Surprised by the gesture, I didn’t immediately take it. Then, just as I leaned forward to accept the gift, he retrieved it, leaving my hand dangling stupidly.
His mouth quivered. He suppressed the smile and murmured, “Perhaps I ought to carve your initials in it as well, since it will be yours.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
I folded my arms. “I doubt there’s room for anything else on the little thing.”
“I’ll squeeze them in. It’s H then…?”
“S,” I offered grudgingly.
“H.S.W., Harriet S. Winter,” he said evenly as he carved. “What is the S for? Sarah? Sally?”
I tightened my mouth and shook my head. I despised my middle name. If only the S did stand for Sarah or Sally.
Betsy the Tattler, sitting at Papa’s feet, offered, “Submit. That’s what it stands for.”
For the first time that night, Mr. Long laughed. “Submit. Oh, that’s rich.” As he presented the spout, he asked, still grinning, “And do you?”
I took it with a slow, ungracious show of disinterest but answered curtly and quickly enough: “No. Never.”
CHAPTER TWO
I woke early the next morning. Dawn began to drift into the loft, reversing the darkness, like a tea un-steeping itself. Sliding out from under the quilts, I took care not to disturb my sisters’ slumber, then made use of the chamber pot and broke the ice in the pitcher to wash my hands and face. The brisk water swiped away the vestiges of sleep. With a shiver, I hurried out of my nightdress, slipped speedily into my clothes, and climbed down the ladder plank to the keeping room.
My father, kneeling by the hearth, was kindling the fire. He smiled at me over his shoulder. “Morning, kitten.”
I greeted him with a kiss on his bristled cheek.
Mama glanced up from the potatoes she was chopping. “At least two of our six rise to work in this house, David.”
Papa stood and dusted his knees. “The boys likely wore themselves out looking to the fences yesterday.”
I sniffed. Looking to the fences. Was that cant for drinking oneself into a stupor? I plucked my apron from its hook and pulled it over my head.
A wet snore erupted from the borning room, where Matthew and Luke slept.
Mama and I grinned at each other.
“They’re pretty well knocked up,” she murmured, scooping handfuls of potatoes and transferring them to the soup pot. “But Gideon’s out and making ready to haul the dead hickory that fell by the pond. Want to eat and take him his breakfast?”
“Certainly.” We could have the chance to talk. My brother seemed distracted lately. I wondered why. “I’ll take mine and have it with him.”
“Don’t linger.” Mama gave the pot a stir. “You didn’t finish your Latin yesterday.”
I made a face. We lived too far from town to attend school, so our mother educated us, which I didn’t mind when the subject was geometry, history, logic, or literature. Latin was another matter. I hated it. Sighing, I tied the apron strings at my waist and, without bothering to repair my braid, hurriedly wrapped a half-dozen warm biscuits in a towel and donned my cape.
A cold westerly wind whipped me the second I stepped outside. After tucking the bundled biscuits against my stomach, I tightened the cape around me with my free hand and made my way toward the pond. The straggly remains of Mama’s kitchen garden occupied the yard closest to the door, but along the rotting ropes of squash vines, snowdrops bloomed: harbingers of spring. I stooped to admire the little white bells before continuing, first circling the well sweep, then passing the shed. Only small patches of snow dotted the property, but frost furred the ground. Under my boots, the matted grass crunched and, all the way to the stand of uncut timber, gleamed like silver in the early sunlight.
I passed the barn and climbed over the stone fence. Gideon stood far beyond the pond, near the burial place. He was a familiar figure even from this distance, with his peculiar forward slouch, like a man always heading into an impossible wind. Overhead, pink edged the clouds, and, encircling us, mountains towered like blue giants curled in sleep, great guardians of whatever fantastical lands and seas rippled out on their other sides. I inhaled deeply, glad to escape the house, liking the brisk air that stung my lungs. It was a glorious morning.
I tossed him a biscuit half by way of hello.
He caught it with his left hand. “Thank you”—he wrinkled his nose at the honey on his palm—“for making me sticky.”
Smiling, I perched on the toppled hickory he’d already trimmed for hauling. “So what’s the problem? You’ve been moping all week.”
He shrugged and ate the biscuit half in two bites. “Not moping. Just thinking.” He wiped his palm on his trousers; then, with the ease of practice, he sank his ax into a stump before sitting next to me, shoving his dusky fringe from his forehead, and inhaling appreciatively.
“Here.”
The biscuits were still warm, their split centers luscious with melted butter and golden honey. Gideon groaned as he bit into another one.
“Thinking about what?”
“The Genesee Valley.”
I stilled. I’d heard about the Genesee Valley. Its wilderness. Its availability for purchase.
After hazarding a peek my way, he gazed around at the beautiful morning. “If this were all mine, Harry, I’d never go. But it isn’t. Plenty of New Englanders are already emigrating, pushing the bounds of civilization and improving the territories in western New York. And why not? Farms have crowded this area. The soil is thin, the forests gone, wild game rare. Out that way, land—fertile, forested land—is selling cheap. Prodigiously cheap. I can save enough money in less than a year to purchase a hundred acres from the Holland Land Company.”
His vehemence astonished me. When I recovered, I demanded, “What good are a hundred acres of friendless, strange wilderness?”
“Sounds like heaven,” he answered bluntly. “A land thick with virgin forest, all species of wood, and mine, mine, mine: completely mine, not a single brother to work for or share my parcel with.”
“‘All species of wood,’” I muttered. “You sound like our whittling neighbor.”
Gideon grinned. “Daniel Long undoubtedly would appreciate the rich variety of so many trees. I wonder if he’d sell his farm and commence a pioneer life with me.”
“You’d make a lovely couple.” I shoved the biscuit bundle into his arms and stood.
My mind whirled. I replayed his words, sensibly argued but nevertheless impossible for me to process. His enthusiastic reasoning so thoroughly twisted my expectations, what I understood to be my past, present, and future, that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the cardinal on the hemlock overhead suddenly took flight upside down. Gid was my best friend. Home meant Gid. Where would I be without him?
I wandered to the burial plot and leaned against a post. Without turning, I said, “I guess you’ve made up your mind.” With no thought to my feelings.
He must have heard the hurt in my voice because he said in a cajoling way, “What can a youngest son hope for here? The rockiest, scantest portion of a mountain? A stretch of bog and clay? Should I try my hand at preaching to earn a living?” He appeared at my side and frowned over the fence. “I don’t belong in a place if there’s no room for me there.”
“You belong with your family, and family always makes room.”
He grunted and folded his arms.
Opposite the fence, two dozen grave markers faced us like grim pages in an unfinished book. The inscribed names reflected my ancestors, not Gideon’s. By blood we weren’t siblings or even half siblings. I was the single product of my father’s first marriage, and Gideon the youngest of his mother’s. Only Grace and Betsy could call our current parents their own.