Authors: Katherine Ayres
Poor Mama. Her forehead is creased and she rubs it and closes her eyes. We carry such worry around these days. We read stories in the newspapers of men put in jail back east for helping runaway slaves escape. And now our neighbor caught. Just the thought takes away my breath. It could happen to us.
M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
6, 1851
Washing, washing, and more washing. My fingertips turn to prunes and then freeze when I clip the wet sheets to the line. It’s so cold and dreary, I’m surprised the washing dries, but it does. Then we have to haul it all back inside. I’m too stiff for much writing tonight.
T
UESDAY
, J
ANUARY
7, 1851
Monday we wash, Tuesday we iron, week after week. What drudgery, especially in the winter. I’d happily trade a few wrinkled sheets for an afternoon with my books.
My Latin will fade unless I practice.
Amo, amas, amat
. Only half a week until Jonathan’s party. Maybe the clouds will break on Friday.
W
EDNESDAY
, J
ANUARY
8, 1851
Bless Rebecca. The skies are still gray, but she’s a beam of warm sunshine.
We baked molasses cookies and walnut bread for the party while our mothers sipped tea and gossiped. Of course, we sampled our sweets, too, and I’ll not be ashamed to put my cooking in front of Jonathan’s nose. His mother is another story. I hope she keeps her pointy nose elsewhere.
Please let our house stay quiet until Friday. No new geese. I couldn’t bear to be left home as guard and miss the party. Selfish, I suppose, but the snows will come soon and we’ll be housebound for a long time. I wonder why God created winter, anyway.
T
HURSDAY
, J
ANUARY
9, 1851
E
VENING
Tomorrow we’ll drive to the party in two wagons, for Will has offered to haul the cut wood later. I helped him put fresh hay in one wagon bed this morning, so we’ll ride warm and clean. When he’s not making my life miserable with teasing he’s not bad, for a brother. He’s got a wagon of his own now and likes to haul goods for people.
“I’m in the transportation business,” he bragged to me as he brushed his horses’ manes.
I threw straw at him and stuffed some down his shirt.
He got me back with a huge armload, for he’s taller than I am and strong from lifting goods into his wagon.
Drat it all. I get stuck at home washing and ironing while he gallivants across the countryside. I shouldn’t complain—he worked hard for his wagon. He had it specially built with a false bottom by the Quakers in Salem. He uses it to carry folks north some nights, to spare Papa. Still, what I wouldn’t give for a chance to ride off adventuring. I’d go anywhere—Cleveland, Columbus, even New York or Paris—if I could. If I didn’t have all the chores.
This afternoon Miranda crawled into my lap, and the mood I was in, I made up stories for her about faraway places. “With our red hair, we might be related to those old-time Vikings,” I began. “From the far, cold north, from the land of endless winter, came Prince Eric in search of the beautiful Princess Miranda.…”
After the tales, I made her practice her letters and her numbers until she grew too wriggly and jumped down.
“Lucy, what will we wear to the party tomorrow? Let’s go see.”
So I wasn’t the only one excited. We raced for our room; I let her win. “Here, chickadee. Let’s look at your fancy feathers.”
“Oh, Lucy, you’re so silly. Girls don’t have feathers.”
“Then what’s this?” I asked, pulling her dress from its Peg.
“My Sunday dress. It’s my favorite. Did you have this dress when you were five?”
“Yes. It was my favorite, too.” I’d loved the deep red velvet.
“I’m so glad you’re my sister, Lucy,” Miranda said. “We’re just alike and we like the same dresses.”
I swept her into my arms and swung her around and around. “We are wild Viking princesses, and tomorrow we shall visit the castle of the neighboring king. Perhaps we shall dance until morning and everyone will fall in love with us.”
“Lucy, will you braid my hair? Will you make it fancy? A princess can’t be plain.”
“You’ll never be plain, chickadee.” I took a brush to Miranda’s hair, rich russet waves that tumble down her back. Mama’s hair. She passed the blazing color to all us children, like she passed on the pale skin and those dratted freckles that pop out every summer. But Miranda has waves, while my hair hangs straight.
“Lucy, will I be as pretty as you when I grow up? Will I have boys going sweet on me? I want to. I want to be just like you.”
