by Lorin Grace
Copyright
Quilt photo credit: National Museum of American History, Kenneth E. Behring Center Gift of Mrs. Robert B. Stephens. May have been quilted in Connecticut between 1800-1850.
Cover Images: Tammy Valdez © 2015 | LJP Creative © 2016
Bible quotes from the King James Version
Cover Design © 2016 and formatting by LJP Creative
Edits by Eschler Editing
Published by Currant Creek Press
North Logan, Utah
Waking Lucy © 2016 by Lorin Grace
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and dialogue in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.
First printing: December 2016ASIN: B01NA9QCBX
For Marie Lindsley Rinard—
“that one teacher.”
Thank you for the pen.
Table of Contents
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Historical Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Coming Soon
One
November 1797 • North Shore Massachusetts
Samuel dodged the pitchfork full of falling straw as laughter sounded from the hayloft. Another waterfall of the golden fodder poured down to join the pile on the barn floor, forcing Samuel to leap out of the way to avoid the new deluge. Water sloshed out of the bucket he carried, soaking his left pant leg.
He set down the dripping bucket, wrung off his hands, and peered up into the loft. “Daniel George Wilson!” He threatened his younger brother with a shake of his fist.
More straw spilled from above, hitting Samuel in the face. Sputtering dust, he shook himself off, then stomped his feet and slapped at his clothes until he dislodged most of the stalks. The remaining fragments stuck out at rakish angles from his dark-blond hair, making him appear more scarecrow than scary. His blue eyes narrowed. “So help me, if you drop another piece of straw on my head, you’ll find yourself in with Ma, peeling potatoes!”
“Aw, don’t be such a grump. I was just trying to have some fun.” Daniel’s blond head peeked over the edge of the loft, sprinkling more straw on the barn floor. The youngster’s grin faded at the scowl on his older brother’s face.
“Yeah, Samuel. Don’t be such a grump.” The twins joined in from the stalls, where they were milking the cows.
“When I was little you were fun. What did they drink in Boston, grumpy tea?” Daniel jumped off the bottom rung of the ladder, giving the straw pile a kick. He took a step back, well out of his older brother’s reach. At nine, Daniel wasn’t tall enough to see over the high stalls but was wise enough to stay out of reach of any older brother he had teased.
“Yeah, Sam, what’s wrong with ya?” Samuel didn’t know which one of the twins had asked him the question. To him, John’s voice was identical to Joe’s, just as Joe’s appearance was indistinguishable from John’s. The twins left him guessing which brother he addressed more times than Samuel would ever admit. He suspected they knew his dilemma and often exploited it.
The singsong voice of the other twin followed close behind. “Samuel has girl problems. Samuel has girl problems. Poor, poor Samuel.” The final words came with a melodramatic tune. Samuel winced, knowing what came next—a Wilson-twin tune, guaranteed to torment.
“Oh, poor Samuel,” they sang in unison. “Can’t he catch a girl? No, no, oh, so, no. Oh, oh, poor Samuel!” Daniel clapped and danced to the twins’ theatrics. “Bring her flowers, bring her sweets, and give a kiss so bold. But poor, poor Samuel, will still be left in the cold!”
Ha. I haven’t taken her a thing. And I have yet to kiss her. I doubt you even know how much I wish I could even speak with her. An exasperated sigh escaped Samuel’s lips. He hefted the bucket over the stall to fill the trough. Old Brown snorted in response. Rubbing his horse’s nose, Samuel muttered about the injustice of having younger brothers. Old Brown nodded, turned to the fresh water, and drank, unaffected by the boys’ banter.
“No, no, oh, so, no. Oh, oh, poor Samuel.” The false bass on his name pained his ears, even if the tune was catchy. How the two made up these little songs mystified the family. Samuel moaned. He knew the chorus would get stuck in his head and haunt him for weeks. Poor Samuel, indeed!
He made no comment. Anything he said would prolong the teasing, guaranteeing the song would be repeated until everyone in the house was humming the tune.
“Running from the pretty girls’ taunts. He can’t catch one he wants. No, no, oh, so, no. Oh, oh, poor Samuel!”
The words made him think about Elizabeth Garrett’s brazen flirtations. Did that girl not understand the word no?
“Moping around the house, he will never get a spouse. No, no, oh, so, no. Oh, oh, poor Samuel!”
With each verse, the singing became more exaggerated. Though he couldn’t see them from where he worked, Samuel imagined wild hand gestures and facial expressions being added to the repertoire. They would have a future on the stage. If only they would go. Now.
Samuel found himself longing for the lecture halls of Harvard where he spent the last three years. Even memorizing all 206 bones in the body was less torturous than listening to his brothers.
“No, no, oh, so, no. Oh, oh, poor Samuel. Oh, oh, poor Samuel!” The song ended with a high screech provided by Daniel. Snort, oink, moo, stomp—several of the animals joined in or protested by making as much racket as they could.
