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Saturday 7 July 1753
LOUISE MARTIN WAS sick to death of being called a barn baby. She and Parley were always getting teased about it. It was not fair, but Mama had washed her mouth out with soap the last time she had complained—probably because Louise had said a bad word along with her complaint—so Louise was not ever going to say anything about it ever again, at least not around Mama. But she could voice her anger with her friend Parley.
It hurt Louise when that beastly Frederick Breeton pulled her braids and taunted her. He was younger than she was, too, but already a good deal taller. “Barn baby, barn baby,” he would chant, all the while laughing at her. That was what bothered her the most. Not the braid pulling so much, but the laughter, especially when all the other boys joined in.
“I think he is sweet on you,” Parley said to Louise that morning as they walked to the river to gather water. “That is why he teases you. He never pulls your hair very hard. Only a little tug.”
Louise planted her hands on her hips, as best she could while she held two empty buckets swinging by their handles. “I do not like it. He never pulls your hair, and he never calls you a barn baby. He never calls Barnyard a barn baby, either.”
Parley giggled, the way she always did when anyone mentioned Barnard’s name, and Louise’s face gradually crumpled into laughter, too. Louise and Parley called him Barnyard, but always behind his back and always when the two girls were sure nobody else could hear them.
Barnard Surratt was a strapping big boy, younger by a day than Louise and Parley, but far taller than either of them and twice their weight, with long thick arms, fists like small hams, and a swift temper. Nobody ever called him Barnyard twice. Not to his face, at least.
The two girls said a courteous good morrow to Mistress Martin who was walking along the main street beside the river. While Parley waited behind her, Louise knelt on the sizable rock that jutted out from the sand and overhung a deep pool. She lowered her first bucket into the water and checked to be sure that Mistress Martin was out of earshot. “I hate Barnyard,” she said.
Behind her, Parley gasped. Louise looked up in time to see Barnard step from behind one of the straggly bushes that hung their lower branches into the water. She hardly had time to gulp before he strode onto the rock and pushed her into the water. Her petticoats blossomed up around her face, blocked her vision and, as they absorbed the water, pulled her under. She did not even have time to scream, but she did have time to hear Parley screeching. She flailed one of her arms, but the bucket handle had somehow trapped her other arm, and the weight of it dragged her down.
If this had been during the spring spate, she might have been swept fast and far downstream, but the month had so far been dry and the current was surprisingly gentle. She felt her knees bend as her feet touched the sandy bottom of the deep pool and she pushed as hard as she could. Luckily, the voluminous petticoats streamed back away from her face when her head burst above the surface, and she gasped in a deep breath before she submerged once more. But this time, she let her weight work with the water, waiting until her feet touched bottom again, and once more she shot to the surface. She could tell that this time she was closer to the shore, although a bit farther downstream away from the big rock.
Behind her, she heard Barnard’s laughter before she disappeared beneath the water again. This time, her head broke the surface almost immediately after she pushed with her feet, and she was able to gather her legs under her and stumble onto the sand.
Parley grabbed her, screaming. “You are not dead! You are not dead!”
“No,” Louise said, “but I will be if you squeeze me any harder.” She turned her head and was tidily sick onto the coarse brown sand of the river’s edge. Parley let go quickly and backed away.
“I lost my other bucket.” Louise untangled the first bucket from her arm, set it on the sand, and turned toward Barnard Surratt with rage in her heart, just in time to see Frederick Breeton use his head to butt the laughing Barnard in the stomach. Barnard sailed backwards off the rock, and Frederick scrambled to keep his balance so he wouldn’t tumble in after the big ruffian. Barnard disappeared below the surface, but Louise paid him no mind.
“Thank you,” she said to Frederick.
He ducked his head. “Couldn’t have the barn baby drown in the river.” He looked down at the thrashing boy below him. “Shall we rescue him, do you think?”
Louise picked up her one remaining bucket, pushed her wet braid back over her shoulder, and turned uphill, following the same path Mistress Martin had used. “No.”
