Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  “Never heard of him, but he sounds Scottish. Father will like that.”

  She nodded. There’d been no hint of a Scottish burr in his speech, but there wasn’t much in hers either. He had a charming smile, dusty-gold hair, and an intriguing cleft in his chin. A smile tugged at her lips. Not that she’d looked at him all that closely. But he’d asked if she was married, and a girl just naturally had to look at who was asking such a thing.

  She shook her head and elbowed her brother. “You would have met him if you had been escorting me as you were supposed to. Be glad I do not mention that to Father.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you?” His wide eyes pleaded with her.

  She linked her arm with his. “How could I? I would have to admit that I lost track of you too.”

  His sigh of relief widened her smile until she remembered their errand. They weren’t children anymore, out on a lark. Their lives were about to change.

  And only the Lord knew how it would end.

  Alexander placed a repaired and cooled bean pot on the workbench when Thomas and William, his older brothers, stomped into the shop.

  “Wrapping up for the day?” Thomas asked.

  “Aye. And ready for supper.”

  “Sorry to leave you with all the work these past few days, but we bring good news.” William rested his hip against the table and crossed his beefy arms. “There’s a store of iron northeast of us. ’Twill have to be loaded on barges and brought down the river, but it should not take long to arrange that.”

  “The problem is”—Thomas stifled a yawn—“we’ll need to move fast before someone else snatches it up. Iron is getting as scarce as hens’ teeth these days.”

  “You are leaving again at first light, I take it?” Alexander stretched his shoulders, stiff from a day spent hunched over the anvil.

  “That’s the way of it.” William clapped him on the shoulder. “I best get home to Catherine and the bairns. We’ve a long trek tomorrow.” He left the shop.

  Thomas watched him leave then pointed to the line of fire irons on the table. “You have kept busy?”

  “Aye. While you were gone, talk of the coming war has poured through like water over a fall.”

  “The militia’s men will need that equipment.”

  “Good for business, I suppose.” Alexander banked the coals in the forge.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “Now that war is almost upon us, I suppose you are planning on joining the militia.”

  Alexander paused then straightened and looked his oldest brother in the eye. “Nay.”

  Thomas’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Truly?” Relief colored that single word. “’Tis a weight off my shoulders, little brother, that I can tell you.”

  Could his brother be the only person who understood where Alexander’s heart lay?

  Thomas clamped a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Da is too old to run the forge by himself anymore. Armies need blacksmiths to be successful. Never was a war won without a blacksmith close by. I say the blacksmith is as important as the doctor in times like this. Maybe more so.”

  Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe nobody understood him, but he had to try at least one more time. “I still plan to head west to the mountains in the spring.”

  “Even if war breaks out?” Thomas’s hand fell from Alexander’s shoulder.

  “Aye.”

  His brother pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I know you have harbored a fascination with the frontier, but ’tis a boy’s fancy. You are a man of three and twenty years. You must be practical. How would you survive?”

  The words stung. Anger roiled deep inside Alexander. This was no boy’s fancy. Why couldn’t his family see that? This was his chance to make something of himself. To own land like the gentry. He’d have to claim it, work it, and hold it against the Indians, but he knew he could. He wanted his life to be more than he’d ever have here in Philadelphia.

  His family would never understand.

  “I want to make my own way.”

  “You are a blacksmith.”

  “Aye. But ’tis not all I am.” Alexander struggled for the words to make his brother understand. But how does one explain the pull of the wilderness on a man’s soul? The driving urge to better himself? To Alexander, it was as inexplicable as the pull of a pair of brilliant blue eyes shining under a crop of hair so red he wondered if it might burn his fingers.

  Some things defied words.

  “What of our da? You know I shall be moving with Ruth and our bairns north to be near the Schuylkill Iron Furnace. We colonists must make our own steel now, and soon. William will fight. He is hot for this war. I thought you—” He lifted his hand and then let it drop to his side.

  “Mayhap the war will not come. Talk is the Continental Congress is sending another missive to King George to negotiate—”

  Thomas snorted and shook his head. “War is coming. Make no mistake.” He leveled a hard stare at Alexander. “And we shall all need to do our part.”

  “You and Father left Scotland because of a war, did you not?” Meg sat across from her mother darning socks in the parlor, Meg’s least favorite chore but one they couldn’t neglect with five men in the family.

  “We did.” A faraway expression crossed Mother’s face. “But not to avoid the war, you understand. Your father and I were falsely accused as Jacobite supporters, traitors to the Crown. If caught, we would have been unjustly hanged. We had no choice but to leave behind all we loved and flee for our lives.”

  Meg fidgeted on her chair. “If Father and the lads join the militia, that will make them traitors to the Crown, will it not?”

  “Aye. ’Twill.”

  “So they will become exactly what you were accused of back in Scotland.”

  Mother laid her mending on the ornate table between them. “Do not think your father has not considered that, my dear. In fact, he has thought of little else these past months.”

  “Then why does he get involved?”

  “Your brothers. Simply put, they are less British citizens than we were.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “They were all born here, in the colonies, as were you. This is their home like Scotland was my home growing up. Their loyalty lies here, on these shores, not with some king separated by an ocean.”

