Developing a Taste for Coffee

He hadn’t been there forever. He wasn’t like most people in the town, where their ancestors settled in the town and the family never left. He had arrived the winter before last in a modest carriage drawn by a horse that wasn’t anything to brag about. It was clear that even though he was from the big city near them, Coremont, he didn’t necessarily make big city money. His brown tweed jacket was worn and had a small hold in the left shoulder, something that could have been fixed if he had the time to do so, and he hadn’t bought a house when he moved into the small town of Darley. Instead, he converted the lab of the previous doctor that was above the office into a small apartment.

It had been blizzarding the day that he had moved in so he hadn’t gained as much attention as he would have if he had moved in during the spring when the weather was nice. Although it did rain quite a bit in the spring so, I suppose, he could’ve arrived on a day it had been raining. I didn’t end up meeting the doctor until I came into the office to pick up some medicine a week after he had moved in. My brother, George, was sick with a terrible fever that winter had brought him, and Mother sent me to get some medicine from the doctor's office. We had already lost my older brother, Lucas, the year before to a farming accident and an infant named Mildred from a sickness that had gone through the town one spring. Mother didn’t want to take any chances with George and dug into savings to buy some medicine.

I was seventeen at the time and didn’t know any better so I flounced into the office, still in my working clothes, and my hair a mess. I wish I had cleaned myself up before coming in because when I got up to the nurse (who did my appointments, as I was uncomfortable with a man seeing me), the new doctor walked out of his office, hands in the pockets of his worn-out tweed jacket. I almost gasped when I saw him. He was tall and thin, he definitely could use some of the cooking in our town. He had light brown hair that I guessed probably turned dark blonde in the summers and a lovely English mustache that was nicely trimmed. I felt the white ribbon in my hair start to slip as I, perhaps too aggressively, thrust my hand out to him.

“I’m Margaret. Margaret Rose. My family lives on a farm on the south side of town, Elm Farm.” The new doctor smiled just a little bit at me and he took my hand.

“I’m Dr. Deary. Nice to meet you.” He turned to the nurse. “Mrs. Robins was my last patient. I’m going upstairs for the day.” He nodded his head to me before heading through a door behind the reception desk, which I guessed led up to the stairway to his living quarters. When I told my best friend, Katherine O’Neal, about Dr. Deary, her face scrunched at me.

“Ew, Marge. He’s probably old enough to be your father.” I shrugged.

“I don’t know. He looked younger than normal, as far as doctors go. And he’s probably so educated, being from the big city. Plus, I don’t want to end up like Old Florence, do I? Living all alone at the edge of town?”

“We have plenty of boys getting an education that are our age.” I had wrinkled my nose at her at the thought of marrying any of the boys our age. “Anyway, I heard a rumor that in her youth, Florence was involved with a man from the Williams family. He died young, but can you imagine Florence being involved with one of the wealthiest families in town?” I snorted and shook my head.

“Impossible. It has to just be a rumor.”

The next time I saw Dr. Deary was two weeks later, at the small general store that was two blocks down from the doctor’s office, five blocks from the farm. I was picking up sugar, Mother was making an assortment of treats for George’s birthday and had run out right in the middle of preparation. She sent me to get the sugar. Dr. Deary was in the same aisle as me, although he was looking at the cinnamon. I wrinkled my nose. Why would I want my sweets to taste of spice? I blushed again at the sight of him, although I don’t know if he saw because I was wearing a white bonnet with a slight pink tint that obstructed my face from his view. Calming myself, I spun around and flashed a smile at him. My father, William Rose, always said that my smile would win awards (and the hearts of men, I hoped).

“Hello, Dr. Deary!” The doctor swung around with a hand on his heart. Apparently, he didn’t know I had been standing there, which briefly stung.

“Gracious, child! You frightened me! It’s Margaret, correct? Margaret Rose?” I huffed at him.

“Yes, that is me, but you should know that I’m not a child. I will be eighteen this summer.” I crossed my arms. Mother always said it was unladylike but it felt appropriate for the situation. Dr. Deary smiled at me, a real smile this time, unlike the one he had given in the office the first time we met. His mustache lifting slightly gave me butterflies.

“Ah, still quite youthful.” He tilted his head down in a slight bow motion. “But my apologies, ma’am.” I tilted my chin up.

“You’re forgiven, Dr. Though, I must be going. My mother needs her sugar.” I spun on my heels and walked off towards the counter. I thought I could feel Dr. Deary’s eyes on me as I walked away.

“Oh, Miss Rose,” I heard him call as I walked away. I spun around, hopefully not looking too hopeful. “How’s that brother of yours doing? Medicine work?” I gave him a soft smile.

“Yes, he’s doing much better, thank you.”

The third time I saw Dr. Deary I was chatting with Nurse Pricilla after my annual appointment. It was merely a whole month later and flowers had already started to bloom on the ground. The little red ones were my favorite. Dr. Deary came out of his office rubbing his temples and I knew a migraine was coming on. My father used to get migraines frequently when I was younger.

“Pricilla, could you fetch me a coffee from Harold’s.” He set some coins down on the counter and wandered back to the office. Pricilla chewed on her lip and looked up at the clock.

“My next appointment is only in fifteen minutes,” she sighed.

“I’ll do it! Get him the coffee, I mean,” I offered. Pricilla looked at me for a moment then shrugged, handing me the coins.

“He likes the coffee black, nothing in it.” I nodded and ran off towards Harold’s. I had never had coffee before but I heard Harold’s coffee wasn’t very good. If Father knew that Dr. Deary was getting coffee from Harold’s, he would say “Wow, that man must really be desperate” so I knew I needed to hurry to get Dr. Deary his coffee. I hardly said a word when I dropped off the coffee.

