“How did I know what?”
“Jay. My mother called me Jay after I scratched the J in the table. No one else has ever called me that. Not even Father.”
“’Tis my way to shorten names. Have you noticed I call your father Barney and Benjamin Ben? I like that. May I call you Jay?”
“I think so. But I still do not want to call you Mother. You’re not my mother.”
“Of course. For your father’s sake and mine, just be respectful. ’Tis all that I ask. Thank you for allowing me to call you Jay. Now, I shall fetch something to put the flowers in, but I think perhaps you should take them to your mother’s grave. ’Tis a bit of a walk up that hill—I shall go with you. She will love them, and it shall give you a moment to think about her and remember her love for you. I’ll be right back, wait here by the bucket.”
She started up the path to the house, but glanced back. He squatted next to the bucket, his back to her. His soft words, meant for his mother, drifted to her on a gentle breeze. “I wonder if it would be all right to like her. Only like her, that would be all. Mother, I could never love her like I love you. But mayhap it would be all right to like her.”
She brought back a red slipware jug, and he rose to meet her. He handed her the flowers and lifted the bucket to pour water for the thirsty nosegay. Mary lifted her apron and wiped a dusty tear from his cheek as the two set off to the cemetery.
Grass grew in tufts around the blue slate headstone, but it was recently trimmed and she knew Barney had been out to tidy up around the grave as he often did. She was sure, too, he’d stayed awhile, perhaps sitting on the sod and soaking up some sun. He felt close to Ann at those times and she was glad he could have the moments to himself.
She picked out the dried lilies from the clay pot next to Ann’s grave, tucking the fresh coreopsis and bellflowers in their place. Jay quietly poured the water from the jug, and she stepped back to give him his own precious time.
They started down the hill and she smiled as Jay ran ahead. He finally slowed and turned back to her, offering his hand, the red jug swinging in the other. A sigh that could shake the heavens escaped her as she clutched his hand, and she looked up, wondering if the angels indeed were taking note.
Barnabas swept crumbs into the fireplace. The last of his customers had left over an hour ago and he was able to close a bit early. Miss Tilly rubbed her side against his leg and he bent to give her ear a scratch. He untied his apron, wiped his hands, and dabbed at his damp forehead before he hung it on the peg. On a warm summer day like today, the heat of the oven drove him to the open door often. A breeze stirred as he watched Mary and Joseph step into the house. Her hand was tucked in his and it gave Barnabas cause to smile.
The past year had been difficult at times between his son and Mary. He’d made the decision early on to give her time to spend with the boys, and of course for visits and sewing sessions with Elizabeth. He’d kept control of the kitchen tongs and the duties that went with them. Every time he thought about passing the tongs to Mary, he remembered Ann and the day she received them.
But mayhap it was time. He could at least begin teaching her a thing or two about baking. The oven was still hot and a good fire ought not be wasted. Besides, the sun would set and the England mist would settle in to chill the air.
Yes, now would be an excellent time, but he had to give her due. She’d made a bit of progress already. When they first married, she did not know the difference between a simmer and a boil.
He entered the parlor and found her settling in to mend a stack of breeches. She looked up and smiled.
“I am thinking mayhap we should go to the bakeshop. I know it is hot, but ’twill cool off soon and it’s a good time for a lesson.”
“Do you not know I married you for your culinary skills and that two cooks can spoil the pot? I know when I am better off.” Green twinkled in her hazel eyes. She looked happy.
“You will not get your way that easily. Come now, wife, I will show you what I know, but do not expect to master all of my skills. I know how to keep the mystery alive in a marriage,” he teased.
They entered the bakeshop and he helped her with a fresh apron. As he tied it around her waist, she reached up to catch wispy tendrils escaping her comb. He marveled at her slim figure and, forgetting momentarily why they were there, put his arms around her in a tight embrace and kissed the nape of her neck.
“You are, Barney, so, so . . . shameless. Was this a trick to get me alone? You know the minute we think we are alone, both boys shall suddenly appear.”
