The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (20 page)

I blindly thrashed about until I grabbed the arm of one of them, and was shocked to find it belonged to someone I had seen before. He was taller, but the shape was the same. It was Ned Owens
.

I shouted, “Ned! What are you doing with this lot?
”

“
Hush! We're not to use names,” he hissed
.

“
This is
my
home! You know I'm not a Tory. You saw me at Brandywine, at Valley Forge with my brother. Tell them!
”

Owens shrugged. “How do I know what you were doing? Perhaps you were a British spy.” He shoved me aside and threw his torch into the haystack that leaned against the barn
.

Suddenly hoofbeats clattered on the lane. A single horse cantered up. With eyes wild at the sight of the flames, it reared, hooves slicing at the smoky air. The two riders managed to slide off the horse's back unhurt. For the moment, I had eyes only for the taller of the two. It was Will, dressed from head to toe
as a Continental cavalryman. In his hand was his old hand-carved cane, which he brandished over his head in fury as he shouted at the mob. “Shame, shame on you all! Is this how we are to build a new nation? By burning one another's homes?” Under his torrent of scathing words, the rampaging mob rapidly dwindled into a knot of ten chastened men
.

Will, seeing this, called out to me. “There are buckets in the lean-to. Geordie, show them where. We must make a bucket chain to the pond
.”

In a daze, I joined the others; we worked like furies to quench the fire. It was only when the last flame was doused that I had the opportunity to look at Will's companion, a young lady dressed in an apple-green silken gown, with hair the color of golden sand and brown eyes full of mischief. There was something very familiar about this pretty girl, though I was sure I had never met her
.

Then she spoke my name, and there was no mistaking her voice. And if that wasn't enough to convince me, the signet ring suspended from her necklace chain was. The girl was Sandy
.

At my dumbfounded expression, she smiled
.

I stood there as if struck by lightning. How could I have been such a sapskull? How had I been so bamboozled, so blind? How could I ever have believed
Sandy a boy? And why was it so much easier to know what to say to a scruffy little comrade than to this silken-gowned stranger?

I stuttered. “Wh-why the masquerade?
”

She smiled at my astonishment. “Forgive my gulling you, Geordie, but I couldn't risk anyone's knowing who I was. You see, my guardian pretended to be a loyalist whilst the British held the city. He was a very high-placed gentleman who used his position to mingle with the British commanding officers. Everything he learned, he sent through me to Washington
.

“
We deemed it best that I pass as a boy, 'twas far safer. And then, later, I couldn't tell anyone what I had done, else my reputation would be in shreds.” She laughed—a high, girlish laugh that I remembered very well
.

“
Only Billy here twigged my disguise,” she went on, taking Will's hand affectionately. “When he heard my guardian had died, leaving me without family, he came to get me. He says he wants . . .” She stopped and looked uncertainly up at Will
.

My brother put his arm around her and appealed to my parents, who had come out of the house. “You've always wanted a daughter. I hope Cassandra can stay and be my little sister
.”

In that instant I knew Cassandra would never be a sister to me
.

My mother's only answer to Will's appeal was to enfold Sandy in her arms. Without releasing the girl, she turned to my father
.

“
Laban?” she whispered
.

My father stood there in silence. We all waited, taut as fiddle strings, watching him. At last he spoke
.

“
Well, Patience, I judge that if Cornwallis can surrender his entire army, I can make peace with my own family—my two brave sons and my brave new daughter.” A smile spread across his face—the first real smile I'd seen upon his countenance for all the long, weary years of war
.

The next thing I knew, we were all standing in the mud hugging and crying and bussing one another. And we were a family again. A new family in a new nation. It felt grand
.

 

I shut the book and cradled it in my hands. It was all there—all of Geordie's stories about Brandywine, Philadelphia, Whitemarsh, Valley Forge, and Penncroft Farm. And the other volumes promised to reveal even more than Geordie had told me. I looked up to find Mom and Pat staring at me.

