“Will, I want you to see if the miller’s wife will trade you butter for that rabbit you got this morning,” Aunt Ella said. “I’d rather do without meat than butter, now that I’ve gotten used to having it again.”
“Well, with any luck, you won’t have to do without meat for supper. I’m going squirrel hunting this afternoon,” announced Uncle Jed.
“I’ll try to catch some bluegills after I see Mrs. Brown, in case you don’t have any luck,” Will said, leaving the table.
As he walked down the dusty road, Will thought of how his uncle had fixed the millworks the week before. He hoped people would be so glad to have the mill grinding again that they’d forget Uncle Jed hadn’t fought the Yankees.
When he knocked on the door at the miller’s house, Mrs. Brown welcomed him warmly and said she’d be happy to trade butter for any rabbits he’d bring. “Now, don’t forget to come back for the butter when you’re through fishing,” she said as he finished the apple pie and milk she’d insisted that he have.
“I won’t,” he assured her, adding shyly, “I think that’s the best pie I ever ate.”
“Oh, go on, now,” she said, pleased.
Will heard the creak of the waterwheel as he approached the mill, and then he saw Amos lounging on the grass and Hank leaning against the sycamore across the pond.
“Hey!” he called, waving.
Hank waved back. He had something white in his hand. “You’ve got a letter,” he called.
Will hurried around the pond. But when he reached for the letter, Hank stuffed it in his pocket! Without a word, Will turned and picked up his bait jar. Holding it upside down, he shook out a grasshopper. He put the insect on the hook, managing to keep his hand steady, and cast his line out into the pond.
“Don’t you want your letter?” asked Amos.
“Sure I want it,” Will said.
“Why don’t you come and get it then?” asked Hank.
Without looking around, Will said, “I reckon you’ll give it to me when you’re ready to.” He clenched his teeth and kept his eyes on the cork floating on the still surface of the water. Now and then he brushed the gnats away from his face. Who would be writing him a letter? Could it be from Matt? His fingers tingled with the urge to rip the envelope from Hank’s pocket.
“Who do you think the letter’s from?” Amos asked.
Will shrugged.
“Well,” Amos said, “it can’t be from Charlie Page. He’s dead.”
Will threw his fishing pole to the ground and jumped to his feet. In three steps he was facing Hank. “You asked me why I lied about Charlie? That’s why! So nobody would—would taunt me about his death. So I could remember him alive instead of being reminded about the way he died.”
Hank looked embarrassed. “We thought it was because you were ashamed of him.”
Ashamed of Charlie? “Of course I wasn’t ashamed of Charlie! He was the best brother anybody could have!” Shaking with anger, Will turned his back on the other boys and picked up his pole. Sitting on the bank again, he fixed his attention on the floating cork and tried to ignore the pounding in his temples.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Hank came and sat beside him on the bank. The corner of the envelope was sticking out of his pocket. It took all of Will’s self-control not to make a grab for it.
“These bugs sure are bad today,” Hank complained, waving the letter in front of his face like a fan.
“Fishing’s not much better,” said Will.
“Well, you can stay here if you want to, but I’m going over to the store,” Hank said at last, slapping at a large fly that lit on his knee. Stuffing the envelope back into his pocket, he motioned for Amos to follow him, and the two boys sauntered off.
Will felt a blinding flash of rage. If only Hank weren’t so much bigger than he was! But he’d get even with him for this somehow.
All through that long, muggy afternoon Will sat by the pond, brushing away the troublesome gnats. Why weren’t the fish biting? And how long should he wait before he went over to the store and asked Mr. Riley for the letter?
Suddenly Will sensed that something was different. It was a moment or so before he realized that he no longer heard the creaking of the mill wheel. And then he saw how long the shadows were. It was later than he’d thought! Quickly he pulled his line from the water—noticing with disgust that his bait was gone—and stuck the barb of the hook into the cork. Emptying the remaining grasshoppers from the jar, he hurried toward the store. Mr. Riley was almost ready to lock up when Will got there.
“I—I came for my letter, Mr. Riley,” he said, panting.
“Your letter? Didn’t Hank give you that letter?”
“No, sir.”
“He didn’t bring it to you over at the pond?”
Will didn’t know what to say. Embarrassed, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
After a long moment the storekeeper turned away, swearing under his breath. He went behind the counter and took a handful of letters from a box on one of the shelves. Sorting through them quickly, he found the one addressed to Will. Mr. Riley handed it to him and said grimly, “You can be sure that Hank will hear from me about this.”
Will didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, but with a pang of disappointment he knew at once that it wasn’t Matt’s. He turned the envelope over and saw Doc Martin’s return address written on the flap. Why would Doc Martin be writing to him? It was all he could do to wait until he was outside before he tore the envelope open and began to read.
August 10, 1865
Dear Will,
When I left you at your aunt’s farm in June, I found myself questioning the wisdom of that arrangement. Not because of your feelings about your uncle’s refusal to fight for the Confederacy, but because I am sure that your dear mother had no idea of the hardships you would have to face there.
