The Beloved Wild Page 5

The only place hotter than the roasting fields was the summer kitchen. Betsy and Grace bickered incessantly, and every day I could feel my own mood reaching a boil quicker than the stew. More and more, I looked for ways to escape, and since the men took most of their meals in the fields, bringing them their nooning became my respite from the sweltering house.

  On one such occasion, they didn’t even notice my approach, so focused were they on their haying. Before I could distinguish brother from brother, I could hear their music. The scythes sang notes as the blades cut the thick air.

  I reached the line of windbreakers, stood still in the shade of the first tree, and admired the practiced, graceful ease with which they cradled the field of grass. Papa had hired Robert and Ed Welds to help, and they, along with Gideon, brought up the end of the scythe team.

  I searched for Mr. Long’s broad back, and when I realized he wasn’t part of the line, I immediately felt piqued, rashly concluded he’d squandered a haymaking day by visiting the Goodriches, then became irritated with myself for caring. To shut up my disordered thoughts, I called across the field, “Dinnertime!”

  Papa was the first to turn. His face shimmered with sweat, and when he got to my poplar’s flickering shade, he blew a sigh, pulled off his hat, and swiped his face and head with his sleeve before giving my braid a little tug by way of hello. He accepted the switchel jug and guzzled gratefully. “Ah!” he gasped. “Thanks, kitten.”

  The others joined us. I should have returned to the house and left the men to their nooning, but it was too pleasant idling beside them as they picnicked in the nearby shock of hay. They ate enormous amounts of bread, cheese, and meat and, between bites, joked and tore into one another with grinned insults. Even Gideon seemed at ease.

  I mostly attended to the Welds brothers, who would become my constant companions once we reached the Genesee Valley. At this stage, I couldn’t call them much more than acquaintances, despite their closeness to Gid. The nature of my chores kept me penned up most of the time, and I didn’t enjoy many informal occasions like this one to rub shoulders with the boys. The handful of furtive would-be pioneer meetings hadn’t deepened our friendship. The brothers had resigned themselves to my presence but clearly didn’t like it.

  Now, however, exhausted to the point of garrulousness, they gave me a glimpse of their true selves. And from what I could tell, in many ways they were just as silly as Rachel.

  Robert had a way of responding to my older brothers’ jests with rancor, as though he couldn’t discern mere teasing from genuine offense, and Gideon stepped in to smooth his friend’s ruffled feathers in such an automatic way that I figured he was accustomed to doing so. Ed, meanwhile, gazed blankly around him and was a good five beats behind in his guffaw whenever a joke stirred the team. Sometimes he entered the conversation with a completely aberrant comment or question: “I shouldn’t like switchel if it weren’t for the ginger, unless nutmeg instead of ginger flavored the drink, in which case I’d love it even more, because nutmeg beats all.” “Have you ever heard of mango fruit? How do you suppose a mango tastes?” “Do my boots look purple to you?”

  I experienced a fissure of alarm at the prospect of taming the wilderness with these two, Mr. Hot Temper and Mr. Stupid Gudgeon.

  Then I checked myself. What was I thinking? I wouldn’t be doing the taming. I’d be in the house doing what I always did: cooking, spinning, stitching, washing, cleaning.

  Though the younger men kept up their raillery, Papa grew silent, his eyes on the sky. He abruptly stood. “I’m not liking the looks of those clouds. Best get the hay rolled before the rain can rot it.”

  The others obliged him by hopping to their feet, shouting their thanks to me over their shoulders, and resuming their labor. I took my time packing up what little remained of the food and shoved the field keg deeper into the shade of the tree so the drink would stay cool.

  They’d begun a song. I watched them scythe to the rhythm of their tune. Gideon had told me they sometimes raced, too. They’d work hard and steady, until nightfall or even later if the worrisome clouds held off and the moon could shine.

  I would have liked to learn how to mow, to whet my blade on the grindstone before rushing to best Gideon’s pace, to hear my alto waver alongside Luke’s handsome baritone. My brothers would set me to raking fast enough if Papa would let them.

  But he wouldn’t. He never would.

