Betsy glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you add a log to the fire?”
“Why don’t you?”
“You’re closer.”
I put the basket down. Again.
Betsy reached for a roll.
Grace rested her head on Papa’s shoulder. “Remember that day after meeting when Harry didn’t put away the foot stove, and I tripped over it and knocked out the hot coals? I almost broke my leg and burned myself.”
After using the poker to shift the log into place, I pushed myself up from the hearth, dusted my hands, and gave my little sister an exasperated look. While the others went back to their conversations, I transferred the basket to the chest behind the borning room door and sniffed appreciatively. Mama must have seen me coming. She had my dish ready.
Before I could sit, Luke interrupted what Gideon was telling him to hand me his plate and mutter, “Get me a little more cornbread and gravy, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, he grinned at Gideon and said, “I’d pay to see that. Ed Welds, the drover. Ha. A person ought to be at least as smart as the cattle he’s driving to try that for a living.”
“Shame on you.” Spooning jam onto her bread, Mama clucked. “Poor Ed. He’s such a nice boy. You shouldn’t pick on him.”
Luke shrugged. “What is he thinking? Nothing, probably. That’s the problem.”
I returned and rested the filled plate before Luke.
Instead of thanking me, he held up his tankard. “More cider, too, if you don’t mind. A drover!” He snickered.
I sighed and stomped over to the cider jug on the counter. While I refilled the tankard, the din behind me grew louder, with Gideon defending his pal, Grace wishing aloud for a happier ending to Romeo and Juliet, the play she’d taken to reading repeatedly, Mama indulging her with smiles, and Betsy badgering Papa to let her have a barn cat in the house for a pet since he’d declined to give her one of Mitten’s pups.
During the last few days, my home-loving reflections had all but snuffed my interest in the Genesee Valley. Now the thought of that destination tempted me, tempted me again—the elixir of escape.
It was sad how much more I loved my family when I wasn’t actually near them.
As I headed to the noisy table with the brimming tankard, Gid scowled and slapped down his spoon. “I can barely stand to eat with you going on and on about Romeo. ‘Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ Stupid.”
Papa speared a chunk of potato with his fork. “That tongue of yours does run like a fiddlestick, Grace.”
Betsy grimaced. “Find something less ridiculous to jabber about.” Then, under her breath: “Idiot girl.”
“Mama! Did you hear what Betsy called me?”
Coming up behind my older brothers, I was just about to deliver the cider when Matthew, perhaps taking advantage of the others’ distraction, ducked his head and said quietly, “Be a sport, Luke. Mr. Thompson’s going to pay me to help raise the bridge come April. I only need a little to—”
Luke jerked sideways. “I said no.”
Both brothers jumped when I put the tankard on the table.
Matthew scowled. “What do you want?”
“With a fool?” A gambler? A scoundrel? “Nothing.”
His mouth tightened. “Here.” He thrust his tankard my way. “Fill mine while you’re up.”
I opened my mouth to tell him he could get his own cider and choke on it for all I cared, when Mama said, “You’ll have to help yourself.” She rose and started stacking plates.
Giving Matthew my back, I smiled at my mother. Dear Mama. Some of my previous tender feelings returned. Now she was a person worth missing.
I dropped onto the bench and drew my plate closer.
Mama squawked. “What are you doing? You don’t have time for that.”
I stared at her dumbly.
“Your collar’s all rumpled, and, heavens”—she made a face—“look at your hands.”
“I just washed them.”
“Wash them better. And do something with your hair. Mr. Long’s joining us for dessert. He’ll be here any second.”
I gripped my fork. “But I’m hungry.”
“You can eat later.” She shooed me.
Growling explosively, I heaved myself up from the table.
Grace giggled, “Make yourself pretty for your beau.”
Betsy’s mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t be so quick to call him that, when he’s on such friendly terms with the Goodrich daughters, not to mention half a dozen other Middleton girls. He’s the new favorite, don’t you know?”
