The Orchard Doctrine

Lane’s mother had told her that there were things in a marriage that a woman just did. She instructed that they do so with “no fuss. No ma’am, not even a little.” She described how they were expected to behave at all times. Her ma’ had given plenty of advice, but she never instructed her on this.

Lane knew her ma’ would have been taken by George had she survived the sickness. His defined jaw and stern eyes made his handsomeness feel lawful. His broad shoulders wouldn’t have won her over; his role in society would have. Heir to a banking fortune, he came to town to start his own. In the short time since his arrival, he was already making his mark. The men lined up to buy him bourbon, and the ladies wore their best frocks to charm him with their assets. If Ma’ were alive, she would have forced Lane into one so tight she wouldn’t have been able to breathe. Then again, if that had happened, she wouldn’t have caught George’s attention. It was her lack of trying that had intrigued him.

Most men were used to Lane's disinterest in them. They had tried in their youth and into adulthood, but none of their attempts lasted. At their age, all they wanted was to swell lips and cup breasts. She had been selective, Ma’s orders, so the few she had courted were of high standing, and dreadfully boring.

Rufus Dolange courted her for three months. His father was the Head of the Cattleman Association, which afforded him the opportunity to travel. Once, when he came back from a trip out of state, she had asked about the candy, having heard they had imported chocolates from other countries, but he had responded that it was a waste of coin when his mother made perfectly good fudge at home. Had he toured any museums, the State Library, done anything?

Their courtship swiftly ended when she returned afterwards to news from Ma’ that Mr. Dolange had acquired debts. That was one thing about her ma’, she had expectations, Lane would be married, but to someone worthy. She was the one widow in town who could demand such.

Ma’ was royalty, if there was any in town. Her grandfather had founded Wild Forest and owned most of the land. She was a timeless beauty, as others claimed, passed to Lane, and, just like she had been, trained by expectations. Then her papa came to town with a dream to build a railroad enabling her ma’ to fulfill them.

Ma’ had reminded her often, “had it not for wives, there would be nothing. That’s why you do what’s asked. You’ll get nothing without respecting your duty.”

Lane was watching her ma’ be lowered into the soil when George’s train deposited him. His father had come a year earlier to purchase the land and hire builders for a home. Local artisans were hired for furnishings and elaborate decor. Ma’ had just taken ill and relied on others for tales of the town.

Nan gossiped with Ma’ as she served her meals about the young heir, “heard he has a secret vault,” she spooned a bit of soup in Ma’s mouth before continuing, “I believe it's true; it was my nephew who installed it.” Ma’ had just nodded, but Lane caught the twinkle in her eyes. That evening, her ma’ caught Lane by the hand as she brushed her hair, “Obey to obtain,” she proclaimed before drifting to sleep.

George had been in Wild Forest for a month before they met. Lane had spent that time mourning, but she had an obligation to get out of bed for church- at least that is what Nan claimed the whole town decreed. Moving forward, she would have to carry on. Her allotment for grief was up.

Nan had insisted on helping with her hair. To her disgust, she realized it hadn’t been washed since Ma’s funeral. It reached her thighs now, so she kept it braided into a bun that sat fat on her head. She slowly unbraided it while Nan placed a stool behind her, preparing to detangle the knots.

After Lane’s shower, she returned to her room, where Nan set out a vibrant dress for her to wear. It was too cheery, she thought as she picked it up, returned it to its hanger, and pulled a dark blue dress that reminded her of the night sky from her bureau in its place.

“Get a move on, child,” Nan was yelling from the kitchen, where a breakfast was no doubt waiting.

Sluggishly moving, Lane made it to church with the masses. A large group formed a line to be near the front rows. “The closer to God,” her auntie Delores would excuse. She chose a seat in the back.

The service was just beginning with prayer when George appeared beside her, asking if the seat next to her was taken. She gestured to it in reply. “George”, he whispered to her, sticking out his hand for a shake. She hesitated, trying to place the name, before realizing his arm was still outstretched. She took his hand, “Lane.” He shushed her, but before she could be embarrassed, he winked, “We’re supposed to be praying.”

During the hymns, Lane sang quieter than usual. She wanted to hear George; study him. Her ma’ would have wanted a full report. The thought made her belly drop. She shook her head, physically shaking her ma’s death from her head. He wasn’t holding the hymnbook but knew the words without looking, sure in his baritone. There were several more prayers before the sermon began, but by then she had already tuned out, focusing on her new neighbor instead.

“Well, that was a very… thorough service.” George’s words woke Lane from her daydream.

“Huh? Oh, yes,” she replied a beat after processing what he had spoken. “Reverend Mercy has eleven children at home. My Ma always said he kept preaching because if he went home, there would be no sleeping.”