My older sister, a widow, has come to live with me, so now I can offer you a proper home. I am sure your dear mother would not, under the circumstances, blame us for not continuing to follow her instructions for your care.
You are a fine boy, Will, and I would be proud to raise you as my son. But you must make your own decision about this. Take your time and think it over carefully, and then write and let me know if I should come for you.
Sincerely and affectionately yours,
George Martin
P.S. I’ve hired Lizzy as my housekeeper.
A feeling of elation swept over Will. He could go back to Winchester! He’d see Matt almost every day, and there’d be school in the fall! He closed his eyes and pictured the high-ceilinged, well-furnished rooms of Doc’s large brick house and Lizzy there to pamper him like she had in the old days at home.
But what would his aunt’s family say when he told them he was leaving? He hoped they wouldn’t think that he was ungrateful—or that he couldn’t take the hard work. Meg would miss him most, but Aunt Ella, too, would be sorry to see him go. And Uncle Jed? He wondered if his uncle would miss his help or would simply be relieved to have one less mouth to feed this winter.
“Doc Martin said to take my time and think it over carefully,” Will said aloud. “I don’t have to tell them anything yet.” Stuffing the letter in his pocket, he picked up his fishing pole and started toward home, seeing broad streets lined with homes and shops instead of the narrow, tree-shaded dirt road under his feet. It would be wonderful to be back in Winchester again!
He wondered if Doc Martin’s sister would be as nice as Aunt Ella. Probably not, since she wasn’t family. Family! Why, Aunt Ella was his closest relative now. When he went to live with Doc, he’d be leaving behind all the family he had left. Could a bachelor doctor, his widowed sister, and a boy be a family? he wondered. He knew how lonely it was to be the only young person in a house.
Suddenly Will realized how much he was going to miss Meg. She wasn’t silly and helpless like other girls he’d known—or like his sisters, he thought with a pang. Was it because she was a country girl, or because she’d always been expected to do her share in a family with no slaves—a family that actually took pride in working hard?
Working hard. Will made a fist and flexed his muscles. He was proud of his body’s new strength and toughness, even of the calluses the garden tools had worn on his hands. Yes, he’d learned to work hard, but not as hard as his uncle. That man could really work! And he knew how to do almost everything. Hadn’t he been the one to fix the millworks when the miller himself couldn’t do it?
With a jolt, Will realized that he was proud of Uncle Jed! That during the weeks they’d worked together he’d come to respect his uncle! He hadn’t meant for that to happen. How could Will Page, son of a fallen Confederate patriot, respect a man who’d refused to fight?
Before Will could sort out his feelings, he was wading across the little stream that crossed the road at the edge of his uncle’s property. From the lane, he saw Aunt Ella going toward the house with a serving bowl. He was even later than he’d thought! He put the fishing pole in the barn and ran to the porch to wash. The family was already at the table when he came inside.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Aunt Ella.”
“We were beginning to worry about you, Will,” she said.
He passed his plate, and his uncle filled it with a large serving of squirrel stew and dumplings.
“I’m glad you had good luck hunting,” Will said. “The bugs were biting down at the pond, but the fish sure weren’t.”
“Well, at least you got the butter,” said Meg.
Will’s heart sank. The butter! How could he have forgotten the butter?
“You did get the butter, didn’t you?”
“Now, Meg, Will can’t help it if Mrs. Brown hasn’t done her churning yet,” said Aunt Ella.
“I—I forgot,” Will said lamely.
“You mean you left it down where you were fishing?” Meg’s voice rose.
Will shook his head. “I was supposed to go back to the house for it when I finished,” he said miserably. “And I forgot to.” Why, oh, why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut and let them think Mrs. Brown hadn’t churned yet?
“Well, no harm’s done,” Aunt Ella said. “Meg can walk over tomorrow and pick it up.”
“Oh, good!” Meg cried. Then, turning to Will, she said, “But I still don’t see how you could just walk off and forget it.”
“Leave me alone, Meg!” Will shouted. “Just you leave me alone!” His breath came in ragged gasps. There was no other sound in the suddenly quiet room.
After what seemed like a long time, Uncle Jed cleared his throat. “Did you run into some kind of trouble down there that made you forget?”
Will nodded. And then, his voice tight with rage, he told them about Hank and the letter. When he had finished, he picked up his fork and stirred it through the stew on his plate, wondering when his stomach would unknot.
Aunt Ella finally broke the silence. “That awful, awful boy!” she said. “His father should know about this.”
Will smiled wanly. “I think he does.” And then he repeated his conversation with Mr. Riley at the store.
“You handled the whole thing very well, lad,” Uncle Jed said when he was finished. “Very well, indeed.”
His words made Will feel a little better. He picked up his fork and began to eat.
“I don’t know how you could pretend you didn’t care when Hank kept teasing you,” Meg said, pushing away her empty plate.
Will looked across the table at her. “It’s something Charlie taught me when I first started school. He said if a boy snatched my cap, I shouldn’t chase him and try to get it back. He’d give up his teasing if I didn’t make a fuss. I figured this was the same sort of thing.” Will shook his head. “But it sure did take Hank a long time to give up—and he still wouldn’t let me have the letter.”
