She walked off with an even, dignified stride until she was out of sight, then she dashed through the yard, past the outbuildings and along the walkway to the Dalbow cottage.
Martha Dalbow was a petite, pretty young woman Meg had known all her life. Her father had been a laborer on the Pyle farm, and Meg and Martha played together as children until Meg went to school in Burgen County in the northern part of the state. Now they exchanged smiles and waves at church, but Martha married a glassblower and wasn’t invited to the same houses as Meg.
Greeting her childhood friend, Meg experienced a spurt of rebellion and decided to be friendlier with Martha in the future, especially now that Sarah would live farther away.
“So you’re going to get married, too.” Martha trotted alongside Meg on their way back to the glassworks, her golden curls bobbing with every bouncy step. “I always thought you’d be first.”
“It’s not certain.” Meg figured if she said it enough it would be so. “I haven’t said yes.”
“Then I’ll save my congratulations.”
They reached the group of men standing near the door. Father had gone, and Peter and Joseph were engaged in a discussion about the price of shipping goods out of the country. Peter broke off as soon as Meg and Martha arrived, but Joseph took several minutes to finish expounding on tariffs before acknowledging Meg’s arrival. He said nothing to Martha. He offered Meg his arm, leaving Martha to follow.
Meg declined the offer and preceded him inside, her hand on Martha’s elbow to bring her along.
The heat enveloped her like an extra cloak. Although the desk lay to her left, her gaze shot to the right almost of its own volition, seeking, finding, resting on Colin in his corner. He was working with a piece of glass the consistency of thickened caramel, applying tongs and a cutter to stretch and twist the hot, shimmering mass. Meg’s heart suddenly felt the same as that hot glass—malleable, twisted, compressed. She heard voices around her but couldn’t comprehend what they said.
“Margaret.” Joseph’s tone sharpened, and he grasped her arm.
She started. “I–I’m sorry.” She swung toward Father’s desk. “I’m fascinated by the process of making glass.”
And the man making it.
Martha nodded and smiled but said nothing until they all tried to make sense of the diagrams drawn on wide sheets of paper.
“I’ll fetch one of the men,” she whispered, then she darted off.
Meg watched Martha’s progress through the factory, around the furnaces, and past the benches of the blowers. She paused by her husband, who shook his head, then she walked around him and out of sight. Meg tensed, waiting for Martha to reappear, waiting for Colin to appear. Waiting, anticipating, hoping—
“Margaret.” Joseph’s sharp tone returned Meg to the men beside her.
She blinked up at him. “Did you say something to me?”
Joseph and Peter gave her questioning glances.
“I was woolgathering.” Meg turned her back on the workroom. “Peter, I think this design is a glass globe for a wall sconce. See the crimped edges at the top?” She traced a wavy line along the upper edge of a design. “Of course, it’s a little too round, so—maybe …” Her voice trailed off.
She hadn’t heard his footfalls above the clang and clatter of equipment and roar of the furnaces, but she sensed him, caught the scent of smoke and the tang of the silica.
“‘Tis a vase.” Colin’s hand joined hers on the sketch. “See how the bottom is rounded? A sconce would be straight to fit into the holder.”
“How silly of me.” She felt breathless, too warm in her heavy cloak and wool dress. “I don’t think Peter—Mr. Strawn—wants vases, do you, Peter? You mentioned sconces or maybe glasses. Glasses would take longer, since you’d need several, so maybe—” She snapped her teeth together.
She was talking too much.
“Let Grassick help Peter.” Joseph’s voice was as cold and brittle and sharp as an icicle. “I will walk you home.”
“No.” Meg stepped away from the desk, away from Colin, and away from Joseph. “I’ll go to Martha’s house until Peter is ready to help carry my things to Sarah’s.”
“If you like.” Joseph’s eyes gleamed pale blue. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday.” He stalked to the front door of the glassworks.
Meg caught sight of Martha talking to her husband again and waved her over.