“Pray pardon, but you do inspire such things in me. Ah, now, what were we doing? Cooking—ah yes, cooking.”
“Ah, yes. Cooking.” With a grin she dipped her fingers in the powdery white flour and flung sprinkles across Barnabas’s nose.
“Oh, ho! Two can play at this.” He scooped up a handful.
Mary scampered around the table, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds. She darted back and forth giggling, teasing Barnabas. Finally she gave herself up to him, as if ready to accept her fate. A shower of flour landed full in her face, coating her eyelashes like new-fallen snow.
“Ah, my sweet, I am so sorry. Let me wipe that.” He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and with great tenderness dusted her eyelids.
She leaned back in his arms, and as he moved to her nose, her eyes opened and met his. “Barney, if ever I wonder why I married you, it would be this. You are the sweetest, most gentle man I have ever known.”
“I am fun too, am I not?” His grin was mischievous.
“Yes, fun and smart and the best baker I know. Now let us get to the matter at hand and you show me all that you know. About cooking.”
Turning toward the massive fireplace, he picked up the bellows and handed it to her.
Mary took aim at him, but he was quicker than she this time.
He redirected it to the fire. “No, my sweet, practice has begun.” He stacked some logs over the coals. “Now then, give it some air with the bellows. Do you remember what I told you about stacking it so the fire gets air? The logs form a tent. If you stack it tight, one on top of the other, the fire will smother. You will know your fire is not going anywhere if you do not see smoke or flames lapping about your wood.” He watched as the flames began to lick about the logs. “Aye, that’s good, Mary. You have a fire.”
While they listened to the music of the fire snapping and crackling behind the closed oven door, Barnabas explained his inventory of implements and supplies in his bakeshop. Oh, he’d done that many a time for Mary, but he never tired of the tools of his trade.
“This copper cauldron I’ve had for as long as I’ve had my shop and is the largest. Here on the table are my other kettles and pipkins.” He waved at various iron and earthen pots that sat stacked next to his collection of sieves and skimmers, colanders and chopping blocks.
He pointed to the salt box that sat in a cove next to the chimney.
“’Tis to keep it dry, is it not?”
“Yes, my salt comes from Southwold and is costly. ’Twould not do to have it ruined.” He picked up a whisk of bundled birch twigs and swept some ash back into the hearth. “You remember well. And the more you practice working with the dough, the sooner it will be second nature to you.”
“Lizzie told me ’tis important to use all of the senses in cooking.”
“She is correct—the art of baking bread or preparing a proper dish is to remember to use your senses. You must feel the texture to know the consistency and taste it to know if you have the right amount. The aroma will tell you when it is done. Experience will teach you.”
He turned to the oven and opened the door. Mary drew back from the heat, but he nudged her to look inside. The soot had turned to a white-hot ash on the walls of the oven and he nodded toward the slice. She fetched the long hoe-like tool and scraped the embers to the pail below. He handed her several wet rags, and she brushed as much of the ash as she could from the floor of the oven, making it re
ady for the loaves of dough. She raised her brows and winked at her husband. “I feel like a scullery maid.”
Barnabas chuckled. “Yes, yes. Well done.” He took the slice from her and handed her the long wooden paddle. “This is the peel—just put your loaves right here, one at a time, and then place it on the oven floor.”
Mary removed a loaf from the long, wooden molding board and placed it on the peel.
“Now, make your cuts across the top and put it in. Close the door quickly because you want your oven very hot. Once we can smell the bread baking, you will want to check it often.” He watched her expertly position four loaves in the oven and close the door.
She looked about the kitchen. “So what is next? Cakes?”
“Nay, we shall put a joint of beef on the spit to roast.” He pointed to the jack positioned at the top of the hearth, with the long chains connected to a wheel.
“Papa was amazed you have this contraption. Cook was too. Her son always turns the roast.”
