“I do not know what size. What size are they, usually?”
“He’s taking dancing lessons, Miss Talbot. You will find him in Cross Street on the upper floor of Larson’s fine musical instruments.”
I turned. “Jacob, please do not brand me a wanton by informing him that I stopped here. I shall be in different mercantiles, and if our paths should cross, well, that will be as it may.”
“Have no fear, lass. I know you only came to witness the lathe firsthand. ’Tis no crime to expand one’s education by observing the working class and their methods.”
He had said it with something between a smile and a sneer, and I could not be sure of his meaning, so I said, “Then perhaps I should provide you lessons on my wheels and loom in the future, sir. Good day.”
“Good day, Miss Talbot. A linen press is best if it is not too tall to reach into. Cullah will remember your size.”
“I see. Good day.” I hurried across the street.
Jacob called, “Two pounds for maple. One pound and five if you want cherrywood.”
I had to cross another street and encountered a group of Quakers who would neither pardon themselves nor acknowledge my existence. As they went their way, a young man, probably no more than eighteen or so, stared from under his broad hat toward me. I kept my eyes turned away until the last moment and then looked directly at him, which caused him to flush deep as wine. I smiled inwardly. He was a pretty boy but I had no use for children, I told myself. The mere fact that I could cause a boy to blush with a look was only proof that I was no child myself any longer. The boy tripped and bumped someone. I could hear a woman scold, “Friend, watch thy step. My hem is torn.”
When I had my package of salt, a small wooden round of molasses, dried cod and oysters, and a paper-wrapped parcel of embroidery silks, I started for home. I walked slowly. I passed the music shop where Cullah was learning what—to dance? The shuttered windows hid only a dark room, now. I said aloud, “I only came for a linen press.” My heart recoiled in a twist of pain.
The cloudy, gray afternoon was drawing in. It would be light for but a few more hours, I dared not wait much longer to start home. I strolled slowly down the street. At the last church on the end, the reverend was saying some prayers and a few people had gathered inside. I said a quick prayer myself, in hopes for August returning, hoisted my package onto the other arm, and walked toward home, looking over my shoulder for Cullah.
Since his father had seen me would he not have told him? I asked him not to say I called, but he could naturally have mentioned that I came about that chest, and to see the lathe at work. A person would, in polite conversation, say those things to a fellow. I quickened my steps until I nearly ran.
When I reached my door, I threw my bonnet on my bed and went to feed my goats and geese. Usually I took care where the food scattered, but this time, I simply upended the scraps I had for them in a heap and went in the house. I barred my doors and windows, and lit a single candle. Far in the distance, a wolf howled. The candle guttered and died, and cold fear chilled me through. I stirred the fire and lit another candle. Snow began to fill the corners of the windows.
CHAPTER 22
November 16, 1736
An autumn festival, the note said. A country dance. November 24, the last Saturday before harvest ended. Cullah came to my house a few days after I went to Concord, bringing the invitation. In truth it was but a leaflet scattered throughout the town, but for me it held portent. He carried his woodsman’s box with the axe attached to the outside. He brought a gift of beef, hung so that the outside was dried. It would be excellent roasted, though he said he would not stay while I cooked it; he only meant it to sustain me. He said Lady Spencer herself would be attending, so I would be in poor form not to come. He would come with a conveyance, he said, to take me to the dance. As he talked, I pondered whether I had time to finish the embroidery on my bolt of lavender linen and sell it. I had taken the new silk I brought home from Concord—a skein with a thread of real gold—and made one more rosebud on each of the one hundred forty-seven circles that crossed the thirty yards. There were three left to do.
“Why do you come with such a heavy burden? I have no work for you,” I asked, though my heart fluttered with joy.