by Laura Frantz
“You—you don’t have to answer.” Her whisper held abject apology.
He seemed not to hear, lost in his work. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “Soon after I came to Philadelphia, I joined the American Army as a courier and was taken captive by the British. An officer ordered me to clean his boots.” He let go of the hoof and looked down at his thumbs. “I refused.”
She stared at him blankly.
His gaze met hers. “’Tis a punishment the Crown metes out to common criminals, especially Scots. After six months they decided I was more use to them unshackled and set me to mending their muskets.” He paused, jaw hardening. “But lest you feel too sorry for me, my brothers fared far worse. Ewan died at the Battle of Stone Ferry. Roland was felled by fever before any hard fighting began.”
Pity nicked her. “What of your father and mother?”
“Not here . . . heaven.”
Alone, then. “I’m so . . . sorry.”
Sorry I asked. Sorry about your grievous losses. Sorry you are here in a situation more prison than apprenticeship.
“So, Eden . . .” As he secured the second shoe, he asked through the hammering and the smoke, “Why were you not at Sabbath dinner?”
Why, indeed. A bold question for a question, she guessed. There was no pretending she hadn’t heard. His voice held a cadence as firm as the tool he wielded so well. Only she couldn’t tell him she’d gotten a stomachache from one too many tea cakes. Or that the handsome sight of him that day had put fire to her heels and she’d fled . . .
“I was out visiting Hope Rising’s tenants. Margaret, the housekeeper, likes me to accompany her. We visit those in need—the sick and grieving. I gave no thought to the hour, to dinner, and took cold.”
“I saw you out walking. I thought you’d gone to kirk.”
“Kirk?”
“Church.”
“I’ve never been to church,” she confessed.
He looked up again, the light of disbelief in his eyes. “No kirk?”
“Papa forbids it.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “He’s a former Friend, you see. But he was read out of Meeting long ago. For dancing.”
“Your father was a Quaker?”
She reached out a hand, her palm brushing the rough wood of the stall as if to ground herself. Never had she spoken so freely with a man—except for David. Nor did she spill family secrets, though this particular tidbit had ceased being the gossip of York County long ago. “You’re familiar with the Friends?”
“Aye, I rubbed shoulders with them oft enough in Philadelphia.”
Had he? Was he also familiar with the foundling hospital, then? Excitement flared inside her then sputtered. Philadelphia was such a large city, and the hospital, Bea had told her, was on the very outskirts, far from the domain of tradesmen in town. Besides, what interest would a blacksmith have with abandoned babies?
“So your father forbids you from going to Meeting?” His voice pursued her, brought her back to the smoke of the stall and his green eyes. “To the church on the hill?”
She glanced over her shoulder anxiously. “Papa’s no fonder of Presbyterians than the Friends.”
Setting his tools aside, he looked down at her. “D’ye want to go, Eden?”
She felt a tremor of alarm. What did her wants have to do with it? Papa’s word was law. She could only imagine the ruckus that would be raised if she traipsed up the hill. Still, Silas’s steady gaze lured her. His invitation was so beguiling, so quietly and enticingly stated, she entertained the notion. Briefly.
He took up his hammer again. “I’m going to attend next Sabbath, should you want to go with me.”
With that, he left Half-Penny to her and returned to the forge.
10
Wanton kittens make sober cats.
Eighteenth-century proverb
Elspeth crossed to the rear window of the weaving room, where Eden’s spinning wheel stood idle. Hanks of dyed yarn hung from the rafters above her head, awaiting the loom, but she took no notice of anything but Eden returning Half-Penny to the stable. A feeling of satisfaction set in. It had taken little coaxing to convince Papa her sister needed a few minutes alone with Silas. All he had to do was provide an opportunity under the guise of work. Yet watching Eden cross the muddy barnyard, knowing she was timid as a titmouse, Elspeth felt suddenly vexed. Had she even asked Silas the burning question?
