Abiding Peace (8 page)

“Please, I don’t know how I’m going to explain to the parson about his trousers.”

“You’ll think of something. Just remind yourself that if I get to looking decent, I can show myself and look for work. You’re helping me become an honest man, that you are. I do want to be honest.”

She wanted to believe him, but his manner and his past actions prevented that. She had managed to get out of the parsonage undetected with a covered dish of stew. He pulled the linen napkin off and dropped it on the ground, then he tipped the bowl up to his mouth.

“I brought you a spoon.”

He lowered the dish, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and reached for it.

Christine shuddered as she put the spoon in his hand.

“Why ain’t you got a husband?”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” He took a bite of stew and kept talking as he chewed. “It’s true you’re homely, but you seem a fair cook and a hard worker. That counts for a lot.”

She stared at him for a moment, scarcely able to believe he had spoken to her in that manner. “Put the dishes on the window ledge when you are finished.” She turned and stalked into the house.

After the eventful weekend, Samuel needed a rest. All of Friday and a good part of Saturday he had spent helping William Heard and the other men build the new pews. Samuel left off on Saturday afternoon to put in more time on his sermon preparations.

The men had finished the work inside the church by Saturday night. The next morning, the parishioners seemed suitably impressed by the accomplishment. Elder Sawyer had assigned the pews. Of course there were a few minor squabbles over which family should have which box, but Samuel left that entirely to the elders. Roger and Mahalia Ackley tried to corner him to complain about their pew’s position after the service, but he quickly excused himself, since he had to prepare for the marriage ceremony.

After the morning’s sermon, he performed the marriage rite for Mordecai Wales and Parthenia Jones. This was followed by the usual nooning hour and then the afternoon service, which lasted three hours.

By sunset on Sunday, Samuel was always wrung out. Christine had prepared a cold supper for him and the children Sunday night and then left them to a quiet evening and early retirement. He slept through the night, hardly stirring from the moment his head hit the feather pillow.

But now Monday had dawned, and he longed to stretch his muscles and do some physical labor. He climbed out of bed, knelt to pray for his family and congregation, then arose and went to the pine chest where he kept his clothing.

His shirts, all but the one he’d worn yesterday, were folded neatly inside. His Sunday breeches and second-best pair likewise. His stockings and drawers occupied a corner. But his workaday trousers—the ones he wore when gardening or helping one of the farmers with haying—were nowhere to be found. He looked around the room in confusion then put on his second-best breeches, his oldest, most worn shirt, lightweight stockings, a leather waistcoat, and shoes. Then he emerged into the great room.

Christine had already arrived, and she knelt by the hearth to kindle a cooking fire.

“Christine.”

“Yes, sir?” She swiveled on her heels to look at him.

“Where are my old trousers?”

She hesitated a moment, and her face colored.

Of course, under ordinary circumstances it would be considered vulgar for a man to mention his trousers in the presence of an unmarried female. But after all, Christine did his mending and laundry. Indeed, she had sewn some of his clothing, and she handled his most intimate garments almost daily. They ought to be able to discuss them.

“I am stitching a new pair for you, sir.” She ducked her head and seemed inordinately concerned with coaxing her pile of tinder to catch a flame.

Samuel cocked his head to one side and considered that. “Did you take the old ones to use as a pattern?”

After a long moment, she said without turning around, “I might have.”

“Ah. Then I suppose I must garden in such as I wear now. Permit me to tend the fire for you.”

“It’s going now. But if you’d care to bring in more water, I won’t say nay. This be my washing day.”

“Of course.”

Samuel picked up the two water buckets and emptied them into the largest kettle he owned. As he walked the short distance to the river for more water, he went over the brief conversation in his mind. It didn’t make much sense to him, but he was certain Christine had a purpose. His old trousers weren’t that bad, but they did bear a couple of patches. Neat patches, it was true, but perhaps she felt it an embarrassment to have the minister go about in patched trousers. Still, he wouldn’t wear the old ones if he were going around the village.

He gave it up and raised a quiet prayer as he dipped the buckets full of water. “Thank You, Lord, for trousers, and for shirts and shoes and hose. Thank You for Christine and the labor she bestows so willingly on our family.”

Yes, Christine was a blessing to be thankful for. She would make some man a fine wife, if only she were willing to marry. Of course, if she did, he and the children would be lost without her. What a pity for Christine to live a solitary life, never knowing the joys of marriage.

The sweet companionship of his wife, Elizabeth, had carried him through many a painful situation. He missed her terribly. She’d been gone more than a year now; again the idea flitted through his mind that perhaps it was time to consider marrying again. This was not the first time the concept had occurred to him, but still the thought stabbed him with a dagger of guilt. And yet, scripture allowed it.

“Ah, Lord, Thou hast said it is not good for man to be alone. Yet whenever I think of replacing my dear Elizabeth, it pains me so much I cannot contemplate it.”

The sun beat already on his shoulders, foretelling another sweltering August day. He reached his doorstep and went inside. Ruth and the boys were up, and Christine had them seated at the table eating corn pone and bacon.

He glanced toward the loom and saw that her new weaving was of fine charcoal gray worsted, a mixture of fine linen thread and wool. For him and the boys. She wouldn’t be able to sell it if she used it on clothing for them, and he would have nothing to pay her this month. She didn’t seem to mind.

