Another Chance (11 page)

Sarah
pushed down on the latch and opened the door. The fire in the corner hearth danced merrily and bade her welcome. The warm greeting helped allay her anger. In this room, Chippendale furniture had been used. A large poster bed graced the center of the room. The spread and the bed-hangings, although faded from their original bright blue and white checked, retained their hominess, and matching curtains covered the two windows. She wondered if all the bedrooms upstairs had drapery. In White Owl's room downstairs, the windows were bare.

Silver Wolf's grandfather had mentioned his wife
. He said she was white, and this was her family's home. Had she selected the furnishings or had her parents?  Another thought struck her. Might White Owl have preferred the uncovered windows, while his wife had favored the traditional English style of decorating? Had they compromised? Sarah wanted to ask, but was not sure how to do this without antagonizing Silver Wolf.

As she undressed, she thought about her attractive host
. He had become angry when she complimented him on his house, yet earlier when Benjamin had insisted they leave the ceremony, he had accepted the statement calmly. Sarah shook her head. Too many secrets surrounded Mr. Luke, Silver Wolf, Keenan, but the greatest of all might be why her skin tingled with just the memory of his touch.

              * * * *

Wolf walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass, leaned his arm on the window frame, and stared out at the darkness
. He wished his grandfather had not invited the Stones to stay overnight. Wolf's life needed no additional complications, and being near Sarah and learning about her, increased his desire for her. He recalled their time together this evening. Her comments about the stars, her enjoyment of The Dance of Strength, her hearty appetite, and her effort at friendship with Little Turtle chipped at Wolf's defenses; something he could not allow. Sarah was a fascinating woman. Wolf would and could not deny that fact.

He stared at the outside bonfire that burned and illuminated his father's pyramid, yet his thoughts strayed
. Tomorrow, she would leave both the plantation and his life. His musing triggered an emptiness deep within.

"Daughter?" Benjamin called, as he rapped on her door
.

Pulling up the blankets,
Sarah said, in a groggy voice, "Come in." She thrust her hair off her face. Sleep had eluded her during the night and fatigue clouded her brain.

The light that Benjamin carried did little to brighten the dark room
. "I will be harnessing the horses. Please meet me outside as soon as possible," he said. "There is much work for us at home." He touched the flickering flame to the candlewick on the table near the bed.

After throwing on the clothes she had worn the day before,
Sarah hastened down the steps of the silent house. Her dream hadn’t ended. Perhaps she needed to be at the tavern. A sigh escaped her lips. With her hand on the front door latch, she paused and glanced around, strange how little of the house reflected Silver Wolf's personality. He might have been a visitor for all the impact he had made.

She pulled wide th
e heavy, oak door to see a touch of pink coloring the horizon, and framing Benjamin and the empty wagon. Off to the side, but directly in front of the burial mound, an old woman sat and wailed softly. Sarah saw no one else. Her heart dropped. She wanted to say goodbye to White Owl and thank him. Her conscience nagged her for that was only part of the truth, and not the major reason. Although she scanned the area, Silver Wolf did not appear. With heavy feet, Sarah walked from the house.

Benjamin helped her climb in the cart
. "I took our leave of Luke and White Owl, and thanked them for their hospitality."

His answer helped explain their absence, but failed to erase her depression
. She had wanted to mend her fences with Silver Wolf after the less-than-favorable ending to their evening. To herself, she admitted she wished to memorize Wolf's features and keep his image with her for all time. Yet, she couldn't even say goodbye.

As they drove off,
Sarah took one last look. A tall, familiar man now stood in the barren field. He watched them leave. She waved. He only stared.

              * * * *

The rays of the sun struck the Georgian chest of drawers, magnifying the dust specks on the delicate molding and in the canted corners
. Sarah stared at the minute particles of dirt, but remained seated on the windowsill. Her only response, when she heard the inn's door on the floor below open and close, was to tuck her nightshift under her bare feet and push the side of the blanket tight against the lower pane. When she had
returned from Long Meadow Plantation, she had expected to awaken from her fantasy. Yet, four mornings later,-if each sunrise counted as days as they had in her own, real world, nothing had changed.

She missed her home and her modern plumbing
. At that thought, Sarah glanced at the chamber pot under the bed and shuddered. She had even tried to recreate the last scene in her real life. After placing a couple of bed pillows on the wooden settle, similar to the one in her own parlor, she had lain down and eventually drifted off. Her plan failed, for when she had awakened, the 18th century still ruled her life.

There must be a way to make my own furniture and my own century reappear
. This thought permeated her existence. If she stayed in her room, her own world might return. She pulled her shawl tighter, trying to protect her body from the stream of cool air that seeped through the window.

As had happened so often before
, during quiet, reflective moments, Silver Wolf's face floated into her mind; she had not
seen him since Long Meadow, yet his image was as clear as a mountain stream. Thinking of him became a diversion to her mundane life. Although they had parted in a cold, unfriendly manner; she recalled other memories. His gentleness with his grandfather and son, his positive and negative reactions to her, all these thoughts kept his image unclouded in her mind. But most of all, she recalled the sensuality of his touch.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door
. "Yes?" Sarah replied. Though the idea was foolish, for who would ever knock on her bedroom door in the 21st Century when she lived alone and kept the outside doors locked, still she hoped.

"Daughter?"

Her spirits plummeted to the depths of the inn's well. Slowly, she exhaled. "Yes."

