“I don’t know,” I said. “I have not thought about it yet.”
Richard was silent, perhaps knowing I would continue talking after a time.
“Pappa’s apothecary was his life’s work,” I said. “I would very much dislike seeing it fall into disuse and neglect.”
“I am sure your father would agree with that,” Richard said.
“What do you think I should do?” My question surprised even me. I had not intended to ask Richard’s opinion, but now the question had escaped my lips and was hanging in the air between us.
He raised his eyebrows, evidently as much surprised as I was by the question. After several long moments he spoke.
“I should not offer you advice, but I will share with you my observations. It seems to me that you know the apothecary quite well. Your father must have taught you about his business from an early age.”
“He did,” I agreed.
“And it seems to me that you are quite adept at knowing what remedies to administer under certain circumstances, so you apparently listened well to your father’s instructions and teachings all those years.”
“That is also true.” I sensed where the conversation was going.
“As I said, I cannot provide you with any advice. But I can suggest that you search your heart and try to discern what is there. You may find the answer you seek.”
I looked up at him while I pondered his words. I knew he was telling me that I might consider following my father into the apothecary. But could I, a woman alone, manage such a thing? That would require business acumen I wasn’t sure I possessed.
“There’s something else I would like to ask you, if you don’t have any objection,” Richard said, cutting into my thoughts.
“What is it?” I asked.
He took a deep breath. “The night your father died, I heard what he said to you in his final moments. He beseeched you to find out what happened to your mother.” He stopped talking, as if to ascertain whether I was amenable to discussing such a topic.
I remained silent as I walked beside him, though my body stiffened somewhat. He noticed.
“Is this topic upsetting to you?” he asked anxiously.
“I do not know yet. I do not know where your words are leading,” I replied.
“They are leading to this: would you tell me what happened? Will you tell me what your father was talking about?”
I considered his questions for a long time. Richard may have thought I was ignoring him, but I merely needed time to think about what I would tell him.
I finally decided to tell him the entire story, from the time we knew she was missing to the awful realization that she wasn’t coming home. I told the version of the story which left out the anguish, the sadness, the fear and confusion, but I felt quite sure he sensed those things.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured when I had finished. By the time I had told the story we were at the door of my house. I invited him inside, not caring whether it was appropriate or not.
He followed me into the room and hung up his cloak, then stood by the fire, warming his hands. I looked at his boots—they were falling apart and were clearly too small—and shuddered to think how cold and sore his feet must be.
I sat down on the stool and offered him the rocking chair. He sat down and regarded me with a thoughtful look. I had to look away from his steady gaze. I found it unnerving, and yet it gave me an unusual fluttery feeling in my stomach.
“So what have you done to find her?” he asked.
“We looked everywhere. In the woods, along the road into Town, throughout the cape, everywhere. Pappa even went to Philadelphia to inquire about her and other people from the village inquired about her wherever they went, too. Of course, no one went very far, but maybe Mamma didn’t go far, either.”
“What about the ships coming into and leaving the harbor here in Town?”
“Pappa spoke with every captain he could find, every mate. No one saw her leaving. We’ve always been quite sure she met with a pack of wolves, or maybe even a lone wolf, out in the woods nearby. But we’ve never been able to find a trace of her, not even her clothes or shoes. It ... it’s also possible that she was a victim of violence at the hand of a person.” I shuddered and told him about the letter I had found from Grandmamma. He listened with an increasingly grave expression on his face.
“This is a concerning development,” he said. “Your father never spoke of it to me, but he was my friend and I felt I knew him well. He would have done all he could to figure out who was threatening your mother. He must not have discerned the identity of the person.
“Might your search for information about your mother’s disappearance have something to do with your visit to the harbor several days ago?” Richard continued. The question took me by surprise—had it only been a few days since my visit to the bay to glean information about what Captain Eli might know? It seemed like much longer.
I nodded. “Mister Browne, who lives in the village, came by one night to tell Pappa that he had heard Captain Eli mentioning Mamma’s name. He seemed to think the captain might know something about Mamma’s disappearance. I went down to the harbor to eavesdrop, hoping to get some information about what the captain may know.”
“And I gather you didn’t learn anything?”
“No,” I admitted, looking down at my hands.
“Promise me you won’t do that again,” Richard said. His voice was stern, but his deep gray eyes were kind.
“I appreciate your concern, but I cannot make a promise like that,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I will do anything I can to find out what happened to Mamma, especially now that Pappa has requested it of me.”
