"A Wishing Star" by Katie Jordan

Martha stood, shoulders hunched, back arched, her body resembling an accordion. Her stained shoes, in need of a cobbler’s attention, sloshed through a puddle outside the general store. The town boys jeered in their singsong voices, “Martha McLoud. Thin as a reed. Ugly as stinkweed.”

Martha’s chin dipped, sending a curtain of brunette hair cascading across her face. She inspected her calloused knuckles and the accumulated dirt wedged deep under her fingernails — evidence of her constant gardening. Her tears streamed down.

One of the boys yelled after her. “Why don’t you talk?”

Her jade eyes remained downcast until she crossed the threshold into her parents’ home. Aromas of freshly baked bread, stewed tomatoes, and a hint of basil hit her nostrils. She lowered herself, resting on the stool next to the hearth. A ladle clanged against the soup pot as her mother worked. Outside, dusk fell.

“You’re of marrying age, y’know.” Momma frowned, adding a pinch of herbs to the pot. “You should be fussin’ about a cottage of your own.”

Martha whispered, “Men loathe me.”

She paused, then added, “And the women are too busy worrying about men. Friendship is an impossibility.”

Her mother’s eyes glistened. The clanging stopped. “Life isn’t always fair. Now quit frettin’ and set the table.”

Martha obeyed, then went outside and forced her chin up, staring at the sliver of moon. Its light gave her a glimmer of hope. “Help.” She wrung her hands in the stained folds of her dress. “What will become of me?”

A ball of fire streaked across the sky. “A wishing star,” Martha murmured. She pressed her eyelids closed, her breath catching. “Please, dear star, bring friendship and love.”

The star landed at her feet, extinguishing then vanishing. She ran her fingers through the warm dust — unaware if her plea was heard. 

After supper, she scrubbed the muck from beneath her nails. A smile pulled at the corners of her lips, then fell as her older brother shoved one of the barn kittens into her hands. “This one cut its leg.”

“Oh,” she muttered, pulling the kitten closer and inspecting the gash. 

Her brother turned to go, then paused, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “I overheard you talking to Momma earlier. You don’t worry about becoming an old maid, y’hear?” 

She started to nod. Then he added, “There’s always widowers needing someone to look after their wee ones.”

Her throat tightened. She retrieved a strip of cloth, tending to the cat’s wound. “Yes. I suppose there’s always that.”

Spring gave way to summer, and summer to fall. By mid-October, all the women of Martha's age were married, and the kitten had grown into a large tom.

Martha sat, stroking the cat’s fur as Momma burst through the door, red-faced. “Martha McCloud! Is it true? Did you refuse the Jacobsen widower?”

“Momma,” Martha squirmed. “He’s fifty-six years old.”

“Well, well,” Momma huffed. “And you think you’re too good for him? That was your one chance! We’ll be stuck feeding you and that blasted cat until we die. And then what will become of you?”

Martha shrugged. “What’s the point of getting married if you don’t love the man?”

At that, Momma shook her by the shoulders. “Are you daft? You think the other girls married for love? Wake up!”

The cat jumped from Martha’s lap and darted outside. Martha followed. She nearly collided with a gentleman struggling down the lane, favoring his left hip as he limped. He was dressed very fine in a crisp brown suit with a matching top hat. Martha stammered, hiding her dirty fingernails behind her back.

He removed his hat, revealing a mop of blond curls and a lopsided grin. “Afternoon. I’m Sean. I’m looking for Hathshire Lane. The townspeople were of little help.”

“Kindness isn’t abundant here.” She gently took his arm. “I’ll take you.”

Sean’s limp worsened. Martha pretended to trip. “I’m a bit clumsy. Do you mind if we walk slower?”

“You’re a gentle soul,” he whispered.

Martha stood a hair taller. 

Sean stole a glance at Martha. She reminded him of a seedling, ready to flourish; bent and drawn inward, ready to straighten and blossom. He stole a second glance. Underneath the dirt and grime, there was an exquisite young woman.

Martha looked up. “You have a peculiar look.”

“Thinking of my mum, God rest her soul. Dad met her while she was working on his grandfather’s estate; he said she was like a diamond, covered in dust and discarded.”

Martha straightened a bit more. “Oh?”

“She was a gem, my mum. One of the finest treasures ever to be found.” His eyes twinkled. “Since you have been so kind as to walk with me, perhaps we could get a bite to eat. There’s a gentleness about you. I believe that today I, too, have found a treasure.”

Newlywed Sean linked arms with his wife as townsfolk gawked at her — tall and thin, chin held high, with an ear-to-ear smile illuminating her porcelain face. Her dress was made of the finest poplin, her hat woven from straw with a wide silk ribbon across the front. A fat cat followed at her heels. 

Sean limped toward the entrance to the store. “Wait here, will you love? I won’t be but a moment.”

One of the shopmen tipped his hat as Sean entered. “Welcome. Did you and your wife move here recently?”

Sean blinked, slowly shaking his head. “My wife is a local. Martha McCloud.”

“McCloud?” The man laughed, then studied Sean’s face. “Wait. You can’t be serious?”

He looked from Sean to the woman outside. “Is it really the McCloud girl? But, how did you do that? How did you make her pretty?”

“I didn’t make her anything,” Sean replied sternly, resting his hand on the counter between them. “She is wonderful all of her own accord.”

The man’s mouth fell agape. “But she was hideous. What did you do?”

“I told you before and I’ll tell you again. I didn’t do anything.” Sean slapped the counter. “I was simply lucky enough to meet a beautiful woman.”

The man stammered. “Martha didn’t look like that before! She was awkward and uncomfortable and didn’t speak!”

Sean snapped. “And why do you think that is?”

The man stood, emitting a string of unintelligible sounds. Sean shook his head, tossed down a handful of coins, and took his wares.

Outside, Martha cocked an eyebrow. “Riveting conversation?”

Sean offered her his arm and chuckled. “It seems the idea of getting to know someone and trying to build them up, as you have done for me, is a notion lost on the feeble-minded, dear.”

She turned, her lips brushing his cheek. “You are good to me.”

“And you to me, as I limp along.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I hardly care about a limp.”

He squeezed her hand back. “And I hardly care about a little dirt underneath your nails.”

When Katie isn’t reading or writing thrillers, she’s devouring crab puffs, hunting for the lobster truck, or snuggling in for family movie night. Her work has been featured in The No Sleep Podcast, Enchanted Conversation, and Marrow Magazine, among others. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her outdoor enthusiast husband, Brad, and two daughters. Find her online at authorkatiejordan.com.

Image: "Undine at the Window" by Arthur Rackham