The next morning, the second bucket, filled with fresh water, sat on the stoop beside the Martin family’s front door.
Her mother and her stepbrother Brand both asked about where it might have come from. They thought Barnard had perhaps been made to atone for his wicked actions, but later that day Parley told Louise she was sure it had been Frederick.
“He must have looked all night to find your bucket.” Parley’s eyes fairly shone with excitement.
“Nonsense,” was all Louise said. She could not explain the funny fluttering feeling in her chest, as if a rabbit had gotten caught there. Frederick might be a bit younger than she, but he was taller and he ... he had avenged her against Barnyard. "Nonsense," she repeated.
~ ~ ~
“RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION? WHAT’S she talking about?” Pat sounded indignant herself. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
"Patience," Ida said. "Patience. All will be revealed."
"That’s because you peeked ahead," Pat accused.
"You want to try reading this backwards writing?" Ida made as if to hand the journal to Pat. "Be my guest."
"Okay, okay." Pat held her hands up in surrender. "You’re the expert. Go ahead."
I was delighted to view the way the children wove together after Barnard Surratt pushed Louise Martin into the river.
"He what?" Maddy wasn’t the only one objecting.
"... into the river," Ida repeated firmly.
I was too far away to hear what had come before then, and to tell the truth I was not paying particular mind to the children until Barnard rushed at Louise. My mind was on my sore shoulder, and I was happy to have a distraction such as the scene unfolding in front of me. I hurried a few paces back, until I was standing almost in front of the cabinetry shop ...
"Cabinetry shop?" Ida looked up from the journal. "I don’t recall her mentioning this before."
We all looked at each other, but nobody seemed to remember any such thing. I certainly didn’t.
Ida shrugged, and went on.
... but the children did not seem to notice me, and I could tell that young Louise was making her way to land. Frederick appeared as if out of nowhere and butted Barnard—just like a rancorous goat—into the river. He then offered to pull him out once Louise was safely on the shore, but Louise said not to, and I inwardly cheered the girl. I like her spirit.
"I like her spirit, too," I said.
Ida set down the diary. "I really don’t want these to end. I’m not going to read as many entries at a time."
There was general grumbling, of course—although Amanda pointed out that we’d get more exercise jumping up and down from our chairs if we read in shorter spurts—but I had to agree with Ida. I wanted the diary to go on at least until the end of this ice storm. I wondered if the gorge at the lower end of the Metoochie River was in danger of getting plugged up by the ice. I hoped not. I didn’t want to have to deal with a flood once everything melted.
~ ~ ~
JUNE 1997
"YOU CAN’T MISS it," the woman who owned the B&B said. "Just head up Main Street, and it’ll be on your left."
"Is it very far?"
The woman laughed. "Nothing in Martinsville is very far."
Within minutes, she opened the Deli’s door, and a bell jingled above her head.
"Are you just visiting," the woman at the counter asked her after she ordered her lunch, "or are you here to stay?"
"I’m thinking of moving here." She didn’t want to look needy, so she didn’t say but only if I can get the money to stay.
"You came at the right time. We had a lot of rain recently, which is why the river’s so full. But don’t worry. There’s no danger. It’s a great place to live, no matter what the weather’s like. I’m Margot Schuss. My husband and I own the deli. Your name is ...?" She left her question dangling.
"Charlotte Ellis." She patted the sore spot on her head and made sure the rest of her hair covered it. "I used to live here when I was a kid."
"That was before we moved here, I guess," the woman said, "but welcome home. Find yourself a seat and I’ll bring you your sandwich as soon as it’s ready."
She chose a place by the window where she could watch the Metoochie River flow past on the other side of the street. It was pretty boring.
The sandwich was thick and hot and delicious, and she downed it quickly. She could tell the other people in the place were studying her, but nobody approached her, not until those three old women she’d seen on her way into town walked through the door and up to the counter. The woman back there behind the counter—she couldn’t remember her name—must have said something, because the woman who looked like a yellow crayon let out a whoop that drew the attention of everybody in the room.