I hugged her then, tight as I could. We may be just farm princesses, but we have the best family in the world. And a party tomorrow! Bless Mr. and even Mrs. Clark for inviting us.
And Jonathan. God bless Jonathan Clark in particular.
S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
11, 1851
E
VENING
My life has turned upside down.
Two days have passed, but it feels like two weeks. I’m not even at home. Tom and Will brought my things here this morning. People are sleeping now, so I can finally write everything down, but I fear it may take days for me to catch up with myself. And yet I must, for these two days have been more exciting than the rest of my life put together. What an adventure! And it has barely begun.
It all started quietly enough, but looking back, I should have suspected something right off. We’d no more than stepped inside the door to the Clarks’ party when Charity Strong hurried up to me, her somber gray Quaker dress rustling. Her voice sounded cheery and calm as usual, but her dark eyes flashed me a warning. “Lucinda, I’m so glad to see thee. Here, let us collect the coats.”
Though she’s a Quaker and practices their plain life and odd, silent religion, she’s a good friend. We went to school together. But more important, she’s the sister of Jeremiah Strong, who brought the night visitors to our door just last Saturday, so I paid close attention.
When we reached the back bedroom Charity nudged the door shut with her foot. She sank to the bed and spoke in a quiet voice, her cheeks flushed. “Lucinda, my brother needs to speak with thee. Alone. It is most urgent. Many lives—”
The door opened, cutting off Charity’s words and treating us to the spectacle of the Reverend’s daughter.
Eleanora Cummings fussed with her curls and pinched her cheeks to redden them. Bah, who has time for that?
Many lives
… Though my heart pounded, I spoke to Charity of ordinary things. “Will you sit with Rebecca and me? I’ll never match your fine quilting stitches. Promise you won’t notice. You’re so patient and careful.”
“A Quaker virtue, I’m told,” she said, smiling. We left the room and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “My brother grows
im
patient, however. Thee will take supper with Jeremiah, please?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Croaking bullfrogs, if I had known what I was getting into! I smiled and sat between Charity and Rebecca on the bench beside the quilting frame. Stretched before me was a quilt in shades of blue and green. I saw squares and triangles stitched in the pattern we call Wild Goose Chase. I suspected, from Charity’s hints, that I would soon encounter more wild Canada geese!
Mrs. Clark studied my face with a knowing look. What was that about?
I itched to tell her what a perfect quilt she’d chosen that night. “A beautiful pattern,” I said instead. “And the colors are strong.”
Mama caught my eye. She understood about the geese.
Mrs. Clark, on the other hand, didn’t understand at all. “I’m so glad you like it, Lucinda dear.” She glowed.
Lucinda dear?
Mrs. Clark had never called me that before. And the look on her bony face—pleased, as though she’d accomplished some purpose. That confused me.
Rebecca nudged me with her elbow. “It’s a sign,” she
whispered. Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes went soft and glowy. “Nathaniel Thatcher’s mother has been nice to me lately, too. It’s important that their mothers like us.”
Important? Their mothers? Oh, no! Mrs. Clark had made the quilt with me in mind. Her son and me.
I squinted and held my needle up to the light for threading. My fingers shook, and it took me three tries to find the needle’s eye. I like Jonathan Clark, more than like him. But I’m just sixteen. I’m not ready to let his mother stitch me into her pattern, not yet.
Girls on one side, women on the other, we sewed steadily for two hours. Mrs. Clark suggested a brief rest, and Rebecca, Charity, and I hurried outside, escaping the hard bench for fresh air and motion. We wandered toward the barn, where loud voices interrupted the bare quiet of a winter afternoon. Men and boys were loading split lengths of wood into Will’s wagon. Jonathan Clark caught my eye and joined us.
“Lucinda, will you be my supper partner?”
“I’m sorry. Someone else has already asked. But I’d love to share a reel when the music starts.”
He shrugged in a good-natured way and returned to the men.
Rebecca’s eyes widened. Her pale eyebrows rose nearly to her hair. “Who already asked you?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”
“Wait and see,” I said. I winked at Charity.
Before we could return to the house, Nathaniel Thatcher asked Rebecca to be his partner. Matthew Brownell turned to Charity.
“Who, Lucy? Who?” Rebecca insisted when the boys had gone.
