The Most Beautiful Girl? Read online

Chapter Two: The Beautiful Hester Mooney

  At nineteen, Hester Mooney knew she was at the height of her beauty. It didn't matter to her that she was more than a little overweight. Those extra pounds added certain jiggles to her womanly curves as she moved, and those jiggles claimed the undivided attention of any man who glanced in her direction.

  It didn’t matter to her that her smile was a little lopsided. She smiled often and when she did, one side of her face smiled amiably showing several pearly-white teeth. But, the other side she carefully held down her upper lip, even when she laughed. Some say she was hiding a missing tooth, others said it was a broken tooth and still others had other theories. Whatever that affliction, it gave birth to another -- the breath of Hester’s every word produced a little whistle.

  Not the least self-conscious about her imperfections, she had the confident air of being the most beautiful girl in the County.

  Nevertheless, she'd worn a certain sadness for a long time, an air of melancholy that was at last beginning to lift. Like her mama and daddy, she grieved for her two brothers lost in the war, but also for a lost love.

  Four years earlier, Hester became engaged to Billy Lyle. He was sixteen and they were to be married in just a few weeks. It was the fall of 1864 and the Civil War raged close enough to hear the distant thunder of cannons, but the fighting never reached Murphyville.

  When a Confederate recruiter swept through the town, her Billy reluctantly marched away with seven other unlucky youths to fight for Dixie. Only two came home. Jesse Grant, remarkably uninjured, returned to boast of battles and glory.

  The other, Jacob Brown, only fourteen when he left, came home a year later looking like an old man, with half a leg gone and his face horribly scarred.

  Until recently, a few women still wore yellow ribbons pinned above their hearts as mute reminders of their missing loved ones, a custom of the of the folks of Murphyville. Yellow, to indicate the fervent hope their men would come home.

  The conflict had ended more than three years ago and Hester still wore a yellow ribbon. She had refused to give up the belief that Billy would one day come riding up to her cabin. However, after being faithful for so long, she decided that she, too, had to get on with her life.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she unpinned the ribbon from her dress and laid it on the quilt beside her. From under the corner of the mattress she retrieved a soiled envelope. The letter inside was more than three years old. Hester read this, the last letter from Billy, by the light of a candle every night before she went to sleep. In a couple of places, the creases had split in neat straight lines. It was written in careful, schoolhouse penmanship and Hester read it aloud as though it was Billy talking.

  She decided as she unfolded it that this would be the last time she'd allow Billy's words to speak to her. It was time to say good-bye.

  April 5, 1865

  My Dearest Hester,

  Well, we been fightin’ the Yankees since the middle of March. Had awful rain for two weeks now. Layin’ and sleepin’ and crawlin’ in cold mud most of the time. They finally managed to run us outta Petersburg, and Oh Lord, the price we paid. We got beat real bad almost ever’ day. Dead soldiers layin’ ever’ where. Officers don't want us to know, but I heard we had nearly 3,000 rebs killed just yisterday.

  It's been a turrible time, but I been all right so far, only got a bullit in the lef hand. Took off one finger and chewed up another. Gonna slow me down a little when I milk ol Flossy. You know how your mama makes them doilies with scollips round the edge? I got me a ear like that. Grapeshot took a chunk out.

  I hear we're goin to a place called Appymattix Court House. We're joinin’ up with two or three other reb genrals and there's supposed to be 21000 men when we get there. Mebbe then we can give them Yankees a real good lickin’ and get this war over with.

  Oh, I nearly fergot to tell you. That no-good Jesse Grant got sent to my outfit. That polecat ain't got a scratch on him. No wonder. He spends all his time standin’ behind a tree or another reb soldier when bullits are flyin’. I felt like shootin him myself!

  God, I miss you. Cain't wait ‘til I git home an’ we get hitched. Then we kin really cuddle an’ stuff. Mebbe we kin start us a famly. Have little uns of our own.

  I love you so much it hurts--even more than when I got shot.

  Your Billy

  Hester wistfully replaced the letter in its envelope and slipped the yellow ribbon in beside it.

  Tomorrow was the regular Wednesday afternoon quilting bee. She'd go, she thought. For several years she'd been in limbo, not married, not engaged. Since she hadn't been looking to get married, she just didn't belong. There were other reasons she hadn't gone back after two or three times. The complaining was tiresome; the women meddled in everybody else's business, and gossiped about anyone not there. Hester wondered, what do you suppose they say about me?

