Instead of thanking me, he held up his tankard. “More cider, too, if you don’t mind. A drover!” He snickered.
I sighed and stomped over to the cider jug on the counter. While I refilled the tankard, the din behind me grew louder, with Gideon defending his pal, Grace wishing aloud for a happier ending to Romeo and Juliet, the play she’d taken to reading repeatedly, Mama indulging her with smiles, and Betsy badgering Papa to let her have a barn cat in the house for a pet since he’d declined to give her one of Mitten’s pups.
During the last few days, my home-loving reflections had all but snuffed my interest in the Genesee Valley. Now the thought of that destination tempted me, tempted me again—the elixir of escape.
It was sad how much more I loved my family when I wasn’t actually near them.
As I headed to the noisy table with the brimming tankard, Gid scowled and slapped down his spoon. “I can barely stand to eat with you going on and on about Romeo. ‘Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ Stupid.”
Papa speared a chunk of potato with his fork. “That tongue of yours does run like a fiddlestick, Grace.”
Betsy grimaced. “Find something less ridiculous to jabber about.” Then, under her breath: “Idiot girl.”
“Mama! Did you hear what Betsy called me?”
Coming up behind my older brothers, I was just about to deliver the cider when Matthew, perhaps taking advantage of the others’ distraction, ducked his head and said quietly, “Be a sport, Luke. Mr. Thompson’s going to pay me to help raise the bridge come April. I only need a little to—”
Luke jerked sideways. “I said no.”
Both brothers jumped when I put the tankard on the table.
Matthew scowled. “What do you want?”
“With a fool?” A gambler? A scoundrel? “Nothing.”
His mouth tightened. “Here.” He thrust his tankard my way. “Fill mine while you’re up.”
I opened my mouth to tell him he could get his own cider and choke on it for all I cared, when Mama said, “You’ll have to help yourself.” She rose and started stacking plates.
Giving Matthew my back, I smiled at my mother. Dear Mama. Some of my previous tender feelings returned. Now she was a person worth missing.
I dropped onto the bench and drew my plate closer.
Mama squawked. “What are you doing? You don’t have time for that.”
I stared at her dumbly.
“Your collar’s all rumpled, and, heavens”—she made a face—“look at your hands.”
“I just washed them.”
“Wash them better. And do something with your hair. Mr. Long’s joining us for dessert. He’ll be here any second.”
I gripped my fork. “But I’m hungry.”
“You can eat later.” She shooed me.
Growling explosively, I heaved myself up from the table.
Grace giggled, “Make yourself pretty for your beau.”
Betsy’s mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t be so quick to call him that, when he’s on such friendly terms with the Goodrich daughters, not to mention half a dozen other Middleton girls. He’s the new favorite, don’t you know?”
I ironed my face as I passed them on my way to the ladder plank, hoping to convey indifference. Inwardly, I seethed. Oh, to escape the drudgery, to enjoy some blessed adventure, to get away from it all—them all. My sisters. My brothers. My parents. And Daniel Long, too, if the man couldn’t make staying worth my while. It was time for him to own his feelings and declare his intentions. One day he was courting me; the next day he wasn’t. I was tired of not knowing where I stood. If he loved me, I deserved to hear it. I couldn’t decide my future without that certainty.
When Daniel arrived mere seconds after I climbed down from the loft, I struggled to keep the impatience and irritation out of my expression. If his anxious glances my way were any indication, I didn’t succeed. Mama’s overt matchmaking, Betsy’s sly innuendos regarding who knew how many Middleton girls, and my older brothers’ high-handedness (“Get me another slice of that tart, Harry”; “We could use some more ale here”; “Move—you’re standing in my light”): These did nothing to improve my mood.
I was finally eating my (cold) supper when my mother smiled dotingly at Daniel. “Would you like more cream tart?”
“Thank you, but I’m full. It’s delicious, though.”
“I’ll take another slice, please.” Gid held up his plate to Mama.
“Harriet made it this morning.” She slid the last portion onto my brother’s dish. “Her crusts always turn out so tender.”
I rolled my eyes. Would have been nice if the family had saved a slice for the baker.
Papa pushed away his dessert plate. “Did you finish the pinion wheel for the saw machinery?”
“I showed it to Mr. Goodrich last night, in fact,” Daniel said.
“And did you dine with the family?” Betsy smirked in my direction.
He nodded distractedly and said to Papa, “Wheel should work fine, I think.”
I hunched lower over my plate. The man’s like a bloody bee, flitting from one girl to another, a sip here, a sip there.
“… and Harriet can help you,” Mama said.
I glanced up. Everyone was gazing at me. Their expressions covered the whole spectrum: sly, pleased, hopeful, indifferent, amused, annoyed, curious.
My mother, looming over me, was all encouragement. “Won’t you?”
“Won’t I what?”
She wiped her damp hands on the end of her apron. “Help Mr. Long carry in the squashes he brought us.”
I slapped down my napkin. “Can’t a girl eat in this house?”
My mother’s mouth thinned. “A girl can eat later.”
“Later, later. It’s always later around here.” Grumbling, I rose and shifted my glare from her to Mr. Bumblebee.
Daniel’s smile died.
I stomped across the room. “Come on, then.”
Night had fallen. While I waited by the wagon, Daniel pulled the door shut behind him. The lamp in the window illuminated some of the darkness, caught snowflakes in its golden halo, and revealed Daniel’s expression, too: trepidation mixed with humor.
But love? What about love, Daniel? Love!
I fought an impulse to shove him onto the snowy ground and took some steadying gulps of air. The cold felt good. It eased a little of my ire and made me glad to be out of the house. I breathed deeply. Free, free!
Daniel gazed at me questioningly.
I stared straight back. “Well?”
He coughed, sidled around me, and pulled two crates from the wagon.
I glared at the starry sky.
He shuffled by the crates. “I reckoned your mother could use these. Jeb and I ended up with more butternuts than we’ll ever eat.”
“That’s nice.” I crossed my arms and held myself tightly. “Anything else?”
“Um”—he glanced around—“no. Sorry. Just squashes.”
I flared my eyes. “Anything else you want to say to me?”
He took a step back. After furtively searching my face, he smiled weakly and offered, “The cream tart was tasty.”
My breath left me in a hiss. Seriously? I stooped to grab one of the crates. “Glad to hear it. I personally couldn’t judge. No one thought to leave me any.”
*
“Thank you.” I accepted the tea from Lydia Goodrich, and there was a moment when the eldest Goodrich daughter’s skin met mine, just touching. Poised in the Goodrich family’s parlor, hovering in the lavender-fragranced air, our hands were a study in contrasts. Hers soft and white, mine calloused, the fingers still stained with walnut juice, nails pared as short as a boy’s.
Then that second passed, and the four of us—Mrs. Goodrich, Miss Goodrich, Mama, and I—began to sip our tea intently like mismatched people relieved to have something to do that didn’t entail talking.
I shouldn’t have agreed to accompany my mother here. The decision had ruined a perfectly good Sled Day, particularly this year when sufficient snow had coincided with the first of December, making sledding actually possible.