry that they never spoke of her. Beautiful? She had a kind of country side loveliness. She and I did not really read much. The only books at the house back then were tattered dusty things. She loved you, though; I hope you know that,” she said softly looking down flattening the lace doily by her cup.

“I know,” I replied. The truth was though, she died before I could know anything about her. Just her name, Jane. I wish I loved her more, but I barely had a memory. Not even a wrinkled faded one to hold onto. She was just an idea—of someone who might have cared for me.

I recall, now, how I felt a tinge of guilt looking at my aunt’s fair face in the soft light. Her silk lavender dress and a few straight golden strands falling from her updo. Of course, she was an actress; she traveled all over the world, and I wished in that moment she was my mother. That I could have inherited just a little of her talent and beauty. Instead, I was born to the eldest sister, Jane. “Countryside loveliness,” just another kind way of saying plain.

I remember how Aunt Clara pu—

“Whoa now! Whoa! You for the 3 o’clock coach here miss?” the coach driver called out.

“Oh, erhm, yes, Sir. No trunk, just these,” I say, flustered as I find my purse. I hand the stage man a green back and he tosses me a half piece as I climb in.

Stagecoaches are interesting places with their leather seats and velvet curtains, the smell of rosemary fumigants mixed with mud, muck, and sweat. They are moving contradictions that fill with contradicting people on the move: an uptight governess, a stern banker, a sleeping soldier, and me, a plain country girl. Maybe that banker is a poet, or that woman a dancer. Maybe I have some facet I have yet to discover.

The ride was nauseating; my legs ached from stillness. I was so tired, but I needed to stave off sleeping. We approached the train station which had a dusty rural bustle with just one platform and two tracks. I counted my dollars and cents for the ticket. There would be a few cents left after a scone and the fare. Ticket now in hand, I boarded the car.

The moment I saw her grey hairs, I sighed with relief. My other trips to visit Aunt Clara came with steep lessons, such as how to lose your purse on a train, that men with top hats are to be avoided, and to never ever fall asleep when traveling. The woman was fanning herself, clutching her carpet bag. She looked at me with shock then, possibly, relief. The conductor came by and I showed him my ticket. The woman nodded to him gently and showed him hers.

“Is everything in order here?” the conductor stated as he punched our tickets.

“Everything is fine here. The little miss and myself are wondering if there will be any more passengers in this car,” the woman’s voice a worn velvet as she spoke.

“No, ma’am; we will be leaving soon. This car is all yours,” he said as he closed the hallway door and moved to the next car.

I sat letting my tired body relax into the tufted soft bench of the train. Maybe my earlier fall inspired some fairy to dust me with a bit of luck at last. A bench facing forward, a mildly empty car with such amiable and quiet company, and a warm red sunset as the train pushed off facing the night ahead. We are the last stop before Boston, so perhaps I did not have to be so on my guard tonight.

I watched as trees whipped by—the rare light from far-away buildings, and the stars. The stars are the one thing I would miss these two weeks. I traced them as I looked out of the small windows while I listened to the soft haunting sound of the old woman sleeping. Her lungs occasionally struggling for air, followed by the uncomfortable rattling of her chest settling. It reminds me of my grandmother. The only good thing from pop passing and my grandmother getting sick—the lawyer contacting my Aunt Clara. Now my grandmother seems to forget that I am not Jane. I remind her that I am Eliza but she insists, so most days I am Jane. I look over at the traveling woman; how was it that she has not learned the rule of traveling at this old age? Perhaps age earns other benefits as the body gives way to frailty. I covered her with her shawl, and closed her fan placing it next to her. She looked peaceful as the car rocked and swayed. I let my mind empty, but not sleep. I was so tired, and soon enough would not be soon enough. Jane will keep her safe tonight.

Kerchief Kindness

We arrive to a steam laden downtown platform of so many tracks. I assisted the old woman, Katherine Cabot, who came to town to attend to her sister. I quite loved the alliteration. I saw then that she was nothing like my grandmother as her luggage was fine, and her shoes new fashion. The lone carpet bag out of place with the rest of her ensemble.

“Shall I call you a coach?” I asked, worried to leave her alone.

“No, thank you kindly, dear; my sister’s valet will be here soon. I am grateful for you helping me and watching me last night. I am old enough to notice a caring eye, and it was thoughtful of you. I did not expect you, but your company was a grace I did not know I needed. Would you like to come to my family home for some breakfast? It would be the least I could do,” she explained warmly.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I am having lunch with my Aunt Clara, and I need to change into a less muddy dress. She reserves a special table just for us at her favorite bakery every year and she would be heartbroken if I was late,” I reply.

The conductor walks through the car onto the platform by us looking puzzled.

“Ma’am, one of our staff would have happily helped you with your things; we had instruction to come by at ten minutes after arrival,” he apologetically explained.

“It is quite alright, Roger; the young woman and myself are quite capable. I thank you for your punctuality,” she said as she handed him a whole dollar.

He said something to her and turned to walk away. I could not be bothered to hear. I looked over at our carriage door, and realized I boarded the wrong side of the train. I felt my face grow warm.

“Oh ma’am, I am sorry. I was distracted and did not realized I had climbed into the wrong car,” I explained in a panic.

“Do not worry yourself, dear; our family owns that car. I was glad of the company. This was a hard journey for me; my sister is ill. She would be fond of you; she also has an adventurous spirit. Oh, there is Benton. Would you mind calling him to me?”