“Wow, that was quick! The coffee is still hot!” His happiness made my stomach jolt and a smile come onto my lips against my will. I just nodded, afraid that if I spoke I would mess something up.

After that, at least once a week, I would stop by his office and bring him a coffee. Most of the time he was out in the waiting room chatting with Nurse Pricilla. The town was small so it wasn’t like they were busy with too many patients. My parents were probably annoyed with how much time I was spending away from the farm (and how I was spending my money that I was getting from reading to Old Florence three times a week), especially in the springtime when there was work to be done. The truth was, I hated farming. And I hated helping my mother around the house. I wanted to be a writer but there was no time for silly stories on Elm Farm, my parents always said.

The next year, the spring before I turned nineteen, I chopped off my hair. I got tired of it and I got tired of all the girls in the small club that I was in for young girls to have tea together, swooning over my natural curls when they were honestly just a pain. So I cut it off. Mother had shrieked when I had come down from my room with hair just above my shoulders.

“Margaret Anne Rose what did you do,” she yelled. Of course, it had to be the weekend that Grandmother Muriel was visiting, which I had forgotten about. “You know how Grandmother Muriel feels about being traditional! Did you even think about this?” I put my chin up and looked my mother square in the eyes.

“Yes, I did. And I quite like it, actually.” Both of those were lies. I hadn’t thought it through, I acted on impulse. And while the length was quite liberating, I missed my long hair and feared that Dr. Deary would take one look at me and hate it.

“You’ll never be able to find a husband with that short, frizzy hair and all those freckles,” Grandmother Muriel said to me one night at dinner.

“I won’t need a man when I’m a famous writer, Grandmother,” I told her. Grandmother Muriel scoffed.

“Come on, girl. Be realistic here!” I didn’t say anything back to her but made a vow to myself to become a famous writer, just so I could say I told her so.

The first time I saw Dr. Deary after cutting off my hair was the Wednesday after when I dropped off his coffee. I had run out the door, my mother screaming at me to grab my pink to cover my hair. I reluctantly grabbed it and headed to Harold’s. My parents hadn’t let me leave when Grandmother Muriel was staying with us so I hadn’t seen Dr. Deary since that Friday. Priscilla was busy and wasn’t at the front desk. I chewed on my lip, wondering what I should do. I had peeked into the appointment room that Dr. Deary used but he wasn’t in there. I softly tapped on his office door and heard a muffled “come in” from behind it. I timidly walked into Dr. Deary’s office. I had been in there before but only once and Pricilla had been with me. A smile spread across Dr. Deary’s face when he saw me in the doorway with a coffee in my hand. I glanced around his office. There was a skeleton in the corner next to a large wooden cabinet that probably held all his files on patients. Certificates hung behind him and he sat behind a large oak desk littered with paper and knickknacks. He gestured for me to sit down on a chair across from him when I set his coffee down and I timidly sat, slowly taking off my bonnet. It was rude to wear one inside. He looked at me a moment with furrowed brows. His inspection made my heart jump.

“You changed your hair,” he commented. No opinion on it, just a fact. I blushed. I hated that I blushed every time he said anything to me.

“Yes, Mother and Grandmother Muriel hate it,” I mumbled, looking down at my hands, gripping the fabric of my bonnet tightly. My mother would probably scold me when I got home for wrinkling the fabric. I heard Dr. Dearly clear his throat.

“It suits you.” My eyes snapped up to look at him. His deep brown eyes were still inspecting me.

“Yes, well. The Proper Ladies of Darley always doted on my hair and I was tired of it.” Dr. Deary raised an eyebrow.

“The Proper Ladies of Darley,” he asked with amusement in his voice. I waved a hand.

“Yes, yes. It’s an afternoon tea club that I’m in. I didn’t come up with the name.”

“No, I imagine you’re much more creative than that,” Dr. Deary mused. He cleared his throat when I said nothing, taken aback by his comment. No one had ever commented on my creativity, not the potential of my brain at all for that matter, and he choked me with his words of kindness towards my creative spark. I decided to write him into the manuscript that I was writing. Maybe he would be a strong knight who didn’t necessarily save the maiden but was there for her. Or a poor farmhand who looked on at the kingdom, wanting so badly to feel its riches but being unable to touch.

“Have you ever had coffee, Miss Rose,” Dr. Deary asked me some time later while I was sitting in his office after dropping off his coffee from Harold’s and avoiding my duties on the farm. I shook my head. I had just turned twenty and I had only ever had tea. Dr. Deary pushed his own cup towards me. “You might not like this cup, as it doesn’t have any sugar or cream in it, but give it a try.” I hesitated but took the cup and carefully took a sip. He was right, it was way too bitter for my inexperienced taste buds but the base taste wasn’t horrible and I could see myself liking it if it was sweeter. I nodded and slid the cup over to Dr. Deary.

“It isn’t bad,” I told him. He looked at me and thought for a moment, fingering the end of his mustache.

“Say, what do you want to do with your life? Something meaningful, I can imagine.” I blinked a couple of times, trying to fully comprehend his question. No man had ever asked me what I wanted to do in my future, assuming that I was preparing to be a housewife or had already given up and was becoming a poor seamstress in my old age of twenty.

“Well, I want to be a writer, although Mother and Grandmother Muriel say that’s silly.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s silly at all,” Dr. Deary said to me. “What do you want to write?”

“I want to write far tales of maidens and knights and dragons and witches who course the land of those who banished them for being different from everyone else. Fantasy just seems so… lovely with the ability to take you away from the dull life in a small town.

