A Buss from Lafayette (7 page)

For a moment, I reflected bitterly that I was never allowed to take the reins. Father said I was not strong enough, but I suspected it was also because my stepmother thought it was not a ladylike occupation. In all fairness, however, I had to admit that my real mother had discouraged me from driving, too.

Joss picked up his basket, which was but half full. “See you later, Clarie.” With a jaunty farewell salute that filled me with fury, he strolled toward the springhouse, pulling his shirt out of his breeches as he went.

I watched him go, then turned resignedly back to the strawberry row, grabbed the next few strawberries and threw them into the basket. “It is just not fair!” I exclaimed aloud. “If he has earned a swim in the pond, so have I, no matter what Prissy says!”

With the notion of a cool dip filling my head, I finished the last row of berries in record time and
carried the last two baskets to the springhouse. Once inside the dark interior of the small stone structure, I paused to take a few breaths of cool air. It was deliciously freshened by the cold spring water that poured out of the ground near the back and flowed to the outside through a brick-lined channel on one side.

I carefully poured the last two loads of strawberries into the bushel baskets on the ledges that lined the walls inside. Then I walked outside to the clothesline, where I spotted a large linen towel hanging in the sun.

Glancing at the house to make sure Prissy was not looking out the window, I grabbed the towel and ran to where the short path to the pond went into the woods.

Before reaching the pond, I stopped behind some bushes to remove my wide-brimmed straw bonnet, my faded blue dress, and my well-worn pantalettes, leaving only the white cotton chemise that reached to my knees. As I pinned my braids up on top of my head so they would not get wet, I could hear Joss splashing about in the water. Without further ceremony, I raced around the bushes, threw down the towel, and jumped into the pond.

Although the cool water was heaven, I carefully kept my head above the surface. Wet hair would definitely tell a tale on me! After Prissy had expressly forbidden me from swimming in the pond, there
could be trouble galore if she spotted evidence that I had done so anyway.

Joss, on the other hand, had no such worries. He dove deeply into the pond, and then pushed himself off the bottom so he surged out of the water. When he surfaced, he spouted a mouthful of water in my direction. I thought he looked remarkably like one of the whales I had seen off the New Hampshire seacoast when I had gone to Portsmouth with Father as a child.

“Hey! I thought you were not supposed to come in here any more,” Joss called out.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said, swimming toward him with a cautious sidestroke. “But maybe you were supposed to help me finish picking all the strawberries.”

“Well, then, maybe you will not mind a little splashing.” Joss started aiming huge sheets of water at me, drenching every single hair on my head.

I could feel my plaits come unpinned and slither down my back. Figuring my hair could not get any wetter than it was already, I returned my brother’s splashes with gusto. I had learned early how to create a large plash of water, even with small hands. Joss had taught me, actually.

I was so engrossed that I did not notice the arrival of a witness to our battle, until one of my biggest splashes reached all the way to the edge of the pond.

“Hey! Watch it! You got me all wet! And Father made me wear my best clothes to come out here!”

I whirled around to see who the new arrival was, then abruptly sank back into the water up to my neck.

C
HAPTER 11

Dickon Weeks was standing on the bank, and yes, he did look far more dressed up than when I had seen him last, with a fine white linen shirt, a black silk cravat, and dark blue pantaloons. All his clothes were soaked, and water was dripping off his chin. Despite my embarrassment at being caught swimming in my underwear, however, I could not help grinning at the sight.

Bulls-eye
, I thought, but all I said was, “Dickon, what are
you
doing here?”

“My mother sent us out here with supper for your family. She knows how awful it is for Mrs. Hargraves to be so near her . . . er . . . confinement in all this heat. So my father and I brought baskets of food, and Mrs. Hargraves asked us to stay and eat with you. She sent me to find you two. Said you would be in the strawberry patch, but here you are. Here you
both
are.” He grinned back at me. “Hey! I thought you said you were not allowed to swim in the pond anymore.”

“I have been in the berry patch all day!” I exclaimed.
“For the last ten hours at least, so I deserve a swim.”

“Well, then, I will join you.” Dickon untied his cravat, peeled off his shirt, and kicked off his shoes. “Would you mind turning your back, Clara? We are not children any longer, you know.”

I rolled my eyes, but turned away until I heard the splash as Dickon dove into the pond. He soon came up right in front of me. I was happy to see that he had at least kept his knee-length linen drawers on, although I seriously doubted my stepmother would consider this to be “seemly.”

“Ten hours in the strawberry patch,” Dickon said. “Well, I guess that would explain it, then.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “Explain what, exactly?”

“Why your face is even redder than your hair,” Dickon said. “And you splash like a boy.”

“No, I splash
at
a boy!” As I said this, I aimed the biggest splashes I could manage at Dickon, who splashed right back at me. Joss joined in with renewed enthusiasm.

