The Beloved Wild Page 3

  I stared at her for a moment. “Ah.”

  And to myself: Aha!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  One need not grow up with or live for any great length of time in close proximity to five other children to learn this: There is never anything so desirable as that which is desired by another. Mention a hankering for the last potato in the pot, and before you know it, every other young person just has to have that potato or risk death from the craving.

  Betsy and Grace fought over a rag doll for the better part of a year until they tore it in half. Matthew and Luke, to this day, vied for the same coffee cup. Gideon’s situation always proved particularly treacherous. This youngest and smallest son could not compete with the meaty-armed, thick-fisted oafs who comprised our brothers. He learned early on to make silent his joys and discoveries. An unusual rock worth keeping was quietly palmed and furtively pocketed.

  Chances were that this, more than anything, explained his reticence around Rachel. A show of proprietary fascination would have incited our brothers’ competitive urges. If one weren’t I (the person who knew Gideon best) or Betsy (our family’s version of a Bow Street runner), one probably wouldn’t discern any particular interest on Gideon’s part in this person who, as far as I was concerned, sported more hair than wit.

  Of course, this unfortunate aspect of human nature also explained his reluctance to disclose his pioneer plans to the family. Sure, he didn’t want to upset Mama too soon. But he also didn’t want to plant a seed of interest in Luke’s skull. He might decide to join him, and Gid wanted this adventure all for himself.

  On the evening of the last day of sugaring, when Daniel Long’s great room filled with spit-shined boots and Sunday-best skirts, when maple cakes (baked by Widow Barnes, Mr. Long’s housekeeper) fragranced the air, and when sleigh bells heralded each new arrival outside while laughter and the fiddler’s string tuning stirred the interior, only Betsy and I probably detected anything peculiar about Gideon. If his cheeks looked ruddier than usual, well, many of us were a bit blistered from a week of working in the cold wind and tending to a big fire.

  So, with Rachel, he did not behave like a dog guarding a ham bone. Not overtly. He escorted her to the dance floor just once: for a cotillion. His bow was polite, his conversation (at least that which I managed to overhear) punctilious. Afterward, he walked her to a chair and procured a glass of currant wine for her. He observed every nicety with this new neighbor. He even promptly released her to her next partner. Then, making his way around the couples who were arranging themselves in the new set, he quite rightly asked a languishing Mildred, the doctor’s homeliest daughter, if she’d favor him with a dance.

  Yet I saw past the pose. He breathed a mite too quickly and watched the rosy, laughing Rachel rather too closely. He was like a cloud hiding a bolt of lightning.

  And I could tell that Gideon, in some strange and secretive and un-Gideon way, was utterly shattered.

  I didn’t demur when various Middleton boys asked me to dance, not even when Mr. Long was the one asking. Frankly, I was too distracted to devise a tart rejoinder and perform my customary show of churlishness. I stood up for most of the dances but didn’t do so very gracefully, too busy spying on my brother to attend to the steps.

  Before the last reel ended, Mr. Long, my partner, blew a long-suffering sigh and shuffled me off the dance floor.

  I blinked at him in surprise. “Are you winded, Mr. Long?”

  He drew me to a chair near the punch bowl. “No. Injured. You keep stomping on my feet.” He passed me a cup of punch and stood by my chair, watching me in amusement as I quaffed it. Then he glanced at Gideon, who was leaning against the wall and doing his best not to glare at Robert, who danced with the gaily giggling Rachel.

  Mr. Long’s expression turned thoughtful. “Ah.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re worrying about losing your best friend.” Absently, he reached down and brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  I gaped at him. The impulsive gesture obviously surprised him as much as it did me. For a moment he didn’t seem to know what to say or where to look, and finally he simply tucked his hand in his armpit, as if not trusting it to stay put.

  He cleared his throat, and after a minute the awkwardness passed. I resumed frowning at Gideon and wishing the boy hadn’t turned into such a ridiculous fool.

  Mr. Long handed me a second cup of punch. “Poor Harriet,” he mused quietly. “It’s hard getting older.”