"Charlie Ellis," she called out. "Little Charlie Ellis? Is it really you?" She bee-lined it to Charlotte’s table and pulled Charlotte up into a hug before Charlotte could say a word. "Why, you were just a little tyke when you left all those years ago! And whatever did you do to your hair?"
When Charlotte recoiled, the crayon took a step backwards. "Oh, I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Sadie Masters. Did your mom come along with you? I haven’t heard from her or seen either one of you in so long, it’s been—"
But Charlotte cut her off. "She’d dead. She died about a year ago."
"Oh, no. She was such a dear person. I always did like her, and you were such a bright little girl. And now you’ve grown up so much." The old woman fluttered her hands a bit. "Listen to me going on like this, saying all those things young people don’t like to hear from us old folks. Where are you staying?"
"At the bed and breakfast." Charlotte motioned over her shoulder in the general direction. Not that it was any of this old busybody’s business.
"Melissa’s place? That’s great. She’ll take good care of you."
Sadie slipped into the booth across from her. "Have you seen your old house yet? The Johnsons, the ones who bought it, have kept it up really nice. I should know," she said, "since I see it every day."
Charlotte looked a question at her.
"Well, it’s right across the street from me. Don’t you remember?"
Charlotte shrugged. "It was a long time ago."
"Of course it was. We’ll have to give you a walking tour."
By this time both of the other women crowded around and introduced themselves. Rebecca somebody and Esther somebody.
Charlotte Ellis felt more than a little overwhelmed.
~ ~ ~
THERE WEREN’T ANY OTHER diaries, at least none in the trunks we were investigating. I rummaged down through a lot of the layers in Sadie’s and my trunk, hoping to find something like an old journal, but it was all just individual letters and such, many of them bound with delightful old ribbons. I had to admit, though, that some of the ribbons looked pretty ratty. Of course, if I’d been lying around for a hundred years or more, squashed under multiple layers of paper, I’d probably appear pretty ratty myself.
Glaze looked up at me just then, and I smiled, thinking how fortunate I was to have her as a part of my life. We had come so close to losing her before her bipolar disorder was diagnosed. Of course, she was like a completely different person now that she’d gotten the help, the treatment, she needed. If anybody was going to find another old diary, I hoped she’d be the one.
Across the card table from me, Sadie rubbed her hands together.
“Are you cold?" I asked her. "Do you need some gloves?”
“No, dear. It’s just one of those things that started happening ten or twelve years ago. Once you hit seventy, things slow down a bit.”
“We could go downstairs for awhile so you can warm up by the wood stove.”
“What? You want me to miss the fun up here? Not a chance!” She gave her hands one more vigorous rub and went back to reading the paper on the table.
Ida pulled the cat hair scarf from around her neck and handed it to Sadie. “This thing really helps. You wear it for awhile and we’ll rotate it back and forth.”
Sadie gave one of her sweet smiles and let Ida wrap the scarf around her neck and shoulders. “You’re right,” she said. “It is warm.”
“Sadie?”
“Yes, Biscuit?”
“Do you have any idea how many people have lived in this house?”
“Only a few of them, and I’m not sure at all about the dates. Unless we find a lot more old letters or journals, I doubt there’s any way of finding out.”
~ ~ ~
MARCH 1753
ROBERT HASTINGS HAD always envisioned another public house, larger than the one he had left behind in Brandtburg. Throughout the journey south, he had clung to the thought that when they finally stopped traveling, he would build an inn that would be well known—famous almost—throughout whatever colony they settled in.
Not for him a small upper floor with but four rooms for travelers. No, he would have enough space for two dozen or even more. And a public room on the ground floor that would become a gathering place for all the men of the town. For more than three years of that journey he had seen himself dispensing the fine ales and beers brewed by Chauncey Endicott, the best brewer he had ever known.
But then, just days before Silas Martin found this valley, Worthy Endicott left the company to set out on his own, taking with him his father the brewmaster and all his secrets.