I ran over to a man in a dark navy suit. “Mister, uhm, Mister Benton?” I asked

“Yes, miss, may I help you?” he sternly answered.

“The miss, I mean, Madam Katherine, ehrm, Madam Cabot, she is waiting for you behind that flower cart. She said to call you over to her,” I quickly said.

Benton walked calmly with the driver to where Madam Cabot stood next to all her many things. She looked different than she did before, not frail, almost regal. Tall posture, pinned hat, a lovely brocade. She was so kind to me. I felt silly thinking I was protecting her, when, in fact, it was the opposite.

“Eliza, dear. Thank you for the help and company. It is rare from someone your age. Young men and women are always about their business. I hope you would not be too offended in this small gesture.” She then motioned to Benton. “I would like you to have my spare neckerchief. I have no use for so many at my age, and some money for your time in the city.”

“Oh Ma’am I-I could not possibly. I did not do anything, really. It was an honest mistake,” I stammered.

“Benton, please give this beautiful young woman that box I have just arranged. We must be on our way. My sister is expecting us. We cannot afford to delay,” she said with command, then turned to me. “Get cleaned up for your aunt, and please take this or I will be offended.”

Benton handed me a small box, and helped Madam Katherine Cabot into the carriage. I stood there, a statue, until they were loaded and drove off. I watched until I lost the color of the phaeton down the street.

I sat on a nearby bench to excitedly open the box. It was the most beautiful white neckerchief I had ever seen. Under the kerchief was a whole five-dollar bill. I do not know why I felt tears forming in my eyes. I had never known such fortune or kindness. I had done nothing, and yet I knew I would never forget that moment. I looked around to memorize every moment, scent, sight, sound. Such a woman would think me kind, adventurous, and...and beautiful. I knew her vision was failing her, and yet....and yet my heart was so warm. I couldn’t wait to tell my Aunt Clara. I finally had a fantastic story of my own.

Too Early or Too Late

As I walked through the city trying to find a place to change, I found a little boutique. I opened the door to the sound of the bell chime. A woman approached evaluating me. I quickly became aware of my state: muddy boots, sandy dress, messy braid.

“I am looking for a gift for my aunt, and I saw a lovely fan in your window,” I nervously said. “I have money!” I exclaimed.

She gave me another once over and motioned me over to the counter. “That fan has an ivory handle and costs twelve dollars,” she said as she scanned my face. “We have this lovely everyday fan for a dollar-fifty. If you buy the handkerchief set, it also comes with a potpourri sachet.”

“That is perfect, thank you,” I said as I handed her part of my windfall. Luck at last. This was so much better than those small buds in the snow. “Do you have a dressing room? I am meeting my aunt for lunch, and well...” I motioned at my dress.

“Only this time; you may change while I wrap up your things. I need you to leave your luggage and parcels here,” she said in a careless way.

I pulled out the only colored dress I own—blue with embroidered flowers at the cuffs and hem. I only wore it to church some Sundays. I quickly changed and came back out. I caught the patinaed mirror in the corner and pulled some pins out of my purse putting my hair in a simple updo before leaving the shop and facing the city.

I knew the way, exploring one street to the next, pretending this was my mid-day walk, a casual if not boring routine, instead of the thrilling experience it actually was. I arrived at the Le Petite Pâtisserie an hour early, as is my way. I did not mind as I took in the familiar scents and ordered tea and the scone I had forgone earlier in my trip. I placed my things down on one of the chairs to disguise that I was an out-of-towner. I thought to put on my new neckerchief pinned with my grandmother’s brass broach, and fix the strands of my hair that were out of place. I felt so proper drinking my tea. I was closer to my Aunt Clara on a boat that Madam Cabot paid the passage on.

I was restless, though I had been here every year for the last four years. I placed the wrapped gift next to the place Aunt Clara would sit. As I shifted to fix my posture and flatten my napkin again on my lap, I noticed the tea had gone cold. I called the waiter to refresh the pot, this time with a Darjeeling tea, and some biscuits. I sat trying to mask my excitement with a staid ladylikeness, bursting to tell her about my journey.

I looked at my hands, wishing I had gloves, and started to look around at all the other fine ladies. Noticing their expressions as they craned their necks like gaggling swans. I saw a clock on the wall; it was nearly three. I felt the tea pot was cold again. Aunt Clara has customers at her shop. That must be why she could not meet me. I asked for the bill as a I ate the last of the biscuits. I picked up my things to head to her store.

When I arrived at her little antique shop, it was dark inside with note posted with instructions for me to meet her landlord for the keys to her flat. She would be gone a few days. I knew my luck could not last so long. I unlocked her flat and closed the door behind me. I felt foolish as warm tears formed behind my eyes. I laid dejected in the chaise, staring at my Aunt Clara’s wooden theatre masks taunting me until I drifted off to sleep at last.

I awoke to a loud pounding at the door. Startled, I opened it to find the police looking for a Jane Brooks. I sleepily said, “That’s me. I mean, my mother. She died.”

That’s when the confused officer barged in showing me the wanted sheet that read, “Jane Brooks, 43, wanted for theft, confidence scheming, fraud...” with a picture of Aunt Clara. I crumpled to the floor. The masks on the walls laughed and cried, seeming to scream, “Be careful what you wish for.” I ripped them off the wall, and threw them to the floor. They wouldn’t break like my heart. I shocked the officers as I left the room.

I went to wash my face, and noticed hair dye by the sink. I looked in the mirror and felt wryly fortunate that it was too early for primroses. She did not deserve them. She is dead.