by Lorin Grace
He’d read the torn and crumpled letter twice. The handwriting was soft and round, like a woman’s. The signature belonged to Elizabeth’s mother. Yet he could not believe a mother would write such a letter to her daughter. The word strumpet appeared not once but twice. No wonder the word had spilled from Elizabeth’s lips at the boulder.
Even when his father discovered his sister in the barn loft with her now husband, his parents hadn’t spoken so harshly. His nephew being born a mere five months after the marriage vows were completed testified that his sister’s flirtations were well beyond Elizabeth’s. From his seminary studies, he knew that as many as a third of the brides standing before him on their wedding day were increasing.
He’d thought to rescue the letter out of kindness, but the only kindness would be to burn it.
He revised his opinion of Elizabeth possibly being insane. She had been correct to find a private place to unleash her frustration and hurt. He vowed to be kinder to her, but he couldn’t apologize without admitting he read the letter.
The flames of the warming stove licked at the pages of the letter before turning them into ash. He readied for bed, slipped into the narrow space, and wished, as he did each night, for Ruth to be tucked by his side.
As he lay there, the words of the letter came back to him. Would her father truly force her to marry some man with four children and send her to Ohio? He hoped for Elizabeth’s sake she could at least find contentment in marriage, even if she couldn’t have what he’d shared with Ruth.
Twelve
Joanna Howell propped open the window and set two mince pies to cool on the sill. Hiding behind the curtain, she watched for the tall minister and his powerful horse. Every Monday and Wednesday he left Widow Richards’s home at half past ten and headed south toward Brockton.
Right on schedule, as his dark horse trotted down the lane, Joanna grabbed her shawl and hurried into the side yard. Despite the sunny morning, it was too soon for the laundry to be dry. She hoped Mr. Frost wouldn’t know that she was only pretending to check the sheets.
“Good day, Miss Howell.”
“Why, Mr. Frost, how do you do?”
“Just fine. Is your laundry already dry?”
Unwilling to lie to a man of the cloth, Joanna shook her head. “No, but I hoped all the same.” She looked up at him and couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Gideon tipped his hat and rode on.
Elizabeth adjusted her basket and turned back up the street. It was the third time this week Miss Howell had managed to corner Gideon. First, after church when she’d helped a new mother with her children, then Monday, and now today while demonstrating her perfect domestic skills. Elizabeth could smell the spices of Joanna’s cooling pies from Mina’s front porch. No wonder Gideon had stopped.
How could she compete with perfection?
So annoying. Gideon only looked at her to find another reason to lecture her. Joanna was a mousy thing down to her dull brown hair. Prim and proper, like a minister’s wife should be. At least she did not excel at flirting. Elizabeth doubted Gideon recognized Joanna’s attempts at flirting. But then, Gideon was so dense he wouldn’t recognize a good flirt as anything but another reason to lecture. He would never lecture Joanna, but he would give Elizabeth a lecture faster than soap bubbles popped if she ever tried the old check-the-laundry trick.
It might be fun to see if she could catch Gideon. If only the red gown weren’t locked in the secret compartment.
Elizabeth’s spindle skittered across the floor. Once again she’d broken the thread. Mina looked up from her spinning wheel in time to see Elizabeth crawl under the chair. But more than a half hour had passed since the last time Elizabeth had retrieved the aptly named drop spindle. Bit by bit, her niece was improving.
Mina schooled her features before Elizabeth stood and dusted off her skirts. It would not do to have her niece see her smiling at her unladylike behavior. Mina held out her hand for the spindle, then unwrapped several inches and slid the thread between her fingers.
“Much improved,” Mina said as she wrapped the thread back around the spindle.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to comment but stopped, distracted by two boys fighting near the street. “Key? Did that boy say key?” Elizabeth sprinted out the door. Mina grabbed her wool shawl from the back of her chair before following.
“Give it back. I found it.” The younger brother’s blond curls bounced as he jumped up, trying to reach the prize in the older boy’s hand.
