Nat thumbed through the worn, dogeared pages of his almanac. “This hot, dry spell we’ve been having isn’t due to last long,” he said. “And August is supposed to be a wet one this year. We’d best start to get the hay in today.”
Delia walked around the table with the voider, clearing it of the breakfast dishes. She took away Tildy’s porringer to reveal a ring of thick bread crusts. She hurriedly tried to scoop them into the voider, but she wasn’t quick enough.
“Tildy, finish your bread,” Nat said sternly.
Tildy’s lower lip trembled. “But, Papa, it’s too hard!”
“Ma’s bread was always nice and soft,” Meg stated predictably. She sneered at Delia.
Delia had made the bread the evening before, putting it in the oven to bake overnight, banking the fire with ashes to keep it hot. She had been proud of her efforts—until this morning when she had taken the somewhat blackened loaves out of the oven and bitten into a piece of the tough, crusty bread. It was almost inedible.
Delia kept her head bowed, but she could feel Nat’s censorious eyes on her. “N-never mind. I can soak it in water and feed it to the pigs.”
“But that’s wasteful, Delia.”
“What would ye have me do with it then?” she snapped at him. She felt close to tears. After only three days she knew she was going to be a miserable failure as a farmer’s wife.
At the crack of dawn on the first day Nat had milked the goat for her, showing her how it was done and making it very clear that milking was a special favor a man did only rarely for a woman. The next morning, Delia tackled the chore herself, and the hateful beast tried to eat her hair, then kicked the stool, knocking over the bucket when her back was turned. She returned to the house with a scant inch of milk in the bottom of the piggin and Nat hadn’t bothered to hide his disappointment.
The next day she took the hoe to the garden, only to be told by a gloating Meg that after three hours of work in the broiling sun the weeds she thought she had dug up were instead beets and turnips, and what she had taken to be healthy vegetable shoots were in fact the strangling roots of the skunk cabbage weed.
“Delia’s gone and ruined Ma’s garden,” Meg had tattled to a frowning Nat when he came in from the fields for dinner.
And I’ve started this day by ruining breakfast, Delia thought with despair. She dreaded what new disasters the rest of the day would bring, for the chores—and thus the opportunities for mistakes—were endless.
Already that morning she had mucked the barn and forked in fresh hay, scattered grain for the hens, gathered eggs, and milked the goat—and all that was before fixing the bean porridge which she had managed to scorch. She sighed now at the sight of the bowls of uneaten food. Then she noticed that all the noggins of hot chocolate were empty. She had made it with fresh goat’s milk and sweetened it with molasses, something she dimly remembered her mother doing.
At least, she thought with a tiny spark of pride, I didn’t manage to burn everything.
“I’ve got to get at the haying,” Nat said, startling Delia by slamming the almanac shut and getting to his feet. She noticed guiltily that his homespun breeches were missing a knee buckle. She had promised she would sew it back on last night, then promptly had forgotten about it. The bit of pride she had felt earlier faded and she sighed loudly. She would never make a good wife.
Nat beckoned to Meg. “Come lend me a hand with the haying, girl. Delia, when you’re done with the housework we could use your help as well.”
Delia drew in a deep breath, summoning her courage. “Nat? I’d like to go into Merrymeeting sometime this afternoon for an hour or so … to take a lesson from Mrs. Bishop.”
He paused and turned to look at her. “Has she agreed to teach you how to spin then? I don’t know, Delia. The haying’s more important at the moment.”
Delia wet her dry lips with her tongue and twisted her hands together behind her back. “Not to spin. She’s teaching me my letters.”
He slashed his hand through the air. “You’ve no time for that now. No use for it either.”
“But I’ve only just started to learn. I don’t want to quit—”
“I’ve said my piece on it, Delia, and that’s final.”
Their eyes clashed. “I’m going, Nat. I’ll catch up on my chores this evening, but I’m going.”
His eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a fist. He took a step toward her and she steeled herself for a blow, but just then Tildy let out a loud wail. They both whipped around and looked at the table, where the little girl sat rubbing vigorously at her right eye.