“Very well,” Richard said. “Then at least promise that if you do something so foolish as going down to the harbor again, you will find me so I can assist you.”
“I will do that,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said.
“Where shall I find you?” I asked.
“Oh, go to the barrel and sit down. I’ll know you’re there.”
We were silent for a moment while I contemplated his reluctance to tell me where he lived. I supposed it didn’t matter as long as he could find me.
“If you’re warm enough, shall we go into the apothecary to look for the things my father left to you?”
“If it would be no trouble for you.”
While Richard waited behind me in the house, I stood in the doorway of the apothecary, breathing in the scents of herbs and remedies mixed with traces of Pappa’s pipe tobacco. I had been in such a hurry when baby William was born that I hadn’t stopped to notice the effect the shop had on me. This time I took my time, savoring the memories of working beside my father and allowing them to permeate my senses with a feeling of calm loneliness. I didn’t fight the feelings, but rather embraced them, as if doing so might lessen my pain.
I beckoned Richard to follow me. He carried my father’s letter from the lawyer in his hand.
“I don’t recall exactly what was in the letter,” I said. “Would you mind letting me read it again?”
Richard opened the letter and placed it on a slab of wood Pappa had used for a counter. Richard smoothed the letter and stepped back so I could read it.
I ran my finger down the list, then turned to one of the shelves where Pappa had kept his tools. I rummaged around until I found what I sought.
“Here are Pappa’s forceps,” I said, handing the tool to Richard. He took it in his hands and placed it gently on the counter.
Then I stooped down to root through one of the boxes which had recently come from Philadelphia. I had forgotten that I had seen another set of forceps and several jars in the box, as well as a number of other items I had seen on Richard’s list.
“Most of the items on the list are already in this box. Pappa got the box from Philadelphia just shortly before he died.” It was clear that Pappa had planned to give the box to Richard. I was struck with a pang of sadness when I realized Pappa must have suspected that he might get the fever, so he ordered the necessary items and changed his will shortly before he died to include the bequests to Richard.
“How very kind of him.”
“Would you mind telling me a little more about why you were working so closely with my father?” I asked suddenly, straightening up.
Richard looked away, focusing on something outside the window of the apothecary. He was silent for several moments before speaking. Finally he said, “I would rather not discuss that just now, if you don’t mind.”
I cocked my head, confused, but I decided not to press him on the issue. After all, he hadn’t refused to talk to me about it at all, just for the present time.
“Will you tell me sometime?” I asked.
“I may,” he said. “Let us wait to see what happens.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I cannot discuss it with you right now. I apologize for being so confounding,” he said.
I turned back to the box and withdrew all the items inside, placing them on the counter. I separated the items on the list from those things not on the list and then filled several jars with herbs in the amounts bequeathed. Finally I pushed the box toward Richard.
“You can use this to carry your things back to Town,” I said. “Would you mind terribly if you took the new things from Philadelphia and left the old ones here? Like the forceps? I’d like to keep Pappa’s things.”
“Of course I don’t mind. It’s very kind of you to give me the new things.” He handed the old forceps back to me.
I handed each new item to him as he repacked the box carefully, putting short lengths of cloth between each of the glass jars so they would not break on the walk back to Town. When the box had been filled with everything listed in the letter, Richard lifted it easily.
“Thank you very much for these things and for helping me to pack them,” he said. “I should be going now.”
I followed him to the main house and locked the apothecary door behind us. He hefted the box onto the table to put on his cloak and I had a sudden thought.
“Richard, wait here, please.” I hurried into the bed chamber and returned just a moment later.
“I think Pappa would want you to have these,” I said, holding out Pappa’s boots to him. They had been expensive boots when Pappa had had them made, but they provided warmth to him for several winters before he died.
Richard stared at me, his mouth agape. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Are you sure you want to part with them?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He thought of you as a good friend, and just look at your boots. I know you could use these, and what else would I do with them?”
“You could cut them up and use the hide for something,” he suggested. I had a feeling the suggestion was only half-hearted, as I had seen the look of eager anticipation in his eyes when he saw me holding the boots.
I laughed. “No, I think you can use them more than I can. Please take them and stay warm.”
“Sarah, I don’t know how I can thank you for these,” Richard said. “This is a priceless gift.”
“Don’t say any more about it. Just remember my father sometimes when you wear them.”
