Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Joshua smiled at that. “Melissa is a special girl. She’ll make someone a wonderful wife.”

  “Rebecca is an imp and Matthew is adorable. I can’t help but slip those two a piece of candy each time I see them.”

  He laughed, the hardness completely gone from his face. “Those two I do miss.”

  “Your mother said the harvest is looking very good. It’s been a good year for everybody.”

  “And Pa? Did she say anything about him?”

  “She said if I saw you I was to tell you he sends his greetings and hopes all is well with you.”

  “Hmmmph!” he snorted. “I’ll bet that’s just Ma’s way of trying to smooth things between us.”

  Lydia let it pass, watching the emotions working across his face. She found herself comparing him to Nathan. There was a softness in Nathan which at first had seemed like weakness, but which now she found intriguing. She had been around his mother enough to realize Nathan had inherited her gentle nature. That was a good word. Gentleness. Not weakness. Nathan was gentle, but there wasn’t much that was gentle in Joshua Steed.

  Lydia thought of their father. Benjamin Steed had also been into the store several times now, and Lydia had no trouble understanding why there was bad blood between the father and his oldest son. They were so much alike in some ways—unbending, proud, quick to take offense at anything perceived to be a threat.

  “Have you thought about moving back?” she asked, knowing she was moving onto sensitive ground. “You could still come here to work, and it would save you paying two dollars a month room and board.”

  He shook his head quickly in disgust. “Two dollars a month is worth it not to have to face Pa every day.”

  “But you could put that away too. That would get you out of here all the sooner.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Working the docks is honest work.”

  She realized she had touched a nerve, and backed away quickly. His mother had also raised concerns about the environment of the docks, and he was getting to be more and more defensive about it. But his determination to stay with it had also clinched any feelings Lydia’s own father had about Joshua. A farmer was hardly what the McBrides had in mind for their only daughter, but at least it was an honorable profession. When her father had learned Joshua was working on Canal Street he had absolutely, irrevocably forbidden Lydia to have any more contact with him.

  Lydia sighed. “It’s not that, Joshua, and you know it. But it’s just not right, you being separated from your family and all.”

  “Well, I ain’t going back. So let’s talk about something else.”

  Nodding, she stood and moved away, looking past him into the dark recesses of the warehouse. She had pushed him enough and knew he would not be pushed any more on the issue of his family. Joshua stood too, and offered to show her around the cavernous building. It was safer ground, and she immediately accepted. They moved slowly among the organized clutter, Joshua pointing out the various stacks of bales and boxes and barrels that constituted his working life. Next to a towering pile of crates he stopped. A faint fishy smell came from the boxes. She read the stenciled label. Dried cod from Boston on its way westward to the Ohio River valley.

  They were standing close, and Joshua reached out and took her by the shoulders. He turned her to face him. She smiled up at him, but it was forced and faded quickly. For some reason she was suddenly depressed. The rush of adrenalin which had sent her plunging into the alleyway was gone now. The folly of her rashness hit her heavily, knowing what it would mean if her father ever learned of this. And coming to Canal Street alone at night had taken more out of her than she had expected. What if someone had been waiting there in the darkness of the alley?

  “What is it?” He sensed her change of mood. His dark eyes were grave, probing.

  She gave a little shrug. “Nothing, I…” She shook her head. “I’m going to have to go, Joshua. I shouldn’t be here.”

  His hand came up and gently touched her cheek, tipping her head back. He leaned down and kissed her, at first his lips barely brushing hers, then quickly becoming firm, hard, almost insistent.

  Lydia kissed him back, but it was with a curious detachment, almost analytical. She found Joshua immensely attractive, and the excitement of arranging each secret rendezvous and flirting with the risks that attended them was scintillating. But…

  She pulled back and turned away, running her finger along the rough lumber of the crates. But what? She gave a little, impatient shake of her head, not sure exactly what was bothering her.

  He turned her around. “Something is the matter, Lydia. What is it?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes round and troubled. “If my father ever learned I had come here…” She let it trail off. “I told you they’re talking about sending me to Boston. My aunt—father’s youngest sister—runs a private boarding school for girls there.”

