But he was a little bored, and not just because of the lack of TV and video games. Brandon, who had found books to enjoy in every century he had visited, had nothing to read. There was no public library or bookstore in Balesworth in 1752. He looked in vain for an enjoyable read in Mr. Osborn’s tiny library. The few books that the minister owned were beautiful, it was true. They were printed on heavy and crisp white paper, and bound in colorful marbled covers, with embossed leather spines. But every single one of them was totally boring.
Actually, if Brandon was to be honest with himself, the books weren’t just boring: He couldn’t even understand them. All were about religion, and they were very hard to follow. They reminded him of browsing through one of Dr. Braithwaite’s medical textbooks in Snipesville. Then, to his chagrin, he had only understood the bit at the beginning where the author thanked his wife.
Brandon wished he had brought a book with him to 1752. He giggled at the very idea, but then grew solemn as he remembered that, during his previous adventures, the Professor had always presented him with modern history books. When would she show up? Or would she never appear again, leaving him stuck in the eighteenth century? A spasm of pain crossed his face.
Hannah’s life, like Brandon’s, revolved around chores, but, unlike Brandon, who was bored, Hannah found her work enjoyable and strangely calming. At the factory where she had worked on her last adventure, she had sometimes thought she would go mad. Her work there had been tedious and exhausting. She had longed for the sound of the factory bell that signaled her meal breaks and the end of the day.
But there were no bells in the inn, only hungry travelers needing to be fed. Their needs, unlike those of the cotton spinning machines, were very real, and their appreciation was worth working for. Hannah’s work was hard, but it was rewarding. There were also periods, especially in the afternoons, when everyone could take it easy.
On one of those afternoon rest breaks, Hannah and Mrs. Jenkins sat by the fireplace. Mrs. Jenkins was teaching Hannah how to knit, and they were both busy with wooden needles. Although Hannah’s progress was slow, she was surprised to find out how much she enjoyed knitting, just as she enjoyed learning how to cook. It was, she decided, fun to make things, a lot more fun than she would have ever imagined. Well, maybe fun wasn’t quite the right word, she thought. It was more of a warm happy glow.
“Only five guests last night!” exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins. “We have seldom seen so few at this time of year, but I’m not complaining. It is good to have some peace and quiet. I believe I shall visit my grandchildren tomorrow.”
“That should be the end of the peace and quiet,” joked Hannah. At the same time, she felt a pang of jealousy toward Mrs. Jenkins’ grandchildren. “How many grandkids have you got?”
“Oh, but three,” said Mrs. Jenkins, knitting furiously. “Stephen had five children, but two of the poor infants succumbed to measles last year.”
“Wow, that’s really sad,” Hannah said. “Is Stephen your only kid?”
“No,” Mrs. Jenkins said, as she set her knitting in her lap, and stared into the fire. “We did have two living children, but our daughter was taken from us many years ago, while we lived in London.”
Seeing the pain in Mrs. Jenkins’s face, Hannah didn’t think she could imagine what it was like to have a kid, much less for her child to die. But it had to be hard. There was an uncomfortable silence.
Suddenly, Mrs. Jenkins laid down her knitting, rose to her feet, and said to herself, “I must use up the last of the cider.” She fetched an earthenware jug from the pantry and filled two pewter mugs, handing one of them to Hannah. The cloudy liquid looked more like orange juice than apple juice, but Hannah took it gratefully.
She had no sooner put the mug to her lips than she made a face. “This has got liquor in it!” she said.
Mrs. Jenkins looked puzzled by her reaction. “Of course it will have fermented. It is last year’s cider, after all.”
Hannah sipped at it cautiously. The drink was sweet and apple-y, but it was also powerfully alcoholic. She sipped it again. This time, strong though it was, it didn’t taste so bad. In fact, it was delicious.
When Mrs. Jenkins left the room to fetch her sewing, Hannah swiftly drank off her cider. She immediately felt like another glass. Listening out for her mistress’s return, she slipped into the larder, found the jug on a shelf, and helped herself. Still standing in the larder, she downed the drink quickly, and poured out a third serving. Then she hurried back to her seat before Mrs. Jenkins could return and guess what she was up to.
