While he painstakingly disassembled the spinning wheel over by the hearth, Garnet gathered rags. “Once I clean this and oil the wheel axle, it ought to serve well.” Sam tested the leathers holding the bobbin and flyer. “The maidens are straight, and the mother-of-all is in fine condition.”
She paused and watched as he deftly removed the flywheel. The firelight illuminated the beautifully turned spokes.
Sam laid the wheel on the table. “Flat as can be—I worried it might have grown warped. . . . The drive band is filthy. Can it be washed?”
Garnet inspected the dirty linen strip and nodded. Wash-ing might alter its length, but she’d be able to adjust the tension to account for that.
“I’ll set to work on this whilst you take stock of what’s in the chest. If something is missing, we’ll need to replace it ere the weather turns.”
Garnet opened the chest. A pair of sewing needles, a paper of pins, and a daintily painted porcelain thimble rested in a small wood tray, which she removed. Three sets of knitting needles lay there along with a half-dozen balls of yarn. Then Garnet’s heart leaped. A recorder rested in the bottom. Hands shaking, she drew out the instrument and offered it to her master.
He shook his head. “I put it out in the barn for good cause. Neither Christopher nor I could coax any pleasant sounds from it. Are you able to play?”
Rubbing it on her sleeve, Garnet tried to decide what to play. After blowing through the recorder, she took a deep breath and started playing.
Master Walsh perked up, and the children all rushed in. After she finished the piece, he chortled with glee. “ ‘Butter’d Peas’ is one of Ethan’s favorite tunes!”
Christopher poked his brother in the side. “One of his favorite dishes, too.”
“Will you teach me how?” Hester reached over and touched the instrument.
“Father, I used to have a whistle.” Ethan scanned the keep-ing room. “Where is it?”
“A flageolet,” Master Walsh remembered. “I’ll have to think on where it went.”
Ethan smiled up at his father. “I’ll clean the spinning wheel while you look.”
“Mind you clean every last nook and cranny. Any dust will spoil the yarn Widow Wheelock will spin.” He handed the rag to his son and turned his attention back on Garnet. “We’d appreciate a few more tunes, Widow Wheelock.”
Garnet thought for a moment, then raised the recorder and played “Childgrove.” “Argeers” followed thereafter.
Christopher took up another rag and helped his brother. “Please don’t stop,” he pled.
Garnet looked to her master. He’d been wandering around, looking for the flageolet in vain. “I confess, I cannot recall where I put it. You’ve scoured every corner of the house, Widow Wheelock. Have you not seen it?”
She shook her head.
“What does it look like?” Hester tossed one of her plaits over her shoulder.
“It’s smaller than the recorder Widow Wheelock is playing.” Christopher scrunched his nose. “Wasn’t it white?”
“No, it was pearwood.” Furrows plowed across his father’s brow. “The holes were brass.”
“Is it a lot smaller?” Hester held her hands out so they were only six inches apart.
Christopher scrubbed one of the spinning wheel’s spokes. “That’s far too small.”
“Two of the sections are that size, Hester.” Sam stared at the fire. “The third is about the size of my thumb.”
“I think I know where it is!” Hester scrambled to the far side of the keeping room and climbed onto the table.
“Hester!”
“Here, Father! See?” She stood on tiptoe and touched what looked like pegs. “I thought they looked funny when we took down the apple rings and put up the pumpkin rings.”
“Now, I remember. Ethan dropped his whistle in the trough, so I put it up to dry.” Samuel Walsh stalked over and pulled his daughter off the table. “ ’Twas not mannerly of you to climb on this. Wipe it down and give Widow Wheelock an apology.”
Garnet scarcely believed her ears. The master of the house ordered his daughter to apologize to her?
Hester approached Garnet and barely managed to bob a curtsy ere she burst into tears. “I f–f–forgot my–myself. I’m s–s–sorry.”
Garnet set aside the recorder and opened her arms wide. Hester burrowed in close and clung tight as Garnet rocked her. When her storm of tears abated, she whispered, “Please don’t be wroth with me!”
