In truth, though, I might not have finagled a sleigh ride anywhere else but here. My parents had business in town. Mama had packed the bayberry candles Mrs. Goodrich had ordered and then invited me to join her and Papa on the trip. After a long summer of the wheeled wagon bumping in and out of road ruts and muddy holes, I couldn’t resist the temptation of the first winter travel.
And I had enjoyed that part: the sleekly packed snow, the squeaking of the steel-shod runners, and the constant tinkling of the sleigh bells fastened to the horse’s harness. The jingling increased the closer we got to the heart of Middleton, where others’ shining sleigh bells chimed in.
Now I anxiously listened for the bells that would signal Papa’s return. When would he rescue us?
Abruptly, Miss Goodrich set down her tea and picked up a lady’s journal. “Have you seen the latest Parisian fashions for the season?”
I shook my head and leaned closer to her on the sofa. As she turned the pages, I stared at the illustrations. These were gowns I’d never wear. I had absolutely nothing to say about them.
Eventually she abandoned her musings on lace and trim.
During the endless lull, I furtively scanned her. Her dress shimmered over her elegant form in the way only silk could. I glanced down. My best dress was a sturdy article of my own making, comprised of home-produced linen and wool. Not a shimmer in sight.
While my mother gave the parlor her unmasked adoration, the Goodrich matron stoically did her best to keep a conversation going. But Mama and I lived too far away to join in on town news. When Mrs. Goodrich began to discuss upcoming balls that “winter has finally made permissible, now that there’s a little time for frivolity in our busy household,” my mood swung from uncomfortable to annoyed.
Busy? What did the Goodrich women do that made them so busy? Neither loom nor wheel nor dairy nor hearth tied them down. They didn’t sew their own dresses; their stitchery was saved for lace making and samplers. Meals, clothes, cleaning, soap, candles: They had servants to handle all that. In fact, Mrs. Goodrich had ordered Mama’s candles not because she didn’t have someone to make plenty already, but because my mother’s were recognized throughout Middleton for being especially fine.
As if the Goodrich woman had read my mind, she returned her cup to its saucer, cleared her throat, and murmured, “So, tell me, Mrs. Winter: How do you make these beautiful candles?”
Culled from her inspection of a claw-footed table, Mama started. “Well, I send the girls out to pick the bayberries; then we throw them in a pot of boiling water. Their fat rises to the top and makes for a superior candle wax. You won’t have to worry about bayberry candles burning out fast or smoking and bending under the heat. The best candles, bayberry. Quite sweet-smelling. I’ve saved a few for Christmas presents. They’re very special. Growing up, we always sang, ‘A bayberry candle burned to the socket brings luck to the house and gold to the pocket.’”
While Mrs. Goodrich nodded politely, Mama resumed her appreciative study of the parlor. She ran her rough fingers over the polished, half-cushioned arms of the chair. I could clearly see where the fire and bubbling grease and lye from our recent soap making had left burns across the backs of her hands.
The sight brought a lump to my throat. It didn’t seem right, in this new nation won for the sake of liberty and equality, that already we’d fallen into such separate classes. Way up there: the Goodriches. Way down here: the Winters. With a pang, I realized that my singing chum, Rachel, probably ranked even lower than us. She was the distant family member who had to pay for her keep by getting hired out to any household that required an extra set of hands, including mine. She never complained, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the ever-present need to prove useful depressed her.
Lydia Goodrich broke into these worrisome thoughts. “It was kind of you to bring us a jug of your cider. I have a strong penchant for good apple cider.”
Mama and I just nodded. How was one to answer such an inane comment? Everyone loved cider.
She gave a delicate cough and started pleating the skirt of her dress. “Is cider difficult to make? Do you simply, um, squeeze the apple?”
Like a soft peach? I frowned and opened my mouth to explain the process, dumbfounded that there was a person who existed in this world who didn’t know the rudiments involved in the making of the most ubiquitous drink ever.
The approaching tinkle of bells distracted me. I peered out the window that framed the bustling street. I recognized the pitch of that jingle. I’d heard it every winter for much of my life. Yet the bells weren’t Papa’s.
They were Mr. Long’s.
A moment later, a servant opened the parlor door and announced him.
We rose, and he entered the parlor, smiling, red-cheeked from the cold, and preceded by a pack of giggling, breathless, snow-dusted girls. I’d wondered where the other Goodrich daughters had gone. Mr. Long must have taken them for a ride.
His smile widened when he spotted me. While Mrs. Goodrich ordered her younger daughters upstairs to change, Mr. Long greeted Mama warmly.
Mrs. Goodrich folded her arms and gave him a cloying smile. “How kind of you to give my girls such a treat. And what a shame Lydia wasn’t here to join you when you set off. She so loves a sleigh ride.”
I almost gagged. Mrs. Goodrich was too transparent. Where had the eldest daughter been? Probably hushed and hustled into her room to await a later sledding opportunity: a more romantic excursion, one just for two. I mentally rolled my eyes at the woman’s blatant trickery. I knew a matchmaking mama when I saw one.
However, the remark, as patent as it was disingenuous, worked. Mr. Long’s eyebrows flew up, and he good-naturedly smiled at the marriageable eldest. “I can take you for a turn around town now if you’d like.”
She demurred with a bashful stammering yet immediately moved forward as if to pounce on the chance. Mrs. Goodrich’s face beamed victoriously, while Mama, at last dragged from her admiring appraisal of her surroundings, perceived the other woman’s agenda and frowned in perturbation. It was probably Mama’s expression that awakened Mr. Long to the possibility of an ulterior motive. His smile wilted, his eyes flickered my way, and he added hastily, “Why don’t you join us, Miss Winter?”
Miss Goodrich froze. “Why—why, yes, that would be lovely.”
I raised an eyebrow. Ah, yes, lovely. Quite the enchanting prospect: Mr. Long and his two vying suitors clinging to his arms while they shot evil glances at each other and his sleigh slipped around Middleton for all to see. A veritable spectacle. “No,” I bit out. “No, thank you.”
An uncomfortable silence settled in the parlor. Miss Goodrich leaped in to fill it by chattering, “I was just asking Miss Winter how her family makes cider. I know the apples need to be pressed, of course, but…”
Mr. Long nodded at this shameless demonstration of ignorance and, smiling my way, said lightly, “Miss Winter’s the one to ask. She’s an expert on the making of drinks.”
I didn’t smile.
I settled my gaze on the other girl. How could this oh-so-gentrified Miss Goodrich ever think she’d manage a farm? Didn’t she know she wasn’t remotely suited for all the chores that position required? Or was this what Mr. Long wanted in a wife: an ignorant piece of expensive flummery?
With a savage kind of dryness, I said, “The apples must be milled first.” You do know what a mill is, don’t you, daughter of Middleton’s wealthy mill owner? “That crushes them into a thick pomace. The juice would taste thin without this step. Slow bruising, sun, air—they all tinge the drink, make it sweet. Not a pretty thing, milled apples. No doubt you’d find the broken fruit disgusting. But then how much that’s just pretty is worth anything? I have no time for pointless prettiness.” My disdainful gaze swept the parlor and its inhabitants, including in its peevish path a visibly stunned Mr. Long, an obviously embarrassed Lydia Goodrich, a shocked Mrs. Goodrich, and a humiliated Mama.
Certainly, I was behaving boorishly. Yes, my tone dripped condescension. I couldn’t help it. This situation of unwitting rivalry was intolerable.