“Are you all right, honey?” Mom asked. “You look a little pale. Maybe you did too much after being sick. Why don't you lie down while I call Dad and tell him about finding the will?”

“I'm going straight home to tell my folks,” Pat said.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” I said faintly. “Bye, Pat. See you at Colonial Day.”

“Right. Oh, boy, I can hardly wait to see how Eddie takes all this documentary proof about his ancestors' brave deeds in the Revolution,” she said with a laugh.

After I watched Pat ride away, I ran back to the barn instead of heading for my bedroom. On the way I passed the wagon—the same rig Geordie had driven full of perry and apples, and I had driven down our driveway. I touched it as if in a dream, then made my way into Grampa's Folly, where I spoke sternly into the empty room.

“George Hargreaves, I want a word with you.” I stopped and listened, but there was no sound. “George Hargreaves? George? Oh, c'mon, Geordie, I know you're here somewhere!” I exclaimed.

“No need to bluster so rudely, Lars. Of course I'm here.”

Geordie climbed through the opening from the main part of the barn. He was tossing his tricorne up and down nonchalantly. “Want to play huzzlecap?” he inquired, as if nothing had changed.

“Huzzlecap! You . . . you ninnyhammer, you sapskull, you great booby, you . . . you . . .” I ran out of eighteenth-century insults and ended lamely, “Why didn't you tell me?”

Geordie shrugged. “I did, after a fashion.”

“B-but how come you don't look like the portrait? Why are you just a kid?”

“I judged 'twould be easier for you to talk with somebody near your own age. So, that's the age I picked for this . . . ah . . . visit. And now that you've solved this little riddle, you can carry on at Penncroft Farm and I can take a rest.”

“What?”

Geordie looked at me a little sadly. “Well, yes, it's your turn to look after things here. Besides, now you have begun to make friends—
real
friends, not paltry shades. You don't need me anymore.”

“But, Geordie, I . . .”

“Don't fret, Lars. You'll find that you truly
don't
need me around anymore.”

“But . . .”

“Farewell.”

“Geordie!” I cried out. But my shade had gone. I was alone in the barn. I picked up the book again and tried to console myself with Geordie's faded words, but I missed the writer of those words “mighty sorely,” as he would have said.

The sadness of Geordie's farewell stayed with me all that weekend. Even when Judge Bank examined the will and pronounced it valid, I couldn't get too enthusiastic. It wasn't until Monday, Colonial Day, that I began to feel better.

Winning so many of the colonial competitions helped a lot. So did the colonial name tag I had pinned on my waistcoat. With secret satisfaction I looked down at it and read it to myself. There, in my best calligraphy, was the name
Geordie
.

My mother came hustling up to me, with Dad trailing along in her wake. “Good grief, Lars, that's the third blue ribbon you've won today!” she exclaimed. “How did you learn to be so good at old stuff like that game with the funny name—huzzlecap? You got every penny—pardon me, I mean
farthing
, in that three-cornered hat,” Mom exclaimed.

“Beginner's luck,” I said, thinking of the time I had spent pitching coins into Geordie's tricorne.

Dad looked around at the mob of children and parents nearby spinning wool, making butter and paper, smithing tin. “This Colonial Day is certainly a good idea for you kids. I'm even learning a thing or two myself—like about that cider press. Will Hargreaves said he'd show me how to build one.”

Mom clapped her hands. “Won't it be fun to make some apple cider at Penncroft just like they used to?”

“Or perry,” I said, hastily adding, “That is, er,
very
. . . very fun.”

“Pat—er,
Patience
Hargreaves's song about ‘Geordie' was so touching,” Mom said. “I'd be flattered if I were you, ‘L. Geordie.'”

Mrs. Hettrick joined us, looking as much like Martha Washington as she could in a white yarn wig. “Welcome to the colonies,” she said, making a deep curtsy. “I'm Mistress Hettrick.”

My father bowed. “Nice to meet you, madam. You've really sparked Lars's interest in history.”

Mrs. Hettrick waved away the compliment “Oh, but I haven't done anything out of the ordinary! I thought you two must be giving him extra help at home.”

