Considering what Blythe endured on his first day of work—doing a girl’s job, at that—he’d expected Molly to feel, or at the very least express, empathy for his now shattered soul. But she didn’t, and it was all Blythe could do to dredge up a good deal of self-pity as he sat on a rickety stool, his bare feet submerged in a pail of water. He didn’t know what questions philosophers tended to ask, but he was quite sure that the most unanswered one ran along the lines of “Why was I ever born into this miserable world?”
“Now wasn’t that a most eye-opening experience, Blythe?” Molly gurgled as she hurried back and forth between the oven and the hearth, where a large pot sat, the stew in it bubbling and letting out a delicious, though too familiar, aroma. The Midwinter household indulged in stew three times a week, and Molly only knew one recipe for it.
“Yes, it was eye-opening,” he replied, glowering at a random point on the opposite wall. “I now know which houses to avoid.”
“Avoid? What do you mean? The folks in Upchurch are such lovely people.”
“Molly, they’re either cantankerous hags or saucy wenches who’re threatening to turn me into a grown man. And I’m not even counting masters or mistresses who called me a beggarly lout on his way to the gallows.”
Molly burst out laughing, and Blythe cringed. “You’re such a storyteller. Gallows? You? What on earth would make them say that? Why, I remember you being chased up a tree by Farmer Maul’s geese just last year. I’ve never ever heard of anyone—even children who’re younger than you—getting treed by geese.”
That was a low blow. For his part, Blythe was absolutely terrified of Farmer Maul’s satanic flock, and he still had no idea why they came after him in a murderous rage the way they did.
“Those so-called nice folks took one look at me, saw how poor I am, and decided I’m well on my way to a life of crime.”
Molly’s amusement didn’t abate. Her bright laughter subsided to wild giggles, and she walked up to Blythe and planted a kiss on top of his head. “You’re too funny for your own good,” she said before sailing off to tend to the stew. “But I suppose in that regard, we’re somewhat even.” She glanced over her shoulder to grin at him.
Blythe regarded her doubtfully. “How so?”
“They took one look at my rags and said that I was on my way to being a cheap prostitute. At the very least they bought some bread from me, and they eventually softened on their opinions once they got to know me better.”
“Cold comfort, that.”
“Just take their money, Blythe, and console yourself with the thought that you got them to part with their money—money that they could’ve used for something else.” Molly paused. “Of course, when I first started out, I used to think that they were all arrogant, miserable bastards, but even my opinion of them changed in time.”
Blythe pressed his mouth into a tight line as he stared narrowly at her. Then he glanced around the cottage in a tired and idle attempt at diverting himself until he felt good and ready to stand up and walk again. His gaze stopped on his shared sleeping space with Bertie, and his right eye twitched. He should do something about his nightly ordeal without inadvertently sending his brother to a surgeon for a very embarrassing procedure.
* * * *
“That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one. Why’d you agree to it?”
“Because Molly was on her way to nagging me to the grave.” Blythe paused. “Like your mama, in fact, though Molly’s proving to be a darker influence. And she’s younger than your mama, which means that I’m doomed to put up with her much longer than you have to put up with your mama.”
Jack snorted, tossing a pebble into the river, and the two boys watched it plop, the little ripples barely marking the smooth current. The trees that loomed behind them afforded them quite a bit of comfortable shade against the surprising warmth of the day.
“I don’t envy you that, then,” Jack said after a moment of lazy silence. “Your sister’s younger and has more energy in her for nagging.”
“True, although, now that I think about it, your mama has all those years to her credit. I’m sure she’s a lot less forceful in the more obvious sense, but she’s likely more effective in that sly, clever way that older people are sly and clever.”
Blythe glanced at his friend, feeling a touch smug about his philosophical skills and halfway wishing that he could be as sharp as that when confronting his sister over unfair labor practices. Then again, he was forced to concede, the fact that he couldn’t was proof positive that Molly was an agent of the fiery depths and was gifted with unholy powers he could never hope to overcome.
For his part, Jack seemed to struggle with Blythe’s reasoning, and he sat in baffled silence for a moment, scrunching his face and picking his nose as he deliberated. Blythe tried not to roll his eyes at the mental struggle. Eventually Jack turned to frown at him, dusty, sunburnt face crinkling again, finger still buried in one nostril.
“What was the question again?”
Blythe sighed and groped around for a small stone, which he tossed into the river. “Never mind,” he said.
The sound of rumbling carriage wheels broke through the lovely calm, and Blythe looked up to watch a handsome private coach being pulled by an even handsomer team of horses along the dirt road on the other side of the river. The liveried driver sat straight and proud, his nose high even as he guided the gleaming horses with skill and confidence.
“I’d love to have one of those,” Jack said in breathless tones.
“You’ll have to work for it.”
“I know. It’s not fair, I tell you.”
Blythe followed the coach’s progress till it vanished behind some trees and dense shrubbery. “I suppose you can always gamble for it.”
“I don’t have any money to gamble with, you oaf.”
Blythe tried not to roll his eyes again. “Sell something, then. One of your cows, for one thing.”
