eight

Christopher rested his elbows on the table. “Do you think she ran away again, like she did last eve?”

“I cannot say. You children eat. I’ll look for the widow. She’s much too weak to go far.” Samuel rose. He gave the pumpkin custard a longing look and sternly demanded, “Leave some of that for me. I’ve not had such a treat in a long while.”

He went out and looked at the ground. Christopher’s and Ethan’s shoes left a definite imprint. Hester’s tiny footprint stood out clearly, as did his own large ones. The other prints had to belong to Garnet. Samuel followed them, but they led to the springhouse. After following a few more tracks to the garden, he became more confused. He headed toward the stable to saddle up his horse, but he had no clue as to which direction Garnet had taken.

“Father! Come!” Hester ran up to him and threw her arms about his thighs.

He hugged her automatically. “What is it?”

“She’s here! She was here all along!”

“Oh?”

Grabbing her father’s hand, she put a finger to her lips and led him to the attic ladder. “Go see. She looks so peaceful, Father. We didn’t have the heart to waken her.”

Peaceful didn’t begin to describe her. Garnet had fallen asleep on the boys’ freshly aired and filled corn-husk mattress. Sam’s brows furrowed at the sight of her in her rags. Why had she changed back into such pathetic wear? He’d almost praised Garnet for looking handsome this morning—but ’twasn’t fitting to do so. He’d gladly praise her cooking and how she treated his children, but a man oughtn’t make personal statements if he didn’t intend to court a woman. Nonetheless, he’d instruct her to wear Naomi’s clothing hereafter.

Samuel took a blanket and covered her. She burrowed into the pillow. The action dislodged her cap, causing her glorious hair to spill freely across the bed. His fingers absently threaded through her mane, and he smiled softly. She’d kept her word, at least in part. She’d worked ’til midday, then rested. The smudge on her cheek told him that she wasn’t yet ready to quit her labors.

Sam looked about the attic and caught his breath. It looked as it ought to—which was, sadly enough, something it never did anymore. Nary a speck of dirt, a web, or a stray feather could be seen. Indeed, the loft smelled fresh, and the boys’ few possessions hung neatly on pegs. A woman’s touch made a difference. He descended the ladder and went in to eat the soup. It tasted excellent, but the pumpkin custard truly got his attention.

“I’m thinking I’m glad we grew lots of pumpkins this year,” Ethan declared with relish.

“You’d best see to weeding the garden,” Samuel admonished his son as he served a goodly bit of custard onto his plate. The aroma of it made his mouth water. “After the garden is done, you and Christopher are to gather up the crockery and jars. Hester, you help them wash and dry all of them. We’ll be needing to put by all of the vegetables and apples.”

Ethan stared at his father’s plate. His eyes shone with greed. “Might I have a little more custard ere I finish my labors?”

Samuel took a taste. “It is enough to tempt a body, isn’t it?” He grinned as all three children nodded enthusiastically. “I confess the same weakness, but the widow will see no reward for her labors if we all have more. Be satisfied with your first helping—she will share the remainder at supper with us. It will be good for her to witness your thankful smiles.”

After lunch, Sam went back to plowing the field. He’d cautioned the children to allow the widow to sleep. She’d accomplished far more than he thought possible and clearly worn herself out with the effort.

This morning, he’d decided the time had come for him to move up with the boys. Witnessing how weak Widow Wheelock was made him reconsider. Tomorrow, Ruth Morton would come over and they’d preserve apples. Even with Ruth’s help and her daughter’s assistance, such labor would still wear out the widow. Garnet would need a full day afterward to recover. Only she wouldn’t rest. After the way she bargained to work half of today, Samuel knew she wouldn’t be guilty of sloth.

Sunday. He nodded to himself. It seemed appropriate for him to move his bed on the day of rest. They’d go to worship this week. Missing church last week on account of Garnet’s fever couldn’t be helped. But this Sunday, after the service, he could tote the mattress from the trundle up to the chamber he’d share with his sons.

