The Beloved Wild

by Melissa Ostrom

  “I don’t see how his throwing himself in our way is my fault.”

  I would have happily stomped to the opposite side of the room. Unfortunately, the only free table was the one after the rude reveler’s. Still, its position granted me a liberal view of the space. I sat with my back to the wall and my shoulder an inch from that of another man’s—or boy’s. He couldn’t have been much older than I was surely taken to be, fourteen or fifteen.

  With a sideways glance, he gave me a polite nod, then settled a resentful glower on Mr. Rude.

  The man, once again, was tipping his chair into the meager walkway and guffawing. He raised his tankard and bellowed, “To my cousin, fair John, our precious little milkmaid.”

  Around the table, the toast was laughingly repeated with slight variations: “pretty John,” “sweet John,” “our lovely milkin’ lass.”

  “Gammon,” the boy sitting next to me muttered. “I was just helping Mother.”

  I frowned at the jokester, curious about the insult.

  A servant appeared at Phin’s side. Balancing a tray with one arm, she swiped her hand on the greasy front of her apron, then passed out three brimming tankards and three plates mounded with pork and potatoes.

  As soon as she moved on, I took an eager sip, hoping for a mouthful of the hard stuff, and slumped with disappointment. It was the same old thing I’d always drunk.

  Gid gave me a dry look. “I told you they won’t serve nurslings strong spirits.”

  “What are you having?”

  He brought his cup close to his chest. “Never mind.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “Drink your cider.”

  “Come on. Just a sip.”

  Phineas gave the smoky air an indolent wave. “Give the lad a taste of gin.”

  My brother rolled his eyes but slid his tankard across the table.

  I shot my patron a grateful smile and took a gulp.

  Merciful heavens!

  My throat, immediately inflamed, barely managed the swallow. Tears filled my eyes. Heat seared my face. It took every ounce of my willpower to stifle a coughing fit.

  Phineas grinned. “Yummy, hmm?”

  Hoarsely: “Delicious.” With a shudder, I returned the tankard to a smirking Gid and swabbed my eyes with a sleeve. Laughter roared beside me, with Mr. Rude pounding the table to accompany the blare. I stilled, thinking the hilarity was for me and my unconvincing handling of the alcohol.

  It wasn’t. Of the table’s six occupants, only my young neighbor failed to crack a smile. Obviously, he was the brunt of another joke. “Rubbish,” the boy muttered, mortification spelled large in the flush of his pimpled cheeks.

  I gave him a sympathetic glance but then turned away. Tavern visiting was a treat for me, one not likely to be repeated. I was here to enjoy myself and determined to do so.

  Between forkfuls of pork, my tablemates dove into a conversation about the lake abutting the valley—“as sweeping as an ocean,” according to Phin—and the species of fish to be found in the area.

  Not a particularly interesting topic to me. I’d spent too many hours of my life gutting my brothers’ summertime catches. I studied our surroundings. The table on our left was as quiet as the one on our right was loud. Its occupants sat hunched, somberly mulling over the cards in their hands. I swatted Phin in the arm. “Are they playing faro?”

  He and my brother stopped shoveling food into their mouths and followed my gaze. Gid shrugged (he was no tavern expert, either), but Phin shook his head. “Brag, I think.”

  “Brag,” I breathed. I’d never heard of brag, but it sounded exciting. Maybe he would teach me how to play. With a flutter of anticipation, I gazed avidly around me, then twisted to take in the advertisements and legal notices plastering the wall. Between an announcement of a town meeting and a note offering the sale of a goat was a warning about runaway apprentices. I smiled, imagining my name there, then turned again, began picking at my meal, and strained to catch the exchanges in the room.

  My ears pricked at a complaint about President Madison, “his bacon-brained General Wilkinson, and the shameful cronyism already wrecking our government.” Politics! I leaned forward, hoping to hear more. This was what I’d longed to be made privy to: stimulating theories and elevated discourse. Unfortunately, the distant conversation took a mundane turn and began to dwell on the sad state of a neighbor’s cow.

  I slumped. Mostly these men were just puffing on pipes and drinking.

