Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  With the Quaker farmer, Will’s work had been hard, though the farmer was fair and honest. Will had longed to see more than barns and horses—he wanted to read books, see ships, talk to travelers. When his farm indenture expired last month, he had jumped at the chance for a Pittsburgh apprenticeship. He could hardly wait for the larger world that lay before him.

  At the bottom of the hill, the coach entered a labyrinth of streets dense with buildings. First was a two-story mercantile, then a livery stable. Next came a brick warehouse with “Rifles and Munitions” painted in white across its side. Pedestrians clotted the road. The coach clattered past doctors’ establishments with gilt signs, and offices for attorneys-at-law.

  “Master Good, look. Another saddler.” Will pointed to a sign with a saddle and two crossed whips.

  “Yes, I have plenty of would-be rivals.” His master did not seem curious about the sights, but instead picked up a newspaper that lay on the seat beside him and scanned the advertisements. Outside the window, the crowd thinned and wider plots of land girdled genteel residences.

  The carriage slowed and shuddered to a stop as the driver yelled, “Whoa there!” Boots thumped on the ground outside and the driver opened the door for them, his hat and whiskers covered with dust.

  Will’s master stooped to exit the carriage, and then it was Will’s turn. He slung his knapsack over his shoulder with care. He would not let it out of his sight until he had a safe place for the letters and the locket in the little drawstring pouch.

  When Will climbed down from the coach, his master was already striding toward a two-story white home, graceful amid green lawns. Will had never seen such a large dwelling; he tried not to let his eyes pop like a bumpkin’s.

  He quickened his step to catch up with his master, who rapped with a brass knocker on the blue double door. After a brief wait, the door opened to reveal a young woman in a gray dress and white apron, her hair bound in a net.

  “Hello, Mary,” Master Good said. “I need to speak with the doctor, if you please.”

  She bobbed her head and ushered them in, then disappeared into the recesses of the home.

  The foyer had a high ceiling, marble floor, and a banister-lined staircase curving up and back to the left. A painting in muted tones depicted a dark valley, relieved only by rays of light breaking through massed clouds above.

  “Good afternoon to you, Jacob.” A deep voice issued from the man who stepped through the arched doorway on the far side of the foyer. He was of average height and wore a black frock coat; his hair was pure white and his shoulders straight as a soldier’s. As he crossed the room to offer a hand to Will’s master, he shot Will a quick glance. Will wished his own coat and trousers were not so threadbare and shabby.

  “Dr. Loftin.” Master Good shook the doctor’s hand briefly, then clasped Will’s shoulder. “This is my new apprentice, William Hanby.”

  The doctor nodded at Will.

  “He is entering his term of apprenticeship today. We need a witness for his papers of indenture.” Master Good stepped over to a small mahogany table against the wall, placed his satchel on it, and removed the papers. “Would you serve as our witness?”

  The doctor hesitated. His bright green eyes were set in crow’s feet; his gaze lingered on Will’s face. “William.” He did not take his eyes off Will even as he extended his hand for the papers. “Are you aware of the significance of this contract?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doctor’s expression was grave. “You realize you will be irrevocably bound to your master for five years? You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m grateful for the opportunity Master Good is providing for me.”

  The doctor looked over the papers. At last he spoke, a furrow creasing his brow. “Very well. The last time I witnessed an indenture document was twenty years ago, and it was for a grown Irishman, not a boy. But if you are certain, William, I suppose we will need a quill.”

  It was the work of a moment to call the maid for a quill and inkhorn. Good signed first, writing “Jacob Good” in a jagged hand like an insect’s trail. Will scrawled his name beneath, then the doctor signed “Robert Loftin, MD” at the very bottom.

  “Well, it’s done,” the doctor said. “And I pray God will watch over this indenture.” He spoke quietly, almost to himself.

  “I’m sure he will,” Master Good said, and shaking the doctor’s hand once more, bid him good day.