“My eye hurts! My eye hurts!”
Delia knelt beside her, pulling her hand away. “Let me see, little puss.” Nat came over and hunkered down as well. There was a small, inflamed red swelling on the rim of Tildy’s eyelid.
“It’s only a stye,” Nat said, his voice still tight with anger. “Take her over to Dr. Ty’s this morning. He’ll know what to do about it.”
Delia’s heart lurched. “But I don’t … Maybe Meg can—”
“Meg’s helping me with the haying. She knows how it’s done and I don’t want to have to waste an hour this morning teaching it to you.”
Delia wiped the tears from Tildy’s fat cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. “It’ll be all right,” she crooned. “We’ll take a walk over to Dr. Savitch’s and he’ll fix you right up.”
Tildy’s mouth dimpled. “Will Dr. Ty give me a cookie? Last time, when I cut my knee, he gave me a cookie.”
“Why, I expect he will then.”
Nat had stood up. He plucked his broad-brimmed felt hat from a peg near the hearth and headed for the enclosed porch and the front door.
“Nat,” Delia said to his retreating back, “I’m going into Merrymeeting this afternoon. For my lesson.”
Nat’s back stiffened, but he kept going. A moment later she heard the slam of the front door.
Meg lingered a moment, her eyes wide but the expression on her face inscrutable. “You made Papa angry.”
“Aye, I did,” Delia acknowledged, too disheartened for it to matter anymore that Meg hated her.
“Don’t you care?”
“Aye, I care. But those lessons are important to me, Meg.”
From outside came the sharp sound of her father’s voice calling to her. Meg looked behind her at the door, then back at Delia again. “You remember how you said you could teach me to spin the top? Do you think maybe tomorrow …”
Delia suddenly smiled. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. We’ll do it tomorrow. But after the haying’s done so’s we don’t get to riling your da further by neglecting our chores, huh?”
Meg’s pinched face relaxed and she even managed a smile.
“Meg!”
“You best go. Your da’s calling for you.”
Meg scurried out the door and Delia removed her scratchy work smock. Tildy followed her into the inner room, chattering about Dr. Ty and cookies while Delia put on her new linen short gown. There was no looking glass in the house, but the windowpanes showed her reflection well enough for her to straighten her hair and put on a calash to protect her head from the fierce sun. She was aware that two bright spots of color stained her cheeks and her heart raced abnormally fast. She didn’t care; she was going to see Ty this morning.
Nat owned four acres of salt marsh along the river where his hay grew. As Delia, with Tildy holding her hand, walked along the trail that followed the river, she spotted Nat and Meg at work. Nat mowed the hay with a scythe. Meg followed in the swaths he left behind him, raking it into rows which would later be tied into stocks. The stocks would then be hauled by a sledge to the rick alongside the barn. Delia waved at them, but they didn’t pause in their work to wave back.
The river was sluggish that morning. A fish broke the surface, leaping for a fly and startling a great blue heron into flight. They passed patches of strawberries that looked so mouth-watering that Delia promised herself she would stop on the way back and fi
ll her skirt with the luscious ripe fruit. Tildy laughed with delight and pointed as a squirrel darted ahead of them, twitching its red tail.
After a while the riverbank steepened and the trail veered off into the forest. They entered into a midday twilight where sunlight filtered through the thick trees, giving the world a weird green glow. At first it was eerily quiet and then a pair of chickadees began to chirp, trading songs.
They paused on the edge of a clearing and Delia sucked in her breath with delight. Before her was a tidy log cabin with a wide front porch, and surrounding it was a profusion of colorful blooms—beds of blue flag, wild roses, and huckleberry. The river rushed by, creating its own song as it trickled over rocks. Nearby, not too far from a bank resplendent with swaying pussy willows and a thicket of raspberry canes, was a small, conical-shaped hut covered with animal skins and birchbark. It looked to be an Indian dwelling of some sort and Delia wondered what its purpose could be.