But Mrs. Jenkins, who had misplaced her sewing basket, was away from the kitchen for almost half an hour.
By the time she finally returned, Hannah was thoroughly woozy, and she lolled in her chair. Mrs. Jenkins sat across from her, setting down her sewing basket. “What ails you, Hannah?” she asked with concern.
Hannah groaned in reply. Puzzled, Mrs. Jenkins noticed that the girl’s glass of cider was still half full. She stepped across to feel Hannah’s forehead for fever.
At that moment, Hannah leaned forward and threw up on her mistress’s shoes.
That same day, Mr. Osborn gave Brandon his first wages, a couple of coins, and awarded him the afternoon off. Brandon’s first excited thought was to visit Hannah, but he decided to treat himself first. When he reached the High Street, he stopped in at a small pub, and ordered bread and cheese, hoping he had enough money to pay for it. He asked the barmaid for water to go with his snack, but she laughed at him. “You wouldn’t want no water,” she scoffed, “not less’n you wants gripes in your belly. Hold but a moment.”
She poured out a pint of ale from an earthenware jug, and handed it to a doubtful Brandon, saying kindly, “Here, take this for your health, on the house.” Being thirsty, Brandon reckoned he had no choice but to drink it. Standing at the bar, he sipped the ale cautiously and made a disgusted face. But he didn’t want to insult the barmaid by not drinking her gift and, anyway, although the beer was bitter, it was also weak, so he figured he would be able to choke it down. He pulled off a piece of bread, plucked a morsel of pale yellow cheese, and popped them both in his mouth. He was relieved to find that eating them made the ale taste better. And the cheese was wonderful, nothing like the orange stuff from the supermarket at home.
By the time Brandon polished off his snack, the ale was making him feel fuzzy, although not drunk. At least he didn’t think he was drunk. He wondered vaguely if beer might be healthier than the coffee at the Balesworth Arms.
Despite his fuzziness, he worried. Two weeks had passed, yet the Professor hadn’t appeared at all. But maybe Hannah had seen her? Popping the last fragment of cheddar into his mouth, he waved to the barmaid, walked uncertainly to the exit, and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the street.
It was only a short walk down the High Street to the Balesworth Arms, and Brandon was still feeling lightheaded as he knocked on the side door of the pub. But the sound of Hannah shrieking struck him stone cold sober. Shoving open the side door, he dashed into the dining room, where at once he collided with Mr. Jenkins, who spilled ale from the tankard he was carrying.
“Oy, where are you going, boy?” Mr. Jenkins spluttered, his wig askew as usual.
“I heard Hannah screaming,” Brandon yelled, trying to push past him.
Mr. Jenkins laid an arm across Brandon’s chest, slopping the rest of his ale on the floor as he did so. “Now, now, it is of no consequence,” he said reassuringly. “My wife is chastising the maid for drunkenness.”
“What? Where are they?” Brandon demanded, grabbing Mr. Jenkins’s arm.
But Mr. Jenkins had had enough of Brandon. He slammed down his nowempty tankard on a table, and seized Brandon by the shoulders. Roughly, he pushed him out the door, and kicked him hard up the backside for good measure. Brandon found himself sprawled in the dirt of the courtyard, his hand wrapped around a lump of horse poo.
Several times that week, Brandon visited Balesworth High Street o
n various errands from Mrs. Osborn. He stopped by the Balesworth Arms at least once on every trip, hoping to check on Hannah. But each time, he was turned away by one of the Jenkinses or the staff, all of whom claimed that Hannah was too busy to see him. He was running out of excuses to go to town.
On Saturday, he begged Mrs. Osborn to let him go into Balesworth once again, this time to the market to buy produce. She happily agreed. “I do not feel altogether well for going myself,” she told Brandon gratefully. “Just mind and be sure that they sell you no rotten vegetables.”
When Brandon arrived at the inn door with a loaded basket of potatoes and cabbages on his arm, it was Mrs. Jenkins who greeted him with a smile, and she called for Hannah. “It is her day off,” she told Brandon, putting a finger on his arm. “I’m sure she will be glad to see you.”