  Master Good’s household lay just a short walk beyond the doctor’s home. Will trailed his master as they headed down a winding path past the doctor’s animal pens. A fine white sow and her piglets rooted in their trough. His little brother, Johnny, loved feeding piglets and hearing them squeal. Will hoped his brother would get along all right in Beallsville.

  A two-story home loomed ahead of them, not as large as the doctor’s, but sturdily built of whitewashed planks. Master Good must have been very industrious to be blessed with such a home, as well as a large barn and fenced-in land. The master walked up to his front door without ceremony and let himself in. Will ran behind and barely caught the door with his elbow before it closed.

  They stood in a dim, large room. To the left, stiff maroon chairs posed in front of a fireplace. To the right was a kitchen with a large hearth and stone floor. Pots and pans hung from the imposing central beam of the kitchen ceiling. There was a damp smell, as if the bones of the house were old and in need of air.

  “Jane!” Master Good’s unexpected shout made Will jump.

  Something thudded to the floor upstairs. Feet pattered on the staircase next to them, and down the lower flight of steps rushed a rail-thin, middle-aged woman with mousy hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. She stopped, poised like a heron about to take flight. “Jacob,” she said. “Welcome to you.”

  He brushed past her and into the kitchen. “Come over here, boy,” he said over his shoulder. Will hurried after him to the hearth.

  “Jane, where is Tom?” Without waiting for an answer, the master bellowed, “Tom! Tom Reece!”

  The kitchen door flew open and a tangle of limbs fell through, sorting itself into the figure of a slight boy with dark hair and a grimy face. He appeared younger than Will—perhaps a year or two. His cheekbones were sharp, his elbows so skinny they looked as if they would snap at the slightest pressure.

  “Tom, this is your new fellow apprentice, Will Hanby. Explain to him our rules.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said faintly.

  Good removed his hat. The skinny woman scurried over and took it, then retreated back against the wall. “Well?” Good said to Tom.

  Tom spoke in a quick monotone as if reciting a lesson learned by heart. “In this house, Master Good, you are the head and your word law. Your authority covers Mistress Good”—the boy turned his head toward the bird-like woman—“and she has your authority over me as well.”

  Jane Good hunched her shoulders at the mention of her name. She clutched her husband’s hat, her face pale.

  “Will, you shall learn from Tom what is expected of you.” Master Good’s tone was controlled. “You will gather wood, do washing, prepare leather for me, and anything else I desire. You will be instantly obedient, not wasting my time in dithering, nor slouching, nor remaining in bed like a sluggard. I expect you to have already risen and stoked the fire by the time I arrive downstairs. You will sleep in the hayloft with Tom, as we cannot have two servant boys here in the house with us.”

  The hayloft. We will freeze to death in winter. Will tried to keep his face blank, but a cascade of cold shock poured over him.

  “In your best interest, I will instill discipline in you.” Master Good walked past the hearth and plucked with his long fingers a thin cane that leaned in the corner. “I am sure you agree that it is a master’s duty to ensure his apprentice has the qualities to do well in the world.” He flexed the cane in his fingers, then set it back against the wall. “Tom, show Will where the dirty crockery is and how to take it for washing at th
e pump.”

  Tom scuttled to the hutch and opened the wooden door, a visible tremor in his outstretched arm. He removed a small stack of bowls, tucked the bowls in the crook of one arm, and closed the hutch. As he turned toward the kitchen door, the stack of bowls shifted, and the top bowl teetered. It eluded Tom’s desperate grab and tumbled to the floor, its green curve shattering with a loud crash. Shards littered the stone floor.

  Breathless silence fell. Jane Good’s white face froze in a hard mask. Tom blinked and cowered behind his forelock of dark hair, his arms curled around the remaining bowls.

  “You clumsy boy,” Master Good said. “Put down those bowls on the table before you drop another.”

  Tom did so, his eyes glued to Master Good, who bent to the floor to gather a few shards. He straightened up and walked over to Tom at the table, placing the broken pieces gently beside the other bowls. Without any warning, the master drew back his arm and struck Tom with great force on the temple. The boy lost his footing, slammed sidelong into the wall, and fell to the ground.

