Mama glanced distractedly her way. “What now, child?”
She whimpered and rubbed her stomach. “I don’t feel at all myself. What if I’m getting a touch of the influenza?”
With a frown, Mama hurried to her youngest and relieved her of her armful of wood, while Betsy exclaimed into the cauldron’s steam, “Fiddle! Miss Lazy needs a touch of the switch; that’s what she ought to be getting.” She passed me the ladle and strode, arms folded, to Mama’s side, sneering, “I’d like to know how many times she’s spilled syrup onto the snow for sampling. Bet she made herself sick on candy.”
Rachel smiled indulgently at my obnoxious sisters.
Mr. Long, used to their squabbles, was looking at the sky, his expression content. “As long as we keep getting these light snowfalls, the sap will run. We might be sugaring off into next week.” He tugged on his mittens and winked at me. “Keep stirring, Harriet Submit Winter.” He pronounced my name succinctly, as though he was savoring every single syllable.
I gripped the ladle. How gratifying it’d feel to thwack him over the head with it.
“Oh.” Rachel fixed me with her round blue eyes. Those eyes annoyed me. They were so perpetually surprised. “Is that your full name? Very pretty.”
I muttered a thank-you and said to Mr. Long’s parting back, “Yes, Harriet Winter, not Harriet Linter. Too bad your spelling isn’t as good as your whittling, Mr. Long.”
He turned to flash me a grin. “Perhaps you can stitch me an alphabet sampler, and I can work on my letters.”
“I hate stitchery.”
“I imagine you’d rather be hard at work distilling strong spirits.” He delivered a sigh in the new girl’s direction and explained, “Miss Winter plans to open a tavern when she grows up. Someday. Hopefully.” His expression clarified that the last two words modified the growing, not the tavern opening.
I shook the ladle threateningly in the air.
Rachel, ever wide-eyed, made a perfect O with her mouth, then said doubtfully, “I wonder your parents would let you.”
He clucked. “Yes, well, she’s their cross to bear. If only she’d give needlework a try. Most girls happily submit to that labor.” He shook his head and ambled toward the sled.
I growled, but before I could lash him with a retort, he’d started talking to his young cousin, Jeb.
And Rachel was chattering again.
“So you dislike stitchery? Do you mean that truly? I find plying a needle a very productive activity. Quite soothing, too, and almost as pleasant as singing.” She bent to nudge another piece of firewood into the flames. When she straightened, her hand fluttered up to smooth a curl from her forehead. “I’ve never known a Linter, but back in Juneville, I knew a Linton—many Lintons, in fact. Rather friendly, the Lintons—or Mrs. Linton, at least. I would have rather hired myself out as her dairymaid than as Mrs. Walkley’s spinning girl, except the Lintons got the notion to make the great trek westward. The morning they departed, Mrs. Linton gave me a gift of some fine lace and made me promise, when I was finally in the position of exploring the legendary Genesee Valley myself, that I’d indulge her with a visit, and she said I’d be welcome to stay as long as I liked. I nearly joined her then and there, for to see a whole caravan readying for departure—the wagons weighted with furniture and farm equipment, the livestock tethered and nervous, the dogs yapping—oh, it filled me with such great excitement, and I—”
“Did you say the Genesee Valley?”
“Yes. Wondrously rich land, I hear.” She glanced around, as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping, then added in a near whisper, “Cousin Robert and Cousin Ed are keen on the notion of journeying there as well.” A small frown creased her forehead. “Nothing official yet, of course. They haven’t even told their folks—avoiding their mother’s tears and opposition as long as possible, I imagine. I learned of it by chance, actually. But they’ve extended the invitation to me, and I couldn’t be more grateful.”
I stared at her for a moment. “Ah.”
And to myself: Aha!
CHAPTER FOUR
One need not grow up with or live for any great length of time in close proximity to five other children to learn this: There is never anything so desirable as that which is desired by another. Mention a hankering for the last potato in the pot, and before you know it, every other young person just has to have that potato or risk death from the craving.
Betsy and Grace fought over a rag doll for the better part of a year until they tore it in half. Matthew and Luke, to this day, vied for the same coffee cup. Gideon’s situation always proved particularly treacherous. This youngest and smallest son could not compete with the meaty-armed, thick-fisted oafs who comprised our brothers. He learned early on to make silent his joys and discoveries. An unusual rock worth keeping was quietly palmed and furtively pocketed.
Chances were that this, more than anything, explained his reticence around Rachel. A show of proprietary fascination would have incited our brothers’ competitive urges. If one weren’t I (the person who knew Gideon best) or Betsy (our family’s version of a Bow Street runner), one probably wouldn’t discern any particular interest on Gideon’s part in this person who, as far as I was concerned, sported more hair than wit.
Of course, this unfortunate aspect of human nature also explained his reluctance to disclose his pioneer plans to the family. Sure, he didn’t want to upset Mama too soon. But he also didn’t want to plant a seed of interest in Luke’s skull. He might decide to join him, and Gid wanted this adventure all for himself.
On the evening of the last day of sugaring, when Daniel Long’s great room filled with spit-shined boots and Sunday-best skirts, when maple cakes (baked by Widow Barnes, Mr. Long’s housekeeper) fragranced the air, and when sleigh bells heralded each new arrival outside while laughter and the fiddler’s string tuning stirred the interior, only Betsy and I probably detected anything peculiar about Gideon. If his cheeks looked ruddier than usual, well, many of us were a bit blistered from a week of working in the cold wind and tending to a big fire.
So, with Rachel, he did not behave like a dog guarding a ham bone. Not overtly. He escorted her to the dance floor just once: for a cotillion. His bow was polite, his conversation (at least that which I managed to overhear) punctilious. Afterward, he walked her to a chair and procured a glass of currant wine for her. He observed every nicety with this new neighbor. He even promptly released her to her next partner. Then, making his way around the couples who were arranging themselves in the new set, he quite rightly asked a languishing Mildred, the doctor’s homeliest daughter, if she’d favor him with a dance.
Yet I saw past the pose. He breathed a mite too quickly and watched the rosy, laughing Rachel rather too closely. He was like a cloud hiding a bolt of lightning.
And I could tell that Gideon, in some strange and secretive and un-Gideon way, was utterly shattered.
I didn’t demur when various Middleton boys asked me to dance, not even when Mr. Long was the one asking. Frankly, I was too distracted to devise a tart rejoinder and perform my customary show of churlishness. I stood up for most of the dances but didn’t do so very gracefully, too busy spying on my brother to attend to the steps.
Before the last reel ended, Mr. Long, my partner, blew a long-suffering sigh and shuffled me off the dance floor.
I blinked at him in surprise. “Are you winded, Mr. Long?”