“It is an amazing invention, to be sure. The smoke vane keeps it turning. Preparing the beef for the spit is the most work required.”
“Roast of beef is my favorite meal. ’Tis Joseph’s and Ben’s too.”
He liked it when she mentioned the boys. They were always close to her thoughts, he knew. “That it is. Methinks they are adjusting to our new life. I knew Benjamin would, but Joseph surprises me. I saw the two of you today, holding hands.”
“He and I had a chance to talk today. He told me I may call him Jay.”
A pain jabbed across his chest and the familiar sorrow he felt with thoughts of Ann settled over him. “Indeed?”
Mary moved close to her husband. “Yes, is that all right? ’Tis but a nickname I picked for him, but he told me Ann would call him that too. I did not know.”
He settled his cheek atop her head. The scent of jasmine teased his nostrils and he remembered the day long ago when he first took her into his arms in his bakeshop. “That she did. And he is all right with this?”
“Yes. We had a conversation about remembering his mother and I told him I would be pleased to go with him to the cemetery, whenever he should like to think about her. I think it helped him, Barney, and I know it helped me.”
“Very well, then. He misses his mother, to be sure.”
“He is very much like his father.”
“Shall we make a pastry for our roast beef?” He didn’t wait for her answer but pulled out a crock of flour. “Could you fetch me a pot of butter?” Trouble creased his brow as he waited for her. “Aye, Joseph is much like me. At times I wish he were not, for I can be very stubborn. This reminds me of something, Mary. I have something exciting to tell you. I have been talking to Jeremy and he tells me he’s begun work on his ship.”
“He is such the adventurer. I did not realize he was that serious, though.”
“He is in talks with the Petts and plans to be shipmaster of his own ship.”
“Truly? How extraordinary.”
“He is, he is. He tells me it will be a few years, but he says he will sail for the Massachusetts Bay Colony and he’s brought me word about the Reverend John Youngs.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Do you recall me telling you about him? He is curate in Reydon, near Southwold. He plans on leaving from Yarmouth for Boston sometime in the future. Thomas and Jane speak of that too. Jeremy thinks his ship could be ready by then. We could be on the same ship.”
“By your leave, I pray thee, explain what you mean. You are speaking of sailing to New England? Is it true, Barnabas, what Jeremy said at our wedding?”
Her eyes were the flinty gray he had come to know as trouble. It had been over a year since their wedding and Barnabas had not brought up a desire to go to New England again. Apparently, she had never forgotten Jeremy’s indiscretion.
“Mary, you know it is hard times these days. Do you recall my good friend Peter Hobart? He plans to sail to New England as well. The persecution from Parliament is intolerable for him. You are well aware that last year I myself had to petition the courts on behalf of our good friends the Tuttles. Simon was reported to Parliament for nonconformity. Can you imagine? They are inventing things to go after the people they want and I do not believe it will improve. To a degree, when that happens to our friends, it happens to us.
“Word is John Cotton is nowhere to be found. Mayhap he has already sailed for New England. I feel I can do great things in Massachusetts. Churches are being established, townships founded. I desire to be a part of that. I have been much interested in what Reverend Youngs has to say. He supports Reverend Davenport in his decision to go to the New World.”
“Why have you not been speaking to me of such? Why am I just finding this out now? Why did all of your family seem to know this of you before our wedding, yet you did not share any of it with me, Barnabas? Did you not deem it important? You, who feel so strongly about your faith, do you not feel you were lying to me? Do you not feel you have betrayed me?” She threw her hands up in disgust.
He squared his shoulders. Her outburst was uncalled for. “Jeremy was out of place when he spoke. There is danger in too much talk.” He folded his arms. “Besides, it is not my duty to tell my wife everything I might be pondering!”
“Oh, ’tis not, Barnabas? ’Tis done, then.” With that she picked up the crock of flour, ceremoniously dumped it over his head, and stormed from the kitchen.
