Chapter 2

 

Somewhere at the back of the line, a drum beat a constant tattoo as faceless, legless blue-clad soldiers marched by in an endless loop.…

Tillie mumbled, rolled over, and opened her eyes. Rain slashed the windowpanes. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the room, and thunder rumbled.

She groaned, pulling the covers over her head. Maybe the weather would clear before she left for school.

As if in warning, thunder cracked across the sky. She stretched and swung her feet to the floor. Wriggling her toes into the braided rug, she yawned and stretched again. She put on her school dress of brown muslin, washed her face, and combed and braided her chestnut tresses, while pretending the thunder was a Union Army cannon driving off the hated Rebels. Once dressed, she headed downstairs for breakfast. The aroma of bacon, frying potatoes, and coffee enveloped her. Tillie closed her eyes, inhaled in anticipation as her stomach growled. She entered the kitchen to find Mother working at the stove. Maggie stood near the back door churning the morning butter.

“Good morning.” Moving to the shelf beside the stove, Tillie pulled down dishes to set the table. She squeezed around Mother cooking scrambled eggs.

Mother took a step to the side. “Good morning, Sunshine.” She poured the eggs into the skillet and gave the potatoes a quick stir. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. How about you?”

“Very well.”

Tillie set the plates down and returned for silverware.

Mother stirred the eggs and slid the potatoes into a bowl. Her eyes went to the ceiling when another boom of thunder pealed across the sky. “Heavens, what a storm.” She pushed the potatoes about in the pan and shoved it to the back of the stove. Then she transferred the eggs to a platter and passed it to Tillie. “I need you and Maggie to do something for me today, if the rain stops.”

“All right.” Tillie studied her.

“Go out to the garden and pick any vegetables ripe enough—peas, beans, anything. We’ll pickle and preserve tomorrow.”

“There won’t be much. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Mother wiped her fingers on her bib apron before putting her hands on the hips of her blue gingham dress. She nodded for emphasis. “I talked with Mrs. Broadhead yesterday. She told me Mr. Broadhead would rather pick his vegetables green and burn the rest, than allow the Rebs to get so much as one bean.”

Tillie studied her mother, surprised by her tone. “You think the Rebels are coming? Father says they’re not.”

Mother stepped close and rested one hand on Tillie’s shoulder. With the other, she cupped Tillie’s chin. She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, measured exhale. “Yes, I do. Your father says no, and I pray he’s right. But I’m not so certain. With the dubious successes of our Army thus far…” She took another deep breath and huffed. “Well, as I said, I pray he’s right. Just in case, though, I want you to gather as much from the garden as you can, for I’m in agreement with Mr. Broadhead.”

* * * *

Tillie dashed through the downpour to the barn behind the butcher shop. The door creaked on its hinges, and she breathed in the earthy, woody fragrance of hay mixed with the sharp tang of horse dung.

Lady thrust her nose over the stall door. She blew a greeting and tossed her head.

Tillie took hold of Lady’s muzzle, sliding her palm across her velvety nose, and kissed her. “Good morning, my dear. How are you this rainy day?” She presented two sugar cubes.

Lady pushed at her palm as she gobbled them. She blinked, which Tillie took for thank you. She imagined a smile on the horse’s face.

Tillie stroked her nose, reveling in her soft, yet prickly snout. “Perhaps this afternoon we can ride to Culp’s Hill. Don’t worry, girl. I won’t overwork your bad leg. We’ll rest as much as you need.” Tillie kissed her again as thunder rumbled and rain drummed overhead. “I have to leave for school now, but this afternoon we’ll spend time together after I help Maggie in the garden.” She gave Lady’s nose another stroke, blew the horse a kiss, and then ran back to the house.

 

 

* * * *

Tillie eyed the low dark clouds and clutched her cape close to her neck. She bent her head against the onslaught, pulling her hoops high off the ground to keep her dress dry.

“Child, put your skirts down. What would your mother say? And where’s your umbrella?”