“And I have it.” The taller boy held his fist farther out of reach.
“Gimme the key!” Like an angry goat, the smaller boy rammed the larger in the stomach. The two went down and started throwing punches.
Elizabeth pulled the smaller boy off. She grabbed for the bigger boy’s fist only to have his other fist complete a punch meant for the smaller boy, the blow connecting with Elizabeth’s temple and sending her tumbling into the muddy street, where she landed facedown, just feet from Jordan and Gideon.
“George and Donald Purdy! Whatever are you fighting about?” Mina grabbed one boy by the collar. Gideon jumped off his horse, collared the other, and handed him off to Mina.
From the mud puddle, Elizabeth groaned as she started to rise. Dirty water dripped down her face and off her clothes. Gideon said nothing as he helped her to her feet and offered her his handkerchief. Elizabeth wiped her face and glared at the little boys.
The Purdy boys stood shamefaced before Mina. The taller one opened his fist and produced a key tied to a muddy piece of ribbon.
“My key.” Elizabeth stepped to grab it, but Mina closed her hand.
“Run home boys and tell your mother what happened. I shall call on her tomorrow.” The boys’ eyes widened.
“Are you going to tell her I hit a girl?” George’s voice squeaked, and his face paled.
Mina raised her brows and pointed down the street. The shorter boy ran off, George following behind bellowing threats at his younger brother.
Mina’s gaze traveled from Elizabeth’s head to her boots and she started to laugh. Elizabeth picked up her discarded shawl, holding it away from her soaked dress, and marched around the back of the house, her head held high.
Gideon followed Elizabeth with his eyes. When she disappeared, he turned to Mina.
Mina laughed harder.
Gideon bowed his head to hide a grin. Mina laid a hand on his arm. “Finish your visits. Give her time to clean up.” She turned and walked back to the house.
Elizabeth bent over the washtub and scrubbed her dress.
Aunt Mina joined her on the back porch. “Let it soak for a bit. The mud will come out easier.”
“Soak?”
“Yes, soak. While you come in for a bit of dinner.”
“But last time you had me scrub my clothes immediately.”
“Last time was in January, and a storm was coming, and you were splashing all over my kitchen. This time it is sunny, and you are scrubbing on the porch.”
Elizabeth stomped into the kitchen after her aunt and silently set about preparing for their meal. Food held no attraction. How could it after she’d been laughed at in front of the entire street? She’d only seen Gideon, but others could have been lurking behind their windows.
“Are you stomping around here because you are mad at yourself or at me?” Mina’s question stopped Elizabeth midstride.
Why should she be mad at herself? She was the one who received a punch in the face and was pushed into the mud. And for what? Aunt Mina had laughed at her. A month. She’d lived here a whole month. Gideon treated her like a child, and her father sent lectures disguised as letters from mother. She’d learned to cook and clean, but for what? To get laughed at! And if she dare say a word, she would be tossed back to her parents’ home, where she was not welcome.
Silently, Elizabeth ladled out the stew and cut the bread.
“I think it’s time we expand your repertoire. The old brown hen would make us a good dinner tomorrow. I think I will teach you my mother’s recipe for the high-crusted chicken pie.”
Elizabeth bowed her head, not paying much attention to her aunt’s blessing on the food.
“I’m sorry if my laughter seemed inappropriate. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of losing and finding your key in the same way.” Mina started to laugh again.
Elizabeth stirred her stew—so similar to the mud she’d washed off her dress. The corners of her mouth turned up. The situation was a tiny bit funny. The only two times in her life she had been drenched in mud was in her aunt’s yard and over her trunk. Still not nearly as funny as Aunt Mina thought. She looked up and gave her aunt a half smile.
“You handled this time much better. Look how much you’ve learned in a month.” Mina slid the key across the table. “You probably should open the secret compartment. If mud did seep in, you’ll need this beautiful day to wash whatever you’ve hidden.”
