I walked toward the back of the shop while they spoke. There in a small room, a loom such as I had never seen took the whole of it. A passage had been cut through the wall so the weaver could climb through it upon the bench. Another passage existed on the far side where the finished cloth could be taken and new warping placed. It had to have been built in that space. Dim windows filtered light upon a bolt of fine linen, so delicate, so intricate a pattern that it must be for some fine use. I memorized it, the warp in black and gray, the weft in four subtle colors. Raw silver and black, threes on threes, raw golden in twos and tens with a single strand of bloodred crimson splitting the pattern.
Inspiration came as if a moment of prescience had descended upon me. “Barnabus,” I whispered. “Perhaps you can do nothing because this cloth remains unfinished. Perhaps you cannot weave this, for you are the loom maker, not the weaver. I am young but I have been a master weaver for four years. If I finish this cloth you may sell it for a great deal of money. It will allow you to carry on, having your wife’s work completed and off the loom.” I smiled and peered into his eyes. I couldn’t say why I liked this old man. He was balmy with grief, that was true, but I had been so, myself. “No one else you shall meet would be able to finish this linen cloth. Your wife had the skill to make the finest cloth in the New World. I am her second. When it is done I believe you will work again.”
“That was ordered some sixteen or eighteen months ago. Who counts? And she could not work on it at the end. I cannot pay you to do this.”
“You said that you cannot use the loom yourself. If I finish this cloth, would you give to me this loom? It will have earned you a living, it will continue to earn me the same, and it will no longer be filling up this room with its sad reminders of what you have lost. What say you?”
He mumbled something, and then asked, “How long will you take?”
“I will start tomorrow. I ask no money. Only the loom itself.”
Goody’s face beamed with happiness. She clapped her hands softly. “That’s my wee Abigail,” she said.
Barnabus appeared worried, but he said, “I will do this as you ask. We shall see if you arrive on the morrow. We shall see what skill you have. If you ruin this and I have to pull it out, I will not do business with you again. But if you can complete this, I agree that I will take this loom apart and carry it to wherever you direct, and rebuild it there for you. You must have a room large enough for it. Do you?”
“I have one room,” I said. “It is enough. I shall be here, early.”
As we left his shop, Goody linked her arm in mine and patted my hand, saying, “Oh, Abigail, I knew you would find a way. I knew you could get along.”
“Goody Carnegie?” I started to correct my name but I sighed, then said, “Thank you for believing in me. Now I must decide whether to return to Lexington or stay in Boston for the night, so I may begin work in the morning.” Thunder beat against the heavy clouds that had formed while we were in Barnabus’s shop. Above them, lightning made the clouds glow as if they were pillows cast into a fire, not yet caught in flame but touching the embers. “Goody, what do you think?”
“You should stay here. I have to go. Leave me. Leave. Abigail, I have to run away, don’t you see? I have to run and not hurt you again.” She tossed my arm from her and backed down the street, her face contorted in agonies only she could know.
“Please stay with me and let us find a place to sleep.”
“Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me!” She screamed and loped down the road, disappearing between two houses.
I could not catch her. Wind tossed my bonnet, and I had to clutch my bushel basket to keep my goods inside it. My feet carried me to the Spencers’ home. Why, I could not say, for I dreaded meeting Wallace again, yet I so needed help, any shame he might heap upon me would be worth a place to lay my head. By the time I knocked at the door, rain began to fall and lightning flickered. It felled a tree somewhere on the far side of the town common with the sound of a mighty cannonade, yet no one went to douse the flame, for the rain finished the business.
Lady Spencer was busy in the library, and the butler bade me wait in a small parlor. It was poorly furnished, not at all like the one in which I had met Wallace. When at last she entered the room, she looked on me with icy recognition. “How kind of you to call,” Lady Spencer said, “and in such atrocious weather. Some compelling reason, perhaps?”
“There is, madam.”
“I see. Won’t you have a seat? We do not drink tea in this house. Do you drink coffee?”
“Thank you, madam. But I would not sit for I may dampen your upholstery.”
She waved her hand, both dismissing my concern and signaling for the coffee. “This is not the fine parlor where I receive guests. Please be seated. While we are waiting, perhaps you tell me of the urgent nature of this call before Oswald returns.”
“I was most pleased to find you at home, Lady Spencer,” I began, for she could well have told Oswald to inform me she was not. “I know you have no reason to oblige any request of mine. I require a small room for a few weeks. I have promised an old man that I will finish the weaving his wife began. It means a great deal to him. I need a place to stay in Boston to do this.”
“How, hmm, altruistic of you. You say that is the urgent business?”
“If I finish the work, he will give me the loom. With that I may make a living.”