by Lorin Grace
“I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. I know we all tease you since we can use your gingerbread as cobblestones, but I know you’re capable of most anything you set your mind to. Maybe you’ll learn better from a book.” Mark shoved the parcel into her hand.
Nervousness radiated from him as she untied the strings. Her heart dropped. She’d hoped for the next volume of the Romance of the Pyrenees series. She longed to read it but had been unable to borrow it from either of her fellow students who owned a copy. She thumbed through the book while trying to phrase a gracious response. Sarah reread the line “To Dress a Turtle” and giggled.
Mark shifted in his seat.
Sarah looked up. “Mark, this is perfect. There are so many recipes. There is even one for turtle. Can you imagine what might happen if I tried it?” Her giggle gave way to a full laugh.
Mark joined her.
Sarah leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek.
Mark turned his head.
Her first kiss as a woman had been pleasant. She touched her lips with her fingers. The memory hovered near the surface, but the sweet warmth of that night six years ago had faded away.
She would keep the cookbook. Even if it didn’t help culinary skills, it held memories of her first and only love.
Tim tossed the letter from a fellow doctor on the table, troubled that Dartmouth wouldn’t be hiring for months. Not that he’d seriously considered anything farther north. Massachusetts was cold enough. If he confessed to his mother that he had no idea what his future held after the wedding, she would insist he stay. Every letter since the war had ended had been filled with pleas to come home. In the last five years, houses he didn’t recognize had sprung up in the fields where cows had once grazed. A new church and school attested to the growth in the area, and Dr. Morton had repeatedly insisted there was more than enough work for another physician in town.
A scratch at the door interrupted his musing. He opened it to Miriam’s tears.
“Cook says the stableboy drank the brandy, and there is none left for my cakes. Mrs. Reynolds needs my help slicing a pound of almonds, and the currants we saved are filled with mold!” She fell into his arms, sobbing.
Tim awkwardly patted her back. “If I go purchase more brandy and currants, will that help?”
Her answer was comprised of a snorting sound and a nod, and she released her hold. “Ichabod has gone down to the warehouse. He says they received a shipment of fine French brandy.”
“So you need me to go buy some currants, then?”
“Yes, and some ribbon. Blue, but not too dark—about the color of George’s eyes would be perfect.” She kissed him on the cheek and ran down the hall.
The color of George’s eyes? Tim had failed to take note of that aspect of his brother-in-law to be. He hurried down the back stairway and conferred with his mother as to the amount of currants required.
Mother couldn’t tell him the color of George’s eyes either. And neither one of them braved asking Miriam.
The house smelled of the failed carrot pudding, and Sarah couldn’t concentrate on the silk painting for Miriam’s wedding. Tucking a few coins in her reticule, she headed for Swanson’s. If they had some currants, she could make—nothing. But if they had licorice, she could eat it and be just as content.
The air was fresh and felt so much warmer than the past week. Maybe spring was here for the rest of May. So far this year the almanac had proved to be most inaccurate. Emma joked that Mother Nature was changing into an old woman. Considering the temperature fluctuations, Sarah seconded the opinion.
Half the citizenry filled Swanson’s this afternoon. Not being in any hurry, Sarah wandered among the piece goods. A pale-pink muslin caught her eye. Would it be enough of a color to keep Lucy from bothering her about her choice of dress?
“I think you should consider the green.”
Sarah whirled around, almost knocking a paper packet out of Tim’s hands. “Ti—Dr. Dawes, you startled me. Did you need some fabric?”
“No, Miriam sent me to find some ribbon matching George’s eyes. Perhaps you could help me?”
Sarah stifled a giggle. “So what color are you looking for? Blue, brown, or gray?”
“You don’t know, then?”
“I don’t make it a study to remember men’s eye color.” Never mind. She didn’t need to look to confirm the particularly soft amber brown of Tim’s eyes.
Tim wiggled his brows. “Not even mine?”
Fearing to be caught in a lie, Sarah turned and moved to the end of the counter, to the ribbons. “He has white in his eyes, correct?”
Tim laughed. “He also has black, but Miriam asked for blue, though not too dark.”
“You are in luck. There are only three shades to choose from.” Sarah held up the lightest. “I don’t think I’ve seen eyes this color.”
“That leaves two.” He weighed the ribbons in his hands.
“How much ribbon do you need?”
“Six yards.”
“You could purchase both colors and hope you run into George to compare before you see Miriam.”
“Excellent suggestion. That way she can’t be upset with me for having the wrong color. But what will I do with the extra?”
Sarah placed the spool of light-blue ribbon back in its place. “I don’t know. What do men usually do with ribbon?” He is leaving in a few days. Surely a little banter can’t hurt us . . .
“When we were in school, some of the boys would buy it for their favorite girl for her hair.”
“Well, six yards should be enough to give a length to half of the eligible maidens in town. But be careful if they all show up to church with the same ribbon. Some of them could end up being fined for fighting on the Sabbath.”
Tim held the ribbons up to Sarah’s hair. “I could just give it all to you, then.”
