Authors: Katherine Ayres
I allowed myself only a moment to savor the white world, then hurried to the kitchen and poked up the fire, added a log, and fanned it into flame. I held the letter to the light and saw my name. I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
15
January
Dear Lucinda
,
Nearly a week has passed since last I saw thee. Every day thoughts tumble about in my mind, running every which way like children playing at tag. I’ve tried to write, but each time I burn the letter. This time I will not burn it, but rather I will share all my thoughts and thee must make of them what thee will. Sort them and choose which is wheat, which is chaff. I am at thy mercy
.
To begin, I beg forgiveness for my first, impetuous kiss. I hope thee understands that I was driven to it. I could not help myself. I hope I did not offend
.
There, that’s said. I hope thee wears a smile on thy face and remembers the kiss with fondness, for though I had not intended it, I do not regret it. If I must tell the truth (and we Friends require that of ourselves always), having tasted one kiss, I wish I had stolen many more. Given the chance, I shall do just that. But that is for thee to decide. And if the clouds bring snow, as it seems they will, thee will have much time for thy deliberations
.
If indeed the snow comes, I shall try a winter’s journey, for I’ve a fondness for travel by sleigh. One can drive for miles without seeing a soul, and the falling snow and wind erase one’s tracks and make the ground new again. There are joys in such a journey, for me at least. Especially these days. But I’ll be cautious in my adventures, I’ll carry wagon wheels along in case the snow melts before my journey is successful
.
Pray that I will succeed, dear Lucinda, for there is always risk with winter travel. I hope to return before the coming snow
has melted, and if thy heart is so inclined, perhaps I’ll find a reply to my letter
.
Do write to me, and have a care for thyself. Watch over thy charge, for Sister Mercer depends on thee. I believe she is in the best of hands, and when I return, perhaps thy burden shall be lightened, God willing. And may God bless thee and watch over thee
.
Thy admiring Friend
,
Jeremiah Strong
Jeremiah.
Who would have thought such warm words could come from him? He is as affected as I. I’ve read the letter over and over. The words are scribed in my heart, so I barely need the page, but I will keep it, of course, under my pillow. He writes so cleverly, he places no one at risk. Except himself as he travels.
Jeremiah does make me laugh. I am not such a siren that men fall at my feet and fling kisses upon me at every turn. Why, if Jeremiah was driven by the fires of love to kiss me, he’s had chance after chance, for he’s made many a trip to my door late at night. But …
He wants to kiss me again. I close my eyes and see his dark hair and dark eyes, the way his cheeks redden with the cold or when he has fervent feelings about something … And he has fervent feelings about me!
Bless the winter, bless the snow, bless the measles and Miss Aurelia and all the wild geese who have drawn us together.
Jeremiah.
Jeremiah.
Jeremiah Strong.
F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
17, 1851
A
FTERNOON
I am still no dappled mare. It has snowed and snowed, drifted and blown and whirled until the whole landscape glows white in the dim light. How I got through this day I’ll never know, for I kept Jeremiah’s letter tucked inside my pocket and patted it every other moment. Surely Miss Aurelia and Emma suspected something. But perhaps they blamed it on the snow. It made me a little reckless.
“A spell of snow won’t hurt,” Miss Aurelia said as she came downstairs at first light. “We’ve got plenty of food and firewood.” She frowned. “But it will slow things down.”
“How do you mean?”
“Emma’s husband, Abraham. They’re holding him in custody in Canton. The Quakers plan to spring him from jail, but the snow will hinder them as well. He must be mightily worried about his family—as they are about him. Just hope young Mr. Strong gets him out safely.”
“I think the snow may help the rescue instead of hinder. I’ve received a letter.” I touched my pocket. “Jeremiah plans a trip with a sleigh, a winter’s journey. He says the snow and wind will erase his tracks, and he asks us to pray for his success. What else could he mean?”
Miss Aurelia nodded. “Brave young man, that Quaker. It’s a full-blown blizzard out there. I’d not choose to be about in it.”
