By the time Mr. Pratt reached the yard, I had the tray ready. He preceded me into the house and went straight to the dining room. Conversation around the table stopped instantly.
Dorcas managed to remain silent until the food was served and blessed. But then she couldn't contain herself any longer.
“Papa, I want to know where you've been.” With a squeak, she turned to scowl at her older sister. “Don't pinch me, Deborah.”
Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “I sold the Negro. I delivered him to the Bells this morning.”
My mistress set her teacup into its dainty saucer and gave her husband a false smile. “Whyever did you do that?”
“It was time,” he said. “We shall all have new chores until I can make other arrangements.”
Dorcas wiggled on her chair with excitement. “May I gather the eggs? I should enjoy that chore.”
“Yes, Dorcas, you may.” Mr. Pratt stared at his elder son. “Jedidiah, you and I shall tend the animals. You will also be expected to help out in the mill.”
“But, Papa⦔ She waved her hand.
His mother patted her son's arm until he lapsed into silence. She frowned down the table, eyebrows arched. “Jedidiah goes to the tutor in the morning.”
“He can awaken earlier.” My master leveled his gaze on me next. “You must take over the garden. Dinah and Delilah are old enough to help.”
I nodded and cuddled Baby John so tightly he made a grunt of protest. I relaxed my hold even while trying to relax my thoughts. I had a full day. How would I fit such a huge chore into my schedule?
Mrs. Pratt's lips thinned primly. “How long will these new assignments be in effect?”
“Until other arrangements can be made,” her husband repeated.
“Perhaps you should tell me why you sold the boy.”
Mr. Pratt looked at his wife with a long, blank stare. The rest of us held our breath. Several seconds passed before she looked away.
He picked up his spoon.
“Papa, what will Deborah do?” Dorcas asked. “She doesn't have a new chore.”
He transferred his gaze to his eldest daughter. “She'll learn to spin.”
“Spin? I should like that very much.” Deborah's lips curved into a tremulous smile. “Who will teach me?”
“The best spinner in the county. Your mother.”
All eyes turned to my mistress. She looked about her, first surprised, then deeply pleased. “Well, perhaps not the best.”
“You are too humble,” Mr. Pratt said. “I shall fetch the spinning wheel from the attic today.”
My mistress dropped her gaze to her bowl. Mr. Pratt nodded with satisfaction and became engrossed in his meal. The children followed suit.
Was I the only one who had noticed my master never gave a reason for selling Hector?
* * *
Of all the chores my master could have assigned to me, tending the garden was the one I minded least. I loved to be outdoors, and the garden was one of my favorite places. I could walk among the cornstalks and think my private thoughts. There were colors here, and shapes. Peppers and squash. Melons and peas. Each different. Each perfect. A feast for the eyes and the tongue.
“Here, little ones,” I called to my two helpers. I handed each girl a cob and pointed to the half-filled bag of corn. The yield was poor today. I squinted at the horizon, hoping for a thunderstorm, but the sky remained its same splendid, cloudless blue.
“Susie?” a familiar voice called. “Where are you? I have peaches.”
I waded through the rows of corn until I reached the garden's edge. My sister Phoebe searched for me, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, the other clasping a bucket of ripe, velvety fruit to her chest.
I checked her from head to toe. Her complexion was clear, although too brown, and her hair hung in golden ringlets against her bodice of pale blue. With a smile of pride, I joined her.
“Your peaches look delicious. Did you pick them?”
“Mama did.” She blinked vaguely in the bright haze, then moved into the shadow of the stalks. “She wants me to trade them at Mr. Foster's store, but I don't wish to go into the village. People stare.”
“They find your beauty astounding.” My sister had inherited the prettiness common among the women in my mother's family. The ladies of the village couldn't help but notice and envy. “Their attention is kindly meant,” I added, hoping I was right.
“I don't care why they stare. I don't like it.” Her pout only lasted a moment. “Might the Pratts take the peaches?”
Tugging my little helpers closer, I asked in a falsely puzzled voice, “What do you think, Delilah? Would we like peaches, Dinah?”