“Back to work, boys. Ma won’t wait dinner on you.” Samuel moved to the next horse stall. “And, John, if any milk is spilled or goes sour with Joe’s singing, I won’t defend you to Ma.”
All three brothers laughed in response, but Samuel heard enough shuffling and bucket clanging to know they’d returned to work.
A muttered “old grump” reached his ears.
He tried to blame his foul mood on the early winter blizzard. Even his cheerful youngest brother, Mark, was snappy from being cooped up in the house.
But Samuel knew his real problem was the girl. The one he wanted to catch. Oh, poor Samuel. It was unlikely he would catch her after the letter he’d written indefinitely postponing their wedding.
He’d talked with more than one girl since he’d returned home, but not her. Busybody mothers anxious for their daughters to catch his eye and hopeful maidens had continually buzzed around him, waiting for him to choose a queen bee. They flitted and floated about, saving their honey-coated stings for each other. The brazen ones clung to his arm, eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, I hope my boys grow up as strong and tall as you.” Did other men fall for such bold flirtations? He shook his head in disgust, unwilling to admit that their charms had nearly worked.
&n
bsp; Samuel dumped a scoop of oats in each of the horses’ mangers. Old Brown pressed him for more. “You don’t care what I think, Old Brown, just as long as I give you what you want. You should spend some time with Elizabeth. You two have much in common.” He patted the horse and added an extra handful of oats to his trough.
Old Brown and Elizabeth did have too much in common—they were both vain, selfish, and conceited. At least Old Brown was honest with his affections.
Elizabeth was more akin to a spider than a bee. Mesmerized by her beauty, Samuel had stepped into her web. A shiver ran up his back. He wouldn’t have noticed her if he hadn’t been trying to avoid the one girl he always planned on calling his wife.
His plan had been perfect—attend medical school, come home to take over for old Doctor Page, and marry Lucy. He was not executing that plan well. In fact, he’d been dismissed from medical school. He had managed the “come home” part of the plan, albeit it in shame.
He needed a new plan. The plan he’d followed for the past five weeks had turned into a disaster. He heard a squish and sighed. Yes, that plan was a disaster resembling the stinky muck that now encased his boot—the price paid for not paying attention when entering Maple’s stall. He scraped the offensive mass off his boot as best he could, then searched for a pitchfork to scrape off the remains. If only the mess he’d made of his life could be fixed so easily. The corners of his mouth twitched up. Two weeks ago he’d metaphorically pitchforked Elizabeth out of his life. It was a start.
John—or maybe Joe?—smirked as Samuel retrieved the pitchfork. Joe whistled the notes to their impromptu ditty, and when Samuel glowered, John’s smile widened—or was it Joe who’d smirked?
“Get working,” Samuel snapped, though he knew he would regret being harsh.
Maple, heavy with foal, snorted her resentment of his intrusion into her domain, even to clean it. Women. With a single glance they could cut you down to nothing.
He’d deserved the glare he received at church three weeks ago. The censure in Lucy’s eyes left no doubt as to how she felt about his playing with the spider and the bees—all because he didn’t want to answer the hard question.
“What happened to becoming a doctor?” She had asked, those warm-brown eyes boring into him as she’d waited for his answer. He’d promised himself he would recount every last embarrassing detail. Not once in sixteen years had he resisted her requests. She deserved an answer. If not for the blizzard, he would have given her the answer already. Well… he actually could have gone Saturday. The day had started out clear. The Sabbath was not a good excuse to not go. And today? Well, he’d just kept busy.
If he were to repair things properly, he would also need to speak with Lucy’s stepfather, James Marden. But he didn’t have an answer for James Marden, either. How would he support Lucy? Farming wasn’t as bad as he remembered, and he enjoyed woodworking with his father, but neither seemed as important as the work of a doctor. However, he’d proven he was more likely to endanger lives than save them.
James Marden would most likely grant him leave to court Lucy while Samuel found a way to support her. But how would Samuel apologize to her for his foolishness and convince her his pursuit was in earnest?
He rehearsed his apology several times each day, but words failed to express what he felt in his heart.
When he finished with Maple’s stall, he patted the horse. The mare inspected him, searching him for a treat. Finding no reward, she tossed her head and turned away. Would Lucy turn away too?
They were supposed to wed in a month. The intentions had been posted. He probably should cancel them with the magistrate as it was unlikely the intentions would be concluded within the prescribed year.
Coming out of his thoughts, he suddenly realized how silent the barn had gone, aside from the usual animal noises. Where were his brothers? Silence and younger brothers was never a good combination.
The straw piles he’d dodged earlier now lined the contented animals’ stalls. The milk buckets were cleaned and put away. The loudest sound came from the cows chewing their cud.
Samuel scratched where a bit of straw still clung to and tickled his head.
