Remembering Maggie:The Complete Bread Sister Trilogy (The Bread Sister Trilogy)

by Robin Moore

  Maggie and McGrew came into a clearing, and Maggie could see that the stream had been dammed into a pond. The mill was reflected in the still water of the pond. It was a huge impressive structure with an enormous wooden waterwheel.

  As they walked, McGrew explained that the runoff from the pond was channeled down a long wooden chute where a steady stream fell onto the water-wheel, turning it smoothly. The motion of the wheel turned the grindstones inside, which ground rye and corn into rye flour and cornmeal. McGrew said in the winter the same power was used to propel the up-and-down motion of a saw-toothed blade in the sawmill out back.

  As they drew closer, Maggie could see the main house, set up away from the pond a bit. It was a tranquil scene.

  "Let me show you my pride and joy," McGrew said hospitably. He took Maggie into the mill and she marveled at the maze of wooden cogwheels that turned the heavy grindstones. The mill was not oper­ating at the moment. McGrew excused himself to climb up and check the works.

  Maggie was so impressed by the massive wooden machinery that she didn't notice the little girl who had walked up beside her. Maggie turned and, sud­denly, there was the girl, appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She looked about twelve years old. She had jet-black hair and very delicate hands and feet.

  "Hello," Maggie said. "What's your name?"

  The girl smiled. With great care, she slowly drew the letter A, in the air with her finger. Then she drew another letter. An N. Another N. An I. And an E.

  "Annie," Maggie said, "your name is Annie. I'm Maggie."

  Annie gave her a dazzling smile, then reached out and firmly shook her hand.

  McGrew climbed down from the loft.

  "Ah," he said, "I see you've met my daughter."

  "She's very clever with her hands," Maggie said. "She spelled her name out in the air for me. I'd like to hear her voice."

  "That's her way of talking," McGrew said sadly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Our girl Annie can't speak or hear. Several years ago, she was in a terrible accident. Miraculously, the Lord spared her life. But, in His wisdom, He took from her the powers of speech and hearing.

  "However, she is a bright girl. And she has de­vised her own ways of communicating. If you speak slowly, she can read your lips. And she has invented a sort of language of her own, with gestures and hand signs. I daresay, once you get onto her way of signing, you can speak with her about most any­thing."

  Annie touched McGrew on the arm to get his attention. She made a series of graceful motions with her hands and pointed to Maggie.

  "She wants to know where you're from and what you're doing here," he explained.

  The big man slowly recounted Maggie's story. Annie watched, her eyes riveted to her father's lips. Maggie saw the waves of sadness begin to break across the girl's face as she came to understand Mag­gie's predicament.

  Annie touched her palm to her heart and shook her head.

  "She says she feels sad for you," McGrew said. "But listen, no point in dwelling on all this now. What's done is done. You must agree to be our houseguest for the night."

  McGrew turned to Annie. "Take Maggie to the house, introduce her to your mother, and ask her if we might have Maggie as our houseguest tonight."

  Annie nodded and took Maggie's hand in hers.

  As they approached the house, Maggie could see that the McGrews' house was built on a much grander scale than Franny's cabin. The log walls were hewn flat and neatly fitted at the corners. There were two chimneys, one at each end, and a real shingle roof.

  As they came closer, a tall woman, dressed entirely in black, wearing a black bonnet that covered most of her face, stepped from the doorway and threw a kettle of filthy water into the weeds.

  She heard them approaching and looked up. Her face was in shadow, but Maggie could see beneath the ruffle of the bonnet two dark, sharp eyes peering out at her. The woman simply stood with the kettle in her hands, staring at Maggie as though she had seen a ghost.

  "This is Maggie," Annie signed. "She came here from Philadelphia and Papa says to ask can she stay here with us tonight."

  Maggie shifted under the woman's gaze.

  "Where's your bonnet?" the woman said at last. She spoke to Maggie in a voice that sounded like a whiplash.

  "I lost it," Maggie admitted.

  "Sensible girl wouldn't be out in the sun without a bonnet," Mrs. McGrew declared.

  "Well," Maggie began, trying to sound friendly, "I know that. But you see, my name is—"

  "I already know your name," the woman snapped. She pointed to Maggie's clothes.