Elizabeth grabbed the key and rushed upstairs.
Elizabeth took the crimson gown off the line. Only a bit of mud had managed to seep into the secret compartment. The paper had protected the dress from staining, but the cloth had dried with the horrid stench of mildew. The silk stockings only needed airing out, but the foul odor clung to the dress. Aunt Mina had advised her to rinse it using apple-cider vinegar, then hang the gown in the breeze. Elizabeth held the skirt to her nose. The musty smell was gone. Who would have thought nasty smelling vinegar would erase the odor of mildew?
The skirt wasn’t completely dry, but with the setting sun, it needed to come in. She pulled her work dress and petticoat off the line as well. Arms full, she hurriedly whirled into the house only to bump into something solid. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and steadied her as she stepped back.
Gideon.
“Sorry, I thought you heard me.”
Elizabeth shook her head, becoming as tongue-tied as Joanna.
“I asked if you needed any help.”
“Oh.” Worse than Joanna, and her feet refused to move around him to the house.
If he possessed any manners, he would step out of the way. Instead, he raised his hand and brushed aside the hair she’d pinned to hide her bruised head. She felt the heat from his hand, though his fingers never came into contact with the swollen red patch on her temple.
He winced and dropped his hand. His mouth moved, but Elizabeth had no idea what he’d said. His near touch had paralyzed her brain. He frowned, took her by the arm, and led her into the house.
Elizabeth had regained her composure by the time they reached the back door, but Gideon did not release her until they were both inside.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Frost.” She nodded and hurried out of the kitchen. She heard Mina conversing with him as she scurried up the stairs.
She set the clothing on her bed and turned to the mirror, lifting a hand to touch the bruise. She must have been hit harder than she thought. She’d never acted like a ninny in a man’s presence before and, handsome or not, Gideon Frost was the last man who, who … He didn’t even have his own church. His wife would be doomed to poverty. Plus, he still loved his dead wife—all adding up to an equation for a useless pursuit.
The two letters Mrs. Porter had handed Gideon upon his return to the house an hour before remained in his pocket throughout supper. Eating with the Porters was part of his board. At Reverend Porter’s insistence, weekday suppers consisted of dinner’s leavings and whatever food donations the parishioners gave the family. The fare was not much better than Elizabeth’s attempts at cooking, and sometimes much, much worse. With Mrs. Porter nearing her confinement, one woman or another dropped off food almost daily. Tonight’s supper featured a kidney pie rejected by some lucky family who undoubtedly ate something better for their evening meal.
Gideon detested kidney pie, even his mother’s, and this pie was nothing like his mother’s, having been cooked until the crust had become cinders. The Porter children squirmed and tried to feed theirs to the dog, which refused with a whine. The reverend downed his. Gideon wondered if the man had been blessed without a sense of taste. Poor Mrs. Porter picked at the food on her plate, all the while turning a deeper shade of green until she left the table.
While the reverend readied the children for bed, Gideon washed the dishes, making sure the remains of the pie made it into the slop. Taking no chances, he also emptied the bucket into the pigpen. When he returned, Mrs. Porter sat at the table, nursing a cup of tea.
“Bless you, Gideon. I don’t think I could have smelled that for another moment.”
Chatter of the children echoed from the floor above. Gideon shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Do you need anything?”
Mrs. Porter raised her teacup. “This is all I need tonight.” She laid a hand on her rounded stomach. “Pray for Joanna to deliver tomorrow’s supper again. She seems to provide quite often of late.” Gideon didn’t miss the speculative look in her eye. “And pray for this one to come soon. Then Matthew will go out and do more visits, and I can make sure only edible gifts end up on the supper table.” She smiled.
Gideon stifled a laugh. “My Ruth used to do the same thing. When she returned the plate, she would tell the woman ‘Not a scrap was left,’ or ‘Every bit was eaten.’ Our neighbor, Mr. Whittaker, owned the best-fed pigs in town.”
