The Duke of Scone paced atop the stone walls of his castle. A pair of binoculars hung around his green neck, and every so often he whipped them up to his face to scan the sunset sky, only to lower them again in disappointment.
"Just one pigeon," he murmured, adjusting his red cap. "Oh, can't she just send me one pigeon? At this point I'd take a Post-It note. Or even smoke signals."
He had never been in such a quandary with any other lady, but then again Duke had never met a lady who had driven him to such a distraction as he felt right then.
Weeks ago, he, a struggling squire, had faced down the toughest knight in the whole kingdom in a tournament, all to help his cousin, Nona, and her beautiful daughter-in-law, Petunia. The two widows had needed a friend to get the key of the castle which had belonged to Nona's husband, and Duke had risked his life and reputation as their champion to win it for them. He had faced great backlash for his loyalty; Petunia was a Rhubarbarian, and the Kingdom of Scone was at war with her homeland. Both Duke's school friends and the peasants living in his duchy had rejected him for fraternizing with "the enemy," but Duke had weathered through it all, and they now looked upon him and Petunia favorably.
After the tournament, Duke had made two vows to Petunia: that they would be family and that he would take care of her forever.
From the flustered way Petunia had responded to his declaration, Duke thought she had understood what kind of family he intended for them to be. Indeed, they had exchanged no shortage of shy, tender looks over the next few days while Duke had helped Petunia and Nona move into their castle. When they had their first ever family game night, Petunia had sat next to Duke while they had played Ye Olde Scrabble, and she giggled so adorably when he had raved about the artichoke dip which she had prepared for the occasion.
Duke sighed longingly at the happy memories, and he checked the sky again with his binoculars.
"Where did I go wrong?" he wondered aloud, peering sadly through the lenses. "Did I mess everything up somehow?"
Last weekend, something had changed, but Duke did not know what it was. He had mailed Petunia an invitation for a river party which he wanted to throw, but she had sent back a short note saying that she would be busy at the almonry that day.
Duke had shrugged it off. After all, Petunia was a kind, caring person, and so it made sense that she would volunteer her time with the less fortunate. He had sent a second invitation, this time asking if she would like to attend a hunt which he and some of his classmates from knight school were going on. She had turned that one down as well, saying that she had a dentist appointment.
Duke had been disappointed, but he had tried to stay chipper. He had invited her to go to a fair with him; she had written back that she had to take her new puppy to Ye Olde Obedience School. He had suggested they catch a morality play together, but she had needed to go to the next town on an errand for Nona. He had asked if she would like to go to the grand ball which his school would be hosting in a few weeks; she had said she had to wash her hair that night.
Every invitation Duke had sent was met with a rejection, and he had no idea what he had done to turn Petunia's wonderful heart away from. He had written her so many letters, in fact, that soon he was obliged to send someone to retrieve all the messenger pigeons from Petunia's castle. Duke selected Lucas, his goateed tomato chamberlain, for the task. This was typically not a job for an upper servant to undertake, but Duke was desperate for answers, and he knew he could trust Lucas to inquire discreetly on his behalf.
When Lucas returned half an hour later, Duke almost tripped rushing down the spiral steps of the nearby turret, and he bolted across the courtyard to meet him just as the wagon carrying the fowls came to a stop.
"Did you see Petunia?" he asked as his servant hopped off the wagon seat. "Did she ask about me? Will she accept any of my invitations?"
Lucas raised his round head, and it was then Duke noticed he wore a grave mien, more serious than his usual manner.
"I didn't see Petunia," the tomato said slowly, "but I talked to Nona."
Duke leaned forward. "And?"
Lucas let out a soft sigh, then nudged his head toward the large oaken doors of the castle keep. "Not here, sire. Let's talk upstairs."
Duke was bursting with impatience, but he agreed, leading the way up to his private chambers. He grabbed a candle which a passing servant offered, only then realizing how dark his castle had grown while he had been outside. In what was essentially his sitting room, Duke indicated for Lucas to sit in one of his backless curule chairs. The cucumber himself remained standing, too impatient to stay still.
"Well?" he cried, laying down the candle on a table. "What's going on? Did I do something to offend Petunia? Can I apologize? Why isn't she talking to me?"
Luca thinned his wide lips, with that "bearer of bad news" look which made Duke gulp. When the tomato at last spoke, his voice came out low, and his goatee bobbed against the chair like a sad chipmunk.