  "Look at your dress. You look like you've been rolling in the dirt. I don't know why my husband insists on taking in every stray traveler in the valley. Well, you won't come in my house that way."

  She turned to Annie and made hand motions for washing. Then, for Maggie's benefit, she said, "Take her to the pond. And scrub her good."

  Mrs. McGrew turned her gaze back to Maggie. "I don't allow slovenliness in my house." Then she turned and was gone. Her words hung like icicles in the air.

  Maggie went to the pond and washed herself with the harsh lye soap Annie brought. Then the younger girl poured a bucket of water over her head, and she washed the dust of the trail from her hair. Annie also brought her a simple sack dress, which Maggie slipped into. She hadn't felt so clean in weeks. It felt good to sit by the pond with her eyes closed, letting the sun dry her as Annie's nimble fingers brushed out her hair and plaited it into two long braids that trailed down her back.

  When they returned to the house, the family sat down to supper. It was a simple meal, cold fish and corn, left over from the bigger meal the family ate at noon. But the meal was made grand by the addition of Maggie's bread.

  McGrew took his place at the head of the table. Mrs. McGrew had taken off her bonnet now, and Maggie could see from Mrs. McGrew's high cheek­bones and graceful aquiline nose that she had once been a beautiful woman. But now, Maggie thought, her face looked pale and tired and very sad.

  She glanced around the room and saw that Mrs. McGrew did keep a very clean house. The fireplaces at each end of the house were well stocked with split firewood for cooking; the stone hearths were swept clean. Mr. and Mrs. McGrew's bed, which sat in one corner, was neatly covered with a comfortable quilt. Maggie noticed a ladder going up to the loft over­head where she figured Annie slept.

  Then Maggie saw something else. Sitting in the corner by the large bed was a handmade cradle. In the cradle was a sleeping baby.

  "Let us bow our heads," McGrew said, and began to say grace over the meal. He had no sooner thanked the Lord for two or three things than the baby started awake and began screaming. Mrs. McGrew wearily left her place at the table and lifted the baby from its cradle. She opened the front of her blouse and nursed the infant. As soon as the child began sucking, its cries quieted.

  "Our little boy Lyons is quite ill," McGrew said. "He was a sickly child from the start, and since then it's been just one illness after another. We've come very close to losing him."

  McGrew bowed his head and finished his prayer.

  "Now," McGrew said with an expansive smile, "let's share in the bounteous wonder of this bread."

  Maggie carefully selected a fresh loaf and cut a large slice for each person. Mrs. McGrew put the sleeping baby back in the cradle and came to the table. Maggie watched as the three McGrews sat si­lently and ate the bread, eating quietly, as though making a sound would somehow interfere with the taste.

  McGrew washed the last of his slice down with a mug of cider.

  "Well, Maura," he said. "It's the Callahan bread now, isn't it? As fine a loaf as Franny baked."

  Mrs. McGrew nodded silently.

  After the meal was over, Mrs. McGrew had Mag­gie do the washing up. While she worked, Maggie was conscious that the older woman was watching her every move.

  That evening Maggie and Annie began to climb the ladder to the sleeping loft.

  Then Ma
ggie heard Mrs. McGrew's voice saying, "Maggie, come here." Maggie climbed back down the ladder to face Mrs. McGrew.

  Mrs. McGrew was sitting in her rocking chair by the hearth. She wore a light shawl over her shoulders against the cool of the evening. Her face looked tired and drawn.

  "Joseph and I have talked over your situation," Mrs. McGrew began. "We are prepared to propose something that may be the solution to your prob­lem, at least temporarily.

  "I will begin by saying that I believe the wisest thing would be for you to return to Philadelphia immediately. You have no way of knowing the hard­ships life in these mountains can bring on. Unfortu­nately, you cannot make the trip alone and there is no one here who can spare the time to take you. So let me ask you, how do you plan to survive here?"

  Maggie looked down at her feet. "I don't know, ma'am."

  The older woman took a deep breath. "I see. Well, harvest time will be on us soon and we can use an extra pair of hands around here. We are prepared to offer you room and board in exchange for your labor in this household until such time as you can return to Philadelphia, which will most probably be in the spring. Is that agreeable to you?"

