by Kari Edgren
There was a pause and Henry shifted his weight on the mattress. “Ben has inquired if you would like any more land cleared for next years’ planting. He had spoken with your father about adding five acres more, and didn’t know if you intended to proceed with the plan.”
Oh, thank heavens! Relieved, I dared to look up again. “Tell him to do whatever he thinks best.”
“As you wish.” Henry stood, and I saw that his mouth had grown tight at the corners. “Unless you need anything more, I am expected in the far field to discuss additional drainage.”
I hurriedly shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Then I bid you good day, Selah.”
“Good day,” I repeated.
He bowed and left the room.
Thankful for his tact, I stared at the closed door while wondering how long we could pretend that nothing had happened between us—unless of course, he was also trying to forget. Caught up in the moment, he may have just gotten carried away and now regretted his bold behavior. Or maybe he hadn’t liked it very much. Recalling how his arms had trembled and the surge of his own desire, I dismissed this idea as folly.
For the rest of the day, I did my utmost to remain focused on the witch’s bottle rather than Henry. Quite obviously, one of the servants had lied to Mrs. Ryan about making the vile thing. Now it was up to me to find out whom, and by late afternoon, I had devised a plan to help weed out the culprit. It might be easy enough to tell a fib, but emotions were more difficult to hide, much like Henry’s passion and Susanna’s anxiety.
A series of soft knocks interrupted my thoughts. “Come in,” I called crossly.
Mary entered the room, carrying another tray. “Good day, ma’am. I’ve brought ye a fresh pot of tea and some warm crumpets.”
“Please set them by the hearth and then help me to the chair.”
Relieved of the tray, Mary came back to the bed. With her support, I stood up and put an arm around her shoulder. In this manner, we started to slowly walk over to the chair.
I allowed just enough power to warm the hand that rested on her shoulder. “Mary, I am truly vexed about the witch bottle. Do you know who made it?”
She flinched slightly from my question. “‘Tis wickedness among us, ma’am, and it wrings me sorely to know someone is acting against my mistress. Mrs. Ryan talked to all the maids, even the washerwoman, but no one knows a thing. Might be that one of the field hands snuck into yer chamber when no one was watching.”
While she spoke, I focused solely on her emotions. In a matter of seconds, I discovered a jumble of feelings, but it was concern that came flooding back into me, above everything else.
I took my hand from her shoulder and sank down into the chair, immediately breaking the bond between us. Concern was the last thing my accuser would be feeling, especially while standing right next to me.
“Thank you, Mary. Now, will you please ask the other maids to come to my room? I’m determined to get to the bottom of this.”
One at a time, I repeated the same exercise with Karta, Alice, and Evie, placing a hand on each of their arms when they came in to speak with me.
From Karta I learned she felt overwhelmed, most likely from the responsibility of keeping so many people fed with no one but Evie to help her. I vowed right then to hire another scullery maid to help in the kitchen.
Alice was a bit trickier. She had a great deal of guilt over something, but no hostility or fear. If anything, I felt a strong sense of gratitude. Before leaving, she promised to be extra diligent in her continued search for the culprit.
Evie proved the trickiest of all as the little imp wouldn’t stand close enough for me to touch. Hoping to outwit her, I asked her to hand me a novel from my bedside table. The moment I touched her though, she jerked away and dropped the book on the floor at my feet. From anyone else this would have been cause for alarm, but not from Evie. The girl had been odd from the start, always jumping at her own shadow. Frustrated, I finally sent her back to the kitchen before her nerves were entirely undone.
Despite my attempts, I was no closer in discovering the identity of thieving gossipmonger. If only I could read thoughts rather than just emotions, then there would be no hiding the truth. Put out by this limitation, I huffed a sigh and picked up the novel from the floor
* * *
When the next day dawned bright, I had little time to spare on the witch’s bottle. After taking breakfast in my room again, I dressed and limped awkwardly downstairs to prepare for a group of ladies who were meeting at Brighmor later that afternoon. As part of the initial plan to counter Nathan’s accusations, I had invited several friends over during my rounds last week, to knit wool stockings for the poor. In the dead of winter, I knew these tokens of charity would go far to sustain me in the opinion of our less fortunate citizens.
