Whisper Falls (25 page)

Had Mark gone mad?

My mouth went dry with dread. This day could not end well for me.

“You are a stranger in our town,” Mr. Pratt said. “Who are you and what is your business?”

“My name is Mark Lewis.”

The town cooper drew even with my master. “Mr. Lewis reports that he is not lost.”

Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “What is your reason to visit Worthville this Sunday?”

I raised my head. Mark met my gaze, apology in his expression.

My master flushed. “Sir? Your purpose?”

Mark gazed back calmly. “Just walking through.”

Several of the menfolk formed a line on either side of Mr. Pratt.

“That is a peculiar activity on the Sabbath,” Solomon Worth said in a menacing tone, rubbing his fist.

Merciful heavens, Mark did not realize his danger. I would have to soothe the tension before it ignited. “No doubt Mr. Lewis is returning to his home after a long journey.”

Mark nodded. “Miss Marsh is correct.”

His response sent a jolt rippling through the crowd.

Mr. Pratt turned to stare at me. “Do you know my servant, Mr. Lewis?”

“We've met. I'd like to talk with her again.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Lewis. You may not speak with my servant.”

The crowd had grown silent. Not even the babies fussed.

Mark shifted his gaze from me to Mr. Pratt. “Why not?”

“She's busy. She has chores.”

Mark smiled, a tight, superior smile. “Chores on the Sabbath? In Raleigh, we allow our servants to honor their day of rest.”

Pride swelled within me at Mark's answer. He displayed an air of confidence and disdain rather than the deference my master preferred in such exchanges. I shifted John to my other hip as I fought to keep my lips straight.

“Susanna,” my master said with a frightening softness, “you may speak briefly with this visitor.”

I laid Baby John in Deborah's outstretched arms, ensured that Dorcas held hands with Delilah and Dinah, and then moved to the center of the lane, leaving a proper distance between me and Mark.

“Do not tarry long,” Mr. Pratt warned. “You wouldn't wish to miss your dinner.” He stormed into the woods, the family trotting after him.

One by one, the townsfolk drifted to their homes. When nobody remained within earshot, I said, “Why have you come?”

“I'm sorry. I wanted a quick look, but my timing totally sucked.” His lips twisted. “Did you just rescue me from something?”

“Indeed.” I didn't wish to dwell on his error, but neither would I say it was all right. Even though Mark had meant no harm, I would pay the consequences. “We are here now and cannot talk for long. Tell me what you learned.”

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I talked with a lady in a tavern. She mentioned four families needing maids. One for the laundry, one for the kitchen, and two for the house.”

A household employing laundry maids would be an important one. But a housemaid job would be the least likely to ruin Phoebe's hands.

“Which families?”

He handed over the list.

I read quickly. “Both Mr. Haywood and Mr. Whitaker are statesmen, but I prefer the position in Mr. Haywood's home. A job cleaning inside the house would be better than washing dishes in the scullery or laundering sheets. Is it time to take Phoebe to Raleigh?”

“Not yet. I want to check on these people and make sure they're all right. And now that I know what to look for, I might find one or two more names. I'll come back on Tuesday, and we can decide the best date then.”

“I shall wait to talk to my mother until we speak again.”

He walked backwards. “I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't wise for you to come, but I'm glad you did.”

He nodded, spun on his heel, and ran.

From the shade of an oak, I watched until Mark disappeared beyond a rise in the road. Around me, the townsfolk had dispersed, retreating to their homes for a cold dinner.

I trudged along the path to the Pratt house. Despite the heat, chills rolled down my limbs. I would be punished for Mark's visit. The only question was how severely.

The family was gathered at the table, eating bean soup and bread. All looked up when I entered. No one spoke.

Mr. Pratt reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. I went about my chores, pouring cider. When I reached his side, he said, “Where did you meet Mr. Lewis?”

I filled my master's cup as I sorted through several lies. “I met him on the Raleigh Road.”

“When?”

“Three weeks past.”

“For what reason?”

I gave a deliberately casual shrug. “He asked directions.”

“On such slim acquaintance, I wonder why he would speak with you today.”

My mind fumbled for a reasonable response and came up with nothing. Why had I not anticipated these questions?

“Mr. Lewis,” I said, drawing out each word slowly, “is on a journey from Ward's Crossroads. I pointed the way to Raleigh.”

Mr. Pratt grunted skeptically. “Mr. Lewis seems remarkably willing to travel without knowing the route.”