Mrs. Winebrenner, Mother’s Union Relief League, and church friend, stood next to her. She held an umbrella high and wore the expression of someone about to launch into a firm scolding. Her eyes traveled up and down Tillie.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winebrenner. I didn’t think walking two blocks would be such a problem. I didn’t mean to do this much damage. I still can’t walk in the rain without getting my skirts dirty.” Mother would hear about this, the old biddy-body.

Mrs. Winebrenner braced her hand on Tillie’s shoulder and leaned forward. “A cross we all must bear, my dear.” She spoke as though imparting the wisdom of the ages, patted Tillie’s shoulder, and walked away.

If that woman told Mother about showing her ankles in public, then so be it. She needed to get to school.

Tillie gathered her skirts and ran. She got a few paces before her foot landed in an unseen puddle. Cold water splashed her leg. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her foot and turned it from side to side. “Oh, Mother’s going to kill me.” She bit her lip against the urge to cry, and easing her foot down, continued on her way, taking mincing steps and grimacing at the water squishing between her toes.

At the intersection of Middle and Washington Streets, she stopped to remove and examine her Sunday shoes. She wasn’t supposed to wear them for every day, and she’d be punished if she ruined them. Tillie balanced on one foot and the toes of her other. She turned her shoe around and around, examining the damage, ignoring the traffic passing by. She gasped as cold, muddy water hit her neck and ran under her collar, soaking through to her dress. Worse yet, her shoe got a second dunking as a gob of muddy water splatted her hands. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them down as she stared at Mr. McCreary’s carriage making its way up Washington Street.

“Land sakes, Mr. McCreary!” Tillie glared and glanced around. Did anyone hear her use foul language?

Nellie Auginbaugh, strode past carrying an umbrella, heels clicking on the pavement. She didn’t acknowledge Tillie standing in the street with one shoe off and one shoe on. She crossed Middle Street and continued to her destination. Tillie raised her eyes to the sky and said a silent thank you. She didn’t need Mother confronting her about using bad language. She turned her attention back to her shoe. Her heart seized over the damage done. Standing in the rain like a duck in thunder didn’t help matters.

Her feet numbed with cold, she arrived at Lady Eyster’s Female Academy. The rain plastered her hair to her head. Strands stood loose from her braid. Her clothes stuck to her body, her hoops fell, and now her skirt hem dragged in the mud. She raised sorrowful eyes to the imposing, white two-story building. Why couldn’t she go home? Things were only about to get worse.

As she stared at the building, its seven upstairs windows glared down at her, and the two baronial front doors mocked her. “Go away. You’re not smart enough to enter these rooms.” She drew a deep breath and, with a halting gait, climbed the four stone steps.

Tillie stepped inside and leaned against the door until it clicked closed. She stamped her feet, freeing the muck from her shoes, eased off her cloak, and hung it on a peg, before assessing the damage. The cloak received the worst of the carriage attack. Perhaps she would be all right before the day ended. Her hem dripped, leaving small puddles at her feet, and she scarcely resisted stamping a dismayed foot.

Girls’ laughter and chatter drifted from behind the closed door. Good. Classes hadn’t started yet. At least Mrs. Eyster wouldn’t dock her for tardiness. She eased the classroom door open a sliver and peered through. No sign of her teacher.

Tillie slipped inside, passing the youngest girls, who congregated near the door. They gawked. She lifted her chin and ignored them. She walked by the next older grade who took seats beside the front windows. They pointed and snickered behind their hands. Tillie squared her shoulders, lifted her head high, met ten-year-olds’ stares and dismissed twelve-year-olds’ giggles and whispers. A trail of muddy water followed her squishing shoes across the room to her classmates at the back. Maybe the floor would open and swallow her whole.

Catherine Foster gaped. “Look at your skirt. Mrs. Eyster will dock you.”

Beckie Weikert laughed and wagged her finger. “Madame Imperious will say a thing or two about your dress.”

“Ugh, I know. Mr. McCreary dashed by in his carriage and splashed me from head to toe. And my shoes!” She inched up her hem and held out each foot for careful examination. Her friends murmured “oh dears” and “what are you going to dos?” as she twisted each foot right to left, before dropping her skirt.