"Have you heard the latest news from the front yet, sire?"
Duke raised an invisible eyebrow. "Front of what?"
"The war front," Lucas answered, reaching behind his back. A moment later he pulled out a copy of Ye Olde Daily and passed it to Duke. "Look on page five."
Duke tentatively obeyed, and in the candlelight he found a wood-cut drawing of a man, who was an ornately dressed rhubarb in an expensive helmet with a pointed top; he had a long mustache that draped down to his chin, mingling with a long beard that fell to his chest. His mouth was open as though he were yelling at the person who had made the picture, and he brandished a large pie menacingly. Beside the picture ran the words: KING OF RHUBARB DECLARES PIE WAR WILL NOT END UNTIL ALL OF SCONE IS OBLITERATED.
Duke blinked at the headline, and his heart sank.
"Oh, right," he said softly, surveying the drawing. "That's Petunia's father, isn't it?"
Lucas nodded grimly. "The leader of our enemies."
"Not mine," Duke said quickly.
Lucas leveled his gaze with his master's. "If he's ordering your countrymen to be creamed with pies, then, yes, he is your enemy, sire. Regardless of what you feel for his daughter, it doesn't change the fact that men are dying, even as we speak."
"But Petunia has nothing to do with his actions," Duke insisted. "She married a Sconian man — my own cousin, Ryan — and after he was creamed and buried, she chose to leave her palace life to take care of Nona, here, in Scone. Doesn't that count for something?"
"But she's still his daughter," Lucas said, jerking his head toward the paper still floating in Duke's grasp. "The peasants might not know she's a Rhubarbian princess yet, but what will you do when they do?"
Duke laid the gazette on a side table, closing it to hide the angry face of the king.
Softly, he asked, "Doesn't the Bible say 'The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin'?"
"The Bible was written before the Rhubarbians existed though," Lucas returned.
"But God's Word is still forever," Duke insisted. "It doesn't matter if Petunia's father declares war on the—the whole world! She would still be the kindest, sweetest, bravest girl I've ever been honored to call my friend!"
Lucas exhaled. "Tell it to the mothers and wives who already lost the men they loved most due to her father."
Duke narrowed his eyes. "Do you honestly think that a person can't rise above what their parents did?"
"Well, people are going to say that 'like breeds like,'" Lucas answered in a tone which he probably thought was sensible. "Petunia may be a nice person, but she's always going to be the daughter of the Rhubarbarian king. No amount of wishful thinking is going to change her heritage."
"Heritage," Duke echoed, a funny feeling arising in his chest. "I know a little something about heritages…"
"I should say so," Lucas said. "You are the scion of the Dukes of Scone; your great-grandfather was the youngest son of one of our greatest kings. Naturally, one would expect you to keep only impeccable company, including ladies from among the Sconian elite…"
Duke barely heard him. Half-forgotten memories floated up in his mind: happy evenings with his parents, picnics in summer, sitting on his mother's lap while she shared the more pleasant stories of her youth, the way his father and his mother looked at each other when they told Duke how they had met…
With a nod of determination, Duke spun, grabbed the candle again, and started for a small writing table in the corner.
"I need to write a letter," he declared.
"Do you think it's wise?" Lucas asked, slipping off the chair to take a few exasperated hops after him. "Petunia has already rejected fourteen invitations."
Duke opened his inkwell and remembered in time to dip the quill into it carefully to avoid splotches. As he wrote, he answered Lucas:
"I'm writing this one to Nona."
"Nona?"
Duke nodded. "She's Petunia's mother-in-law, and she's my cousin. If anyone can see around corners in this tricky situation, it's Nona. If she thinks I have a chance, she'll help me. She'll know how to proceed."
Lucas narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Have a chance at what, exactly?"
Duke did not respond, already focused on his letter.
His cousin came through for Duke beautifully. At the heartfelt letter which Duke had sent her, explaining his intentions toward Petunia, Nona wrote back a favorable note suggesting Duke invite her and Petunia to a picnic: "Just pick the time and place, and I'll make sure Petunia goes, dear."
Duke knew just the place and wrote back a quick note: "The ruins of Berryshire, next Wednesday."
Hardly fifteen minutes had passed when a pigeon returned with a note saying both of the ladies of the house would attend. (At the very end of the note, Nona had written: "P.S. I ship it!")
