by Lorin Grace
Gideon contemplated feigning illness. He had been unsettled since returning from his sister’s a fortnight ago with the tools of his new trade. He found his faith in God’s mercy growing even as his questions remained unanswered.
After years of Easter and Christmas being outlawed in Massachusetts and then the boycott during the war, many still did not celebrate the holy days of the Savior’s birth and death. Only four months ago the United States Congress had met on Christmas Day. Determined to separate his congregation from their Puritan roots, Reverend Porter had encouraged celebrating Easter and Christmas as the Germans did. No reference was made to the lavish British commemorations in his admonitions. He’d only gone as far as having a vase of flowers put in the church and suggesting that families gather together and celebrate Easter. Gideon had endured listening to his sermon thrice already.
Gideon found himself wishing Easter remained outlawed, but the Bill of Rights ensured it would not be so again. Maybe I should switch churches, too.
Closing his eyes, he tried to recapture his fading dream. Ruth tucked her head into his shoulder, then looked up at him with wide blue eyes.
Blue?
Gideon shot upright. Ruth’s eyes were brown, Elizabeth’s blue.
He shook his head. Maybe he wouldn’t need to feign illness. Elizabeth invading his dream was proof enough he was ill.
The scar on her cheek was the only reminder of her attack last month. The bruises were gone as was the calculated smile she’d often used. Mina’s accident may have also been responsible for some of the changes. Elizabeth seemed even more and genuinely eager to help and learn.
Pretending was the word he was searching for. She wasn’t pretending anymore.
Was he?
Today would be a day full of pretense for him. He would feign listening to the sermon and plaster on the requisite smile while his heart lay halfway across the commonwealth, mourning in the graveyard next to a little white church.
A new bonnet—the first new piece of clothing Elizabeth had received since her mother smuggled the Christmas dress into her trunk four months ago. Elizabeth twisted to see it in the mirror.
Though the package came from Aunt Lydia, Mother had purchased it. The pale-blue ribbon matched her Christmas dress perfectly, and only one of the flowers was too ostentatious for her taste. Mother must be missing her to choose something in Elizabeth’s style.
Elizabeth stayed up late the last three nights reworking the dress. The bodice sat too low—only a finger width higher than the red one—but the flounce provided the fabric to use in the transformation.
She tucked her embroidered muslin fichu securely into the collar. The gown’s transformation was not drastic enough to forgo the use of a fichu but high enough to not cause embarrassment if the wind were to snatch the scarf away. Before securing the bonnet with a hat pin, she added one more pin to her hair. It would not fall today.
Elizabeth took one last look in the mirror. Her father would be surprised. There was nothing about her costume to embarrass him. Her cheeks reddened at the thought of the crimson gown. Had she ever thought it becoming?
Mother would be appalled at Elizabeth’s disregard for fashion. She doubted either parent would believe the change wasn’t some ruse. Aunt Mina might be a bit suspicious, but Elizabeth was determined. She could look beautiful without playing the strumpet. Not that there was anyone to be beautiful for, as her ragged reputation would keep all but the worst of rakes away. This left only Mr. Butler, whom she avoided by plastering herself to Mina’s side.
Mindwell took another peek at her niece. She’d done an incredible job altering her dress. Mina had seen it shortly after Elizabeth’s arrival when Elizabeth had attempted to remove the wrinkles from the gown. Where once the gown meant to allure and flatter, it was now subdued, some of the ruffles and trim having been removed. The neckline stood several inches higher, but try as she might, Mina could not see how the changes were made. Elizabeth had a talent for sewing. Perhaps she would get some cloth and ask Elizabeth to sew a dress for her, though she owned enough black dresses.
The sun burned off the early morning haze. As much as she wanted to walk, she took the carriage to church. Her ankle no longer pained her, but no one need know that yet. Using her cane more and having Gideon hitch up the carriage were not deceptions, per se. The doctor had told her to stay off her foot and encouraged her to use the carriage. Gideon insisted that she not attend church last week, citing the rain-soaked roads, but she suspected he’d done it as much to protect Elizabeth from gossip and more sermons on virtue. But that was the whole point of her delaying her recovery, wasn’t it? Protecting Elizabeth.
If her nephew continued to insist Elizabeth only acted contrite, Mina could suggest Elizabeth earn a living with her sewing and stay with her. Ebenezer was as hard minded as a man could be. Splitting a hickory knot with an ax handle was easier than putting a single new idea into his mind. He refused to believe Elizabeth had retrenched in a single manner or design despite the weekly reports, claiming the changes had occurred much too fast to be real. Mina worried that once it was known her ankle was healed, her nephew would whisk Elizabeth away. His last correspondence hinted he might have found a way to solve Elizabeth’s rebellions permanently. Mina trusted his solution would only work for his benefit and not her niece’s.
The space in front of the church was half full of buggies and wagons when Elizabeth turned the carriage in. A good thing, as her niece’s skill with the horse was not near that with the needle.
Gideon leaped down the church steps and hurried to the carriage. He guided the horse over to a shady spot and reached over to set the brake. Elizabeth dropped the reins and fisted her hands in her lap, but not before Mina caught the slight tremble.
