Despite Brandon’s enthusiasm, Mr. Osborn hesitated. “I must needs think this over. As I said, it would be expensive. Now, to the present. You will return on the morrow to begin work. Do you know where to find my house? No? Then meet me here at the church at ten of the clock, and I shall lead you there.”
When Brandon arrived back at the Balesworth Arms, he found Hannah in the kitchen, squatting on a three-legged wooden stool, and clumsily peeling a potato over a large wooden tub half-filled with dirty brown water. Muddy potatoes were piled next to her. As she finished peeling the spud, she dropped it into the tub with a splash.
“Well, peeling potatoes sucks,” she said by way of greeting. She held up her knife and potato to show Brandon the filthy rag tied around her thumb.
He smiled. “Good to see you too, Hannah. What happened to your hand?”
“Cut myself,” she said matter-of-factly. “No big.”
Brandon was astonished that, for once, she didn’t try to milk sympathy from him. He wondered if the real Hannah had been kidnapped by space aliens, and he smiled.
“You look tired,” he said conversationally.
“Yeah, I am,” Hannah sighed. “I’m not sleeping too well. Mrs. Jenkins keeps going on about this ghost in my room, and it’s creeping me out.”
“Ghost?” Brandon repeated, alarmed.
Hannah smiled at his reaction, mistaking it for mockery. “Yeah, I know it’s kind of silly, but she has me totally freaked. I guess this ghost likes to wake up the maid and tell her his problems.”
“Oh, I get it. A ghost with issues,” Brandon said. “At least he’s not dangerous. Have you seen him yet?”
Hannah looked at him crossly. “’Course not. No such thing as ghosts, right?”
“Oh, there aren’t, huh?” said Brandon. “Then why are you so freaked out?”
She scooped up a handful of dirty potato water and hurled it at him. “Shut UP,” she cried, laughing. “Anyway, what’s up with you?”
He took a seat on the chair next to her. “A lot. Listen to this.”
By the time Brandon finished telling Hannah about the white boy in the mirror, she was shocked. “That’s bizarre . . . .” she said. “No more bizarre than anything else that happens to us,” said Brandon. “It’s still weird to me that we talk normally, but they hear us talking like them, with British accents and all.”
“Yeah,” Hannah said slowly. “You know, I’ve been thinking . . . .”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Brandon said with a sly grin.
“Oh, ha ha, Mr. Thinks-He’s-A-Comedian,” said Hannah. “No, listen. I don’t know if it’s the Professor, though I think it is, but somebody is so controlling what happens to us.”
Brandon’s face fell. “Maybe it’s the Lord,” he said solemnly.
Hannah tutted at him, and rolled her eyes. “It’s all Jesus with you Southerners, isn’t it?” she said peevishly.
“That’s offensive,” muttered Brandon.
“Whatever,” said Hannah, scraping at a potato to hide her embarrassment at what she had said. “Look, Brandon, whether it’s the Professor, or God, or whoever, someone’s making these things happen to us, like, pulling the strings.”
“You’re not saying anything we haven’t said a million times,” said Brandon sharply. “What about it?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, throwing the peeled potato into the water. “It just bothers me. I have so many questions, but there’s nobody to ask, not even That Woman.”
Brandon sighed heavily. “Have you got any leads on what’s happened to her and Alex?”
She frowned and shook her head. “What, you seriously think I wouldn’t have told you the moment you walked in? Honestly? I haven’t asked anyone about That Woman, and there’s no sign of my brother. Every time Mrs. Jenkins sends me out shopping, I look for Alex, and I ask people, but nothing. I hope he’s okay.”
“We all survived on our own before,” Brandon said gently.
“I guess so,” said Hannah. “But I’m starting to feel like we’re not going to get out of this one alive.”
“Come on, cheer up,” Brandon said. “You’re just being superstitious. Tell me how things are going here.” As soon as he said that, he regretted it. What was there to like about the dirty work in an inn, he asked himself?
But Hannah surprised him again. “It’s cool,” she said perkily. “I mean, the work’s pretty heavy sometimes, but I’ve been learning loads from Mrs. Jenkins about cooking and stuff.”
