Had Mark gone mad?
My mouth went dry with dread. This day could not end well for me.
“You are a stranger in our town,” Mr. Pratt said. “Who are you and what is your business?”
“My name is Mark Lewis.”
The town cooper drew even with my master. “Mr. Lewis reports that he is not lost.”
Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “What is your reason to visit Worthville this Sunday?”
I raised my head. Mark met my gaze, apology in his expression.
My master flushed. “Sir? Your purpose?”
Mark gazed back calmly. “Just walking through.”
Several of the menfolk formed a line on either side of Mr. Pratt.
“That is a peculiar activity on the Sabbath,” Solomon Worth said in a menacing tone, rubbing his fist.
Merciful heavens, Mark did not realize his danger. I would have to soothe the tension before it ignited. “No doubt Mr. Lewis is returning to his home after a long journey.”
Mark nodded. “Miss Marsh is correct.”
His response sent a jolt rippling through the crowd.
Mr. Pratt turned to stare at me. “Do you know my servant, Mr. Lewis?”
“We’ve met. I’d like to talk with her again.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Lewis. You may not speak with my servant.”
The crowd had grown silent. Not even the babies fussed.
Mark shifted his gaze from me to Mr. Pratt. “Why not?”
“She’s busy. She has chores.”
Mark smiled, a tight, superior smile. “Chores on the Sabbath? In Raleigh, we allow our servants to honor their day of rest.”
Pride swelled within me at Mark’s answer. He displayed an air of confidence and disdain rather than the deference my master preferred in such exchanges. I shifted John to my other hip as I fought to keep my lips straight.
“Susanna,” my master said with a frightening softness, “you may speak briefly with this visitor.”
I laid Baby John in Deborah’s outstretched arms, ensured that Dorcas held hands with Delilah and Dinah, and then moved to the center of the lane, leaving a proper distance between me and Mark.
“Do not tarry long,” Mr. Pratt warned. “You wouldn’t wish to miss your dinner.” He stormed into the woods, the family trotting after him.
One by one, the townsfolk drifted to their homes. When nobody remained within earshot, I said, “Why have you come?”
“I’m sorry. I wanted a quick look, but my timing totally sucked.” His lips twisted. “Did you just rescue me from something?”
“Indeed.” I didn’t wish to dwell on his error, but neither would I say it was all right. Even though Mark had meant no harm, I would pay the consequences. “We are here now and cannot talk for long. Tell me what you learned.”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I talked with a lady in a tavern. She mentioned four families needing maids. One for the laundry, one for the kitchen, and two for the house.”
A household employing laundry maids would be an important one. But a housemaid job would be the least likely to ruin Phoebe’s hands.
“Which families?”
He handed over the list.
I read quickly. “Both Mr. Haywood and Mr. Whitaker are statesmen, but I prefer the position in Mr. Haywood’s home. A job cleaning inside the house would be better than washing dishes in the scullery or laundering sheets. Is it time to take Phoebe to Raleigh?”
“Not yet. I want to check on these people and make sure they’re all right. And now that I know what to look for, I might find one or two more names. I’ll come back on Tuesday, and we can decide the best date then.”
“I shall wait to talk to my mother until we speak again.”
He walked backwards. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t wise for you to come, but I’m glad you did.”
He nodded, spun on his heel, and ran.
From the shade of an oak, I watched until Mark disappeared beyond a rise in the road. Around me, the townsfolk had dispersed, retreating to their homes for a cold dinner.
I trudged along the path to the Pratt house. Despite the heat, chills rolled down my limbs. I would be punished for Mark’s visit. The only question was how severely.
The family was gathered at the table, eating bean soup and bread. All looked up when I entered. No one spoke.
Mr. Pratt reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. I went about my chores, pouring cider. When I reached his side, he said, “Where did you meet Mr. Lewis?”
I filled my master’s cup as I sorted through several lies. “I met him on the Raleigh Road.”
“When?”