  “I would request that you pick up the rest of this mess, Tom,” Master Good said. “But I’m afraid that for such a clumsy boy, these sharp pieces might be dangerous.”

  Tears etched white streaks in the grime on Tom’s face.

  Moved, Will spoke up. “Master, surely it was an accident.”

  An icy light kindled in the depths of Master Good’s eyes. “Oh, you disagree with my discipline of the boy? I can see that you and I will need to have a long talk.”

  Hairs lifted on the back of Will’s neck.

  “Get out to the barn, Tom, and make yourself presentable,” Good said, his mouth twisting in disgust. “And show him the pump, as I told you. You, boy.” He indicated Will. “Take the bowls.”

  Tom pushed himself to his feet and staggered out the door.

  The last thing Will wanted was to approach Master Good, but he had to pass by him in order to get the bowls.

  Will stepped to the table. As he reached for the dishes, his master grabbed him by the shoulder and hooked one finger under the strap of his knapsack. “What’s in here, boy? I need to make sure you’re bringing nothing indecent into the home.”

  His stomach turned at the master’s touch, but he dared not move.

  Master Good yanked the knapsack off his shoulder and emptied it on the floor. “Underdrawers? And what’s this?” Snatching the doeskin bag, he picked at its tight drawstrings and pulled out the letters from Will’s mother.

  Frowning, he perused them. “Worthless. Sentimental. You’ll need to learn to avoid sentiment if you’re to be worth anything. To start, we’ll toss these in the rubbish.” He handed the letters to Mistress Good, who crumpled them in her fist.

  The gesture knocked the wind from Will’s lungs. In his airless state, he could not manage a protest.

  Master Good pulled out the locket with his father’s portrait and fingered it. “Pretty, but also of no value. Mistress Good may keep it or sell it as she pleases.” His master dropped the locket back in the sack and tossed it at his wife. It hit her in the chest and fell at her feet, but she snatched it up and scurried away toward the stairs.

  “Now, my boy,” and he sounded, if anything, even kinder than before. “Go with Tom. He will tell you about some other lessons—the ones you may wish to avoid.”

  Three

  RUSHVILLE

  Christmas 1823

  IF ONLY SHE COULD AVOID SEEING ELI TODAY. IN THE corner of the general store, Ann bowed her head and prayed for a quick escape from the public eye.

  Rushville was a small town, and the store rarely saw more than one customer at a time. But today was the Saturday before Christmas, and several ladies puttered about the shelves or stood in line between the heaped sacks and barrels.

  Ann clutched her embroidered handbag. Her pin money would buy gifts for her father and her sisters. Such holiday luxuries were a benefit of life in a family of only four, she supposed. But she would have given anything and everything they owned to have her mother still with them. This would be their seventh Christmas without her.

  She kept a sharp eye on her sisters, who roamed around poking at jointed puppets and picture books.

  “Ann, may I have some candy?” Susan appealed to Ann with her best china doll face. She pursed her lips together and widened her blue eyes—the same shade as their mother’s eyes.

  “No, Susan. Christmas is coming in three days. You’ll get plenty of sweets then.”

  Susan wrinkled her forehead and pouted until even the ribbon in her light-brown hair seemed to wilt. When Ann would not relent, she drifted off to poke her nose over the side of the candy bin, vying for space with her sister Mabel.

  Which candy was attracting such glinty-eyed interest? The maple sugar.

  “Susan, Mabel, there are too many people in here. You need to go outside to clear some room.”

  “But I want to look around!” Susan said over her shoulder, entranced by the fair hair of a doll sitting on a barrel.

  “You heard me,” Ann said.

  Behind the counter, Mrs. Sumner met Ann’s gaze and smiled. Susan and Mabel were probably not the first little girls to be sent out of the store that day because it was “too crowded.”

  Susan sighed, took Mabel’s hand, and dragged her out the door.

