Nicholas balanced three wine cases, one atop the other, in his powerful arms and carried them toward the house. “We shall see, shall we not? No doubt I have much to learn about what sells and what does not.”
He was not a man to notice flowers, but the roses that arced over the back door stoop had bloomed since he had left, Nicholas noted as he stepped inside, the wagon unloaded and his work done. The store was cool, welcoming, courtesy of Abbigail’s singular touch. In each room she had filled a vase with bright blossoms.
He was stacking his purchases neatly in the hall when Georg Till came downstairs. Rumpled from sleep, he inspected the items with a mumble and a sniff. Then he asked for Nicholas’s receipts, set him to mind the afternoon’s customers with Huber, and disappeared into his office.
Nicholas chafed at the wait. It was too like his former masters checking his work for imperfections: a gun that wouldn’t fire straight, a watch that ticked randomly, a nail in a new shoe that quicked the horse.
In the front room the handsome casing clock chimed the passing quarter hours. Till hobbled out, called Nicholas to the counter, and spread a single receipt on it. “Ripperton overcharged you. He always tries. In future, be on your guard.”
Huber looked down his nose. Nicholas frowned, surprised by Till’s neutral tone. Was there to be no blame? No litany of mistakes? Did one error make the whole a failure?
“Of course,” Nicholas said. “By how much was I off, sir, if I may ask?”
Till’s mouth twitched. In amusement? “You can add, boy,” he said, then climbed to his bed again.
Nicholas bent over the counter and refigured each line on the receipt. Twice. An error of three pence too much here, two there-it added up to over a shilling. The cost of a pound of candles, a quart of rum, or a night’s lodging in a private home. He frowned. Significant, but a fraction of his purchases.
Propping a hip on the high clerk’s stool, he stretched the travel stiffness from his muscles. He was not dissatisfied with his work. He had hastily checked the figures at the wharf. But Ripperton, styling himself as Georg Till’s old friend, had hurried him. Nicholas had trusted him, not wanting to offend. The rush, and the resulting errors, could have been an intentional test of his business acumen.
Then he grinned, pleased to figure out the old man’s ploy. Till could have put Ripperton up to it.
11
Later that July afternoon, a bearer arrived with the twice-monthly bundle of mail. Abbigail stepped in from the kitchen, the aroma of fresh bread and stew curling after her through the open door, and consulted with the young man. When their exchange was over, she shuffled through the letters in her hand, then held up a small rectangular packet. “For you, Brother Blum.”
Nicholas recognized his stepmother’s writing and almost grabbed the packet from Abbigail. Retha Blum would supply news of friends and family-and harmless gossip, too.
Abbigail withheld the packet, her eyes twinkling. “You do want word from home.”
He admired her twinkling eyes. “I have had but two letters. Of course, I want word of home.”
With a smug grin, she dropped the letter on the counter and left the room. He tore the seal, flattened the page on the counter’s ink-stained surface, and began to read. Two sentences along-a greeting, “We are well”-and the door’s bell jangled. He looked up. A pinch-faced woman entered the store with two skinny children who were none too clean. Outsiders, but customers nevertheless.
He put an obliging smile in place.
The woman held out a frayed sack. “Flour, please.”
Hastily he anchored the letter with a polished stone paperweight, checked the ration list, and frowned. The last flour allotted for outsiders had been sold yesterday.
He lifted his hands in an uncomfortable apology. “If you could return at the first of the month, madam …”
Her chin trembled but her gaze did not waver. “I have none nor have I corn for meal.”
Flour was in very short supply until the summer’s wheat harvest, but her proud supplication and the children’s obvious need touched his heart. The Brethren’s rules might be a noose around his neck, but he would not restrict a woman trying to feed her hungry children. “Ah, well, that won’t do, will it?” he said obligingly, and took off the flour barrel’s lid. “How much do you need?”
She indicated half of her peck sack. He filled it and put her payment into the cash drawer. Coins clinked against each other, and he counted out her meager change, hoping she would be the last to interrupt his reading of the letter. As the family left, however, a man sauntered in seeking tenpenny nails. Nicholas could not find as many as he needed. His impatience mounted. Huber returned, and Nicholas asked him to take over.