They exited out the back door. As Meg turned to pull the heavy panel closed behind her, she caught Colin’s eyes upon her and smiled, and her stomach fluttered.
She closed her eyes for a moment to gain her composure, and when she opened them again, Colin stood with his back to her. Her belly settled, and she trotted off behind Martha, an apology on her lips.
“I don’t need to stay, since you probably have work to do, Martha. I can walk home on my own.”
“But I’d like you to stay.” Martha lowered her eyes. “I’m learning how to knit and would love to show someone what I’m making Thad.”
“And I’d love to see it.”
More time than Meg anticipated passed with Martha. She found herself settling into the cozy kitchen with its herbs hanging from the ceiling and heavy pot simmering over the fire, sending the wonderful aroma of venison throughout the cottage. The entire home seemed to embrace Meg with its plain but comfortable furnishings and embroidered samplers of Bible verses decorating the whitewashed walls. Martha showed Meg everything, her face glowing.
“Will you teach me to knit?” Meg asked. “It’s so useful.”
“But it’s not very ladylike, is it?”
“Neither is fishing, but I do that, too.”
Martha laughed. “I heard.” She tilted her head and glanced at Meg from the corner of one blue eye. “Colin is a wonderful man.”
“Yes.” Meg fingered the scarf Martha was knitting, admiring the smoothness of the stitches. “And talented.”
“And works for your father.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But Meg knew it did. It mattered to her father. It mattered to Colin. It should matter to her.
“I’d better be on my way.” She stood abruptly. “I want to visit you again. You can teach me to knit, and if I get any girls in my school, I can teach them. Where do I find the needles and yarn?”
Information in hand, Meg returned to the glassworks. Peter seemed to be occupying his time watching the work at hand. Meg wanted to stay but knew she shouldn’t. If she were wise, she would leave the glassworks and not return.
She didn’t think she was wise—only prudent enough to not mention Colin’s name to Peter, to Sarah, to God in her prayers. She tried not to think about him. Like not thinking about her upcoming betrothal, she hoped a lack of thought would make it go away, whatever it was, the tightening inside her whenever she saw him. It was a feeling like she would burst into tears if she couldn’t see him and song when she did.
Except she didn’t see him. With Father gone, she couldn’t even contrive an excuse for visiting the glassworks. Staying with the Thompsons, she couldn’t get over to the Dalbow cottage and perhaps encounter him there unless she came up with a good excuse.
The idea came to her while she and Sarah unpacked linens in Sarah’s new home. The stacks of sheets, pillowcases, and towels had been stored in wooden crates lined with muslin and sprinkled with lavender, as Sarah had finished embroidering her and Peter’s initials on them. Fatigued from a restless night, Meg sat on an unopened crate and suddenly knew how to solve her problem of seating for the students she hoped to have at her school.
“Packing crates!” She leaped to her feet. “We’ll use packing crates for benches.”
“That’s a good idea.” Sarah tucked an armful of sheets in the linen press. “You’re welcome to take these, but it won’t be enough.”
“I hope it won’t be enough. But Father has acres of them at the glassworks. I’m sure he won’t care if I take a few for seats. Shall we go see?”
“Now?�
�� Sarah shook her head. “Your father isn’t home or there.”
“No one will be there. It’s Saturday afternoon, and they stop work early to let the furnaces cool for cleaning.”
Not waiting for Sarah to agree, Meg ran down the steps to the entryway and snatched her cloak off a stand by the door. “I’ll just run up and look at what’s available and see if they’re the right size.”
“No, don’t go alone. The walk will be good.” Sarah started down the steps. “If I breathe any more lavender, I’ll get a headache.”
Cloaks tucked around them against the bite of the early December wind, they strolled along the road. Wood smoke from cooking fires scented the air, and a handful of snowflakes danced around them.
“If it snows,” Meg grumbled, “everything in the school will get wet without the windows.”
“It won’t snow yet. There’s sunshine over there.” Sarah gestured to the west.