Two tiny blonde heads nodded in unison.
“I agree.” I turned to Phoebe. “We shall be glad to take them. Fresh peaches would make a delightful treat to end the week.” I had coins hidden in a jar in the kitchen cellar. Unbeknownst to Mr. Pratt, my mistress gave me her spare cents, trusting me to make special purchases when the need arose. It had been a while since she'd given me any, yet I had been frugal. There was sufficient to pay Phoebe. “Will you want to be paid in coins?”
“Mama said she would rather trade for vegetables and bread.”
“Very well.” I hoisted the bag of corn. Dinah and Delilah grabbed handfuls of my petticoat and tramped along behind me.
My sister fell into step beside us. “Susie, what's your favorite chore?”
“Caring for the babies. They are so sweet.” I smiled indulgently at my two little helpers before frowning at my sister. At twelve, she still demonstrated a worrisome tendency toward absentmindedness. “Phoebe, please be careful with the peaches. You have dropped one.”
She stopped to remedy her mistake and then hurried to catch up. “Would I like caring for babies?”
“You stayed with our brother Caleb after his wife had our nephews. Did you like that?”
“No.” Phoebe shuddered. “Perhaps it was worse because they were twins.”
It was worse because of my sister. She had fallen asleep when she was supposed to watch them. And she had scarred one of the babies by dripping candlewax on his leg. Neither of our brothers would ever again leave Phoebe alone with their children.
“You wouldn't like minding babies. Why do you ask?”
“I may soon tend five. Is that a lot?”
The question sent my heart racing. I stepped into her path, bringing her to a halt. “Indeed, it is many children. Who told you such foolishness?”
She stared at me silently, lips trembling.
“Tell me quickly. Has Mama found you a job caring for children?”
Phoebe shook her head.
I released a shaky breath and continued up the slope toward the kitchen.
“Susie, don't be angry. Mama doesn't like the idea, but Mr. Shaw insists.”
“Mr. Anthony Shaw?” I stopped again and frowned at my sister. “Whyever should he comment on the subject?”
“He's courting Mama.”
The news stunned me. “Truly? Mama wishes to marry again?”
My sister nodded.
Why would my mother consider another husband? Were two not enough? Although our father had been a good man, Mama hadn't chosen well the second time. My stepfather had eaten often and worked little. When he had grown weary of having so many children around, he had bound me out.
“I cannot believe you heard right. Mr. Shaw's wife was buried but two months ago.”
“He says they will wait a respectable period for mourning.”
He had not waited a respectable period to seek a replacement. Did he have no shame?
“His five children are all under the age of six.”
“That is true.”
“One is an infant.” The first Mrs. Shaw had died in childbirth.
“Yes.”
“Has Mama agreed to his proposal?”
“Not yet.”
Surely our mother would not be so foolish.
“If there are no wedding plans, why have they discussed you?”
“Mr. Shaw's sister lives at his house, but she'll go home soon. He needs someone to tend the children. If Mama keeps laundering clothes for hire, she won't have time. He says the task will fall to me.” Phoebe's face crumpled with anxiety. “It frightens me to tend children.”
My sister was wise to be concerned. With tasks she disliked, she was clumsy and easily distracted, terrible qualities in a girl with babies under her charge. Phoebe was simply too happy to be useful in a normal household. I walked steadily toward the kitchen, more worried than I wanted her to realize.
“If you were Mama, what would you have me do?”
“Work with fabric.” I heaved my bag of corn through the rear entrance to the kitchen and wiped my brow with the sleeve of my bodice. “You have a talent for coaxing beauty out of cloth and thread.”
“I do enjoy needlework.” Her brow puckered. “I might be good at spinning. What do you think?”
“An excellent skill. Your fingers are so clever.”
I hauled the bag into the pantry while Phoebe sat on the back steps with my two helpers, talking brightly about her future in spinning. I listened with part of my mind, the rest consumed with my sister's news.