When Wednesday afternoon arrived, Duke was glad Lucas was there to oversee the details and direct the servants in setting up the picnic pavilion because he would have been too nervous to handle it on his own. At the sight of the approaching carriage, a lump found its way into Duke's throat and stayed there until he saw Petunia hop out of the carriage after Nona.
"She came!" he sighed to himself, glancing heavenward in gratitude. "She's here!"
Seeing Petunia caused Duke's heart to quicken with delight, as it had done so the first time he had laid eyes on her, back when she had lived in his apple orchard. She was lovely, of course, with braided red hair, a green face with soft features, and a slim figure adorned in the rich raiment of the Kingdom of Rhubarb, but the thing that had drawn Duke to her was her kind eyes, her sweet smile, and her gentle spirit. Scone had its share of beautiful ladies in the royal court, but Petunia's selfless, loving nature put her mountains above them all in Duke's mind.
He rushed to meet his guests, nearly tripping over a few rocks hidden in the grass.
"Welcome! Welcome!" he greeted the ladies when he reached them. "Lucas almost has everything ready over at the pavilion. Just smell that suckling pig on the fire! Would you ladies like a glass of lemonade? Nice day, isn't it?"
He chattered more than he usually would, glancing rapidly at Petunia's quiet expression to gauge her reaction, but the princess gave no hint of either approval or disapproval. She kept her eyes low rather than meeting Duke's eyes as he spoke. Fortunately, Nona jumped in, nudging her daughter-in-law toward the ornate tent where they would eat their lunch.
"Petunia, dear, let's sit in the shade," she said. "You know how too much sun makes me dizzy."
"Yes, Nona." Petunia at once seemed less closed off, focused now on looking after her mother-in-law's comfort, as she had done since before her husband's death.
The trio crossed the green and sat on the chairs which Lucas had set up earlier. One of Duke's pea pages offered the ladies iced lemonade and tea while another held out a platter with hors d'oeuvres. Petunia pulled out a hand fan and busied herself with keeping Nona cool while the matron chatted with Duke.
"My, my," she said, gazing out at the nearby ruins, most of which were covered in ivy, but hints of carved stone, now cracked and crumbled, peeked out and looked white in the sunshine. "I was still a girl when Berryshire was a thriving fortified city."
"That's right," Duke remembered with a nod. "You were just introduced to the royal court when the Prince of Berryshire rebelled, right, Nona?"
"Oui," she hummed. "Gildersleeves always wished his father had allowed him to be in the king's army when the Berryshire walls fell, but I told him, 'Everything in its proper time, mon cher.'"
Petunia raised her eyes, studying the destroyed site.
"It looked like a great battle happened here," she said after a moment. "I suppose the royal army used a lot of trebuchets to knock down the walls so thoroughly."
"Ah, you would think that, wouldn't you?" Nona said. "But actually the army did not have to break one stone in order to enter the city. The walls fell down by a great miracle."
Petunia's eyes widened. "You don't say?"
"I do say," Nona replied before she sipped her iced tea.
Duke jumped in, feeling he had some authority to share the story.
"Years ago," he began, making his voice dramatic, "when my father was fresh out of knight school, the Prince of Berryshire decided he was too cool to submit to the King of Scone. He refused to pay any more taxes, and he locked up the gates tight."
Petunia looked at him, then at the destroyed city again.
"I'm guessing it didn't work out too well for him?"
"It was a huge rebellion," Duke vouchsafed, motioning with his head for emphasis. "It wasn't just the rejection of the king's rule that was a problem, but the prince was doing all sorts of bad things inside the city.
"The king was in quite a pickle about what to do. When he sent messengers to the prince, the prince's guards dropped slushies on their heads from the top of the walls! So, eventually, the king gathered his armies to march upon the city, but the walls were so big and strong, it would have been difficult to attack. As for a siege, the city had a lot of gardens and orchards, so they could live comfortably for several years.
"The King of Scone knew better than to attack without a plan. When his armies reached that hill" — Duke nodded toward an arbor in the distance — "he went a little ways out of the camp, and after a while he came back, saying God had spoken to him and promised to give him the city. His knights were skeptical, but they obeyed his commands."
Petunia leaned forward, intrigued. "And then what?"
