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"DIARY TIME NOW," Ida insisted once we were all back upstairs. Like ducklings following a mama mallard, we filed toward the circle of chairs and settled ourselves expectantly.
“Maybe the next entries won’t be so sad,” Sadie said.
“Don’t count on it,” muttered Charlie.
Friday, 18 October 1745
Young John has decided that sleeping during the day is a waste of his time. I used to be able to depend on several hours during which I could write in my journal and still have time to complete the most pressing of my daily chores. Today, though, I have had to wait until evening while Mister Homer Martin is in the communal gathering place at the center of the village, where he so frequently spends the hours after our evening meal, whenever it is not raining.
Mistress Julia Gilman has made it a habit of hers to come upon me seemingly by chance almost every time I leave my house. I do think she watches for me to appear and then scoops up a gathering basket or an unusual plant she has found growing in the woods, anything to use as an excuse to make a comment to me. But we have generally been joined by another woman—or two or three, for Miss Julia is popular with all the women of the town, except perhaps for Mistress Sarah Russell, who still seems to feel that Miss Julia’s divided skirts are something to be avoided at all cost lest they form a contagion against Mistress Russell’s rigid principles. I never til now thought Sarah Russell to be so strait-laced, for she has ever before appeared amiable. The death of her daughter Myra Sue may have been what hardened her. I cannot imagine the depth of despair I would feel should I lose my son.
My sister Constance has been confined to her house for days now. Little Parley is ill indeed, and Constance has feared for the child’s very life. I thank the Lord that my John is such a sturdy fellow.
Mistress Louetta Martin has spent much time with Constance as the two of them toil to keep Parley’s fever from mounting too high. I am reluctant to visit, for the last time I went to see my sister, three days ago, the same day Miss Julia and I spoke in the mullein patch, I woke her from a fitful sleep, the first she had managed to find time for in three days. She needs the sleep whenever she can find a moment for it, for she is with child again, and is exhausted most of every day.
I must find a way to speak more with Miss Julia, for only she can tell me how does my Hubbard.
“There,” Sadie said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, Ida?”
Ida held up the journal, a sour look on her face. “Who knows what’s coming on the next page, though?”
“That’s part of the trouble with delving into history,” Carol said. “Even though we don’t know these people, it’s easy to feel as if we do, and then to take what they do and say and feel so much to heart that it feels like we’ve been bombarded with the same things they’ve had to deal with.”
“Sure does suck.” Pat had such a forlorn expression, I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Look at the good side,” I said. “We know Parley made it through her illness because she ended up marrying Brand Tarkington, which resulted eventually in Melissa! I’d say that’s happy news.”
Melissa took a bow. “Thank you. I agree with your wise commentary.”
~ ~ ~
SATURDAY, 19 OCTOBER 1745
HUBBARD RAN A finger along the side of one of the maple leaves he had carved. It still felt just the slightest bit rough. He would not give Silas Martin anything less than his best effort, so he bent to smooth the offending edge. He had finished his chores for the day and there was just enough time before the evening meal to complete this project so he might show it to Silas Martin on the morrow.
He took his meals with the Surratt family, in return for helping Mister Call Surratt with any chores that might need doing, and there were many such chores. The Surratts allowed him the use of their barn as well—the snug hayloft was ample for his sleeping arrangements, and he was grateful that it gave him an escape far away from the demands of young Barnard whose lusty nightly squalling for food filled the air even out this far from the house. He was ever an obstreperous infant. Hubbard dreaded the day when Barnard began to walk and to climb. For now, his refuge in the hayloft was safe, but Hubbard doubted not that Barnard would continue to be an obstreperous child. Hubbard knew not how he would hide his store of precious books—or his even more precious journal—from the boy. For now, they were safe underneath the hay piled beside his bedding.
The smell of hay broke into the pathway of his mind for a moment and he paused to inhale deeply. Ever his favorite smell.
