Will you wear red, oh my dear, oh my dear,
Will you wear red, Jenny Jenkins?
No, I won’t wear red, it’s the color of my head,
So I’ll buy me a foldy-roldy tildy-toldy,
Seek a double, use a cozy roll to find me.
Roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.

Young Benjamin Cartwright leaned forward in his chair, knowing the movement caused his unruly dark curls to fall across his forehead in a manner that irritated his mother. He had carefully applied hair oil just before coming down to the parlor to greeet their guests, too late for her to send him back upstairs to wash it out.

She’d sighed theatrically and told him, “You look like a frightened owl.”

He’d grinned at her, noting that she was smiling although her words were critical. He’d briefly considered reminding her that he was fifteen, old enough to decide which fashion trends to follow, but he’d let it go…undoubtedly the wisest course of action.

Now he caught her eye across the parlor and saw a mischievous twinkle there. The song Cousin Harriet was singing, accompanied by her sister on the harpsichord, was, “The Robin and the Owl.” On the word “owl,” Benjamin’s mother pointed to her own head and then to his. He clamped his lips tightly together to keep from laughing.

The song ended, and Benjamin led the applause. He enjoyed these “Evenings with the Cousins,” as he’d come to think of them, especially when Father was away on business. The entertainment was novel enough to distract him from missing Father, and tonight…

Oh, tonight! Tonight Cousin Dave was home from his most recent adventure, traveling in the Arkansas Territory. He’d brought back Indian artifacts, folk songs Benjamin had never heard, and wonder of wonders, a new bride. Katherine was more exotic, to Benjamin’s mind, than anything Dave had come home with yet. Up to now, Benjamin hadn’t understood how an otherwise reasonable young man could become smitten. Now, though, he found himself comparing Katherine’s hair to the color of a desert sunset (which he’d never seen, but had read about plenty of times). Her eyes were the sparkling green of the Mediterranean Sea (which he’d never seen either, but had read about). Her face and arms were covered with freckles, which shouldn’t have been attractive, but…

Well…

If Dave hadn’t already claimed her…

Of course, Benjamin reminded himself sternly, if Dave hadn’t claimed her, she wouldn’t be here at all. She’s his wife, and you’re still a boy in her estimation–and in Dave’s, by the way. Taking himself firmly in hand, he concentrated on listening to her sing, as Dave accompanied her on a strange stringed instrument that was like a guitar but with only four strings and a rounded box. It twanged in a way that should have been unappealing, like Katherine’s freckles. But Benjamin, along with everyone else, was tapping his foot in time to the music.

The song was a typical folk song, similar to the Appalachian songs Dave had brought home before. This one was a call-and-response, with Dave asking his bride to wear yellow, then green, then white, and so forth. To each color she responded, “No, I won’t wear…” for some rhyming reason, and then they joined together in the rapid-fire nonsense chorus. Benjamin found himself laughing, although the song wasn’t exactly funny. It was just so…happy. He was laughing for the sheer joy of it, he supposed.

And then Dave sang, “Will you wear red, Jenny Jenkins?” And Katherine sang, “No, I won’t wear red,” and she looked straight at Benjamin and saw right through him, he was sure, with those sea-green eyes of hers. Abruptly she stood as she sang and crossed the room to him. Reaching down, she grasped his hands and pulled him up, and then she was leading him in a complicated dance step. It took every ounce of energy and concentration he could muster not to step on her toe or trip over his own feet. How can she sing those tongue-twisting words and dance such a difficult step at the same time? he wondered. His thoughts roiled and tumbled in his head with no promise of reprieve, and he could only dance frantically and remind himself to breathe.

Finally she released him, and he collapsed in his chair to thunderous appause from the family. But Katherine and Dave weren’t finished yet. She twirled away from Benjamin to stand in the center of the room, hands on hips and swaying flirtatiously as Dave sang to her, “Tell me, what will you wear, Jenny Jenkins?”

She tossed her head, tucking back a red curl that had escaped its coil, and sang to the room at large (although Benjamin was certain her eyes rested on him for several seconds longer than necessary), “Oh, what do you care if I just go bare?”

The roar of laughter nearly drowned out the “foldy-roldy, tildy-toldy” chorus. Benjamin knew he was beet red, and he could only hope no one would notice. He glanced around the room and saw his mother and aunts pretending to be scandalized at the lyrics, and the younger cousins giggling hysterically. The uncles and the young people, those about Benjamin’s age, were all chortling or guffawing unabashedly.