“I believe he left yesterday, so perhaps he’s near to Canton by now.” A shiver went up my back as I thought of Jeremiah, somewhere on a winding road with a storm blowing. And that dratted Southern slaver on the prowl. Blow, wind, blow hard. Cover the tracks of the sleigh. “Please, God, keep him safe,” I whispered.
Miss Aurelia smiled at me and put her arm around my shoulder. “Amen,” she said. “Keep us all safe.”
We cooked a hearty breakfast of flapjacks and sausages and hauled it up to the attic. But our guests peered out the windows instead of sitting to eat.
“Snow. Mama say this here’s snow.” Ben, the oldest boy, pointed and shook his head at me in wonder. It was the most he’d said to me so far—the children seemed wary of me. In truth, I’d had very little real conversation with any of our visitors, for though I talked some with Emma, she spent more time with Miss Aurelia, and Cass was too unwell to do much but lie in bed.
I rubbed at the window so we could see better. “You’ve never seen snow before?”
“Nope. Our place, it be warm. We get rain but no snow.”
“You wait,” I said. “You’ll see lots of snow in Canada.”
“What it feel like?”
“If you eat all your breakfast, I’ll see what I can do,” I promised. “Maybe we can go outside.”
But Miss Aurelia said no. “It’s too risky.”
“Please! The children have never seen snow. And they’ve been cooped up in the attic nearly a week.”
She put her arm around my shoulder. “Lucinda, dear,
what you say is true. They have been cooped up. But they have also been
safe
. We mustn’t endanger them. Remember, if the Quakers can get through the snow to save their father, the catchers can also get through. We must be vigilant, dear child, no matter how boring it grows.”
I looked down. A scolding was still a scolding, even when kindly put. And I deserved every word. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I get excited when it snows. I—”
“You’re a young girl. I’ve counted on your strong legs and willing arms to carry food and supplies upstairs day after day. Now you must count on me to make wise choices. Let’s open that trunk of outgrown clothes and get out our sewing baskets. I’d like to send our guests on to Canada with warm, well-mended clothing. With you, Emma, and me stitching, the work will go fast enough.”
She was right, of course. And so we stitched and hemmed and remade garments that my brothers and sister had outgrown. We talked a little as we worked, but I sensed that Emma’s thoughts were with Abraham. And I understood, for I thought constantly of Jeremiah and dreamed that I journeyed with him, out in the snow, with no one to follow the tracks of our sleigh.
S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
18, 1851
E
ARLY MORNING
I hope this snow is falling on President Fillmore. And I hope someone makes him stay inside, too, and doesn’t allow him to make a single snow angel or throw a single snowball. Bah on all the politicians!
How long will it take Jeremiah to travel to Canton and
back? Two days each way, four days total in good weather. But I must allow for the snow. And he and the others will need time to break Abraham out of jail. Will five days be enough? I surely hope so. But I should probably expect him to be gone at least six. If he left sometime on Thursday, he could return by Monday or Tuesday. How will I fill my time until then? With stitching, I guess, and more work. And letters too. Since we’re snowbound, I’ll write to everyone. But I’ll have to be careful. I too will have to write some thoughts in code.
18
January
Dear Mama and Papa
,
As I sit here and tend to Widow Mercer on this snowy afternoon, I thank you for sending the letters, my books, and the dried-apple pies you baked, Mama. They disappeared quite rapidly. Your fine cooking would make anyone feel better
.
Miss Aurelia, as she insists I call her, is a clever woman. I am working at the box of mending you sent, and she had the best idea. Since you sewed William several pairs of trousers from the same cloth, I am taking each pair apart. Will wore out the knees of every pair, ruining the fronts. Miss Aurelia said why not sew the undamaged backs together for a new pair of trousers? They look fine this way and should hold up much better than repeated patches
.
As you may gather, I keep quite busy. Mama, tending a house is more work than I’d realized. Papa, tell Will and Tom that I also milk and tend to Miss Aurelia’s horses, but if the snow lets up, I will surely invite their help
.
Dear Miranda, your new friend, Reddie, sounds quite
beautiful I too hope he is well and flying again when I return, for I shall want my share of corn bread back. You have given him a rather ordinary name, however. Had you thought of Horatio? Prince Hal? Tell him “Peep, peep” for me. That’s “hello” in redbird
.