Edward, the Surratt’s elder son, had not much strength to him—although, to give the boy credit, he tried his hardest to do his fair share. Surely he would soon get his growth, for he was not yet even a dozen years of age and still had the piping high voice of a child. Young Nell—not so young—was shy but well spoken. She had told him this past week that she would be fourteen on her next natal day. Fionella, a year younger than Nell, was as bright as a daisy. Except for Barnard, the Surratt children were a fine brood.
Hubbard briefly imagined what it would have been like had he and Mary Frances had a child of their own. A child who would by now have been about the age of young John Martin. He could have taught the child so much. He could have ...
A shadow advanced across the leaf, and Hubbard raised his head. Homer Martin stood in the door to the Surratt’s barn, the setting sun outlining him in a dull red. Hubbard turned his head slightly, so less of the left side of his face was apparent. He doubted Homer Martin would ever recognize him, but he chose not to take the slightest chance.
“Mister Gilman?”
“Mister Martin.” Hubbard waited. Homer Martin seemed to be expecting him to say something, but Hubbard would not give him the satisfaction.
Homer spit off to the side. “Call Surratt tells me that you are keeping up your end of the bargain.”
“I always keep my bargains, sir.”
Again, Homer Martin waited, as if expecting more of an answer.
Again, Hubbard remained silent until Homer Martin spun on his heel and stalked away.
Only then did Hubbard begin to breathe normally.
~ ~ ~
Saturday, 19 October 1745
MISTER MARTIN WAS SINGULARLY upset when he came to the evening meal. He did not say—and I did not ask—what had angered him so, and I was even more relieved than usual when he left the table to head to his customary evening drinking bout in the town square. These October evenings are still mild enough—unlike the frigid autumn nights in the town we left so far behind—for the men to sit readily outside. I dread the time when winter snows might confine him to this house. Would that Mister Hastings would find a new source of that fine ale and build a public house soon, but Jane Elizabeth Hastings informed me this afternoon that her husband despairs of ever again serving as a publican. ‘He refuses to serve ordinary ale,’ she said, ‘and every other ale he has ever sampled is, according to him, a poor substitute for Chauncey Endicott’s brew.’ Nor are there likely to be ample travelers to this valley. At least Brandtburg was a crossroads, where his small inn had enough custom, and his ale—or that of Mister Chauncey Endicott—was famous throughout the towns, and men were known to travel a dozen miles or more to taste of it. I can only pray that whatever poor ale is available, it will mellow Mister Martin so that when he returns long after dark he will sink directly into sleep.
Ida tapped her finger on the edge of the page. “I wonder what got his britches so twisted?”
“Maybe she’ll find out in a day or two,” Sadie said. “We’ll never know unless we keep going.”
~ ~ ~
SUNDAY, 20 OCTOBER 1745
MARY FRANCES WOULD have liked to sit farther toward the back of the church, but she and Mister Martin always occupied the first row, as they had from the day four years ago that the new church held its first service. She could just imagine the scandalized glances if she had slipped into a rear seat. Beside her on her right, young John stirred restlessly, and she turned to him. She knew she could have simply reached out a hand to still his jouncing leg—although she was reluctant to do so since the bounce of his small leg would jar her arm, which Mister Martin had wrenched so painfully last night when he returned to their house. Turning to the child gave her an excuse to glance around the room, nodding pleasantly to the others as she caught their eyes, looking all the while for her dear husband. It was time for the service to begin, and all the others were in their accustomed pews.
She felt a start of pleasure as he stepped with Miss Julia into the church. She could not help but notice that the moment he came through the door, his one good eye met her gaze—for only a heartbeat, as if he had been looking for her, as she felt in her heart he must have been. But then he lowered his head to murmur something to Miss Julia. How she wished she could have traded places with the Widow Gilman at that moment.
