Chapter 1
"Make sure you whip the butter well when you churn it this morning, Amy. And for goodness sake, do add more salt this time," sniffed Mildred Leighton as she strode huffily past her sister. "There's nothing worse than bland butter, and you never do seem to get it right."
"Oh, and Amy, since you're doing the washing today, don't forget my blue petticoats. There are mud stains on the hem and they look positively dreadful," added Ophelia, coming downstairs and going straight to the looking glass on the wall.
"Yes, Ophelia. Yes, Mildred," sighed the thin figure, stooping nearly double beneath the lintel of the keeping room's massive fireplace. Pushing the iron crane off to one side, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and, kneeling on the sooty bricks, began shoveling ash from out of the pit beneath the bake oven.
Ophelia, vainly fluffing her blond curls until they haloed her face, turned from the looking glass and regarded her half-sister with disdain. "And make sure my petticoats are ready by tomorrow afternoon. Matthew Ashton has promised to take me for a drive, and I want to look my best."
"Matthew Ashton?" hissed Mildred, outraged. Already a bold and enterprising young sea captain, Matthew would someday inherit his father's Ashton Shipyards — and was probably one of the best catches in Newburyport. "How dare he ask you and not me!"
Amy thought it fine time to interrupt before things degenerated into a cat fight. "Perhaps Matthew will ask you next week, Mildred," she soothed.
Mildred turned on her. "Just because your one and only friend on this earth happens to be Matthew's sister — that bad-mannered little hoyden, Mira — don't think that makes you an authority on Matthew."
"Or an authority on men," added Ophelia.
"Amy? An authority on men?" Mildred shrieked with laughter. "The only men Amy might ever become an authority on are the sort that work along the docks and ogle her!"
Both Mildred and Ophelia guffawed, pitiless as Amy's cheeks reddened beneath their sooty glaze of ash smoke.
"I don't know how you can stand there and laugh, when Will's still not back from Uncle Eb's and for all we know, something awful might've happened to him," she said, thinking of the rider who had galloped through Newburyport late last night with the news that fighting had finally broken out down at Lexington and Concord between the redcoats and local militia groups. "Cousin Tom was in the Woburn militia. They were in the fighting, and you know as well as I do that where Tom leads, Will is sure to follow."
Her half-sisters stared at her coldly. "My, my, aren't we the righteous one," sneered Mildred, hands on her hips. "Instead of fretting over Will, why don't you worry about poor Ophelia and me and let out my jacket?!"
"If she wasn't down at the harborfront dreaming of places she'll never go and men she'll never meet, she'd have gotten it done yesterday like she was supposed to," said Ophelia, with a haughty glance at the gaunt figure still on her knees on the ashy firebox. "You'd better get your head out of the clouds, Amy, because you have a better chance of snaring the moon than you do a respectable man, and don't you forget it."
Amy went silently back to her chores. They were right, of course. She was wasting her time, dreaming about things that would never be. But how could she not dream, when reality was nothing but boredom and drudgery? She was resigned to the fact that she would live and die a spinster, just as she was resigned to the fact that, for the remainder of Papa's life, she — less than a daughter, yet more than a servant — would keep house for him, cook his meals, and help him write his sermons now that his eyesight was beginning to fail. In return, she would always have a place to live. Hers wasn't such a bad lot, really; after all, she had a roof over her head and decent food in her belly. But lately, she found herself wanting more, and long after the household went to bed, she would lie beneath the covers and dream of what her life would be like if only she were pretty and respectable like her sisters.
If only she was like the other young women of Newburyport, entitled to the same dreams that they had. . . .
Finally, breakfast was ready. The Reverend Sylvanus Leighton, pale and haggard from an obviously sleepless night, joined them in the keeping room and gave thanks for the meal, adding a special prayer for Will's safe return. Then, painfully aware of the empty place that Amy had set for his one and only son, he stared dejectedly out the window. The cornmeal mush, fried to a rich, golden brown and cut into slices, lay undisturbed on his plate, floating in the maple syrup like boats at low tide.
Amy could not stand seeing him suffer so. She reached out and impulsively put a hand over his, knowing, even as she did, that he would probably pull away.
He did.
She drew her hand back and pasted a smile on her face to hide her hurt. Why should she have expected any different when it had always been this way? "Eat, Papa," she said gently, tucking the offending hand between her knees and trying to pretend the incident hadn't happened. "Starving yourself won't bring him back to us any sooner."
Ophelia snapped, "Maybe he would eat, if only he had some fresh butter for his breakfast —"
At that very moment, Will's dog Crystal — who'd been sulking ever since Will had left for Woburn to help Sylvanus's brother Ebenezer with the spring planting — shot out from beneath the table, and, paws skittering for purchase on the wide-boarded floor, tore through the parlor. Barking joyously, the dog flung herself against the door.
"Will!" Amy cried, leaping up and nearly upsetting the table as her half-brother ran inside, Crystal barking and tripping up his feet. All out of breath, he charged into the keeping room.
"Where have you been?" Sylvanus demanded, worry and relief making his voice harsh.
"Look at you, you're covered with dirt!" shrieked Ophelia.
"And blood!" wailed Mildred, clapping her hands to her cheeks.
"I just came in off Ashton's schooner, up from Boston . . . I was in the fighting yesterday," he panted, grabbing his father's hand and pulling him back toward the still-open door. "You've got to help me, Pa, got to send Amy to fetch the doctor! I brought a friend home with me and if we don't do something to save him, he's going to die!"
The Wild One Page 82