Belle Stewart bent and swiped grime from the back of Tillie’s skirt.

Mrs. Eyster entered the room.

Tillie clutched Belle, using her as a shield. Belle straightened up and broadened her shoulders.

“All right, ladies.” Mrs. Eyster clapped her hands three times. “Come to order.” The teacher’s black skirts swirled around her feet. She walked, ramrod straight, into the room.

When Tillie first started attending the academy, she disliked her teacher. With Mother’s help, Tillie learned to look past her strict formality to the lonely, childless widow. Her deeper understanding of her teacher softened her heart, and over time, Tillie hated to disappoint her.

That didn’t mean she wanted another demerit for dress and deportment. She had enough of those. She moved to her desk, scrunching into a small a ball behind Belle.

“Miss Pierce!” The teacher’s words cut through the air like a bayonet, slicing Tillie’s heart.

The girls went silent.

“Your skirts are atrocious. You leave a trail wherever you go. A lady never lets her skirts get dirty like some ragamuffin orphan child.” Mrs. Eyster’s black skirts swirled again as she pivoted and stepped onto the raised dais where her desk waited. She plucked up a long wooden ferule.

Heart pounding hard and knees buckling, Tillie clutched Belle, fearing she might crumple to the floor in a fit of vapors. Belle patted Tillie’s hand before moving to her seat.

“Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t help it. Mr. McCreary splashed me in his carriage.”

Mrs. Eyster’s brows shot up. “Oh? Were you in his carriage when he splashed you?”

“N–no, ma’am.” Tillie’s brow crinkled.

Her teacher pursed her lips, the equivalent of her smile. “Why don’t you try your sentence again?”

Tillie blinked. “While I was walking to school—in the rain—Mr. McCreary drove by me in his carriage and splashed me with muddy water.”

Several younger girls giggled.

Mrs. Eyster raised the ferule, rapped her desk once, and the giggling stopped. She locked eyes with Tillie. “There, now that wasn’t so difficult. Alas, I must dock your grade for dress and deportment. You may take your seat. We have a long day ahead of us.” She flicked her hand toward the desk.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tillie whispered. Her shoulders slumped, and she plodded to her seat.

“It is a rare thing indeed, Miss Pierce, when I get a pupil such as you.”

“Ma’am?” Tillie tilted her head. What did she mean?

Mrs. Eyster offered a faint smile. “Take your seat. We have a long day ahead of us.”

As Tillie settled in, Beckie reached out her hand. Tillie clasped it. A folded piece of paper pressed into her palm.

Slipping her hands below the desk, she opened the note to reveal a caricature of their teacher, eyes and tongue bulged out, her hair like lightning bolts. One of Beckie’s favorite jokes about Mrs. Eyster tying her corset strings too tight. Tillie respected her teacher too much to find Beckie’s nasty jokes funny. Yet she didn’t dare stand up to Beckie’s sense of humor. She glanced at Beckie’s self-satisfied grin, tore up the note, and tucked it into her pocket.

* * * *

The brilliant late-afternoon sun glittered like diamonds on the wet grass. The rain moved east to Philadelphia, leaving the air smelling fresh and clean. Tillie needed to hurry home. But the world glimmered and beckoned her to revel in it. She raised her face to the sun’s warmth and breathed deep the loamy wet-earth scent.

Someone tugged on her cloak. She opened her eyes as Beckie slipped her arm through Tillie’s. Tillie raised her face to the sun again. “Do you ever wonder what our great-grandparents would say if they knew the country was at war with itself? After all, they fought to free us from England. Would they be dismayed to discover what they fought for could be destroyed so easily?”

Beckie laughed. “You think too much.”

“Perhaps I do.” Tillie stiffened. “But still, I’m curious. What would they think if they saw us, north fighting south, and possibly destroying what they fought so hard to build?”

“Well…” Beckie shrugged. “I assume, they’d call us silly ninnies.”