"Without shooting an arrow or saying a word, the army marched right around the walls of Berryshire," Duke replied, pleased with her interest. "After one lap, they returned to their camp. The next day, they did the same thing. One lap around the city, then they went back. On and on this went for six days — wash, rinse, repeat. The people in Berryshire were confused."
Duke paused for dramatic effect. Petunia waited, her face filling with wonder.
"Then came the seventh day," Duke continued. "This time, the army went around the city seven times. After the last lap, all the knights, squires, foot soldiers and pages gave a mighty shout, and the army chaplains blew on their trumpets. Suddenly, the walls began to move! The stonework crumbled before the army's eyes, and their enemies were exposed before them! They rushed in with their pies, and the city was theirs."
"Just like how it was in the days of Joshua," Nona chimed in.
Duke turned his head toward the remains. "As you can see, they did a thorough job."
Nona nodded. "It's one of the most famous stories in the history of Scone."
Petunia turned in her chair, scanning the fallen structures, first with wonder, then with a troubled confusion.
"It's a very exciting story, Duke," she said slowly, "but — if you don't mind my asking — is this really the best place to have a picnic?"
Duke smiled. "Wait until I've shown you a very special landmark. Then you'll understand why I had to bring you here."
He hopped out of his chair, raising himself up to strike a dashing figure in his snappy red tunic and stylish belt. He removed his red cap and dipped into his best attempt at a smooth bow (albeit it was a little wobbly from a sudden rush of adrenaline).
"While they're fixing up the picnic, would you care to go on a walk with me, Petunia?" he asked, raising his eyes imploringly.
Petunia lifted her head — then cleared her throat, resuming that closed-off mien which she had worn when she had first arrived.
"Oh, they probably won't take that long, Duke," she said evasively. "I can wait."
Nona turned, smiling at her daughter-in-law.
"The sunshine and exercise will do a young woman good, dear. The picnic will be waiting when you two get back."
She said it breezily, but a mischievous, knowing twinkle glinted in her motherly eyes as she gazed at the pair. Petunia opened her mouth as though she wanted to protest, but Nona used her tea glass to motion from Petunia to Duke.
"Listen to me, dear," Nona advised. "Mother-in-law knows best."
Petunia shot her an almost helpless look, but she reluctantly rose and followed Duke out of the pavilion.
Duke led Petunia around the outside of the overgrown ruins, following the broken remains of the once proud walls. The site was a lot like how he remembered from his youth, except the skinny saplings had grown into modest trees, and nature seemed more determined to erase even the memory of the fallen city. The old cobbled roads had been ravaged by weeds, and animal tracks streaked through patches of dirt. Every stone structure had been crumbled or dashed to pieces, and blankets of ivy distorted their shapes.
After five or ten minutes, they reached a lone, three-storied house right on the edge of town. It had been a part of the original wall, and nearly every inch of the exterior was choked in ivy. Duke hopped through an opening in the crumbled wall and turned to help Petunia onto the little path that had managed to survive season upon season. He beckoned with his head, and they followed the path to the other side of the house, where a small yard lay neglected. Through the gaping opening where the front door had rotted away, one could make out in the shadows an old hearth which had not been lit in many a moon.
"I would take you in there if I could," Duke told Petunia with an apologetic smile, "but a building that old probably isn't safe enough for us to tour."
Petunia furrowed her nonexistent brow, studying the building with a sudden realization in her eyes.
"That's odd," she said at length, tilting her head. "Every other part of the city's wall is destroyed, but this portion still has a roof and walls. Even if they are covered in ivy, it's still in better shape than the rest of the city."
Duke nodded, gazing at the house with nostalgia.
"That part of the wall doubled as a house where one of the most famous women of Scone's history used to live."
He led her closer, just enough to get a better look. Through the ivy, one could make out a few windows, a crumbled balcony, and part of a staircase. Duke smiled, remembering the days when the ivy was not so dense, and he could explore the ruins under the watchful eye of a certain lady cucumber with blonde locks.
"My parents used to bring me here," he told Petunia, "and Mom would tell me stories about the people who lived in this city. She knew all the street names and where the best places to get junk food used to be."
"Oh, did she live here in town?"
"Before she met my dad."
As he talked, he guided her toward a toppled column, which resembled a rocky island in the midst of the green ivy. She allowed him to take her by the waist and to swing her up over the leaves and onto a flat part of the column. She grabbed hold of his shoulders to steady herself, and her touch lingered as their eyes met.