  “I know,” he said glumly. Then suddenly he was angry. “Just like my pa. Wantin’ to run everybody’s life.”

  Surprisingly she wanted to defend them. “They just want what’s best for me, Joshua.”

  “You decide what’s best for you,” he snapped. “No one else does.”

  She sighed again, the depression deepening. There were so many problems, so many challenges in all this.

  He leaned forward, suddenly earnest. “Your father’s feelings will change, Lydia. When I get my own freight business, he won’t be lookin’ down his nose at me any longer.”

  Maybe not quite so imperiously as now, she thought sadly, but she knew the depths of her father’s feelings. Joshua’s owning a team and a wagon wouldn’t change those feelings or Josiah McBride’s plans for his daughter. And besides, that kind of talk was marriage talk. Joshua had never spoken of it directly, but it was clear what was on his mind. She had those thoughts too, but it was with more and more reservations. Did she want this man as her husband? Was this really love or just a wild, irrational attraction? How did she feel about him?

  He touched her face again. “I think I love you, Lydia. You’re all I think about. Even when I’m working, I see your face in my mind.”

  “I…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “You’ll see, Lydia,” he said fiercely, reading her hesitancy as doubt about his abilities. “I will get my own wagon. Then another. I don’t plan to spend my days in this stink hole.”

  “I know that, Joshua. I believe you. But…”

  “But what?”

  Thankfully, she was spared having to answer, for there was a sudden, heavy pounding on the outer door. Joshua turned, frowning. Then his face changed. “Oh, that must be Will and David.”

  “The Murdocks?” Lydia asked in surprise.

  “Yeah, they promised to bring me some supper.”

  “Oh.” Her face clearly reflected her dismay. She knew Will Murdock well enough to know that with one mug of stout her visit to the warehouse district would be common knowledge throughout all of the Finger Lakes region.

  Joshua turned toward the door, but Lydia grabbed his arm quickly. “Joshua, they can’t see me here.”

  He gave her a strange look. “Why not?”

  “Because if they ever tell anyone and my father finds out, he’ll ship me off to Boston before you or I can even snap our fingers.”

  He shrugged, brushing her concern aside. “So, we’ll just tell them not to say anything.” He started away again, but she dragged him back around.

  “No, Joshua! Isn’t there any other way out?”

  “Well, yes.” He gestured toward one corner of the building. “There’s a small door there on the canal side—”

  “Good.” The hammering on the door was louder now and more insistent.

  Joshua took her by the shoulders. “Lydia, it’s full dark now. I don’t want you out there alone. I was going to let Will and David stay here while I walked you back.”

  “No!” she blurted. The terrors of Canal Street were nothing compared to the thoughts of facing he
r father. She squeezed his hand. “I’ll find my way. Just don’t tell them I was here.” She darted away and out into the night.

  Chapter Nine

  Nathan Steed finished tying the last shock of corn and stood it upright. He tossed the roll of twine and the corn knife aside, took off his hat, and mopped at his brow with his sleeve. The shocks of corn stood at attention where he had placed them, scattered randomly across the field like Indian tepees pitched in a broad meadow.

  He let his gaze continue across the Martin Harris farm. Out behind the barn—big enough to be a church—the apple trees were bent nearly double with the opulence of the harvest. To the south of the house, almost an acre of pumpkin, squash, watermelon, and tomatoes was just starting to turn brown under the nipping of the first frost. In the yard, beneath the great elm trees, guinea hens strutted about like ill-mannered town gossips searching for any tidbit to snatch. A cock, comb scarred and flopping over almost to the point where it covered one eye, scratched lazily in the dust, his harem of hens scattered around him. Porkers who a few months before had been squealing, darting piglets now lay round and fat in their pens, snuffling as they dozed. By Christmas several would be stuffed with other things and lie on a platter next to the carving knife. He saw three pigeons bank and glide back toward the barn. They too had a destiny. They would soon be plucked and stuffed under a thick layer of piecrust for the Harris table.

  Nathan felt a stir of envy. The Steed farm was coming along nicely, and they too would have a good harvest, but compared to this farm of Martin Harris’s…He sighed, longing momentarily for Vermont and what the family had built for themselves there. But he brushed it aside. Things were going well, and for having been here only one year, there was much to be pleased with. Down deep, Nathan had quickly picked up his father’s love of the Finger Lakes country. It was good land, a fine country, with good people.

