My Name is Resolute (47 page)

When an hour had passed, I rinsed the cloth and laid it upon a rope Cullah had strung from the wall to a tree. When it had dried I laid it upon my table and took the one thing yet unused and clean, a fifth new trencher Cullah had left me, and put it upon the cloth, then drew around it, making circles. On each circle I drew a leaf on the left with a posy by it, and then with a spoon for a straight line, I made dots where I would put flowers and leaves. When I sat to embroider I decided that this would be a very fine cloth, and perhaps I would take it to Johanna the dressmaker myself, not sell it to Barnabus. I mixed threads to create subtlety of color that pleased my own eye, all the while thinking that if it pleased only me I should be out the cost and labor of creating expensive fabric. If others found it to their liking, I would charge more than I had ever asked before, for I intended to embroider every yard—all thirty—so that any lady could have the largest farthingale on this continent and still make use of it.

When my back ached so that I felt I needed to move or be forever frozen in place, I cleaned out Goody’s house, aired the blankets, and washed everything else. I stored candles, candleholders, and a little mirror, her leech book of herbs and poultices, most of which was writ in some tongue I could not read, in a rough chest. I made sure to be finished there before the sun began its descent, for I had no love of the shadows that haunted the place. If my house was really the place where she had burned her babe to death, it had no feel of it. It was Goody’s own hearth that caused me to shudder upon opening the door. I was only too glad to close it and place the largest log I could move against it, wedging it into the mud to hold it closed.

That evening I sat before my hearth stirring apples and molasses with some Indian flour into a hasty pudding. A drop bubbled and popped upon my hand but landed where calluses had toughened the skin and I licked the sweet pudding without pain. Though it was November, there had been no snow, no storms. As I thought that, tears welled and spilled down my face. Loneliness echoed in the empty house.

Then and there I made up my mind that in the morning I would pack my things and go to Boston, find the first ship heading south and get aboard. With calm weather, there had to be someone headed south. I remembered Jamaica. I saw my mother killed and all these years I believed the lie I had told myself. I sat at my flax wheel and pushed the treadle. The familiar whishing that had kept me afloat all these weeks now seemed accursed. Goody Carnegie’s words rang in my memories, too, of what I would do if I got to Jamaica and found nothing the same. How adrift I might be there, worse than here where I at least knew how to make do.

“Why does not Cullah return?” I said aloud. I felt more alone than at any time yet. I wanted him to come and build something. To hammer away all day. To tell me his strange stories in the evenings by the light of this fire. To kiss me. Did I love him? A woodsman? How could I love a simple woodsman? I had loved before. Always it was simply the first or closest or only single fellow in my acquaintance. I ate my supper alone and closed my door and windows for the night. Was love but a feature of vicinity? Perhaps if I stayed onboard a pirate ship I would love a pirate. If I lived in a castle, a prince.

Suddenly Wallace’s face loomed in my imagination. How sorry I might have been, though crushed by his rejection, to have married him and learned only later of his unspoken scorn for me. How thankful I was not to be yoked with such a mate as he. Yet, just thinking of Wallace made warmth come to my face, my lips. Thinking of Cullah only brought me a storm of emotion, like a gale with no direction, this way then that, turning, changing, loving and longing—and fear.

As I lay abed, I decided I would
not
find a ship on the morrow. Instead, I would make inquiries. I would find out more about the two MacLammond men, before I lost my heart to one of them. Perhaps I was not in danger of losing it at all, but simply wanted to stretch my legs and go abroad in the town, something besides being shut inside spinning and weaving the day through. That was not uncommon, was it? La. Was I lying to myself again? If I was so practiced at deception that I was the person most deceived by my own lies, how could my heart ever be trusted?

It was a fair walk to Concord but I got there in less than two hours. At the first store of trade to which I came, I asked whether MacLammond the woodsman came there. The answer was no, but not just no. The storekeeper had naught but evil to say about the MacLammond men. I asked at another but that man had no knowledge of them at all. Then I found a church by a well. The bucket was empty so I lowered it and drew from the dipper a cool drink. Then I went inside, meaning to rest. The vestibule held a bench for just such a purpose and, opposite it, a board papered with notices. I sat on the bench. My eyes had barely gotten used to the darkened interior, when I saw the letters
AT
on a small paper. I held my breath while I stood and raised the more current notice. A soft moan escaped my lips.

August Talbot here this day, 9th July, 1736. Made inquiries to the Whereabouts of his Sisters, the misses Talbot of Meager Bay, Jamaican West Indies.

I went to a door in the far end of the building and rapped at it. An old parson opened, saw me, and quickly donned his wide-brimmed hat. I called out, excitedly, “Father? I mean to say, sir? Tell me, quickly, what know you of this note?”

“Pardon, Miss?”

“Do you remember the man who left this?” I handed him the note.

“No. People come, of course, all hours. The door is always open. Being at the crossroads, naturally, some of those are years old. I wanted them to move the board outside but people said then the rain washes all the messages away.”

“Well, it would.”

“Yes, I suppose. Who was it you were looking for?”

“The man who wrote this note.”

“What’s he look like?”

“I, I know not. He was but a boy when he went to sea. Did you see him? Did you see who left this?”

“Sailors sometimes come here looking for people. They all look alike, sailors. Put on it how to find you and pin it back up.”