Garnet kissed her brow and smoothed her hand up and down the child’s back.
“Widow Wheelock is a kind woman.” Master Walsh dabbed tears from his daughter’s cheeks with the edge of his shirt. “She labors hard. Be sure you don’t cause her additional work.”
“Yes, Father.” Hester wound her arms around Garnet’s neck and gave her a fierce hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad I’m here.”
“Well and good. Now see to the task.” Master Walsh re-located the drying pumpkin rings to other pegs, puffed air through each of the pieces of the flageolet, and put them together while his daughter wiped off the table.
“I’d be pleased to hear another tune,” Ethan said.
“And you will—tomorrow.” Master Walsh smiled. “Thomas Brooks is taking his viol to worship tomorrow. Think how lovely ’twill be for Widow Wheelock to accompany him on the recorder or flageolet.”
❧
Indeed, Garnet took both instruments to church the next day. She and Goodman Brooks played accompaniment as the congregation sang Isaac Watts’s “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” Gerhardt’s “Put Thou Thy Trust in God” came next. Though she couldn’t sing the lyrics, Garnet thought of the words as she played. They suited her situation so clearly. She’d been reduced to nothingness; but God’s strength sustained her, and He’d answered her prayers by placing her in the Walsh home.
Put thou thy trust in God,
In duty’s path go on;
Walk in His strength with faith and hope,
So shall thy work be done.
Lord, I put my trust in You. Though all I owned, and was, were stripped from me, You have been my stronghold. You heard my prayers and placed me in the Walsh home. I give You my thanks.
When the music ended, Garnet slipped onto the end of the Walsh bench. The preacher set his Bible on the pulpit. “Before I pray, the schoolmaster is suffering quinsy. As a result, he cannot teach for the next few days. Word will be sent out when school is to resume.” The reverend prayed, then read from the third chapter of Proverbs. “ ‘Let not mercy and truth forsake thee. . . .’ ”
Garnet cast a quick look at her master. He did just that—he’s shown me great mercy.
“ ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ ”
I don’t understand all that has happened to me, but, Lord, You have a purpose. I trust in You.
After the service, Goodman Brooks called across the churchyard to them, “Hold a moment!”
“If you intend to talk about music, I’m sending Ruth to be part of the discussion,” Falcon Morton announced. “There’s nothing sweeter than the sound of her playing her dulcimore.”
“Come then, Goodwife Morton.” Goodman Brooks still held his viola de gamba as he approached. He then beckoned another man. “And you, Alex Smith. No one plays a fiddle more pleasingly than you.” Ruth and Goodman Smith came over.
Another woman scurried up, as well, but something about how Samuel drew Hester close to his side struck Garnet as odd. He nodded politely. “Goodwife Ryder.”
“Aunt Dorcas,” all three of the Walsh children greeted in unison.
Instead of returning the pleasantry, the woman stuck out her hand, palm upward, toward Garnet. “That recorder was my sister’s. By all rights, it should be mine now.”
“No, it shouldn’t.” Master Walsh stepped up to Garnet’s side.
Goodman Brooks shook his head, and in
an excessively patient tone said, “Goodwife Ryder, all a wife owns belongs to her husband.”
“Naomi owned her recorder ere she married.” Dorcas tilted her head defiantly.
“Yes, she did,” Smith agreed. “But upon marriage, two become one.”
“Surely grief made you overlook that important truth,” Ruth said in a kindly tone. “I recall you once played a cittern—and handily. It would be merry to add yet a different instrument to the group.”
“Indeed. We’d have a quintet.” Garnet jumped at the sound of the preacher’s voice. He’d come over and now gave Dorcas a conciliatory smile. “I’m sure once you reflect upon it that you’ll not begrudge Widow Wheelock playing the recorder. ’Tis a blessing for her to be able to give sound, if not voice, in worship.”
Most of the congregation milled around; clearly they were eavesdropping.