  But whenever he came to the Martin Harris farm, he always felt a tiny burst of covetousness. He let his eyes scan the split-rail fence that bordered the cornfield. Mr. Harris had hired him to cut and shock the corn. It had taken him almost a week, but now it was finished. He counted the sections of rail fence and quickly calculated. There were about fifteen acres of corn. He turned, squinting a little. Each section of fence was eleven feet long, or exactly one-sixth of a “chain.” Surveyors used a chain consisting of one hundred links of equal size and totaling sixty-six feet in length. Nineteen fence sections were within an inch or two of being the same length as one side of a square acre. It was a simple way to calculate land area, and often a farmer would take down a length of his rail fence and use it as a giant ruler to measure off a new section he wished to cultivate.

  It was a perfect Indian-summer afternoon, the air clear as fine crystal, the first hint of orange and yellows just barely touching the leaves. He wiped at the back of his neck, feeling the grit of the dust and the tiny bits of cornstalk that had worked their way inside his shirt. When he returned home, he would take a quick plunge in the creek. Then tomorrow his father and some of the other neighbors would come with their wagons and haul the corn to the Harris barn. The Steed corn—less than five acres—would come next, and thus they would move from farm to farm, helping one another, feeling the quiet camaraderie of men sharing a common labor. Satisfied with his work, Nathan stuffed the rag back into his pants pocket, picked up his equipment, and headed for the house.

  The Harris home was located on the road which ran north from Palmyra Village up to the shores of Lake Ontario. It was an attractive clapboard house which sat about thirty feet back from the road. Nathan went to the front door, noting the pro-fusion of flowers bordering the stone walk, and he remembered Mrs. Harris had promised to send some seeds to his mother.

  As he knocked on the door, he felt a little ashamed for hoping Mr. Harris would open the door. Nathan had seen him come from the barn about an hour earlier and go into the house. He had not seen him come out again since then. Not that Mrs. Harris hadn’t always treated him with courtesy, but she was a cheerless woman, and Nathan always felt a little uncomfortable in her presence. She was hard of hearing, and, as some with that affliction do, she had developed a paranoia that people were talking about her behind her back. She dressed well, and he guessed that Lucy Harris fully enjoyed being the wife of one of Palmyra’s more prosperous farmers. Part of the role seemed to require a certain lofty aloofness, which she carried off to perfection.

  The door opened and Martin Harris was there. He immediately smiled and opened the door wider. “Yes, Nathan.”

  “I’ve finished the corn, Mr. Harris.”

  “Already?” He turned to look at the clock on the fireplace mantle. It showed quarter past four o’clock. He stepped out on the porch far enough to survey the cornfield, then nodded, pleased. “Good, good. Come in, Nathan, and we’ll settle up.”

  Nathan looked down. His boots were dusty and his pants and shirt covered with bits and pieces of the cornstalks. “I’d better wait out here.”

  “Nonsense.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Come in. I’ll bet you could use something to drink.”

  Nodding, Nathan brushed at his clothes, then stepped inside. The older man followed him and shut the door. “Lucy!” he shouted.

  From somewhere in the back of the house an answer floated back.

  “The Steed boy has finished the corn. Can you fetch him something to drink?” He yelled it loudly, with just a touch of exasperation, then turned back to Nathan. “Sit down, Nathan, and I’ll get my purse.”

  Nathan shook his head quickly. The chair he had pointed toward was upholstered in a rich-looking red velvet. In the Steed cabin, dirt and dust on one’s clothes had little effect on the hand-hewn wooden benches and stools which served as their furniture. Here it was different. “I’m fine, thank you anyway.”

  Harris looked him up and down, nearly protested again, then nodded. “I’ll get your money, then.”

  As he went up the stairs to the second floor, Nathan looked around. In sharp contrast to the Steed homestead, the evidence of prosperity was everywhere. This was the sitting room, and across the small vestibule where they had entered he could see into the parlor. It was furnished with the same good taste and elegance as the room in which he now stood. Both rooms had fireplaces with handsomely carved mantles of polished oak. These were not the large stone fireplaces of a backwoods cabin, but the work of craftsmen.