“Every time, I promise you,” he said. He sat down in the rocking chair and took off the ragged boots he had been wearing. I hadn’t meant to watch, but I saw the holes in his woolen stockings.
“Please let me give you Pappa’s stockings, too,” I said, already heading toward the bed chamber.
“No, Sarah, you don’t have to do that!” he called after me. But I pretended not to hear him.
As much as he protested, I noticed he had removed his stockings when I returned to the main room. I held out Pappa’s stockings, including the missing one which I had found, and he gave me a broad smile.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet. “Money to buy such things, or to have them made for me, is scarce. I haven’t been paid in quite some time.”
“Why ever not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I think my employer has not had enough money. But I will be paid sometime soon, I’m sure.”
I didn’t ask any more questions, as he did not seem inclined to answer them.
Richard stood up and glanced down at his feet. “They fit perfectly,” he said, looking up at me and smiling. “Thank you again. I will take very good care of these.”
“You are welcome. I know you will.”
He retrieved the box on the table and I opened the door for him. As he brushed past me to go outside, I felt a small flutter again. He gave me a long look and the fluttering intensified.
“What is it?” I asked, my face burning from the attention.
“Please remember what I said about going down to the harbor. I will escort you if you feel the need to go there, but I think we can find other ways to get the information we need to discover what happened to your mother.”
“We?” I seized on the word. “Are you going to help me?” I was nearly breathless at the thought of having an ally in my search for answers.
“Of course I am going to help you. If both of us are trying to find out what happened, we’re certain to find out more quickly. Do you agree?”
“Yes! Oh, thank you, Richard!”
He chuckled. “I will be out to see you again soon. Maybe I will have some answers for you.”
I smiled, almost daring to feel the surge of hope in my chest. The thought of finally learning what happened to my mother was enough to elevate my mood for the remainder of the day and into the evening.
After I finished the outside chores later that day I returned to the main room of the house, where I set about tidying the hearth and the floor of the bedchamber. I should have done the mending that day, but I wasn’t ready to mend any of Pappa’s things yet. I hoped that, in time, I would be able to mend Pappa’s clothes, perhaps for use by someone else in the village or on another farm, without feeling despair and sadness.
Settling into the routine of doing things alone in the house was hard. I kept waiting for Pappa to open the door at suppertime, hungry for his meal. I accidentally set out two trenchers that evening and I didn’t realize it until I sat down. Suddenly there was a lump in my throat that made it impossible to eat the dry biscuit and cheese I had in front of me. I took a drink of cider to make the lump disappear, but it only made my throat hurt. Tears rolled down my face and I knew then it would be a long time before I could go about my day normally without feeling the pangs of loss. Things like mending and baking seemed easier because those were chores I was accustomed to doing without Mamma. But Pappa and I had almost always eaten our meals together. I remembered feeling the same way when Mamma disappeared—it seemed like our meals would never be complete without her sitting with us, but in time we grew to accept it. Now I would have to adjust to new ways again.
After my meal I had a sudden urge to read by the fire, but I dared not. Judging from how upset I had become eating my meal, I knew reading the book Pappa had last read would be too much for me. Instead I cleaned up from my meal and went to bed early.
The next day was Sunday. I dreaded going to service by myself, but I knew I must. I put on my Sunday clothes and tried not to remember Pappa laid out in his Sunday clothes, bound for the barn where his body would await the spring thaw for burial.
I moved that morning as if in a fog, barely remembering to eat something before I left for the service. I walked slowly, my heart becoming heavier with each step. How many times had Pappa and I walked the same path on Sundays? How many quiet conversations had we enjoyed on our way to service?
When I reached the home in Town where the service was being held, there were already a fair number of people there. Many of them murmured their condolences again, for most of them had attended the visitation at my house. I accepted their sympathies with a nod of my head, not trusting myself to say anything. I kept my lips tightly closed and clenched my teeth to keep from crying.
Patience and her father and sisters were there, too, seated together not far from me. Patience gave a little wave and I was sorry to see that her mother and the baby had not come. I returned her wave and settled myself in my seat, aware of all the sets of eyes watching me and, no doubt, feeling sorry for me. Indeed, I felt very sorry for myself.
I had never been so relieved for service to begin. That kept people from saying anything else to me, at least until it ended.
After the service I hurried over to where Patience was standing so other people would not come in search of me to share their condolences. I couldn’t listen to any more of it today. I touched Patience on the shoulder and asked if she could come over to my house later in the afternoon. She nodded and I left hastily.