“Three weeks past.”
“For what reason?”
I gave a deliberately casual shrug. “He asked directions.”
“On such slim acquaintance, I wonder why he would speak with you today.”
My mind fumbled for a reasonable response and came up with nothing. Why had I not anticipated these questions?
“Mr. Lewis,” I said, drawing out each word slowly, “is on a journey from Ward’s Crossroads. I pointed the way to Raleigh.”
Mr. Pratt grunted skeptically. “Mr. Lewis seems remarkably willing to travel without knowing the route.”
I nodded vaguely and turned away.
“He is most handsome,” Deborah said. “Such beautiful teeth.”
Her father rapped his knuckles on the table before her. She sniffed and lowered her gaze.
My master glared at me but said nothing more. I circled the table to serve my mistress.
She took a dainty sip. “I crave cake, Susanna. You must bake me a ginger cake tomorrow.”
I glanced down the length of the table at my master. We had run out of ginger. There was also no sugar left, and my mistress did not care for honey.
Mr. Pratt dismissed her request with the wave of a hand. “Susanna doesn’t need to fire up the oven. You may wait until baking day.”
“I don’t wish to wait until Wednesday for cake.”
“But you will.”
She sent me a resentful glare and then fumed over her dish.
After I finished serving the cider, I took Dinah and John to their room for naps. By the time I made it back to the first floor, the rest of the family had left the table.
I departed the house with arms full of dirty trenchers and an empty pitcher, glad to return to the kitchen and its solitude. Dropping my load of dishes into the washtub, I pondered the scene in the dining room. It had gone better than I expected.
Long, hard fingers grasped my upper arm and jerked me backwards until I stumbled into a solid body. My master’s other hand splayed across my belly, pinning me to him. Shock crawled like tiny spiders up my neck.
“Is Mr. Lewis your secret beau?”
“I have no secret beau.” The cloying scent of sweaty wool filled my nostrils. My master had never touched me with such intimacy.
“Has he made advances toward you?”
“Mr. Lewis has done nothing improper.” Blood thrummed in my ears, muffling sound.
“Has he kissed you?” Mr. Pratt’s breath rasped in my ear.
“No.”
“He had better not come near you again. You belong to me.”
Belong? Merciful heavens, I was indentured—not enslaved. My master had begun to sound like a crazed man. I must try to calm him.
“Mr. Pratt, please release me. I must go to the little ones. They may wake from their naps soon.”
“Nothing else is completely mine,” the whispery voice continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I own the farm and the mill. Yet Drusilla won’t let me forget they came to me as her dowry. Fat, stupid cow.”
I struggled, but his iron hold tightened.
“Please release me, sir. I don’t wish to share these confidences.”
“You will listen if I say so.”
He was too strong to escape. Panic nearly squeezed the breath from my lungs. We were alone. If I screamed, no one would come.
Horror shuddered through me as I recognized his body’s hardened response to our contact. My fear excited him.
He barked a laugh, low and wicked. “You may not associate with Mr. Lewis or any other man.”
Not associate with Mark? That was one order I had no intention of obeying. Mr. Pratt would have to chain me to the kitchen to prevent my time with Mark.
With resolve came clarity. Pleading hadn’t worked, nor had struggling. I would change tactics. I went limp.
He grunted in surprise as my body sagged. He held on a moment longer and dropped me. I lay where I landed. He nudged my back once with the toe of his boot and stepped over me. Heels clicking, he stalked to the door.
“I do not tolerate anyone stealing what is mine. If Mr. Lewis is caught near you again, he will regret it.”
* * *
With the breakfast dishes washed and the beans cooking in a kettle, I slipped into the pantry with a wedge of cheese and reached beneath the shelves for my copy of Persuasion. The second reading of this novel was providing as much enjoyment as the first.
“Susanna, there you are,” Mrs. Pratt said from just behind me.
How had I not heard her enter the kitchen?