She tried not to watch him as he moved toward the fifth row, where he and Miss Julia always sat, but she could not stop herself. She hoped her neighbors would assume she was still as intrigued as they were with Miss Julia, and indeed she was aware of many other people eyeing the handsome Widow Gilman. For the most part, they seemed to avoid looking at the widow’s son.
A wide-brimmed hat usually covered—or at least shaded—the scars on his face, but of course he had removed the hat as soon as they entered the church, and the scars, the misshapen ear, the missing eye, all served as an effective disguise. No one in this building would ever suspect that this was one of the Brandts.
She prayed that Mister Homer Martin never questioned his identity.
~ ~ ~
HUBBARD DID NOT EVEN pretend to listen to the sermon that Sunday. There was no danger of anyone’s noticing, for nobody except small fascinated children ever really looked at him, so he simply sat there and watched the back of his wife’s head. The curls peeking from under her cap brushed her neck and must have occasionally tickled her, for she would reach up and push them back under the cap, just behind her right ear. Of course, they escaped almost immediately. He longed to lift the cap from her head and run his hands through those curls. That, of course, would have garnered not only the attention of the entire congregation, but a challenge from Homer Martin.
As soon as the last amen was voiced, Hubbard slipped into the aisle. Mother Julia knew that he was to meet with Silas Martin immediately after the service, for he had told her of the doors and their plans to work together on them. He could still hear the scorn in her voice when he told her Homer Martin’s original plans for the doors. Homer Martin, she had said, her voice rich in disdain, as Moses?
~ ~ ~
MISS JULIA TARRIED a bit after John left the church. She greeted the other women pleasantly enough, but the majority of her attention was focused on Mary Frances. The young woman held her body too stiffly and seemed to cradle her right arm as if it pained her. If Miss Julia’s suspicions were correct, if Homer Martin was overly rough with his supposed wife, then what should Miss Julia do? If she shared her knowledge—her suspicions—with John, she felt certain he would feel obliged to intervene. If he intervened, he would likely get himself killed. It would certainly not be easy to spirit Mary Frances and her child away from this valley. The entire male population of Martinsville would hunt them down.
She doubted, too, whether Mary Frances, as much as she still seemed to love Hubbard—John—would be willing to leave her friends, her place in this community, for she still had hopes that young John would become the town leader in the coming years. John had told Miss Julia much about the respect with which that entire group held the Martin name, as if anyone with that name had some sort of charmed abilities that were lacking in men with other surnames.
“The Brandts are the same,” he had told her months before as they wound their way down the long river valley toward Martinsville. “My brother Ira has always been seen as the logical leader of Brandtburg.”
“Yet he left the town,” Miss Julia had pointed out.
“He always intended to return, though.”
Miss Julia had not said anything more at the time, for she had harbored private doubts at that time about whether or not Ira Brandt had even survived. Surely he would have backtracked and reconnected with them if it had been possible.
“Mayhap,” John had said, but without much hope in his voice, “he has already met with Homer Martin and been reconciled. Perhaps we shall find him in the town we even now approach.”
Now, of course, Miss Julia knew the truth, for Mary Frances had confirmed the facts of the 'unknown man' and his fall from the cliff, and Hubbard had confided in her this past week after he spoke with Silas Martin and learned the identity of the man in the unknown grave. Miss Julia had gone on Thursday to lay wildflowers on Ira’s grave, careful not to let anyone see her lest there be questions asked. She fully intended to continue the practice. 'Christian charity,’ she would tell anyone who asked her why.
~ ~ ~
SILAS MARTIN WATCHED with some amusement as a large group of men congregated around Homer out in the churchyard after the service ended. Men always seemed to think women chattered constantly, but Silas had observed that men had a great deal to say, and they said it often, much of it nothing but hot air. As they approached the time of harvest, many were the opinions as to when the effort should begin in earnest. Homer had decreed last night at the communal fire that each family would partake in a group harvest. The men had accepted that decision, and Silas was privately amused that once again, it had been his own plan, about which he had argued with Homer for hours until finally managing to convince him.