Sarah willed the heat she felt not to show on her face. “Sadly, I am too old to wear ribbons in my hair. I would end up dividing it among my nieces.”
“How many nieces do you have?”
“Excluding Maryanna, who wed in March, there are four, plus John’s daughter.” Sarah looked around for something else to purchase as they meandered toward the line at the main counter. A placard announced a sale on raisins. Raisin pie seemed easy enough.
“That would be enough for a yard each, and you could keep a yard for yourself. My sister keeps all of George’s correspondence tied in a ribbon. I could write you some letters.”
Sarah tripped, nearly falling into a woman and her basket of purchases, but Tim caught her by the elbow just in time, and a new sort of unsteadiness filled her. It remained when he released his grip.
Tim waited as Sarah purchased a pound of raisins and a couple pieces of licorice. Looking at her gray dress, he wished he had gotten her to choose the green fabric. Was she mourning for someone?
She tucked the candy into her little bag and seemed surprised to find him still standing near her. “You waited?”
Tim offered his arm. “Shouldn’t I escort you home? Is it not the proper thing to do?”
“No—Yes. I mean you didn’t need to. I live only a couple blocks away, and I don’t require an escort.”
“Require?”
“I mean I don’t need one. I am perfectly capable.”
Tim worked to stop a frown from forming. “Is it any escort you don’t need, or just mine?”
Sarah closed her eyes and took a breath. “That is not … I mean—” She waved her hand in front of her face. “I am used to being alone, and I don’t want you to be late with your purchases. Miriam is liable to be frantic. Good day, Dr. Dawes.”
He watched her scurry down the street. One thing hadn’t changed, and that was that Sarah Marden could run away as fast as any boy in the sc
hool could chase her.
Good thing he would only be here a week.
Five
With the ceremony over, the room grew uncomfortably warm. Tim inched around the edge of the parlor to one of the windows, intent on opening it before one of his sister’s friends fainted from the warmth. Or worse, pretended to swoon to gain his attention. Mother maintained the wedding would be just a small thing—family and a few friends, but from the looks of it, his sister had invited every female student who had ever graced Bradford Academy’s doors. Tim praised his stepfather’s wisdom of sending him to the all-boys’ Atkinson Academy in New Hampshire before he’d gone to Harvard for his studies. There were far too many flirtatious misses at Bradford for his taste.
One of the ladies flicked her fan, nearly hitting his shoulder.
“Pardon me, miss.”
“Oh, Dr. Dawes, I shouldn’t be so careless.”
Or calculating. “I see you are suffering from the warmth of the room. If you will allow me to pass, I’ll open a few more windows to rectify the situation.”
The woman’s smile faded. “Oh, but of course.” She stepped to the side, closer to another woman. As he passed them, he heard the second whisper loudly, “Parmelia, I can’t believe you accosted the doctor.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have.”
I agree, miss. You shouldn’t. If only that were the worst of it.
Three feet shy of his goal, an elderly widow stopped him.
“Well, if it isn’t Timmy Dawes! You finally decided to come home and heal your mother’s heart.” The woman waved a black, lace-edged sleeve in the general direction of the room. “You should be able to find a bride among this group. My eldest granddaughter is the one in blue. She has recently formed an attachment with a man from East Stoughton, where she was raised, but her sister is quite unattached. It would be nice to have her settled so near. They are such a comfort to me since the magistrate’s death.”
Finally—a clue to her identity. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Garrett. If you don’t mind, I need to open this window.”
Mrs. Garrett grasped his arm. “You are needed here, boy. We lost far too many men—more than in the Revolution. It is your duty.”
Tim nodded. There were no words. He tugged at the sash, but the window wouldn’t budge. He tried again.
“If you remove the locking dowel, you will be more successful, Doctor.” Sarah’s voice carried a hint of laughter in it.
He followed her instructions, and the window rose with ease. “I had forgotten about my brother’s little invention with the dowels. Ichabod came up with it after his father vetoed installing hidden shutters to keep out the Indians.”
“He isn’t the first boy to become enamored with the windows in the academy—a few of the buildings there were built over a century and a quarter ago and have shutters to protect against Indian attacks.” Sarah stepped back, allowing Tim access to the next window.
When Tim turned to make another comment, she was gone. He found her with Emma and what had to be one of Emma’s sons. Judging by Sarah’s gestures and the son’s reddened face, their conversation bordered on an argument. Tim wove through the crowded room, and as he neared them, he caught snatches of their hushed conversation.
“I promised Miriam I would help clean up.”
“Ma needs to go home.”
“Then take her.”
“But I shouldn’t—”
“For the thousandth time, I am not your sister or sister-in-law. You don’t need to be my guardian.” Sarah moved her hands to her hips.
Tim decided to interfere before the fight grew more intense. “Mrs. Wilson, Miss Marden, John, I hope you are enjoying the gathering.”
Sarah blushed and looked at the floor.
Emma laid a hand on his arm. “Perhaps you could solve a dilemma for us. John insists I return home, but Sarah has promised to help your dear mother.”
