Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  He clucked to the pigs, savoring this stolen moment of peace. Lucy raised her head, sniffing his hand with a moist, grain-flecked nose, then went back to her meal. The little piglets grunted and squealed as they shouldered one another aside at the trough. He put his arm through the fence and stroked a piglet on her rough, warm back. She pointed her tiny snout at him for a moment, her little pink nostrils working, button eyes bright. Then she flicked her curly tail and skittered down to the other end of the trough.

  The back door of the doctor’s house opened. To his disappointment, it was Mr. Miller who emerged on the stoop, a bag slung over his shoulder. The saddler raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning,” he called across the yard.

  “Good morning to you, sir.”

  “Have you some time to assist me this morning, young man?” Mr. Miller asked, walking toward him over the gravel.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Master Good had told him that he must drop all other duties if Mr. Miller asked for his help. He had been working for Mr. Miller every day now for a week. It was far more pleasant than his other tasks. But poor Tom was working twice as hard to keep up, and guilt nagged at Will as he watched the younger apprentice staggering back and forth on various errands of animal tending and wood gathering.

  Mr. Miller reached Will, and they fell in step, headed for the work area in the Goods’ barn.

  Once they were inside and the door fastened against the cold, Mr. Miller laid out his tools on the workbench. Will admired the craftsmanship of the large awl, its sharp metal head set flush and solid in the wood handle. Years of fine work in Mr. Miller’s hand had lent all his tools a subtle gleam, a patina of history. Compared to their graceful lines, their aged wood and bone, Master Good’s newer tools were crude and gaudy, like children’s toys.

  The model O’Hara saddle rested on one of the wall racks. Now that the tree and padding for the new saddle were ready, Mr. Miller no longer needed the model saddle’s measurements. Will had been cutting stirrup straps and billet straps yesterday, but the master saddler cut the saddle flaps in order to assure the correct curve. Now a smooth piece of leather lay over the saddle seat, ready to be stitched into place.

  “Will, if you would be so good as to begin the pommel stitching, I will start the embossing for the flaps.”

  He could not believe that Mr. Miller would entrust him with such an important task. Pleasure rushed through him, carrying with it slight anxiety. He did not know if his hand would be steady, with his nerves drawn tight by the need for perfection. He was glad Mr. Miller had already cut the stitching channel, so all Will had to do was sink the stitches.

  He picked up his two needles and the awl and seated himself on the stitching horse. Hole by hole, thread by thread, he pulled the smooth hide taut into the desired position. He grew a little dizzy and had to remind himself not to hold his breath for each stitch.

  Will paused and straightened up for a brief rest, hands still resting on the pommel with the needles and awl. Mr. Miller was deep in concentration a few feet away at the work table, bending over the saddle flap with a half-moon blade. Will marveled at the deftness with which the master saddler wielded the knife, his wrist rotating smoothly, the blade perfectly vertical as it etched a design of fine petals into the damp leather. He carved with astonishing speed, first one perfect rose, then another.

  Mr. Miller must have noticed Will’s fascination out of the corner of his eye, for he smiled down at his work as he finished the lines of another flower. “Would you like to approach and observe?” he asked without looking up.

  Will was chagrined to be caught lollygagging, as Master Good would call it. “Oh no, sir.” Then he realized that his master would want him to observe as closely as possible. “Or perhaps just for a moment.” He laid his needles on the saddle seat, careful to keep the threads straight. Rising and swinging his leg over the bench, he crossed to where Mr. Miller still bent over his work.

  “It’s very fine, Mr. Miller.” He said it with wonder, still absorbed by the sight of the knife flitting across the surface with such accuracy.

  “Thank you, Will. The result of many years of apprenticeship under a demanding master.” For the first time, the saddler lifted his knife away from the leather, turning his head to look Will in the face. “Not as demanding as yours, perhaps.”

  Will shifted his gaze, looking back at the saddle flap. Miss Miller must have told her father what had happened. It was humiliating, and yet part of him was relieved that someone, anyone, knew of his master’s true nature.

  He would say nothing. Mr. Miller seemed a decent man, but Will did not know if the saddler might repeat anything he said to Master Good.

  The saddler laid his knife aside. He stroked his chin with one hand, then picked up the beveller and wooden hammer, scanning the floral design closely as if checking for any minor flaw. “My wife was particularly fond of this pattern.”

  “Was, sir? Is she no longer living?” Will would not usually ask such a question, but the camaraderie of their shared craft put him at his ease with the saddler, who was so different from his own master. Perhaps he had gone too far, even so.

  But Mr. Miller did not seem offended, only a little sad. “Lost in childbirth with Mabel, my youngest.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Mmm.” The saddler applied the beveller to one of his fine cuts and began a series of small taps with the hammer. A delicate channel emerged in the flower pattern, bringing the line into relief so that it was more visible. “My two youngest don’t even remember her. It’s my eldest daughter who has borne the burden of her mother’s passing, for some nine years now. I fear she has taken it too hard and will lose her youth in raising her sisters.”

