Colonial Madness

by Jo Whittemore

  “Dinner was the afternoon meal in colonial times,” I told him. “They didn’t have lunch. It was breakfast, then dinner, then supper.”

  “The girl is wise,” said the woman with an approving nod. “I am Felicity Hawkins, though you may call me Felicity. What be your names?”

  “Tori,” I said. “And this is my mom, J—”

  “Ah ah!” The woman wagged a finger. “You would simply call her Mother.” She turned to Mom. Or rather, Mother. “What could I call you, madam?”

  Mom cleared her throat. “Jill.”

  The woman gestured to the others, who introduced themselves. Then she nodded and pointed to the manor’s back door. “If you would follow me, dinner awaits.”

  Resting the basket on her hip, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. We followed single file, and I couldn’t help running my fingers along the side of the building, touching a piece of my family’s history.

  The back door led into a sunken kitchen, which was almost too warm for comfort, thanks to a massive hearth blazing in the corner. But the aroma of roasting meats and vegetables from the hanging pots made my stomach growl.

  Felicity climbed a couple of steps and opened another door, where a long table waited, half its chairs already occupied.

  The adults greeted one another loudly, and Angel and I hung back, feeling a little shy. Dylan ignored all of us, choosing to hold a burping contest with himself instead.

  Our parents introduced us to extended-family members, and I mentally calculated how long each one might last. Quickest to go would probably be Great-Aunt Muriel’s daughter, who looked almost as ancient as Great-Aunt Muriel. When people introduced themselves, she nodded and called them by a completely different name.

  “Nice to meet you, Dora,” she told me.

  Next to go would be Sadie and Sam, who were holding a new baby. No way they’d be able to care for someone so little and still keep up. I was debating who would go third, a man who was already dozing at the table or a lady who kept knocking things over, when a tall costumed man approached us.

  “Members of the extended Archibald family,” he said, “we welcome you to the manor and hope you will enjoy your stay. I am Eli, keeper of the grounds and contest coordinator. After dinner, my son, Caleb, and I will show you around the property and teach you basic skills you’ll need to survive these colonial times. Until then, eat, drink, and make merry!”

  He clapped his hands loudly, and two younger women appeared with platters of food that they set before us. Roasted beef and chickens, corn on the cob, baked beans and chowder . . .

  The table was quiet for several minutes as everyone tucked in to their food. None of us knew when we would eat so well again, so we piled our plates high. Since Angel’s family was vegan, I gave her my helping of corn and took her chicken, although it tasted different from how it did back home.

  “There’s a lot of dark meat on this chicken,” I said.

  “ ’Tis not chicken,” said Felicity. “ ’Tis squab, a traditional colonial dish.”

  “Squab?” I repeated, taking another bite. “I’ve never heard of that. Are they only around this area?”

  “Nay,” said Felicity. “They live in your big cities, though you know them by a different name: pigeons.”

  I instantly choked and started coughing.

  “Pigeons?” Angel squeaked, scooting away from my plate as if the contents might take flight.

  Even Mom turned a little green.

  “Baby pigeons to be exact,” said Felicity.

  If I hadn’t already been hacking up a lung, I would’ve screamed.

  Dylan offered me a mug, smiling. “Warm goat milk to wash down your baby pigeon?”

  That was more than I could handle, and I sprinted toward the kitchen for a place to spit it out. But right as I pushed through the door, I smashed into someone and fell, swallowing the squab.

  So far, colonial times were disgusting and dangerous.

  “Whoa! Are you all right?”

  I rolled onto my side, and a cute guy about my age knelt beside me. A cute guy with a capital WOW.

  He was wearing a black, triangular hat with only the sides of his dark hair visible. The front point of his hat rested low above eyes the same warm brown as Felicity’s.

  I must have been staring longer than I thought, because he began snapping his fingers in front of my face.

  “Are you with me? What year is it?” he asked.

  I blushed and pushed his hand aside. “1680,” I said.

