Spoke Of Love

by Cathy Marie Hake

  She took up the slate they’d left on the table from last night. Laboriously, she wrote, I am well.

  He smiled at the way she underlined the last word. “You are spirited, if not completely hale. I fear you will overdo.”

  Her face scrunched; then she shook her head and used the same gesture she’d used back on the road—of blowing on her hands and a bubble floating away.

  Samuel chuckled. “You’re right; we have little soap left.”

  She tapped herself.

  “No, no. Soap making will have to wait. You’ve not enough strength to endure that task. Given a fortnight, I’ve no doubt but that we’ll have soap from your hand. You’ll need to save lard up to make it, regardless.”

  “I’ll help make it,” Ethan offered. “I’ve helped Goodwife Morton.”

  “We’ll speak with Ruth Morton. Mayhap you women will labor together over that chore. For this day, Garnet, I’ll still thank you to—” He halted midsentence and looked at the message she wrote on the slate.

  Work to noon, then rest.

  The pleading look she gave made him chuckle. “Very well.”

  As soon as Hester and she were alone, Garnet changed back into her own clothing. It made no sense to wear such finery as she cleaned this abode. Then, too, mercy demanded she not wear her master’s wife’s clothing since the sight of it caused him pain.

  Garnet paused in the doorway and watched as Christopher stacked the cornstalks so they’d finish drying. His father worked in a distant cornfield, plowing under the stubble. He’d mentioned he needed to do so to restore the soil. Ethan tromped by with an armful of rushes.

  Without Hester here, I imagine Master Walsh and his sons all slept in the keeping room. I cannot continue to usurp his bed. Something must be done, but it isn’t for me to determine exactly what. Mayhap, if I air out the bedding, that will nudge him into changing the arrangement.

  Garnet beckoned to Ethan. She wrote on the slate, and he laughed. “You want me to throw my bed out?”

  Garnet caught the mattress as he tossed it down. As she emptied the ticking, Hester hopped from one foot to the other. “Aunt Dorcas did this, too. I always tied the old corn husks so we could feed the cookfire. Would you have me do that?”

  With Hester occupied, Garnet shook out the empty mattress ticking, hung it over a fence, and beat out more dust.

  It was obvious from the state of the mattress that the attic desperately needed cleaning. The dirt dislodged when she cleaned the attic would spoil the keeping room in an instant. Best she start up on the second story, then move downstairs later. She took rags, water, and a corn-husk broom up and attacked the attic.

  Because the ladder was outside, no room was wasted with a staircase indoors. Both the floors boasted a full measure of usable space. Pegs protruding from the rafters indicated that food and drying once took place up there, too. Since the pegs all stood empty, Garnet set to dispersing a wealth of cobwebs with the broom. She treated the walls with the same vigor, then almost punished the floor to dislodge all of the dried mud.

  Mindful of her promise to limit her time, Garnet went down and took the eggs from the morning gathering and whipped up some custard.

  As Hester licked the spoon, her eyes brightened. “Are you going to bake it in a pumpkin? Ruth Morton did that once, and Father relished it.”

  Though unsure as to what a pumpkin was, let alone the peculiarities in using one as a cooking container, Garnet didn’t have the heart to deny Hester’s request. She nodded.

  “I’ll go choose the pumpkin!” Hester dashed out the door and returned in a few minutes holding a bright orange squash as big as her head. “I’ll scoop out the inside and wash the seeds if you cut it open. I like to eat the roasted seeds.”

  Pumpkins, turkey, and corn. Virginia Colony provided remarkable food. Garnet filled the hollowed pumpkin with the custard she’d made, then set it inside a cauldron and poured a few inches of water around the edge. Once she hung it over the fire, she picked up a long spoon and prepared to stir the soup.

  “I can do that!”

  Garnet waggled her forefinger back and forth.

  Confusion puckered little Hester’s face. “Aunt Dorcas had me stir soups and such.”

  Women often got nasty burns. Appalled anyone would allow such a small child near a fire, Garnet fought to hide her reaction. Instead, she pointed to the corn husks Hester had tied together and smiled.

  “You want me to tie the rest of the husks.” Hester plopped back down and set to work. Her nose wrinkled; then she giggled. “Your soup smells better than these old things.”

