Sunday morning teased us with a light, sweet breeze, but we were soon to learn it was a cruel joke. As the day wore on, the sun blazed ferociously through the treetops, its heat stifling even in the shade.
I followed the Pratts down the trail to the village, my stomach twisting with each step. The meetinghouse, never pleasant for servants, would be miserable long before the worship service ended.
We emerged from the woods and joined the townsfolk streaming to church. In the distance, the slight forms of my mother and sister, arrayed in their finest gowns, trudged along the Raleigh Road, little puffs of dust in their wake.
I hurried to my mistress’s side. “Mrs. Pratt, may I speak with my family?”
“Certainly. But don’t delay.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I ran toward my mother and sister, anxious to say my piece. “Mama?”
Her gaze met mine briefly and skittered away. It was always so. My presence seemed to embarrass her, although I couldn’t be certain of the source. Perhaps it was because she was ashamed that a Marsh was indentured. Perhaps it was because her actions were to blame. She would never share the reason for her discomfort. I would never ask.
I fell into step beside her. “I would like to have a word with you.”
“Of course.”
My sister danced ahead.
“Phoebe says you are to marry Mr. Shaw.”
“He has asked. I have not decided.”
“She believes the Shaws plan to move into your house. She expects to tend his children.”
“That is Mr. Shaw’s wish.”
“Do you believe Phoebe will mind children well?”
My mother wrung her hands nervously. “She can learn.”
The sheer foolishness of the response stunned me. “Are you willing to risk the health and safety of the Shaw children while Phoebe learns?”
My mother didn’t answer, her pace slowing as we approached the meetinghouse yard.
I spoke quickly, before my time ran out. “You know as well as I that Phoebe’s true talent lies in needlework. She has a delicate touch with stitches and a good eye for color and pattern.”
“She is indeed clever with her hands.”
“Might we find someone to apprentice her in spinning and weaving?”
“Mrs. Drake is the only lady in Worthville who will teach lessons in making cloth, and she cannot take Phoebe.”
“Have you asked?”
“I have.”
We halted in unison and watched my sister. She talked nearby with the Foster daughters, her hands gesturing rapidly. With a cry of delight, she returned to us.
“Mama, the Fosters have invited us to dine with them after church. May we go?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Her smile faded as my sister ran off. “You are right, Susanna. Phoebe is still too much of a child herself, but I don’t know how to convince Mr. Shaw. He expects her to be useful.”
I swallowed the anger threatening to clog my throat. “He cannot choose her future if he’s not her stepfather. You haven’t given him your decision. Perhaps your answer should be no.”
Her gaze strayed to where my sister held hands in a circle with her friends, chattering all at the same time. Mama’s face softened. “Perhaps you are right.”
My mother strode past me to join the Fosters and Phoebe. I watched her go, hopeful my logic had made an effect.
The Pratts had already stamped up the steps in two pious columns and marched down the aisle to the front pew—their pew, as no one else dared to take it. In my mind, positioned as it was before the pulpit, no one else wanted it. Mr. Worth spat when he preached.
I took up my position in the back, where the indentured servants stood throughout the entire worship service. While our Heavenly Father might love us equally, it was apparently not a belief of His congregation.
In preparation for the service stretching before me, I leaned against the wall and stretched my legs as my gaze wandered among the heads of the worshippers. I easily found the Fosters on the same pew as my mother’s gold-and-silver coronet of braids and Phoebe’s bouncy curls.
Someone slipped into the spot next to me.
“Good morning, Polly,” I said.
“Morning, Susanna.” She gave me a tired smile, her plump face wan.
“Are you unwell? Shall I find Mrs. Butler?”
Hot fingers gripped my wrist. “No, please. Say nothing to my mistress.” Polly stared at me with wide, despairing eyes.
“All right.” I squeezed her hand briefly. Too much contact would draw the attention of others, which neither Polly nor I wanted. I would, however, be certain we spoke in more detail after the service.
There was a commotion at the meetinghouse door. The Widow Drake swept in, tall and straight, dressed from neck to toe in rustling black. A girl of about my age trailed after her, neatly clad in a moss-green gown with white linen apron and cap.
Did Mrs. Drake have a new apprentice? Was that why she had no time to teach Phoebe?
Mrs. Drake murmured into the girl’s ear and then continued alone to her pew near the front. The girl moved to Polly’s other side and looked about her with interest.
I caught the new servant’s glance and exchanged nods of greeting. No one would call her a beauty, but the sweetness of her smile and the black silk of her hair were pleasing.
The service had just reached the sermon when the stillness was shattered by a low moan, quickly muffled, from Polly. I looked at her and bit back an exclamation. Her lips glowed gray against a pasty complexion. A red stain spread down her petticoat.
“Polly,” I said in a whisper, even as she slumped against me, “we shall leave.”
The congregation rippled and shifted, but no one turned to see what had caused the disturbance. I clamped my arm about her waist. The new girl did the same from the other side. We ushered her from the building.
The privy was our first stop, but the stench in the noontime heat overwhelmed Polly. We encouraged her closer to Rocky Creek. She doubled over and retched into the reeds at the stream’s edge. With stumbling steps, she plunged into the water and squatted in the shallows, splashing her sweating face.
I spoke in a soft undertone to Mrs. Drake’s companion. “I am Susanna Marsh, and she is Polly Young.”
“Mary Whitfield.”… “I fear she is…”
“Indeed.” I had witnessed enough miscarriages with my mistress to recognize the signs. “Mrs. Drake’s home is not far. Can you fetch a clean petticoat and some cloths?”