This ulterior motive aside, I usually didn’t mind needlework, and looked forward to spending the afternoon with my friends until a note arrived from Phoebe Trumble. In her perfectly shaped handwriting, she praised my intentions and said that she would arrive at two o’clock sharp to help with this worthy endeavor. I crumbled the note into a tight ball and threw it in the hearth, knowing full well that Phoebe hated knitting almost as much as she hated the poor. Most likely the primary reason behind her visit today was to get a good long look at my husband. Taking proper heed of Nora’s warning, I would make sure the conniving jade went home without so much as a peek.
Katrina Oswald, Allison Dowling, and Nora Goodwin all arrived at the same time, having walked the distance together. Mary showed them into the drawing room where I was sorting through a basket of yarn. Each lady selected a color, and we got right to work while catching up on the more lighthearted gossip. As the minutes passed, I began to hope that Phoebe had changed her mind when I heard carriage wheels and saw her shay coming up the drive.
“Oh, bother,” I mumbled into my knitting. The whole group fell silent as we waited for her to be shown in.
“Do forgive my lateness,” Phoebe said, kissing me on the cheek in greeting. “I got word from the milliner that my new gown was finished, and I just had to pick it up to wear today.”
My knowledge may have been limited in regards to growing wheat and balancing ledgers, but I knew my business when it came to gowns, and that one had cost more than most small farmers made in a year. Since Phoebe’s father owned only a midsized farm, I assumed it to be a gift from her wealthy grandfather who owned a shipyard in Philadelphia. “What do you think?” she asked, turning a circle to better show off every pleat and tuck. “Is it not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?”
To my dismay, it probably was. My spirits fell even further, seeing her so stunningly clad with her beauty set off to perfection. Her hair resembled spun gold, and what wasn’t pinned up in back curled beautifully around her flawless oval face. Her skin was the very essence of cream, even more so than the yards of cream silk she wore, patterned with small bouquets of flowers in a pale blue that exactly matched her eyes. She looked absolutely lovely, and I gave an irritated sigh, knowing Henry may well fall in love on the spot like most of the other men in Hopewell and surrounding villages.
With a swirl of her skirts, Phoebe took a seat next to Allison Dowling. “Dear me, how fast your needles fly,” Phoebe said, glancing over at Allison’s work. “Too bad your stitches aren’t a bit tighter.”
Allison stopped knitting and held up the stocking for closer inspection with genuine distress. “Do you really think so? Maybe I should just start over.”
“Don’t you dare.” Nora glared openly at Phoebe. “No one here knits prettier than you. The lucky girl who gets those stockings will be the envy of all her neighbors.”
“And the one who gets these will be the laughingstock.” I held up a dozen lopsided rows of poorly shaped stitches.
Nora and Katrina laughed in
agreement, each commenting that it was really the thought that counted. Allison struggled to find something nice to say. “I’m sure they’ll be fine once they’re finished,” she said politely.
Phoebe brought out her own needles and began. Her needles moved almost as quickly as Allison’s, leaving in their wake row after row of perfect stitches. “It’s always been a mystery to me why women are not more equally favored in the feminine arts,” she said. “I guess even God must have his favorites.”
“Is that what the Presbyterians are preaching nowadays?” Nora asked coolly.
“It hardly takes a preacher to see that some women have been more abundantly blessed than others. What do you think, Selah? Am I not right?”
“I think my inability to knit has absolutely no bearing on God’s love for me,” I replied tartly.