  I trudged back to the house.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lammas Day arrived, and we celebrated this first of August as we always did, by cramming ourselves into the wagon at dawn and making the journey to meeting. Mama, dignified in her best dress, held wrapped on her lap a beautiful round bread, the first from the new grain. The pastor would consecrate it, and the blessed loaf would become the center of our dinner table later.

  My father looked pleased as he drove us to town, remarking on the sights along the way: the orange tiger lilies fringing the woods, an indigo bunting alighting on a branch in an iridescent flash, and the attractive stone fence Mr. Long and Jeb, his cousin, had built last month to replace the split-rail barrier that had been too short to hold their new horse.

  Papa’s good spirits infected all of us in the rumbling, lurching wagon. The first sheaf of wheat he and the boys had harvested had been a good one. There was reason to be grateful.

  Five hours later, when we finally returned to the farm, Mama spurred the girls and me into a whirl of work. The harvest table would reflect poorly on us if it didn’t offer the plentitude nature had made possible this year. By the time we began delivering steaming bowls and laden platters to the holding boards outside, the Winter men, along with Mr. Long and Jeb, occupied the benches on either side of the main table. When the Weldses arrived, the second table’s benches quickly filled. Mrs. Welds and her girls contributed the sweeter dishes to the feast, and the male company pronounced Rachel’s offering especially remarkable—no contest, the clear favorite.

  What the boys really meant was that Rachel was the clear favorite. It was hard not to roll my eyes at their cajolery and her blushing demur. Her jam cake was good but not remarkable.

  Mama, on her private mission, refused to let the pretty Rachel cast me in the shade. She lost no time in promoting me to our neighbor. “Have you sampled Harriet’s blackberry wine yet, Mr. Long?”

  I snorted. She knew perfectly well he had. She’d poured him his first cup.

  “I’d better try some more.” He smiled at me. “Still experimenting with the spirits, I see.”

  I narrowed my eyes but merely said, “This is from last year’s berry crop.”

  “Tasty. Does the beverage improve with age?”

  “It certainly gets more potent. Drink up, Mr. Long, and we’ll see how well you navigate the maze.”

  Betsy, putting her devious mind to good use, had designed this year’s turf maze and directed our brothers, in accordance to the configuration of her planned paths and openings, to turn up the sod. She called it Betsy’s Bower.

  Not only had Mama not fretted about the foolishness mazes were wont to encourage, but she banked on this foolishness. Ever vigilant, ever hopeful, ever plotting, she offered, “I can send Harriet in with you, so you don’t get lost.”

  “Why, that’s a very good idea.” His smile widened at my expression. “Would you mind guiding me and my befuddled senses, Miss Winter?”

  Why ask me? Is it because Miss Goodrich isn’t here to escort you? “I don’t know that I should.” I took a swig of the blackberry wine. “I’m foxed, you see.”

  Mama shot me a fierce frown. “You are not.”

  He laughed. “Then we’ll just teeter and topple our way through together.”

  This image appealed to my sense of the ridiculous, and a laugh escaped me.

  He must have taken my humored response as acquiescence, because, a few minutes later, while most of the others, stuffed silly, languished at the tables in desultory conversation or, in the children’s cases, lolled on the ground, he stoo
d and eyed me expectantly. “Ready?”

  I rose slowly, nervous and self-conscious. Silently we passed the benches and the children playing in the grass.

  “Watch this, Mr. Long,” Grace called. She knelt by the makeshift table we’d used as a buffet. Almost nothing remained in the serving dishes now, but on one end, the toy farm boy that Mr. Long had made for her tapped his hoe onto a surface board, up and down, again and again, until the weight hanging like a pendulum behind the balancing figure stilled. Grace raised her wondering gaze to her benefactor and announced reverently, “I love it.”

  “I’m glad.” To me, he said, “I’ve been wondering what other versions of this toy I might make. Maybe a washwoman slapping a shirt against a rock?”

  “Or a boy with a fishing pole,” Grace suggested.

  Mr. Long nodded. “Or a man bobbing on a horse.”

  “How about a person digging a grave?” I asked.

  Grace wrinkled her nose, but Mr. Long grinned. “Morbid. I like it.”

  We wandered toward the old hayfield Papa had agreed to let us spoil for the sake of the maze. Across the land, harvest stacks gleamed like little circular thatch-roofed houses. Cicadas buzzed in the trees behind us. The family’s and friends’ voices softened into another kind of buzz. By the time we reached the maze, we were quite alone.