“No, nothing special,” Mom said, looking a little puzzled.

“It must have been those fantastic memoirs that piqued his interest—like that terrific account of your ancestor at the Battle of Brandywine. Yes, Lars—that is”—Mrs. Hettrick peered at my name tag— “
Geordie
—learned a lot from those memoirs! He's the one who suggested making the hay labyrinth out by the obstacle course. It's incredible what he's picked up in such a short time.”

“Yes, it is incredible,” Mom said, glancing at me.

Mrs. Hettrick went on, “And I think it's simply marvelous that Lars is starting his own little museum in your barn. Such a clever name, too: The Museum of the First American Civil War. Nice of you to lend so many things for Colonial Day. The cup and ball and the cockade and that . . . what is it called, that sieve thing?”

“It's a riddle to me,” I said, with a wide grin.

“Oh yes, a
riddle
. And everyone is buzzing about how you solved the mystery and found the will in that secret room. You know, Patience Hargreaves has been telling everybody what a Sherlock Holmes you were. You're quite the hero of the day.”

“Not with everybody,” I said, catching sight of Eddie Owens, whose face registered something close to misery. “I'll meet you in the gym, Mom. I've got to talk to someone.”

I waded through the crowd and sat down next to Eddie.

“Hi, Ned,” I said, reading his name tag.

He sighed. “Dad made me use
Ned
. How embarrassing!”

“Look, Eddie,” I said earnestly, “It doesn't make any difference what your ancestors did, or what my ancestors did. What's important is what
we
are, and what
we
do.”

Eddie sat up a little straighten “But I told everybody my ancestor was a hero and now they think I'm a liar.”

I stood up. “No, they've only found out that it's not so easy to know what happened in the past. And that things were just as messed up and confused back then as they are now.”

Eddie looked down at the fake buckles flopping on his tennis shoes. One of his kneesocks was sagging around his ankle. He pulled up his sock, which drooped again as soon as he let go.

“Maybe you're right,” he said with a half smile, which turned into a whole smile when I asked if he wanted to walk down to the gym with me, where the Virginia reel was about to begin.

We made our way to the gym. I felt a little nervous, but I knew what to do when I got there. Scanning the flock of costumed girls, I found the one I was looking for—a tall girl with mischievous brown eyes and sandy-colored hair.

I made an awkward little bow in front of her, as we were supposed to when asking someone to dance the Virginia reel.

“Hullo, uh, Geordie,” she said self-consciously.

“Hullo, Patience,” I said, nodding at her name tag. “It's a nice name,
Patience
. You shouldn't be ashamed of it.”

“I guess I'm not anymore.” Smiling, she held out her hand.

As we took our places for the dance, the girls in the opposite line fluttered like a row of butterflies. I had to admit to myself that they looked . . . well, at least interesting in their long skirts and mobcaps. Curious to see if the line of boys was equally impressive, I glanced down to my right.

Yes
, I thought,
we boys look pretty authentic, too
. Like me, they all had pants tucked into kneesocks to resemble breeches, neatly tied neck cloths, and black three-cornered hats made of construction paper. One boy had even managed to get a real tricorne, I noticed. Then he turned and I saw his face.

It was Geordie. Catching my astonished eye, he gave an impish wink and bowed deeply to his partner. She was a slender girl with hair the same color as Pat's, wearing an apple-green silken gown.

I was so flustered that when the lively music began (on a most uncolonial record player), I completely forgot to dance.

“Lars, what are you doing? Do-si-do!” Pat squeaked, with laughing impatience that belied her name.

“Your servant, madam,” I whispered, and concentrated on my steps for a moment. When I looked back down the line, Geordie and Cassandra were lost from sight in the swirl of costumed dancers.

Whenever I read a partly made up, partly true story, I always want to know which part is which. Assuming that readers of this book might want to know this, too, I'll try to sort it out. Readers should remember, however, what Lars said about the past: “It's not so easy to know what happened . . . things were just as messed up and confused back then as they are now . . .”