“My favorite is ‘None of it went to waist. ‘No one ever thinks I mean the homonym, as that would be so improper.” A giggle rose from Mrs. Porter as the reverend walked into the room.
“Good to see you’re in better spirits, dear. Perhaps now you can eat some of the pie.”
The odd shade of green reappeared in Mrs. Porter’s complexion. “I think not, dear. If you don’t mind, I shall take myself to bed and leave the two of you to discuss this week’s sermon.” The reverend placed a chaste kiss on his wife’s brow and helped her from the table.
It wasn’t until Gideon sat down in the study that he realized it hadn’t hurt to speak of Ruth.
The clock chimed eleven times before Reverend Porter became satisfied with his Sunday sermon. Had Gideon expressed his thoughts, the conversation would have been much longer, as he didn’t agree with the interpretation of the particular doctrine, believing it countered some of Peter’s writings. But, as he learned his first week here, the reverend was not interested in the opinions of a “disgraced minister,” so Gideon kept his mouth shut until he could take a candle and retreat to his room.
Just over two feet wide, the box bed had never looked comfortable and felt even worse, but tonight Gideon was tired enough not to care. Paper crunched as he pulled off his clothes. The letters. He laid them on the table next to the candle. The top one bore the seal of the seminary, most likely from Reverend Ingram. The other was in his brother’s hand. Gideon broke the seal.
Gideon,
I shall not pretend to be surprised that you are considering giving up the ministry. I think you had some doubts before Ruth’s death. I located the tools you wrote about. However, after inquiring about shipping, it was more than you’d indicated you could pay. I would invite you up, but we both know you are loath to come. It will not help when I tell you Miriam is with child and very ill. Perhaps if she did not look so much like her sister you would come, but—
I am planning to go to Boston the fourth Thursday in March to collect a large order of leather. Perhaps we could meet at our sister’s, and I will bring your tools. I know Constance longs to see you too. If this plan is acceptable, please write both Constance and me.
Always,
Aaron
PS. Miriam sends her love.
PPS. I am sending a few of the smaller tools and some leather. Look for them t
oward the end of this week.
It was past time he visit his family. He’d avoided stopping at Constance’s when he’d stayed at the seminary near New Year’s. Perhaps by summer he would visit his brother and Miriam. She may look like Ruth, but her manner was less reserved. Mr. Whittaker was right. It was time to move on. Joanna was an excellent cook, and edible food could make up for dull conversation.
Thirteen
In late February, spring tried valiantly to make an appearance, but after a four-day battle, winter won out, using a bitter north wind bringing yet another half foot of snow.
As she did most mornings, Mina sat at her spinning wheel. Elizabeth sat at a smaller one nearby.
“I think we shall finish the last of this before the snow melts.”
Elizabeth looked up. “Finish? I thought you said you had too much flax to finish this year.”
“Too much to finish alone.” Mina put emphasis on the last word. “You have a knack for spinning. Your grandmother never liked to spin. But she did weave well enough. By the end of the week, we can start threading the loom.”
The tiniest of groans escaped Elizabeth’s lips. Mina suppressed a smile. To be honest, the task deserved a groan or two.
“Why do you keep your loom up year-round?”
“Long ago, about the time the king imposed the tax on textiles, so ’63 or there abouts, I took in weaving for other women. Not many people own large looms like the one my Henry built. I lost my little twins before they were named that winter and needed a distraction so he built it.” Mina paused for a moment. By then Thomas and Henry Junior were old enough to follow Henry around the farm and helped as much as they hindered. My Becca, who was just off leading strings, would play in the corner. Weaving is like a dance. Once you get the rhythm of it, you don’t need to focus on the steps. I was able to think and occasionally cry while still being useful. Weaving six months out of the year on a loom as large as the one Henry built meant it just wasn’t practical to take it down. Even now, when I only weave for about a month, it is just easier to leave it.”