Sure enough, Hannah soon rushed to the door and gave Brandon a huge hug. “Come on, let’s go shopping!” she said.
She looked pretty cheerful for an abused servant, but Brandon didn’t want to trust appearances. He was careful not to say anything within earshot of Mrs. Jenkins, but as soon as he and Hannah were walking down the High Street, he told her how he had overheard her hysterical screams. “What happened to you?” he asked earnestly. “Is everything really okay?”
Hannah was touched by Brandon’s concern, although she didn’t plan to tell him that. She gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m okay. Mrs. Jenkins is usually nice, but she totally wigged out on me. I drank too much of her cider, and I didn’t realize it’s pretty strong alcohol. Then I barfed on her shoes. So she whipped me.” She looked embarrassed.
Brandon was deeply relieved, and tried not to laugh at Hannah’s latest misfortune. Hannah had a habit of getting herself into trouble with adults on their adventures, and he had a hard time feeling sorry for her.
“Belt?” he deadpanned, thinking of the whipping Mrs. Devenish had given her in 1940.
“No,” she grimaced. “She tied together a bunch of little switches. You wouldn’t believe how much that hurt, Brandon. There was blood.” Even she seemed stunned by what she had said.
Brandon whistled in awe. “Wow. I’ve, like, read about that, so I don’t think it’s weird for this time period, but . . . Ow.” For once, he sympathized with Hannah. He furrowed his brow. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
Sniffing, Hannah said, “No, I think I’m okay now. But I have scabs on my butt. I think I might have scars. Brandon, you know stuff about history: What is it with Verity’s ancestors that they go around whipping people?”
“Not people. Just you,” Brandon laughed despite himself. “Alex and me, we never get whipped. No, seriously, Hannah, believe it or not, it’s not about you. There’s a lot of whipping in history. You’re not the only one.”
She scowled at him. “Thank you for your support, jerk. Man, I’m so glad I live in the twenty-first century.”
“Which we do,” Brandon conceded, “most of the time, anyway. Look, are you going to keep your job?”
“Of course,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Jenkins has kind of taken me under her wing, you know? I’m glad to hear you say she’s probably not a psychopath. But she was really mad at me for taking all that cider, and she said it was the stealing that ticked her off more than me being drunk. The thing is, I don’t think it was stealing. I mean, when we have drinks in the fridge at home, Dad doesn’t mind if we have more than one glass.”
Brandon thought for a second, and then said slowly, “Yeah, but in our time, food’s made in factories, so it’s cheap, and it’s no big deal to buy more of it. But I bet Mrs. Jenkins made the cider herself, right? She was probably angry because it took her a long time, and you took more than your fair share.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Hannah said thoughtfully.
Brandon preened. It wasn’t often that Hannah admitted he was right.
What she said next threw him completely.
“Brandon . . .” she said hesitantly, “I kind of think we need to steal something.”
Shocked, Brandon angrily shushed her, hoping that passing people in the street hadn’t heard what she said. “This is 1752, and that’s dangerous talk, Hannah. What are you talking about?”
Hannah stopped, and rubbed her shoe in the dirt of the High Street. “I need money for my ticket to Georgia,” she said. “I have to come with you, I just know it . . . . It’s hard to explain. It’s like we talked about. I have this weird feeling I get in my head whenever this time travel junk starts, I just know there’s something I have to do . . . I mean, my mom always laughed at me for being superstitious, but. . .”
“Me too,” said Brandon solemnly. “I know exactly what you mean. I get that feeling too.”
She took him aside and began to whisper urgently. “Then you know I have to go with you. Trouble is, I don’t know how to get the money. I feel like we both need to steal something from these people we’re living with, and then catch a plane . . . . I mean, ship.”
“Hannah,” Brandon whispered back angrily, “That’s a bad idea for all kinds of reasons, but the number one reason is that stealing is wrong.”
Hannah did not back down. “No, you’re wrong,” she hissed. “This is so not a big deal. Brandon, these people are dead in our time. Long dead. They’re dust. It’s hard to feel guilty about stealing from dead people. Okay, I do feel kind of guilty even trying to get my head around stealing from Mrs. Jenkins. But suppose stealing is what I’m supposed to do?”