Sunlight glowed around the edges of the clouds like a promise. Meg hugged herself and increased her pace. Sometimes Colin worked extra hours. Maybe today …
Although a curl of smoke drifted lazily into the brightening sky from one of the two chimneys at the glassworks, the building was empty, the fires banked in the furnaces.
“They must have just left.” Meg closed the door then paused, frowning at it. “But I can’t believe they left without locking it.”
“Maybe they’ll be right back.” Sarah tugged on Meg’s arm. “We shouldn’t be inside without anyone here.”
“No, but it’s awfully messy. They usually clean up at the end of the day.” Though not liking the glassworks left open and unkempt, Meg allowed Sarah to lead her around the building to the shed where packing crates rose in stacks higher than their heads.
“I think these will work.” Sarah used her hands to measure one crate. “They’re high enough for children.”
“And they’re sturdy, since they have to hold glass. Oh, here’s someone.” Meg glanced over her shoulder, hoping, then suppressing a sigh of disappointment.
Thaddeus Dalbow, not Colin, strode into the yard. “Miss Meg, Miss Sarah, may I be of assistance?”
“I want to look at packing crates.” Meg glanced toward the factory building. “Are you the one working late today?” She tried to sound casual. “I thought it was only Mr. Grassick who worked extra hours.”
Sarah’s breath hissed through her teeth, and Meg realized she’d given herself away just saying his name.
“It is.” Thad shoved a lock of unruly hair away from his face. “But there was an accident.”
nine
Colin knew he should be at church and not working, however charitable the work. He heard his mother’s admonitions about the need for worship and teaching ringing with nearly every breath he took. But at church he saw Meg, and seeing Meg had begun to hurt as much as did his left hand.
“You understand, do You not, Lord?” As he often did, he prayed while he worked alone.
Today’s project took him to Meg’s school, a building that appeared to have been an old cottage no one used any longer. Instead of Mr. Jordan having to hire a carpenter to fit the new glass panes into the wooden frames, Colin had offered to do the work. With the glass finished, he decided to risk someone disapproving of him working on a Sunday and set the windows back into the school for Meg’s next visit.
“When else would I be having the daylight?” Colin thought something must be wrong if he was trying to justify his actions to the Lord. If he needed to justify them, they couldn’t be right.
That knowledge didn’t stop him from lifting the first pane of glass from its nest of straw and sliding it into the frame. Around him a few birds chirped and the air smelled clean. He caught a hint of water with the wind blowing from the direction of the nearby bay, and his heart ached with the wish to see his family. He had abandoned them fifteen years ago with scarcely a backward glance, yet now that his father’s death had brought them together again, he didn’t want to be apart from them.
“So you should stop thinking of the master’s daughter, my lad.”
Think of Meg he did—too often. He’d ruined a perfectly good candlestick when she walked into the glassworks on Wednesday morning, as bright and effervescent as the morning itself. The excuse to go near her came as a gift, a blessing, and he exerted every bit of willpower he possessed not to run through the factory to her side.
And Joseph Pyle, that man to whom she would be wed too soon, stood near her, too, glaring at Colin as though he intended to shrivel him like last year’s apples.
“She can never be yours, lad,” Colin cautioned himself over the first pane of glass.
He had no business even considering more than a polite exchange of words with her for however long he remained in Salem County. She was his master’s daughter, and he had a family who needed him more than Meg Jordan needed anything.
“Keep your mind on your work and the Lord,” he admonished himself.
As though to prove he wasn’t doing enough of the latter, church bells began to ring across the countryside, pure and melodic. Soon worshippers would travel along the road, returning to their homes or visiting with friends and neighbors. She would pass by, too. He wanted her to see him and stop. He knew she shouldn’t.
His hand throbbed, and he paused to soak it in a bucket of cold water, as Ilse Weber had told him he should. She was right. It wasn’t the first time he’d burned himself while learning to manipulate hot glass. But this was the first time the burn hadn’t been his fault. Not that he could prove that or do more than speculate how the accident occurred.