“You’re enjoying cooking lessons?” Brandon was incredulous.
“Yeah, why not?” Hannah said defensively. “Mrs. Jenkins is a great teacher, and she’s pretty nice in a grumpy kind of way.”
Brandon grinned. “She reminds you of Mrs. Devenish, doesn’t she?” he said slyly. “She pays attention to you like Mrs. D. did.”
Hannah scowled and looked away, but Brandon continued to scrutinize her with a knowing smile. Embarrassed, she muttered, “Nothing wrong with that,” then scraped furiously at a potato with her knife.
Now it was Brandon’s turn to feel a pang of conscience for having given his friend a hard time. It was unlike Hannah to admit that she desperately craved attention from adults, and he knew that this was the closest she had ever come to confiding in him. He also knew it was only fair to change the subject. “Hannah, there’s something else you need to know,” he said. “My new boss, Mr. Osborn? He’s not just planning to move to America. He’s planning to move to Georgia, and he’s taking me with him.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Hannah dropped her potato knife in the water. “What? Can I go with you?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said uncomfortably, idly scratching at his palm. “I already asked, and he’s thinking about it. If he won’t take you, we need to find a way to raise the cash so we can buy you a ticket. I bet it costs a lot.”
But Hannah had another concern. “What about Alex? We can’t just leave him here.”
Brandon bit his lip. “Hannah, face it, he’s not here,” he said. “He could be anywhere. He might never have left Snipesville. We just have to hope for the best.”
“I guess,” Hannah said uncertainly.
Brandon leaned over and touched her hand. Immediately, she drew away from him, and he was mortified. “Sorry,” he said quickly, “I just wanted to . . .”
“It’s okay,” she said, pushing up her sleeve and reaching into the tub to pull out her paring knife.
“So,” Brandon said, speaking quickly, “How much does Mrs. Jenkins pay you?”
“Not enough,” Hannah replied, throwing aside a potato peel. “Looks like we’re gonna have to win the lottery to pay for my ticket to Georgia. If there is a lottery in 1752.”
The next morning, Brandon showed up at St. Swithin’s Church promptly. Mr. Osborn put on his long black coat, and crammed a broad-brimmed hat over his wig. Then the two of them started the journey to his house. They strolled briskly toward Balesworth along a dirt trail through the fields. Soon after they left the church, horse chestnut trees lined their path on either side. Brandon felt a pleasant shock of recognition. He had traveled along this footpath in three other centuries, and it brought back very fond memories.
As they walked, Mr. Osborn prattled about religion, about life at Cambridge University, and about his frustrated ambitions for a career in the Church of England. Occasionally, he paused to draw breath, or to ask Brandon a question. But when Brandon tried to answer, the curate simply carried on speaking over him.
Suddenly, Brandon noticed that Mr. Osborn had lapsed into silence, and that he was nodding toward a cottage that lay ahead of them. With a quiver of excitement, Brandon recognized it. He had known this house in other centuries, and as Verity Powell’s home in his own time.
Eagerly, he followed his new boss up the short garden path. But then he came to a sudden halt, and Mr. Osborn turned to see what the matter was.
“I just thought of something, sir,” Brandon said anxiously. “Do you have
any kids?”
Mr. Osborn shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied with a puzzled look. “Why do you ask, pray?”
“No reason,” Brandon said, a little too quickly. He found it hard to disguise his relief that, for the first time in all his adventures, he wouldn’t be playing babysitter to anyone.
The cottage wasn’t large, but its lack of furnishings made it seem spacious inside. Mrs. Osborn, a lean, dark-haired, and pretty but serious-looking young woman, entered the hall from the kitchen, lugging a wicker basket of apples. She set it down on the floor and rubbed her aching back, while nodding to Mr. Osborn. He smiled in greeting, and then introduced her to Brandon. Brandon stared openly at her slightly swollen belly. Was she pregnant? He got a sinking feeling that his babysitting days were not over, after all.
“Brandon will work in the house and garden, carry messages, and prepare for our removal,” Mr. Osborn told his wife. “Perhaps he may begin now by assisting you.”