“No,” Brandon said levelly. “I don’t believe that. You can’t just imagine that you’re allowed to do something so wrong, hurting other people, because of a feeling. We’ll figure something out, but that isn’t it. Look, you better go shopping without me. I have to get home, or Mrs. Osborn will think I’m a slacker. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned on his heel, and left her standing in the High Street. Hannah, mad at him, tried to make herself feel better with a little retail therapy. She went shopping.
She never did find anything worth buying on Balesworth High Street. The few shops sold only everyday products that people needed, like food and hardware, not fancy clothes or gifts. She made this discovery only by walking the entire length of the street and stopping in almost every shop.
But later, after she returned home to the Balesworth Arms, Hannah found a different kind of pleasure. It was something that felt much more rewarding than shopping. She made pastry.
As she wiped the flour from her hands on a kitchen rag, she gazed proudly at a giant ball of dough resting in an oval wooden trencher on the kitchen table.
Hannah had amazed herself: Not only could she now make pastry, but she could do it without measuring the ingredients. She had grabbed handfuls of flour, and then, just as Mrs. Jenkins had taught her, rubbed soft white lard into it with her fingers, until all the big lumps were gone.
Now a thought struck her, and she said, “Mrs. Jenkins, do you have any cookbooks in the house?”
Laying down her stirring stick, Mrs. Jenkins turned to Hannah in surprise. “A book, Hannah?” she said. “I did not know you could read. Besides, you can learn more from me than ever you could from a book. Although I must admit that I possess a copy of The Art of Cookery, which Mr. Jenkins bought me. I told him I was curious about the idea of a book of receipts, and he brought it back with him from London. I confess, I have learned a trick or two from it. Would you like to try a receipt with me?”
“Sure,” Hannah said, her eyes lighting up, even as she smiled at Mrs. Jenkins calling a recipe a “receipt.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Jenkins said, fetching a small hardbound book from a cupboard. She began flipping through the pages. “Just remind me that we must stir the soup that’s on the fire so it does not burn, and meanwhile we will make a cake. Hmm. . .Let’s see. . .I rather fancy this one.” She pointed to a recipe, and held open the book on the table, so they could both read it together:
To make a fine feed or faffron-cake.
You must take a quarter of a
peck of fine flour, a pound and a half of butter,
three ounces of carraway seeds, six eggs beat well, a quarter of an ounce of cloves
and mace beat together very fine, a pennyworth of cinnamon beat, a pound of
sugar, a pennyworth of rose-water, a pennyworth of saffron, a pint and a half of
yeast, and a quart of milk; mix it all together lightly with your hands thus: first
boil your milk and butter, then skim off the butter, and mix with your flour,
and a little of the milk and stir the yeast into the rest and strain it, mix it with
the flour, put in your feed and spice, rose-water, tincture of saffron, sugar, and
eggs; beat it all up well with your hands lightly, and bake it in a hoop or pan,
but be sure to butter the pan well. It will take an hour and a half in a quick
oven. You may leave out the seed if you chuse it, and I think it rather better
without it, but that you may do as you like.
“What’s a feed or faffron-cake?” Hannah asked, pointing to the words with a grin.
Mrs. Jenkins turned to her and tutted in mock shock. “Silly girl! That’s seed or saffron cake. I thought you said you could read?”
“I can!” Hannah protested, “I just don’t understand why it says f instead of s.”
“Well,” Mrs. Jenkins said, “for one thing, that is not an f, you see. It is a long s. Observe the difference.”
Hannah looked closely, and at first she could see no difference at all. But then she noticed that the crossbar in the middle of an f struck right through it: On the long s it went only halfway. Suddenly, it was much easier to read the recipe, and she beamed with pride.
“It will be an expensive cake,” Mrs. Jenkins said, “but I think quite delicious, and since Mr. Osborn the curate is to come to tea with me tomorrow, it will prove useful. Hannah, run to the apothecary’s for a pennyworth of rosewater and a pennyworth of saffron. Ask the grocer for the caraway seeds, and if he lacks them, we shall do without. Now, don’t fret about finishing your pastry for the pies. I will roll them out for you.”
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 7