"This place is a very important part of my history," he confided. "That's why I brought you here, Petunia, because you're important to me too."
She closed her eyes, sweetness mingling with heartache, and a shadow prevailed over her countenance. She turned her face away.
"But you keep forgetting my history, Duke," she sighed with resignation. "You're only fooling yourself if you think it doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter," he insisted, making an emphatic hop which caused the ivy to crunch beneath him. "I don't care where you come from, Petunia, or what your family has done. Their past shouldn't rob us of our future together."
He had never been so blunt about his feelings before, but now that the words had escaped his mouth, they seemed so right. He earnestly peered into her sad face.
"It shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks," he said. "If God isn't displeased with the two of us being… being together, then why should we care about what the other vegetables think of us?"
She briefly gazed heavenward, looking like she had to call upon all her princess training to keep her emotions in check.
"Your subjects approve of me now, Duke," she said in a suppressed voice, "but if they ever learn my father is the one commanding all the pies that have taken so many of their loved ones…"
She drew in a shaky breath, drawing her knee up to her chest.
"Look at what my father did to his last son-in-law," she said, and her voice cracked. "Can you really become family to such a man who is bent on destroying all nonbelievers who will not submit to his pie-wielding moon god?"
"If it means I get to spend the rest of my life with his daughter, I don't care," Duke said softly. "You could be related to Darth Vader for all I care."
She finally turned to him, blinking. "Who?"
He cleared his throat.
"Never mind," he said quickly. "My point is that who your family is, doesn't matter to me. I want to be with you, Petunia."
"Duke—"
"I do!" he declared. "And I don't care what sort of in-laws I get out of the deal."
She shook her head.
"That's not an ideal heritage to give to your future children. Why should they have to suffer the shame of having a grandfather who is a war criminal?" She looked down at her knee. "You should marry a lady with a more respectable family tree. You'll be happier in the long run."
Duke blinked at her, then glanced at the only piece of undamaged wall, just a stone's throw away. A small smile appeared on his face as he once again thought of the brave resident who had lived there in yesteryear.
Fluffy dandelions grew just a little away. Calmly, Duke crossed over to them and plucked a few, twisting the long stems into a pretty nosegay which he then offered to Petunia. She gazed at the flowers glumly, but perhaps it was Duke's earnest expression that caused her to relent and accept them a mumbled thank you.
"May I tell you one of my favorite stories in the whole wide world, Petunia?" Duke asked gently. "It's a true one, with a happy ending."
Her expression grew wary, but she nodded graciously.
"Of course, Duke."
He hopped onto the column beside her. His heart picked up speed. He knew the weight of what he was about to tell her — and how it might drive her further away from him — but as he began to speak, an instant calmness overtook him, seeping right to his core.
"I wanted to wait until I could show you this place before I shared this other story," he began. "When the king first reached the city with his army, he sent in two spies to investigate. They hopped around, taking notes, but some folks reported them, and they had to hide."
Duke turned toward the lone portion of the wall which had remained standing all these years, and a fond smile widened his lips.
"Fortunately, they had met a girl who ran a kissing booth in this town," he said simply, "and she gave them a place to sleep that night."
Though her expression remained polite, Petunia's head briefly snapped up when Duke said "kissing booth," and for half a second her soft eyes looked scandalized. Duke did not blame her — not many stories about kissing booths were fit for polite company.
His smile grew grim, and he pressed on.
"The kissing-booth operator, Kissy-Missy, had a house that was in the city wall. Many of the guardsmen knew her, so when they suspected her new guests were the king's spies, they knocked on her door and demanded she turn them over. Kissy-Missy, however, wasn't about to do that. She knew how dangerous the king's armies were, and she had no intention of getting on their bad side. She tricked the guardsmen into thinking the spies had already left town, and she sent them on a wild goose chase. When the coast was clear, she sneaked her new friends out of the city by tying a red cord to her window and letting them climb down."
"That was brave of her," Petunia said quietly. "I hate to think what the prince would have done to her if he had found out."
"God protected her though," Duke said firmly. "In fact, before the spies left, Kissy-Missy made them promise to protect her and her family, so the spies told her to keep the red cord hanging on the window as a sign and to gather all her loved ones into her house on the day of battle. They would take personal responsibility if any of the people in her house got hurt. The spies went back to the king and told him all about Kissy-Missy helping them.