  At this mention of Miss Miller, who had occupied his thoughts so prominently in recent days, Will was shy. He did not wish to say anything of her. But as he watched Mr. Miller bevel the pattern, his thoughts drifted on. Miss Miller had lost her mother years ago, just as he had. But he had lost his mother piece by piece, in a long wait punctuated only by letters written in a hand that grew gradually weaker and more unsteady. Unlike him, Miss Miller had lost her mother suddenly, in one shocking day.

  He wondered if she still thought of her mother as often as he did—if she too remembered the softness of her mother’s embrace, or the way her mother’s eyes squinted at the corners when she laughed. He imagined the saddler’s daughter as she must have been then—a little girl, gradually realizing that her mother would never come back to her, the fragments of her heart crumbling and scattering with every passing day. But at least she still had her father.

  He turned abruptly from the saddler’s side and went back to the stitching horse with a lump in his throat.

  Time blurred as Will continued his focused stitching, checking to be sure the positioning was correct, careful not to pierce the thread with his second needle. He had worked his way back to the cantle when Dr. Loftin opened the door of the shed.

  “Samuel, the cook has some cold meats and cheese prepared if you wish to have them now.” The doctor included Will with a nod. “Care to join us, Will?”

  “I’d better not, sir.”

  The doctor did not persist. He probably knew Will’s refusal was rooted in his apprehension about Master Good.

  Mr. Miller stood, stretched his arms and back, and walked to the door, holding it open for Dr. Loftin.

  But the doctor stayed where he was. “I’ll be inside presently, Samuel. I have something to discuss with this young man.”

  When Mr. Miller was gone and the door closed again, Dr. Loftin continued. “I have some good tidings for you. Mrs. O’Hara has agreed that her foreman will give the poorhouse girl a position at the glassworks, on the Pittsburgh side of the river.”

  Will’s heart lifted. “Thank you, Doctor! You won’t have cause to regret it, sir! I know she will be a good worker.”

  The doctor smiled. “There is still one hurdle to be overcome. She must have somewhere to stay. And that charge,
I leave to you. Go down by the waterfront to some of the boarding houses there. See if you can find one that will take her. Preferably one that is not possessed of too ill a repute.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will colored, thinking of his earlier reference to bordellos. More than one bawdy house plied the trade near the Pittsburgh waterfront.

  “Here.” The doctor held out a small velvet bag. “I will support her first week of boarding myself, and she can repay me when she receives her wages.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Will wanted to convey his gratitude, but he couldn’t find anything eloquent to say. But the doctor seemed to sense his elation, and his face reflected a measure of Will’s joy.

  “I’ll send you across the bridge on an errand for the Millers. I believe your master will agree to that. And when it is all arranged, I will have my driver bring you in the coach to get her.”

  Will nodded. He was confident that Master Good would agree to anything that would ingratiate Will with Mr. Miller.

  By that afternoon Will had found the place. Down by the docks, only yards from where he usually picked up the oakum, an old brown building advertised for boarders with a crudely lettered sign hung on its door. It was not completely respectable, perhaps, but completely respectable places were few, and they would not agree to take a young woman on her own like Emmie. At least this one was clean and not adjacent to a tavern. In the city, one was never too far from a tavern, but it was ill advised for a young woman to walk past one if she could avoid it. Drunk men were dangerous.

  The docks were not free of drunks either, but Emmie would be close to the factory at the water’s edge. And because Will had to get the oakum every week, he would be able to stop by this boarding house to assure himself that she had come to no harm.

  The toothless woman who rented him the room leered at him when he explained that he would be renting the room for a “woman friend.”

  “She is a decent girl,” he said defensively.

  “Of course she is.” She cackled and scratched her cheek with a knowing look. Her bonnet was grubby, and he smelled the nutty pungency of gin. But beggars could not be choosers.

  The woman took the money in the pouch. “She’ll have the attic room, then,” she said. “Starting tomorrow.”

  He clambered down the stairs and made his way back toward the bridge. His coat was still ragged, but he did not feel the cold, so warmed was he by the pleasure of helping Emmie. He could not wait to see her face when he told her that he had come to take her away from the poorhouse.

  But that might be several days from now. Until then, he must be very careful around Master Good. He did not want another beating to ruin the plan.

  Thirteen

  ANN SLIPPED OUT THE BACK DOOR OF DR. LOFTIN’s home and into the purple dimness that veiled the house and yard before dawn. She gathered her coat tight round her shoulders. The chill gusts of wind took her breath away. She picked her way down the stoop and over to the doctor’s barn, which was closed up tight. No matter. She did not need to go inside for this errand.

  She skirted the barn, grateful for the thick, concealing gloom under its eaves. It was not respectable to skulk about a host’s property like a thief, alone, before sunup. She would shrivel with shame should anyone see her before she found the apprentice. But she had been trying to deliver the letters for days without success. She had only seen him unaccompanied a few times. He seemed to be always at work for his master or her father. And she could not go speak with him on Master Good’s property without raising eyebrows. She might risk her father’s disapproval, but not Master Good’s violent temper.

  She reached the far back corner of the building and stopped, leaning against the rough wood to still her nerves. From her window she had seen the apprentice come out every morning to draw water from the Goods’ pump, which was only yards away from where she stood now. She hoped he would not be long. Her heart raced and her throat dried out with fear of discovery.