“I’m glad we agree on something Miss Rose.”

“Please, call me Margaret,” I told him. I could feel my voice shaking as I felt as though I was taking out acquaintanceship built on coffee to the next level. Dr. Deary eyed me for a moment.

“Are you sure that’s appropriate, Miss Rose,” he asked. I nodded hesitantly. I didn’t know where this moment of bravery was coming from. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was wearing my lucky red hair ribbon. Was Dr. Deary, the man I had spent almost two years slowly trying to get closer to, going to throw me out of his office, never speak to me again?

“Well, in that case, Margaret, you can call me Thomas.” My heart fluttered at the sound of his name. Thomas. I had never heard a name so handsome in my life. I clapped a hand over my mouth when I realized I had said that last part out loud. One side of Dr. Deary- Thomas’ mouth turned up in a smile. He just shook his head and turned back to the papers he was working on when I had come in, a gesture I had come to interpret as it was time for me to go because he had work to do. I got up, blushing as deeply as the pink ribbon in my hair.

Two days later, I was in the kitchen when a knock sounded on the door. My father was out on the farm and my mother was in town with my brother picking up things for supper. I answered the door and was shocked at what I saw.

“Thomas? What are you doing here?” Thomas’ hands were shoved in the pockets of his worn-out tweed jacket.

“Margaret, I would like to invite you on a walk in the gardens tomorrow afternoon and perhaps some tea, while we’re at it, or coffee, whichever you prefer.” My mouth opened slightly and I nodded. Had it actually worked? Two years of bringing him coffee? Thomas leaned forward slightly. “I suspect you catch my drift, Margaret? That I do not want to take a stroll simply as friends, but striding towards something more?” I nodded again and Thomas straightened, nodding his head one time as he had the first time we had met.

“Good, it would be quite embarrassing if you hadn’t.”

When I told Katherine what had happened, she scoffed at me, her infant named Dalia in her arms.

“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, he’s old enough to be your father!” I shook my head.

“Not quite. I’m twenty and he’s only thirty-five. My father is forty-three.” Katherine bounced Dalia on her knee and rolled her eyes.

“Close enough to be your father.” I took Katherine’s free hand.

“Kat, please just be happy for me! I’ve finally found a man that I see as an equal and don’t feel as if I’ll be settling with. You know that’s hard for me.” Katherin squeezed my hand and gave me a smile.

“I am happy for you. I just warn you to be careful.”

“I will.”

One day in early summer, I met Thomas in the gardens behind the library at two o’clock in the afternoon the next afternoon. He was a gentleman, as he always was, and kept his distance from me. I appreciated it, as Katherine’s words of warning still rang through my head. I had put on a rosy pink dress that day, Mother always told me that pink and red complimented my skin tone. It was a Sunday morning when everyone was at church and no one would see us together. We had decided to keep it quiet, as we didn’t want all the judgment of the town falling on us. Thomas was carrying a basket in his hand and I wasn’t quite sure what was in it, though I assumed it was supplied for a picnic, which seemed delightful on a day like it was. The weather was perfect, warm enough that I didn’t need a shawl or anything but cool enough that I didn’t need to bring out my summer gowns. All the flowers were in full bloom, creating a romantic scenery that I was sure to write in great detail about later that evening. Thomas stopped, reaching a clearing recluded by rose bushes, and opened the basket, revealing picnic supplies. He pulled out a green and white checkered blanket that seemed perfect for the scenery and laid it on the soft grass, motioning for me to sit down. I looked at him for a moment when he sat down next to me. He looked like a completely different man from the day he had come into town or at least the day that I had seen him for the first time. His hair was lightened from the sun, as I had originally suspected it would, and his mustache had little highlights in it. He smiled more, as well. Not just the corner of the mouth smiles as he used to do, real smiles that showed off the slight crookedness of his teeth. Today in the garden, he wasn’t wearing his brown tweed jacket with a hole in the shoulder, but a mossy green colored one that looked as though it was only used for special occasions. He pulled out two different canisters. He handed one to me. I smelled it and realized he had brought me tea, which I appreciated greatly. He then brought out the second one.

“I brought you a type of coffee to try that you might like better. It’s called a light roast. Harold’s tends to be very dark.” He put a lot of cream and two sugar cubes into the cup he had poured for me and handed it to me. I took a hesitant sip and he was right, I did like this coffee better. It was still a little bitter, but nothing I couldn’t get used to. I popped another sugar cube and a dash more cream into it. I actually could appreciate the taste once the sugar and cream were added and the smell was delicious. I realized that I found the smell so alluring because it smelled like him. I smiled down at the cup and set the canister of tea down at my side. There would be plenty of time for tea, at that moment, I needed the coffee.

“So, have you been writing anything lately,” he asked me. I looked down at the cup again and shook my head.

“No, Mother keeps saying it’s silly to be wrapped up in stories rather than paying attention to the real world around me and I suppose she’s right. I now spend more time being trained to be a ‘proper lady’.” I rolled my eyes. Thomas let out a scoff that turned into a laugh.

“A proper lady? Like the women you have tea with every week and complain ever so heavily to me about? And, would a proper lady be chopping off all her hair, originally out of spite, writing scandalous tales about maidens and farmhands, and sneaking around with a man fifteen years older than her when everyone else is at church? My apologies, Margaret Anne Rose, but you are not a proper lady and I wouldn’t rather it be any other way. Proper doesn’t suit you.” I smiled at him and nodded.

“I suppose you’re right, Dr. Deary.” Thomas studied me for a moment then reached into the basket again. A carefully wrapped rectangle was in his hands and he gave it to me. The wrapping paper was plain, just brown, but it was intricately wrapped in a way that reminded me of fancy shops in Coremont.