  He grinned and rocked back onto his heels. “My name’s Caleb. What were you running from?” His face took on a serious expression. “And should I be running too?”

  I smiled and pointed at the dining room. “Squab. And yes.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “My mom’s secret recipe.” He reached into a satchel draped over his shoulder and pulled out a flask. “Here.”

  I eyed the bottle warily. “If that’s goat milk, I’m going to throw up on your shoes.”

  “Apple cider,” he said with a laugh. “Goat milk is nasty.”

  I drank and took deep breaths.

  “The squab’s not so bad if you imagine it’s chicken,” he said.

  “My imagination is not that powerful,” I replied, handing back the flask. “Thanks.”

  “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said. “Who are you?”

  I blinked up at him. Boys that cute never asked my name. They only asked for quiz answers.

  Caleb leaned forward expectantly. “If that question was a stumper, you won’t last long here.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I’ve got squab on the brain. I’m Tori.”

  For some reason, that made him smile. “Victoria Grace Porter. I’ve read all about you.”

  I took a step back. “I feel like I should be running again.”

  “Oh no!” It was Caleb’s turn to blush as he waved his arms in front of him. “It wasn’t anything creepy. My parents and I received bios on everyone in the competition so we could figure out where your strengths and weaknesses are.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And what were mine?”

  Caleb shook his head and wagged a finger. “I can’t reveal the specifics, but I am impressed that you managed to get yourself banned from a museum for a year.”

  “If you read it on the Internet, don’t believe it,” I said. “I only broke into the museum because their Cretaceous period sign was wrong and they wouldn’t fix it.” I paused and cleared my throat. “I’m not sure which is nerdier: that I did it or that I felt you needed to know it.”

  Caleb laughed. “If it makes you feel better, I once got detention for correcting a teacher.”

  “Detention? That’s kind of a harsh punishment,” I said.

  “I may have corrected her over the loudspeaker after I sneaked into the principal’s office,” he said with a grin.

  An extreme nerd. I liked this boy already.

  “So, is Caleb your real name or your colonial name?” I asked.

  He grinned even broader. “Both. My mom and dad are a little old-fashioned.”

  “Don’t worry, my mom is—”

  “LALALALALA!” a voice shouted through the door.

  “About to be disowned,” I finished, rolling my eyes.

  Mom stumbled down the kitchen steps with her eyes shut and her fingers in her ears.

  “HONEY?” she shouted. “ARE YOU DONE BEING SICK?”

  At an odd look from Caleb, I explained, “She can’t stand it when people throw up. Once, a toddler puked on her favorite shirt, and she threw it out the window.”

  Caleb’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “The shirt!” I quickly amended. “Not the toddler.”

  I stepped forward and tugged on Mom’s arm. She peeked out of one eye, and when she saw I looked perfectly healthy and that I was standing next to a guy, she quickly did her best imitation of normal.

  “Hey! I’m Tori’s mom,” she said with a wave and a laugh. “Vomit do
esn’t scare me. It’s just a funny bit we do.” She nudged me ever so unsubtly.

  I turned to Caleb. “Yes, we’re thinking of taking our act on the road.”

  He fought back a laugh and nodded. “It’s good material. I should let you get back to it. Nice running into you, Tori,” he said with a wink.

  As soon as he left the kitchen, Mom elbowed me in the side.

  “Forget smallpox, you’ve caught a different bug!” She batted her eyelashes. “The lovebug.”

  “Whatever!” I rolled my eyes, but I could feel my cheeks warming.

  “Well, I just came to check on you,” she said, pushing my hair back. “Glad you’re not in pain.”

  I frowned. “Pain?”

  “From being struck by Cupid’s arrow.” She started making kissy sounds.

  “Stop it!” I said, laughing and pushing her toward the dining room.

  Everyone at the table stopped talking and watched us.

  “You okay?” asked Angel.

  “Perhaps I should have told you it was chicken,” said Felicity.

  “I’m fine,” I reassured everyone as I sat back down. “Sorry. Just a little . . . culture shock.”

