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The cicadas howled in the underbrush, willows dripping down to the ground, as if they were melting under the overbearing sun. Tilda breathed in, pollen making every breath sweeter. The summer heat making her hair - though the long tresses were tied up and neatly coiffed - stick to the nape of her neck. Even the shade of the gazebo not offering much protection, especially not from the humidity. Coming out to help on her uncle's farm seemed to be a great fatuity, Tilda could already imagine her mother tutting when she inevitably returned. Chiding her for any new scrapes or residual sunburns - A tobacco farm was no place for a socialite, she quickly found.
Her train of thought was interrupted, however, by the presence of a farmhand. A rather handsome one, Tilda mused. His leather hat tilted back to reveal aimlessly trimmed, wenge-colored hair. Like the morning coffee, or a Marans chicken’s egg. Passably boyish, his throat bobbed before he spoke.
“Enjoyin’ the scenery, Miss Blanche?” He inquired, dirt-smudged chin jutting up slightly as he spoke. Tilda fluttered her fan, offering a subdued burst of circulated air.
“Hm,” She hummed, “Something like that.” The pulse of her lace fan floundering a moment. A silent interval sprawling between them as Tilda eyed the fellow. He seemed almost shy, unsure of himself as he swayed on the heel of his boots.
“I.. don’t believe we’ve ever been acquainted.” She hummed, briefly raising her brows. The farmhand, though already flushed from hours of labor in the tobacco fields, got ever redder. Scarlet blooming across his cheeks, winding up to his ears.
“I do apologize, Miss, it seems I forget my manners sometimes,” He sputtered, swallowing for the umpteenth time it seemed, “Wi..” He drawled a moment, “William.” He dipped his sweat dotted brow, retrieving his hat from the crown of his head and bowing it to his chest, brushing the worn leather across the cossack looking shirt to make himself appear more presentable.
“Well, quite nice to meet you, William,” She gave a soft nod of her head, “I-” she began, though a glottal call of her voice cut her off.
“Tilda!” Her uncle bellowed, the stout fellow striding to the gazebo, “Don’t you distract the farmhands; Ida needs y' help in the pantry, girl.” Albers barked, broomstick mustache moving with each syllable, leaning on the posts of the gazebo.
“And you,” Albers continued, beckoning to William, “Get back to work, son.” He pestered. William nodded, fixing his hat back upon his hair. Wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
“Of course, Mr. Daffern.” William dipped his head, keeping his eyes to the ground as he split from the gazebo. Tilda, nonetheless, couldn’t seem to peel her eyes from his receding form. What a curious fellow, she brooded. Albers quickly marshaled her to the estate.
–
Quickly one simple meeting seemed to betide a blooming affair; Tilda waiting at the gazebo just before noon every two days. William would appear not long after, tell her grand stories of bar fights for another lady’s honor, or a messy matinee with the lawmen in the next town over. Much like a wild man from one of her penny dreadfuls, she found herself enthralled. She’d go as far as to spend extra time washing up, curling her hair, and dressing up.
It was afternoon like every other, Tilda lazed on the gazebo booth, lips pulled in a tight, schooled expression. Frequently peeking at her pocket watch in a concealed fashion. 12:20, it read. Ticking past like a rabbit’s heartbeat. Tilda set her hands into her lap, folding them and picking at the fabric of her skirt, only occasionally glancing up to check if anyone - William - was moving toward the gazebo.
When he still hadn’t arrived? Well, she felt like a fool, sitting so properly for no reason - An absolute fool!
Tilda wanted to be logical, but it was discordant from William’s character to be so late. She bit her inner cheek, rising from her seat. Sweat left on the bench where she’d sat. It’d be best for her to just head back inside, she wagered. Her boots clicked down the dilapidated stairs of the arbor, she stalked through the yard, flustered by the ship out between William and her - Her attention quickly grabbed when she was upon the porch, loud jeers from the wagon shed beckoned her. In nothing flat, Tilda collared her skirt in her fists, sailing in the direction of the disruption.
As she arrived at the scene, she was struck dumb by the sight before her, her lips moving faster than her brain.
“Stop that!” She exclaimed, racing up to the other farmhands. Wiry boys and lean men, one of which was beating up on poor William, “You heard me!” She pried one of the boys off him, swatting his hands back.
The boy stood up to his full height, his lean form huffing and glaring at Tilda. He scoffed, looking back to the workers, opening his mouth to say something.
Almost, as if sensing the rioting, Mrs. Daffern burst in, Albers hot on her heels. Ida’s frown grew ever obtrusive. Quickly, the stableboy shut his mouth.
“Quit this mafficking!” Albers hollered as he bustled into the commotion, breaking up the affray. Tilda slanted down to William's side, grasping his shoulders and alleviating the strain as he gave a dry run at sitting up, her eyes fulgurating between the men being chastened, then back to William, who gave a bad eye to the other farmhands.
“You look like you’re up the pole-!” Tilda fret, fishing her neckerchief from the collar of her bodice, handing it to William, who ungraciously used the fine cloth to wipe the crimson rivulet of blood from his nose.
“Don’t tell me.” William grunted softly, “.. They’re damn bigmouths..”
Albers, once the men had dispersed, stopped before William, a grimace on his face. His ginger stache made an almost comedic arch, if not for the situation.
“Do tell: what caused this?” Albers demanded, Ida clasped Tilda’s tricep and tugged her back, despite Tilda’s disinclination to leave William on the ground.
Ida exhaled heavily, and pulled Tilda once more, now successful in her pursuits, “Come now, girl..” Ida uttered, shuffling behind her niece and urging her toward the house...