  Meg stared out the window and pondered her mother’s words. How did she feel about a split with England? She understood the unfairness of the new taxes and other measures Parliament had taken recently. But did they truly affect her? They certainly did if Father and the lads joined with the Patriots.

  “If the war goes not well for the colonies, could Father be in danger from the Crown again? And the lads?”

  “They would all be labeled as traitors. And if caught …” Her mother’s voice hitched and she couldn’t finish.

  “They would be hung.” Fear snaked its way from Meg’s heart to her hands until they trembled. “And what would become of us?”

  “We would be tossed into the street, at the very least. All our possessions confiscated by the Crown. But I believe, my daughter, with all my heart, that your father is right to join with the Patriots. While Scotland will always be the home of our youth, our home now is here, with you and our lads and someday, God willing, our grandchildren.” She leaned forward and touched Meg’s knee. “Years ago, we had to run. But this time, we need to stand and, if need be, fight. Your father would fight against anything on earth for his children’s safety and prosperity.”

  Her parents had struggled and triumphed to become the family they were today. It wasn’t right that the war could strip that all away.

  Pride filled Meg, and something more. Something deep and strong inside that fueled her desire for the same type of marriage, the same type of commitment with someone she could build a life with.

  But war was coming, and war wasn’t a time to think about finding a husband and starting a family. She heaved a sigh and then shrugged when her mother
sent her a questioning look. How could she put it into words someone else would understand? The war would come, and her family would fight. Some might die.

  And so might her dreams.

  Alexander buffed and smoothed a skillet for Mistress McCracken’s order. He should have closed the shop an hour past, but he wanted the items for this order to be special. Not that it would do him any favors. A lady like Mistress McCracken belonged to a class far above a lowly blacksmith. Especially the youngest son in a family of blacksmiths.

  “Your mam has supper on the table.”

  Alexander startled and almost dropped the skillet. He fumbled it into his grip and looked up at Da.

  Thick white eyebrows rose over a surprised pair of steely blue eyes.

  “I did not mean to unsettle you, lad. Just wondered if you planned to join us for supper.”

  “I was lost in thought.” He set the skillet aside, away from those made for other orders.

  Da approached, lifted the skillet, and ran a gnarled finger across the ornately twisted handle. He grunted. “’Tis awfully pretty work for a soldier.”

  Warmth climbed Alexander’s neck. “Aye.”

  “Do you suppose he shall need this fancy piece to fry his salt pork and heat his bread over a campfire?” Da’s eyes held a twinkle.

  The warmth flowed across Alexander’s cheeks.

  “Och, laddie, what is this all about now?”

  “’Tis a special order.”

  “That much I can see for myself. Who be it for?”

  “A family by the name of McCracken.”

  Da set the skillet down and studied it, one hand stroking his chin. “Canna say I know any McCrackens personally, but there’s that architect who builds houses for the wealthy side of town. The one who designed the bridge across the Schuylkill a few years back.”

  “It may be the same.”

  “You are not sure?”

  “Nay. ’Twas a lass who came and placed the order.”

  “That explains much.” The twinkle in Da’s eyes returned. “A bonny lass then?”

  “Aye. But not for the likes of me.” Alexander stared at his dirty hands. Working hands. Not like someone who designed buildings and bridges.

  Da pulled a stool closer to Alexander’s and perched on top of it. “We are about to enter a war that may change all that, lad.”

  “How?” Wars changed some things, but not social status.

  “Mark my words. When we break from England, and ’tis my belief we will, this country will be like nothing the world has ever seen. A man will be what he makes of himself here. He shall not be owned by any king, or laird, or baron.”

  Da stood and tilted his head toward the door. “But he can still be scolded by his mam if the supper burns while awaiting him.” With a wink, he left the shop.

  Could it be true, what Da said? He glanced west. Maybe not here in Philadelphia, but what about those mountains where no king, laird, or baron had ever set foot?

  If he were to be something more than one blacksmith in a city with dozens, the frontier was the place to make it happen.

  Chapter 3

  Knitting socks ranked only slightly higher than darning them for a way to pass the afternoon. At least Meg’s brothers wore trousers instead of breeches, so she didn’t need to knit over-the-knee stockings. She let the tangle of wool yarn and thin needles drop into her lap. If only she weren’t knitting them for brothers who would soon be off to war. Gray skies and low-hanging clouds outside the tall windows did little to lift her spirits. With her needles silent in her lap, only the wispy squeak of the treadle on her mother’s spinning wheel broke the stillness.

  “Would you like some tea, Mother?”

  Mother’s eyebrows rose, and then she tucked her chin, giving a look only a mother can give. Her foot didn’t hesitate, however, and the relentless squeak continued.

  Meg huffed and scooped the yarn and needles from her lap. “No English tea. A pot of chocolate then.”

  “I know ’tis difficult, but soon tea will be unobtainable anyway. We might as well get used to doing without.”

  “I know. I’m sorry for my churlishness.” Meg understood about the tariffs imposed by England on the colonies that made buying things like socks and tea almost impossible, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. “I shall make us a pot of chocolate.”