“Mama and I only have one cow,” Jack retorted. “I don’t think she’ll take to selling it. I mean, where will we get our milk?”
“Then find a job, you lazy dog!”
Jack let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a fart, and he stumbled to his feet, brushing grass and dirt off his ragged trousers. “Dear God, you sound like Mama. Worse, you sound like a wife. I’m going home.”
Blythe shook his head as he watched Jack yawn and stretch his long, bony arms, twisting his torso and cracking his back when he did.
“A wife,” Blythe said. “That’s what you need, Jack. A wife. Preferably a rich one.”
Jack made a face and lightly slapped the top of Blythe’s head with an open hand. “Don’t be stupid. I’ll never marry. I’d rather go off on grand adventures and come back rich.”
“If so, then you’ll have dozens of girls running after you and your money.”
“Ha! They’ll never get a penny from me!”
Blythe grinned as he threw another stone in the river. “I doubt if your mama will be too happy about that. I’m sure she’ll be demanding grandchildren from you someday.”
“Bah! I’ll be the one bringing home the gold, not her! If she wants to stay on my good side, she’ll keep her nose out of my business and let me have my way!”
A sudden movement just off to the right side of the road across from them caught Blythe’s attention, and he cackled as he gave Jack’s leg a sharp slap.
“Speaking of staying on one’s good side, it looks like you haven’t gotten that far with your mama.”
A plump, red-faced woman walked into view, her ragged gown and smock as well as her bonnet caked with road dust. On one hand she held a particularly large rolling pin, and from what Jack had told him, it was never used for baking.
“Jack Wicket!” she hollered, turning her head left and right. “Where are you, you no good lout?”
Jack stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled—a shrill siren that always set Blythe’s teeth on edge and send nearby dogs howling. Mrs. Wicket stopped dead and caught sight of the boys, and if her face was red then, it turned nearly black upon clapping eyes on her son.
“Jack! What the devil are you doing? Get your lazy, bony arse back home right this instant if you value your worthless hide!” she screeched, waving her rolling pin wildly in the air. “Didn’t I tell you to chop wood? Didn’t I? You’ve had all this time, and you never bothered to do one simple thing?”
For his part, Jack looked to be taking it all in stride. He stood silently for a moment, allowing his hysterical mother to unburden herself so passionately and convincingly, before turning and saluting Blythe.
“I’ll be dreaming of riches while she thrashes me,” he said and then strode off, hands in tattered pockets, and sang a vulgar drinking song. As to where and how he’d learned it, Blythe couldn’t even begin to guess.
* * * *
“Oh, and have you heard about that king who walked about in front of his subjects, all indecent and such?”
Blythe, whose eyes had long faded, shook his head and immediately regretted it when he realized that a negative response encouraged further talk. He didn’t mean to do it; it was nothing more than a mindless, automatic response to Mr. Ruffle’s incessant jabbering. The old man, apparently the eccentric master of the house whose door Blythe now rued knocking on, turned out to be a gossip. And while he was kind enough to purchase two loaves from Blythe, his generosity came at a high price, and he refused to let the boy go, making Blythe add “courtesy to kindly old people” to his growing list of what not to do.
“Such a thing will never happen on our shores, you know. England’s far too superior for idiotic displays that corrupt the ignorant and the poor—and all decent, God-fearing souls.” Mr. Ruffle’s talk dissolved into an unintelligible string of muttered somethings, and Blythe perked up. Was he finally done?
“And what about those clever creatures in Bremen, eh? I heard they gave a band of thieves a damned good thrashing! I wouldn’t be surprised if those animals boast of bloodlines from England in the distant past.”
No. Apparently not. Now he’d fixated on non-human subjects of gossip. Blythe’s spirits sank even more at the too-real possibility of Mr. Ruffle taking an idle, meandering path to heroic inanimate objects whose bloodlines could be traced to venerable trees and rocks from England.
A tear escaped Blythe’s right eye, and he swiped it away. For the next few agonizing moments, he ran his thoughts down the same lines as Jack’s usual daydreams, and he was soon lost in wonderful scenes involving riches that could easily buy him ten kingdoms. By the time Mr. Ruffle decided to let him go—that is, by the time the old man’s wife hollered for him from the depths of the house because he was holding up breakfast—Blythe had convinced himself that Jack Wicket’s methods of making life more palatable had something to them.
* * * *
“We sold all our cakes,” Molly declared, barely able to contain her excitement so that her normal singsong manner of speaking had turned operatic. “And Mrs. Pugsley claims that they’ve cured poor Mr. Pex’s constipation. Isn’t that terribly exciting?”
Blythe eyed her from where he sat—again on the rickety stool, his feet soaking in water—and pursed his lips as he listened, incredulous. “I’m sure some of Mrs. Pugsley’s constipation potions had something to do with it. I hope she didn’t taint any of your cakes with drops of the stuff.”
“I thought about that at first,” Molly replied as she alternately baked and cooked, her energy remarkably high. “But Mrs. Pugsley assured me yesterday that the only potions she sold were for gout and disgusting skin sores, not constipation. Looks like we all made a mistake in thinking she did. At any rate, it’s terribly reassuring to hear that.”