Except for Benjamin. He was laughing with the rest, but he was doing it…well, abashedly, if that was a word. Yes, abashedly.

Not that he wasn’t also enjoying himself. Immensely.

***Will you wear blue, oh my dear, oh my dear,
Will you wear blue, Jenny Jenkins?
No, I won’t wear blue, for the color’s too true,
So I’ll buy me a foldy-roldy tildy-toldy,
Seek a double, use a cozy roll to find me.
Roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.

“How do I look, Ben?” Elisabeth asked, twirling to show off the full, royal blue skirt of her dress.

He leaned against the door frame of her dressing room, admiring her for a moment before going to take her in his arms. “You look like Cinderella, ready for the ball,” he said, and kissed her upturned lips.

She melted into the kiss, then drew back a little. “Hardly a ball,” she told him. “It’s our wedding, not a dance.”

“You make it sound so…serious,” he protested, pretending to be insulted. “As if it’s a somber occasion.”

“Well, it is a church service,” she retorted, but her tone was teasing. “Isn’t it supposed to be somber?”

“That, my dear, is the problem with most church services,” he replied. “And most clergy. They’re entirely too somber.” He drew her close again. “I cannot imagine anything more delightful…” He kissed her. “More joyful…” Again he kissed her. “More celebratory…” Once more, before he finished in a whisper, “Than a ceremony that binds me to you. For life.”

She nestled into his arms, so he couldn’t see her eyes as she asked, “Are you sure the blue is all right?”

It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. “Oh, the dress?” he said finally. “Of course. It’s beautiful. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I almost didn’t buy it, though. There’s something about blue…my grandmother always said it brought ill luck.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “So every woman who wears blue is doomed to…to what?”

“Nothing,” she said, laughing too. “I’m being silly.” She raised her face to his, and her eyes were confident and dancing. “Nothing bad will happen, Ben. We’ll have a dozen healthy children, and we’ll go West if that’s what you want. And we’ll grow old together, and we’ll…” She trailed off as he placed a finger on her lips to shush her.

“Shh,” he said, not knowing why. Suddenly he kissed her again, wanting to dispell the sudden, irrational sense of foreboding that threatened to overwhelm him. His kiss wasn’t tender this time, but passionate, almost fierce. She responded in kind, and when he drew back this time, he saw tears brimming her eyes. “What’s wrong?” he dared to ask.

“Nothing,” she said firmly, and he knew she was lying. She glanced at the clock on her dresser. “We’d best go, darling, or we’ll be late.”

He forced a smile. “Late to our own wedding?” he joked. “That would be bad luck indeed.”

***Will you wear yellow, oh my dear, oh my dear,
Will you wear yellow, Jenny Jenkins?
No, I won’t wear yellow, for I’d never get a fellow,
So I’ll buy me a foldy-roldy tildy-toldy,
Seek a double, use a cozy roll to find me.
Roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.

“But Mother,” Adam insisted, looking earnestly at Inger, “why does Jenny say the color blue is ‘too true’? What does that mean?”

Inger glanced at Ben, then at the other adults around the campfire. No one offered to help her, and Ben suppressed a chuckle. You’re finding out that his questions aren’t so easy to answer, he thought. Of course, over the past year, Inger had heard thousands of Adam’s questions. She should be used to it by now, Ben mused, then followed that thought with another: But I’m not used to it. Why should she be?

The six-year-old was still waiting for an answer, though, and from the way the others had stopped singing and were gazing expectantly at Inger, they were waiting, too. She cleared her throat. “I suppose blue is said to be ‘a color too true’ because…well, sometimes it’s thought to be a sad color.”

“But sadness isn’t any truer than happiness, is it?” Adam asked.

“I…” Inger floundered. She glared at Ben. “Help me,” she hissed.

The voice that came to her aid wasn’t Ben’s. Jack, the grizzled oldtimer who looked like he’d have been more at home in the midst of a poker game than in a wagon train, was the one who spoke. He was packing his pipe, and he looked up long enough to say, “That song ain’t about a girl a-tall, y’know. Jenny Jenkins is ‘baccy, plain and simple.”

“‘Baccy?” Inger repeated.

Adam translated for her. “Tobacco.” Then he gave Jack his full attention.

“Blue is a blue mold. Not good.” Jack shook his head emphatically. “So Jenny don’t want to wear blue.”

“What about the other colors?” Adam asked eagerly. “Why won’t Jenny wear them?”