Homer relished the attention of the men. Silas did not look forward to the way in which Homer’s attitude would change as soon as he found that his “Moses doors” had turned into leafy bowers, like the Garden of Eden—but without the serpent.
“As I told you,” Silas bent his head to speak to his wife, “I must leave you now to meet with John Gilman.” He had, of course, shared his new knowledge of the identity of John Gilman with Louetta. He trusted her implicitly. She would hold her counsel.
She touched the bandage on his hand. “This is healing well, my husband, but you must behave rightly and give it a few more days to mend before you begin to carve again.”
“That will not be a difficulty, for John has obligations to the Surratts, and must complete his work for them each day, and now, with the harvest work to begin tomorrow, I doubt we will be able to carve any day but Sunday.”
“Today is Sunday,” she said with a wry smile. “Please you to wait for a seven-day.”
“I promise you, we will do naught but plan today.” He could tell she was skeptical about that.
He waited until she turned aside to join a small group of women who had clustered around Mary Frances Martin before the church doorway, then skirted past the men, lifting his hat to several women who were in his path, and continued around to the side of the church where, he knew, John Gilman—Hubbard Brandt—would await him.
When Silas walked into the shed, a tentative smile lifted the left side of Gilman’s face as he handed Silas the carved plank. Silas gave the carving a close inspection. The design was strong, but there was a touching delicacy to the vines that wove up the small section of trunk Gilman had depicted. “I can see that these doors of ours will be a work of art.”
“As they would have been, had you been the only one to carve them.”
“I thank you, John Gilman, but with your improvements to my design, this will be a true Garden of Paradise.” He ran his hand over the design and could not feel even a hint of roughness. He would not have been dissatisfied if the sample had been a rough approximation of what Gilman had in mind, but this? “This is a most fine piece of workmanship.”
He was not surprised that the quality of the work had met his expectations, for he knew Brandt—Gilman—was an exacting craftsman, but this piece exceeded any expectations he might have had. “The way this vine twines along the trunk, it makes me think somehow that both vine and tree are happy in the arrangement.”
Far from scoffing at this fanciful interpretation, John Gilman appeared to appreciate it. “I have noticed that some types of vines choke the trees they climb and seem to eat out their substance, while some others”—he nodded toward the board—“appear to live together quite equably. Those are the ones I would prefer to show on the doors of the church.”
Silas revised his already approving estimation of Gilman. The man had more depth than Silas had anticipated. “You would have the doors reflect what communities should be”—he stressed the should—“rather than what they sometimes are.”
Gilman glanced out into the empty side yard of the church toward the grave of his brother. “We both know what happens when towns are torn apart by dissension. I pray that never happens here.”
Silas leaned the sample plank against the wall of the shed. “Let us see what we can devise for these doors of ours.”
~ ~ ~
HUBBARD WAS DELIGHTED at Silas Martin’s acceptance of his sample. As much as he longed to begin work immediately, he knew the actual carving could not yet begin. “We will not be able to start work on the doors until after the harvest. Mister Surratt spoke this morning of the way in which the harvest will begin tomorrow. I was not at the gathering last night." Hubbard paused. He did not want to admit that he had gone to his hayloft bed as early as possible, for his heart had pounded most uncomfortably. "He said Homer Martin spoke quite eloquently about the need for the entire community to come together to work each grain field in turn. It seems a most propitious arrangement.”
Silas opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and bent lower over the first door.
“I have often thought,” Hubbard said, “that your mind was the more incisive of the two of you. I daresay it was your plan which Homer put forth.”
He waited, but Silas said nothing.
“Was it not?”
Finally, Silas spoke. “I am happy to support my brother in whatever he chooses to do.”
Hubbard noted, though, that a look of quiet satisfaction settled on Silas’s face. It was good to have one’s efforts known and appreciated.