  Feeling stupidly flustered, I stole a peek at my companion. Something about his profile jarred me. A moment passed before I realized precisely what it was. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he also looked very young. Daniel Long so capably handled his farm that I often forgot he was only two years older than me.

  I was mulling over this fact when he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Miss Winter, and I’m glad we have a moment alone, so I can do so.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  Did this mean what I thought it meant? Heaven help me, what was I to do? Say? Think? Heat stole into my face. I threw a desperate look around us and burst out with, “Yes, well, here we are, Betsy’s Bower, and if we’re going to find our way through it, we’d best get started, because my sister has enough wit to make this thing a challenge. You can see we take our mazes seriously here. No mere sheaves of wheat scattered across the grass for us. Oh no, we dig up an entire field. Betsy says the puzzle covers at least a mile of twists and turns, and after that meal I just inhaled, I’m feeling ready for some activity, so let’s not tarry. Shall we? Ah! Here’s the labyrinth’s opening. Watch your feet. If you trip over a clump of sod, rescue won’t be easy, and I’ll be hard-pressed to carry you on my back. Ha-ha-ha-ha…”

  Mr. Long listened to my maniacal chatter with a bemused expression. When my false laugh petered out (much in the same way the mechanical toy’s hoe had stuttered to a standstill), he began leading the way through the maze and said over his shoulder, “I was wondering if—”

  No, no! I wasn’t ready! I hadn’t decided! Absolutely certain the moment of truth had arrived, the critical moment that Mama, with her tricks and ploys, dash it all, had done her upmost to hasten, I interrupted wildly, “Did you know the Puritans banned all maze games by law? How sad to have to acknowledge our ancestors. What dead bores they must have been, praying morning, noon, and night, only breaking the monotony with hard work and the occasional witch hanging. Oh, those prosy Puritans! Makes me sick, just thinking about them, preaching left and right, never giving anyone any peace but thrusting their judgments down everyone’s throat.”

  “Harriet?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you please shut up? You’re rattling on so, I can’t think which way to turn.”

  We’d worked ourselves into a corner with no exit. In my prattling panic, I’d not only failed to exercise the least bit of strategy in solving the maze’s route, I’d also afforded Mr. Long the very privacy I should have been preventing. “Sorry.” I gulped, closed my eyes, and took a few steadying breaths through my mouth. “Go ahead.” I steeled myself for the marriage proposal, my mind spinning in a state of electrified indecision.

  He didn’t say anything.

  I opened my eyes.

  He wasn’t even looking at me. His head was cocked, and he wore a frown of concentration. He put his finger to his mouth.

  And then I heard it: a rustle. Not the slither of a snake, not the frisking of a squirrel, not the flutter of a bird, but the sounds of a bothersome Betsy shuffling behind a haystack, her ears undoubtedly pricked.

  The little sneak.

  Loud and clear, I said, “I’m glad you let me bring you here, Mr. Long, because what I have to say isn’t the sort of thing Mama and Papa will want to hear. The truth is, I’m concerned about Betsy.” I winked.

  He grinned. “Ah, yes, Betsy. She’s something else.”

  “It’s not just her inquisitiveness that worries me. Sure, everyone knows her for being the most obnoxious, horrid, tedious Nosy Nelly in all of Middleton.” I heard a gasp a few yards away and had to swallow my chuckle. “That’s nothing new. What really troubles me is the peculiar fanaticism I perceive in her prying tendencies, the crazy glitter that lights her eyes. Let me be frank, Mr. Long. Her curiosity has become a sickness. In short, I’m convinced Betsy is utterly deranged. Mad, through and through. And I can think of no easy way to disclose her madness to our parents without breaking their poor hearts.”

  A growl had replaced the gasp, and as Betsy made her outraged exit from her secret lair, I called after her stomping figure, “Let this be a lesson to you, Busybody Betsy!” To Mr. Long, I laughed. “Wait until she gets to my mother, starts tattling, and ends up admitting to the eavesdropping. Getting caught in her own snare. Good. She’ll give proof to my insults, and I hope Mama boxes her ears for the offense.”

  “‘Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.’”