Tillie bit her lip, familiar with Beckie’s I-don’t-care shrug.

Beckie brightened. “I got a letter from my beau, Mr. Kitzmiller. Did I tell you?”

“Another one? You told me you got one a week ago. What did he say? Did he give you news of James?”

“Oh. I did tell you he wrote. I got the letter last week. He says it’ll be the last he can write for a while so not to worry. Seems the army is moving again.” Beckie uttered a long dramatic sigh. “It’s to be expected at this time of year I suppose. I do wish he were home, though. I’m almost eighteen. Time to get married.”

Tillie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So, no news of James. Why didn’t Beckie ask after him? Four words, that’s all. How. Is. James. Pierce. “Has Mr. Kitzmiller proposed?”

“No. And Papa says he would refuse permission anyway until the war is over. I detest this war!” Beckie stamped her foot on the pavement. Stones flew out from under her shoe.

Her friend’s melodramatic declaration coupled with the angry line of her lip and lowered brow made Tillie want to laugh. She bit her tongue and cleared her throat. “George Sandoe joined up, the Twenty-First Volunteers. He leaves in a few days. Maggie’s heartbroken.”

“Well it’s about time.” Beckie tossed her hair. “After three years there isn’t a rush to go anymore. But Mr. Sandoe waited until the legal age to join the army while my George went a year ago at eighteen. So did William.”

“William was nineteen.” Tillie cringed. What a stupid thing to say.

“I stand corrected.” Beckie raised her chin and affected to stare at a bird flying overhead.

Tillie kept her gaze fixed on the road. “At least he didn’t hire a substitute.” Why couldn’t she think of something better to say? George could have paid three hundred dollars and avoided the war altogether. He wasn’t a complete coward.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice they were at the corner of Breckenridge Street until Beckie let go of her arm. “Well, here we are, Lawyers Row.” Beckie laughed at her own joke.

Along this side of Washington Street half a dozen law offices lined up next door to each other, as if Pennsylvania College couldn’t produce anything but lawyers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tillie frowned as Beckie walked away, skirts swaying back and forth like a pealing bell.

When Beckie disappeared over the brow of Cemetery Ridge, Tillie stepped into Washington Street. Mr. Garlach’s wagon came from out of nowhere, veering left on Washington Street from Breckenridge. He missed colliding with her, but she had to scramble back to the curb to avoid his team of horses. As he passed, he glared at her over his shoulder.

She smiled and waved an apology.

The shrill whistle of the four o’clock train departing the station startled her. Mother would scold her for dillydallying if she didn’t hurry home. Tillie quickened her step east onto Breckenridge.

Inside the Wade house, people shouted at each other. She glanced at the front door on her way by. Then she tsked and crossed the road, as though walking on the same side of the street would somehow taint her. No doubt, Ginny, whose real name was Mary Virginia, gave someone the dickens.

A few years ago, William showed interest in Ginny. James pulled him aside, calling her bossy, mean, and worse, unscrupulous and fast. Tillie asked James what he meant. His words cut her to the quick when her adored older brother turned on her. “Well, little pitchers have big ears. Mind your own business, Tillie.” It still stung when she remembered the encounter. To this day, she didn’t understand what he meant.

Everyone knew Ginny’s sympathies lay with the Confederate cause, in particular, one young man, Wesley Culp, who left to join the rebels. His family owned a farm south of town. What a scandal they created last year when Ginny and Wesley wanted to marry. The Culps refused because of the Wades’ low standing in town. Mr. Wade, Ginny and Sam’s father—a drunk and a thief—started a ten-year prison term a few months ago for something called rape. Soon after, Wes ran off to join the Confederate Army. Ginny took up with Johnston Skelly almost the same hour. He served in the Army of the Potomac.

Tillie didn’t like Sam, either, when he first came to live with them, painting him with the same brush as his family. Over time, though, he proved himself a quiet, thoughtful boy who did his chores with efficiency. Eager to please, he worked hard. His devotion to Father warmed her heart, and she developed a grudging respect and admiration for him. Now she thought of him as a sweet younger brother, though she’d never tell him so.