"At the end of the battle, the only veggies from the Prince of Berryshire's domain who weren't creamed by pies were Kissy-Missy and all her loved ones inside her still standing house. She was able to save all of them."
"Wow!" Petunia looked impressed.
"And so the king gave Missy a noble title and a small manor for her family to live in and a lot of honors, and she lived peacefully in the Kingdom of Scone. Just about everybody wanted her autograph, even peasants who couldn't read. One handsome duke admired her so much, he made her his duchess."
Petunia's eyes widened. "He didn't care that she was a kissing-booth operator?"
"Nope!" he answered cheerfully. "Mind you, plenty of his friends told him not to, even with all her heroic honors, but he always saw her as a brave, wonderful woman. Duchess Missy loved him just as much. She always told me that after she got to know the duke, she decided she didn't want to kiss anybody but him for the rest of her life."
Petunia turned her head, perplexed and a little embarrassed. "Why would she tell you something so… so personal?"
"Oh, it's very simple," he laughed, his eyes shining with fondness. "Duchess Missy was my mother."
Petunia started so hard, she nearly slipped off her seat. Duke grabbed her just in time and steadied her. She met his eyes, smiling her flustered gratitude, but then her expression grew thoughtful and a little awkward.
"Wow," she finally said.
He checked her face, wondering if she felt too scandalized to answer his next question, but he had to know her answer.
"So, let me turn it back to you, dear princess," he said, wearing a kind, sad smile as he released his grip. "Could you marry the son of a former kissing-booth operator?"
Her head snapped up.
"Oh, Duke, how could you think that would matter to me?" she exclaimed, distressed and with more than a hint of devotion.
He scooted closer, brightening. "It doesn't?"
"Well, it certainly caught me off guard," she admitted, "but, clearly, Kissy-Missy— I mean, your mother raised a kind-hearted son who is just as brave as she was."
"I try to be brave," he said modestly. "Mom was a lioness. And very sweet, like you. I think you would've liked her."
She averted her gaze, flattered. "I wish I could've met her."
Duke leaned toward her. "Dad didn't care about Mom's background. He loved her just as she was."
"He must have been a wonderful man," she murmured. She adjusted her hold on her nosegay and gave him a shy look. "Just like you."
Duke ducked his head, bashful, and tugged on his collar.
"Dad made Mom his duchess because he loved her so much," he said. "Is it okay if… I did the same with you, Petunia?"
She closed her eyes, and she breathed a wistful, girlish sigh.
"You sure make it hard to say no to you."
She looked so adorable that he felt an impulse to pull her into a hug, but he maintained his chivalrous manners.
"If you honestly don't want to marry me, I'll back off, Petunia. Promise," he said with full sincerity. "But if you do want to get married, I'm going to stand by you no matter what. You're worth it."
She raised her head, studying him. His heart raced in anticipation of her answer, but he somehow managed to gaze back calmly, hoping she saw he meant every word.
Maybe she did because, misty eyed, she said five of the sweetest words in the whole world.
"Yes, Duke. I'll marry you."
THE END
A/N: The Amplified Classic has this footnote for Ruth 1:16.
"'Ruth is a prophecy, than which none could be more beautiful and engaging, of the entrance of the heathen world into the kingdom of God. She comes forth out of Moab, an idolatrous people full of wantonness and sin, and is herself so tender and pure. In a land where dissolute sensuality formed one of the elements of idol worship, a woman appears, as wife and daughter, chaste as the rose of spring and unsurpassed in these relations by any other [human] character in Holy Writ... Ruth's confession of God and His people originated in the home of her married life. It sprang from the love with which she was permitted to embrace Israelites... The conduct of one Israelitish woman [Naomi] in a foreign land was able to call forth a love and a confession of God like that of Ruth... Ruth loves a woman, and is thereby led to the God Whom that woman confesses' (J.P. Lange, A Commentary)."
If a Moabitess would have had a cultural reputation for being promiscuous (compare this to the "spicy Latina" stereotype of modern times), it's interesting then that Boaz, the upright son of an ex-prostitute, was the one to look past the stereotypes to see she was a virtuous woman that he wanted to marry. (See Ruth 3:11, KJV.)