After a while, we all stopped splashing and floated on our backs in the water.

Dickon asked, “So, is your pretty cousin coming to the dance at Perkins Tavern, Joss? I heard that you danced with her quite a lot at the last one.”

These surprising words caused me to stop moving
my arms and legs. I quickly sank beneath the surface of the pond and inhaled a bit of water. As I stood up, spluttering, my mind was racing.
How on earth does Dickon know about Hetty?
I thought.
Maybe he met her at one of those dances I never went to.
For some reason, this did not seem like good news.

My thoughts were interrupted by my brother’s answer. “I have no idea if Hetty is coming or not. She lives in Derry, and that’s quite a long way to come for a dance.”

“Well, unlike
some
I could mention, I have heard that she apparently
does
like to dance,” Dickon said, with an odd glance in my general direction. “Is she a ‘pumpkin head’ like Clara? I have never met her before.”

That was good news.

“Oh no, she has very pretty black hair. She does not look
at all
like Clara,” Joss exclaimed. “She’s a real beauty. Not to mention that she is much better-natured and not at all impudent like my sister. Why, she . . .”

Before I could take exception to Joss’s words, Prissy’s distant voice came from the house. “Clara! Come in and help me set the table. We have guests! Clara? Where are you, girl?”

“In the springhouse, ma’am! I shall be there in a minute to help.”

Joss looked at Dickon, and both boys guffawed.

“You are
such
a liar!” Joss said, with a final splash at me.

“Especially shocking for a young
lady
to tell untruths!” Dickon added.

“And I suppose you two are gentlemen?” I retorted. “I have heard both of you fib when it suited you.”

“Rules are different for gentlemen.”

“They certainly are. Now, it is
your
turn to turn your back, Master Weeks. You, too, Joss. I must get to the house before Prissy comes out to look for me.”

The two boys kept laughing, but obediently turned to face the other side of the pond.

I scrambled up the muddy bank, wrapped the towel around myself, and scuttled behind the bushes. There I swiftly pulled on my pantalettes, slid my dress on over my sodden chemise, and jammed my wet pigtails up under my bonnet.

I ran towards the house, hoping that my stepmother was too occupied with Dickon’s father to be keeping an eye out for me.

C
HAPTER 12

I darted inside the house and started to sneak up the stairs to change my clothes before Prissy spotted me. When I was only halfway up, however, she called to me from the bottom of the stairs, with Dickon’s father, Major William Weeks, just behind her.

Major Weeks was much older than my own father, as Dickon was nearly at the tail end of the major’s string of thirteen children. Still, he was of fine address and quite handsome for a man of his age. It occurred to me that Dickon looked very much like his father, except for the white hair, of course. He certainly matched him in height.

Prissy took one look at me and exclaimed, “My goodness, Clara! However did your hair get so wet? It’s dripping right down from your bonnet.”

“Picking strawberries on such a hot day is sweaty business, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

She glanced at the major, then turned back to me. “Young ladies do not
sweat
, Clara,” she said primly. “When they are in a state of inelegance, young ladies are said to
glow
.”

“Well, this inelegance dripped off my face all day, ma’am. In the berry patch.”

It occurred to me that this was actually the truth: she did not need to know that pond water was dripping off my face at the current moment, not sweat.

Major Weeks chuckled. “It
was
a very hot day to be laboring outside, Mrs. Hargraves. I think even elegant young ladies are allowed a bit of . . . glowing on days like these.”

“You may go and change for supper, Daughter,” my father’s wife said, her look still disapproving. “Please put on your Sunday dress, as we have company. Major Weeks and his son, Richard, have driven all the way from the other side of town to bring us our supper. A most thoughtful gesture on the part of Mrs. Weeks, to be sure.”

Before I climbed one more step, the front door opposite the bottom of the stairway opened and Father leaned in.

“I need a little help unloading the wagon. Where’s Joss?” he said.

“In the pond . . . um . . . I think,” I answered. “He said he was going for a swim.”

“Doubtless Dickon is with him. I will fetch them, then we can all give you a hand, Samuel,” Major Weeks said and went out the door.

Father patted his jacket, then pulled a folded piece
of paper from his pocket. “I nearly forgot, Clarie. I have a letter for you. Picked it up in the village. I think it is from Hetty.” He climbed the stairs to hand me the letter.

“Oh, goody. She probably just wants to boast about all her new admirers. That is what she usually writes about.” I looked at the letter as if it were a particularly large and repulsive spider—or a particularly large black fly—then I warily carried it up to my bedroom.

Once there, I threw myself onto my bed’s blue-flowered coverlet that Mother had lovingly made for me. Trying to gather my patience, I gazed up at the matching canopy with a heavy sigh. Then I tore open the letter from “Dread Cousin Hetty.”

I shook my head in disgust. Only my vain cousin would dwell on her fashionable dress instead of the historical figure she was about to meet.