I ironed my face as I passed them on my way to the ladder plank, hoping to convey indifference. Inwardly, I seethed. Oh, to escape the drudgery, to enjoy some blessed adventure, to get away from it all—them all. My sisters. My brothers. My parents. And Daniel Long, too, if the man couldn’t make staying worth my while. It was time for him to own his feelings and declare his intentions. One day he was courting me; the next day he wasn’t. I was tired of not knowing where I stood. If he loved me, I deserved to hear it. I couldn’t decide my future without that certainty.
When Daniel arrived mere seconds after I climbed down from the loft, I struggled to keep the impatience and irritation out of my expression. If his anxious glances my way were any indication, I didn’t succeed. Mama’s overt matchmaking, Betsy’s sly innuendos regarding who knew how many Middleton girls, and my older brothers’ high-handedness (“Get me another slice of that tart, Harry”; “We could use some more ale here”; “Move—you’re standing in my light”): These did nothing to improve my mood.
I was finally eating my (cold) supper when my mother smiled dotingly at Daniel. “Would you like more cream tart?”
“Thank you, but I’m full. It’s delicious, though.”
“I’ll take another slice, please.” Gid held up his plate to Mama.
“Harriet made it this morning.” She slid the last portion onto my brother’s dish. “Her crusts always turn out so tender.”
I rolled my eyes. Would have been nice if the family had saved a slice for the baker.
Papa pushed away his dessert plate. “Did you finish the pinion wheel for the saw machinery?”
“I showed it to Mr. Goodrich last night, in fact,” Daniel said.
“And did you dine with the family?” Betsy smirked in my direction.
He nodded distractedly and said to Papa, “Wheel should work fine, I think.”
I hunched lower over my plate. The man’s like a bloody bee, flitting from one girl to another, a sip here, a sip there.
“… and Harriet can help you,” Mama said.
I glanced up. Everyone was gazing at me. Their expressions covered the whole spectrum: sly, pleased, hopeful, indifferent, amused, annoyed, curious.
My mother, looming over me, was all encouragement. “Won’t you?”
“Won’t I what?”
She wiped her damp hands on the end of her apron. “Help Mr. Long carry in the squashes he brought us.”
I slapped down my napkin. “Can’t a girl eat in this house?”
My mother’s mouth thinned. “A girl can eat later.”
“Later, later. It’s always later around here.” Grumbling, I rose and shifted my glare from her to Mr. Bumblebee.
Daniel’s smile died.
I stomped across the room. “Come on, then.”
Night had fallen. While I waited by the wagon, Daniel pulled the door shut behind him. The lamp in the window illuminated some of the darkness, caught snowflakes in its golden halo, and revealed Daniel’s expression, too: trepidation mixed with humor.
But love? What about love, Daniel? Love!
I fought an impulse to shove him onto the snowy ground and took some steadying gulps of air. The cold felt good. It eased a little of my ire and made me glad to be out of the house. I breathed deeply. Free, free!
Daniel gazed at me questioningly.
I stared straight back. “Well?”
He coughed, sidled around me
, and pulled two crates from the wagon.
I glared at the starry sky.
He shuffled by the crates. “I reckoned your mother could use these. Jeb and I ended up with more butternuts than we’ll ever eat.”
“That’s nice.” I crossed my arms and held myself tightly. “Anything else?”
“Um”—he glanced around—“no. Sorry. Just squashes.”
I flared my eyes. “Anything else you want to say to me?”
He took a step back. After furtively searching my face, he smiled weakly and offered, “The cream tart was tasty.”
My breath left me in a hiss. Seriously? I stooped to grab one of the crates. “Glad to hear it. I personally couldn’t judge. No one thought to leave me any.”
* * *
“Thank you.” I accepted the tea from Lydia Goodrich, and there was a moment when the eldest Goodrich daughter’s skin met mine, just touching. Poised in the Goodrich family’s parlor, hovering in the lavender-fragranced air, our hands were a study in contrasts. Hers soft and white, mine calloused, the fingers still stained with walnut juice, nails pared as short as a boy’s.
Then that second passed, and the four of us—Mrs. Goodrich, Miss Goodrich, Mama, and I—began to sip our tea intently like mismatched people relieved to have something to do that didn’t entail talking.
I shouldn’t have agreed to accompany my mother here. The decision had ruined a perfectly good Sled Day, particularly this year when sufficient snow had coincided with the first of December, making sledding actually possible.