“I missed your birthday, so I got you this.”

“Thomas, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I told him, taking the present.

“I know. But I wanted to.” I smiled at him again and tried to hold back a blush as I opened the present. It was a beautifully bound book that had a large tower with a maiden in it and a knight standing on the ground below it on the cover. Written in Thomas’ scribbly doctor's handwriting inside the cover said “To spark your imagination and take you away from dull life in a small town.” I had to stop myself from tearing up, as he remembered the exact words I had told him months prior. I reached over and squeezed his hand, the first physical touch we had exchanged outside of taking his arm to walk.

“It looks wonderful. I love it, thank you.”

Thomas and I had been seeing each other in secret (except for Katherine, of course, and I suspected Pricilla knew something was going on) for six months at that point, fairly slow for the times. I had come to his office later than normal with his coffee. It was around six o’clock and Pricilla was getting ready to close.

“He’s up there. You’re welcome to go up if you’d like.” She gestured to a door that I had never gone through that led to a flight of stairs. It felt weird and scandalous going up to Thomas’ room unchaperoned. I took a deep breath and made my way up the stairs, fiddling with the ruby red ribbon that cinched my waist. I knocked softly on the door to his living quarters.

“Pricilla, if that’s you, you may go ahead and leave.” I opened the door

“It isn’t Pricilla,” I whispered out to him. Thomas smiled when he saw me, a sight I was starting to grow very fond of. His living quarters were much tidier than his office, and I remembered he had once told me during one of our strolls through the garden that he didn’t bring his work into his home life.

“What are you doing here, it’s getting late,” he whispered to me after pulling me into his arms for a tight hug.

“Well, I came to give you this,” I started, holding out the coffee to him. “And I want to talk to you about something.” He looked at me curiously and prompted me to go forward, taking the coffee from my hands and pouring half of it into a separate mug with two sugars and two spoons of cream, just how I liked it. I took a large sip of the coffee, breathing in the smell of him before continuing. I wished I had had some wine before coming, it might make things easier. “I think it’s time we tell people about us.” Thomas’ eyes bugged out of his head but he didn’t say anything. He always liked making sure I was done talking before replying. “Because I love you,” I blurted out before slapping a hand over my mouth.

“What,” Thomas exclaimed. I held my chin up.

“It’s true, I do.” Thomas’ normally calm and soothing expression turned slightly frustrated and I recoiled from the man I thought I knew so well.

“Margaret, you shouldn’t.”

“Well, I do,” I told him defiantly. This was not going as I originally had planned.

“Well, you shouldn’t!”

“Well, I do!” We were so close to each other that our chests were touching. He fingered the ends of my short hair (I had decided to keep it short, as I preferred it that way). I noticed a glint of tears in his eyes.

“You’re so young, Margaret, My Rose,” he whispered as his frustration turned to sadness. My heart leaped at the term of endearment leaving his lips. “How could you love an old man like me. What if I’m not able to offer you what a younger, more able man can offer you.” I put a hand on his cheek, feeling a slight stubble under my palm.

“For starters, you’re only 35, my dear. A whole lifetime ahead of you. And I don’t want a younger, more able man. I want you. Because, whether you like it or not, I love you, Thomas Henry Deary.” Thomas looked as though he was at a loss for words, and I smirked knowing I had gotten the last word. Instead of saying anything, he brought his lips to mine, an act so scandalous from a man so tight-laced that I knew it was a sign of love, not lust. I felt his mustache tickle me as I felt his lips press ever so gently against my lips that had never been kissed as such before. Although it wasn’t intense or extreme, even when he gently parted my lips with his own, it was so full of love that I thought as though my heart would burst out of my chest. He pulled back and rested his forehead on mine, giving me one last soft peck as if to check and make sure I was actually there.

“I love you too, Margaret Anne Rose. And I will do my very best to make sure you’re able to live the lovely, full life that you deserve as the amazing author I know you’ll eventually be.”

When we told my parents, they weren’t exactly thrilled. I actually had Thomas leave for a bit so I could talk some sense into them. I think he went outside to play with George by the chicken coop.

“I love him! I can’t choose who I fall in love with,” I yelled at them. My mother scoffed about yelling not being proper. “And he loves me. That’s what should matter to you, not some stupid age gap. You know I’ve always been too mature for the boys my age!”

“What if his intentions aren’t as pure as what you think? What if he prays on young girls and that’s why he had to move from Coremont to a small town,” my mother hissed at me. I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

“Well considering we’ve been seeing each other for six months, he wouldn’t be doing a very good job praying on girls, as he hasn’t tried to take advantage of me at all.” My mother’s eyes popped and my father’s face went purple.

“Six months?” My father roared. I was surprised Thomas hadn’t run in by how loud it was. I jutted my chin out.

“Yes, six months.” My mother sank down into a chair at our large dining room table.

“Margaret, your father and I need a moment.” I turned on my heels and marched out of the house to meet Thomas and George at the chicken coop. When I stood next to him, he reached down and squeezed my hand.

“So, you were kicked out too,” he asked, an ounce of humor in his voice.

“They didn’t take it very well when I told them we had been seeing each other for six months.” Thomas turned to me but I continued to watch George play in the dirt.

“I thought we weren’t going to tell them about that.” I sighed and turned to face him.

“You know how I am. Things just come out. I wasn’t really thinking and I just said it.” Thomas wrapped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

“Well, it might be for the best anyway. They probably would’ve found out eventually and it will be better to come clean now rather than later.” He turned to watch George play and a small smile grew on his face.