A man stood behind Dorcas and rested his hands upon her shoulders. Hatred twisted his features as he looked first at Samuel, then at Garnet. “You cannot blame my wife. Walsh has given Naomi’s clothing to his servant. My wife looks upon her, and her grief is renewed. For that woman to stand before the congregation and play Naomi’s recorder is more hypocrisy than is to be borne. Know this, Parson: They sleep beneath the same roof. Furthermore, whilst the children are at school, Walsh and this woman are alone.”
ten
“Your implication is vile.” Samuel stared straight back at Erasmus Ryder. “The widow and my daughter sleep in the keeping room; I sleep in the second story with my sons.”
“There, then.” Reverend Clark nodded his head. “Samuel Walsh is a man of sterling character. We’ve his word that naught is awry.”
“If it troubles you to see Naomi’s clothing. . .” Ruth Morton patted Dorcas’s hand. “Mayhap you ought to give her some of the fine cloth you weave. I’ll help her sew a new set of overclothes—though she probably needs no assistance. Christopher wears the shirt she stitched for him, and little Hester is charming as a chickadee in the new bodice the widow made from the scraps of her very own clothes. Still, if it grieves you to witness another wearing the clothing Naomi once wore, this arrangement will allow you to trade for your sister’s garments.”
“All of my cloth is spoken for. I cannot renege.”
“I have no patience for this.” Sam scowled. Dorcas would find fault in any bargain or solution. Garnet already labored long and hard. He couldn’t imagine making her sew another set of clothing merely because Dorcas indulged in pettiness and greed. “Children wear clothing handed down because ’tis sensible. When someone perishes, other than the attire in which they are buried, any other garments go to others who can make use of them. So I’ve done, and no one should find fault in it.”
“You buried my sister in nothing more than a blanket!”
Samuel stood in silence. He didn’t need to defend himself or his actions.
“Father?” Christopher gave him a beseeching look.
I was wrong. Though I needn’t defend myself, I cannot allow my children to believe I dishonored their mother.
Falcon cleared his throat. “My goodwife and I were present at the time. Given the circumstances, Naomi—”
“Given the circumstances?” Dorcas gave Falcon a withering look.
“Your mother caught fire whilst preparing breakfast,” Sam-uel said softly.
A slight gasp escaped Garnet. She immediately took Ethan and Hester by their hands and led them off.
“I knew she got burned.” Christopher still looked confused.
“I wrapped your mother in a blanket to put out the flames.” Samuel wished his son didn’t have to hear this. He chose his words carefully. “Her burns were severe. The very morning of the accident, she went to her Maker.”
“In nothing,” Dorcas snapped, “more than a burned night-dress and a blanket.”
“Her pain was great, Christopher,” Ruth said. “I sat with your father at her bedside for half the morning until she slipped away. We buried Naomi gently. Dressed as she was in her nightdress and the quilt she favored, she looked peaceful. She’d gone on to her eternal rest.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “Thank you, Goodwife Morton, for being a friend in my mother’s time of trouble. Aunt Dorcas? Surely my mother would be gladdened that someone in need received her clothes.”
Reverend Clark smiled. “Well said, lad. A godly woman’s heart is full of charity.”
Unwilling to allow the Ryders any further opportunity to upset his son or promulgate falsehoods, Sam said, “I bid you all good day.”
“Good day,” the others said—all save the Ryders who turned and walked away.
Falcon said, “Christopher, since there’s to be no school on the morrow, I plan to send Aaron to chip out salt blocks in the morn. If perchance your father needs more, my son would be glad of your company and help.”
“Father?”
Resting his hand on his son’s shoulder, Sam said, “I’ll send Christopher over with the wagon. He recently spotted a salt vein.”
“If the boys bring me salt, as well, I’d be willing to spend the morrow on a trip to the coast.” Brooks grinned. “A good-sized sturgeon would feed us all many a meal.”
“The last time he did so, Reverend, the fish he hauled back was enormous.” Ruth slipped her hand into Falcon’s. “You’ll have to come for supper.”
“Aaron and I will fetch even more salt.” Christopher’s eyes glittered. “Reverend Clark, you weren’t here yet. The last time Goodman Brooks brought back a sturgeon, he found it necessary to behead the creature and chop off the tail just to fit the body diagonally in his wagon!”
