That was the understatement of the evening. I couldn’t resist flashing Gid a look, but not even my brother, always so loyal to his pals despite their remarkable idiocy, appeared ready to defend them. It was one thing to be stupid; it was another to be neglectful. Robert and Ed Welds should have taken better care of Rachel.
He sighed. “Ah, well, it’s done now, and when the soup’s gone, there’s no sense in licking the empty bowl. All I’ll say is—and I say this mostly to you, Freddy, since you’re young and still face plenty of opportunities to ruin your life—the Linton household is a living example of what I’ve previously warned you against: too much liquor and too many children. Both will kill you, and very often, one leads to the other.”
I glared at him. Mr. Linton was more than a drunkard with one too many children. He was an abusive terror, and if I hadn’t been trying to shield Rachel from the subject, I would have said as much. Though Linton certainly qualified as the worst male of my acquaintance, I couldn’t like many of the others right now, either—Gid, the Welds brothers, Phineas. The latter’s latest buffoonery goaded me into snapping, “Married people do tend to bear children. That’s hardly aberrant behavior.”
“But do they have to have so many?”
“You get as many as God wills, clodpoll.”
He burst out laughing. “God doesn’t have a thing to do with it. A couple can enjoy their pleasures without turning out a passel of nose pickers.”
I stared at him in unblinking incomprehension.
With indulgent contempt, he smiled, sauntered my way, and threw a friendly arm around my shoulders. “Freddy, Freddy, Freddy, don’t you know anything? How are you going to marry Miss Welds here without understanding a few important matters about the matrimonial bed?” Then, with Gid and Rachel looking on in embarrassed fascination, Phineas shortly explained the matter, in a few words detailing how the mathematical equation of one plus one shouldn’t equal three.
I yanked away from him and, to hide my mortification, muttered, “What a hypocrite you are, Phineas. You act as pure and wise as a priestly philosopher, but what about your household, the one you’re always complaining about?”
He acknowledged the dig with a nod. “’Tis true, I’ve got my own share of nefarious nestlings underfoot.” Then, with a meaningful look: “And another abomination roasting in the oven, if you know what I mean.” Shaking his head, he sighed, “But it’s not like I asked for them. Marian simply thrust them on me.”
This audacious declaration left me speechless. Finally, I blurted, “Thrust them on you? So she’s the one who bears all the blame? Of all the cold, callous—oh, I feel so sorry for Marian. What an ill-natured misogynist you are.” Playing the victim. Blaming the wife. Hogwash! It took two to twirl around a ballroom.
My heated reaction seemed to startle him, and this further infuriated me.
Just as he opened his mouth, no doubt to defend his ridiculous position, Rachel asked, “Who is Marian?”
“His wife,” I answered.
At the same time, Phineas said, “My sister.”
He and I stared at each other.
Then he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Fell down to his log perch and laughed, keeled forward and laughed, pitched sideways and laughed, rolled onto his back and laughed, and off and on between guffaws, breathlessly, gaspingly repeated, “My wife? My wife?”
Fancy responded with excited yips and tail-wagging leaps. Sweetheart whinnied. Gid, eyeing me with amusement, chuckled. I scowled and tried to shove and kick Phineas into silence.
But for the first time that day, Rachel smiled.
*
Rachel spent the night in the wagon; the rest of us slept on the hard ground under it. And the next morning, we fed and watered the animals, ate a hurried breakfast comprised of cold biscuits from the previous night, restored to the wagon the few provisions we’d unpacked, and resumed our trip.
One traveling day left: I couldn’t wait to finish it.
A pink sunrise threaded through the trees and sifted a rosy glow over the dew-slick branches. Rachel’s face, in this warm light, appeared somber. But she didn’t pull away when I unthinkingly patted her hand.
It would take time—months, maybe even years—for her to recover from what had happened at the Lintons’ place, but I would be Rachel’s gentle, careful, loving friend and help her through what was sure to be an agonizing healing process.
I was mentally avowing this noble intention when Phineas, ahead of us, circled the reins around his wrists, slowed Sweetheart from a trot to a walk, and peered over his shoulder. His mouth quirked when he took in our clasped hands. “Mr. Freddy: Mighty Champion of the Fair Sex. Ha.” He turned to face forward. “Well, Miss Welds, I won’t bother asking for your betrothed’s view—he’s a regular activist—but I’m curious about yours. What are your thoughts on book learning among females?”
She shrugged. “I don’t have a strong opinion.”
“And that’s exactly as it should be. Women with strong opinions offend me. Wait until you meet my sister.” He grunted. “No wonder my poor brother-in-law succumbed to the fever. With all her unfeminine ways and unfeminine notions, she likely sapped his will to live.” He shook his head and added disdainfully, “Marian’s a great one for book learning. This is what I think: If women deserve to improve their minds at all, their education should be exclusively designed to enhance their matrimonial worth. Let a woman learn about housekeeping, child-rearing, and etiquette. Make her an example of female submissiveness and piety—a tender paragon of domesticity.”
He slid me a sly peep over his shoulder, obviously hoping to provoke my temper. I refused to give him the satisfaction and merely dug a couple of apples out of the satchel under my seat, handed one to Rachel, and said curtly, “Housekeeping, child-rearing, and etiquette? That’s it? Sounds deadly dull to me.”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Phineas went on, “But please, Lord, save us from those god-awful female scholars, intent on poking into the sciences and ancient languages and all sundry of masculine matters, the sorts of subjects their fragile, weak minds simply weren’t made to comprehend and appreciate. Female scholars. Bah!”
I stiffened but still refused to bite the bait. I bit into my apple instead.
Gid wore a small smile and dry expression.
Rachel, however, was nettled. “Certainly, efficient housekeeping benefits a woman and her family, but I would never advocate for limiting a female’s learning to empty gentility. After all, how can a mother raise intelligent children capable of competing for advancement in our free nation if she, herself, can’t benefit from a rigorous education and therefore grow her mind?” She drew herself up to her full sitting height, squeezed the apple so hard her knuckles whitened, and glared at Phineas’s back. “Pretty picture of family life you’d paint, Mr. Standen, if you made every mother a silly gudgeon with nothing to her credit besides a quick needle. What chance would the children have to succeed if all the maternal instruction they received was limited to the banal advice dear Mama crammed into her embroidered samplers?” She harrumphed.
Vividly recollecting my first encounter with Rachel over Mr. Long’s maple-syrup kettle, when she’d announced her passion for stitchery, I stared at her in faint surprise.
Ahead, Phineas’s shoulders trembled. He didn’t turn around but managed to say in a quavering voice, “Why, Miss Welds, I didn’t think you had a strong opinion on the matter.”
She ground out, “I changed my mind.”
The apple hit Phineas squarely on the back of his neck and with enough force to kill his laughter.
“Nice shot,” I said.
Rachel sniffed. “Thank you.”
*
Phineas’s troublemaking continued the entire length of the sloppy, bumpy road. His conversation irked me. I found myself wishing for Daniel Long’s quiet teasing and subtle wit.