There was no chance to hide the book below the shelves. I slid it into my pocket and hoped she hadn’t noticed the furtive movement.
“Why are you skulking in the pantry? Come out here.” My mistress bustled over to the bench, lowered herself, and smoothed the skirts of her new cream frock over her swelling belly.
“We must plan a second baking day for Friday.”
Perhaps now I understood why my master could not pay his account at the store. My mistress spent large sums on fashion.
“A second baking day, ma’am?”
“My contributions to the Independence Day celebration are always the envy of the village ladies, and this year will be no different.” She fanned herself, anticipation softening her face. “I want to bring unusual dishes. No one else will think to bring a sweet potato tart and a berry sonker.”
I watched my mistress with foreboding. The time had come for her to learn of the family’s dire circumstances, and I would have to be the one to tell her. I didn’t relish the task or the consequences.
“I cannot bake treats this week.”
“Whyever not?”
“We have run out of sugar and spices.”
She paused in her fanning and gave me a hard stare. “You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am.”
With a groan, she rose and pushed past me to charge into the pantry. There was the clack of jars opening and closing. She emerged, a petulant curl to her lip.
“How very stupid to let the staples fall so low. Why have you not warned Mr. Pratt?”
I didn’t allow the insult to alter my expression. “I warned him two weeks ago.”
Her nostrils flared. “I shall speak with my husband. You had better be telling the truth. Now, go to Mr. Foster at once and fetch more.” She waved me toward the door.
“Mr. Foster will not sell to us.”
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “For what reason?”
“Perhaps your husband can explain.”
I could only imagine the scene. Mrs. Pratt would rage at my master. He would know the source of her information, and I would be lashed again for sharing his secrets. It might be wise to check the garden.
Mrs. Pratt’s expression passed through a variety of emotions in rapid succession, ending with determination.
“Follow me.” She disappeared into the yard.
I glanced around for a place to hide my book. In the large kettle?
“Susanna?” Mrs. Pratt huffed from the doorway. “Was I not clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hurried to keep pace. Her lumbering walk was surprisingly swift. She headed to Mr. Foster’s store and paused outside. “Wait here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clomped up the wooden stairs and through the threshold. Voices raised and faded. After a time, my mistress returned.
“You may enter and collect a new portion of sugar. Mr. Foster will also provide cinnamon and ginger.” She awaited me at the bottom of the stairs.
A thin-lipped Mr. Foster stacked the supplies in my arms. As I accompanied my mistress to the Pratts’s property, I pondered what else to serve for dinner. A skillet of cornbread would go well with the pot of beans, and perhaps I should search the garden for more cucumber.
Deborah had the four youngest children in the yard. When Dorcas spied us, she ran over. “Mama?”
“Leave me be, Dorcas.” She turned to her eldest daughter. “Is your Papa home?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Deborah gulped. “He says he has returned for dinner.”
Mrs. Pratt gave a sharp nod and entered the house. The door closed with a soft click.
Deborah scooped up John and followed me to the kitchen. “Where has Mama been?”
“The store.”
Dorcas poked her head in the door. “What do you have?”
“Spices.”
“Will you make a treat today?”
I shook my head regretfully while I fetched cornmeal and a bowl.
Shouts erupted from the house. Dorcas spun around and ran. Deborah and I rushed to the door.
“I do not know what to make of this,” Deborah said, her arms tightening protectively around the baby.
“Nor do I.”
She quivered with fright. “I do believe it is time to check on the chickens.”
“A wise choice.” Backing into the kitchen, I wondered how quickly I could disappear into the garden. If only I hadn’t started the cornbread. I returned to the worktable and mixed the batter with vigor.
“Delilah, Dinah, come,” Deborah called, urging her youngest sisters closer. No sooner had they thumped down the rear stairs than Dorcas slipped in through the front door.