He offered me a quill, so I wrote,
“Take the bridge to Lexington and go through the town. Ask for the Carnegie house. I shall wait for you. RCET.”
Then I asked him, “Reverend sir, may I ask whether you know of a man named Jacob MacLammond, or his son Ea—that is, Cullah?”

The man squinted as if weighing his words. “Have you a message for them, too?”

“No. I am inquiring of their character. They were recommended to me by Lady Spencer of Boston.” I searched for a quick lie. “My auntie with whom I lived has died. I have heard they do woodworking and turnings and I have need of such. Of course I must be careful who I let into my house.”

“Did the person you heard this from tell you what to say? I’d pay attention to them, if I were you.”

“To say, sir?” It was my turn to squint. Was he asking me for some secret word? Some key that would tell him I could be trusted? “I know only that they came once from Scotland and choose now to live here. I need them to, well, build a chest. A chest with shelves.” I steeled my face but felt as if the falsehood shone brightly.

The parson folded his arms, used his thumb and drew a small cross on his sleeve.

I smiled and said, “Reverend sir, men fight their wars and carry their causes. I am not looking to pass along any messages or codes, I am simply looking for a man to build a linen press. You do understand?”

“I do indeed. Jacob and Cullah MacLammond can be found at the end of the lane there. Where you see the two stores and a sign with the raven, turn to the right and go down three more doors. It’s noisy. A woodsmith’s shop is hard to miss.”

“Thank you, sir.” I started out the door and turned. “Can you tell me why the proprietor at the place on this road, that way”—I pointed—“thought so little of them that he all but cursed them to my face?”

The parson made a face that was more a grimace than a smile. He whispered, “Every just cause begins in the midst of those who thwart liberty and justice.” Then he nodded, not as one agreeing with his own statement, but purposefully as if to convey more than his words. “The man you spoke to is a loyal British citizen. Yet, I knew him in Scotland by another name, as did your woodsmen. He’s determined to rid himself of his old acquaintances and prove his new loyalty. Sometimes associations can result in a misfortunate stretching of the neck.”

“Indeed.” I was not sure precisely what he meant, but I would question no further. “Good day, sir, and I thank you.”

“I say. This sailor you wish to know about, he is someone you trust? If he returns, give me some question to ask, the answer which only he will know.”

If the man wanted secret words for everyone, so be it. I would know August when I saw him, I felt sure. “Ask him the name of his wee sister’s friend. If he answers Allsy, it is he. Good day, then,” I said, and I made my way toward the MacLammond woodshop.

I knew I needed a linen press. I still had no idea what I would do on again seeing Cullah. He was not my kind. He was strong and hearty yet not honest, for both the MacLammonds’ lives were cloaked in lies. As was mine, I supposed. He rescued me, that was true, but gruesomely. Oh, la. What had I to do with a man like that?

At the shop, wood shavings spilled into the street freely. A sign scratched on a plank with charcoal warned all passers that to enter the shop when hearing any machinery was dangerous. A system of moving pulleys and ropes hung from high overhead, a fire burned in a stone cairn near the door, and a shrieking, grinding sound came from somewhere behind the two double chests and a dusty settle on display at the front. I stepped behind those and held a linen handkerchief to my face to relieve the sawdust. In the back I saw Jacob concentrating on something before him as he worked his foot on a pedal that resembled the one on my spinning wheels. He let off his foot and it turned back toward him, then he stepped on it with great fervor, causing it to spin again, holding the knife to it. I waited. The din would drown any shout, so I waited and watched as he worked on the spinning log with a blade that seemed to be only sharpened on the tip.

I saw no sign of anyone else in the shop, but I meant to speak to Jacob at least. When at last he refrained from stepping on the treadle again, the wood on the spit began to slow and he dipped a rag into a pail at his side and held it to the piece, once again keeping the motion alive with his foot, this time using both the forward and backward spinning. At last he slowed the piece with his hand and said aloud, “There it is. Very fine. You thought you could confound me, but I have you.” He unfastened the wood, full of spools and knobs, and held it against another, his eye roving the pair for disparate spools. He flicked his finger at something, turned it around, and set them down.

“Jacob?” I ventured.

He jumped and dropped one of the posts. It landed in a pile of shavings. “Who calls me?”

“It is I, Miss Talbot.”

He squinted and then smiled. “Miss Talbot! Come in. What pleasure to see you.” He came brushing wood shavings from his clothes. “What would you have of me?”

Suddenly struck dumb of lip and empty of mind, I stammered, then said, “I came to Concord to buy some salt. I used the last in dyeing and I need more salt and a linen press. What is that machine? It is curiously like a spinning wheel.”

“No doubt the first turner of wood thought of that when he created this. Or perhaps some poor muddy potter was the model. The post fits in here, and with these chisels I carve it while it turns. Ingenious, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. You see, in walking to Concord I thought I might, out of curiosity, see just such a tool. I have heard of them before. What is it called again?”

Jacob nodded and shook sawdust and shavings off himself. “Lathe. Shall I tell Cullah you called?”

“No, please do not. I shall be on my way. I mean to purchase salt. Good day.” I turned to leave, pulling my skirts tight to go through the furniture stacked in the front.

“What about your linen press?”

“Have you one for sale?”

“Made to order only. Tell me what size you need. Will you want it of hickory? I have some spalted maple with figures in it. Will you see it?”

“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.