A marriage to Mr. Shaw, while practical for him, would be nonsense for my mother. As a widow, she controlled her own property and children. If Mr. Shaw were her husband, he would control them, instead. Since he was younger than she and healthy, land she'd inherited from my father would likely pass into Mr. Shaw's hands. She owed it to my brothersâand Papa's memoryâto save the farm for a Marsh.
My mother wasn't thinking clearly. She had little to gain and much to lose. It should be easy enough to present this logic to her. I would find Mama at church tomorrow and persuade her to abandon this path.
* * *
A dozen peaches remained after the noon-time meal. I loaded some into my apron and walked to the village, eager to restock our dwindling pantry supplies.
The store was empty when I entered. Mr. Foster emerged from the back, his footsteps slowing as he caught sight of me.
“Good afternoon, Susanna. How may I help you?”
I set the fruit on his counter and nodded briskly. “I would like to trade for ginger and sugar.”
He took the peaches, added them to a basket sitting on a shelf behind the counter, pulled out a journal, and made a notation. “I won't be trading today. I cannot extend the Pratts any more credit.”
I mulled over the statement, unsure of a response. “I am sorry to hear it.” Without spices, our meals would be tasteless.
“You tell Jethro Pratt he needs to bring his account current. These peaches will help only a little.”
Behind me, heels clopped into the store. I glanced over my shoulder to see the Widow Hinton walk in. I couldn't pursue this subject before a witness. Giving a final nod toward the storeowner, I said, “I shall deliver the message, Mr. Foster.”
The exchange surprised me. My master was particular about his business. Something must have happened to make it difficult to manage his bills. But what? The mill thrived, did it not?
Of course, there was a new mill at Ward's Crossroads, a solid half-hour wagon ride away. It was too far to affect the Pratts's mill, surely. Yet something was clearly amiss. My master had said nothing to me. Nor had he said anything to my mistress. She wasn't one to hide her feelings.
Although I dreaded a discussion with him, I had no choice.
My master didn't return from the mill until suppertime. I waited until he had adjourned alone to the parlor before approaching.
He sprawled at his desk, jacket off. His white shirt and green waistcoat clung to his frame, soaked with sweat. Heavy stubble darkened his chin. His appearance surprised me. He had always been particular about his clothes.
“Mr. Pratt, may I have a word?” I stayed at the threshold.
He jabbed his quill into an inkpot, then scratched in his journal. “What is it?”
“We're running low on staples.” His hand stilled, but he didn't respond. Perhaps I should be more explicit. “Flour, cornmeal, â”
“Yes, yes. I know what staples are.” He rubbed the tip of his nose. “Are you certain?”
“I have enough to last a week or two.”
“When I come home from the mill Monday, I shall bring more.” He sighed noisily, dropped his quill, and glanced over his shoulder with an impatient scowl. “Anything else?”
Mrs. Pratt prided herself on what a fine catch she had made for a husband.
Tall, handsome, wittyâthe ingredients for greatness
, she would say. In my opinion, she overestimated his destiny. His perpetual scowl did nothing for his appearance. And his manners, for all that his early days had been spent as the youngest son of a planter, weren't pleasing or refined.
I bowed my head and forged on. “Sir, we need sugar and â”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, “I shall visit the store Monday.”
This message would make my master angry. But how angry? And what portion of the blame would he heap on me? I squared my shoulders. “I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Foster bids me to tell you that our account must be paid before we may purchase any more.”
Mr. Pratt erupted from his chair. Crossing the room in two bounds, his fingers clamped around my wrist to yank me closer. “Have you gossiped about me?” Spittle foamed between his clenched teeth.
“I do not gossip.” I held my breath against the rank odor of his body.
“Then why have you been talking with Mr. Foster?”
“I went to fetch the supplies.”
“That's my wife's duty.”
Mrs. Pratt hadn't performed that particular duty in many months, but he wouldn't hear it from me. I remained silent and fixed my gaze on his neckcloth, frayed, limp, and clumsily tied.
“Your voice has an insolent tone. Are you showing me your temper?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You know how much I dislike temper in a servant.” He flung my arm away, smacking it into the wall. I swallowed a moan and backed up into the dining room, hoping to lengthen the distance between us.