Tildy squealed, squirming out of Delia’s arms. “Dr. Ty, Dr. Ty, I got a stye! Can I have a cookie?”
A black cat uncurled from beneath the steps and sauntered out to wrap around Tildy’s legs. She let out another squeal of delight and plopped down on her bottom. The cat rolled onto its back, purring loudly.
Delia approached more warily, telling herself not to be a wooden-headed fool. But she couldn’t seem to stop her heart from beating heavily, and she couldn’t seem to take a deep enough breath. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up. From the heat on her cheeks she knew that she was blushing.
He sat on the porch, tilted back on a chair’s hind legs, one booted foot braced against the porch rail, an empty flip mug resting on his thigh. His face was shadowed with several days’ growth of beard, and sweat dampened his hair. It also glistened on his bare chest, matting the dark hair into sworls around his nipples, trickling down over the ridges of muscle, sliding into the crease of his stomach, and leaving a spreading dark patch on the waistband of his snug-fitting, low-slung buckskin breeches—
Delia sucked in a sharp breath and her gaze flew to his face. He didn’t look at all pleased to see her.
“Morning, Ty. You look … hot.”
“And you look good an’ saucy this mornin’. Married life must suit you.” He slurred the words slightly and his mouth was slack, his eyes bloodshot. Delia felt a fierce ache of disappointment to find him drunk like this so early in the morning. She would have expected it of her da, but not of him.
“What are you doing lit this time of day?” she demanded, not bothering to hide her anger.
He grinned nastily at her. “It’s a continuation of the night before. And the night before that.”
She climbed onto the porch. This close his presence was a tangible thing, like waves of heat radiating from a forge. He looked dangerous—unshaven and half-naked as he was. Dangerous and desirable.
His eyes roamed over her, intense and glittering, almost melting her with their fierce heat. Delia had to fight an urge to turn and run back into the cool safety of the forest.
“What brings you out here this morning, Delia-girl? Is it a social call?”
She started, blushed again. “Oh, no … there’s something wrong with Tildy’s eye.”
Ty let his chair fall forward. He got slowly to his feet. Calling Tildy over, he squatted in front of her and tilted her face up with gentle hands.
It occurred to Delia that his drunkenness had mostly been an act, although there was no doubt from the looks of him that he’d been drinking heavily lately. He looked, in fact, as if he’d been imbibing steadily for the past three days … since the wedding. For a moment Delia had the wild conviction that she was the cause. The thought left her breathless and giddy.
“I got a stye,” Tildy announced.
Ty squeezed Tildy’s shoulder. “That’s what it is, honey.”
Delia stepped up to them. “Can you cure it?”
He cocked his head and blessed her with that endearing, slanted smile that could so easily twist her heart into knots. “It’s as good as done.”
Delia followed as he took Tildy inside. She looked around with avid curiosity. The cabin was made of squared logs so tightly fitted that a knife blade couldn’t pass between them. It was cool inside today, out of the bright sun, but in winter it would be snug and warm. Delia drew in a deep breath—the air was redolent with the strong, clean smells of pine pitch and the sweet oil he used on his rifle.
The cabin consisted of a single, large room, but a half loft opened onto it from above, and Delia could make out the corner of a low bed covered with bearskins. In spite of the fact that the cabin was in the middle of a wilderness forest, it was luxuriously, almost extravagantly furnished: with an elaborately carved settle, a pair of silk damask chairs, even a sideboard with pewter and glassware. Delia smiled to herself, remembering how he had warned her that first morning that he was a man of refined tastes.
Ty had almost let the fire go out, but he stoked it, tossing on an armload of wood. He hung a tea kettle on the trummel hook, all the while speaking soothingly to Tildy, explaining how she was going to have to put her face over a bowl of boiling water and blink hard so that the stye would burst, weeping itself away.
“And then can I have a cookie?” Tildy asked brightly.
Ty’s deep laughter filled the cabin, bringing a smile to Delia’s face.
“Can I open the toy chest now, Dr. Ty?” Tildy asked in her piping voice. “Of course.”