“I’d be pleased to have such a fine meal.” Reverend Clark grimaced. “The best that can be said of my cooking is that ’tis warm.”
“There’s always a place at our table for you,” Ruth said.
“The same can be said for my household.” Sam and Christopher walked back toward the wagon. On the way to church, Garnet had shared the seat with Samuel. Now, she’d climbed into the back with Ethan and Hester—due, no doubt, to Erasmus’s base accusation. Sam tamped down the urge to order her onto the seat. After nuncheon, he’d speak with her privately.
“You said—” Chris’s voice cracked, and he coughed into his hand to cover the embarrassment. “You said I’d drive the wagon on the morrow.”
“Indeed.” Sam clapped his son on the back. “In fact, you’ll drive us home today.”
Wisdom dictated he sit beside his son on the bench. Still, Sam didn’t want to have everyone in the churchyard believe he allowed Ryder’s crudity to leave any taint. He stood by the side of the wagon and squinted at Hester’s bodice. “If my estimate is correct, you could take the lacing from that and use it to play cat’s cradle on the trip home.”
“Widow Wheelock taught me how to play that.” Hester immediately started to pull the lace free.
“She’s teaching us many things,” Ethan hastened to say.
Christopher climbed up onto the seat. “I’ll be sure to bring home sufficient salt for you, Widow Wheelock. With all the pickling and salting and drying you’ve been doing, you’ll need more.”
Garnet smiled at Chris.
Sam thought of all the herbs, vegetables, and fruits she’d been preserving and drying. “Thanks to her industry, your belly won’t just be warm and full this winter. ’Twill be tasty fare we enjoy.”
Ann Stamsfield’s giggles filled the air as her husband drove by them. She called back, “Anything would have to be an improvement, Goodman Walsh!”
❧
Upon taking his first bite at nuncheon, Christopher looked across the table. “Widow Wheelock, Goodwife Stamsfield teased Father that anything would be better than his cooking. Since you’ve come, the stirabout in the morning is never burned, and I’ve not had a single bellyache.”
Samuel waggled his spoon at his son. “Your cooking was no better. For mercy’s sake, Widow Wheelock, please be sure to teach Hester how to make such fine food. One of these days when
a man takes her to wife, he will be thankful for the kindness.”
“I’m thankful now.” Ethan eyed the pumpkin. “Especially for that custard.”
“Eat the rest of your nuncheon, son. No sweet until you’ve finished what’s already on your plate.”
Four times in the past two weeks, Garnet had made pumpkin custard. Ruth had also shown her how to make pumpkin muffins and pumpkin pie. While many of the pumpkins sat out in the field curing, those without a stem attached wouldn’t keep well. On the day Ruth and Garnet made soap, Ruth taught her to cut those pumpkins into rings to dry.
“Father,” Hester swallowed a bite, “is it work to go on a walk and gather?”
“It would depend on what you gather and why you took the walk. If your brother went on a walk to set snares and collect the creatures they’d captured, that would be work. If you went for a stroll and found a patch of flowers that made you happy, then gathering them to share God’s beauty on our table would be fine.”
“Any plant out there, the widow can find a use for. Many uses. On Sundays, if she takes me for a stroll and the flowers are pretty on the table that day and she can use them the next day, is that work?”
“Each person must examine his own heart and submit to the Lord. It isn’t for me to judge what another feels is acceptable to God. I must live as He gives me light. Widow Wheelock has shown a love for the Lord and great kindness. I trust she would act in accordance with what she knows in her heart to be right.”
In keeping with it being the day of rest, neither Garnet nor he could busy themselves with ordinary chores. After they’d enjoyed the custard, Sam rose. “Today’s fair, but it won’t be long ere we deal with the cold. Why don’t we all take a stroll to the stream? You children may wade.”
His children hopped up and bolted out the door.
Sam picked up the slate. “Come, Widow Wheelock. Chris-topher swims like a fish, and Ethan manages to paddle around well enough to enjoy himself, but I worry for Hester.”
Spoke Of Love Page 8