Isn’t the snow beautiful? I yearn to be outside in it, but Miss Aurelia needs me to stay inside, and so I shall. With such illness abroad in the land, safety and caution must come first. You were right to advise me, Papa
.
But don’t worry, for I am young and healthy and strong. And I know how to look out for myself. Do you realize that I’ve been away from home for a week? I manage better than I might have expected. Perhaps it is because I’m so busy. Or else maybe I’m growing up. I do miss you all, though. I treasure my brothers’ visits and look forward to returning home soon
.
May God keep you in His care
.
Your loving daughter
,
Lucinda
18
January
Dear Rebecca
,
I’m so confused. When the snow melts and my duty here is done, we must visit. I’ll fill your ears with news for two days. Just now I write for guidance. I know you won’t receive this letter before I must decide, but if I pretend to talk with you as I write, perhaps I’ll hear your advice in my mind. I surely need someone, and I don’t know Miss Aurelia well enough. And she’s Mama’s age and may not remember what it feels like to be young and in love
.
Yes, Rebecca, in love. You must promise to seal my secrets
deep in your heart and press a large lump of wax over the edges, as they did in the old days of kings and queens
.
I know we’ve talked of this before. But Rebecca, I’m so unsure. Who am I supposed to love? Jonathan Clark? He began kissing me last summer, sweet and gentle kisses. Our romance grew through the fall. Sunday afternoons we’d go for drives in his wagon. With his arm around my waist, with all those kisses, I burned like August in November. I could barely sit through the Reverend’s sermons for thoughts of what the afternoon would bring. Oh, Rebecca! Am I wicked? Surely you feel the same way about Nathaniel. Surely God intends us to love one another. He says as much in the Bible
.
I am wicked. I admit it. For I love two boys at once. It began at the party. Until then, Jeremiah Strong was just someone I knew. Yes, Jeremiah! Charity’s older brother, too mature for me and a Quaker as well. Oh, Rebecca, he kissed me. And I liked it. What I said before was wrong—he’s not a boy like Jonathan. He’s a man. A lovely man. I wanted him to kiss me again
.
I’ve thought of him every minute since Friday. But what will the church ladies think? The townspeople? Quakers and Presbyterians do not fall in love, do they? We are so different, and we mostly keep to our own
.
But is that God’s choice or ours? For surely we all worship the same God. We are all His children, even if we speak to Him in different ways. If I liked the Reverend Cummings better, I would ask him my questions, but he is such a dry little man. I don’t want his boring opinions
.
What I wonder is this: If I do love Jeremiah, and if he loves me, and if somehow we are intended to care for each other … well, drat it all, Rebecca, will I have to turn into a
Quaker? I dearly hope not, for I can’t hear the drabness of gray dresses
.
And yet inside that sober gray suit of his, Jeremiah has a heart that is warm and golden. What shall I do?
Yours perplexedly
,
Lucinda
S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
18, 1851
E
VENING
Snow and more snow. Stitching and more stitching. Will it ever end? We did something nice today, though. The children have grown ever more restless with staying quiet in the attic. And I’ve been itching to play in the snow. So I carried a washtub of snow up the stairs, Miss Aurelia heated maple syrup, and we made snow candy. I lay on the floor and pretended it was snow to teach the children about snow angels, and showed them how to make snowballs. We took our snowballs, lined them up inside the washtub, and made a miniature snow fort. It was the first time the children seemed to lose their fear of me, and I loved it—just playing together. Even Cass sat up and smiled.
As I carried the tub of melting snow downstairs I felt a heavy sadness inside. This tub was a poor substitute for real play. But when Abraham is finally freed and they can travel to Canada, they will at least know how to enjoy snow. Two more days until that happens, by my calculations.
In the afternoon Cass and the children rested. Emma, Miss Aurelia, and I sat near the attic windows to sew. As
we stitched, Emma and I also got to know each other a little, for despite Papa’s rule, I couldn’t swallow all my questions. Our visitors were warming to us. Should I harden my heart? Papa might say yes, but Papa isn’t here.