I prepared a small midday meal for myself, as I was not hungry. I knew I should eat, though, in order to keep up my stamina. I sat down in the rocking chair and fell asleep while I waited for Patience.
She arrived by mid-afternoon. The sun was shining, though it was still very cold outside. Patience sat down before the fire to warm herself while I poured us mugs of cider, then I sat down across from her.
“Would you like to read this afternoon?” I asked. It had been some time since Patience and I sat reading in my house.
Her eyes lit up. “I would love to!” she exclaimed.
I took one of the books down from the shelf above the door, not the book Pappa had read most recently, and we sat down by the hearth, the fire crackling brightly behind us. I drew the lamp closer so we could see to read, then I handed the book to Patience. She took it from my hands very gently, as if she were holding a holy thing. She gazed at the cover reverently, tracing her fingers over the gilt script on the cover. Her eyes shone as she turned the pages to the place where we had left off the last time we read together.
She began reading slowly, haltingly, looking to me every few words for reassurance. I would nod at her and she would continue reading, then we would repeat our actions again and again. It wouldn’t be long, I was sure, before Patience felt confident enough to read aloud without my encouragement. She was making steady progress; it still seemed strange that I had taken Mamma’s place as Patience’s mentor.
She continued reading for a short while, but eventually she closed the book and looked up. “I should be getting home to check on Mother. She will need my help this afternoon.”
“Patience, wait. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“What is it?”
I took a deep breath. There was no point in prolonging the conversation. “Arthur asked for my hand.”
Patience’s eyes grew wide as the news sunk in. “I knew it!” she cried. “I knew he would ask you! When did he ask you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He asked many days ago. So much has happened since then that I haven’t even thought about it. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course! When will you be getting married?”
“That’s part of the reason I didn’t tell you as soon as it happened.” I splayed my hands before me. “I told him I didn’t know, that I needed time to decide.”
Her eyes grew even wider. “You didn’t accept?” The incredulity in her voice obvious.
I shook my head. “I couldn’t. I don’t love him.”
“But you would grow to love him, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel about him the way Mamma and Pappa felt about each other when they were married, that much I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mamma always told me they were in love from the time they met. I certainly can’t say I’m in love with Arthur.”
“So you’re going to reject him?”
I hated to think of it that way. “I just can’t accept. I don’t love him.”
“Give it some time. You’ll grow to love him,” Patience assured me. But I knew I would not.
Someone knocked on the door, and I opened it to find Mistress Reeves, who was holding a basket covered with a linen cloth.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Reeves. Please come in,” I invited.
She saw Patience sitting on the floor next to the hearth and her eyes flicked to the book she was holding. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, not at all,” Patience said. She stood up and bowed her head toward Mistress Reeves, then handed me the book. She gave me an arched brow which Mistress couldn’t see. “I was just leaving.”
“I brought you a bit more cheese and some bread I baked a few days ago,” Mistress Reeves said, turning her attention to me.
“That is very kind of you. Thank you.”
Patience was putting on her cloak and she turned to Mistress Reeves and me. “Thank you for letting me read with you today, Sarah. I’ll see you soon. Good day, Mistress,” she said.
“Goodbye, Patience,” Mistress and I said in unison.
Once Patience had left Mistress offered me the basket and as I placed it on the table she moved about the room, looking out the window and coming to stand at the hearth. “What were you two reading?” she asked.
“It’s a lovely book my parents brought from England. Mamma taught Patience to read, as you may know, and I’m simply helping Patience continue with her studies.”
Mistress Reeves nodded. “I see,” she said. “In our home we read nothing but the Holy Book on the Lord’s Day.”
“I also read the Bible,” I said.
“Did your father allow you to read other books on the Lord’s Day?”
“Yes. He encouraged me to read other books all the time. He always said there was much knowledge in books, but that books also held great potential for expanding our imaginations.”
“First my father, and then my husband, have always been able to teach me everything I need to know,” Mistress said. I thought that rather sad, but did not say anything.
“You should be reflecting on the things you learned in the service today from my husband’s sermon, Sarah.”
Embarrassingly, all I could recall of the sermon was how bored I had been.
“Thank you again for the cheese and bread,” I said, not knowing what else to talk about. “Would you care to sit for a while?”
“I would, thank you,” Mistress Reeves replied. She sat in the seat Patience had vacated and I also sat down. We looked at each other for an uncomfortable minute before she cleared her throat.
“Sarah, I would like to discuss something with you,” she said.