10
February 1634
The memory of her wedding drifted like a rose petal in a bubbling brook, overtaken much of the time by day-to-day chores, but surfacing from time to time—mostly when Lizzie came to visit with her children in tow.
Each year on February 14, Barney presented Mary with a wedding cake as beautiful as the one he’d made for her the day they were married.
Each year Mary’s longing for his babe in her arms deepened, though she became more practiced in hiding her disappointment. Most of the time.
Lizzie’s fourth baby was another little girl, named Hannah after Zeke’s mother.
Three years of lessons in spinning and sewing, and embroidery still challenged Mary. Such a lesson was the backdrop for their chatter on this cold winter day. The children played all around them, with little Hannah determined to keep up.
Mary stuck the needle through her cloth. “’Tis so good to hear Joseph playing with Joshua and the girls. It seems to be the only time he is able to relax and enjoy being a child.” She looked up from her needlework to smile at her sister.
“He is a good boy.” Lizzie lowered her voice. “But much troubled, I think.”
Mary watched as the girls chased the boys out of the parlor. “That he is. He misses Ann. He will not call me Mother, although he is polite about that most of the time. I have grown to love him as my own, though, and I grieve for him.”
“Just be patient with him and pray for him. ’Tis all you can do.” Lizzie looked over at her sister’s work. “Your stitches are looking very even, but shall we turn it over and review the underside? What is underneath is very important as well.”
Mary peeked underneath. “Nay, do not look. I can do better.” She picked up a new cloth and began again.
Lizzie’s laugh tinkled like raindrops on crystal. She stood and stretched. “You’ve mastered stitching a straight seam on garments, indeed they are almost invisible. But without some pretty embroidered flowers or birds, they shall be plain indeed. Let me show you how to hold your fabric.” She bent over Mary’s work.
“Ben misses his mother too, but he does seem to be doing very well. I think he would like to have a little brother or sister.” Mary paused as Hannah took a tumble and picked herself up again without a whimper.
Lizzie looked up and caught her tender look. “I know we have spoken of this before, but when do you think that might happen?”
“I think about it all of the time. I don’t know. Barney says in God’s time. He is right, of course, but I do find myself impatient. I know he wants another
child, and I feel sometimes I let him down.”
“Do you take the honey mixture?”
“Yes, I have. Occasionally.”
“Do not fret too much over how Barnabas feels about it. Sometimes when a woman relaxes and lets nature have its way, things happen.” She nodded at Mary.
“I try not to fret about it, but I fear Barney does.” She sighed and pushed away a fallen tendril from her face. “Not to change the subject, but have I ever told you Barney still holds to some of the old ideas of bloodletting and such. A bit antiquated, do you not think?”
“Barnabas is not likely to change. But you are his wife now and should be taking charge of all his care and the children’s.” She looked directly at Mary to make her point.
“I know that, Lizzie, and I take all of your instruction to heart. But Barney has not even given me the tongs yet. I feel like he runs the house and almost prefers it that way. I try and try, but look at me. No babe, no kitchen tongs. But someday, Lizzie—I just need to keep working at it.” She said the words with conviction, but could she really try harder?
The door swung open and both Mary and Lizzie lowered their needlework to their laps. The children gathered quietly as Barney came through. “We’ve a message from Jeremy. He tells me Reverend Youngs would like us to stay with him in Southwold on holiday.”
Lizzie’s eyes lit up. “Mary, a holiday at the beach?”
“That shall be lovely, Barney. When would we be going?”
“Not for a fortnight. I will need to arrange to leave the bakeshop for a few days.”
Lizzie rose and motioned her children to say their goodbyes. She leaned close to Mary’s ear. “You take the honey mixture with you, Mary. ’Tis an elixir.” She winked as she pulled away.
Barney harped constantly. Not Lizzie too. Mary’s cheeks tingled with the blush she knew all could see.
Lizzie hugged her tight. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “See you soon.”
Mary watched the little family hurry down the lane and sighed. She was giving it her all. What more could she do?
A Place in His Heart Page 8