“Selah has her own talents,” Katrina said, coming to my defense. “Her needlework might not be as neat as some other girls, but she’s more skilled at healing than any doctor I’ve ever met. Even Mama and Papa agree they’ve never met anyone better.”
“True enough,” Phoebe readily agreed, immediately raising my suspicions. “But there are plenty of feminine arts besides healing and needlework that are admired by the opposite sex. I imagine a man would be much aggrieved to find his wife lacking in certain areas once they were married.”
My cheeks flushed hot, and I had to bite my tongue just to keep it civil.
Nora’s eyes snapped dangerously. “Which areas could those be?”
“How should I know?” Phoebe laughed with an artful toss of her head. “We should ask Selah, since she’s the only one among us who’s married. Have you found Mr. Kilbrid to esteem some talents higher than others?”
My hands fumbled clumsily with the needles, managing an ungainly knot in what was already turning out to be a rather pathetic stocking. Frustrated, I tugged on the thread in a futile attempt to relieve the tension, while reminding myself that it might be a good thing for the matrons to know that Henry and I had yet to consummate our marriage. Not that I appreciated having it brought up like this in front of everyone, especially in a way that made me appear inadequate as a wife.
“I’ve heard Mr. Kilbrid likes the way Selah plays the harpsichord and sings,” Katrina said. She was either completely oblivious to Phoebe’s innuendo, or ignoring it. “Last week he came over to the house with Ben to see Papa about some business. When they were done Papa started reminiscing about the Old World and asked Mr. Kilbrid what he missed the most. Mr. Kilbrid said it was the music, but that he had heard Selah play and sing and thought her very talented.”
“He said that?” I asked, temporarily forgetting Phoebe’s taunts.
“I was sitting in the next room and heard every word,” Katrina said. “He spoke very admiringly, and how he hoped some families could get together for an evening of singing and dancing. He seemed quite pleased when Mama told him about the ball we were planning to properly celebrate your marriage.”
“All anybody can talk about is this new Mr. Kilbrid,” Phoebe said in her usual dramatics. “My own curiosity nearly caused a most dreadful distemper until I finally got a glimpse of him last Sunday when he left the meetinghouse.”
“Do we get to meet him today?” Allison asked hopefully. “Nora says he’s a noble soul for saving you from those bandits.”
“He isn’t at home,” I apologized, though not feeling the least bit sorry at delaying his introduction to Phoebe.
“That’s too bad.” Phoebe’s white teeth flashed in a vicious smile. “Has he gone out on business, or are you keeping him safely locked away somewhere?”
She snickered softly, reveling in my humiliation. I stared at her, truly shocked at how badly I wanted to stick a knitting needle into one of her beautiful blue eyes. Fingering the smooth wood, I thought how easy it would be to stand up under the pretense of needing another pattern and then simply trip over the hem of my gown. No one would suspect it had been done on purpose. And I was fairly certain she could get an eye patch made out of cream silk to match her dress.
Being a true friend, Nora intervened just when I deemed myself capable of real violence. “I’ve been sitting here trying to recall all of God’s commandments from memory,” she started innocently enough, “but I’m having a difficult time with the last one. Listen to me say it. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s. It’s very close, but I just know something’s missing.”
“His ass,” Allison said, not even looking up from her work. “It goes after his ox and before anything that is thy neighbor’s.”
“You’re right,” Nora said, staring straight at Phoebe. “We’ve been commanded not to covet our neighbor’s ass, no matter how fine a beast he may be or how badly we may want to ride him.”
I snorted loudly, and then coughed a few times to cover up my laughter the best I could.
“There’s no good reason for coveting,” Allison agreed, innocent and oblivious. “Gideon Boyle spoke in meeting against it this past Sunday, and how we’re committing sin just by wanting things that other people have.”
“It’s hard to argue with Gideon,” Nora said. “Or with the Lord for that matter. What do you think, Phoebe? Is there ever a reason good enough to justify the sin of coveting?”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “I’m no expert on religion,” she said with a nasty sneer that, I was pleased to note, somewhat diminished her perfect beauty.
