Perhaps our companion had been half prepared to lose his land, for these revisions left the normally loquacious Phineas temporarily speechless. He finally managed, “How kind. I—I don’t know how to thank you.”
The elderly gentleman folded his hands over his vested front. “Make your land prosper. That is the company’s hope for every industrious settler.”
Shortly thereafter, we stood outside the building, and I felt precisely as I had upon leaving the forest: disoriented and stunned.
Gid gazed around dazedly. “That was easy.”
“Dropping blunt is all too easy,” Phineas agreed. “Let’s celebrate. There’s an inn down the road.” He squeezed the back of his neck and shook his head. “We need to toast the Holland Land Company, the very generous Holland Land Company.”
He spoke with absolute sincerity and blew a gusty exhalation: a huge sigh of relief.
*
We visited the local postmaster to dispatch a letter to Mama and Papa and then made our way to the inn. Though dubiously named Skunk’s Misery, the place neither stank like a skunk nor promised misery to its travelers. It was rough-hewn but surprisingly clean. And though my brother’s resources had dwindled and Phineas’s financial plight was even direr than Gid’s, I’d barely touched my savings. So I offered to pay for our supper and rooms—two, one for Gid and Phineas and one for me. If our new friend wondered why I took the single room, he didn’t say anything. He probably perceived it as further evidence of my excessive modesty.
After booking our rooms, I requested a bath.
The tavern keeper’s wife sourly inspected not just me but Gid, too. “You’ll all be getting baths. I won’t have my straw-tick beds swarming with bugs.”
I was happy to endure the implication that we carried infestations on our persons, as long as I could get clean, and I even paid the extra fees for a bit of soap and additional kettles of hot water.
A loud crash in the back of the building interrupted our transaction, and the tavern keeper’s wife excused herself to check on the situation.
The aroma of roasted pork reached us where we waited. Through a set of closed interior doors sprang a shout of laughter. Gid gazed complacently at the neat accommodations. Phineas, arms crossed, rocked back on his heels and wondered aloud if baked apples might form part of our meal. The successful negotiations at the Holland Land Company had ensured the men’s good spirits. They were prepared to enjoy themselves.
Unlike them, I possessed nothing of great value—no land, cabin, spouse, or livestock. Nevertheless, my face undoubtedly beamed the brightest. I was about to visit a hitherto forbidden realm: a taproom.
The tavern keeper’s wife returned and directed us to our rooms. “Takes time to prepare three baths. You might want to sup while you wait.”
We agreed with alacrity. After following my companions to the second floor, securing Fancy and my belongings in the private room, and trailing Phin and Gid down a different staircase, I headed into the taproom with every expectation of pleasure, as eager as a secret society’s novice on the evening of her induction.
It was like entering a noisy cloud. Several farm laborers puffed on clay pipes, and smoke mixed with the fetid odors of sweat, grime, and whiskey.
Phineas’s nostrils curled. “Can’t smell a single baked apple in here.” He whipped out a handkerchief and held it fastidiously to his nose. Suddenly he seized my arm and yanked me toward him.
One of the patrons, a burly man, in a burst of jocularity had sent his chair back on its hind legs, straight into my path. Thanks to Phin’s quick action, the blow only grazed my thigh.
The sprawling man shot forward, the chair hit the floor with a thud, and he whirled around. “Watch it.”
Me? I glared back. “You, too.”
Gid laughed nervously and nudged me along. “Take care, Freddy.” He flared his eyes. “First the mule cart and now this. Pay attention to where you’re going.”
“I don’t see how his throwing himself in our way is my fault.”
I would have happily stomped to the opposite side of the room. Unfortunately, the only free table was the one after the rude reveler’s. Still, its position granted me a liberal view of the space. I sat with my back to the wall and my shoulder an inch from that of another man’s—or boy’s. He couldn’t have been much older than I was surely taken to be, fourteen or fifteen.
With a sideways glance, he gave me a polite nod, then settled a resentful glower on Mr. Rude.
The man, once again, was tipping his chair into the meager walkway and guffawing. He raised his tankard and bellowed, “To my cousin, fair John, our precious little milkmaid.”
Around the table, the toast was laughingly repeated with slight variations: “pretty John,” “sweet John,” “our lovely milkin’ lass.”
“Gammon,” the boy sitting next to me muttered. “I was just helping Mother.”
I frowned at the jokester, curious about the insult.
A servant appeared at Phin’s side. Balancing a tray with one arm, she swiped her hand on the greasy front of her apron, then passed out three brimming tankards and three plates mounded with pork and potatoes.
As soon as she moved on, I took an eager sip, hoping for a mouthful of the hard stuff, and slumped with disappointment. It was the same old thing I’d always drunk.
Gid gave me a dry look. “I told you they won’t serve nurslings strong spirits.”
“What are you having?”
He brought his cup close to his chest. “Never mind.”
“Hand it over.”
“Drink your cider.”
“Come on. Just a sip.”
Phineas gave the smoky air an indolent wave. “Give the lad a taste of gin.”
My brother rolled his eyes but slid his tankard across the table.
I shot my patron a grateful smile and took a gulp.
Merciful heavens!
My throat, immediately inflamed, barely managed the swallow. Tears filled my eyes. Heat seared my face. It took every ounce of my willpower to stifle a coughing fit.
Phineas grinned. “Yummy, hmm?”
Hoarsely: “Delicious.” With a shudder, I returned the tankard to a smirking Gid and swabbed my eyes with a sleeve. Laughter roared beside me, with Mr. Rude pounding the table to accompany the blare. I stilled, thinking the hilarity was for me and my unconvincing handling of the alcohol.
It wasn’t. Of the table’s six occupants, only my young neighbor failed to crack a smile. Obviously, he was the brunt of another joke. “Rubbish,” the boy muttered, mortification spelled large in the flush of his pimpled cheeks.
I gave him a sympathetic glance but then turned away. Tavern visiting was a treat for me, one not likely to be repeated. I was here to enjoy myself and determined to do so.
Between forkfuls of pork, my tablemates dove into a conversation about the lake abutting the valley—“as sweeping as an ocean,” according to Phin—and the species of fish to be found in the area.
Not a particularly interesting topic to me. I’d spent too many hours of my life gutting my brothers’ summertime catches. I studied our surroundings. The table on our left was as quiet as the one on our right was loud. Its occupants sat hunched, somberly mulling over the cards in their hands. I swatted Phin in the arm. “Are they playing faro?”
He and my brother stopped shoveling food into their mouths and followed my gaze. Gid shrugged (he was no tavern expert, either), but Phin shook his head. “Brag, I think.”