Mary retraced her steps and quickly disappeared from sight. I knelt on a rock near the distraught girl and pondered what to do.
The water about her knees swirled in crimson waves. She cried out and clutched at her belly, her shoulders heaving.
“Polly, did Mr. Butler force this on you?”
She nodded.
“How far along?”
“I missed two monthlies.” She panted in pain. “I am ruined.”
“You are fifteen,” I said, smoothing damp wisps of hair from her brow. “You had no choice. He’s your master.”
She closed her eyes. Tears made dirty trails down each cheek.
I soothed with a patter of sympathetic words, even as outrage roared through me like a white-hot flash of lightning. There had been rumors, quickly hushed, of a similar outcome with the Butlers’s previous servant. Did Mr. Butler have no honor? Did Mrs. Butler have no sight?
The new girl soon returned. We washed Polly’s face and legs. While Mary changed her into a fresh petticoat, I scrubbed the soiled one.
Footsteps drew near. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Butler had arrived.
“Polly has taken ill,” I said, meeting her gaze boldly.
She eyed me, then Polly, then me again. Her lips pinched. “Is it over?”
No need to explain. Mrs. Butler knew.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Her expression gentled as she approached her servant. “How do you feel?”
“Poorly,” Polly whispered on a sob.
I moved closer to my friend, chin lifted. She linked her hot, shaking fingers with mine.
“I am…” Mrs. Butler’s voice trailed away.
What had she been about to say? Sorry? Perhaps she was, but not sorry enough to protect the girls who worked in her household.
The older woman extended her hand. “Will you be able to walk to the wagon?”
Polly drew in a shuddering breath and released my hand to take her mistress’s. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Very well.” The two joined hands and trudged up the slight incline of the creek bank. When they reached the top, Mrs. Butler turned to me briskly. “Please find my son Martin and send him to me. Tell my husband to hitch the wagon. We shall be leaving shortly.”
Church had let out for the day. Townsfolk clustered in small groups in the shade of the trees. They grew silent when I approached.
The townsfolk knew, too.
After completing Mrs. Butler’s bidding, I scanned the crowd and found the Pratts standing by themselves in the shade of an old oak.
“Mrs. Pratt—” I said.
My master interrupted. “Where have you been?”
I looked his way with reluctance. “Mrs. Butler’s servant fell ill. I helped the girl until the Butlers were able to depart.”
“It’s a pity. We continued our education on the seven deadly sins. The sermon was most enlightening.” He made a ticking sound with his tongue. “You will wish to skip your meals today and learn the true meaning of hunger. Only then can you understand the aching sin of gluttony.”
No food for the rest of the day? My mind reeled at the thought. Did he truly believe I didn’t understand how it felt to be hungry?
Perhaps I could sneak a quick bite in the pantry, although I knew from experience that, if I were caught, the punishment could be worse than a few missed meals.
I glanced at Mrs. Pratt in the bleak hope she would intervene, but she merely looked away.
* * *
I couldn’t go to the cave on Sunday. The lack of food and the list of chores once handled by Hector overwhelmed my efforts.
On Monday evening I was ready in time, yet Mark didn’t come. I had an hour of solitude to sit in the cave and watch night fall on the forest.
Although my body rested, my mind did not. So many thoughts demanded attention.
What would happen to Polly Young?
What difficulties prevented my master from paying his bills in a timely manner?
Why had Mrs. Drake chosen Mary Whitfield?
I wanted to share my questions. I wanted to talk with Mark. My secret friend. He had a lovely voice, deep and expressive. He didn’t mind explaining things to me. I, who was more accustomed to impatience, enjoyed being the student of an eager teacher.
Friend. Before Mark, I’d known its definition. Now I knew its meaning.
As I clambered down the rock wall on Tuesday, he waited on his side of the falls. I smiled, my gaze drawn to an object he cradled in his hands.
He extended it toward me. “Let’s see if Whisper Falls will let this through.”
The object emerged on my side. It proved to be a red bowl, covered by waxy paper, and a silver spoon, its handle decorated with vines and roses. I accepted the gift and gasped, startled by its feel. The bowl was snow-cold and heavy. Within it lay a pool of soupy white pudding. Excitement beat inside me like a trapped bird.
“Have you brought ice cream?”
He nodded. “Go ahead and eat. It’ll melt more if you don’t.”
I lifted a spoonful to my lips, oddly hesitant. What if I didn’t like it? Or worse, what if I liked it too much?
Cautiously, I sampled the treat and couldn’t stifle the groan of pleasure at the taste of sweetened cream. Yet it was the texture against my tongue that was most remarkable. Thick, silky, and deliciously cold.
I closed my eyes, wavering on my feet, entirely focusing my senses on this delight. It was more heavenly than I could have imagined. When Mark chuckled, I opened my eyes.
My cheeks blushed at my own greed. I held the bowl out to him. “Shall we share?”
He shook his head. “I can have all I want anytime. This is yours.”
I needed no further prompting. Swiftly, the ice cream disappeared. Until the last bite I savored it, committing the treat to memory.
With a guilty laugh I stared into the empty dish. “Thank you. It was…” I felt the unexpected prick of tears.
“Susanna? About what I said Friday?”
I shook my head vigorously, not wishing to discuss my punishments again. “You have apologized once. It is enough.” I thrust the bowl through the falls to emphasize my point, and my feet slipped on the mossy rock. I clawed frantically at the air before plunging into the creek.