“I’m not telling.” I grinned and spun around, twirling my skirt in a wide circle the way Miranda does, then ran back to the house.
If I had known then what I know now, would I have been so frivolous? Probably not. But then I would not have been able to act my role nearly so well, for I would have given everything away by being too serious. For it is serious business we undertake.
Many lives …
S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
12, 1851
E
ARLY MORNING
No boring sermons this Sabbath! We’re too busy cooking and washing up and toting armloads up and down the stairs. We have worked like threshers since Friday night.
In spite of the work, I find myself awake at night, filled with troubling thoughts. But then I remember the wild time we had at that party, perhaps the best prank I ever played. And who would have guessed it of the serious Quakers? I’ll have to revise my opinion of them, and soon.
Jeremiah brought me supper at the party, as we had arranged. “Sister Spencer,” he began.
“Jeremiah,” I scolded, “you must call me Lucy.”
He looked startled.
“And you might smile at me, if it’s not too difficult. Otherwise people will wonder why we share supper.”
He laughed aloud, and his solemn Quaker face turned
handsome, with dark eyes like Charity’s. “I knew thee for a woman of courage,” he said softly. “Thy humor is a surprise.”
I heard a commotion to my left and turned. Charity, Rebecca, and their partners had just found seats and were looking in our direction. Jonathan Clark, with Eleanora Cummings at his side, stared at me, mouth agape like a freshly hooked fish.
I nodded to them all and turned back to Jeremiah, who had already cleaned much of his heaped plate. How do boys eat so fast?
“Have I caused thee trouble among thy friends?”
“Nothing I can’t repair. Tell me, are you busy these days?” Inside I fumed, wishing we could talk freely.
“I fill my time,” he said. “I help Father and Uncle with the inns, hauling firewood and supplies. I care for the horses, repair the wagons. What of thee, Lucinda? Surely farm work gets easier in winter.”
“It does,” I agreed. “I spend the hours of Miranda’s nap in study, when Mama can spare me.”
He smiled. “Still the student? What subjects?”
“Oh, Latin. Poetry and English literature just now.” How could we talk calmly? I was so curious, I felt I might burst.
“No science? No nature studies?”
Ah! Bless Jeremiah. He’d given me the chance I needed.
“I find nature study difficult in winter,” I began. “But we do watch the migrations of birds. Especially the wild Canada geese. Have you noticed? Birds fly north at odd
times. Why, last week two males stopped over to rest and feed at our farm. I’m sure they’ve flown to Canada by now, though. They were strong and hardy.”
“Strange. We’ve noticed the same pattern,” he said. Jeremiah’s eyes darkened until they seemed nearly black. The muscles of his face tightened. He tipped his head close to mine. “As we speak, my uncle shelters a flock. One bird is ill. We worry about their migration.”
“How many?” I whispered.
“Nine to shelter, including the sick bird, and another in dire straits—ten in the flock altogether.”
The number shocked me. We had taken care of small groups, threes and fours. But where would we put nine? And one was sick, another in dire straits—did that mean caught?
I suddenly remembered the handsome stranger from Sunday’s church. The Southern man with ten slaves gone missing. It couldn’t be just a coincidence.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned—Rebecca.
“Lucy, Jeremiah. What subject brings your heads so close together?” She sent me a look of pure mischief. “I didn’t know you were so well acquainted.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. What could I say?
“Lucinda and I share many common interests,” Jeremiah replied, his voice calm and composed. “We both study Latin, literature, and nature. We are discussing the migration of birds.”
Rebecca chuckled and tugged my braid. “You and I will talk later,” she said to me. “The migration of birds, indeed!” She threaded her way back to her seat, still laughing.
My face burned.
“Thy cheeks are red, Lucinda. Thee might find a walk outside cooling.”
“Yes, of course. I’d like a walk. It aids the digestion.”
For shame! What a skilled liar I am. I had but one thought at that moment—escape from the barn. And so we did.
S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
12, 1851
A
FTERNOON
The wild geese rest again and I should too, but my fingers itch with the need to write this. Why is it that they always cramp up when I write out my Latin verbs, but I can scribble on forever when I have such news? Perhaps my heart drives my hand. For certainly Jeremiah is in my heart.