“If I must,” Huber said self-importantly, neck craning toward the weighted letter.
Nicholas whipped it off the counter and sought sanctuary in the tiny office, his long, large legs pressed beneath the desk. Apart from a square left for the address, Retha Blum had covered both sides of a quarto page in her fine hand. It pleased him that his stepmother cared enough to write him. When she had married his father, Nicholas had been twelve and distressed by her intrusion into his home. By the time he was grown, her virtues were plain to him. Her fierce love extended from Jacob Blum to his three motherless children. Nicholas saw how she made his father happy, how their four children thrived. As for Nicholas, his spirited stepmother sided with him in both his exploits and his misadventures.
She wrote with indulgent humor of her runaway garden, his father’s building projects, his siblings’ latest efforts and escapades. He read, his smile widening.
Matthias still consulted her for recipes for special colors, though his success as the town’s dyer had allowed her to retire.
Catharina. The name leapt from the page, and Nicholas’s heart leapt in his throat With the passing weeks, her angelic image had faded from his mind, and he began to fear the strength of his affections.
They were still strong. In his mind’s eye, he saw her as she had been among the peach blossoms that April day-ethereal, tempting, pure. A bride to cherish and be cherished by.
She had joined his sister Anna Johanna, Retha wrote, in teaching little Girls. But where his sister tutored them in reading and geography, Catharina schooled them in domestic arts. No surprise there. His secret sweetheart had a knack with children, plied her needle skillfully, and cooked … well, her cooking was renowned.
He skimmed the rest of the letter. The store’s bell jangled, a lock clicked, and boots strode toward the back of the house. He read on. Catharina’s family were near neighbors. He counted her older brothers John and Thomas among his many friends. They were working, his stepmother reported, and they were well. Would they recognize his new steadiness of purpose? he wondered. He was not the man who had left Salem, angry and a disappointment to his former masters and the Elders who had failed to find a place for him.
Already he was on his way to fulfilling his unspoken promise to Catharina. For he understood, with some relief and not a little pride, the full import of Georg Till’s crusty reception earlier in the day. Till had caught him out in one small mistake. But he had accepted the veracity of every receipt and the suitability of every item Nicholas had purchased. If he could meet Till’s exacting expectations, Salem would have to make room for the merchant he would become.
The office door creaked. A hand settled on his shoulder, light as a bird on the branch of a tree. “Nicholas? Your family-is it bad news?” Abbigail’s voice was soft with concern.
“Everyone is well,” he said absently.
“So you said last time.” She withdrew her sympathetic hand and tried to move away, but the room was cramped. Her calico skirts brushed his thigh.
“’Twas true last time,” Nicholas said as steadily as a man could in such close quarters with a pretty woman.
“But you say so little of them.”
He frowned. He hadn’t wanted to expose his family again to Georg Till’s scorn. Or to
share with Christian Huber anything so close to his heart “They are better than well. They are all up to their usual mischief.”
“Your parents too?” she asked in mock disbelief.
“No, of course not them! My parents are highly respectable, perfectly responsible Married Brethren.”
“Tell me about them. And the children,” she invited. Her knee beneath the skirts now pressed his thigh.
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, seeking equilibrium. “All of them? My large family would only confuse you. It confuses me.”
“No, tell me. I should like to hear.”
He relented. “Very well. Sit then, and I will tell you all.”
She looked around and gave a light laugh. “Sit where?”
“Oh.” There was only one chair. He couldn’t stand; he would tower over her if she were seated. He cleared papers from a corner of the desk, and she perched up on it, a little wren above him now. And prettier than ever. He resolutely shoved aside that thought and prepared to share the news about his family, from oldest to youngest.
But as he talked, his mind wandered. His eyes wandered to her skirts. Beneath them, she must have hooked a heel on the desk drawer’s knob.
Her skirts, he cautioned himself, were not where he should look.