  * * *

  Bluebirds arrived, Easter Sunday came and went, rain turned parts of the farm into watering holes, the brook rose and flooded, a spell of sunshine dried the worst of the muck, spring plowing began, many ripped seams were mended, many stockings were darned, many wristbands were stitched, and all of April passed before Gideon spoke of the Genesee Valley again, saying a little about the Welds brothers, verifying their similar pioneer plans, and mentioning how much money they’d already put aside, enough to allow them to leave for the wilderness months before he would.

  All of this sounded like a preface. Sure enough, he asked abruptly, “What do you think about their cousin Rachel?”

  I worried the flattened end of a nail with my thumb. We were in the forge barn, where he was making nails to improve his savings. Though we all had chores that contributed to the family’s earnings and helped maintain the farm, if we chose to do more than we were assigned, we could make spending cash, what Mama called “pin money.” Gid hid his personal savings under the plank where I stood. The pile of coins was growing into quite the cache. After a moment of silence, while I deliberated telling him my true opinion, I tossed the nail in the pile and shrugged. “She’s pretty.”

  “Yes, very pretty,” he sighed, and hammered a nail rod to a point with unnecessary force. “Every Middleton boy thinks so.”

  Hope leaped like a blaze in a wind. So Rachel was much admired? Good. Perhaps she was a flirt, and Gideon would grow disgusted with her. Or maybe some richer Middleton boy would pursue and win her, and my brother would decide the Genesee Valley didn’t sound so wonderful after all. I didn’t say anything else, about Rachel or Gid’s pioneering, and to my relief, the conversation waned.

  I was not the kind of person to handle a problem. I ignored it and prayed it’d disappear.

  But this problem didn’t, as I learned the first Sabbath in May, after meeting.

  The Sunday started so well. Spring was new enough that I hadn’t forgotten what the meetinghouse was like in winter. How wonderful not to haul foot stoves into the unheated church, not to watch Pastor’s stormed message make clouds in the bitter air around his red face, not to shiver in our muffs and under our furs for the wearying hours of worship, not to bite into half-frozen communion bread, and not to fear that the icy baptismal waters were going to smite the unfortunate wintertime newborns with a deadly chill.

  The day was blissfully mild. I felt unencumbered. Free.

  It was even warm enough for some of the Middleton folks to walk barefoot to the meetinghouse and thus save the shine on their shoes. They waited until they reached the doorway to slip them on and button them.

  Those of us who lived too far away to walk traveled on horseback or in carriages and wagons. We arrived just as the Weldses did, and though my older brothers jumped out of the wagon and rushed to the fence where the horses were hitched so they could examine a neighbor’s new bay, Gideon quickly strode to greet the Weldses. Looking extraordinarily pleased, he lent Rachel his hand to help her step down to the rutted road, before any other young man could beat him to it.

  Overhead, a hawk wrote curvy letters across the blue sky in soaring sweeps, looking more like a creature playing than hunting. With the help of the wind, the trees and bushes dotting the yards twitched their young leaves like frisky colts. Early miniature irises, ice blue, formed a pretty trim around the white church. The blacksmith shop was quiet, the tavern windows dark. No vendors cried their wares, and no spinning wheels whirred. Besides murmured conversations and the occ
asional caw of a crow, the only sounds to disturb the Sunday peace came from approaching parishioners, their wagon wheels crunching the gravel on the roads and, upon reaching the bridge, thundering the loose planks.

  It was too fine a day to rush into the church. Folks dallied outside, shaking hands, inquiring after one another’s farms and relatives. Some loitered by the fence; others strolled across the scruffy grass into the graveyard. Children played on the ground and promptly reversed the positive effects of their Saturday night washings by digging into the flower borders and yanking loose fat worms.

  When at last we shuffled in, most of us had worked out the worst of our fidgets, and the congregation settled down to listen to Pastor Cartwright’s morning-long sermon with good grace.

  Though he kept us on our knees for one too many interminable prayers, we enjoyed some distractions. Mama brought a store of nuts and dried fruits for munching. Mr. Underwood entertained us with his amazing spitting skill, shooting his tobacco juice down the middle aisle, sometimes as far as the altar. Once, the dogs in the neighborhood set up a racket; then, as if led by a singing master, in one accord they started to howl. And halfway through the service, Widow Harrison, who lived behind the church, popped out of her pew to try to capture one of her chickens, which had wandered through the open doorway. Whenever she got close enough to seize it, the hen eluded her with a brawk! and a nervous flapping of wings. The fun came to an end when the bird clumsily flew up and landed on the pulpit. The reverend trapped its legs in a speedily shut Bible.