“Thomas, do you want kids? Not now, obviously, but some time?” Thomas shrugged.

“It would be nice some time. But it really isn’t entirely up to me.” I turned to George. It wouldn’t be entirely out of the question to have at least one kid. I didn’t hate them and I didn’t think I would mind being a mother terribly.

“Margaret? Dr. Deary? You may come in now,” my mother called from our porch before disappearing into the house. Thomas and I looked at each other, squeezed each other’s hands, then walked into the house, ready to face my parents hand in hand. We sat down at the dining room table.

“Dr. Deary, how do we know that your intentions with my daughter are pure. I mean, you can’t blame us for having concerns. You’re a 35-year-old doctor.” Thomas nodded.

“Please, sir, call me Thomas. And I can understand your concern. To ease your mind, I have never seen Margaret in a medical sense except for emergencies such as sickness. All routine checkups have been with Pricilla. I also was not the one to first approach Margaret. While I must admit, your daughter is beautiful and smart and kind, and I couldn’t help myself but to hope, I let your daughter come to me first and grow our acquaintanceship, then friendship, then relationship at her pace, not mine.” My mother pursed her lips.

“Well? Are you planning on marrying her any time soon? You know she’s twenty.” Thomas opened and closed his mouth, trying to come up with a response to that question.

“We haven’t talked about that yet but when it happens, you’ll be the first to know,” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to snap at her but the question was stupid. Yes, I was twenty, but that didn’t mean I was bound to end up alone if Thomas didn’t marry me within the next month.” My parents looked at each other and grimaced.

“Dr. Deary- Thomas. If you do anything to hurt her, we will drag your name through the mud so much so that you won’t be able to practice anywhere within this region. Do you understand me,” my mother said, her voice low. Thomas nodded his head quickly.

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Rose. I would never do anything to hurt Margaret.” My mother leaned back in her chair and nodded. She waved her hand towards the door.

“Good, you may leave now.” Thomas and I quickly got up.

“Not you, young lady. This may be over between us and him but we still have a lot of discussing to do,” my mother snapped, pointing a finger at me.

“I’m at least going to walk him out, Mother. It would be disrespectful not to do so,” I smirked. I skipped out the door after Thomas and when I reached him, he pulled me into a hug that swept me off my feet and spun me around in a circle.

“That was sort of a trainwreck,” he whispered in my ear.

“It went better than I was expecting, actually,” I giggled. Thomas pulled back and kissed my forehead.

“I must be going, my rose. I’ll see you soon.” Thomas released me and walked away from my house, hands in his green tweed jacket that he only wore on special occasions and a slight skip in his step. I made a mental note to hem his brown one for him as I went inside to face my parents again.

Thomas and I bought a house together a year later. He made a point to say that we were buying it together and make sure my name was on all the paperwork as well, much to the annoyance of the bank. We were not married but we didn’t need to be. It was the talk of the town when it happened and I’m sure my parents were less than thrilled about me tarnishing my already rocky reputation. However, it didn’t particularly matter to Thomas nor I. We weren’t traditional in any sense of the word. I already got judgemental stares from The Proper Ladies of Darley for my chopped hair, my unwed state at the age of twenty-one, sometimes wearing pants or no corset or both to the meetings and out so it didn’t matter to me that I gave them another reason to judge me. It worked for me and Thomas so it shouldn’t matter to anyone else, I always told them. We bought a small cottage, fit for a total of two kids if we chose to have them in the future, on the edge of town. It was quite a walk from there to my parent’s house but it only took about fifteen minutes to a half-hour on horseback. It seemed like the perfect distance away and Thomas liked to walk to his office. Plus, the town had decided to hire a second doctor so Thomas only had to be in three days a week instead of six.

One morning, I was making myself a coffee. I put a sugar cube and a spoon of cream and brought it to my lips, savoring the smell that it brought me when Thomas walked in with a worried look on his face.

“An urgent note came in for you, dear,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. I glanced up at him, mirroring his concerned expression when I realized it wasn’t about the chickens, which Thomas had just been tending to, and opened it quickly. I never really received anything so whatever it was had to have been important. When I read the note, I dropped my coffee, causing the cup to shatter onto the ground and coffee to go everywhere. I usually relished in the scent of it but this morning it nauseated me. I collapsed into Thomas’ arms and we gently sank onto our knees.

“What is it? Talk to me,” Thomas whispered. Unable to read aloud what I had just read to myself, for then it would seem too permanent, I handed the note off to Thomas, who read it carefully then squeezed me tight and let me cry on his shoulder for as long as I needed.

A week later we were in our funeral blacks and I was watching my father being lowered into the ground at our family cemetery. He was next to his mother, Grandmother Muriel, who had died a year previously. She had died of pre-existing heart problems but it was rumored that the news of Thomas and I being together had done her in. What if that is what had happened to my father? He had died of a heart attack from overworking himself on the farm and not paying attention to his health but what if it was from the stress of the scandal that his daughter was living that had actually killed him? I shook those thoughts from my head. I loved Thomas and he loved me. My father knew that and, after the initial shock, was relatively supportive. Thomas encouraged me to follow my desired path and put off his own plans for the future because of it. I wanted to publish at least one short story before getting married and having a kid and he respected that, letting me work on my writing in peace and not pressuring me to move up our timeline, despite living with each other. The thought of leaving him because my father died seemed cruel, especially because of the fact that Thomas had been there for me during all of it, even when I went through random bouts of anger where I would lash out at anyone and everyone around me.

“Are you okay,” Thomas asked me, pouring me a cup of coffee, one sugar, one spoon of cream when we got in from the funeral. He whispered it, as we were in my family’s kitchen and George and my mother had already retired to bed.