“Nothing simpler. I also promised my mother I would help clean once my sister leaves. I can escort Sarah home afterward.”
John glowered. Sarah looked from Tim to John and then to Emma.
“See, son, I told you there was another option.” Emma took her son’s arm.
“But, Ma, you’ll be alone.”
“As I am most days when Sarah is teaching.”
John gave Sarah a long look before turning his attention to Tim. “Very well, but know that nothing has changed.”
Tim recognized the threat immediately. The Wilson boys were still protective of Sarah. Evidently she understood too, as she took a step forward and raised her chin. “John—”
Tim interrupted, giving a slight bow to Mrs. Wilson. “Thank you for coming. John, nice to see you again. Don’t forget to take home some cake.” He gave a slight nod to Sarah. “I’ll find you later.”
When he heard the sound of his name over the heads of the guests, Tim followed his mother’s voice to help with whatever she needed now. Too late he realized that several young women surrounded her.
“Dear, these are some of Miriam’s friends—Mrs. Garrett’s granddaughters, Miss Mina Frost, and her sister, Miss Ester.” The girls gave the slightest of curtsies, which amounted to lowering their eyes and dipping less than half an inch. “And this is Miss Parmelia Page. She took your sister’s position at the school and co-taught this past term.” Miss Page fluttered the fan she had hit him with earlier and attempted a curtsy that would have toppled her had her friend not taken a firm grip on her elbow. “And this is Miss Clara Brooks. She is a teacher at Bradford.” Miss Brooks bobbed her head slightly.
Reciprocating with a slight and awkward bow, Tim looked each lady in the eye. “Ladies, it is a pleasure. I hope you enjoyed the day.”
The youngest Frost girl spoke up. Tim had already forgotten her name. “Didn’t Miriam look divine? That color of blue so suits her. And her smile—just like an angel in one of the paintings we saw at Mr. Peal’s museum when we visited our uncle in Philadelphia.”
The other ladies nodded and made comments of agreement.
“If you will excuse me, it looks as though I need to open a few more windows.” Tim retreated to the glare of his mother and the nodding heads of the others. He scanned the room. The women outnumbered the men almost two to one. Did George have no friends he could invite?
Slipping into the smaller withdrawing room, Tim opened a window there. Miriam had gotten her nice weather. It was almost unseasonably warm. Too bad the lawn was in such dismal repair, or some of the guests could enjoy the spring day.
The minister stood alone in the corner of the room. Perhaps a conversation with the man would keep the young women at bay.
Sarah slipped unnoticed into the hall. Why did she always have to fight with John? And to be caught doing it at her friend’s wedding! And for John to threaten Tim! She wasn’t eight anymore and didn’t need someone watching out for her every second. And if she ever wanted to kiss Tim Dawes behind the church or anyplace else, she didn’t need John’s permission! Not that she would . . .
Maybe the weather would continue to be fair and John wouldn’t have so much to grumble about. She swore farming brought out the worst in men. Sarah waved her fan a few more times and mustered a smile. Soon the guests would leave.
The sound of rushing footfalls caused her to move farther down the hall. Ichabod ran toward her, waving his arm. “Miss Marden, Miriam needs you. Upstairs. Her dress.”
Sarah started for the front stairway, but Ichabod shook his head. “No, this way.”
The servants’ stairs. Sarah had never used any before, but so few of her acquaintances had houses with more than one set of stairs. She followed Ichabod up the narrow staircase to Miriam’s room, where he tapped on the door. “Miri? I brought Miss Marden.”
The door flew open and a hand reached out, dragging Sar
ah into the room. “I am so glad you were still here. Look at me! I am positively shaking. I am afraid George will think I am … that I … What am I to do?”
Sarah looked around the room, hoping for some idea of what was going on. An empty glass sat next to a pitcher. “Sit down and sip some water. What happened?”
Filling the glass only halfway, Sarah led Miriam to the bed. Miriam’s hand shook so violently the water still threatened to spill. “We were downstairs receiving Mrs. Palmer’s felicitations. When she finished, George leaned over and”—a blush rose in Miriam’s cheeks—“he whispered in my ear that if we were going to get to Cambridge by nightfall, we needed to leave and I should go change my dress. By the time I got up here, I couldn’t pull the bell. Not that I want Mrs. Reynolds helping me, even if she was my nurse. Mother can’t see me like this. I knew Icky was hiding out from the Frost girl in his room, so I asked him to find you.”
“Do you need me to help you change your dress?”
“No—I mean yes. I need you to help me stop shaking as if I’ve seen a ghost.”
Sarah coaxed Miriam up and started to unfasten the tiny buttons running down the back of her dress. “Are you afraid of something?”
The answering whisper came so faintly the sound faded before Sarah understood what Miriam had said.
“Can you say that again?”
“George.”
“Why? Has he ever hurt you?”
“Never!”
“Then why are you afraid of him?”
“Tonight, Mother said—Oh, why am I asking you? You’ve never been married.”
“But I was engaged.”
“That is not the same.”