  Finally we sang the closing hymn, received the benediction, and went outside. We lived too far away to commit our afternoon to the second round of worship. Stretching our stiff muscles and blinking at the noon-high sun, we prepared to leave. I was looking forward to a few hours of rest. But then three things happened to ruin what promised to be a perfectly lovely day.

  First, after climbing into the wagon and sitting back to wait for the rest of my family, I spotted Matthew and immediately noticed something strange in my oldest brother’s demeanor. He detached himself from the crowd by the church doors, looked carefully behind him, and sidled to the end of the fence. Then followed this worrisome sight: Matthew and Isaac Rush deep in conversation. Rush was the worst gamester in Middleton and the man most responsible for arranging the various local gambling parties and blood sports. Mothers, in particular, despised the man. He all too efficiently encouraged their boys to empty their pockets in wasteful plays for money stakes.

  The Winters didn’t have the luxury of a fortune to gamble away, but there was no mistaking the secretive passing of a fat purse that took place between my brother and Mr. Rush. How in heaven’s name had Matthew scraped together such a bundle? Even if he’d set aside a year’s worth of pin money, he never would have saved that much, not unless he’d gotten lucky at the card tables and managed to grow his cash. If that was the case, it was a short-lived luck. The money was gone now.

  After sliding the purse into his coat, Mr. Rush wandered across the street. Then my oldest brother trudged back to the meetinghouse. No one, not even our sister Grace, could have worn a sicklier visage. His skin was pasty white, and his eyes, as soon as they met mine, bulged in alarm. He immediately looked away and veered toward the crowd outside the doors.

  Where this money had come from, how much it amounted to, and why it had left Matthew’s possession were worrisome questions. They made me extremely uneasy. No one but I, however, seemed to have witnessed what had happened. Indeed, Matthew and Mr. Rush had enjoyed almost complete privacy in their exchange. That was because of the second shocker.

  After the service, nearly the entire congregation had flitted toward a carriage to welcome the late-arriving Goodrich family. I had heard about the Goodriches. I knew Mr. Goodrich had inherited the mill and was already stirring Middleton’s curiosity with his plans for improvements. What I hadn’t known was that Mr. Goodrich, besides sporting a single son, had fathered a pack of beautiful daughters. From my wagon perch, I could examine all of them: five elegantly dressed, prettily mannered, fashionably dark-haired, dark-eyed beauties.

  Mr. Long already seemed on very good terms with the oldest. Similarly tall and handsome, they stood facing each other right outside the meetinghouse doorway like a newly married couple. Though I couldn’t discern the particulars of their conversation, they obviously spoke naturally, like good friends. And, every so often, Miss Goodrich’s laughter trilled like a merry bell.

  I sniffed and folded my arms. It was a wonder she found anything to amuse her in Mr. D.U.L.’s conversation. She was probably as foolish as Rachel Welds.

  And that was the third circumstance: Rachel. She had also squeezed her presence into the welcoming crowd, but as she turned away from two of the Goodrich girls, she ran smack into my brother.

  Luke, not Gideon.

  A teasing encounter ensued. Luke joked. Rachel tittered and blushed. Luke joked again. Rachel tittered some more. And directly behind Luke, Gideon stood and seethed.

  Poor Gid. He was a mite short for Rachel to spot behind the beefy Luke and too worshipful by far to engage her in the kind of breezy flirtation Luke was so good at.

  Worst of all was Luke’s expression of intrigue. Rachel had captured his notice. Gideon, standing stiffly behind the bold Luke, was probably recollecting every instance his older brother had wrangled something dear from him: the favorite pup, the favorite piglet, the favorite toy, the favorite treat.

  Stiffly, Gideon turned and stomped to the wagon. Perhaps the sympathy I felt for him was written across my face, because he quickly looked away from me and busied himself by hitching the oxen.