That disappointment was almost as great as the one that assailed Robert as they travelled to the end of the cliff-sided vale. What Robert Hastings had envisioned as a great crossroads where travelers would congregate, turned out to be a dead end valley, and Robert, whose hearty laugh had brightened so many dull assemblages, found little reason for mirth.
He felt useless. He need not worry about provisioning for his family, for he had used his stock of ready money to fund the four-year journey, paying for whatever necessaries were required along the way, and now the various families repaid him as they could with produce from their gardens and with the work of their hands. But still, he felt he had nothing to offer the community.
“Mister Hastings?”
Robert looked up from his chair by the hearth to see Nehemiah Garner peering through the open front doorway. “Yes, Nehemiah? Come in if you have need to see me.”
“Good evening, Mistress Hastings,” Nehemiah said with great deference as he stepped inside, carefully skirting the stack of gathering baskets Robert’s wife kept stacked beside the door.
Robert smiled to himself. His wife’s reputation in the town had gone up considerably last year when she rescued Reverend Anders Russell by single-handedly lifting a stone that weighed considerably more than she did. The women of the town all agreed that the minister might have died from loss of blood or at least might have lost the use of his leg altogether if she had not responded so quickly to his cry for help. Robert had vowed to himself that he would never tell anyone how she had collapsed, quivering, that day when she returned home with her herb basket and her apron all bloodied from her badly scraped hands.
Robert nodded toward the other chair.
“I thank you, sir.” Nehemiah remained standing, holding a rough canvas sack in front of him, as if it contained something precious. “Might we sit at your table? I have a proposition for you.”
“Certes. I have naught else to do this evening.”
Once they were seated, Nehemiah placed the sack on the table. “Might I trouble you for a cup, Mistress?”
She set her knitting aside and brought two cups, one for each man, then returned to her chair beside the fireplace.
Robert nodded toward the sack. “What have you in there?”
“I wish you to sample my newest batch of ale, sir.”
“Ale? Your ale?” Robert couldn’t help the cynicism in his voice. Brewing was a serious business, and many a one who tried it merely wasted time, effort, and ingredients.
Nehemiah did not reply. He simply poured out a cup of deep golden-brown liquid and slid it slowly across the table.
Robert could smell the full-flavored richness of it as soon as it left the bottle. Still, he was cautious. The aroma was worthless unless the taste measured up. He studied the bubbles of foam that floated on top. He raised the cup to his lips but did not taste it yet. Yes, the smell was ... was ... “This reminds me of Chauncey Endicott’s special brew.”
“Of course, sir. Mister Endicott himself taught me.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? I saw no indication of teaching along the trail, and the Endicotts have been gone for nigh on eight years now.”
“That is true,” Nehemiah said. “I did not learn from him on the trail. Two years ago I was on the upper cliffs helping to fell trees for our building here, and I saw a lad—one I did not know—sneaking through the forest, heading south away from the town. I was curious, so I made an excuse, as if I were going into the deeper woods to pass water, and I followed him.”
“A fool thing to do,” Robert observed.
“Yes, perhaps.” Nehemiah did not sound repentant. “He walked about a mile through the woods, and then disappeared over another cliff, much like the ones we have here.” He nodded toward the still-open door and the high cliffs that loomed beyond. “There was a small settlement. A few houses, barns, and such.”
Robert raised his eyebrows in query, but he felt he knew what was coming.
“The Endicotts, sir. That is where they settled. At the foot of the river gorge.” This time he inclined his head toward where the Mee-too-chee river ran below the level of the town. "There is a large lake there where the water spews forth, and their houses were all built high above it at the base of the cliffs that confine their village on two sides.”
“You made contact with them?”
“Not that day. I watched the boy approach the largest of the houses, and then, not wishing to be discovered, I returned to my work.” He paused, and the excitement in his eyes was contagious. “But not before I saw the boy greet his grandfather, whom anyone would recognize from that shock of unruly white hair.”