In truth, though, I might not have finagled a sleigh ride anywhere else but here. My parents had business in town. Mama had packed the bayberry candles Mrs. Goodrich had ordered and then invited me to join her and Papa on the trip. After a long summer of the wheeled wagon bumping in and out of road ruts and muddy holes, I couldn’t resist the temptation of the first winter travel.
And I had enjoyed that part: the sleekly packed snow, the squeaking of the steel-shod runners, and the constant tinkling of the sleigh bells fastened to the horse’s harness. The jingling increased the closer we got to the heart of Middleton, where others’ shining sleigh bells chimed in.
Now I anxiously listened for the bells that would signal Papa’s return. When would he rescue us?
Abruptly, Miss Goodrich set down her tea and picked up a lady’s journal. “Have you seen the latest Parisian fashions for the season?”
I shook my head and leaned closer to her on the sofa. As she turned the pages, I stared at the illustrations. These were gowns I’d never wear. I had absolutely nothing to say about them.
Eventually she abandoned her musings on lace and trim.
During the endless lull, I furtively scanned her. Her dress shimmered over her elegant form in the way only silk could. I glanced down. My best dress was a sturdy article of my own making, comprised of home-produced linen and wool. Not a shimmer in sight.
While my mother gave the parlor her unmasked adoration, the Goodrich matron stoically did her best to keep a conversation going. But Mama and I lived too far away to join in on town news. When Mrs. Goodrich began to discuss upcoming balls that “winter has finally made permissible, now that there’s a little time for frivolity in our busy household,” my mood swung from uncomfortable to annoyed.
Busy? What did the Goodrich women do that made them so busy? Neither loom nor wheel nor dairy nor hearth tied them down. They didn’t sew their own dresses; their stitchery was saved for lace making and samplers. Meals, clothes, cleaning, soap, candles: They had servants to handle all that. In fact, Mrs. Goodrich had ordered Mama’s candles not because she didn’t have someone to make plenty already, but because my mother’s were recognized throughout Middleton for being especially fine.
As if the Goodrich woman had read my mind, she returned her cup to its saucer, cleared her throat, and murmured, “So, tell me, Mrs. Winter: How do you make these beautiful candles?”
Culled from her inspection of a claw-footed table, Mama started. “Well, I send the girls out to pick the bayberries; then we throw them in a pot of boiling water. Their fat rises to the top and makes for a superior candle wax. You won’t have to worry about bayberry candles burning out fast or smoking and bending under the heat. The best candles, bayberry. Quite sweet-smelling. I’ve saved a few for Christmas presents. They’re very special. Growing up, we always sang, ‘A bayberry candle burned to the socket brings luck to the house and gold to the pocket.’”
While Mrs. Goodrich nodded politely, Mama resumed her appreciative study of the parlor. She ran her rough fingers over the polished, half-cushioned arms of the chair. I could clearly see where the fire and bubbling grease and lye from our recent soap making had left burns across the backs of her hands.
The sight brought a lump to my throat. It didn’t seem right, in this new nation won for the sake of liberty and equality, that already we’d fallen into such separate classes. Way up there: the Goodriches. Way down here: the Winters. With a pang, I realized that my singing chum, Rachel, probably ranked even lower than us. She was the distant family member who had to pay for her keep by getting hired out to any household that required an extra set of hands, including mine. She never complained, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the ever-present need to prove useful depressed her.
Lydia Goodrich broke into these worrisome thoughts. “It was kind of you to bring us a jug of your cider. I have a strong penchant for good apple cider.”
Mama and I just nodded. How was one to answer such an inane comment? Everyone loved cider.
She gave a delicate cough and started pleating the skirt of her dress. “Is cider difficult to make? Do you simply, um, squeeze the apple?”
Like a soft peach? I frowned and opened my mouth to explain the process, dumbfounded that there was a person who existed in this world who didn’t know the rudiments involved in the making of the most ubiquitous drink ever.
The approaching tinkle of bells distracted me. I peered out the window that framed the bustling street. I recognized the pitch of that jingle. I’d heard it every winter for much of my life. Yet the bells weren’t Papa’s.
They were Mr. Long’s.