  Maybe the reference to the farmer’s cow aroused Mr. Rude’s attention, for he reintroduced the milking topic at his table with a more seriously muttered “Damme, it don’t make sense, John, adding milking to your chores. Is darning socks next?” He grunted. “You have men’s tasks to perform, and if last year’s haying was any indication, you could use the practice. Too slow with the scythe, by far.” He cracked a smile. “Listen, girl. I can promise you this year, if you don’t learn to quicken your pace, I’ll be nicking your ankles with my blade to hurry you along.”

  More red mottled poor John’s face. “Stop calling me girl. And I can’t exactly practice haying this time of year.”

  “Then you should be building fences and splitting rails.”

  “I do. I still have time to help Mother. Why shouldn’t I?”

  He pounded the table once, with a fist. “Because it’s not your work. That’s for Patience to do.”

  “She’s five!”

  “Then your mother must handle it herself.”

  The young man opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of retorting. Instead he seized his tankard and, without even tasting its contents, turned his glare to the side. He caught my gaze in the process.

  I smiled. “Your willingness to help”—I shrugged—“well, I think it says a lot about your character.”

  He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “My mother’s been very sick.”

  “Sorry about that, but sick or not, if a woman has her hands full, she can use assistance. Anyone’s.”

  My support, spoken quietly, wasn’t intended for the obnoxious man across the table, but he must have heard enough of it because he observed, “Yet another girl in the tavern. You aiming to become a milkmaid, too, girl?”

  I narrowed my eyes. The stupid oaf. He reminded me of Matthew. “I don’t like how you use that word.”

  “Milkmaid?” He barked a laugh. “Too bad, milkmaid.”

  “Girl,” I clarified through my teeth. “You say it like cur or swine.”

  “Freddy,” Gid said warningly.

  I glanced at my brother. “I just wonder he’d make a curse out of the label. Doesn’t he have a sister to esteem? A mother to respect?”

  The boor snorted. “This has nothing to do with my mother.”

  “I disagree. When you use girl in that degrading way, you disrespect all women, including your mother.”

  Phineas groaned.

  The man sneered. “I see you’re a mama’s boy like John here. Why don’t you go home to your mother?”

  “If only I could.” Sadness pierced me. I missed Mama terribly. “I’d certainly find any mother better occupied than I am. Mothers would never waste their time on this.” I dismissed the taproom with a flick of my hand.

  “Nor should they. A taproom ain’t for females. It’s the small reward menfolk earn after a day of breaking their bodies in the fields.”

  “I don’t begrudge hardworking men an hour of leisure, but when does a woman ever reap such a reward?” A moment to sit, without stitchery blanketing her lap and children hanging off her arms? To my young neighbor, I said, “What was your mother doing when you left?”

  He scratched his crown. “Feeding fiber to the spindle, I think.”

  I nodded. “Working. Like always.” No evening of fellowship, cards, and liquor for her. As for the Sabbath … well, how restful could a day be when there were children to mind? Even a holiday didn’t belong to women, not when they had to cook, cook, cook to make the occasion extra special. �
��You distinguish your mother by helping her. That’s more than filial devotion. That’s piety. The fifth commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother.”

  Gid dropped his head in his hands and moaned.

  Phin squawked. “Now he’s preaching!” He stood hastily and said in a conciliatory way, “Freddy’s studying to become a minister.”

  I ignored him and executed from my seat a small bow to the faithful son. “I respect you for the deference you show your mother. I believe God does, too.” Then because I couldn’t help it, I added, with more ire than sense, “Only those who break the commandments burn in hell.”

  The young man darted a fretful peek at the outraged face across the table.

  “Did you just send me to hell?” The cousin planted his hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet, scraping the chair against the floorboards in the process.

  I blinked. He was big.

  “Come, tadpole. I dare you. Say that a second time.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Gid and backhanded the air in my direction. “Is this stripling a relative of yours?”

  Gid held up his palms and shook his head.

  “Oh, he’s his own man.” Phin sidled around the table, clamped my wrist to urge me to follow, and hissed in my ear, “Lord Almighty, Freddy, you want to see the man break the sixth commandment, too?”