Blythe shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Pex was already on the mend when he—or whoever—bought your cake.”
Molly sighed as she raised the lid of the pot on the fire, peering inside and stirring the bubbling concoction, the smell of which made Blythe think even more of constipation cures. They were having soup that night—one of three nights of soup. At least, unlike the stews, Molly knew three different soup recipes to make, though Blythe often wished that those recipes didn’t involve the use of poisonous substances, judging from the nearly inedible quality of the stuff. That Molly’s talent in the kitchen seemed to have poured itself completely into her baking skills and not day-to-day cooking had always been a source of bafflement for Blythe.
“You’re too negative for a boy your age. Mrs. Pugsley—who, you know, is an insatiable gossip—told me specifically that Mr. Pex had reached that point where he could barely walk, no doubt his overstuffed bowels pulling him down with their weight. Then Mrs. Pex bought my cake to soothe him, and within an hour, she came running back to the market, practically hysterical in her relief and excitement over the results. In fact, she says, now he can’t seem to stop!”
Blythe absorbed all this, doubt warring with mild nausea. “I suppose it’d be bad form for me to ask if you used certain magical ingredients to make this—uh—miracle happen.”
Molly froze at the question, her face now a study of intense philosophical warring within. It was all Blythe could do to wait patiently and allow his sister to sort it all out on her own. At length she blinked, her eyes resuming life, and she regarded her brother with a cryptic little smile.
“I think you’re right. It is bad form to ask. Just satisfy yourself with the fact that certain special ingredients were used, and this is a secret recipe that I’ll be taking with me to the grave.”
It was no small wonder Molly could persuade people to buy things from her. Blythe knew that she was full of cow manure, and she’d used nothing but the same things that bakers used for cake, but he might as well humor her. “That’s good to know. Can’t afford to have rival bakers discover your special recipe.”
“You know, Blythe, I’m now wondering if I should alter my recipe for my bread to make it as miraculous as my cake. What do you think?”
All right, now she was taking things a bit too far.
“I think it’s best to spare the poor, unsuspecting breakfast-eaters, Molly.” Now he dreaded to think what she used for her cakes.
His sister fell silent for a moment, thinking, further alarming Blythe, though he took care not to show it. “Oh, I suppose. I think that I might need a special name for my special cakes. What do you think of ‘Miraculous Midwinter Mounds’?”
Molly as well have been consulting a pile of horse dung. Blythe, at that point, had already wandered off to magical, mythical lands, where he was the most-loved king in the history of forever. He’d just signed into law the prohibition of selling bread by younger brothers, the penalty being exile or death, depending on the severity of abuse done by heartless and hellbound family members.
Later that day, when the Midwinter siblings were enjoying a simple supper of questionable soup and a loaf of unsold bread, a knock on the door interrupted their easy conversation.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Pugsley!” Molly cried from her chair as Blythe pulled the door back some more and invited their guest inside.
“Oh, here’s little Blythe,” Mrs. Pugsley said as she stepped in, pausing to observe the boy in both surprise and pleasure. Her little gray eyes, practically vanishing under the ruddy, ample mounds of her cheeks when she grinned, moved up and down and sideways in quick, short spurts that reminded Blythe of skittish mice.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, a little embarrassed.
“Well, look at you! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, I think. I’ve only been able to talk to your sister when she’s out shopping. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What a darling, darling boy you’ve grown up to be. Why, I could eat you whole right now.”
“Lord, I hope not. I just turned fifteen. I’d like to go past twenty-one if I could.”
“But you don’t understand how terribly eatable you are,” Mrs. Pugsley insisted, laughing more heartily now, even taking each of Blythe’s cheeks and pinching them, almost making the boy howl in pain. “But there’s time enough for that. I’ve got some exciting news for dear Molly, and it can’t wait.”
With that, she gave Blythe’s cheeks another pinch before sweeping away, still chattering endlessly, as she seated herself at the table. Blythe noticed, with an outraged and resentful glare, that she’d just commandeered his spot, leaving him no place to sit. And as though to dig the knife in more deeply, the infernal woman, so engrossed in her chatter, had begun to eat Blythe’s soup without apparently realizing it, and neither Molly nor Bertie even thought to point that out. Apparently, even his siblings found her incessant talking so engrossing that they remained utterly unaware of the injustice that was taking place under their noses.
And as to what news was so earth-shattering that it needed to be shared at the expense of Blythe’s fragile health? Why, it had something to do with whose servant had been dallying with a local squire, of course!
Shaking his head, Blythe shuffled off to find a clean bowl, only to discover that Molly didn’t cook enough for five people, for there was only enough soup left for half a person. Oddly enough, Blythe thought this to be a rather fitting statement about his young life, especially since part of that half-person portion included soggy, overcooked things that used to be chicken meat and potatoes, and those stuck to the bottom of the pot. It was testament to Molly’s skill as a cook that she’d somehow managed to burn soup.