  Maggie felt a sinking feeling. This was exactly the kind of thing she had left Philadelphia to avoid. At least in the city, she had known the people she was working for. But this woman hadn't said a kind word since she'd walked through the door. Maggie shud­dered at the thought of being at her mercy. But even while she was thinking these thoughts, Maggie knew she had no other choice. At least for now, she de­cided, she would go the humble way.

  Maggie summoned up a weak smile. "Thank you, ma'am."

  Mrs. McGrew nodded.

  "I want to make it clear at the outset that you are neither a guest nor a boarder in this house. Your position will be the same as a bound-out girl's would be. You may consider yourself a servant, to put it in plain terms.

  "Your duties will be to help me in the house and garden in whatever way I deem necessary. You will answer directly to me. There is to be no complaining to my husband. He has no authority in this house­hold. Is that clear?"

  Maggie nodded.

  "Then let me ask you one more question. Are you the tearful type?"

  Maggie shook her head. "Not really."

  "Well, if you are, we'll find out soon enough. I must also say that although Franny and I didn't al­ways see eye to eye, she kept a clean house and minded her own business. You do the same and you'll not fare badly here. Any questions?"

  Maggie shook her head.

  "Very well. Go up and get a good night's rest. We begin boiling clothes right after breakfast."

  "Thank you, Mrs. McGrew," Maggie said.

  Maggie turned and climbed the ladder to the loft. Annie was sleeping peacefully on her straw mattress. Maggie found a blanket to roll up in. She lay there, staring at the rough boards overhead. Downstairs, she heard little Lyons cry.

  She rolled over and peeked down through the slits in the board floor. Mrs. McGrew sat nursing her child by the hearthside, rocking. Maggie wondered what kind of strange, bitter woman she had bound herself out to. As she peered down at Mrs. McGrew's face, it occurred to her that, even suckling her tiny son, there was no tenderness in this woman's face, only a fierce and enduring sadness.

  Chapter Six

  Maggie thought she knew all about hard work. But whatever she had done in her life was nothing com­pared to what Mrs. McGrew expected of her. Maggie soon learned that a woman's life on the frontier wasn't anything to be envied.

  On Maggie's first morning, Mrs. McGrew sent the two girls out for firewood. At the edge of the mill-pond, Annie showed her a dead tree that had come down in a big storm.

  Using their axes, the girls worked together, trim­ming off the dead limbs and hauling them up to the woodpile. They worked silently, sweating in the morning sun as they carried armloads of wood from the pond to the house.

  The family stopped for their main meal at noon, which Mrs. McGrew had spent the morning prepar­ing. Joseph McGrew came in and sat at the head of the table, food and drink disappearing into his mouth at an alarming rate.

  When he had finished, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and took a seat by the window.

  "Excellent land we have here," he said to no one in particular. "Our table overflows with the bounty of this fertile soil."

  Mrs. McGrew frowned. "The beans and squash don't cook themselves," she said sourly.

  McGrew arose and brushed the crumbs off his vest. "Well, best be getting back to the mill. Excel­lent meal, Maura."

  Maggie helped Mrs. McGrew clear the table. Then, glad to be in the open air, she and Annie headed for the woodpile.

  By the end of the day, Maggie's hands were blis­tered from the axe handle and her arms and back were sore from carrying the firewood.

  That night, after the evening meal, Maggie climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft and fell asleep, too tired to undress. Annie slipped the muddy shoes off Maggie's feet and tucked the blanket around her shoulders, then sat for a long time, gazing at her new companion in the dim light.

  The days that followed were filled with the labor of frontier life: washing, cooking, mending, haul­ing, and chopping. It was a lot to expect from a young girl. But Maggie noticed that Mrs. McGrew expected no less from herself. Mrs. McGrew went about the dreary tasks slowly, methodically, without a cheerful word or a smile, as though she was carrying some great burden.

  Annie was there to brighten the dark sadness that Mrs. McGrew cast across their lives. Maggie and Annie grew to be like sisters. Once a week Mrs. McGrew allowed Maggie to go up to Franny's cabin to bake up bread for the week. On those days the girls felt free as birds and light as air. Sometimes, when Mrs. McGrew couldn't spare Annie, Maggie went to the cabin alone. At these times Maggie felt Franny's presence strongly in the cabin. The solitude gave her the strength to go on.