  She must calm herself. It might be half an hour before he emerged. She closed her eyes and began to pray, first for him, then for herself. But her thoughts were so jerky and scattered that she apologized to the Creator for her distraction and ended the prayer.

  The Goods’ kitchen door opened. Will came out with a bucket in one hand. His face was set, as if sheer concentration could make the walk bearable in that tattered coat.

  She could not call out. What if Mistress Good was awake inside? She stepped just beyond the eaves and waved an arm. He did not notice, mouth pressed in a line, tangled dark hair hanging forward as he pumped the handle. She waved harder. No luck. She jumped and waved both arms. What an utter fool she must look. But it might be her only chance.

  His head turned. He stopped and stared. She brought her arms to her sides. Did he not see that she wanted him to approach? She beckoned. With a furtive glance at the house, he walked to her, and she backed behind the corner so he would follow. Now they were concealed from the Goods’ window.

  She ignored the smell of the pigsty and stepped close so she could whisper. “Is your master or mistress awake?”

  “Not yet. But any minute.” He glanced back in the direction of the house.

  “I told you I had something for you.” She reached inside her coat and retrieved the bag from the inside pocket. “I know I must be quick.” She was so nervous that her clumsy fingers could not untie the strings. “Here.” She pushed it into his hands. “Open it.”

  He plucked at them and worked them loose.

  She must explain before he saw the letters. “I found these in a barrel that your master sent to my father more than two years ago. I did not think they should be tossed out.”

  He pulled the papers out and unfolded them.

  She watched his thin, strong features. No expression. Had he gone pale?

  “Are they yours?”

  He nodded once, without meeting her gaze. His Adam’s apple moved in his neck, where he wore no scarf. He looked away, and in his silhouette she saw the quick flutter of his eyelids.

  He was not angry then, but fighting a softer emotion. Her grief rose to meet his, threatening to overwhelm her. She swallowed hard. “Have I done right in bringing them to you?”

  He nodded again. He folded them and leaned back against the barn, tilting his head back. For a moment, sorrow and longing poured across his face in place of the tears he did not shed. Then he took a shuddering breath. How could she help? She laid one hand on his arm.

  He lowered his face back toward her. Their eyes met, and the intensity of their shared emotion vibrated between them. Her most private feelings were laid bare. There was a kind of comfort in it, even with the pain, but she could not stand its strangeness for long.

  She lifted her hand and stepped back. “You must take the letters.”

  “I cannot keep them. If he finds them again, he will destroy them.” The strain in his whisper told her what that would mean to him.

  “But you must have them.” She dug her nails in her hands. There had to be a solution. “Can I leave them with the doctor?”

  “No.” His face flushed darker.

  “I am sure he would not read them.”

  “No.”

  The tint in the air lightened from purple to blue. Dawn was near. She must hurry. “What if I keep them for you until your indenture is finished?”

  “That will be more than a year.” His jaw tightened as if it stretched like an eternity in his mind.

  “I will keep them safe,” she said. “And you must write to me care of the postmaster in Rushville, Ohio, when you are free. Then I will send them to you, wherever you are.”

  He met her gaze again, his dark eyes turbulent.

  A scraping noise from the Goods’ kitchen made her jump. The light was increasing by the moment.

  She held out her hands and he gave her the letters and the pouch. “Go,” she murmured.

  He turned and walked out into the yard again. She crept up to the corner so she could watch. Had Mistress Good seen? Ev
en if she noticed Will’s absence, she would not see Ann over here behind the barn. That was some reassurance. Will might claim any farm duty had taken him out of Mistress Good’s sight.

  Will grabbed the full bucket as if nothing were amiss and lugged it back toward the house with flexed arm.

  The air was translucent now. The sun must have cleared the horizon to the east, and only the trees beyond the road held back the morning.

  Across the yard, Will grasped the door handle and stepped in.

  A dull silence reigned over the Good house, with only the occasional clatter of iron from the kitchen. Mistress Good must not have noticed anything amiss.

  She made her way back toward the doctor’s door, tentative, checking if the way was clear. No one accosted her, and she went in as silently as she had come out. Inside she paused, bracing one hand on the plaster wall and letting out a pent-up breath.

  What she had done seemed so futile. Had there been any worth in showing him the letters, when he had to return to his place of imprisonment? She could do so little when they were all bound by a law so unjust.

  She would go upstairs now and bury the letters in the bottom of her trunk. Her sentiments were disordered, like unfinished seams that frayed and unraveled with every additional touch. She wanted to put the whole matter away and clothe herself again in the neatness of life before she ever met the apprentice. Delivering the letters should have calmed her and removed her preoccupation with his plight. Instead, his refusal to take them had only agitated her further. Perhaps it was better not to understand or be understood if it led to such painful disruption of the spirit.

  She spun away from the door and walked up the hall, shaking her skirts into perfect folds with a quick flip of the wrist. No matter how ragged and frayed she became inside, her exterior appearance would not reveal it.

  Fourteen

  ANN’S FATHER HELD HER BACK FROM THE EDGE OF the street as a carriage swerved uncomfortably close.