“Susanna, I have never heard them so angry. Papa told Mama the mill is faring poorly at present…”
I had wondered about that, although it made little sense. After the excitement of adding a new grindstone for wheat—shipped all the way from France—I would have thought their business would increase. How could any of us have known that closing the mill for a few short weeks would have such a lingering effect?
“…and Mama told him to visit his brother and ask for supplies.”
Mr. Pratt had not seen his older brother in the entire time I had worked here, which was nearly eight years. Mr. George Pratt lived but a day’s drive away.
“Dorcas, perhaps you should join John and your sisters at the chicken coop.”
“There is no need. Deborah can tend them without me.” She ran to my side. “Why does Papa hate his brother so? He told Mama we would go hungry before he’d beg Uncle George.”
“Dorcas, hush.” My protest was half-hearted as conscience warred with interest. “You should not gossip.”
“It’s not gossip if it’s the truth.” Her face crumpled in dismay. “Mama said she would go to Uncle Worth for food. She said she wouldn’t let her children starve because Papa was too proud to seek help.”
“Truly, you must stop.” As I looked about for the iron skillet, I marveled at Mrs. Pratt’s boldness. My master valued his reputation too greatly to allow Mr. Worth to be approached. But would it be enough to conquer his estrangement from his brother?
“Are we going to starve, Susanna?”
I wanted to reassure her, but our supplies were still too low. With the garden suffering in the heat, we might have to try fishing or hunting if something didn’t change soon.
“Your parents won’t let it come to that. They will resolve the issue, I have no doubt.”
“Papa told Mama that Uncle George stole his inheritance.”
I held up my hand. “Not another word, Dorcas.”
“Is Uncle George a thief?”
“Don’t let your father hear you say such a thing,” I said, pouring batter into the skillet. While I was placing it in the ashes of the fireplace, the shouting stopped.
Dorcas watched me from the doorway, eyes wide with worry. “Susanna, you must hide. Papa has been yelling your name.”
“Thank you.”
I grabbed a bucket and ran through the back door, not stopping until I reached the garden. As I peered through the cornstalks, I saw my master exit the house and march to the kitchen. Moments later, he came out the back and spoke to Dorcas. She shook her head. He scanned the yard and stomped to the house with his daughter following silently. I squatted and hugged my bucket, hoping he had given up his search for me.
Within easy reach were peppers and cucumbers. I picked the ripest ones, all the while reflecting on Dorcas’s earlier gossip. Mr. Pratt had never spoken well of his brother in my hearing. But stealing? It was a strong accusation. Mr. George Pratt was the oldest brother. It was his due to receive the entirety of their father’s property. He couldn’t steal what was rightfully his.
I lugged the bucket to the kitchen and set it on the worktable. Mrs. Pratt would like the cucumber, so I retrieved a knife and a platter. As I bent over the scarred wooden tabletop, Persuasion, nestled in my pocket, thumped against the table’s edge.
“What was that noise?” my master asked from the door.
Icy tendrils of fear curled down my neck.
“The platter,” I said, my voice hoarse even to my own ears.
“What is in your pocket?” He trapped me between his body and the worktable. With one hotly exploring hand, he felt beneath my petticoat and drew out the book, his face purpling with fury. A shove sent me sprawling to the floor.
“How did you acquire this?”
I stared at him with obstinate eyes, lips pressed together in mute protest.
“Where did you find this…this…filth? From that young man?”
The sight of my adored leather book in his hand enraged me. I scrambled to my feet.
“I want it back.”
He held it high above his head. “Not in my house.”
“I won’t keep it in your house.” I lunged for my book. He threw it into the fire.
“No!” The scream echoed, long and loud, in the small building. My gift from Mark. In horror, I watched as flames licked the cover and curled the pages. I ran to the hearth, knelt, and reached.
The next moment, my master was above me. He kicked the iron skillet from the embers, knocking it against my outstretched arm. Hot metal seared my skin.
I fell backwards, landing on my bottom, staring in shock at my arm.
“Susanna?” Dorcas asked from the doorway.