A broom whisked on the cobblestones, breaking her reverie.

Mr. Weaver, a tall black man with graying hair, swept the street near the corner of her house. His loose-fitting clothing gave the impression of an undernourished man.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weaver.”

He bobbed his head, raised his hat, and flashed a smile. His white teeth shone against dark skin, and his thick, curly hair, flattened under the hat, made a puffy ring where the brim rested. “Good day to you, young miss. Where’re you off to?”

“Home.”

“That’s nice. Give my regards to your folks.” He pushed his broom toward the gutter.

“I will.” Tillie hopped over his dirt pile.

Maggie and George stood on the stoop, laughing and pointing toward the Diamond.

“Tillie, look.” Maggie gestured up Baltimore Street.

A colored family labored toward them, backs bent under the weight of quilts and blankets bulging with clanking and pinging items.

“Mr. Weaver…?” Tillie nodded to the family. “What’re they doing?”

Mr. Weaver joined them on the corner. He leaned on his broom and scowled as the family passed by.

The slim black woman goaded her two boys. “Fo de Lawd’s sake, chiluns hurry up.” They staggered under the weight. The woman stopped and readjusted her pack. She let go one hand to herd the boys.

Her yellow dress and turban contrasted beautifully against her dark skin. The children, dressed in dirty, white linen shirts, dark pants, and bare feet, each carried bulging patchwork quilts slung over one shoulder. Ahead of them, their father led a cow. The cow lowed a plaintive lament.

“They’s runnin’ to hide on Culp’s Hill.” Mr. Weaver sighed and shifted his feet. “Many of our folk do these days. Word is, if the Rebs come and catch the black folk, we gonna get sol’ inta slavery.”

“But you’re free! They can’t do that.” Tillie studied him, brows creased. She crossed her arms. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Keep up,” the woman badgered, giving each boy a gentle shove. “Y’all don’t want them Rebs to kotch you and sell you to slave masters.”

The boys plodded past the woman who readjusted her burden before hurrying to catch up with her husband. She kept up a constant stream of chatter at her children.

“Mmm hmm.” Mr. Weaver stared after the family. “They can, and they will.”

“I’ve heard of overreacting before, but that’s ridiculous.” Smiling, George shook his head.

“They’re being silly, if you ask me.” Maggie slipped her hand under his elbow. “The Rebs aren’t coming here. Father said so. Even so, they don’t have the right to take people who’ve never been slaves.”

“You think so, miss?” Mr. Weaver gave them a hard glare. His brown eyes, so filled with warmth and friendliness moments ago, now blackened with rage. His brows lowered, and he gripped the broom handle so hard, his knuckles looked as though they might crack the skin. “You think they’re ridiculous? Maybe because you ain’t never been hunted before.”

“Mr. Weaver, are you…?” Tillie’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell agape.

He shot her a glare. “No, but my daddy was.”

Maggie peeked at George. He stared at his feet.

Tillie bit her lip, shame washed over her. She had no business prying into the man’s personal affairs.

Mr. Weaver fingered his hat brim. “Y’all have a fine day.” Voice dripping with sarcasm, he gave them each a baleful glare, turned, and shuffled up Breckenridge Street, pushing his broom as he went.

Tillie, Maggie, and George stood in chastened silence as the family trundled down the street. After they disappeared over the brow of the hill, George turned to Maggie and put his hand on her arm. He whispered in her ear.

She smiled, and her eyelids lowered as his lips brushed against her hair, his blond head close to hers.

Tillie ran up the steps to the front door and entered the house, shutting out the sight of the lovebirds.

* * * *

Upstairs Tillie hung her school dress over the armoire door and changed into her everyday work dress before assessing the damage from her walk to school. The mud would brush out, so no harm done thank Heaven. The water stains would require laundering. She grabbed the cleaning brush and brushed hard a few strokes before giving up. She crumpled the dress in a wash pile, shoved her shoes far into the back of her armoire, and threw a shawl on top of them.