  Gid rose quickly and caught up with Phin and me; then the three of us performed a close-knit shuffle, giving the angry man as wide a berth as the crowded—and now silent—room allowed.

  The beast cracked his knuckles and took a step, as if to block our escape.

  What have I done? My heart, beating madly, lurched and seemed to land in my throat.

  The tavern keeper’s wife suddenly spoke. “Your baths are ready and waiting in your rooms.” She was standing, eyes wide, arms akimbo, in the doorway. She stepped back. As soon as we stumbled over the threshold, she pulled the doors shut and exhaled loudly.

  Phineas whipped out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, and skewered me with a disbelieving glare.

  Plowing both hands through his hair, Gid gasped, “Of all the foolish—that man was twice your size. Nay, thrice. What were you thinking, Freddy?”

  I winced (truthfully shocked by my temper as well) and glanced hesitantly at our rescuer, waiting for her censure, expecting an eviction for inciting trouble.

  She merely herded us toward the stairway. “Sam Fry is tiresome, tormenting his cousin that way, and here everyone knows the boy’s poor mother just suffered another miscarriage and is as limp as a dishrag. Well, John’s a good sort. Hold on.” She paused by the front counter to collect three thin towels. Before passing them out, she smiled and, to my astonishment, ruffled my hair. “You’re a good boy, too—filthy as a stray mutt but carrying a clean heart. There’ll be a slice of apple pie coming up with your bathwater.” She winked. “My treat.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My near row with the taproom bruiser did not disrupt my sleep. Nothing could. I was too weary and barely managed to keep my eyes open long enough to eat my pie, bathe, and give Fancy a halfhearted washing. Blissfully clean, I slept heavily and didn’t stir until the morning commotions in the tavern yard incited my dog’s barking. In fact, my companions had almost finished breakfast by the time I wandered into the quiet taproom.

  “Why, if it isn’t our young radical, Mr. Freddy.” Phineas raised his coffee cup in salute. “Stay up late reading some Mary Wollstonecraft?”

  Gid folded his arms and sat back. “Or writing your sermon blasting the social ills common in taverns?”

  Phin smiled. “Or drafting your treatise in support of the cause of women?”

  “Oh, I finished all that a long time ago.”

  My brother grunted. “How was the apple pie?”

  “Excellent.” I grinned at his peevish expression. Maybe he would have gotten a slice of pie, too, if he’d stood up for women. But he hadn’t.

  “No one around this early to start a riot with, but there’s food. Have a seat.” Phineas toed out a chair and nodded approvingly at my outfit. “You’re looking as bright as a gold coin.”

  “Thank you.” I had changed into my one spare set of clothes—articles, patched and altered, from my brother’s outgrown wardrobe.

  Gid eyed me. “I used to have a short coat just like that.”

  “Really?” I smoothed my hands down my front and patted the tops of my thighs. “Probably similar trousers, shirt, and vest, too.”

  “Almost assuredly,” he answered dryly. He stood and peered anxiously out the window. The glass’s ripples and bubbles distorted the sunny scene, weirdly warping the young maple by the porch. “Eat fast, Freddy. I want to make it to Barre by noon.”

  “I bet you do.”

  After shooting me a discouraging frown, Gid went to check on our animals. Phineas kept me company while I enjoyed my eggs and bacon. He lounged and chatted until I started a second cup of coffee; then he left, as well, to gather his overnight things from his room. I finished the remainder of my meal and wandered outside, where my brother was half sprawled in the wagon. Most of our possessions littered the yard. Gid was probably organizing the provisions. The few travelers bustling around their vehicles looked like they were doing the very same thing.

  The sun shone gloriously bright, completely unhindered by clouds. For the first time on this trip, I realized how big the sky was in these parts. Before Batavia, endless trees had roofed us, and I could never see very far ahead through the branchy mesh, but in this cleared oasis, I was able to take in my surroundings. I didn’t mind the flat terrain. Without mountains standing in the way, the sky plunged straight to the ground. I raised my face to the sun’s beams and breathed deeply, then headed across the yard to help my brother.