My master said, “She is fine, Dorcas. Run along.”
“But, Papa—”
“Go.”
I looked up, trying to focus, but unspeakable pain blinded me. The air about my master swarmed with a crimson haze that faded to black.
* * *
I awakened on the floor, peering through half-closed eyes at the ceiling beams, my forearm in an agony so profound I thought I might go mad.
It hurt too much to cry. Or breathe. Or think. I begged Almighty God for the pain to end.
Outside, little girls shrieked. In the kitchen, it was quiet except for the occasional pop of the fire. I rolled to my side and lay exhausted, cheek pressed to the rough floorboard, dust tickling my nose. My eyelids drooped.
Please don’t let the children come in and see me like this.
Their terror would be harder to handle than my pain. I struggled to sit and then paused, head swimming, panting noisily. The room wobbled about me, then righted itself. Pain swirled around me like smoke. The smell of it filled my nose, the taste filled my mouth.
Cradling my burned forearm against my belly, I scanned the hearth with desperate eyes. Remnants of the book rested crookedly in the ashes. My heart shattered at the sight. A gift from Mark. My beautiful book.
Stumbling to my feet, I staggered into the pantry. With a quivering hand, I knocked the top from the jar of honey and dripped some on the wound.
The suffering didn’t abate. Honey might encourage healing, but it did not alter the pain.
Mark had medicine. Little orange pills. I would go to him.
I plunged down the familiar path to the falls and hopped through to Mark’s side.
The two previous times I had been in his century, he had been with me. This time, on my own, his world overwhelmed me.
There were too many noises. Muffled mechanical moans. Shrill laughter. The incessant yapping of dogs. The sweet sounds of birds and insects were drowned out.
Odors clung to the air, heavy but undistinguishable. I could see pine trees but not smell them. It was as if the scents of the earth had faded into one. A stew.
The colors had lost their intensity. Objects blended with their backgrounds.
This century lacked distinction.
But I had not come here to admire his world. I had come for Mark.
The incline rose before me. At its top waited the greenway. The hill seemed so high. Shadows flickered past, twenty-first century people chatting. Would they be friendly? Would they help?
I trudged up the trail until it changed from hard-packed earth to an unknown substance. I hesitated, frowning at the mottled black surface with its nasty smell. Lifting my foot, I nudged it cautiously and snatched my stinging toe away. The substance was exceptionally hot—too hot to walk on. And yet, had Mark not said that was its purpose?
Ring-ring.
A bell, outside? Whirling around, I sought its source.
“Watch out,” someone screamed. A bike whined by.
I leapt backwards and landed in a bush. Tiny leaves and twigs scratched my injured arm. I gagged with pain.
The crimson haze returned.
Why had I come here? I gazed with longing down the trail to the falls. Should I return home before I hurt myself even more in this peculiar place?
“Hello, miss. Are you okay?”
I squinted toward the voice. An elderly gentleman peered at me from the black path.
“Yes, sir,” I said and winced at the obvious lie. “Pardon me, but do you live nearby?”
“This is my neighborhood.”
“Please tell me where Mark Lewis lives.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him.”
“I see.” When he turned to leave, panic gripped me. This man was the only one who had stopped to offer assistance. I tried once more. “Sir, do you know a nearby house with a barn? It is the kind of barn that stores a man’s toys.”
“Certainly.” He pointed in the direction from which he’d come. “Just up there. Around the bend. It’s not far.” He reached out to me. “Let me give you a hand.”
I thanked him and then crept along the side of the path, head bowed, hope spurring me on. I could do this. I would keep going now because it wasn’t far.
So many bare legs moved past me. And they all wore shoes in the summer. Shoes, bare legs, and breeches that stopped high on the thigh. I blushed at the sight of so much skin.
Where was Mark’s house? How much farther? The ache in my arm grew by the moment until I could scarce take another step. I felt out of breath, too weary for much more.
I scanned the houses on the opposite side of the trail and spied a barn.