  “If you think you had culture shock,” said Angel, “my mom had to use the bathroom, and instead of toilet paper, there’s just a bucket of old corncobs.”

  “They are quite absorbent,” said Felicity.

  I choked on my food again, only this time it was from laughter.

  “It won’t be funny when it happens to you,” said Aunt Zoe with a frown.

  “I’ll be sure to gather some leaves,” I said. “Or weave some toilet paper on the loom.” I pointed to a wooden contraption in the corner.

  “That reminds me . . .” said Eli. He clapped his hands again, and the table grew quiet. “None of you are dressed appropriately for the time, so if you have finished eating, I ask that you visit your bedchambers and change into the clothing provided.”

  Chairs scraped across the floor as we all left the table and ventured upstairs. Portraits and framed pictures hung along the wall leading to the second floor. Most of them were black and white or sepia-toned, and none of them contained people I recognized. Mom pointed to a black-and-white of a beautiful woman in a slinky dark dress.

  “That’s Great-Aunt Muriel,” she said.

  I almost couldn’t believe it, but the penetrating gaze in the woman’s eyes looked all too familiar.

  There were wooden signs fastened to each bedroom doorknob, and Mom stopped in front of one that said PORTER.

  She opened the door and we both ooohed.

  Even though it was centuries old, the room’s original beauty was still imaginable. A fireplace occupied one wall, while a massive canopy bed filled most of the floor space. At the foot of the bed stood a trunk made of canvas and leather.

  “What’s in the box?” asked Mom.

  I lifted the lid and reached inside, holding up a white gown.

  “Ghost costumes,” she said. “Neat.”

  “Actually, I think it’s a shift,” I said. “You know, colonial underwear.” I tossed it on the bed and sifted through the trunk. “And some petticoats.”

  I selected a couple of things and passed a set to Mom, who draped them over her shoulder.

  “And what have we here?” She opened a chest of drawers. “Dresses! And they’re so”—she held one up—“ugly.”

  I pulled a shift over my head. “You saw what Felicity was wearing. What did you expect?”

  “I just figured she had bad taste,” said Mom, holding a dress against herself. “But apparently we all do.”

  “Would you throw me one?” I asked, securing the petticoat.

  Mom chose a red dress for me. “At least the colors are pretty. I pictured all black. Like the Pilgrims.”

  “Too expensive,” I said, taking the dress from her. “It was cheaper to dye the dresses with berries and flowers.”

  “Well, aren’t you just a fountain of information,” said Mom, changing into her own costume.

  “It’s called reading,” I said. “You should try it.”

  “I have! How else would I have known that it takes fifty containers of ice cream to fill a bathtub?”

  “That was the best sundae ever,” I said with a smile.

  “I still think we could’ve broken a record,” said Mom. “Too bad that hairy bar of soap fell in it.”

  I made a face. “Seriously? After I just ate a pigeon?”

  “Sorry.”

  We finished getting dressed and tied on our bonnets.

  “How do I look?” I asked.

  “Ready to win the Miss Colonial America pageant,” said Mom, grinning. “Let’s see if your future husband approves!”

  She hurried out of the bedroom with me on her heels.

  “Mom, wait! Don’t you dare!”

  Angel popped her head out of a bedroom across the hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Mother-daughter embarrassment hour,” I said, studying her face. “Are you wearing eye shadow?”

  She shook her head. “Fireplace soot.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all,” I said.

  “Sue me! I don’t have access to any of my hair or makeup products.” She turned to Mom. “Please don’t embarrass your daughter or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Oh, relax,” said Mom. “I wouldn’t do anything to blow her chances. If anything, I boost her attraction factor.”

  “Creepy thoughts should stay in our heads,” I reminded her. “Besides, we need to keep our eyes on the prize.”

  No sooner had I said this than Caleb appeared at the foot of the stairs, talking to one of my relatives. He glanced up and smiled when he caught me looking. I would’ve tumbled the rest of the way down if Mom hadn’t grabbed the back of my dress.