At her dressing table, she loosened her braids, brushed, and tidied her hair.

Mother always said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, so Tillie took pains to keep hers healthy. After one hundred strokes, she threw the hairbrush down and ran her fingers through the chestnut tresses, satisfied when the light caught and shone through the silky strands.

Chin in hand, she studied her reflection, tilting her head and assessing large, brown, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes. Father called them doe eyes.

She wrinkled and stretched her nose. Still, it receded into her face before reemerging like a small ball hanging above her full lips.

Voices drifted up from downstairs, and she glanced at the door. Father would reprimand her for shirking if she didn’t head down soon. Tillie gathered up her hair again to braid, but couldn’t resist twisting a bun and holding on the back of her head, imitating Mother. Containing her tresses with one hand, she tipped her head from side to side, evaluating the effect. She frowned and let go. The mass of brown curls splashed over her shoulders and cascaded down her back. She scowled at her reflection. “I’ll never be as pretty as Mother or Maggie. Grandmother is right. With a face like mine, I need a nose like mine.” She puckered her mouth, gathered up her hair, and fingers flying, braided it.

She slipped down the stairs and into the sitting room, expecting to find Maggie, Mother, and Father. She walked into an empty room. Her shoulders dropped, and she let out her breath. As she passed Father’s chair, she spied the Gettysburg Compiler lying folded in half on the table beside his chair. The headline screamed: Rebels Reported In Chambersburg, Carlisle And York, Looting Rampant. Fingers shaking, she picked up the paper and read the article. Clearly, the editor had so small an opinion of the story, he didn’t allot more than a few column inches. Still, fear spiked through her. Two thousand infantry. Twenty thousand cavalry. No mention of the Union boys and their whereabouts. However, President Lincoln fired General Hooker and put General Meade at the head of the Army of the Potomac.

Chambersburg, Carlisle and York…They made a U shape around Gettysburg. So close! She scanned the room, half-expecting Rebs to jump out of the corners. Then she put the paper down and tipped it just right, as if the action would make them go away.

Leaving it there, she walked into the kitchen. Maggie stood by the door, holding Tillie’s apron. She almost told Maggie about the story, but no. If Father thought it important, he’d say something.

“Where’s George?” Tillie took her apron from Maggie and dropped it over her head.

Maggie’s far-off, vacant stare fixed on a spot on the wall.

Tillie tied her apron strings behind her back, while bending her knees, attempting to catch her sister’s eye. “I assumed you two would be occupied for a while so I didn’t hurry down.”

Maggie glanced at her, picked up two baskets, handing one to Tillie. “I told him he needed to leave as soon as you got home. That’s why we waited on the steps.”

Tillie snugged her bonnet on, tying the bow under her chin. She grabbed the fruit basket Maggie held out. “Shall we?” She slipped past Maggie into the bright sunshine.

George stood at the butcher shop door. Father sat before his whetstone, drawing a blade across. The stone zinged and sparks flew around him, but he didn’t try to get out of their way. Sam worked behind Father, taking down equipment and putting others away.

“He hasn’t left yet. He’s standing by Father’s shop.”

“Father wanted to cut him a choice piece of meat to take home to his family. He leaves Thursday morning for Carlisle. I won’t see him tomorrow, since he has things to do to prepare to go and we have all of this to preserve.” Maggie flicked her hand over the garden.

“Oh.” Tillie focused on the task. “What about the fruit trees?” She glanced toward the apple and peach trees. Only green fruit dangled from their boughs. “The peaches will be ready in a couple of weeks, but the apples, of course, won’t be ready until mid-August so we shouldn’t worry about them. Do you agree?”

Her sister’s attention remained on George, deep in conversation with Father.

“Maggie?” Tillie touched her sister’s arm. The cotton sleeve, warmed by the sun, nestled softly under her hand.

Maggie started. “Whatever you want, Tillie.” Her voice sounded vague and despondent. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes, spilling down the side of her nose.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want George to go. I’m afraid,” Maggie choked out.