She met his gaze, and he noted a slight apprehension in her hazel eyes.

He smiled as he set the buckets down. “I neglected to say good morning, Christine. Forgive me.”

Her expression cleared.

“And good day to you, sir. Will you break your fast now?”

After breakfast was over, Ruth was changed out of her night-clothes, the hearth swept, and the dishes cleaned, Christine began her washing. Ben carried the kettle of hot water out behind the house and emptied it into the washtub. He and John brought several buckets of cold water to add to it, and she wound up with a lukewarm bath for the family’s clothing and linens.

Constance and Abby helped her. After Christine had scrubbed a garment on the washboard, she tossed it into the tub of rinse water. The girls’ job was to retrieve it, dunk it in a bucket that held a second rinse water, wring it again, and hang it on the clothesline. She kept the two little girls busy running back and forth. Constance couldn’t reach the line, but she handed the wet clothes to Abby, who was a head taller and proud that she could perform this task.

Meanwhile, the pastor and his sons weeded the garden and picked the vegetables that were ripe. The peas were gone by, but beets, lettuce, Swiss chard, green beans, carrots, turnips, and onions would liven up their meals. Last year’s root vegetables were nearly exhausted, and what was left had gone soft. The new harvest cheered everyone.

Christine attacked the pile of soiled clothing with a vengeance. She had brought her own and Goody Deane’s laundry over, to save time and resources. If she finished this daunting task by noon, she would do the ironing after dinner and perhaps snatch a couple of hours at the loom.

Such a shame that the reverend had discovered the loss of his old trousers so quickly. She should have expected it on a Monday, she supposed. Samuel often took that day to catch up on chores around the parsonage. The worsted suit she now intended to sew for him would be suitable for Sunday best, however. It wouldn’t actually replace his work clothes. He could wear the older breeches, as he did today, but she knew he preferred his comfortable long trousers for dirty work.

As she scrubbed, she racked her brain for a way to get him some serviceable trousers. Perhaps Jane or Sarah could help her, but if she asked them, she might have to reveal what she had done with the old pair. And making Samuel an entire new suit would delay weaving the thicker wool cloth she needed to make him a new winter coat.

She sighed and wrung out Ruth’s nightdress, the last of the light-colored clothes. Stooping, she lifted an armful of darker clothing into the washtub. As she straightened, she looked out over the garden and corn patch. Was the outlaw watching them, even now, from the edge of the forest?

He had come the past three nights, and she had taken him small amounts of food. It had become her routine. They met in darkness, while Goody Deane slumbered. Once the old woman had woken in her absence, and Christine had dodged her questions, feeling guilty. Each time she met the outlaw, he told her that he wanted to do honest work. Yet he continued to intimidate her into feeding him.

Where was Ruth? A sudden panic seized Christine, and she whirled about. Ah. There she was, playing with her dolly, Lucy, near the woodpile.

“Abby, bring Ruth closer, where I can watch her. She can sit in the shade of the rose bush.” Christine looked once more toward the line of trees beyond the cornfield. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt him watching.

Christine asked Ben to escort her and his three sisters to the Gardners’ farm on Tuesday. Leaving them there with Jane, he went to spend the day working with Richard Dudley and Charles Gardner, who were gathering hay from Charles’s field, within sight of the house.

“What’s that you’re working on?” Jane asked as Christine pulled a roll of linsey-woolsey from her workbag.

“It’s material Goody Dudley gave me last spring. I was hoping there would be enough to make some everyday trousers for the reverend, but I fear there’s not.”

“He needs clothes?”

Christine hesitated. “Well, I’m weaving some nice worsted for a new Sunday winter suit for him, but he really needs something to work about the place without fear of ruining it.”

“Ah. Well, I might have something.”

“Your Charles is taller than the pastor.”

“This is none of his clothing.”

“Well, don’t give me anything you and Charles will need.”

“Nay, ‘tis a piece of cloth he picked up for me on his trip to Boston last month. He brought home a bolt of serge, for which I was grateful, and two pieces of flannel for the baby, and a bit of blue silk.” Jane smiled, her cheeks going a becoming pink. “He said I should make myself a bodice from the silk, but I don’t know as I’d dare wear it. The women of Cochecho would think I was putting on airs.”

“I think it would be lovely, and it would please Charles.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, there’s this piece of coarse cotton. He said he thought I might use it for pillow ticking, but it’s not near so fine as I’d like in a pillow.” Jane went into the next room and returned with a folded length of cloth.

Christine ran her hand over it. “That would do. If you’re certain …”

“Oh, I am.”

Christine nodded. “I’ll spin for you in exchange.”

“Nonsense.”

“Nay, you do far too much for me.”

The baby cried, and Jane smiled. “There’s Johnny, awake from his nap. After I feed him, I’ll help you cut out the pieces.”

Christine went out to check on the little girls. They played inside the fence that surrounded the house, barn, woodshed, and yard.

“We’re building a house for the dollies.” Constance took her hand and led her to where they had formed a little stick house from twigs they’d gathered in the yard.

“Goodman Gardner has a baby calf yonder. And we got to pet it.” Abby pointed to the small barn. “Do you want to see it?”