  Through the storefront window, Ann saw her sisters greet their playmate Hattie Anderson in silent pantomime. The three girls crouched down to pry pebbles out of the frost-hardened dirt road. At least this cold would keep their mittens clean.

  Her view of the girls was blocked as the store window framed a young man and his girl, looking like a happy portrait in their holiday finest. Ann’s breath caught.

  It was Eli. He strolled toward the door of Sumner’s General, lean and fair, with the gracious turn of head that always made her think some forgotten duke lurked in his family line. Phoebe Vanderlick held his arm and sauntered next to him. He smiled and removed his hat as if he himself had invented the courtesy just for Phoebe. The black-haired girl patted his sleeve.

  Ann wanted to run, but there was only one door. The bell tinkled and the couple walked in. Eli guided Phoebe past the line of customers and cordially begged their pardon.

  Then he noticed Ann. He stiffened; his smile faded. His complexion took a subtle pink cast, and Phoebe’s lively dark eyes lost their warmth. Ann assumed what she hoped was a mask of indifference.

  “Good morning.” Mrs. Sumner broke the hush with loud cheer as she bustled behind the counter. She addressed herself to Mrs. Anderson, who had wandered over to a shelf full of spices. “Would you like some eggs today, Rebecca?”

  Ann still could not move from where she stood or take her eyes from the couple.

  Phoebe tucked her curly black hair behind her ear and stood closer to Eli, tightening her grip on his arm. “Eli, I think I have forgotten my shopping list at home. Would you mind terribly if we went back to get it?”

  “Not at all,” he said, plainly glad for any excuse. They wheeled around like a finely matched pair of carriage horses and fled.

  While Mrs. Sumner finished measuring dry goods for Mrs. Anderson, the heat died down in Ann’s face and her breathing steadied. How could Eli smile at Phoebe that way and hold her so close to his side, when only a few months ago he had sworn his devotion to Ann?

  But no one else knew about his proposal, and no one ever would.

  Mrs. Anderson bundled her packages and gave Ann a friendly nod on her way out.

  “What can I get you, Ann?” Mrs. Sumner asked.

  Ann cleared her throat so she could speak past the lump in it. “Mrs. Sumner, did a delivery come in for us? From Pittsburgh?”

  “Let’s see . . . Miller, Miller . . .” Mrs. Sumner dabbed vaguely at a floury spot on her dark blue dress. “Oh yes, the big barrel. How could I forget?” She turned to the corner where a large pine barrel sat in its iron hoops. “It’s from Pittsburgh, all right. But how will you get it back home?” She tipped the barrel to c
heck its weight.

  “I brought the wagon.”

  Mrs. Sumner wiped her hands on her apron. Her sun-spatter of freckles gave her a constant cheerful air, but now her face was sober. “You’re a credit to your house, young lady. I don’t know many other girls who manage as well, and care for two little girls too.”

  Yes, and other girls are free to marry their sweethearts. Ann schooled her tone to mildness despite the hurt. “Thank you.”

  “George,” Mrs. Sumner called back through the shop curtain. “Can you come help Ann Miller with this barrel?”

  Mr. Sumner lumbered past the curtain, tucking his spectacles in his shirt pocket before thinking better of it and handing them to his wife. A man of burly stature, he merely nodded to Ann before hoisting the barrel in his arms.

  Ann hastened to open the door for him. Her father’s wagon and their bay mare stood next to a hitching post just a few yards down the street. Mr. Sumner took a fresh grip on the barrel and set off with the sidelong crab walk of a man carrying a bulky load. Susan and Mabel skipped behind him.

  While he loaded it, Ann stepped back inside to ask Mrs. Sumner for some toys and candy for the girls. For her father, she chose a small writing book with blank pages. He always needed a place to scribble sermon ideas that came to him as he worked on his fine saddles.

  When all the parcels were wrapped up and hidden from curious little investigators, Ann handed over a few coins. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Sumner. God bless you this Christmas.”

  “You and your family, as well.” Mrs. Sumner handed Ann the parcels and touched her lightly on the shoulder in farewell.