Mina patted Elizabeth’s arm. “You did fine. Going home will be easier.”
Gideon came around and lifted Mina down, making sure she stood steady before offering a hand to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth darted a glance around before setting her gloved hand in his and stepping down. Mina hid a smile when both young people dropped their hands and stepped away from each other. She had a slower reaction pulling potatoes from the coals.
Gideon offered Mina his arm, Elizabeth following a step behind.
It struck Mina that she may need to do some interfering. Were both of them blind?
Gideon didn’t bother trying to focus on the sermon, letting his gaze wander over the congregation. At least two families he did not recognize attended today. One of the Patrick twins slipped off the bench next to his father and toddled toward his mother. An older brother placed his foot on the trailing apron string, stopping the little one with a jerk. The child sent up a chorus of howling when he fell on his hind end in the aisle. The mother handed the sleeping twin to another woman before slipping out of the bench and scooping up the crying boy. The withering look she cast her husband was not lost on the older son, but the father remained oblivious, his gaze fixed on the reverend. Only after the child had been escorted from the building did the father look around in puzzlement.
Segregation caused no end of troubles for the womenfolk. The mother reappeared a few moments later with the little boy in her arms, and Gideon’s heart thudded to a stop. The child was about the age his own boy would have been. How would Ruth have handled his children as he preached? Would she have worn the same exasperated and tired look the mother did?
The mother set the little one down and aimed him back toward his older brother, holding on to the leading strings until the child had traversed the aisle and held his pudgy arms up to his sibling.
Gideon longed for his little one to reach his arms up to him to be held, but the child in his mind had curly blond hair and blue eyes—hair the color of the demure young woman sitting next to Mina. He allowed himself a moment to study Elizabeth, so changed from the girl who’d sat there a mo
nth ago playing with her fichu. Something about her face was different as well, and not just the absence of bruising. There was a peace, and she seemed engrossed in the sermon. Usually her eyes darted around the church. Today they remained focused on the man behind the lectern—mostly.
Her eyes skittered to his and quickly back to the reverend, and the faintest color bloomed in her cheeks. Gideon directed his own eyes to the center of the reverend’s back, an altogether safer place to look.
Twenty-One
Mina sat on the divan, her foot dutifully propped up. Doctor Whiting eyed her suspiciously that morning while examining it. He was not as easily fooled as Gideon and Elizabeth.
Pity. Six weeks seemed to be the limit she could drag out the injury. This morning she’d found some forgotten wool and coached Elizabeth on carding it.
Elizabeth looked up from her carding paddles. “Too bad you can’t see to read. We could finish Ann Eliza Bleecker’s History of Maria Kittle.” Mina did not miss the hopeful tone in Elizabeth’s voice. Carding wool was tedious, but she would not switch her niece, even to learn of Maria’s fate.
“It ends so sadly anyway. I could tell you the story of how I met your uncle. It’s a much happier tale.”
Elizabeth looked up, a smile on her face—all the encouragement Mina needed.
“I worked on the spinning floor of the old linen mill in Boston. We were celebrating the anniversary of the Society of Frugality. Some of the more forward-thinking men like Mr. Hancock saw the need for us to be less dependent on imports from England. That was back in August of ’53, a terribly hot day for certain. About three hundred women toted our spinning wheels out to the Boston Common—all the girls from the factory as well as the married women who worked from their homes. We spent the entire day spinning as people watched. A minister preached and took up donations. One young man watched my friend, Martha. After awhile, he departed and returned around noon with his friend—Henry, of course. The first young man, Mr. Whittaker, peppered us with questions. ‘How much flax do you spin a day?’ ‘How can you spin without looking at the wheel?’ The two men asked if they could take us for supper after work. As the mill owner was providing a feast later that day, we declined. However, we determined the following Saturday afternoon we would meet them on the Common for a stroll and a picnic as it was our half day.”
“Mr. Richards was the quieter of the two. He told me later he had been tongue-tied by my beauty.” Mina giggled, a sound belying her years. “He never tired of using that excuse when he had little to say.”
“As it turned out, he was visiting Boston on business for the day from Stoughton, where he still lived with his family. So returning on Saturday became a bit of a problem. But Mr. Whittaker put him up Saturday night, and we went to church together on Sunday before he returned home. After the first week, he managed to come to Boston almost every other weekend. On the weeks he couldn’t come, he would write the most beautiful letters. Words may not have been able to come out of my Mr. Richards’s mouth very fast, but they poured out of his pen.”
Mina paused and looked out the window.
Elizabeth continued carding the wool. The soft scratch, scratch, scratch filled the silence.
“In time our mutual friends decided to wed. I’d been somewhat concerned for her as Mr. Whittaker was a widower and older than her by more than a decade. But they both seemed happy. She invited me to her little ceremony. Mr. Richards attended as well, as Mr. Whittaker had few other friends and no family here.”
“Her parents hosted a small dinner in celebration of their nuptials. Henry asked if he might escort me home. He was more tongue-tied than usual and kept starting and stopping his sentences. Finally, as we rounded the last corner and saw my house, he pulled me to a stop and blurted, ‘Mr. Whittaker has the right idea. I think we should wed.’ Then he planted a kiss on my lips right there in front of God and everyone else. If I wanted to refuse, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have dared after having almost my entire family witness the kiss. Your grandmother was scandalized.” Mina laughed until she could barely breathe.