She heard Silas at work again, knew it was him by the very tenor of his hammering. Papa’s had a less vigorous manner of striking, as if forty years of blacksmithing had worn him down to a rusty nail. Not Silas. His hammering was sure as a church bell, pealing out of the smithy like steady music on a summer day. She hoped he wouldn’t grow deaf as a doorpost in time. But if he did, she thought consolingly, he had other charms aplenty.
“Elspeth Ann, have you even begun to work?”
Mama stood in the doorway, a wrinkle marring her brow. The babe was in arm and she was bouncing to quiet him, every shake making her plump figure quiver.
“I’ve begun,” Elspeth said, turning away from the window. “But I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“Why don’t you sit and spin what’s left of the flax, then? I’ll have Eden bring up the wool when she’s done in the barn, though I’ve a mind to call her in now to manage the babe. He’s been fed but won’t stop his fussing.”
Elspeth came closer and looked down at the red-faced, squirming infant and tried to keep her distaste from her face. If he was sweet-tempered, she might take to him more readily. But the truth was she’d never been fond of children, not even Thomas, so she wasn’t surprised when her own son left her cold.
“I think the only thing Eden’s not afraid of is a screaming baby,” she said, taking a step back.
Mama bounced harder. “She’s always had a way with children and animals, like you have a head for business.”
“I’ll fetch her from the barn,” Elspeth offered, as anxious to see how her sister had fared with Silas as to be free of Jon’s fussing.
She waited till Mama went below before preening at the looking glass in her room. A few brushstrokes of her hair, a pinch to her cheeks, a broach pinned to her bodice, and she was nearly done. Poking about on Eden’s side of the dresser led to her coveted orange water beneath several layers of petticoats. She wrinkled her nose. More of Jemma’s cast-offs. Holding up the slim glass vial, she applied the scent liberally. Like the yellow silk dress, the cologne was rich, enticing. Far more her scent than Eden’s.
Her simple day gown would suffice. Made of heavy corded linen, the horizontal blue stripes were the hue of her eyes and enhanced every nuance of her full figure. Turning before the looking glass, she nearly forgot her mission. Silas might be immune to her charms thus far, but the weaver’s son had collapsed like a spent sack of wool at her attentions last winter.
“You didn’t?” Elspeth tried to school her ire, but Eden was proving so exasperatingly dense—and she was so irate herself—that her tone had turned blistering.
Eden looked up from the hay she was shoveling into a feeding trough, pausing long enough to lean on her pitchfork. “Silas is not a man to be asked such questions.”
“Oh? I beg to differ.” Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was lurking, she hissed, “If you don’t ask him, I’ll tell Papa you’re up to no good at Hope Rising, that your so-called Sabbath outings are naught but a ruse to dally with a man.”
The threat found purchase. She saw the hurt in Eden’s eyes, sensed her dismay, felt a twist of guilt that she’d already planted a seed of suspicion.
Eden’s voice shook with suppressed emotion. “You know I help Margaret see to the tenants—”
“So you say. Papa hates your association with that Quaker woman, your handouts. He only allows it to curry favor with the Greathouses.” Folding her arms, she continued in low tones, “How many times must you be told? Papa and Mama want to see me wed. A partner is needed at the forge. At last we have someone who suits Papa—and myself. No
t only can Silas fashion anything out of iron in half the time, he’s a skilled gunsmith and engraver besides . . .” Her voice trailed off as the barn door creaked in the wind.
Eden resumed her haying, clearly downcast but far from obliging. Irritation rising, Elspeth moved to stand between her and her work. “You simply must play your part. I’ll give you till week’s end to ask Silas your question.” She turned on her heel, remembering the babe at the last. Swinging back around, she planted her hands on her hips. “You’d best finish up here. Mama needs help with little Jon. He won’t settle.”
Eden resumed her work, expression now placid as the meadow’s pond.
“Till week’s end,” Elspeth hissed again, satisfied when her words brought about the wince she wanted.
The scent of oranges, so exotic it reminded Silas of tales he’d heard of the Caribbean, wrapped round him like a woman’s arms. Distracted from the metal inlay he was working on a gun plate, he leaned into the trestle table and set his tools aside. Behind him, Elspeth stood, perusing ledgers and occasionally marking something with a quill and ink.