  A wink of agreement set Hester into another set of giggles. Garnet added a little more water to the soup and set aside the spoon. She wanted to add thyme and sage, but with no supply of herbs in the house, she feared she’d have no spices whatsoever. A quick walk around the outside of the cabin allowed her to see where an herb garden had once been. Left untended, the patch was a huge tangle, but she didn’t fret over that small fact. One quick look assured her she’d have ample caraway, dill, rosemary, fennel, marjoram, basil, thyme, sage, and savory. For the time being, she took just enough to flavor the soup.

  Satisfied that the attic now rated as habitable, Garnet dragged the empty mattress ticking up the ladder. Ethan followed her. “There’s a pulley we can use to draw up the baskets of corn husks.”

  Fatigue pulled at her as she finished stuffing the mattress. Garnet watched Ethan scramble down the ladder, and then she gestured to her mouth, rubbed her tummy, and pointed toward the field.

  “You want me to go fetch Father and Christopher for nuncheon?”

  She nodded, so he dashed off.

  ❧

  “Are you certain she wanted us to eat?” Christopher asked as he dried off his hands. He and his father exchanged dubious looks. Garnet hadn’t taken any of the food from the fire. The keeping room smelled wonderful.

  “We’ll ready the table,” Samuel decided. “Widow Wheelock might have stepped out a minute.”

  Hester set the table as he took the food from the fireplace. Garnet didn’t show up. Samuel began to ladle the soup. The bowls were full, and Garnet’s place still stayed vacant. “Hester, go to the privy and assure us that the widow fares well.”

  Hester giggled and ran out of the cabin. A few minutes later, she came back, but her face was sober. “The widow isn’t there.”

  eight

  Christopher rested his elbows on the table. “Do you think she ran away again, like she did last eve?”

  “I cannot say. You children eat. I’ll look for the widow. She’s much too weak to go far.” Samuel rose. He gave the pumpkin custard a longing look and sternly demanded, “Leave some of that for me. I’ve not had such a treat in a long while.”

  He went out and looked at the ground. Christopher’s and Ethan’s shoes left a definite imprint. Hester’s tiny footprint stood out clearly, as did his own large ones. The other prints had to belong to Garnet. Samuel followed them, but they led to the springhouse. After following a few more tracks to the garden, he became more confused. He headed toward the stable to saddle up his horse, but he had no clue as to which direction Garnet had taken.

  “Father! Come!” Hester ran up to him and threw her arms about his thighs.

  He hugged her automatically. “What is it?”

  “She’s here! She was here all along!”

  “Oh?”

  Grabbing her father’s hand, she put a finger to her lips and led him to the attic ladder. “Go see. She looks so peaceful, Father. We didn’t have the heart to waken her.”

  Peaceful didn’t begin to describe her. Garnet had fallen asleep on the boys’ freshly aired and filled corn-husk mattress. Sam’s brows furrowed at the sight of her in her rags. Why had she changed back into such pathetic wear? He’d almost praised Garnet for looking handsome this morning—but ’twasn’t fitting to do so. He’d gladly praise her cooking and how she treated his children, but a man oughtn’t make personal statements if he
didn’t intend to court a woman. Nonetheless, he’d instruct her to wear Naomi’s clothing hereafter.

  Samuel took a blanket and covered her. She burrowed into the pillow. The action dislodged her cap, causing her glorious hair to spill freely across the bed. His fingers absently threaded through her mane, and he smiled softly. She’d kept her word, at least in part. She’d worked ’til midday, then rested. The smudge on her cheek told him that she wasn’t yet ready to quit her labors.

  Sam looked about the attic and caught his breath. It looked as it ought to—which was, sadly enough, something it never did anymore. Nary a speck of dirt, a web, or a stray feather could be seen. Indeed, the loft smelled fresh, and the boys’ few possessions hung neatly on pegs. A woman’s touch made a difference. He descended the ladder and went in to eat the soup. It tasted excellent, but the pumpkin custard truly got his attention.

  “I’m thinking I’m glad we grew lots of pumpkins this year,” Ethan declared with relish.