  “Something tells me,” she whispered, “that we have different ideas of what the prize is.”

  Chapter Five

  Great-Aunt Muriel’s estate was even more enormous than I thought. In groups of ten, Eli led us to the highest viewpoint, a widow’s walk on the manor’s rooftop.

  “You’ve seen the servants’ quarters,” he said, pointing to the buildings behind the manor. “Beyond the cherry trees to the right are the barn, chicken coop, vegetable garden, and physic garden.”

  Dylan snorted. “Physic? Pretty sure you mean psychic.”

  I turned to him. “ ‘Physic’ is an older term for medicinal plants, dummy. What the heck would a psychic garden be?”

  Dylan blinked at me. “Where gypsies grow their tea leaves.”

  Eli cleared his throat. “Farther afield be the corn rows and the fruit orchard.”

  Angel leaned over the railing of the widow’s walk and pointed to the left of the manor. “What’s that?”

  We all looked at a line of barren ground interspersed with straw-filled circles of stone.

  “That,” said Eli with a grin, “will be your first lesson.”

  We followed him back to ground level, where he motioned for the rest of the family members to follow to the barren expanse. In under one minute, he’d struck a fire, and in under two he’d lit a torch and was waving it around.

  “Fire,” he said, “is one of the most important things a colonist can have.”

  “Fire represents life,” whispered Mom.

  “You watch too much Survivor,” I whispered back.

  “Fire gives you heat, light, a way to cook food, and a way to protect yourself from predators,” Eli continued. “Luckily, the colonists had already discovered this.” He held out a tan rock.

  “Actually, I think cavemen discovered those,” said Angel.

  “Perhaps,” said Eli with a smile. “But they didn’t know what was inside.”

  He placed the rock on a tree stump and struck it with a sledgehammer, shattering it to pieces. Then he picked one up and pointed at the dark-gray interior. “Flint. Strike this with steel, you get sparks. Let the sparks settle on dry grass, you get fire.”<
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  Motioning for us to follow, he crouched beside one of the stone circles where a knife and polished piece of flint were also waiting. He repeated his instructions and demonstrated on the straw, blowing on the sparks to ignite a fire.

  “In less than five minutes, half your worldly problems are solved,” he said.

  Mom turned to me. “He’s right, you know. If we caught the dress shop on fire, we wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

  I shushed her.

  “I’d like you all to try lighting a fire at least twice,” said Eli. “My son, Caleb, and I will be walking around to assist.”

  At the mention of Caleb, my stomach fluttered, but I kept my face emotionless. The last thing I needed was Mom’s relentless teasing. Instead, I chose one of the stations and went to work striking a knife against the flint.

  “Watch your fingers,” said Mom. “I’m pretty sure if you lose one, the colonial cure is to chop off the rest.”

  “Your grasp of history is terrifying,” I told her, making sparks fly. “Get ready to fan the flames.”

  “Got it,” said Mom, getting down on all fours.

  I struck the flint several times until a large spark landed in the straw. Mom took a deep breath and blew with all her might. The straw scattered everywhere.

  “Not so hard, Big Bad Wolf!” I said, scooping it back into a pile. “You’re not evicting the Three Little Pigs.”

  “Oh, blah.” Mom took the flint and knife. “I’ll make the sparks, and you blow on the fire with all that hot air you’ve got stored up.”

  She struck the flint once, and several sparks settled on the straw. I puckered my lips and barely breathed on the sparks. More rained down around me, and I jumped back.

  “What are you doing?!” I shouted, batting at my hair to make sure I hadn’t been sent alight.

  “You weren’t going to get any life out of those little sparks,” she said. “You needed more.”

  “So you thought you’d start a fire on my head?”

  “Calm down,” said Mom. “I would’ve put it out before it reached your scalp.”

  I continued to tousle my hair, certain I smelled something burning. “You can be such a—”

  “Caleb,” said Mom.

  “No,” I said. “Such a pain.”