“He’ll be all right. I’m sure of it.” The words rang false to Tillie even as she said them. Would George be all right? Foreboding washed over her. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook. She grasped her skirt and squeezed the fabric to still the tremors.

Maggie uttered a small laugh. “You know, for the longest time, I didn’t think you liked George.”

Tillie offered her sister a wry grin. “I like him, I guess. I will admit to jealousy.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she knelt in the dirt, “you don’t like to do things with me anymore. We used to go up to Culp’s Hill and pick berries and flowers, but now all you do is stay home and wait for George to visit.”

Maggie sat next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way. It’s not so much I’m waiting around for George, but I’m grown up now. I wager in another year or so you’ll feel the same way.” Maggie took her hand. “No matter what, you’re my sister and nothing can change that.”

Tillie threw her arms around Maggie in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry, too. When George started coming around, I didn’t like it. I didn’t want him changing things.” She pulled away and chuckled. “You know, sometimes I get so frustrated with the sameness of each day, I want to scream. Other times, I feel as if I’m balancing on the edge of a precipice. I can’t explain it. I want things to change if only for some variety, but I also don’t want anything to change.”

“I understand.” Maggie squeezed her hand. “It reminds me of those wooden tops Father made for the boys, remember?”

“Tell me.”

“They had strings you wound around the top, and when James threw his on the floor, the top spun and spun before wobbling to a stop. But William’s top always staggered around and crashed into the walls.”

Tillie laughed. “I bet he got mad. He hates being second to James in anything.”

“Including birth.” Maggie chuckled.

Tillie inspected a tomato plant. The basil-like aroma filled her nostrils. She moved on. “Is that how you felt? Like William’s top?”

“Most of the time. When I was scared and unsure I whirled in confusion. I was James’s top when things went right.” Maggie plucked two large green tomatoes. She set them into her basket. “You know, William’s top is how we act when we take our eyes off God, or refuse to acknowledge Him. James’s top is what happens when God comes first in our lives in all things.”

Tillie scowled and let her fingers search the peapods and green beans as she considered Maggie’s words. They worked in silence for a few minutes.

“So did George propose?”

Again, Maggie’s eyes darted to the butcher shop. Tillie followed her gaze. George was gone.

“Maggie?”

“No, he didn’t. To propose now would be foolhardy. He’s not the only man to join the army, I know that, but I’m afraid something will happen to him.”

The hair rose on the back of Tillie’s neck. “Oh, don’t think that way. He’ll be fine, and once he comes home a brave soldier, he’ll ask for your hand.”

Maggie opened her mouth, but a strange expression crossed her face. She closed her mouth again and picked vegetables.

Tillie observed her sister and waited for what she might say.

Maggie dropped cucumbers into her basket. “You’re right.” Her lips twitched. “Besides, it’s all in God’s hands. I must be brave and give George to God.”

Maggie picked more cucumbers and placed them into her basket while Tillie searched the peapods.

“Did you read the newspaper in the sitting room?” Maggie’s voice sounded frightened.

Tillie closed her eyes, and her shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

“Father doesn’t think the Rebs will come.” Maggie spoke above a whisper. “But what if they do?”

Tillie sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “Most of the time I believe him, but sometimes I’m not sure what to think.” She plucked a baby peapod. “There’s something in the air. I can’t explain what, but I sense it. I’m teetering on that precipice, and I’m afraid of falling off.” She twirled the peapod between her fingers. “I don’t know what made me speak so, except George is leaving day after tomorrow. James and William are miss—gone.” She dropped the pod into her basket. “I don’t know about giving George—or James or William, for that matter—to God. I just hope the Rebs stay away.”

“I agree.” Maggie twisted a pitiful green tomato off the vine, topping off her basket. “I pray the Rebs don’t come and all the men we love will come home safe.”

Tillie nodded her agreement, but the headline loomed before her eyes: Rebels Reported In Chambersburg, Carlisle And York, Looting Rampant. The words screamed for her attention, along with two other words: They’re coming.