The room fell quiet as we focused on our knitting. I glanced over to Nora with an appreciative smile before turning my attention to the tangle of gray wool hanging helplessly between my needles. The stocking was a disaster, and I thought it a good time to ring for refreshments when I heard raised voices coming from outside.
“Do you hear something?” Katrina asked.
“It sounds like fighting,” Allison said, her needles frozen in midair.
For a split second, Nora met my eyes. Then we tossed our knitting aside and went running for the front door, the others close behind. I was the first one out and, seeing nothing at first, started over toward the carriage house and the sound of the ruckus. My foot throbbed from the initial sprint, significantly slowing my progress, and I rounded the corner far behind the other ladies, who had stopped several paces from a small group of men. Right off, I saw John Lewis and David Smith, standing with a handful of other farmhands, eagerly watching and cheering two men engaged in a fight.
In a large open space, Henry and Ben each held a sword, lunging and parrying aggressively, the sound of clashing steel ringing out whenever their swords would meet. They had both undressed down to their shirts. Even still they were sweating heavily from the intense physical exertion and the heat of the day. Ben was by no means a bad swordsman, but Henry was clearly the better fighter. Taller and more heavily muscled, he moved with surprising graceful for his size, and within minutes of my arrival he had Ben’s sword knocked to the ground. Both breathing hard, they laughed and shook hands amicably.
“What are they doing?” Katrina whispered.
“Good question,” I mumbled and walked through the crowd into the clearing. “What would the Elders say if they knew good Quaker lads were skirting their work to watch a swordfight?” I stared right at John and David. “And what about the rest of you? Isn’t there enough wheat to keep you busy or do we need to plant more?”
The men started at my reproach, and begging my pardon, trudged guiltily back to work. Experiencing no such guilt, Henry walked over to me, his sword still firmly gripped in one hand. Carelessly brushing the stray hair from his eyes, he could have easily been mistaken for a mythical warrior, reborn from some ancient legend. “Good day, Selah,” he said with an expression of pure exhilaration. “Ben and I have just been practicing at some swordplay.”
/> “Would this be the defensive farming techniques that disjointed Ben’s finger last week?” I asked wryly.
“Yes,” he said, his smile broadening. “Thankfully there are no injuries to report today.”
After retrieving his sword, Ben came up to join us.
“Is there a reason you two are fighting during the middle of the day and distracting the farmhands from their work?” I asked.
Ben looked embarrassed. “It’s my fault, ma’am. Since we were attacked coming home from Philadelphia, I asked Henry to teach me what he knows of sword fighting so I could be better prepared if it ever happened again.”
His answer surprised me, and I quickly gulped back any further reprimands.
“Don’t be such a hen,” Phoebe chided from close behind me. “Let the men have their fun.”
Turning around, I saw her smiling coyly at Henry. Given a choice, I would have opted to shove a fistful of mud into her pretty little face rather than introduce her to my husband, but manners were manners and propriety had to be observed. “Henry, please let me introduce my friends.” I swallowed back the bitter taste in my mouth. “You’ve already met Nora Goodwin. This is Miss Oswald and Allison Dowling.” I stopped here, thinking maybe no one would notice if I accidentally forgot Phoebe, but Henry gazed admiringly at her. “And Miss Trumble,” I added hastily.
“Pleased to meet you.” Henry bowed graciously. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant day of knitting.”
“Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “I am so concerned for the less fortunate and often tell Selah that we simply must do more for them.”
“I didn’t know you were such a humanitarian,” Nora said. “I’ll make sure to include you next time we’re asked to scour old Nan’s privy.”
“You are too kind,” Phoebe said dryly before glancing back to Henry. “Mr. Kilbrid, I must confess, the most exciting part of the day was watching you fight. I nearly swooned when you knocked the sword from Ben.”