The breeze carried Hester’s laughter. Sam delighted in it. “Lord, You’ve been faithful. I called upon Your name and asked You to bring my daughter home to me. You prepared a way and have mercifully increased the blessings so my sons will know the gentleness of a woman’s care. I would never have imagined my prayers would be answered in this manner, but Your wisdom and mercy abound.”

He plowed two more furrows, turning the stubble into the rich soil and praising God for His provision. Sam paused at the end of the field and wiped his brow with his sleeve. As he turned, his eyes narrowed.

“Samuel Walsh.” A tall, sallow-faced man approached and nodded curtly.

“Erasmus Ryder.” Sam wondered at the arrival of Dorcas’s husband. The man had no reason to cease his labor early and come calling. “I trust all is well with you.”

“We fare well enough. My goodwife tells me she’s running out of wool.”

The purpose of the visit fell into place. In years past, Dorcas and Erasmus claimed the shearing as payment for keeping Hester. As Sam’s flock increased, Dorcas claimed that Hester was growing and it took more to keep her; thus the Ryders still took all of the shearing. Dorcas was known for her fine weaving, and the skill proved to be lucrative for her. Sam knew full well that even taking Dorcas’s time and skill into account, the profit she made off his sheep’s fleeces paid several times over what it cost for them to feed Hester. Since Hester wore hand-me-downs from Mary Morton, Dorcas hadn’t had to clothe her. Nonetheless, creating ill will when his daughter lived under the Ryders’ roof would be foolish indeed.

Only Hester no longer lived there. Samuel stood in silence, waiting for Erasmus to make him an offer on the wool.

Erasmus folded his arms across his chest. “ ’Tis round the time you fall-shear your sheep.”

“Indeed. But plenty wants doing. I’ll get to it anon.”

“Dorcas has need of the fleeces soon.” Erasmus cast a look toward the house, then added, “And you owe it to us.”

Irritated by that comment, Samuel widened his stance. “The day Hester went to abide under your roof, you took the spring shearing. Dorcas has received the entirety of my fleeces in advance twice each year for the seasons to follow. The only indebtedness I hold is of gratitude.”

“You would cheat us?”

“I’m an honorable man.” Sam stared him in the eyes. “I gave over all of my wool in the years Hester lived beneath your roof. You’ve often boasted about how much Dorcas’s cloth brings in. I’ve met my obligations fairly.”

Erasmus glowered at him. “Best you reconsider. Taxes and tithe will come due.”

“I cannot deny that is true.”

“You’ll need my tobacco. You cannot pay in wheat or corn. Nothing but Virginia tobacco is accepted, and you have none.”

The exultant tone grated on Sam’s nerves. He chose not to raise tobacco. It depleted the soil, and he considered smoking of the plant to be a distasteful habit. Nonetheless, he refused to be coerced. He wrapped his hands about the handle of the plow and shrugged. “I’ve always paid you full-market value for the tobacco required for my taxes and tithes. Thomas Brooks is a good friend to me, and he also grows tobacco.”

“This is no way to treat family,” Erasmus growled.

“I agree. Had you made me an offer on the fleeces, I would have struck a deal with you—a deal which took into account that Dorcas is my children’s aunt. As it is, you tried to make an unjust claim.”

Chin jutting forward, Erasmus rasped, “Reconsider. Once I walk away, I’ll not deal with you again.”

“I hold no agreement with you about buying your tobacco. You’re welcome to sell it to any buyer, just as I am free to make arrangements with another grower. Indeed, Brooks has expressed how eager he’d be to have some of my cornmeal.”

“You’ll regret this, Samuel Walsh.”

“Begone, Erasmus. I’ll pretend this conversation never occurred.”

“Remember it.” The lanky man shook his finger at Sam. “Remember it well. You’ll live to rue the day you crossed me.”