Near the bellows, Liege was talking with several customers, mostly farmers and tradesmen. Silas was beginning to learn their stout frames and bearded faces. Most were German with dense-sounding names. Brunner. Kaufmann. Hofstettler. Schmidt. These men formed the backbone of York County. And lately they’d come trooping into the smithy to watch him work, ordering iron that was both costly and complicated, as if trying to test his skill.
“Silas.”
He turned at the honeyed tone, wariness clutching him. The scent of oranges grew stronger. The forge’s fire felt overwarm. Elspeth was looking up at him in that beguiling way she had, and he felt the pull of it clear to his bones.
“How much trim did you finish for the dower house Mr. Becker is building?”
Without effort he recited, “Twenty-six hinges and latches, a dozen shutter bolts, four tongs, six andirons, two pokers, one hundred fifty-six nails.” He well knew the total—the man had been so exacting he’d had to check his work repeatedly as he’d loaded the order into the wagon.
“I wonder why I keep accounts, your memory is so fine,” she said with a little smile, dipping her quill into an inkwell.
Aware Liege was watching, Silas removed his leather apron without comment and hung it from a nail, then passed to the water bucket and took a long drink. He had to deliver some iron to Elkhannah after the midday meal and was only too glad to leave the stifling confines of the forge and get a bracing breath of air. Still, he wished he could go by horseback and not wagon. Horatio was in desperate need of a run. Though Eden and Liege took prime care of all the animals, his gelding was becoming barn sour and was loath to leave his stall.
“Daughter, bring me the ledgers.”
Silas felt Elspeth follow his every move before doing her father’s bidding, even sensed her disappointment as he turned away. She wanted him to tarry—had been baiting him to talk for half an hour or better—but he left the smithy without a word and passed through the half-finished arbor, pausing to gather a load of firewood.
Pushing open the kitchen door, he found a scene he was all too familiar with—the babe squalling in his cradle, Thomas strewing blocks and toy soldiers wherever he toddled, an apron-clad Eden at the hearth, face flushed the hue of her hair. Though the door banged shut in his wake, she didn’t so much as glance up at him.
Dumping the wood into a box by the door, he stepped round her and fed the fire a few chunks of oak. Her head was bent as she stirred a fragrant skillet of fried apples, and he spied a wisp of hay in the long ringlets that fell like fire to her waist. He plucked it free without her knowing and tossed it into the hearth. As his hand fell away, he was besieged by a startling thought.
That this was their kitchen and Eden was . . . his.
Warmth suffused his face. So distracted, he failed to see Thomas toddle to the table and pull a colander off its edge, spilling dried beans in every direction.
Wheest! Harnessing his temper, he scooped the lad up with one arm and set him in an empty copper cauldron before picking up the crying bairn and draping him across his shoulder. The swift action brought immediate quiet, capturing Eden’s attention as she took bread from the oven. Seeing Thomas in the huge kettle, wide eyes peering over the brim, she began to laugh. The music of it spilled like sunlight into the dreary kitchen, reaching to the room’s cold corners. Silas stood transfixed, struck by the irrepressible warmth and charm enlivening her features, so different than the staid lass he thought he knew.
Placing the bread on the table, she moved toward him, arms outstretched. His breath seemed to stick in his throat. But she wasn’t reaching for him but the babe, still mysteriously quiet. She planted a kiss on his wee nose, her gaze lightening, and looked toward the dining room door. “I’m sorry ’tis so noisy. Mama is busy with the weaver—they’re dressing the loom.”
So there was to be another mouth to feed, he mused. And more work for her. She smoothed Jon’s silken head, her touch sure and gentle.
“You have need of a kitchen girl,” he said, looking down at her.
“I am the kitchen girl,” she replied, as if to make light of his complaint.
Behind them Thomas had found the kettle’s wooden paddle and had begun a dirge that would raise the dead.
Her smile held an apology. “Do you miss Philadelphia?”