Had Ma rung the bell for supper? Being late would mean going without until morning, another hazard of four younger brothers. Grabbing the coat he’d shed earlier, he sprinted out of the barn and into—
A snowball.
Or ten.
From all sides.
One hit him in the back of the head and left a freezing trail into his shirt collar. Samuel instantly regretted not putting his coat and scarf on in his hurry to get to supper. Dropping both items where he stood, Samuel scooped up a handful of snow for his counterattack.
A battle cry came from all sides, then laughter filled the air as a second barrage flew toward him. The well-planned three-sided attack blocked his way to the house, and he fell as the icy missiles pelted him one after another.
Before he knew it, one of the twins had jumped on his chest and was filling his face with snow.
Above the din, Ma’s dinner bell rang, and the enemy troops fled, leaving the dogs to lick the snow off Samuel’s face with their slobbery tongues. He pushed them away and rolled to his feet, dislodging the mountain of snow covering him in the process. Gathering his coat and scarf, he started plotting his revenge as he ran toward supper.
Two
Humph! Lucy Simms landed on her backside in a snowdrift, her hand having slipped off the rope once more. Blinking, she glanced up at the setting sun and waited for her lungs to refill with air. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen into the snow today. As she rolled out of the drift, one of her gloves shifted, allowing some snow to slip inside. She shook her hand to dislodge the ice crystals before they could melt and slapped the snow off her backside the best she could. Not that it helped. Beneath Papa Marden’s greatcoat, the hem of her dress was frozen stiff. Tiny icicles dangled from the strands of brown hair escaping her head scarf. Just a few yards away, the warmth of the kitchen fire called to her.
Determined, she turned her back to the front door. If she stopped to warm up again, she feared she would not be able to force herself to finish all the chores waiting to be done.
Mercifully, the rope that had slipped from her hands remained within reach and now dangled over the porch roof. Running the rope over the roof and hauling up her precious cargo had taken more than two hours. Each time the rope had fallen back to the ground, something inside Lucy had fallen too. All that remained was to tie a knot securing the rope to the porch post.
A sudden gust of wind tossed the snow from the eaves overhead, dusting flakes across her face—a grim reminder of the early winter blizzard. The wind then whipped the snow around the house with an unearthly howling, obscuring even the closest trees and battering the house until its walls quivered. It had ripped branches off the stoutest of trees and then buried them deep under the snow, where they lay in wait to trip her.
It was not the worst blizzard she’d witnessed growing up on the north shore, but it would be the one she would never forget.
Everything was wrong.
Massive blizzards didn’t come in November. They waited until December or even February.
What would the rest of winter bring?
Papa Marden would have known if more snow was coming or if it would thaw next week. Lucy longed to hear his voice reassuring her all would be well. He would tell her that tomorrow was in God’s hands and not to worry herself. But Papa Marden was in God’s hands now.
And all was not well.
Lucy sneezed. It is just the cold, she told herself. I’m not ill. She ignored the rawness in her throat. It’s just the effects of spending hours out in the bitter cold.
Grabbing the dangling rope, she wrapped the end of it around the support post and the two ropes already tied there, but her
cold fingers were as ineffective as tying the knot with soup ladles. She clapped her hands together to warm them enough to try again, but her fingers slipped, and she had to start again.
Stupid, stupid girl. Her father’s voice, now silent these past nine years, filled her mind, chastising her for her foolishness. She should have gone to the Wilson’s for help today, but the thought of being around Samuel hurt too much. He would insist on helping her. He always did. But if Elizabeth Garrett found out, Lucy would pay for every moment of his help. This morning, no amount of aid seemed worth Elizabeth’s wrath if she thought Lucy were trying to steal Samuel.
In school, Elizabeth had exacted revenge behind the teachers’ backs and hid behind her innocent eyes. If Lucy hadn’t loved learning so much, the five years of Elizabeth’s torture would not have been worth it. Many times she sat down to her lunch only to find her bread devoured by ants or surrounded by a snake in retribution for getting higher marks. All the girls knew better than to tattle for fear of further retribution. In recent years, Lucy heard tales from girls who’d crossed Elizabeth where men were concerned. Her vengeance was worse than what they endured in school. The stories of ruined dresses, tresses, and reputations had Elizabeth’s scorn written all over them. Now Elizabeth had set her sights on Samuel, and Lucy stayed far away.
Besides, Samuel didn’t want her anymore. The words in his last letter—all thirteen words—still stung. I’m a failure. I can’t support you. Sorry. No winter wedding. Respectfully, Samuel.
Respectfully? After all the endearments he had written over the last several months, he’d signed his note, “Respectfully”? She’d tied the note up with the rest of his letters and buried them in the bottom of her trunk. One day she would burn them.
She wondered if her pride was worth the difficulties she faced today. Even Elizabeth would understand helping a neighbor in need. Wouldn’t she?