Mrs. Osborn didn’t hesitate. She gave a curt nod, and heaving up the apple basket, she shoved it at her new servant. “Here, Brandon,” she said. “I intended to take these to Mrs. Reynolds. You will find her on the High Street at the sign of the green man. Tell her that these are the fruit I promised her from our trees.”
The errand took Brandon the rest of the morning, because he couldn’t figure out where he was supposed to go. It was a while before he realized that “the sign of the green man” referred to a pub called the Green Man. But at last, he found it: A crudely-painted human face surrounded by branches and leaves painted on a sign swung over his head outside a tavern on the High Street.
Mrs. Reynolds was a jolly-faced stout woman who was evidently pleased to receive her gift of small red-tinged green apples. She offered one to Brandon, along with a glass of milk, and he gladly accepted them both. A thin layer of cream floated on top of the milk. When he tasted it, he found it was slightly warm, but not unpleasant. He wondered whether the milk had come directly from the cow, then decided it would be better not to think about that.
As Mrs. Reynolds busied herself peeling carrots, Brandon remembered now where he had seen an image of the Green Man before. It was scratched into the wall of the vestry in St. Swithin’s Church. “Mrs. Reynolds? What is a Green Man?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “Oh, now, he’s what we used to call Jack o’ the Green. My grandmother always said that the Green Man lived in the woods, and that it was best not to disturb him.”
“Creepy,” muttered Brandon, sipping his milk.
“You might say that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, tossing a peeled carrot into a basin of water. “I have always thought so. Indeed, I have never cared to walk through the woods since I was but a girl. A strange place it is, away from the company of men. An unholy place.”
Something about the way she said that made Brandon shiver.
Brandon returned to the Osborns’ house just before noon, and right in time for dinner, the main meal of the day. Mr. and Mrs. Osborn were already seated in the kitchen, at a large table that Brandon knew well. He almost laughed when he first saw it, because it was the very same table that Verity was still using in the house in the twenty-first century.
He did not, however, recognize the huge fireplace: He supposed that it must have been bricked up sometime in the future. Now, however, in 1752, it was very much in use. A small coal fire burned in the hearth, over which was hanging a black cauldron on a chain, and a long horizontal metal spit that shone with blackened grease. The air was richly perfumed with the tantalizing smell of cooked meat, rising from a golden pork roast that sat temptingly on the table.
Mr. Osborn carved the roast, and Mrs. Osborn served each of them a small portion of pork. Brandon noticed that his own portion was very small. They all helped themselves to boiled potatoes, stewed apples, and thick slices of white bread. Brandon took up a small knife, and cut off some butter from the roughpat yellow round, then slathered it on his bread slice. He had loved real farmmade butter since he had first encountered it on his adventures: Unlike the stuff his mom bought at the supermarket in the twenty-first century, it actually had flavor. He was about to sink his teeth into his lavishly buttered bread, when Mr. Osborn caught his eye and frowned at him.
Sheepishly, Brandon set down his bread, folded his hands, and bowed his head. He was ashamed to have been caught by surprise: His family in Snipesville always said a blessing before meals. In his own defense, he thought, he had rarely heard anyone say grace during his travels in time.
When the prayer ended, Brandon picked up his clay mug and sipped his juice. Except that it wasn’t juice. It was beer. Hurriedly, he put it down again. Watching Mr. Osborn take a drink from his own tankard, Brandon marveled yet again at how even religious Brits had no problem with alcohol. He smiled as he thought of his preacher at First African Baptist Church of Snipesville, and what he would say if he saw a clergyman supping booze.
Mr. Osborn mistook Brandon’s sly grin for an interest in hearing him talk. “You arrive in good time,” he said in his usual self-important fashion. “We must prepare for our departure. On Friday, we make our way to Gravesend, and wait upon the ship that will carry us to Georgia. I am told that a splendid parish awaits me there. It lies upon the frontiers of English settlement, and some miles inland from the town of Savannah. But a fine church has already been built by the subscription of numerous godly men of the parish. They are English planters who are impatient to hear the word of God. I am certain that they will welcome me into their midst as a man of the Church of England, the one true faith. You see, Brandon, the need for clergy is great in a land where our countrymen are surrounded by nonconformists, papists, heathen, infidels, and all manner of godlessness.”