  Jake stopped by the cabin one day while Maggie was baking.

  "Found yerself a home, have you, girl?" he asked.

  Maggie nodded. "I'll be staying around until the spring anyway, bound out to the McGrews."

  "I figgered as much," Jake said. "And suits me fine so long's I kin get a taste of bread every now and again."

  Maggie was glad to give him a loaf to carry away in his shoulder bag. Mrs. McGrew would never know and Maggie enjoyed seeing the old man, even if he was supposed to be dangerous.

  The mill was especially busy that fall. Farmers in the valley grew corn and rye and brought their crops to the mill to be ground into cornmeal and rye flour. Since there was no coin money to be had, McGrew simply kept a portion of the grain in payment. He even set up a credit system that allowed him to be both businessman and politician, something he greatly valued. McGrew sought everyone's friend­ship. In most cases, he got what he wanted. He was an irrepressible character who was as full of jokes as his wife was somber.

  One day the McWilliams family from downstream came by to unload a wagonful of corn. The two families had the noon meal together while they were waiting for the corn to be ground. Maggie served her bread.

  Mrs. McWilliams and Maggie were helping Mrs. McGrew do the washing when the neighbor woman complimented Maggie on her bread.

  "You Callahan women certainly can bake," she was saying. "I wish I could do the same. But I just don't have the time. A bread like that would surely brighten up our meals."

  "Well," Maggie offered, "if you like, I could bake up a few extra loaves for you. I go up to Franny's to

  bake every Saturday, and it would be no trouble to do a few more loaves this week. You could come by the mill and pick them up Sunday."

  Mrs. McGrew, working nearby, stiffened.

  Mrs. McWilliams beamed. "That would be won­derful, Maggie. Of course, I'd want to give you some­thing for your trouble."

  Maggie thought for a moment. "Well, you were saying that you dipped tallow candles last week; we could surely use some of those."

  "Hold it," Mrs. McGrew said. "Don't be so free wit
h that bread, Maggie. Remember that you are in my employ and that the fruits of your labor belong to me."

  Maggie set her anger aside and nodded. "I know that, Mrs. McGrew. But, like I said, it's no extra trouble for me and we do need the candles. Think of the work it would save us."

  Mrs. McGrew nodded. "I'm not contesting that, Maggie. But this should be my decision, not yours. I have no objection to this bread trading so long as it doesn't interfere with your other duties and so long as you trade for things we really need, no foolish­ness."

  "Of course," Maggie said.

  Mrs. McGrew cast a freezing glance at Mrs. McWilliams, then picked up a bucket and went out the door toward the pond.

  "I can't understand why she's so rude," Mrs. McWilliams said after the other woman had gone. "If you were in my household, I'd treat you different, sure. I declare, Maura McGrew is the sourest woman I know."

  Maggie hung her head.

  Mrs. McWilliams touched Maggie's hand and whispered, "You know, she wasn't always that way. When Maura and Joseph first came to this valley, they were the gayest couple you could ever wish to meet. But it's five years now that Sarah's in the grave, and Maura still walks around like a woman in mourn­ing."

  Maggie asked, "Who was Sarah?"

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Mrs. McWilliams brushed it aside.

  "Don't mind me, Maggie. Just foolish woman's talk is all. I've said too much already." Then she changed the subject.

  Although she never asked anyone else about it, scarcely a day passed when Maggie didn't wonder about Sarah. She noticed the McGrews rarely talked about their early days in the valley, and Maggie came to sense that there was some dark secret hidden there.

  When the news of Mrs. McWilliams' deal with Maggie spread, other women followed suit. Soon Maggie was baking twenty loaves a week for the neighboring families. The things the family got through trade—fresh meat, soap, cloth, and tools— made their lives easier, and so long as Maggie could do her bread baking in one day, Mrs. McGrew didn't object.

  One day that fall Joseph McGrew got a letter from his sister Catherine in Lancaster. She proposed that she send her nineteen-year-old son, John, out to ap­prentice to McGrew at the mill. Always eager for an extra hand, McGrew agreed.