A moment later, a servant opened the parlor door and announced him.
We rose, and he entered the parlor, smiling, red-cheeked from the cold, and preceded by a pack of giggling, breathless, snow-dusted girls. I’d wondered where the other Goodrich daughters had gone. Mr. Long must have taken them for a ride.
His smile widened when he spotted me. While Mrs. Goodrich ordered her younger daughters upstairs to change, Mr. Long greeted Mama warmly.
Mrs. Goodrich folded her arms and gave him a cloying smile. “How kind of you to give my girls such a treat. And what a shame Lydia wasn’t here to join you when you set off. She so loves a sleigh ride.”
I almost gagged. Mrs. Goodrich was too transparent. Where had the eldest daughter been? Probably hushed and hustled into her room to await a later sledding opportunity: a more romantic excursion, one just for two. I mentally rolled my eyes at the woman’s blatant trickery. I knew a matchmaking mama when I saw one.
However, the remark, as patent as it was disingenuous, worked. Mr. Long’s eyebrows flew up, and he good-naturedly smiled at the marriageable eldest. “I can take you for a turn around town now if you’d like.”
She demurred with a bashful stammering yet immediately moved forward as if to pounce on the chance. Mrs. Goodrich’s face beamed victoriously, while Mama, at last dragged from her admiring appraisal of her surroundings, perceived the other woman’s agenda and frowned in perturbation. It was probably Mama’s expression that awakened Mr. Long to the possibility of an ulterior motive. His smile wilted, his eyes flickered my way, and he added hastily, “Why don’t you join us, Miss Winter?”
Miss Goodrich froze. “Why—why, yes, that would be lovely.”
I raised an eyebrow. Ah, yes, lovely. Quite the enchanting prospect: Mr. Long and his two vying suitors clinging to his arms while they shot evil glanc
es at each other and his sleigh slipped around Middleton for all to see. A veritable spectacle. “No,” I bit out. “No, thank you.”
An uncomfortable silence settled in the parlor. Miss Goodrich leaped in to fill it by chattering, “I was just asking Miss Winter how her family makes cider. I know the apples need to be pressed, of course, but…”
Mr. Long nodded at this shameless demonstration of ignorance and, smiling my way, said lightly, “Miss Winter’s the one to ask. She’s an expert on the making of drinks.”
I didn’t smile.
I settled my gaze on the other girl. How could this oh-so-gentrified Miss Goodrich ever think she’d manage a farm? Didn’t she know she wasn’t remotely suited for all the chores that position required? Or was this what Mr. Long wanted in a wife: an ignorant piece of expensive flummery?
With a savage kind of dryness, I said, “The apples must be milled first.” You do know what a mill is, don’t you, daughter of Middleton’s wealthy mill owner? “That crushes them into a thick pomace. The juice would taste thin without this step. Slow bruising, sun, air—they all tinge the drink, make it sweet. Not a pretty thing, milled apples. No doubt you’d find the broken fruit disgusting. But then how much that’s just pretty is worth anything? I have no time for pointless prettiness.” My disdainful gaze swept the parlor and its inhabitants, including in its peevish path a visibly stunned Mr. Long, an obviously embarrassed Lydia Goodrich, a shocked Mrs. Goodrich, and a humiliated Mama.
Certainly, I was behaving boorishly. Yes, my tone dripped condescension. I couldn’t help it. This situation of unwitting rivalry was intolerable.
The Goodrich girl tried to smile. “Interesting,” she said weakly.
“Life always saves room for an appreciation of the ‘just pretty,’” Mr. Long said quietly. “I wouldn’t take to whittling otherwise. And the Goodrich family wouldn’t appreciate parlor music. Not everything need be purpose-riddled. Beauty and art justify themselves through the pleasure they provide.”
Mama was slowly shaking her head at me, grave disappointment in her face.
I dropped my gaze and studied my hands.
Heat stormed my already (I was sure) pink face when she said in a mortifyingly scolding tone, “Yes, beauty and art and good manners: all worth admiring, all worth cultivating, my dear. I believe I hear your father at the door. Propitious timing. Thank you, Mrs. Goodrich, for so kindly entertaining us. We must take our leave.”
The Beloved Wild Page 7