George laughed. A deep belly one that filled her ears with lightness. It was the first time she smiled without the tinge of pain.

“Excuse me,” Laura Nale tapped Lane on the shoulder from behind. “I just wanted to give my condolences since missing your sweet Ma’s funeral.”

Lane gave a tight, closed smile before responding, “I’m sure you were missed.”

“George here needed a proper greeting. I know that your family usually offers hospitality, but given the circumstances, I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand completely,” Lane tried to keep her tone easy, but could not help a little venom from escaping. She understood many things. One of them was that Laura was nothing if not opportunistic. She did not begrudge her; all women had to work for their station. It just happened that they relied on the men to get it. What she could take issue with was that Laura would use Ma’s death as part of her scheme.

“Miss Nale,” George welcomed, “I hope you are fair. I was just about to extend my sympathy as well.” He returned his attention, “Lane, although I did not know your mother, nor have I suffered losing mine, I have a sympathetic ear.”

Laura interrupted with an exaggerated sigh, “This kind of talk is depressing. George let me offer my arm as an escort around town. I’m sure there are many places you have yet to explore.”

“That is a kind gesture, Miss Nale, but I had hoped to ask Lane to accompany me on an errand and was working up the courage before you walked up. Perhaps another time.”

Lane bit onto her cheeks to keep from showing the surprise and the guilty delight in seeing Laura’s face of envy. To her credit, however, Laura quickly recovered with a presumably fake smile that showed her teeth and bade her farewells.

The pair were quiet as they exited the church, although arm-in-arm. They passed Tomas, another former prospect, with his arms around a newly round Gabby. He rushed to George’s side, “Mr. Locke! Sir, the parcel arrived!”

“Ah, thank you, Tomas, Lane, and I were just on our way to it now.”

“Mr. Locke, can I fetch a carriage for you?”

“That won’t be necessary. It is an agreeable day outside. Perfect for walking.”

“My legs could use a good stretch,” Lane admitted.

“Well, if I can help with anything else, please let me know!” Tomas left to rejoin Gabby, a little too slowly, creating a small giggle from Lane.

“Are they always like this?” George bemusedly asked.

She shook her head no, still giggling. “You are the first newcomer since your father visited, and before that,” she paused to recall, “was probably Nan and her family.” George looked at her, confused, before she explained further, “She’s my nanny. Not nanny, I don’t need a nanny. Was my nanny. I mean, she’s still here. She’s just not my nanny anymore.”

“Do you always get this flustered when you talk about your not nanny?” He was teasing her, so she answered honestly, “It’s been a while… since I’ve conversed with anyone other than her or myself. I guess it’s not just the town.”

“I understand, I just wanted to see if I could make you smile.” She blushed. They fell into a peaceful quiet then. There didn’t seem to be a need to fill it. The sun's rays lit their backs with heat, which was a comfort she had missed.

In a short time, they were at his newly built bank. It looked like many of the other buildings in town, except for the statue that stood at the center of the steps. It was a woman carved of white marble. She wore a slinky cloth that wrapped at her ankles. Her arms were out like wings; her hair made of coins draped across them. The structure froze her in awe.

“A timeless beauty, isn’t she?”

“It. Her,” Lane corrected, “she’s stunning. Who is she?”

“An idea. A dream. My muse.” He shrugged, “Who knows, maybe you.” He took her hand, pulling her up the stairs and into the bank.

The parcel it had turned out to be was a hefty gold spring scale, perched on a countertop. It had vines crawling along the metal, and the measuring pan was oddly shaped. She inspected it more closely and discovered it resembled an apple, with an inscription beneath.

" A Locke to Make it Grow,” she read aloud. “What does that mean?”

George’s voice softened as he began, “a family motto, one would say,” George explained, almost apologetically. “My grandfather uses it when he discusses money. And orchards. He speaks of them as if they were symbiotic.”

She glanced at the scale again. “But what do fruit trees and money have in common?”

“Growth is rarely about adding,” he stated. “People like to postulate that wealth comes from accumulation. But the truth is, things flourish when something is carefully taken away.”

George came up beside her. He took her loose braid in his hand gently.

“You trim a tree so it bears fruit. You cut back its vines so they’re not strangled. There are times when you have to decide what to leave behind. Otherwise, it won’t thrive. I know it sounds severe, but it’s a reminder.”

“It is,” Lane agreed, “but perhaps the truth. You don’t get anything valuable without giving something of yourself to it. My Ma’ taught me a similar lesson.”

“The mistake most make is thinking the exchange is optional,” proclaimed George.

He arranged for Lane to be taken back home not long after their discussion. He asked to see her again before placing a kiss on her palm. She gave a polite yes, but inside, she felt like the ocean. Waves crashing all over; in her heart, in her mind, and in her soul.