Tildy headed unerringly for a copper-banded sea trunk that sat in one corner. It resembled a pirate’s treasure chest and was, Delia discovered to her delight, a child’s treasure chest, for it was filled with toys—dolls, boats, balls, marbles, and a tiny replica of a wooden wagon pulled by two miniature carved oxen. Tildy lovingly took out the wagon and began to load it with wood chips from the kindling box.
Delia stared at the man as he watched the little girl at play, a warm smile on his face. Only a man who loved children would have a box full of toys all prepared for when they came to visit. She wondered why he hadn’t married yet so that he could have children of his own.
Delia strolled around the wonderful cabin. It held such an odd mixture of the genteel and the wilderness life. In the middle of the board table sat a delicate crystal saltcellar and a silver sugar box with matching silver sugar scissors. Yet from the ceiling near the hearth there hung a splint tray of drying apples. A tall, wrought-iron candelabra was displayed atop a corner cupboard. Yet dangling from a peg by the door was a crude lantern made of cow horn. His clay pipe, squirrel-skin tobacco pouch, and hunting knife lay together on the sideboard, next to a fashionable set of pewter tankards.
Part of the room had been turned over to his profession, displaying his apothecary jars, the mortar and pestle, strange and gruesome-looking instruments, and the set of lancet blades. Some of the medicines in his dispensary she recognized —sulfur for preventing the ague, powdered cloves for toothache, peppermint for indigestion. Others she recognized but had no idea what diseases they cured—sweet basil, chinchona bark, wormwood oil. And still others were strange and unfamiliar.
A pair of shelves on the wall were filled with books and folios having to do with chirugery and medicine. Delia read some of the titles: The Method of Physic and The Direction for Health, Both Natural and Artificial One book bound in colorful red calfskin caught her eye and she took it down to study it further, confident in her newfound ability to read, only to discover that the letters looked scrambled, the words making no sense to her at all.
“It’s in Latin,” Ty said, startling her so that she whirled around. “In case you were wondering.”
Delia’s shoulders jerked defensively. “Mrs. Bishop’s been teachin’—teaching me my letters.”
“So I’ve been told. Such a skill should come in handy when you’re out working in the fields.”
She turned away from him, angrily thrusting the book back onto the shelf.
When she turned back around she was faced with
his broad chest. He took a deep breath and his muscles rippled. He smelled of male sweat, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Still, Delia couldn’t resist saying, “You could use a bath.” She was pleased to see by the band of color staining his sharp cheekbones that her jibe had hit home.
Then his nostrils flared, his lips tightened. He took a step closer, backing her against the wall. His hip pressed against hers and he trapped her with his hands by clasping the shelf on either side of her head. He brought his face within inches of hers. She could see the individual rough hairs of his whisker stubble, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, the deep, deep blue of his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Delia-girl?” He growled the words, low in his throat. “What have you come for?”
Delia’s chest was so tight, she wheezed. “Tildy—”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head slowly, bringing his face even closer, so close that if she so much as breathed her lips would brush his. “I don’t think so, Delia. I think that what you came for is—”
The kettle whistled.
“It’s boiling, Dr. Ty!” Tildy exclaimed. “The water’s boiling!”
For a second longer Ty’s mouth hovered close to hers. Then he swore beneath his breath and pushed himself away from her.
Ty had Tildy stand on a stool, leaning over his large pewter shaving bowl. He poured the boiling water into the bowl. The little girl blinked rapidly as the steam enveloped her face and within minutes the stye had burst. He mopped her wet face with a soft cloth, studying her eye. “Does it hurt anymore, Tildy?”
“Nope. Can I have my cookie now?”
He produced two molasses cookies from a basket on the sideboard. Delia wondered jealously what woman in Merrymeeting had been baking Ty cookies in her spare time.
There was no longer any reason to stay. She took Tildy’s hand and led her toward the door. It occurred to her that she should pay Ty for his doctoring, but she had no money with her.
“You’ll have to let Nat know what he owes you,” she said. “I’ll do that,” he answered curtly.
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