  “Cook can do it.”

  “I do not mind.” Meg tossed the words over her shoulder as she escaped the parlor.

  She returned carrying a tray with a chocolate pot, thin china cups, and some of Cook’s buttery biscuits.

  “That looks lovely, and I’m ready for a break.” Mother rose and stretched, a hand pressed against her back.

  “I know not how you sit and spin for so long at a time.” Meg placed the tray on a table between two high-backed chairs. “My fingers were almost numb from holding the knitting needles.”

  “’Tis knowing that my labors will comfort my family in the months to come. Men fight the wars, but it falls to their women to prepare the practical things.”

  “What of the men with no women to see to them?” For some reason the blacksmith she’d met on South Street popped into her mind. Meg stirred the chocolate and poured it into the cups.

  “Their lot is a sorry one, I fear.” Mother took a sip from her cup and smiled. “’Tis delicious.”

  After a taste, Meg did her best not to grimace. It wasn’t terrible, actually, but it wasn’t good British tea. She set her cup down. “I have been thinking.”

  “Aye?”

  “What if I put together a packet of herbs for each of the lads? Medicine for a cold, something for a headache or a fever, maybe a mixture for a poultice.”

  “I think ’tis a fine idea. You have a good understanding of herbs and their uses. There is a new herbalist in town that I have heard of. You could visit her shop and find what you need.” Mother took another sip. “She might have a recommendation for a local substitute for tea. But I must say I am learning to enjoy the chocolate.”

  “Would you mind if I visited the herbalist this afternoon?” Any excuse to leave the house was more than welcome, and she truly enjoyed working with healing herbs.

  “I think ’twould be a nice diversion for you. The shop is on South Street, I believe. I’m sorry I cannot remember the name.”

  Meg’s pulse did a little skip. South Street, the same as Alexander Ogilvie’s smithy. She could stop there and ask directions. “There cannot be too many herbalists on South Street. I shall saddle Gulliver and ride over this afternoon.”

  “Why don’t you take Robbie along?”

  “Robbie went with Andrew on some errand for Father. They shan’t be back until supper. I’m sure I shall be fine on my own.”

  Mother balanced her cup on its saucer, a frown gathering on her brow. “I prefer—”

  “I know, but I shall be fine. You rode without a chaperone in Scotland, did you not?”

  “That was an entirely different situation—”

  “Please?” Meg held her breath. She understood why her parents were so protective of their only daughter, but she was far too old for a nursemaid, and she didn’t want one of her brothers tagging along when she visited the smithy. Mr. Ogilvie wouldn’t even look at her if one of them came.

  Her stomach tightened at the thought. She’d rather liked how he’d looked at her.

  Mother glanced out the window. “It looks like rain.”

  “I shall take my cape.”

  “I suppose—”

  “Thank you.” Meg bounced from her seat and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I shall be back before Father or the lads.”

  She half ran to her bedroom to change into her riding habit, reveling in this newfound freedom. It had been days since she’d saddled Gulliver. The exercise would do them both good. And it was the perfect excuse to stop by the smithy to see if their order was finished. After all, Mother said they needed to do their part. She grinned as she pinned on her straw hat.

  “I
shall go with your brothers to settle the iron off the barges.” Da slipped off his leather apron and set it aside. “Sorry to leave you with all the work again.”

  Alexander shrugged. He didn’t mind staying behind and working on the orders for those joining the militia. Especially those for the bonny lass with the sky-blue eyes. He’d hoped to have more of them done by now, but the miller had needed two gears repaired this morning and then the tanner a huge kettle to mend. He’d been busy. He wiped the black from his hands onto a rag. At least it was cooler today, feeling more like late September should.

  “’Tis fine. We need the iron.”

  “Aye. Unless something changes between now and December first.”

  “Then you think the trade with England will truly shut down as they say?”

  “Why else have we been scrounging for iron wherever we can find it?”

  “’Tis one thing to talk about war, ’tis another for the thing to come about.”

  Da clamped a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “I know it. I wouldn’t wish war on anyone. But this one is justified, I believe.” He strode out of the smithy and into the street.

  Alexander rubbed the back of his neck. What made a war justified? The king wasn’t treating the colonists like full citizens of England, that much was true. But was rebellion against the Crown truly justice? Did two wrongs make a right? Yet even the preacher seemed in favor of war. Every Sunday, he expounded on the sins of King George particularly and of Parliament in general.

  Did it matter to one Alexander Ogilvie, lowly blacksmith, the third son of a working man’s family? Be they redcoats or colonists, he’d still be fixing their gears and mending their pots when the war ended.

  Unless he headed west. The frontier was like raw iron, unformed, undecided, full of boundless opportunities for a man to be something special. He wanted a place in it, a part in shaping it, the thrill of being one of the first of something.

  He picked up one of the skillets for Mistress McCracken. Da had teased him about the fancy handles, but a woman like her deserved pretty things. He snorted to himself. Not that she’d notice. She’d hand them off to her brothers without a look. Or maybe not. What did he know about young ladies of quality?