  “Hamlet.” I stared at him, impressed. “Do you read a great deal?”

  “And whittle.” He smiled. “They’re pleasant ways to pass the quieter months.” His expression turned serious. “I’m afraid you might accuse me of being as tedious as Betsy or the Bard’s spying Polonius with what I want to ask you.”

  I gazed at him mutely. This didn’t sound like the beginning of a proposal. Wasn’t he supposed to fall on his knee and spout avowals of love and other such flummery? “What do you mean?”

  He tapped a boot against a clod and folded his arms. “It just seems as though the Winters, my longtime friends and neighbors, are lately all torn up with secrets. There’s Gideon, and now you and Gideon, whispering with the Welds brothers whenever you get the chance to tiptoe off together. Then there’s Matthew…”

  I shoved aside the first half of his observations, more concerned with the second. “What about Matthew?” He hesitated, so I offered, “Some weeks ago, I caught him handing over a fat purse to a ne’er-do-well.”

  “Isaac Rush.”

  I nodded. “Matthew’s not in more trouble, is he?” My oldest brother seemed normal enough lately. I’d been hoping he had gone back to his former self—not that I particularly liked that self, as frequently intoxicated and rude as it was, but it beat a Matthew who gambled for high stakes.

  He gave his head a shake, as if banishing a dark thought. “What about you? Gideon and the Welds boys are concocting a scheme, that’s obvious, and whatever it is, it’s got the three of them distracted. Now you’ve joined the fuss.” A small frown creased his brow. “Do you want to tell me about it? May I help in any way?”

  I bit my lip. Whether he thought to offer for me or not (perhaps saving his tender words for the fancier Miss Goodrich), Mr. Long had been a good and constant neighbor—to be honest, at times more than that. He deserved a warning of my impending departure, but how could I disclose it when Gid and I hadn’t told our parents, when I hadn’t even come to terms with leaving? “I can’t speak of it,” I finally said. “It’s not my secret to tell.” At least not mine alone.

  He nodded slowly. “Just so you know, you can come to me if you need anything. I count you one of my close
st friends.” Surprise must have shown in my face, for he smiled, turned, and began to lead us through the maze again. “It’s all well and good to be Mr. Steady and Respectable around here, directing my cousin Jeb in the ways of running a farm, but the role gets tedious. Frankly, it wearies me. Sometimes I feel like I never got my fair share of childhood. I went from playing hoop wars in straightaway races with Luke to figuring out how to fix the well sweep. There are days I loathe my dull duties.” Over his shoulder, he gave me a lopsided smile. “Despite my initials implying otherwise.”

  I had the grace to blush.

  “Anyway, when everyone else treats me like a stern stick-in-the-mud, you never stand on ceremony with me. You make me laugh and don’t hold back on the teasing.” After a pause, he coughed and said gruffly, “I want you to know I appreciate your friendship.”

  This admission, not at all the proposal I’d expected but somehow more endearing and wrenching, left me speechless. I finally stammered, “I—I thank you, Mr. Long. You’re, well, a friend to me, too.” As soon as I said the words, I realized their truth and, more comfortable, confided, “To speak plainly, I always do look forward to devising new ways to tease you.”

  He laughed. “You’re very good at that.”

  We managed the rest of the maze in a comfortable silence. Nothing was obviously different. I wasn’t Miss Harriet Winter, soon-to-be Mrs. Daniel Long. Nor was I Miss Harriet Winter, the confirmed spinster who’d squandered her chance to be mistress of her own home. I hadn’t told him about my pioneering ambitions, and he hadn’t disclosed the specifics on what he knew about Matthew’s plight.

  But when we found the exit to Betsy’s Bower and walked back to the party, with the evening sun looking as heavy as a ripe peach in the sky and the fields awash in warm light and our two lengthened shadows side by side, I felt a change in us, a change between us: a sweetening.

  It was a change that required consideration.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next weeks passed in a blur of harvesting and pickling, storing and drying. I saw very little of my brothers, even less of Mr. Long. And if I’d packed fat onto my skinny bones from the Lammas feast, I completely lost it again by shooting up and down the cellar ladder hundreds of times. Hauling and preparing food, then shelving it in the dim coolness of the underground pantry, was the pattern that filled my days.