  “You’d best see to weeding the garden,” Samuel admonished his son as he served a goodly bit of custard onto his plate. The aroma of it made his mouth water. “After the garden is done, you and Christopher are to gather up the crockery and jars. Hester, you help them wash and dry all of them. We’ll be needing to put by all of the vegetables and apples.”

  Ethan stared at his father’s plate. His eyes shone with greed. “Might I have a little more custard ere I finish my labors?”

  Samuel took a taste. “It is enough to tempt a body, isn’t it?” He grinned as all three children nodded enthusiastically. “I confess the same weakness, but the widow will see no reward for her labors if we all have more. Be satisfied with your first helping—she will share the remainder at supper with us. It will be good for her to witness your thankful smiles.”

  After lunch, Sam went back to plowing the field. He’d cautioned the children to allow the widow to sleep. She’d accomplished far more than he thought possible and clearly worn herself out with the effort.

  This morning, he’d decided the time had come for him to move up with the boys. Witnessing how weak Widow Wheelock was made him reconsider. Tomorrow, Ruth Morton would come over and they’d preserve apples. Even with Ruth’s help and her daughter’s assistance, such labor would still wear out the widow. Garnet would need a full day afterward to recover. Only she wouldn’t rest. After the way she bargained to work half of today, Samuel knew she wouldn’t be guilty of sloth.

  Sunday. He nodded to himself. It seemed appropriate for him to move his bed on the day of rest. They’d go to worship this week. Missing church last week on account of Garnet’s fever couldn’t be helped. But this Sunday, after the service, he could tote the mattress from the trundle up to the chamber he’d share with his sons.

  The breeze carried Hester’s laughter. Sam delighted in it. “Lord, You’ve been faithful. I called upon Your name and asked You to bring my daughter home to me. You prepared a way and have mercifully increased the blessings so my sons will know the gentleness of a woman’s care. I would never have imagined my prayers would be answered in this manner, but Your wisdom and mercy abound.”

  He plowed two more furrows, turning the stubble into the rich soil and praising God for His provision. Sam paused at the end of the field and wiped his brow with his sleeve. As he turned, his eyes narrowed.

  “Samuel Walsh.” A tall, sallow-faced man approached and nodded curtly.

  “Erasmus Ryder.” Sam wondered at the arrival of Dorcas’s husband. The man had no reason to cease his labor early and come calling. “I trust all is well with you.”

  “We fare well enough. My goodwife tells me she’s running out of wool.”

  The purpose of the visit fell into place. In years past, Dorcas and Erasmus claimed the shearing as payment for keeping Hester. As Sam’s flock increased, Dorcas claimed that Hester was growing and it took more to keep her; thus the Ryders still took all of the shearing. Dorcas was known for her fine weaving, and the skill proved to be lucrative for her. Sam knew full well that even taking Dorcas’s time and skill into account, the profit she made off his sheep’s fleeces paid several times over what it cost for them to feed Hester. Since Hester wore hand-me-downs from Mary Morton, Dorcas hadn’t had to clothe her. Nonetheless, creating ill will when his daughter lived under the Ryders’ roof would be foolish indeed.

  Only Hester no longer lived there. Samuel stood in silence, waiting for Erasmus to make him an offer on the wool.

  Erasmus folded his arms across his chest. “ ’Tis round the time you fall-shear your sheep.”

  “Indeed. But plenty wants doing. I’ll get to it anon.”

  “Dorcas has need of the fleeces soon.” Erasmus cast a look toward the house, then added, “And you owe it to us.”

  Irritated by that comment, Samuel widened his stance. “The day Hester went to abide under your roof, you took the spring shearing. Dorcas has received the entirety of my fleeces in advance twice each year for the seasons to follow. The only indebtedness I hold is of gratitude.”

  “You would cheat us?”

  “I’m an honorable man.” Sam stared him in the eyes. “I gave over all of my wool in the years Hester lived beneath your roof. You’ve often boasted about how much Dorcas’s cloth brings in. I’ve met my obligations fairly.”

  Erasmus glowered at him. “Best you reconsider. Taxes and tithe will come due.”

  “I cannot deny that is true.”

  “You’ll need my tobacco. You cannot pay in wheat or corn. Nothing but Virginia tobacco is accepted, and you have none.”