The water diminishing the ache in his hand, he resumed his work with the window, fitting a pane into the frame and holding it with the uninjured half of his left hand, so he could apply the caulking with his right. The position proved awkward, and when he heard her voice, the glass slipped out of his hold.
He caught it an instant before it struck the ground and broke. The sharp edge nicked his palm. He frowned, figuring it was what he deserved for not resting and worshipping on a Sunday.
And for thinking of Meg Jordan instead of the Lord.
“Mother would be ashamed of you, lad,” he muttered.
“I should think she would be indeed.” Meg’s voice brimmed with laughter. “You should have been in church or home resting that hand.”
“Ah, you sound like a schoolmistress.” He laughed, too, and turned to face her, his left hand outstretched. “I could not tie a proper cravat for attending the kirk, and I’m hoping the Lord will forgive my work if ‘tis for a good cause and not personal gain.”
“Oh Colin.” She cradled his hand in both of hers, the silk of her gloves snagging on his rough skin. “I was distressed when Thad told us about your accident.” She touched the blisters on his palm and pinkie finger so gently she gave him no pain. “How did it happen?”
“‘Tis what I’d like to ken myself.” He frowned at his hand.
Her gaze flashed to his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean my grate—you ken where the pipe rests?—’twas hot enough to burn when it should have been as cool as this glass.”
“Colin.” She curled her fingers around the uninjured part of his hand. “How? I mean, were you in the glassworks alone?”
“I thought I was, but someone could have sneaked in while I was mixing the silica.”
“Why? Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
“‘Tis not unheard of in the glasshouses. Envy. Fear for their positions. Malice.” He set down the pane of glass he still held and smoothed the crease between her brows with the tip of his finger. “Do not fash yourself, lass. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“I’ll tell my father—”
“Nay, do not. ‘Twill cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll heal.”
“But, Colin—”
“Go now.” He extracted his grip from hers. “You shouldn’t be here, you ken. You’re an engaged lady, and he’s likely wondering where you are.”
/> “We’re not engaged yet.” She grimaced. “Father still wants me to marry Mr. Pyle, but nothing is official until after the first of the year. And I’m hopeful—never you mind about that. I’m concerned about your not coming to church.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with me.” He injected as much coolness into his tone as he could manage with her close enough for him to catch her scent of apple blossoms. “The Lord knows the state of my soul.”
“Would He be happy with it?”
“Now that is a verra difficult question to answer. But I am thinking the Lord isn’t happy with me at all.” He turned his back on her and began to fit the glass into the window frame again.
She puffed out a breath. “Colin, you didn’t cause your father’s death.”
“Aye, but there you’re wrong. If I’d been with him—”
“You likely would have died, too.”
“I might have kept him from going out in a storm.”
“So you got your stubbornness from your mother?”
“Ah, Meg—Miss Jordan, you make me laugh, you do.” He did laugh, and his soul lightened. “Nay, I got my stubbornness from my father. But if I’d been working with him all along, he wouldn’t have felt the need to work too hard and be careless with his life.”
“I’m sorry. That’s a difficult burden to bear.” She moved up beside him, tugged off her gloves, and placed one hand on the glass to steady it in its frame while he applied the caulking. “But you’ve been forgiven if you’ve asked for it.”
“I ken that’s what the Bible tells me, but I don’t feel it in my heart.” He shifted his position for a better angle, and his hand brushed hers.
Like brushing fine porcelain, creamy and as smooth as her silk glove had been.
He took a deep breath to stop his heart from skipping any more beats than it already had. “I need to bring my family here and keep my work to be truly obedient to the Lord. Just like you’re needing to marry that fine gentleman your father wishes you to wed.”
“I’m not convinced my father really does wish me to marry Joseph.”
Colin dropped his knife. “I beg your pardon?”
The Glassblower Page 8
