Colonial Madness (7 page)

“I didn't know colonial men wore bracelets,” I said, wiping my hands on my dress.

“A few did,” said Caleb. “But this is more a family pride thing.” He held the bracelet out for my inspection. It was a piece of black braided leather with a strip of copper attached in the middle. The initials
PR
were stamped in the copper.

“This reminds me of my dad,” I said, touching the outline. I explained about his flattened-coin collection. “What do the initials stand for?”

“Paul Revere,” said Caleb. “He's one of my ancestors.”

“Paul Revere?” I gawked at him. “
The
Paul Revere? As in ‘The British are coming!'?”

“So you've heard of him,” said Caleb with a grin. “Most girls aren't impressed by that.”

I made a face. “Well, I think we established I'm a bit of a nerd, so . . .”

“I like it,” said Caleb.

“Oh.” My cheeks warmed. “Cool. So . . . uh . . . where did you get the bracelet?”

“I made it,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “If you want, I can show you, and you can make one with your dad's initials.”

A broad smile crossed my face. “I'd love that.”

Caleb smiled back. “Great!” he said. “Can you meet me here after supper, or will you be busy?”

“It's the imaginary 1600s,” I said. “What would I be busy doing?”

“I don't know.” Caleb scratched his head and grinned. “That fire took an
awful
lot of your time.”

“Hey!” I playfully pushed him.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Since it won't take you
any
time at all to start a fire, I'll expect to see you here after the canary pudding.”

I made a face. “And I will be here
before
the canary pudding.”

Caleb laughed. “It's made with lemons, not birds. I promise.”

Eli whistled for all of us to gather around to learn a new skill, but I was only half listening. I wasn't sure what made me more nervous . . . canary pudding or a kind-of, maybe date with Caleb.

“Because that's what it is, right? A date?” I asked Mom later. We were up in our room, sprawled across the bed as comfortably as our gowns would allow. I'd just filled her in on my conversation with Caleb.

“I'm not sure,” she said with a frown. “I've never dated a colonial gentleman. I guess it depends on if he offers you a bouquet of corn and polishes his shoe buckles.”

I rolled my eyes. “He didn't ask Angel as far as I know, so it might be a date.
But
it could just be because I admired his bracelet.”

Mom patted my leg. “Yes, honey, that's it. He's interested in you because you have the same taste in jewelry.”

I propped myself up on my elbows. “So it
is
a date.”

Mom groaned and rubbed her temples. “Does it really matter?”

“I need to know. How I act will depend on whether or not we're just friends or something more.”

“Why don't you quit worrying so much and just enjoy it?” asked Mom. “Live for the moment.”

“Says the woman who freaked when Funk saw her in a bathrobe.”

Mom popped me across the face with a pillow.

“You're lucky I can barely move in this dress or I'd get you back,” I said. “I think my sweat made it extra starchy.”

She leaned toward me and wrinkled her nose. “It made it extra
something
,
anyway.”

“What?” I ducked my head into an armpit. “Whoa!”

In the ripeness category, I could definitely give Dylan a run for his money.

“I need deodorant,” I said, getting off the bed and heading for the bathroom door.

“Um . . . Tori? Slight problem!” Mom called after me.

I stopped halfway and whirled to face her. “We don't
have
deodorant!” I gasped. “And I have to meet Caleb after canary pudding!”

Mom frowned. “I've been meaning to ask you about that. Do the canaries
make
the pudding, or . . .”

I grabbed Mom by the shoulders. “Focus! What do I do?”

“Take a shower and try to not lift your arms,” she said.

I turned my back to her. “Here. Untie me so I can wash off this stink.”

Mom helped me out of the dress, and I made a beeline for the bathroom. Inside was a large copper tub. And no plumbing attached.

“Looks like you have to smell worse before you can smell better,” said Mom, picking up an empty bucket and holding it out.

I sighed. “Forget it. I saw some roses on the nightstand. I'll just rub them under my arms.”

“Or maybe you could give Caleb a bloody nose,” said Mom. “That'll keep him stopped up for days.”

“You do realize I will never take any of these ‘brilliant' ideas of yours seriously?” I asked.

“You took graveyard hide-and-seek seriously,” said Mom. “And if I recall, you enjoyed it.”

She had me there.

“At least now I get why colonial women always walked around with bunches of flowers,” I said, selecting a few roses from the vase. “So they could bury their noses and avoid the stink of civilization.”

I swiped a few handfuls of petals under my arms and turned to see Mom doing lunges.

“
What
are you up to?” I asked. “Nobody can see your legs in that dress.”

“Well,” said Mom, huffing with each drop, “I figured that if I sweat like crazy and maximize
my
BO, you'll smell better by comparison.”

I smiled at her. “Awww. Really? That's disgusting but sweet!”

Mom winked at me and breathed deep. Then she coughed. “Yep. I'd say I'm almost there.”

Ten minutes later, we joined everyone for dinner, smelling
of roses and rankness. If anyone noticed, they were polite enough not to say anything, although Angel's nostrils twitched when I sat beside her.

“Be honest,” I whispered. “Do I stink?”

Angel reached for a plate of grilled leeks. “Not if I don't breathe.”

“Perfect.” I pressed my arms against my sides. “Would you mind passing the ham?”

“You want me, a vegan, to hand you a platter of chopped-up pig?” she asked.

“Or I could reach across you and get it myself,” I said, lifting my arms.

Angel jumped into action and even slid several slices of ham onto my plate.

“Anything else?” she asked. “Some more pigeon, perhaps?”