  The exultant tone grated on Sam’s nerves. He chose not to raise tobacco. It depleted the soil, and he considered smoking of the plant to be a distasteful habit. Nonetheless, he refused to be coerced. He wrapped his hands about the handle of the plow and shrugged. “I’ve always paid you full-market value for the tobacco required for my taxes and tithes. Thomas Brooks is a good friend to me, and he also grows tobacco.”

  “This is no way to treat family,” Erasmus growled.

  “I agree. Had you made me an offer on the fleeces, I would have struck a deal with you—a deal which took into account that Dorcas is my children’s aunt. As it is, you tried to make an unjust claim.”

  Chin jutting forward, Erasmus rasped, “Reconsider. Once I walk away, I’ll not deal with you again.”

  “I hold no agreement with you about buying your tobacco. You’re welcome to sell it to any buyer, just as I am free to make arrangements with another grower. Indeed, Brooks has expressed how eager he’d be to have some of my cornmeal.”

  “You’ll regret this, Samuel Walsh.”

  “Begone, Erasmus. I’ll pretend this conversation never occurred.”

  “Remember it.” The lanky man shook his finger at Sam. “Remember it well. You’ll live to rue the day you crossed me.”

  nine

  The scent of apples still filled the keeping room. Scores and scores of apple rings dried on pegs and strings all about the cabin. Apple peels steamed dry in shallow trays near the fire, and two crocks full of applesauce lined the wall near the table. A barrel with straw-packed apples sat in the springhouse.

  Garnet stood in the doorway and waved good-bye to Ruth and Mary Morton. Hester slipped her sticky little hand into Garnet’s. “Come back again soon. Widow Wheelock and me—we had fun.”

  “ ’Twas a good day,” Mary said. “But school starts again in a week.”

  Hester let out a little squeal. “I’m to go to school this year! Please, let’s work together next week so we get everything done first!”

  “I’m sure we will, Hester.” Ruth waved. “We’ll see you at worship on the morrow!”

  The next two Sundays, Garnet enjoyed fine sermons. If only she could raise her voice with the congregation, though. When they sang hymns, she longed to join along.

  A couple of weeks flew past. While the children were at school, Garnet tended a variety of chores and sometimes met with Ruth so they could work together. Garnet found contentment i
n her new life.

  The next Saturday evening, Samuel watched as she exchanged the water she’d soaked beans in all day. “Ruth must have told you about our custom of eating baked beans on Sunday.”

  Garnet added molasses and a little salt pork as she nodded. Tomorrow’s meals would be curds and whey, baked beans, and pumpkin custard—all prepared with a minimum of labor tonight. She placed the bean pot in a spot she’d chosen. By setting the pot of beans near the fire all night, they’d be ready to eat on the morrow and relieve her from cooking on the Lord’s day of rest.

  Pumpkins were odd squashes, but Ruth Morton had shown her countless ways to use them one morning while the children were all at school. Rings of pumpkin now took the place of the apples on the drying pegs and strings all about the keeping room, and Garnet pulled a pan full of roasted seeds from the fire. Garnet slid the pumpkin seeds into a bowl she’d set on the table.

  “The meals you make are toothsome, and you’ve been quick to learn how to prepare and preserve the foods specific to the colonies,” Master Walsh praised. “You seem to enjoy cooking. What other things do you take pleasure in?”

  She didn’t have to pause to think. Garnet wheeled her finger vertically in the air, then pantomimed knitting.

  “Spinning and knitting?” Master Walsh bolted to his feet. “Come with me, Widow Wheelock.”

  Perplexed, Garnet followed him out to the barn.

  Master Walsh led her to the far corner of the structure and grabbed a hoe. He swung it in the air to banish thick cobwebs. “There.”

  Garnet leaned forward and clapped her hands for joy upon seeing a dust-covered spinning wheel. It was a smallish one made for spinning both flax and wool. She immediately thought about the sheep whose fleeces were heavy and of the small patch of flax.

  “No doubt, it requires cleaning and the works are in wont of oiling, but we can see to that. Where’s. . .there!” He located a tiny chest, blew the dirt and straw from the lid, and handed it to Garnet. “Carry that back to the house. I’ll bring the spinning wheel.”