“Yeller’s another kind of mold,” Jack told him. “And green is ‘baccy that ain’t been dried long enough. You don’t want to smoke it yet. Brown is dried too fast. It gets brittle if it ain’t cured proper. White…” He grinned, gesturing with his pipe. “That’s all rolled up in them fancy-dancy papers. Only true way to smoke Jenny Jenkins is with a pipe.”

“What about red?” Adam asked. Ben was wondering the same thing.

Jack looked baffled. “Ain’t never figured that one out,” he admitted. The rest of the adults laughed, and someone started another song, “The Hog of the Forsaken.” Matilda Grayson sang so shrilly on the high notes that Ben thought her larynx might burst. He had to poke Adam to make him stop giggling, but at least the boy seemed to have forgotten his questions about Jenny Jenkins.

Later that night, Ben checked on Adam in his bedroll in the wagon, then moved over a few feet to climb under the blanket with Inger. He slid one arm under her shoulders and pulled her against him. “Will you wear yellow, Jenny Jenkins?” he sang softly into her blond hair.

“No, I won’t wear yellow,” she murmured back in tune, “for I’d never get a fellow…”

“You’ve already got this fellow,” he growled, rolling on top of her as she laughed softly.

Adam’s sleepy voice piped up. “What about orange?” Ben froze, and Inger stifled a startled giggle. Adam sat up. “Nothing rhymes with orange,” he said, sounding irritated.

“Go to sleep, son,” Ben growled…a very different growl than before. He could feel Inger’s shoulders shaking with mirth as Adam lay back down. Resigned, Ben rolled away from her…but not too far away. She curled up in the crook of his arm and sighed contentedly.

As he drifted toward sleep, Ben felt himself smiling. We’ve done well, Inger, he was thinking. Only half-awake, he didn’t realize her face was merging with Elisabeth’s in his mind. We’ve done well. We didn’t have a dozen healthy children…not yet…but so far, we’ve had one boy, a fine boy, one of the best boys God ever created. And he has a brother or sister on the way. And we’ll give him more brothers and sisters, and a home under a wide-open Western sky, and the love of a father and a wonderful mother to guide him. And we’ll be together, my love. Forever.

He was asleep when Adam burst out triumphantly, “Orange I won’t wear, and it rhymes, so there!” But Inger heard, and she smiled into the darkness.

***Will you wear white, oh my dear, oh my dear,
Will you wear white, Jenny Jenkins?
No, I won’t wear white, for the color’s too bright,
So I’ll buy me a foldy-roldy tildy-toldy,
Seek a double, use a cozy roll to find me.
Roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.

“White?” Marie stared at Ben, obviously aghast. “Why on earth would I choose white for a wedding dress?”

“Well, because…” Ben hesitated. “If it’s good enough for the queen…”

“An English queen,” she snapped, turning away. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not English.”

He grasped her shoulders and firmly turned her toward him. “Oh, I’ve noticed,” he said, smiling as he watched her try not to return the smile. She failed, as he’d known she would.

They were sitting by the riverbank with an elaborate picnic untouched before them. Knowing Marie’s feelings would be hurt if he didn’t sample it, Ben reached for a canape. “Mmm,” he said, savoring the buttery croisant filled with spicy shrimp as it melted on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he took another bite, then opened them to see her smiling fondly at him. He kissed her briefly, then asked, “So what will you wear, Jenny Jenkins?”

She laughed. “What do you care if I just go bare?” she demanded saucily, and his baritone laugh joined hers. He appreciated how quickly she’d learned the song, and the other songs he’d collected from Boston to San Francisco, and from Reno to New Orleans. Her love of music–all kinds of music–was just one of the things he admired about her. And he was certain that it would endear her to both his sons…especially Adam, who’d been born with a musical ear.

Yes, he thought, pushing all trepidation aside, Adam will love Marie. And we’ll be happy: Marie and me, with Adam and Hoss and all their little brothers and sisters. And Marie and I will grow old together.

They sat on the riverbank the rest of the afternoon, eating canapes and singing one folk song after another. And if they exchanged a brief kiss or two in the absence of a chaperone, who could blame them? Jenny Jenkins, whoever or whatever she is, rolls on. Without an ounce of pity, she rolls on.

Will you wear black, oh my dear, oh my dear,
Will you wear black, Jenny Jenkins?
No, I won’t wear black, for there’s no turnin’ back,
So I’ll buy me a foldy-roldy tildy-toldy,
Seek a double, use a cozy roll to find me.
Roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.

***

End Notes: