He took the spile I’d thrust in his face and straightened. Instead of sharing my indignation, he threw back his head and laughed.
“I don’t find presumptuousness amusing.” I snatched the spout out of his hand.
As far as I was concerned, there wasn’t an ounce of humor in Mr. Long’s making my last initial an L instead of a W.
CHAPTER THREE
Besides warning me to keep his secret to myself, Gideon didn’t discuss his pioneer plans in the following weeks. Silent as he remained on the matter, however, his discontentment with his present situation became increasingly noticeable. He wasn’t sullen, but more and more he found ways to detach himself from the other men’s labors. For instance, he left the splitting of rails to Papa and our brothers and chose to work in the woodlot by himself, felling a fine oak and preparing it for spring seasoning with nobody’s help but that provided by Trouble the ox.
He chose the oak with floor timbers in mind. For a long time now, Mama had spoken wistfully of a good wooden floor to replace our hard-packed dirt one. Gideon confessed to me he planned to make the oak-plank flooring a parting gift for her. I didn’t want to hear this—nor whatever he had in mind for my farewell present. Nothing could reconcile me to his leaving.
Winter clung to March. Just as the green spears of daffodils nosed through the ground behind the toolshed and we began to smile hopefully at the cloudless skies and believe the worst of the weather had ended, we woke to a snow thick as a curtain. The spell persisted for the last three days of the month. Mama grew impatient with the men crowding the house, getting in the way of our spinning, and making a mess by the hearth with their tool sharpening.
Finally a northerly kicked at the trees, and though the temperature didn’t rise above forty degrees by day, neither did it sink below twenty at night. On a morning in early April, after breakfast, Papa stood in the open doorway, peered at the sky, and held out a hand for a moment as if weighing the wind. He shut the door and returned to his chair. “Sap will be flowing properly now.”
Sharp freezes at night, free thaws by midmorning: sugaring time. Its arrival, more than all the green shoots and tweeting birds, foretold spring.
Matthew greeted the announcement with a holler. My sisters cheered. Quite literally, there was no sweeter time: the sap collecting and boiling, then the sampling and celebrating. Sugaring was work, but of a social kind, for some of our neighbors would aid us in the enterprise.
I didn’t doubt all of us felt the thrill of anticipation. But Gideon stood so quickly his chair tipped over. He pounded across the room and wrenched open the door, apparently to see for himself the day’s conditions.
When he turned, his face was alive with excitement. “Shall I ride to the Welds place and let them know?”
“Certainly.” Papa pulled on his boots. “Tell Robert he can take home a tub of sweetening for pay if he joins us.”
Betsy studied Gideon with a sly smile. “I’m sure the pretty cousin staying with them also might like to earn a sugar bucket. We can always use some help tending to the stirring and boiling.”
Mama nodded complacently. Already my older brothers were rushing to catch up with Papa, shrugging on their coats and mumbling about checking on the firewood supply in the sugarhouse. I rose hurriedly, too.
Gideon’s reaction to Betsy’s comment, however, stopped me in my tracks. She’d meant to tease him with the reference to Robert’s cousin, and I could tell she’d succeeded. He looked irked and flushed, like she’d guessed something he wanted to keep private.
I stared at him dumbly. Another secret? I tried to dredge up a recollection of this new neighbor. She hadn’t been in Middleton long enough for me to meet her more than once, and that had been at meeting. Since the Welds family sat in a pew behind ours, I’d failed to get a good look at her. I only vaguely recalled a dab of a girl, red-cheeked and curly-haired. Yet I suspected from Gideon’s expression that he’d attended to her much more closely.
How closely? Had he seen her since then? If so, was she a passing interest or more than that? And just how did she figure into his frontiersman scheme?
*
It took a whole week to get some answers. Half of it we spent at our farm, the other at Mr. Long’s. But whether at our sugarhouse or his, the days matched: the men, bundled in coats and fur caps, disappeared into the woods, driving their ox-pulled sleds, and every few hours returned, their barrels brimming with sap. They’d stop at our bonfire to drain the contents into the cauldron, then head back to the woods.
Mostly, the womenfolk stayed near the kettle—me, Mama, my sisters, and the Weldses’ cousin, Rachel. Stirring the sap and adding wood to keep the fire going for a steady boil didn’t require much focus; I was given the freedom to imitate nosy Betsy and, during the few times when Gideon’s and Rachel’s paths crossed, examine the subjects’ faces to see what kind of romance was brewing between the Winter and Welds households.
But whenever Gideon made a visit to contribute his full barrel, he neither stole more than a searing glance at this girl nor uttered a single word. It was impossible to determine their degree of familiarity.
Still, during the week, I had plenty of time to examine our new neighbor. I decided I couldn’t like her.
She was missish.
Her responses to Betsy’s inquisitions invited this conclusion. Running the long-handled ladle over the bubbling surface to skim the sap, my sister would ask questions: “So, from what parts did your parents come, Rachel?” “Have you any siblings?” “Do you like Middleton?” “Isn’t your cousin Ed the most half-witted fellow you ever met?” “Did you leave behind a beau?” “Would you settle in this country for good, do you think?”
We didn’t call Betsy the Intelligencer for nothing.
Rachel’s answers disclosed that she was an orphan, with no nearer relatives than the Weldses. During the year after her parents’ passing, she’d stayed in Massachusetts, working as a spinning girl for the prosperous family that owned the mill before saving enough to pay for her stage fare and traveling to the Weldses. The new living arrangement, she confided, was a happier circumstance, since the Weldses, though poor, were a cheerful bunch. “And I do love caring for the babes, cuddling their precious persons, telling them fairy tales, and teaching them games. They’re the dearest things, round and romping. Full of juice! I adore children.”
Her glowing recital happened to coincide with one of Mr. Long’s appearances, so he was present when I grunted and remarked, “You’re in the right place, then. The Welds house veritably teems with brats.” Ten in all: the four youngest of whom made for a daily hell of snotty noses, soiled diapers, sticky hands, cries, accidents, and constant demands. I shuddered.
Catching my expression, Mr. Long’s mouth quivered. But he mostly attended to the cauldron, ladling sap and watching it closely as he poured it back in a slow trickle. He handed Betsy the wooden utensil. “Too thin yet.” Then, to Rachel: “I’m sure Mrs. Welds appreciates your help.”
Rachel, blushing prettily, gave a modest little shrug.
Mama, who’d been bestowing an approving smile on the paragon of would-be motherhood, turned to Mr. Long. “A large family’s a blessing. Just wait until all of those Weldses grow up. So many helping hands would make short work of this business.” She tilted her head to indicate our sugaring. After casting a sidelong peek my way, she inquired innocently, “Do you think you’ll be wanting a big family yourself, Mr. Long?”
For heaven’s sake. I flared my eyes at her.
He answered blandly, “Oh, without a doubt. I should guess ten or eleven children.”
“Eleven,” I gasped. So I was to be a broodmare? Not if I could help it. I glared at him. “Why not make it a round dozen?”
His mouth curved for an instant before straightening. “Good thinking.”
Grace began moaning by the stacked wood, complaining about a bellyache.