Chauncey Endicott was within walking distance? Perhaps his dream of a public house could now be realized. Robert let that thought sink in a bit. “So you finally made contact with him, and brought back this ale?” He raised the cup to his lips.
“No, sir. I brewed that myself.”
Robert was glad he had not yet taken a mouthful, for he might have splattered it across the table if he had. “You?”
“I cannot fault you for sounding so incredulous, sir. Mister Chauncey Endicott was happy to teach me, for his sons and grandsons are none of them patient enough or interested enough to learn from him.”
Robert smiled. “Old Chauncey does tend to ramble on a bit when he has an audience for his stories.”
“His stories which I thoroughly enjoy.” Nehemiah, to Robert’s chagrin, sounded rather severe.
“As do we all,” Robert assured him, “and I cannot imagine Worthy, Daniel, Sayrle or the two others sitting still long enough to gain knowledge from an old man.”
“There are but three brothers besides Worthy Endicott now,” Nehemiah said. “Sayrle built a house close by the opening of the gorge, which is far narrower at that end than it is at this. When that sudden flood hit—do you recall it?—that night in the spring of ’46, part of the opening broke away from the force of the flood, and his house was dashed to pieces by a wall of rushing water, with him inside it.”
Robert well remembered the excess of water that had surged a full quarter of the way up the hillside just seven years before as it seemed to struggle to enter the gorge below the town. Fortunately, nobody had been fool enough to build close to the river, so no houses or lives had been lost. He drained his cup and held it up for a refill. “This is fine, indeed. Tell me, though, why did Worthy Endicott allow you to study with his father? He was so set against all of us—which is why he left to begin with—that I cannot see him agreeing even to have you in his house, much less to be there for extended times.” Robert watched as a frown furrowed Nehemiah’s forehead.
“Worthy Endicott did not know me.”
Robert waited, feeling sure there must be some explanation to this outrageous statement. Worthy Endicott had travelled for four years in close proximity to the Garner wagons. He knew Nehemiah Garner as well as he knew his own brothers, and despite the passage of time, Nehemiah still looked much the same now as he had then.
“Worthy Endicott is completely blind, and is partly deaf as well.”
“How could this be?”
“Three years ago, they decided to build a larger barn. As they raised the fourth wall, it slipped free of the rope mooring and crashed onto Mister Endicott before he could jump out of its path.”
“I am surprised he lived,” Robert said. “I never liked Worthy Endicott much, nor any of his brothers, but I would not wish him ill.”
“Jonathan told me he came close to dying.”
“Jonathan?” He searched his memory. “That would be Worthy’s oldest son?”
“Yes. The boy I followed through the woods.”
Robert was silent for several minutes, sipping his ale and studying the young man across the table from him. “How much of this can you deliver?”
Nehemiah grinned. “How much will you need?”
“I must tell you that before you arrived this evening, I was feeling somewhat at a loss. I am not much of a farmer nor a hunter, although I have tried my best to provide for my family with the work of my own hands since we came here, but I have longed to have a public house. Tavern keeping is in the blood of the Hastings men. There seemed to be no way, though, that such a place could ever exist here in Martin’s Village. But now, with you and with this fine draught, I have hope once more.”
Nehemiah poured Robert another cupful. “Aye? You feel it is worth serving in your public house?”
The fact that there was not yet any sort of public house—not even a foundation—did not at this moment seem to be an impediment, either to young Nehemiah or to Robert himself. “This ale is fine indeed.” Robert beamed at his youthful guest and raised his cup in a gesture of approval. “It will be not only a public house, but a fine inn.”
Nehemiah poured himself a generous tot. “Where will we build it?”
Happy that Nehemiah had so readily assumed the two of them were in this endeavor together, Robert gestured slightly downhill. “Next door to here. My wife never did enjoy living above the public house in Brandtburg, for the noise became excessive at times—”
Mistress Hastings let out an exasperated sigh that both men heard. Both of them pretended they had not.