She leaned forward, listening keenly, and his heart hammered away. If he looked dead ahead, he saw her waist, slender enough to snap in a breeze. Up higher, and he saw the ample curve of her breasts compressed beneath her modest bodice. But there was nothing modest about their constrained fullness: They were made to fill his hands.
“Nicholas?” she prompted. Whether pleased or puzzled, he could not say
So he fixed his gaze on her doe-brown eyes and resolutely told his tale. Her interest in his parents and his two full siblings pleased him, and the tales of his half-brother and three half-sisters made her laugh. Harmon, fourteen, apprenticed to their father as a planner and builder, had designed his first building. His outhouse listed to the left
“The building?” she asked. “Or the seat?”
Not sure, he scanned the letter, then had to grin. “From the way she worded it, I would have to say the seat.”
This time, Abbigail’s laugh was rounder, fuller. Happier. Her porcelain complexion pinked with pleasure.
He resisted that line of thought and soldiered on. Elizabeth, only twelve, begged to move into the Sisters House, set on helping Anna Johanna teach Little Girls. His independent-minded stepmother supported Elizabeth. His doting father wanted her to stay at home.
“Like my father,” Abbigail said agreeably, smoothing her skirts as she wriggled on her perch.
Nicholas forbore to say that his father was not the least like hers and went on with his story. His twin sisters had brought home an adorable kitten. Just that week, it had taken a bath in a bucket of milk.
Abbigail’s neat eyebrows drew together worriedly. “I hope it didn’t drown.”
“My father probably wishes it drowned, but now it gets its milk in saucers. Twice a day, according to my stepmother. He cannot deny his twins anything-dolls, toys, games.”
She shook her head in mock censure. “They sound spoiled, Brother Blum.”
“Spoiled or loved. Who’s to draw the line?”
“The parents,” Abbigail said.
“They do. Otherwise the Blums would be bankrupt.”
Nicholas couldn’t help but grin, thinking of Christina and Margaretha jumping up and down at some new gift. Jumping on him whenever he came to visit, begging for piggyback rides around the parlor and backyard.
“You love them,” Abbigail said wistfully.
Her perception startled him–and her directness. Of course, he loved his family. He spread a hand across his chest where his mute feelings lay. “Naturally. Absolutely.”
She took his free hand with a feather touch. “You are homesick for them,” she said gently.
“I… No.” Her dark, intelligent gaze brimmed with sympathy, sympathy he did not need. He looked away.
A man would not be homesick. A boy might be, but not a man embarked on a new livelihood. His heart might twinge as he read a letter from home. It might pound when he read of his intended bride. But he was not homesick. He rearranged his knees under the desk, pushed back his chair, and bumped his head against the wall.
“I miss the noise,” he offered lamely, looking at her, allowing the friendly comfort of her hand to rest on his.
Her gaze narrowed teasingly. “Confess, Brother Blum. A man caught staring out a window on a sunny afternoon is homesick for something.”
He liked the keen, kind way she read him. “A man would not admit that, Sister Abbigail.” He grinned at her, making it plain that he admired her observation. “Even if ‘twere true.”
Her pretty lips curved in response. His breath, his heart, caught. And they sat, foolishly staring, foolishly smiling, when Huber rapped on the door and opened it, storm-faced, his bulk filling the doorway.
Abbigail jerked her hand away and slid off the desk. Her grin faded in obvious mortification.
Nicholas could have throttled Huber for her sake. The Single Brother’s suspicious gaze darted back and forth, taking in the scene of their supposed transgression. But the scent of scandal did not lure him from the track of his complaint.
“Mrs. O’Brian was not due the peck of flour that you sold her, Brother Blum,” he announced. “You should have checked the list.”
He had checked the list. “Her children looked hungry,” he said.
Huber gave a condescending smile. “Oh no, Brother Blum, the woman outwitted you.”
“Surely need takes precedence over rations,” Nicholas argued. In Bethlehem as in Salem, sugar, salt, and flour were rationed the year round to guard against the townspeople’s amassing wasteful stores. This year, however, rations were strict from need, more so for outsiders.
“Indeed, where there is need,” Huber said. “But she buys extra flour to make and sell cakes.”