  After climbing into the wagon, he sat heavily, hunched and somber, his eyes downcast, his hands loosely folded. We observed the silence until the crowd began dispersing. I noted with a sensation as sharp as vinegar how charmingly Mr. Long took Miss Goodrich’s hand as they said their good-byes. I supposed he saved his great store of sarcasm just for me.

  Gideon’s sigh interrupted my peevish thoughts. He began talking, softly but earnestly. “I’m tired of wanting things I can’t have, Harry. I need my own place and can almost afford it. I hope you understand why I have to leave.” The entire time he spoke, he stared straight ahead, eyes burning, face rigid.

  I said what I knew he needed to hear. “Yes, Gid, I understand.”

  But I didn’t say what I’d started thinking. Maybe I need the same. Maybe there’s nothing—and no one—here for me, either.

  Maybe I’ll go with you.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Though the idea of joining Gideon had initially sprung like an inspired and viable course of action, it almost as quickly lost its appeal. In fact, I felt ill simply thinking about leaving Middleton. Home became a cherished picture constantly adorning my thoughts. The fact that in this vision, among my family and the rolling, springtime landscape, Mr. Long had also begun to appear …

  Well. That was a development I preferred not to ponder.

  Chores prevented me from dwelling too deeply on this disturbing shift in my sentiments. It was May, and May didn’t wait for humans to exercise their feelings. May could care less about a person’s hopes and fears. May was the season of the plow.

  The month began with a warm spell, and the men spent the first week after that fateful Sunday turning the soil, letting what hid all winter long greet the sun and saturate the air with the scent of earth. The following Monday, they began planting the Indian corn.

  That day, in an hour of rare harmony, Betsy and Grace talked gaily while taking turns at the butter churn. I listened from where I stood over the stew pot. Their conversation made my mouth water, for what they anticipated was true: Mama would contrive some very good things with the results of this planting, from johnnycakes to Indian pudding. Luke, having returned to the house to collect the ax handle he’d left seasoning on the spit hooks, leaned over the girls to add his own personal vision of paradise: “And don’t forget the corn whiskey.”

  By midweek, the
weather took a turn for the worse. Nevertheless, Mama, who wore out the almanac in her efforts to time our planting according to the constellations, put me to work in the kitchen garden. The moon had begun to decrease, and she insisted it was time to commence the radishes.

  “What difference does it make?” The afternoon was wet, yet here I was, planting radishes and looking as mud-caked as a freshly dug root vegetable.

  “Radishes taper downward, dear,” she murmured. She was just as damp as I was and on her knees two rows over, worrying about the progress of her peas and searching their curly tendrils for blight. “You need to plant them downward at the decrease of the moon.”

  A strand of wet hair had plastered itself across my face. I peeled it away and muttered, “Stuff and nonsense.” But I kept digging.

  By the end of the week, the garden was planted. I resumed my inside chores, the ones that kept me busy regardless of the season.

  The men, in contrast, had few consistent labors. Their duties changed according to nature’s whims and schedule, and in May, nature demanded a lot. This was a good thing, particularly for Matthew. As the month progressed, between the cooking, mending, and scrubbing, in the early mornings and the late evenings, I kept an eye on my oldest brother. I hadn’t forgotten what I’d witnessed at the beginning of May. It was a relief the plowing and planting yoked him to the land. He had no time to ride to town, neither to work extra jobs nor to squander his earnings at the card tables with the likes of Isaac Rush.

  That changed toward the end of the month. Most of the planting was done, a worrisome circumstance when it came to Matthew, who started slipping to town again, but a good thing for Gideon, who could now steal away from the farm to improve his savings. I helped. It was pole-wood season, for the trees were vibrant with sap, and their busily spreading bark was easily removed. Gid and I cut long poles from the hickory and white oak saplings in the woodlot’s lowland, then kept most of them soft for splitting and pounding by fixing them under rocks in the rushing stream. Armfuls of splint wood and hoop poles promised a fair bit of money from the town cooper, but we wasted a few of our poles on swordfights. Gid usually managed more hits than I did, but I almost always got my revenge by pushing him into the creek. I would have liked to have devoted more of our time to fun, but he wasn’t as easy to tease into foolery as he’d been in the past. He was on a mission.