Listening to this rant, Brandon wondered silently whether Baptists like himself were considered nonconformists, papists, heathens or infidels, whatever any of those words meant. He wasn’t entirely sure about any of them, but it was pretty obvious that Mr. Osborn considered them all bad.
“But what I most look forward to,” Mr. Osborn continued as he speared a chunk of pork on his fork, “is bringing the word of God to the piteous negro slaves, who are in greatest need of His divine grace. I hear that the poor creatures are used most grievously by their masters, and I shall bring all my authority as rector to bear in their defense.”
Brandon was pleased and impressed to hear that Mr. Osborn was opposed to slavery. Until now, he had found the curate self-obsessed and totally annoying, so this was a welcome glimpse of another side of his character.
But Mr. Osborn spoiled the moment by returning to his favorite subject: Himself. Between bites of food, he told his life story, in a tone of hurt self-pity. “I am from a great family of genteel clergymen,” he said to Brandon in subdued tones. “My father is a gentleman, as was my grandfather. And so I naturally expected that, upon my graduation from Christ’s College, Cambridge University, His Grace the Bishop would bestow a living upon me, and appoint me as rector of a generous parish.”
Brandon was now confused, and he interrupted. “Sir, what do you mean by a living?”
Mr. Osborn bestowed a patronizing smile upon his servant. “The men of every parish give their rector a handsome income, which we call a living,” he said. “However, rectors are gentlemen and so, of course, they do not labor. They employ lesser clergy to do the church’s work in the parish.”
A light went on in Brandon’s head. He remembered reading somewhere that the original meaning of “gentleman” was a man who was rich enough not to need to work.
Mr. Osborn continued, “My father, the Reverend Edward Osborn, had hoped to find me a living as a rector. Alas, it was not to be.”
“So that’s why you’re a curate?” Brandon asked, “That’s why you have to work?” He was trying to make sure he had understood correctly.
Mr. Osborn nodded. “Alas. There is something of a shortage of livings in England. My father did what he could on my behalf. He sought the patronage, the support I mean, of
numerous eminent clergy, while I myself wrote untold numbers of letters of application. But nothing availed. After all our trouble, the only employment I could find was as a tutor in the household of Sir Richard Peploe. I taught his sons the rudiments of Latin and Greek, but he, ah, dispensed with my services when he disagreed with my views on religion. Fortunately, I obtained this curacy here at St. Swithin’s after my father wrote to the Bishop, and that great man took pity on my state. However, my income here is not sufficient to maintain a family.” Here his tone grew bitter. “I have been repeatedly passed over for livings, for there are far too many gentlemen’s sons who aspire to be clergymen.”
Brandon looked at him doubtfully. “So the Bishop appoints some rich guy as the rector,” he said, “but then the rector turns around and hires other preachers to do his work for him, while taking all the profits?”
“You do not put it daintily,” Mr. Osborn said, “but you have grasped the substance of my remarks.”
“Well, that stinks,” Brandon muttered.
Mrs. Osborn said hotly, “Mr. Osborn has not received the honors that should be his.”
Mr. Osborn hushed his wife. “No, no, madam, I am now quite content with my provision. I look forward to a new life in His Majesty’s colony.”
“What about you, ma’am?” Brandon politely asked Mrs. Osborn. “Are you excited about living in Georgia?”
He was surprised and embarrassed to see Mrs. Osborn’s eyes brim with tears, but she choked them back. “To be sure, Brandon,” she said carefully, “it will be no small sacrifice for us to leave behind our family, and travel so far across a howling ocean to a strange wilderness . . .”
“But I must do as the Lord commands,” Mr. Osborn interrupted, looking reproachfully at his wife, “and a wife must do as her husband bids.”
Mrs. Osborn looked like she thought of arguing with him, but then decided against it. She contented herself with a sour look in her husband’s direction.
Brandon’s days with the Osborns were filled with chores and errands. He helped Mr. Osborn repair a fence, learned from Mrs. Osborn how to milk a cow, and weeded the garden. He also packed up some of Mr. Osborn’s belongings into a wooden trunk, ready for the Atlantic voyage.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 6