There was also Barry Norwood, the son of another neighbor. He was tall and redhaired, like my Viking ancestors, and his; but he was so stupid that I could not carry on a conversation with him. I really could not abide his presence for more than five minutes; the last time I had seen him, at a picnic at Brianag, I had turned away from him quite rudely and went to speak to August across the lawn; he had never approached me again. I had looked up later to see him standing alone, his face bland, eating something; and then I had seen Robbie walking across the lawn toward us, and everything else had disappeared.
Then there was the young British soldier I had met last summer at Fort Christopher, Rodney Taylor. Cathy had believed that she had turned my attention away from Robbie then; and indeed, I had gone along with her for a while. I corresponded for a short while with Mr. Taylor but then finally told him that I was to be married to one of our neighbor's sons. Of course I did not have any more letters from him.
Robbie was the most handsome boy I had ever known, and the gayest, and the most kind. He was tall, taller even than my brothers, and his hair was the color of ripe persimmons; his eyes the green of new grass. His teeth were strong and even, his skin fair and freckled. When he laughed it was as though bells sounded; his smile melted my heart like tallow in the sun. Being near him was vital to my existence; I knew that he would one day realize that I had become a woman and that I loved him, and then he would want me.
Now, as my mother had stated at breakfast, I was nearly eighteen years old; and she was right, it was high time I married. Since I would marry no one but Robbie, it was important that he soon realize that I had grown up. It was time that he marry, too, was it not?
"I shall speak to your father about the Norwood boy again" said my mother. "He is of good Scottish stock. The Norwoods can provide for you a very comfortable life."
I took a breath, as deep as my stays would allow, still not looking at her. I spoke as calmly as I could. "I do not like him, Mama."
"You do not like him! And what is the matter with him, pray?"
We had been through this argument already, several times. She would wait until we were alone, then throw at me one of the boys that we knew, and then, when I stated my preferences, or lack thereof, she would grow angry and accuse me of defiance. I did my best to remain calm but the injustice angered me.