“It just feels so final. He’s going to miss so many of my life’s adventures. He won’t even be able to see me published, if I ever get published,” I whimpered, choking out a sob. Thomas sat down in a chair next to me and squeezed my hands.

“Look at me, Margaret. You will be published. And now, you have even more purpose to be published because your father will be looking down at you and he will be so proud of you when it happens.” I gave him a teary smile and brought my lips to his. We retired to separate guest rooms, as my family didn’t let us sleep in the same room when we stayed over, and I lay awake that night, unable to get the thought of my father’s casket being lowered into the brown dirt.

Two years later, Thomas and I were still living together and still unmarried. One morning in the summer, I had just turned twenty-three, I was sitting at our dining room table reading the post. Thomas poured me a cup of black coffee and added a spoon of cream in. I sipped my bitter coffee, just the way I liked it and felt him staring at me. I tried to ignore it but I could see his grin out of the corner of my eyes. I set the paper down.

“Well, what is it, then,” I asked, annoyed. Our mornings were always silent. I read the paper while he prepared the coffee then he read the paper while I prepared breakfast. “I’m not done with the paper yet if that’s what this is about.” Thomas didn’t say anything but slipped me an already opened envelope. He had a nasty habit of opening up all the mail, even if it was addressed to me. Not because he wanted to know what I was getting before I did, but he was excited about getting stuff.

“Read it aloud,” he said. I rolled my eyes and took the letter from the envelope. I sighed before reading it.

“Dear Miss Rose, we are pleased to inform you that the Coremont Magazine of Short Stories is pleased to take your submission ‘Developing a Taste for the Farm’. Your tale of love, family, and fantasy with topics of classism and grief interwoven within delighted us and we would like to publish it in the next volume. Please sign the waiver we sent in the envelope and send it back to us by July 25 if you would wish to have your story published in the August edition. You will get royalties for this publication,” I finished excitedly. I threw my arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. I quickly signed the waiver and ran out of the house to send it in the post and to tell my mother, brother, and Katherine.

Two weeks later, we were sitting at the table, much like we had that morning. Thomas handed me my coffee while I read the newspaper and he sat down. I felt him staring at me, only this time, he didn’t have the goofy grin he had the morning we found out that the Coremont Magazine of Short Stories had decided they wanted to publish me. The look this morning was more contemplative, sincere, emotional. I set my paper down, much like that morning two weeks previous.

“What is it,” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Thomas studied me for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box. He slid it to me and I looked at him questioningly, an eyebrow still raised. I opened the box and revealed a small ring with an opal set. I recognized it from when I had met his mother. It was her wedding ring that she wore, even though she was widowed.

“Let’s get married,” Thomas said matter of factly, much like he had when he commented on me changing my hair in one of my first meetings. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, although I didn’t stop this time. We kissed with a passion that we had never kissed before, a passion that made my temperature heat up and my body tingle to my toes and when Thomas hauled me onto his lap, wrinkling my gray dress, I sighed into his lips and I knew whatever we had planned for that morning was going to have to be postponed.

Our ceremony was small. We held it in the gardens behind the library where we had had so many of our secret meetings and I wore a simple white dress with flowers in my hair. I didn’t need to wear anything fancy when I was with Thomas. While the day of our wedding was extremely hot, being in mid-July, and the men and women attending the wedding were sweating and I could see them whispering complaints from my spot at the altar, we still danced and drank and had a lively time.

My heart pounded as George walked me down the aisle. I saw Thomas in his formal attire, although instead of a traditional wedding blazer, he was wearing his green jacket that I loved him in. Green complimented his hair so well. He smiled at me and I swear I saw a tear drip down his face, although Thomas denied it until the day he left this earth. I got to the altar and we joined hands. Thomas and I had decided to go non-traditional and wrote our own vows. I started.

“Thomas, it feels as though we’ve known each other for a lifetime. When I walked into your office that spring day all those years ago, I knew that there was something pulling us together. I didn’t, however, know that I was meeting my soulmate. I have come to enjoy the little things you give me every day. The tiny quirk of your lips when you’re reading the paper, the little chuckle you give when you watch birds fight over food in our garden, how you make sure to wrap me up in a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch after a day of writing. It was never about grand gestures for us, but you know I’ve never been one for grand gestures. You compliment me perfectly, being calm and patient to my hotheadedness and encouraging me to pursue my dreams, no matter what they are. I cannot wait to spend my life and beyond with you.” I choked up at the end of the sentence and quickly wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Thomas was beaming at me as he took a deep breath.

“Margaret Anne Rose. Where can I start? You make sure my life is an adventure every day that I am with you. I dread leaving the house in the morning and can’t wait to get home to you every night. I know we aren’t the most traditional couple but you’re the only one I want forever, my rose, and my writer. I can’t wait to read every story you write for the rest of our lives together.” While his was much shorter than mine, I didn’t expect anything else. Thomas was a man of few words but the words he did say had an impact every time. I sniffled as we exchanged rings and as quickly as we had gotten up there, we kissed and left the altar to celebrate and Mr. and Mrs. Rose-Deary. I smirked as the ladies of the town whispered about our last name.

When my new husband and I were sitting at a table together, a nosy second cousin of Thomas’ walked up to us and plopped down. It was clear she had drunk a little too much. I glanced at Thomas, who had a bemused look on his face.