“To support her starving children, no doubt,” Nicholas said sharply, still sure of his benevolent deed.
Huber pushed into the tiny room, crowding but not intimidating Nicholas.
“Yesterday,” Huber continued acidly, “she bought her week’s ration from me. Today she returns, quick to take advantage of there being three of us to mind the counter.”
Abbigail made an apologetic grimace. “I should have warned you about her.”
Nicholas cut her a look. “Warned me?”
Abbigail shrugged, clearly reluctant to agree with Huber. “She has tried this before. She is very clever.”
“The children were pitiful,” Nicholas pointed out.
Huber gave Nicholas a bland, self-satisfied smile. “The children are well schooled. She duped you, Brother Blum. Nevertheless, that does not lessen your responsibility. You should always check the list.”
Abbigail straightened to her fullheight, forcing a flustered Huber to step, embarrassed, out of her way. “We must all check the list, Brother Huber. Brother Blum is not the first man Mrs. O’Brian has tricked for flour.”
Huber colored, then plunged ahead spitefully. “He also gave her clipped coins for change.”
He probably did. He had hurried. Nicholas clenched his teeth in self-reproach. He had taken the woman’s old-style money and no doubt given her outdated pence for change. The nation was not shifting from pounds to dollars overnight.
Abbigail glared up at Huber, a wren braving a cross but dapper crow. “We all make mistakes, Brother Huber. The fault here, however, is wholly mine. I had not explained our policy to Brother Blum.”
Her quick defense warmed Nicholas, but he could not accept it. From his former business in his tin shop he knew the Elders expected every business to hold back all shillings, pence, and pounds to exchange for the newer dollars.
“No, Sister Till. You may not take the blame.” He turned to Huber. “I chose to sell the woman flour. But I erred in changing her with pence instead of pennies.”<
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Huber puffed up with smug seniority. “A merchant’s profits lie in pennies, Brother Blum. Clipped coins from the old coinage trade for more in bulk.”
Nicholas felt his indignation rise but forced a casual drawl. “I know all that. I made a mistake.”
Huber wagged his head. “I must tell Brother Till.”
Nicholas ground his teeth with anger. From childhood he had hated tattletales. He put a firm, unfriendly hand on Huber’s shoulder and felt him flinch.
“You may tell Brother Till.” He growled the words. “’Twas not the first error of my life. But I won’t repeat it.”
“We should not send him trading, Sister Till, if he forgets such critical matters,” Huber said, attempting to ignore Nicholas as he confided in Abbigail.
Nicholas tightened his grip, marveling at his rival’s ill-considered tenacity. “I will remember. Sister Till can count on that.”
Abbigail tapped his arm. “I will hold you to it then,” she said gently, trustingly.
Her intervention calmed him. He dropped his hand from Huber’s shoulder.
Huber gave him a dark, unreadable look. “You have not heard the end of this.” Then he stalked out of the cramped office.
Nicholas swore softly to himself. The end of what? He would not retract his kindness to the pinch-faced woman for love nor money. Not until he had proof of her deliberate deceit Given the children’s looks, not even then. But he regretted that his good turn had played into Huber’s hands, and he regretted his lapse with the clipped coins.
He could not, however, regret his time with Abbigail. Not even when Huber had discovered them too close together. Abbigail retreated to the kitchen, looking small, vulnerable, and possibly ashamed. Nicholas was not ashamed. Kindness, friendship, sympathy-which they had shared-all were godly virtues.
Still, it struck him as odd that the overly pious Brother had said nothing about Abbigail’s touching him. Nicholas’s shoulders tensed against a budding worry.
Odd, and ominous.
12
The sun would soon set, Abbigail noted, pausing for a moment’s privacy after seeing her father to bed early. She straightened her skirts and breached the archway to the parlor. Brother Huber sat in his chair, dipping snuff from his own metal box, then poring over the dark, heavy script of his German Bible. Nicholas bent over the little parlor desk, repairing a new toy broken on the wagon trip from Philadelphia.
His Stolen Bride Page 10