  At last week's quilting bee, the ladies' main subject had, indeed, been the "uppity" Hester Mooney. Their favorite topic was that unfortunate whistle.

  "How you s'pose she does it, all them different soundin’ whistles" asked Granny Brown, trying hard to understand one of the mysteries of Colchester County.

  "I dunno. You s'pose it's on purpose or by accident?" absentmindedly asked Lois, the large wife of Carl Treadle. She'd been wondering about her husband. Was he really fixing the stalls in the barn? He never got much work done on Wednesdays.

  "Humph! Hester Mooney is the only person in the county who could sing a solo in the church choir -- and whistle her own accompaniment. She could whistle Dixie...and keep right on talkin’, if she set her mind to it. Gittin attention! That's why she does it." Thelma Purdue sniffed self-righteously to punctuate her statement. Her man, Lester, went off to war the year before Billy Lyle and came home with a limp from the Battle of Bull Run. "

  Heads bobbed all around at Thelma's comment. Side-splitting laughter rocked everyone, causing the fabric of the quilt to pull tight. Thelma smiled at their amusement and winced in stoic resignation as the baby, now eight months in her belly, kicked as though already at play.

  "Ouch, darn-it! You women done it to me again! Pulled on that quilt and made me stick myself." Margaret Marley examined the injured finger and sucked the blood away. Laughter broke out again--this time at her misfortune.

  "I'd sure like to know how she does that, I mean, makes all of them different’ whistles," said Granny Brown with exaggerated breaths, thoughtfully raising and lowering one side of her upper lip to imitate Hester's. The sewing stopped, all except Margaret's, while everyone watched Granny Brown with fascinated amusement.

  "I know, by-gosh, I know!" Granny said, beaming proudly, revealing the absence of two front teeth. "It's the funny way she holds one side of her lip down!"

  "The other day, Hester got real mad at Harold in the feed store about somethin’," reported Willa Forsythe, youngest member of the group. "She took off walkin’ home, still real mad, just a-talkin’ and a-chirpin’ to a fare-thee-well. I was a little ways behind. Dogs ran out, answerin’ them whistles, from nearly every house along the road." Another gale of laughter swept around the quilt. They put down needles and thread, took their thimbles off, and wiped tears from their eyes.

  The next morning after her good-bye to Billy, the absence of Hester's yellow ribbon was immediately noticed. Although modestly dressed, she was oblivious to the tantalizing effect on the Murphyville men that her rolling stride had on certain parts of her anatomy.

  Free of her bond to Billy, her step had an extra little bounce. Every man stopped what he was doing to admire her and their greetings rippled down Main Street as she passed.

  The "howdy's," were soon followed by a succession of female voices ordering their men-folk back to work. Each Murphyville wife, like wives everywhere, could sense the roving eye of her man, and all but the most timid was quick to put a stop to that foolishness and get him back to business.

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bsp; Hester barely responded to the married men, and paid no mind to the chorus of jealous wives. Crossing the street, she headed for the General Store. As she walked, a certain rhythmic bounce, somewhat above her waist, caught the rapt attention of yet another Murphyville male, as she approached.

  The fuzzy-cheeked heir to Goldsmith's General Store paused and the broom with which he had been energetically sweeping, stopped at the highest point of his backswing at the sight of the young woman coming up the steps. He lowered his broom, and leaned on it.

  "Mornin’ Miss Hester. Can I give you a hand getting’ back home with the stuff you buy?"

  "Not today Robby. I'm not gittin’ much. Thanks anyway." She declined the offer with a smile and a toss of her long auburn hair.

  "Robert Goldsmith . . .! There's work to be done." His ma had heard the sweeping stop. Robby quickly resumed his work and a little cloud of dirt and bits of this and that sprayed into the street.

  Inside the store, Mr. Goldsmith politely concealed his amusement at the whistles between Hester's words and paid the girl for the eggs she'd carried to town in her basket. Robbie's pet spaniel, awakened by the high pitched tweets that accompanied Hester's side of the conversation, laid with tail thumping on the bare wood floor.