“Ah, good for you Thomas. Picked a young one. In the perfect fertile range, although maybe age is getting up there since you’ve been seeing each other for so long.” I clenched my jaw but didn’t say anything. I promised my mother I wouldn’t make a scene. “So, when are you two planning on popping some out?” I blushed immediately, as did Thomas. Truth be told, we had already had a couple of scares in our time as fiances but that was the price you paid for consummating your wedding before the actual wedding. Neither of us were ready to have children yet and I wasn’t particularly worried about my “fertile range”, as my mother had George when she was thirty-eight. Twenty-three hardly seemed like the time to be worried about it. Thomas put an arm around me and squeezed my shoulder.

“Neither of us want kids currently but when we do, you’ll be the first to know, Prudence.” Prudence smiled, unaware of Thomas’ sarcasm, and sauntered off to go flirt with one of my cousins, who was already married. I looked at Prudence and chewed on my lips. Perhaps she was right. I had heard that having a kid could take a while and some people have a hard time conceiving. And even if you managed to conceive, there was always the risk of losing it. Thomas gently took my chin and turned my head to him.

“Don’t let Prudence get to you. I think I saw her getting into the wine before the ceremony had even started.” I smiled at him.

“I’m not. Let’s dance.” He offered me his hand and I took it, letting him lead me. The sun was starting to come down and the lanterns we had put out as decorations, as well as the fireflies, were starting to light up. We slowly danced, not really following any formal dance in particular, we preferred to let the music move us.

“Although,” I started. “I wouldn’t mind horribly having a little young one running around,” I whispered to him, not really wanting anyone around to hear. Thomas put a hand on my cheek.

“My love, we have plenty of time for that. It’s the day of our wedding, we don’t have to worry about that.”

“I know. But what if it takes a while? Or what if I have a hard time keeping them? Or what if… what if I can’t even get pregnant? Wouldn’t it be better to know now rather than later?” Thomas set his hands on my shoulders to slow me down.

“Margaret, if it takes a while, we have plenty of time. You’re only twenty-three. That’s hardly old. Did you know my mother didn’t have me until she was forty?” I nodded. “And, although I don’t do your appointments, I have seen your records. You’re perfectly healthy. I don’t predict any problems.” I just nodded again. Thomas hesitated. “However, if it would make you feel better, we can slowly start trying. Go about our… normal activities but maybe a little less… careful.” I squeezed him tightly into a hug.

“That would make me feel better,” I whispered into his ear. “Now, let’s get out of here. I’m ready to go home.” We said our goodbyes to everyone (the family had decided to clean up and let us spend our wedding night alone) and rode off to our home in the small carriage Thomas had arrived in. When we parked the carriage and got out, Thomas swept me up into his arms and carried me into our home, into our bedroom. He undid all the tiny buttons of my wedding dress and was delighted to find that I had opted out of the normal underthings that day and decided to wear only a slightly see-through chemise. That night we ‘consummated our marriage’ more times than probably anyone would like to think about and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

I had been right. A year of being “uncareful” and there still was no baby to show for it. Not even a pregnancy scare. Month after month my cycle came, showing us our failure. He tried not to show it, but I know it affected Thomas. All it took for me was to come out of our bedroom on the day my cycle started and shake my head and he would plaster on a smile and say “well, maybe next month”. This happened month after month and I know the town had started to talk. We were nearing our one-year wedding anniversary and there was no child or pregnancy. That was practically unheard of unless a couple was physically unable to conceive. What if we were? I would never blame Thomas if he wasn’t able to have children but I would never stop blaming myself if I robbed him of the opportunity of being a father. I remembered how he looked at George by the chicken coop the evening we told my parents about us and every single month when I found out it hadn’t worked, that look flashed through my head. Was it really fair for him to stay with me, unable to conceive, if he wanted children? I shook my head, forcing those ideas out of my mind. I had a cake to prepare for our first anniversary, which was the next day. I smiled as I baked, thinking of all the things that had happened within the last year. Thomas got the idea in his head that he wanted chickens. I suspected it was because of chicks that had just hatched on Elm Farm and he had fallen in love with them. Well, it was a disaster. He had absolutely no farming experience, being from Coremont, and I had to show him everything even though when he had brought the idea to me, I had said “fine, but they’re YOUR chickens. I have absolutely no interest in farm duties again”. And he spoiled those chickens. I didn’t think it was possible to spoil chickens but he did. He would sit by the coop for hours with them and sometimes, he would even let them into the house. It started one night when there was a large thunderstorm and he heard them clucking. He ran out to the coops and brought them inside, claiming they were scared. Although I had to admit, it was nice having eggs when we needed them.

We had a lovely anniversary. Katherine and her husband, Frank, had gotten a sitter for Dalia and their new child, Frederick, and they came and had dinner with us. When they were gone and I was cleaning up the dinner, I felt Thomas come up behind me and start kissing my neck, fiddling with the strings on the back of my dress.

“What a year it had been,” he murmured into my ear. I knew what he was trying to do but I felt a lump begin to form in my throat. I swallowed it and slapped him on the shoulder, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, go on up to our room, then, you fool. I’ll be up after I finish cleaning some stuff up.” Thomas gave me a kiss on the cheek, muttered something lewd, and retired up to our bedroom. When he was gone and I heard our door close, the facade finally shattered and I collapsed into a chair and started to sob. What type of wife was I if I couldn’t even bear one child for him? Katherin hadn’t had any trouble. She had conceived Dalia two months after she and Frank wed. And it only took my mother and father two weeks of trying to have my older sisters. What was wrong with me to make it so difficult? I sobbed gut-wrenching cries with my head in my hands. I didn’t even hear Thomas come down the stairs.

“Margaret?” I looked up and he was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a worried look on his face. “What is it?”