Lane’s nerves did not have any time to settle. She had not opened her eyes before Nan was in her face, alerting, “Mr. Locke is here! Wakie wakie!”

It was their first official date, according to George, although she begged him to inform her next time so she could be dressed and maybe not scared awake! He had prepared a basket with food and drink. They sat near Wild Forest Lake watching a mother duck with her ducklings.

He was different from the others in town, not just because he was an outsider. George had gone places, read radical books, and had the curiosity to explore the unfamiliar, like the chocolate Rufus never tried.

The sky was setting behind puffy clouds. Lane’s head rested on George’s lap. He had taken her braid out after they spontaneously jumped in the water. He kissed her lightly once on the lips, coaxing a solace she never felt before. He brushed his fingers softly through the crimped wetness.

“You must have to cut it often,” he asked.

She replied, “I never do.”

“Do you know what I never want to do?”

She nodded no.

“This. I could do this every day.”

“Do what?” she asked jokingly, “play at the lake all day? Don’t you have a bank to run?”

“Lane, I know this is not only presumptuous but spectacularly quick, but I could do this with you. Life it is. I won’t proclaim to love you. It’s too soon, but I see it, the potential. You come from good stock, which we must allow is of importance in our world; you are educated, charming, and one would be blind not say, a timeless beauty. What do you think?”

Lane had told him no. It was too soon. She enjoyed being with him, even felt safe, but as George had pointed out, she was “from good stock” and “educated,” which meant she knew she needed more time. So they agreed to continue seeing one another.

On their thirteenth meeting, she finally said she would be his bride. The bank had not yet opened, a date George had been vague about. His focus had been on her, and now that the wedding had been set, he could make one for the bank too.

The wedding took place on a rainy June evening. A canopy had gone up on George’s estate with dozens of candles in decorative lanterns lighting it. The whole town attended, and for decades, they would recall how timeless the bride was.

Lane’s hair was worn down, as George liked with Baby’s Breath as the only addition. Nan had freely placed them throughout her curls. Her dress belonged to Ma’. It was still pristine, but she hadn’t expected less from Ma’s oversight. It was not bulbous like others she had seen. If water could be made into cloth, that’s what it was. When she squinted and stared long enough, she could convince herself she was the statue outside the bank.

Reverend Mercy began with a prayer, but neither George nor Lane closed their eyes, instead choosing to stare into each other's eyes.

“Mr. Locke has requested to opt out of the traditional vows,” the reverend said with unhidden contempt, “against my testimony, however, as this is his wedding, he must proceed. Mr. Locke.”

“Thank you reverend,” said George without taking his eyes off Lane.

“Lane, love must be tended. We must return to it, again and again, in small, intentional acts. In secret choices no one else sees. I promise you a life that grows.”

“Lane, do you promise George a life that grows?” the reverend prompted. She replied she did, and he pronounced them Man and Wife. George tilted her backwards for a kiss.

They danced as Mr. and Mrs. Locke under the dying rain while onlookers gushed about how romantic the night had been. When everyone had departed, George asked Lane to come with him. This is it, my first job as a wife!

Lane never gave much thought to how she would feel after her wedding. She had been told, in her youth, how heirs and heiresses were born, and so she had only considered it as a means to parentage. Now, as her pulse quickened, with imagination she could envision more. Her fantasy was stamped quickly when he took her to their carriage rather than the house. She didn’t voice her confusion because, like Ma’ said, “no fuss.”

George lifted her up and onto the seat, and pulled himself in next to her, retrieving a box from his suit jacket.

“Lane, my love, this is for you. A wedding gift, passed from Locke to Locke. It is not an heirloom. Each Locke gets their own custom. Do not open it now.” He held it out to her, and she took it, examining the simple box. It was the length of her own foot and about as wide, with a gold ribbon tied around it. She wanted to hold it up to her ear while she shook it.

“Thank you,” she managed to say around her dry mouth.

“Give and take is what it takes. Yes?”

She smiled in reply, her body jerking as they suddenly stopped. George helped her down, and when her feet were placed, she saw they were at the bank. She wanted to ask why, but heard Ma’s warning again.

George guided Lane into the bank and, like her first time there, took her to the scale.

“Lane, we open tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know,” she retorted.

“Remember when you asked me about that inscription?” George pointed to it, “Do you remember me telling you it’s more than a motto?” He didn’t stop for an answer, “Open the box.”

Lane did as instructed. She untied the ribbon, lifted the lid, and pulled from the box a pair of gold shears. The handle grips were apples, and in the same script was the exact inscription of the scale.

As George tucked her hair behind an ear she read, "A Locke to Make it Grow."