He gave a slight shrug. “The hammering of a dozen men or a bairn’s crying are all the same to me.”
“What’s it like? Philadelphia, I mean.” The faraway look in her eyes confirmed his suspicions that she’d never been there but wanted to go. Desperately.
“Busy. Beautiful in parts. Not so beautiful in others.”
“Did you see much of the city?”
He measured his response, not wanting to disappoint her. “My hours were long. Sometimes I had leave to attend the Franklin Institute for lyceum lectures.”
Surprise lit her features. “Lectures for apprentices?”
“Aye, in science and machinery, for those who wanted them. There was even an apprenticeship library. The boardinghouse I lived in was not far from it.”
“The Greathouses have told me about Bartram’s Gardens and Solomon’s Book Shoppe.” When he said nothing, she continued quietly. “The Greathouses are our neighbors—at Hope Rising.”
“Aye, I met them on the way here,” he said above Thomas’s pounding. “At the Rising Sun Tavern.”
“Master David and his cousins?”
“Aye,” he replied, recalling the sisters’ close perusal of him. “Greathouse had pity on a poor apprentice and bought me supper.”
“That sounds like him.” Shifting Jon to her other shoulder, her smile faded into something that resembled . . . longing. At least to his keen eye.
He spoke of you, he almost said, then cast the thought aside. What wouldn’t dislodge as readily was Greathouse’s stumbling and flushing when he spoke of her. The recollection gave way to a startling thought. The heir to Hope Rising . . . and a blacksmith’s daughter? In Scotland the idea would be heidie—scandalous. Here in York County he was less sure.
His musings ended when Elspeth entered the kitchen, arms full of ledgers, expression sullen. As if realizing they stood quite close, Eden stepped away from him, features tightening. Without provocation, the babe resumed his crying and Thomas his pounding, and everything returned to chaos.
All seemed to pour into the kitchen at once—Mrs. Lee with the weaver, Liege with two York men, and Elspeth in the center, dark as a thundercloud.
Despite their crowded table, not a word was uttered. With Silas and Papa at each end and she, Elspeth, and Mama on one side facing the three male guests, Eden didn’t dare lift her eyes from her plate. Isaac Lackey, directly across from her, seemed possessed of the same appetite as before, when he’d come with his weaver father, his weskit buttons near bursting. To her right sat Silas. Though nary a look was exchanged, his presence steadied her, helped stave off he
r dread of the coming confrontation with Elspeth.
Twice in one morning she’d missed the opportunity to broach Elspeth’s question.
Do you have a sweetheart?
Soon, at meal’s end, Elspeth would corner her and Eden knew she’d pay the price.
When they were but girls, Elspeth had simply pinched Eden to show her displeasure, waiting till her mouth was full of peas or porridge before inflicting secret pain beneath the table. Sometimes in a fit of retaliatory fury Eden had kicked her back. But somehow, over the years, repeated pinching and verbal lashings had worn her down and she responded with no more than tearful silence. Elspeth’s latest threat still echoed in her ears.
I’ll tell Papa you’re up to no good at Hope Rising, that your so-called Sabbath outings are naught but a ruse to dally with a man.
The heavy silence, the clink of utensils, the enthusiastic chewing and swallowing of the weaver, fueled Eden’s hopes that her life in Philadelphia would be far different. At least she’d not be a kitchen girl. Her life would consist of babies and feedings and changing clouts, of notations on charts and consultations with hospital staff, or so Bea had told her. If they accepted her. If they didn’t hold her father’s transgressions against her. Or her own lack of spiritual training.
When the meal ended, Silas and her father and their guests returned to the smithy. Mama and Elspeth went upstairs with the weaver, leaving Eden to clear the table and mind the children. She nearly sighed aloud with relief. Elspeth’s wrath was averted, if only for the time being.
“Daughter, I must speak with you.”
The stern summons in the quiet of the kitchen seemed more like a death sentence. Papa stood in the doorway, having just come in from the smithy.
Had she left something undone in the barn? The kitchen?