"May I enter?"

"Of course," she responded in a blank tone, tucking the blankets firmly around her.

"Is thou well?" Benjamin asked
. Concern showed on his face, as he walked into her room.

His expression dented, if only slightly, the cradle of depression surrounding her
. The more she saw of Benjamin, the more he reminded her of a stuffed bear, gruff looking on the outside, soft and warm beneath. The unbidden image of her parents brought tears to her eyes. For the second time that morning, she blinked them away.

How
could she answer his question? What should she say?  Physically, she felt fine. Mentally, she was okay. Emotionally, she was despondent. Did they recognize depression two hundred years ago? Unable to choose an answer, she shrugged her shoulders.

"Is it thy woman's time?" Benjamin persisted
. 

The idea shocked her
. The thought of using rags revolted her, but that was surely what they used in the 18th century.

He waited patiently for her to speak
.

"No," she said, strongly
.

"Doeth
thou suffer from melancholia?"

Deciding that name was as close to depression as she was likely to discover,
Sarah replied, "Perhaps, I do. Do... doeth thou have a suggestion?"

"Work," he said, conviction punctuating the word
. "Work will keep thy mind and body occupied."

She might have guessed his answer
. Unable to think of an excuse, she said, "I shall
dress and be down directly."

"Wear thy oldest clothing," he cautioned
.

Before she could ask why, he stepped back and closed the door
.

Sarah
slid off the window seat and stepped onto the bare, pine floor. Icicles shot up her leg and climbed her spine. "Damn
the 18th century," she mumbled. After taking care of her immediate needs, she thrust her hands into the washbowl then jerked back. As she shook off the icy water, she gritted her teeth before hurriedly splashing water on her face and hands. "Ohhh… blast!"

Throwing open the lid of the carved oak chest that stood at the base of her bed, she searched for a well-washed, outfit
. She considered several petticoats and short gowns, but rejected them when she noticed the strength of the linen. At the very bottom lay a possibility. She drew on the threadbare, faded costume, pulled on the panties she had washed the night before, and pushed her feet into the same black pumps she had worn since she arrived then trudged down the steps.

Although
Sarah wandered through all five rooms of the tavern and called down to the cellar, she failed to find Benjamin. Opening the front door, a soft, cool breeze touched her face. High gray clouds partially covered the sun, limiting the warm rays of the early November morning.

"We are over here," her father called
.

She acknowledged his greeting
.

Daniel, wearing a pair of breeches he had obviously outgrown months before, smiled at her
. Sarah sent an answering one back, deciding he shouldn’t suffer because of her misery.

Since she had met the lad,
Sarah had learned that Benjamin had bought Daniel's indentured papers. Shortly afterwards, the dear Quaker had freed Daniel from all debt. Still the youth continued to work to pay off what he perceived as his indebtedness. Perhaps, this was why he never wore anything except well-patched clothes. She wondered if he owned a decent outfit. Today Benjamin's clothes, also, looked more like rags than a shirt and pants. Sarah laughed silently for she completed this motley trio with her own shabby clothes.

The two of them stood between a wagon filled to overflowing with apples and two large, copper kettles
. One of these hung over an unlit fire, while the other stood near the table and wooden bench. Near the latter a variety of black pots and clay jars, large enough to hold several gallons, had been positioned.

Oh, dear,
Sarah sighed.
Apple season. How could I have forgotten?
She glanced again at the huge pile. While she enjoyed making applesauce and pies from fresh apples, the size of this job sent sympathy pains through her back, shoulders and hands.

"Robert Brinton," said Benjamin, "is paying his debt
."

Sarah
had no idea who the man was, but she was sure she would never forget his name or his barter.

"While the weather is fine," Ben
jamin continued, "I thought thou might prepare them for the winter."

"Has thou specific requests?" she asked, coming nearer, still stunned by the sheer size of the job
.

He stared at her strangely
then said, "Applesauce, apple-butter, dried apples…"

She focused on the huge, heavy kettle
. "Who will help me?"

"Daniel will keep the fire going and will carry the jars to the cellar
."

"And you?" she gasped, thinking of the hours required to complete this task
.

Benjamin did not answer, but frowned
.

Quickly, she realized her mistake
. "And
thou
?" Sarah enunciated.

"The cellar must be cleaned before we can store our provisions
."

"Who will help thee?" she asked, remembering the stone walls that must be whitewashed, the shelves cleaned, the spoiled or tainted food discarded, and the dirt floor swept then carefully sprinkled with water
.

"Daniel
?"

The lad in question stood about five feet five
, close to her own height, and he weighed little more than she. Sarah had watched Daniel lift barrels of ale with little effort so she did not doubt his strength. Still, she did not envy him his double dose of chores. Perspiration already dripped down Daniel's forehead and soaked his hair, causing the rust color curls to tighten and allowing strands to escape his queue. His reddened face partially concealed his mask of freckles. To work up such a sweat on this cool day, Daniel must have been up before sunrise.

Sarah
grabbed the first apple, wishing for an apple parer, and began. When she finished each one, she tossed the peels into the copper kettle, dropped the apple quarters into a bucket, and threw the cores in a pail for the pigs. The pot was half full when she started the fire and began making the applesauce. While they cooked, she threaded segments on a string. These "snitzes" would hang and dry in the attic. For the next few days, the apple quarters must be twisted on the string so they would dry but not rot.