“I thought only grown-ups got mail. Who was the letter from, anyway?” Meg asked.
“From Doc Martin,” Will said reluctantly. He was relieved to see Aunt Ella catch Meg’s eye and give an almost imperceptible shake of her head before his cousin could ask anything more.
In his room a short time later, Will reread Doc’s letter. His eyes lingered on the words “You’re a fine boy, Will, and I’d be proud to raise you as my son.” Smiling, he folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of his Bible.
The next afternoon Meg hurried through her chores and cheerfully started off toward the Browns’ house. From the stump under the oak tree, Will watched her skip down the lane. He was still embarrassed that he’d forgotten the butter, but he was glad his cousin had an excuse to get away for an hour or two.
Sweat trickled down his forehead. He mopped his face with his handkerchief and chose another pine log from the stack beside him. Splitting kindling was the only chore he’d been able to think of that could be done sitting down in the shade. He grinned when he heard the sound of a whetstone grinding against metal inside the barn. His uncle had found a cool place to work and a job he could do sitting down, too.
The monotonous scraping of the whetstone and the chirring of the locusts combined with the sultry heat made Will drowsy. He leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly he heard Meg calling. He straightened up with a start and saw her hurrying up the lane, oblivious of the heat. How could she be back so soon? Then he noticed the long shadows and realized with chagrin that he must have fallen asleep. Uncle Jed appeared at the barn door, brushing straw from his clothes, and Will knew that he wasn’t the only one who had napped away the heat of the day.
“We got another letter from the twins!” Meg called.
Aunt Ella dropped her sewing and hurried from her rocking chair on the porch. “You and Will can take that butter to the springhouse,” she said breathlessly, reaching for the envelope.
Meg scowled. “Since when does it take two people to put a round of butter in the springhouse?” she grumbled as soon as she and Will were out of hearing distance. “And how come everybody around here is so—so private about their mail, anyway?”
Will didn’t answer. He’d read Doc Martin’s letter so many times he almost knew it by heart, but he didn’t want to talk about it. How could he tell Meg that he was going to leave?
Will opened the springhouse door and they ducked inside the small building. The sudden coolness came as a welcome relief. But Meg was not easily distracted. “What did Doc Martin say in his letter, Will?”
“He—well, he said he’d hired Lizzy, our old slave, as his housekeeper. And that his sister is living with him now.”
“He must have said more,” said Meg, her eyes searching his face. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Of course he said more!” Will burst out. “But the rest of it was personal. Can’t you understand? Now hurry up and put the butter away.”
Scowling again, Meg lifted the cloth-wrapped round of butter from her basket. Will leaned over and raised the lid of one of the storage crocks in the cold stream of spring water that flowed through the stone trough.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Meg exclaimed, her face brightening. “I’ve got something for you.” She pulled a folded napkin from the basket and handed it to him. He opened it to find a huge piece of cake. The miller’s wife had sent him a treat! “Mrs. Brown asked me in for cake and milk, and when I said how good it was, she cut me another piece of cake. I told her I’d eat it on the way home, ’cause I wanted to save it for you.”
Will was embarrassed. He’d never even thought of Meg yesterday when he was enjoying Mrs. Brown’s apple pie.
“Go on and eat it, Will. It’s delicious!”
Meg would be offended if he didn’t eat the cake, but Will didn’t think he deserved it. He hesitated a moment longer, then carefully broke the piece of cake in two. “Let’s share it, Meg,” he said.
They sat on the cool, stone floor and ate in companionable silence, picking every crumb from the napkin when they’d finished. Then they stooped and went through the low doorway into the oppressive heat.
Meg dashed off. “Let’s go find out what Sam and Enos wrote,” she called over her shoulder.
Will followed her to the house, wondering why hot weather never seemed to bother her. Inside, Aunt Ella and Uncle Jed were sitting silently at the table. In front of them lay the letter and several pieces of paper money. Even in the dim light, Will could see traces of tears on his aunt’s face. He stopped and stood self-consciously in the doorway.
“What’s the matter, Ma?” Meg asked, slipping onto the bench beside her mother.
But it was her father who answered. “The boys aren’t coming home after the harvest like we’d planned. They sent us their earnings to help out, but they aren’t coming home in the fall.”
“Why not?” Meg asked.
Uncle Jed sighed. “The farmer they’ve been working for asked them to stay. Enos wrote that they figured the extra cash they’d send back would be more use to us than having them here over the winter.”
“But I miss them so much,” Meg whispered.
Will watched his aunt slip her arm around Meg. “I miss them, too,” she said. “It’s a good thing we have Will with us.” Looking up, she said, “Come and sit here beside me, Will.”
Half embarrassed, half pleased, Will walked around the table and sat down on the other side of his aunt. Her hand on his arm felt cool and comforting.
Uncle Jed sighed again and said, “I guess we’ll manage without the twins as long as we’ve got Will. He’s a good worker.”
Will’s heart was heavy. How could he tell them he was going back to Winchester?