  “Freddy! Over here.”

  Phineas was stroking the nose of a fine mare that was tethered to a post. A leather bag hung from the saddle. “What a beauty,” Phineas said, when I reached his side. “Such a pretty head: the flaring nostrils, the soft eyes, the shallow mouth. That mouth! She answers the bridle quickly enough. Stand here. Now look at her in profile. See how the length of her back”—he pointed from the withers to the croup—“is precisely one-half of the underline?” With his gloved finger, he drew an imaginary line from the point of the elbow to the stifle. “And here, the distance from poll to withers, then here, from throatlatch to the neck-and-shoulder junction? The two-to-one ratio? This is the sort of information you need to pick a quality horse.” He gushed about various ratios and distances and how all of these measurements tell a prospective buyer a great deal about the horse’s pedigree and temperament.

  When he got going on the importance of good balance in a horse, I stopped listening. All of a sudden, this particular horse struck me as more than a beautiful specimen. It began to look like a familiar one. Terribly familiar. Unlike Phineas, I was no expert on horseflesh, but I had the uncanny suspicion that I’d seen this animal (heaven help me, could it be … was it possible … how … why?) on frequent occasions.

  “So you see, Freddy, so much depends upon the slope of the shoulder. Ah … what are you doing?”

  I could only answer with a shake of my head. I’d unlatched the saddlebag. Feeling like a sleeper trapped in a dream, I slowly reached into the satchel, unbuttoned the interior pocket, and, with my heart pounding and breath suspended, rifled around for a moment before my hands found precisely the kind of thing I dreaded I’d find.

  It was a small wooden instrument, a kind of flute, meticulously carved, lovingly detailed, very nearly if not completely finished. I stared at it hard, feeling a prickle along the back of my neck and something akin to a fist in the region of my heart.

  When my eyes started smarting, I squeezed them shut. “It can’t be,” I breathed. But when I forced my eyes open and twisted the instrument around, there, on the opposite side of the last note hole, I saw it: D.U.L.

  “Freddy?”

  I jumped at the sound of Phineas’s voice. Scanning
the yard, I blindly stuffed the instrument back into the bag, shakily latched the cover, and stumbled away from the fence, my eyes reeling like those of an unbalanced, half-wild, Phineas-unapproved horse. Then, half crouched, I raced toward Gideon.

  With a bewildered squawk, Phin followed.

  I leaped into the wagon. After scurrying to the back, I squatted low and lifted the bottom of the covering so I could peek out.

  Gid folded up the canvas to widen the part. He gazed at me in amazement. “What the devil—”

  “He’s here,” I whispered. “Oh, God, he’s here. Get down. Get down.”

  My brother just stood there. “Who’s here?”

  “Daniel Long.”

  “No.” My brother blinked. “Really?” He gazed around wonderingly.

  “Would you please—please—hide? You can’t let him see you.”

  “Who’s Daniel Long?” Phineas asked.

  “Why can’t I let him see me?” My brother’s expression turned obstinate. “Whatever your feelings are, I like Daniel.”

  Phineas looked over his shoulder. “Who’s this Daniel Long?”

  “The … the … silversmith.”

  “The evil silversmith?” His mouth began to split into a grin. Then he saw my face, and his smile fled. “You really don’t want to see this man, do you?”

  I shook my head and covered my eyes with my hands, wishing I could cover my feelings just as easily. Amazement that Daniel Long would follow me here—for why else would he appear in these parts?—conflicted with a terror that he would discover me like this, disguised as a boy, a living example of hoydenish defiance and plain-as-day insanity.

  No, no, no. He couldn’t find me.

  I grabbed hold of my satchel, my pillow for all of these traveling days, and buried a sob in its softness.

  “Calm down now, Freddy,” Gideon pleaded. He’d finally crouched. As he gazed cautiously toward the tavern entrance, he reached into the wagon and patted my head.

  I swatted away his hand. I had torn open my stuffed satchel and, with shuddering breaths, began wrenching out its contents.