I gave her a withering look. “Just some vegetables, thanks.”

She scooped them onto my plate, and I did my best to eat with my arms tucked against my chest.

“You look like a
Tyrannosaurus rex
,” she said. “And you don't actually smell
that
bad. Not compared to your mom anyway.”

I snickered. “The things she does for love.”

“What?” Angel leaned back in her chair and looked around. “Funk is here?”

“No!
Me
.” I explained about Caleb, and Angel batted her eyelashes and pursed her lips.

“So sweet. But since he's from colonial times, is your mom okay with you dating a 340-year-old?”

“Ha!” I pointed at her. “So it
is
a date!”

“Sounds like it to me,” said Angel. “I wasn't invited, and I smell
way
better than you.”

“That settles it.” I scarfed down my ham and left my vegetables behind. “I have
got
to take a bath.”

“Good luck. There's no running water,” said Angel.

“No,” I said. “But there
is
some water in the kitchen that someone set aside for coffee.”

I checked to make sure everyone was still engaged in dinner, then crept into the kitchen. Several pails of water sat next to the open hearth, waiting to be boiled. Surely nobody would miss
one
.

I hoisted a pail in one hand and grabbed a scrap of soap from a shelf of cleaning supplies. Then I snuck through a side door and up the stairs to the bathroom. It was the coldest, quickest bath I'd ever had, and the soap wasn't exactly supermarket quality, but it took away the stench.

The clothes were another matter.

Luckily, in the wardrobe was one more dress each for Mom
and me. I had a feeling it was supposed to wait until next week, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

I ran my fingers through my hair and checked my reflection in a mirror before creeping back downstairs. From the looks of things, everyone was finishing dessert, and the place at the table where Caleb sat was empty. My heart beat a little faster as I brushed past Mom and squeezed her shoulder before heading outside.

Caleb was standing next to the water pump and smiled when he saw me. I returned his smile and walked a little faster.

“You came!” he said. “We were wondering what happened to you.”

“We?” I stopped in my tracks as Dylan stepped out of the shadows beside Caleb.

Nope. This was definitely
not
a date.

F
amily fun time,” I said with a forced smile. “Neat.”

Caleb cringed and shrugged. “Your cousin heard us talking, and apparently he's really into making things with his hands.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please. The only thing he's ever made with his hands is a fart trap.”

“Any guesses about the catch of the day?” asked Dylan, holding out his cupped palm.

Caleb wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “Let's just head to the craft hut.”

He led the way to a tiny shack I hadn't noticed on the
opposite side of the manor. Outside it was planked wood, but the walls inside were a mix of woven wicker and cement.

“Wattle and daub,” Caleb corrected me when I mentioned it. “The wattle is the wood strips woven together, and the daub is the filler.”

I scratched at it with a fingernail. “Mud?”

“And horse droppings.”

My hand snapped back.

Caleb grinned, watching me wipe my fingers on my dress. “I probably shouldn't tell you what you'll be starting most fires with. And that is where the magic happens.”

He nodded to a glowing coal pit against one wall, and I realized just how warm it was in the room. Several deep clangs sounded beside us, and we spun around. Dylan had picked up a hammer and was striking a row of hanging metal discs, one after the other.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Dylan the Destroyer on drums!” he shouted to an imaginary crowd.

“Don't!” Caleb snatched the hammer away. “Nobody's going to buy those plates if they're warped.”

“Nobody's going to buy them anyway,” said Dylan, pulling one off its hook. “They're too dirty to eat off of.”

“They're not for holding food,” said Caleb. “They're decorative.”

“Really?” Dylan held the plate up to the light. “Who would decorate with this? A blind guy?”

This time, I snatched away what was in his hands. “Obviously, it's not finished yet.” I turned to Caleb. “Is it?”

He shook his head, then blushed. “But if you want, I can show you what I'm working on.”

I smiled. “Sure!”

“I'll pass,” said Dylan. “When can I make my armor?”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “We're making bracelets, Dylan.”

“Bracelets are for wusses.” Dylan picked up a knobbed handle with a sharp needle attached. “What's this?”

“An awl,” said Caleb. “It's used for punching leather.”

“And maybe people?” Dylan turned toward me and reeled back the fist clutching the awl. I smacked him in the face with the metal plate.

“Owww!” he cried, dropping the awl and rubbing his nose.

I handed the plate over to Caleb. “Warped metal meets warped cousin.”

He examined the disc. “Actually, other than the greasy face print, it looks okay.”

“I think my nose is broken!” said Dylan.

“You weren't using it for anything besides a finger warmer anyway,” I said, but inspected his face. “You're fine.”
Then I turned to Caleb. “So, what are you working on?”

He grabbed a sketchbook off a worktable and showed me the contents. “Family crests.”

“These are awesome!” I said, flipping the pages. “And you can do this on metal?”

“Of course,” he said. “Watch.”

Caleb approached the fire pit and reached to one side, picking up a bellows and pointing the nozzle at the coals. With a few squeezes, he managed to shoot enough air onto the coals to reignite a small flame.

“All right!” said Dylan. “Armor time!”

Caleb fished a scrap of metal out of his pocket and tossed it to Dylan. “Here's what you have to work with. Maybe you can make a pinky shield.”

He fished another scrap of metal out of his pocket and placed it between two tongs.

“Before we can engrave anything on the metal, we have to flatten it,” he told me, pushing the tongs directly into the coals. “And before we can flatten it, we have to heat the metal to a bending point.”