Before five minutes had passed, in the relative privacy of a dim barn stall, Gideon Winter became Mrs. Standen, and Phineas—ever one to welcome an opportunity for foolishness—dove into his role as Gid’s husband.
He played the part dotingly. From my hiding spot behind the barn, I watched him hand my brother into the wagon, adjust the bonnet that hid his too-short locks, tuck the lap blanket around his person, and squeeze his hands meaningfully. For his part, Gid sat as stiff as a statue of someone miserable, maybe a martyred saint, but he grimly remained in character, at least until his pretend husband raised one of his hands to his lips to bestow a kiss. Then he slugged Phineas in the head.
Phineas rubbed his crown. “Now, is that how a good wife should greet her husband’s expressions of affection? You promised to love, honor, and obey, remember, my precious sugarplum, my little honeyed love bun, my delectable punch of rum. Truly, I’ve a mind to take a strap to your sweet bottom and teach you a lesson you won’t—”
“Shh.” Gideon jerked his chin toward the door.
Daniel Long had stridden outside.
Daniel Long. I could not believe it. My eyes feasted on the sight of him.
He stood for a moment by his horse, absently rubbing her neck, as he perused the yard, his gaze stilling for a moment on our wagon.
Phineas had resumed his tender ministrations, patting Gid’s tightly folded hands, teasingly touching Gid’s chin, which was tucked to his chest, then leaning in closer, as if to whisper a few endearments in my brother’s ear. Our friend could have played Macbeth (or more fittingly, Puck) on Drury Lane. He was that convincing.
And apparently convincing enough for Mr. Long. At last my Middleton neighbor broke his stare and mounted his horse. I waited, my heart pounding, until he left; then I crept toward the men. Gid had wrenched the bonnet off his head and sat scowling. Phineas was practically mute with laughter, hardly able to form a word through his breathless mirth.
I couldn’t join either extreme reaction. I was remembering how Daniel had looked—his dear, familiar handsomeness, his tall, strong frame—and how, inexplicably, the entire time I’d leaned against the rough back wall of the barn, I’d half hoped he would find me. Only fear that the discovery would arouse his disgust checked that hope. He had enough reasons to disdain me. I couldn’t bear to give him more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Less than an hour later, with our wagon packed and hitched to the oxen, Fancy fed and snoring softly at my feet, Phineas in the lead, and Gid back to looking like a man, we resumed the final leg of our trip, following an old Indian trail straight north toward the lake.
Within minutes of our leaving Batavia, the forest engulfed us. On either side of the rough path, ancient trees curled over the wagon and made a tunnel for our passage. The early April sunlight penetrated the canopy in a shattered brilliance, dancing on the dew of countless leaves.
“I can’t believe Daniel came after you,” Gid said quietly. “You all right?”
I shook my head and turned away. I didn’t want to discuss Daniel Long, couldn’t bear it. Should I have let him discover me and faced his shock? Was escaping that reaction worth never talking to him again? Regret plagued me. Adding to my depression was the fact that I’d lost my lucky spile. The absence of the spout felt horribly symbolic, prophetic. I wasn’t allowed anything, not even a reminder, of Daniel.
This sobering conclusion kept me from joining in on Phineas’s banter. Gid wasn’t much use to Phineas, either. I could tell my brother was subdued—and anxious to get to Rachel Welds.
On three occasions along this stretch leading to Barre, the wilderness opened. Every time, a rough clearing appeared, ragged with stumps and uneven fields. In each center, a rude cabin squatted, its window protected with oiled paper and its roof covered in peeled bark, and around each cabin, oxen browsed. On the first property, a cow trudged among them. The other two places also sported sheep. On account of the bells tied around their necks, the animals chimed as they moved.
Outside the third log house, a woman holding up the end of her apron scooped feed from her makeshift pouch and scattered it for pecking fowl. Upon our appearance, she turned and waved.
She looked thrilled to see people. Setting aside my personal misery, I urged Gid to stop, so we could exchange some words with her. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
He shook his head. “I want to reach Barre.”
With just a shouted greeting, we journeyed on. Soon the thick forest absorbed us again.
Robert and Ed had sent my brother one letter since they’d settled in these parts. From that missive, Gid knew how to locate the Lintons’ place. Yet when we neared the location, we were hard-pressed to trust the brothers’ directions.
The Lintons had started pioneering more than a year ago. However, of the few homes we’d passed, this one showed the least amount of improvement. If anything, the crooked cabin seemed ready to collapse, as if sunk under a curse of quickened age. Perhaps it had been poorly constructed or damaged in a storm. Regardless, its dilapidated condition suggested a complete indifference to the notion of upkeep.
Evidence of slovenly living was also spewed around the wretched dwelling. Eight barefoot children loitered in a yard of muck and refuse. A few pigs roamed between broken bits of boards, snuffled into mounds of rotting food, and split the air with squeals whenever one of the urchins, raucously laughing, pulled a tail or attempted a ride on one of their backs. I’d tied Fancy to the wagon seat to keep her from jumping out, but she strained against her tether and growled menacingly. She didn’t think much of this place, either.
When the children noticed our presence, their disturbing activities came to an end. They watched our approach, only breaking their motionlessness to scratch a head or groin. Eventually, the tallest one shoved at the pig closest to him with a dirt-blackened foot and ambled forth, his finger plugging his nose.
Phineas, who’d brought his horse to our side, stared aghast at the homestead, and when the nose picker held his finger close to his eyes, inspected his finding, and slurped it with apparent gusto, our fastidious friend visibly shuddered. “This is where Rachel lives?”
“Heaven help her,” I breathed. I couldn’t believe it myself.
Gid mutely shook his head.
While the ill-mannered child threaded his way around the yard’s filth, stopped near our wagon, and gaped, the others flew into the house through an entrance covered with a stained blanket. They erupted out of it again, this time with a man, a woman, and a second woman in their wake.
The man barked a greeting as he crossed the yard. He was a shocking sight: his muscular frame so covered in reddish-gray hair that he seemed part bear. The frizzy tresses hung in his eyes and knitted his chin, throat, and chest together in a wild mat. His apparel was as threadbare as the children’s. He wore a shirt that fluttered open nearly to the navel and hole-riddled pants. And he must have injured his leg, for he limped and used a short tree limb as a walking stick.
The woman who followed kept her head down, her shoulders hunched, and her hands and arms hidden in the folds of her black shawl. Her light brown hair, dressed in a thick bun, as gleaming as any girl’s, strangely contrasted with her wrinkled face. She reminded me of the house: prematurely aged, folding in on herself.
Not until I registered the identity of the second woman did I find my voice and answer the man’s greeting. I jumped out of the wagon and began striding across the yard.
It was Rachel.
While I tried to make out my pretty, robust, neat-as-a-pin singing companion in the disheveled girl, Rachel was clearly trying to figure out me. She watched my approach with bewildered amazement. When I was within arm’s reach, she whispered, “Harry?”
I gave the briefest shake of my head. I’d have to explain Freddy, but that couldn’t happen now.
Gid also began walking toward the house.