“We’ve been trying for a year now. Why hasn’t anything come out of it? A whole year,” I sobbed. Thomas ran to me and ruled me into a big hug. I was so fond of his hugs although it only made me cry harder because of how good he was to me.

“Honey, I only wish you would’ve told me how much stress this was putting you through,” he told me softly.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I sniffled, wiping my nose on a handkerchief that he had so graciously handed me. I’m sure I looked a mess with my nose running, eyes puffy. And my skin had the tendency to grow an awful shade of red when I cried. Still, Thomas kissed my forehead. He sat down in the chair next to me and grasped my hands when I had calmed down.

“Margaret, if this is causing you so much stress and sadness, let’s just… stop trying.” I started to protest but Thomas stopped me with a light kiss. “I would rather have you whole and happy with the potential of never having kids than have you broken and depressed with the potential for kids. As I told you in my apartment so long ago, Margaret Anne Rose-Deary and that isn’t going to stop if we’re unable to have kids.” I smiled tearfully up at him and placed a searing kiss on his lips, a kiss so passionate that my husband picked me up and brought me to our bedroom, cherishing me in the way I needed on that particular night, uncaring about his own needs.

“I don’t know, Pricilla, I've been feeling awfully weird lately,” I told Nurse Pricilla in her examination room two years later, a month after our third wedding anniversary. “I feel like I have no energy and the last two days I’ve been so nauseous. I can’t keep anything down but I’m so hungry. I didn’t want to concern Thomas, you know he’s been so busy here lately, but I think I must be sick.” Pricilla patted my leg.

“That’s quite alright, Mrs. Rose-Deary.” I waved a hand.

“You know you can call me Margaret.” Pricilla sat down.

“So, have there been any other symptoms you’ve been feeling lately?” I thought for a moment.

“Well, Thomas and I have been getting into a lot more arguments lately. Over tiny things. He left a sock on the chair in our living room last night and I just got so unreasonably angry with him. So I guess add irritability to the list.” A look crossed Pricilla’s face.

“Have you been getting sick in the mornings,” she asked. I furrowed my brows.

“I hadn’t really thought about it but yes. Sick in the mornings but I’ve been nauseous all day.” Pricilla smiled.

“Margaret, when was your last cycle?”

“Why, it was July 25, so not-” I stopped abruptly, realizing that my cycle should’ve come a week previously. I was never late. “Pricilla, you don’t think…” Pricilla smiled again.

“I do, Margaret. As I recall, your husband came into the office in very good spirits about a month ago. I want to say it was the day after your anniversary.” I blushed but threw my arms around my nurse.

“Oh, Pricilla! You don’t know how long we’ve been trying!” I pulled back. “Thomas! I have to tell Thomas right away!” Pricilla held up a finger.

“Wait in here. He’ll be done with his last patient soon. I’ll make it seem like you’ve come in sick and that it’s beyond my realm of knowledge.” I clapped my hands together in excitement and Pricilla left the room. I looked down and put a hand on my stomach, tearing up.

“Hey there, baby. It took a little bit, but you’re finally here.” About fifteen minutes later, my husband rushed into the room, giving me a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I shouldn’t have left you this morning. I knew something was off,” he muttered, feeling my forehead for a fever.

“Well, Dr. Rose-Deary, I’ve been so awfully tired these past couple of weeks, I can hardly go a full day without a rest. And very irritable. My husband and I have been arguing constantly lately. And these past couple of days, I’ve been getting sick in the mornings and have been nauseous all day. I’ve been unable to eat but so very hungry.” Thomas was still taking notes diligently. He hadn’t caught what I was saying yet. “And, my cycle is now late.” He said the words under his breath, still writing, when he stopped and the pen fell out of his hand.

“Margaret, do you think…” I nodded, a smile spreading across my face.

“It was supposed to come last week.” Tears started forming in Thomas’ eyes and he enveloped me into the tightest hug I think I had ever received. Well, besides the day I gave birth to our sun Timothy William Rose-Deary. As suspected, Thomas was a wonderful father and taught Timothy to spoil the chickens just as he had.

Many years and two more kids named Felicity and Jonathan later, I sank into a chair in our empty kitchen. Timothy was thirty-four and had moved to Coremont to pursue medicine like his father, Felicity was thirty but wasn’t married, instead choosing to live with her best friend, who happened to be Katherine’s daughter Dalia, and Jonathan, who was twenty-three, was pursuing a lovely young lady by the name of Charlotte, who lived on the other side of town. And I, at my age of fifty-nine, had just found out that Thomas was dead. He had lived to seventy-four, a long life. I didn’t even know why, entirely. Pricilla said he had just dropped when he was seeing a patient and it was said that he had possibly been carrying a disease within him for some time and either didn’t know or hadn’t told me because he didn’t want me to worry.

“Marge,” Katherine hesitantly whispered. I shook my head.

“No, no. I can’t think. I need a coffee. I need a coffee from Harold’s. Nothing in it. Just black,” I ordered Jonathan, somewhat hysterically. He glanced at Katherine then ran out to get me the coffee.

I watched my husband getting lowered into the cemetery in our cottage’s garden. There had been a miscarriage in our thirty-six years of marriage and there was a small headstone for the lost child that he lay next to now. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t really cried in the days leading up to his funeral, there was too much to do. And I didn’t cry at the repast either. I was the host, after all.

That night, I poured myself a cup of coffee and the smell hit me. I inhaled the coffee, desperate to get his scent, the part of him that I would never lose. And I finally cried. I sobbed and sobbed, much as I had on our first anniversary. It hit me that I was widowed and I would never see my beloved husband again. I suppose that’s what people warn you about when you marry someone much older than you: you don’t really grow old together despite developing a taste for life with them.