  After considering several different items, she finally decided to buy one medium-size cooking pot. The little money she'd brought along and what she received for her eggs paid for it with just enough left over to buy a pound bag of dried beans, some salt and a new set of sewing needles. The cooking pot was for her hope chest. She had already purchased two china plates with matching cups and two sets of table knives, forks, and spoons in preparation for the day she'd be setting up her own house.

  But, she thought, Billy's dead and I'm nineteen, way past the age girls 'round here get married. I want a husband and a farm of our own--and babies.

  "Bye, Mister Goldsmith, Miz Goldsmith." As she left the store, Hester felt flirtatious for the first time since the war. She reached up and lightly caressed the back of Robby's neck, "Byyyeee," she said in a low, breathy tone with only a hint of a whistle.

  The warmth of her touch jerked him stiffly upright as though he'd backed into a hot stove. He sighed, "Bye Hester," and paused again to longingly watch as she stepped from the porch and strutted away with a mesmerizing jiggle.

  The sounds of a galloping horse made Hester stop and turn quickly in alarm, spilling the contents of her basket. Reined back hard at the last moment, the horse sat on his haunches and skidded to a halt, much too close. A shower of dry earth flew onto the startled girl's shoes and dusted her dress. It was Jesse Grant. The same Jesse her Billy's last letter described in such unflattering, cowardly terms.

  Now, if you ain't a sight!" Still on the horse, Jesse laughed down at her consternation. "A little excitement and some dirt won't hurt a farm girl. Do you good. The church social is Sunday evenin’. I'll be by your cabin with the buckboard to pick you up." announced the spoiled son of Murphyville's minister -- a son that neither the minister nor his wife had succeeded in teaching the basics of good manners.

  Breathing hard, Hester Mooney vented her fury. "Jesse, you show up anytime around my cabin, you better be wearin’ cast-iron britches cause you're gonna be carryin’ away two loads of buckshot in your behind," she said, scolding Jesse for his lack of respect.

  Too late, the red-faced young man realized his mistake and would have liked nothing better than to flee the caterwauling he'd foolishly unleashed. But he couldn't! His horse was going crazy because of Hester's darned whistles. Mad and breathing hard, she was talking fast and whistling fast!

  Jesse's daddy had bought the horse from Abe Fetter after Abe quit farming. When Mr. Fetter's mule died he couldn't afford another one, so he taught his horse to plow and used him in the fields for a couple of years. Abe taught the horse to follow directions according to various whistles, the way the old mule had done. One whistle meant turn right, another turn left, another stop, and so on.

  Now, what sounded like those whistle commands triggered an equine flashback. Always obedient, the aging beast was doing his best, but the whistles came so fast he couldn't keep up. The sway-backed nag would lean forward as though he was about to pull a plow, but then another whistle told him to back up. With each tweet he'd go right, left, or wheel around. He did something different at every whistle and did it all so fast Jesse was having trouble staying in the saddle.

  "Now get away from me Jesse--and stay away!" Hester ordered, out of breath and finally out of words.

  Desperate to escape, Jesse spurred his mount intending to gallop out of town. The spurs dug in at the moment the horse came to rest facing across the street.

  "Boy, Hester's sure givin’ Jesse hell about somethin’." Edna McCray observed to the patrons of her tavern as they scurried out to see the commotion. "Oh, my God! That horse is headin’ right for Widow Brewster's front door!"

  Seconds later the terrified animal--with Jesse still astraddle, was lunging around the widow's parlor in a frantic attempt to find daylight and wide-open spaces. Amid the crash of breaking furniture, Jesse Grant received some very unladylike words from the Widow Brewster. Then, before the eyes of the gaping onlookers, horse and rider exploded out the front door onto the street and galloped off out of sight.

  Still shaking with anger, Hester Mooney brushed the dirt and dust from her skirt and marched off down Main Street. Her muttered displeasure at Jesse continued, softly launching a new symphony of whistles on the breeze. Lady, the livery stable mascot, ran out with six tail-wagging, half-grown pups and all looked expectantly up at her face as they trotted along, ears cocked for each nuance of Hester’s spirited musical conversation.

  "Darn! Why couldn't Nate Cooley have been on the street? He would have come to my rescue. It would have been perfect! We could have finally met."

  Calmer now, she let her lopsided smile return. Hester Mooney continued her jaunt, not the least self-conscious about her imperfections, and with the confident air of being the most beautiful girl in Colchester County.