Elizabeth started on a new handful of wool. Mina calmed enough to restart her story.
“I was thrilled to wed only three weeks later, just to avoid your grandmother’s constant scolding. I think she was jealous, as Mr. Richards had a talent for kissing.” Mina felt the blush rising. She missed those kisses.
“We lived with his parents for a few months while he finished building this house. In time the Whittakers moved west. In fact, Mr. Whittaker sent Gideon to me with his recommendation.”
“Is your friend still alive?”
“No, she passed some years ago, in childbirth. They were happy. Mr. Whittaker married at least twice more after that. Poor man. I think he is tired of outliving them all. We do keep up a correspondence.”
Elizabeth let out a tiny gasp.
“Nothing romantic. He knows I won’t leave the house Henry built for me, and he won’t leave his grandchildren.”
“Finished.” Elizabeth laid aside the carding paddles with their sharp spikes.
“Good, now you can spin it. I think I shall go check on the bread and perhaps go take a nap.” Mina’s head was filled with memories she’d rather savor in the privacy of her room.
Elizabeth started the wheel with a flick of her wrist. It was ever so much faster than the drop spindle. It required more concentration to keep the fibers even, and the wool carried an odor the linen lacked, but the rhythm of her work brought a smile to her face.
She tried to picture her aunt spinning on the Boston Common. The wind must have made spinning difficult. But then again there may not have been much wind in late summer. August would have been hot out there under the sun. Had the Red-Coat soldiers stood by and watched? Had people scoffed at the laborers or applauded them? Elizabeth smiled at the memory of her aunt giggling like a girl. It hadn’t been the practiced giggle Elizabeth had often employed. Aunt Mina’s laugh was spontaneous.
Why would her great uncle or Mr. Whittaker fall for a woman who sat spinning? It wasn’t very glamorous. Her thread broke, and she stopped the wheel to repair the spot before continuing. And how on earth had her aunt continued to spin with a handsome man watching her? If Gideon walked in now, she would break the thread for certain.
Not for the first time Elizabeth wished she could go back and change her life. She’d orchestrated every move and every interaction with every boy she’d met since she was ten. Only a few refused to do her bidding exactly as she wished. It no longer galled her that Samuel Wilson had ended their courting before it started. They would not have been happy. She would not pursue future suitors in the same manner. It was no fun to control every move a man made. Mother often cajoled Father, but neither seemed happy. The Stewards were happy in marriage, and Deborah hadn’t harangued her husband. Aunt Mina talked of Henry with such fondness. All the advice her mother had ever given her came into question.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip and concentrated on feeding the fibers evenly into the hungry spindle. Assuming it was her aunt thumping about the kitchen, she did not look up when the footfalls stopped at the doorway.
Whir, click, click, whir, click, click. Elizabeth couldn’t decide which was more mesmerizing—the sound of the spinning wheel or the whirling of the spokes.
A sound in the doorway drew her attention.
Gideon was leaning against the doorjamb.
Snap. Her hands jerked as the unattended thread broke.
“Where is Mina?” Gideon’s words came out raspy even to his own ears.
“I thought I heard her in the kitchen.” Elizabeth fiddled with the broken thread, not raising her head to answer. Shame. Her wide blue eyes were so enchanting.
It must have been the way the wheel whirred when it spun that held him enthralled as he watched from the doorway. Was there another sight as
calming as a woman spinning? Yes. His mind supplied memories of Ruth. But those moments were for a husband’s joy. Spinning was different. He’d loved the sound of the wheel as a child, his mother spinning and humming.
“Do you need her?”
“Wha—No. I wanted her to know I think the goat will have her kids by morning. I am going over to let the reverend know I shall be staying in the barn tonight.”
“Will you want supper with us?”
“Yes, please.” Another kidney pie had been delivered to the Porters’ and Gideon had no desire to return to dine with them.
Elizabeth slid the stool back and walked to the doorway. She waited until Gideon moved aside before going to the kitchen.
Gideon watched her retreat. He shook his head. Part of him was disappointed she kept a respectable distance. The other part applauded how she now acted circumspectly even in private.
After a long night with the new mama goat and the second kid needing assistance in being born, Gideon’s bed at Porters’ was a welcome sight. He fell asleep without dreaming.
A crash downstairs woke Gideon. The reverend’s heavy footfalls echoed on the stairs. Gideon was half out of bed by the time his door slammed open to reveal the reverend standing there in his nightshirt.
“Ride for the midwife!” The reverend ran back down the stairs without waiting for a response.
Not needing to be told a second time, Gideon pulled on his trousers and socks. It was about time the newest Porter arrived.
The midwife did not dress as quickly as Gideon had, and by the time they returned, Mrs. Porter held her new son in her arms. Gideon caught only a glimpse of the new baby before being ushered from the room along with Reverend Porter. Cries from the children upstairs alerted the reverend to his other duties, and Gideon was left alone to tend the kitchen fire.