  He heard a noise and turned. Mrs. Harris was standing at the door which led to the hallway and back to the kitchen. “Oh,” she said. “I thought I heard Mr. Harris call.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Harris.” She cocked her head, leaning forward slightly. More loudly, he spoke again. “Hello, Mrs. Harris. I’m Nathan Steed. Mr. Harris went upstairs for a moment.”

  Her eyes swept over his clothes quickly, and he felt her quick disapproval. He was glad he was not sitting on her velvet chair.

  “And how is Mrs. Steed?”

  “Just fine, ma’am, thank you. Ma says to give you her best.”

  She nodded, still eyeing him closely. She was a handsome woman, almost as tall as her husband, and always elegantly dressed, but her mouth pulled down in a perpetual frown, and her eyes, like now, were always sizing people up, as though trying to decide where to put them in the order of things. For a moment, Nathan considered asking her about the flower seeds, but thought better of it. He glanced away, concentrating on a winter scene that hung on the wall in front of them of a red fox just coming out of his burrow.

  In a moment Martin Harris came back down the stairs, a small leather purse in his hand. He smiled, but it almost instantly vanished as he saw her hands were empty. “Lucy,” he said, “I asked you to get Nathan something to drink.”

  She looked surprised. “Oh. I heard you call, but didn’t hear you well.”

  At that moment Nathan knew she had heard exactly what he had called, and so did her husband. There was a quick flash of anger in his eyes, but Nathan quickly broke in. “That’s all right, Mr. Harris. I’ve got
to get going anyway. Thank you, Mrs. Harris.”

  She smiled, satisfied they both knew that she was not one of the hired servants. “Are you sure? I’ve got some elderberry juice in the smokehouse.”

  “Yes, I’ve got to get to the blacksmith shop before they close.”

  Harris counted out four coins and held them out. “Two dollars, as agreed.”

  “Thank you.” Nathan slipped them into the watch pocket of his leather vest. “Pa and I will be here right after sunup.”

  Mrs. Harris smiled sweetly. “And how is your brother, Nathan?”

  Nathan turned, suddenly wary. “Joshua? He’s fine.”

  “Still working down on Canal Street?” There was no mistaking the faint disdain.

  “Yes. Yes, he is.” He fought down the irritation—at her for so obviously trying to bait him and at himself for the sudden defensiveness he felt.

  “I’ll bet that just breaks your mother’s heart.”

  “That’s enough, Lucy,” Martin warned. “That’s none of our affair.”

  She turned, her face innocent. “What did you say, Martin?”

  “You heard me,” he grumbled, but let it go. He turned to Nathan. “Thank you again for a job well done, Nathan.”

  “Thank you for the work, Mr. Harris. Now I have enough to buy that present for Ma’s birthday.”

  “Anytime, Nathan. Anytime at all.”

  As Nathan left the Harris yard and started down the road toward the village, he glanced up at the sun. If he hurried he could get his business done at the blacksmith’s shop and still be in time to buy some penny candy for Matthew and Becca. That brought a smile to his face. While there were several places one could buy candy in proximity to Zachariah Blackman’s blacksmith shop and stables, without question Josiah McBride’s dry goods store had the best penny candy in all of Palmyra Village—or at least, the best penny-candy clerk in all of the village.

  And with that he forgot all about Lucy Harris and began to whistle.

  Business in the store was slow, and Lydia was moving slowly through the three rooms, straightening shelves, mentally checking inventory, and dusting where necessary. Her friends would sometimes wrinkle their noses at such menial labor, but she loved the clutter and variety that made up a well-stocked dry goods store and found a surprising amount of satisfaction in being master of it all. She could instantly turn to any one of a thousand items and knew, without asking, exactly how much it sold for. There was powder and ball for the rifles; a bewildering array of farm and work tools; pins and thread and needles; ladies’ bonnets, belts, and ribbons; a few small artificial flowers; expensive earthenware and cheap crockery; tobacco, some for smoking and some for “chawing”; bolts of jean and linsey; homespun cotton cloth and the expensive satins shipped in from Boston; sassafras and sage and crop-vine teas.