I nodded vaguely and turned away.

“He is most handsome,” Deborah said. “Such beautiful teeth.”

Her father rapped his knuckles on the table before her. She sniffed and lowered her gaze.

My master glared at me but said nothing more. I circled the table to serve my mistress.

She took a dainty sip. “I crave cake, Susanna. You must bake me a ginger cake tomorrow.”

I glanced down the length of the table at my master. We had run out of ginger. There was also no sugar left, and my mistress did not care for honey.

Mr. Pratt dismissed her request with the wave of a hand. “Susanna doesn't need to fire up the oven. You may wait until baking day.”

“I don't wish to wait until Wednesday for cake.”

“But you will.”

She sent me a resentful glare and then fumed over her dish.

After I finished serving the cider, I took Dinah and John to their room for naps. By the time I made it back to the first floor, the rest of the family had left the table.

I departed the house with arms full of dirty trenchers and an empty pitcher, glad to return to the kitchen and its solitude. Dropping my load of dishes into the washtub, I pondered the scene in the dining room. It had gone better than I expected.

Long, hard fingers grasped my upper arm and jerked me backwards until I stumbled into a solid body. My master's other hand splayed across my belly, pinning me to him. Shock crawled like tiny spiders up my neck.

“Is Mr. Lewis your secret beau?”

“I have no secret beau.” The cloying scent of sweaty wool filled my nostrils. My master had never touched me with such intimacy.

“Has he made advances toward you?”

“Mr. Lewis has done nothing improper.” Blood thrummed in my ears, muffling sound.

“Has he kissed you?” Mr. Pratt's breath rasped in my ear.

“No.”

“He had better not come near you again. You belong to me.”

Belong? Merciful heavens, I was indentured—not enslaved. My master had begun to sound like a crazed man. I must try to calm him.

“Mr. Pratt, please release me. I must go to the little ones. They may wake from their naps soon.”

“Nothing else is completely mine,” the whispery voice continued as if I hadn't spoken. “I own the farm and the mill. Yet Drusilla won't let me forget they came to me as her dowry. Fat, stupid cow.”

I struggled, but his iron hold tightened.

“Please release me, sir. I don't wish to share these confidences.”

“You will listen if I say so.”

He was too strong to escape. Panic nearly squeezed the breath from my lungs. We were alone. If I screamed, no one would come.

Horror shuddered through me as I recognized his body's hardened response to our contact. My fear excited him.

He barked a laugh, low and wicked. “You may not associate with Mr. Lewis or any other man.”

Not associate with Mark? That was one order I had no intention of obeying. Mr. Pratt would have to chain me to the kitchen to prevent my time with Mark.

With resolve came clarity. Pleading hadn't worked, nor had struggling. I would change tactics. I went limp.

He grunted in surprise as my body sagged. He held on a moment longer and dropped me. I lay where I landed. He nudged my back once with the toe of his boot and stepped over me. Heels clicking, he stalked to the door.

“I do not tolerate anyone stealing what is mine. If Mr. Lewis is caught near you again, he will regret it.”

* * *

With the breakfast dishes washed and the beans cooking in a kettle, I slipped into the pantry with a wedge of cheese and reached beneath the shelves for my copy of
Persuasion
. The second reading of this novel was providing as much enjoyment as the first.

“Susanna, there you are,” Mrs. Pratt said from just behind me.

How had I not heard her enter the kitchen?

There was no chance to hide the book below the shelves. I slid it into my pocket and hoped she hadn't noticed the furtive movement.

“Why are you skulking in the pantry? Come out here.” My mistress bustled over to the bench, lowered herself, and smoothed the skirts of her new cream frock over her swelling belly.

“We must plan a second baking day for Friday.”

Perhaps now I understood why my master could not pay his account at the store. My mistress spent large sums on fashion.

“A second baking day, ma'am?”

“My contributions to the Independence Day celebration are always the envy of the village ladies, and this year will be no different.” She fanned herself, anticipation softening her face. “I want to bring unusual dishes. No one else will think to bring a sweet potato tart and a berry sonker.”

I watched my mistress with foreboding. The time had come for her to learn of the family's dire circumstances, and I would have to be the one to tell her. I didn't relish the task or the consequences.

“I cannot bake treats this week.”

“Whyever not?”

“We have run out of sugar and spices.”

She paused in her fanning and gave me a hard stare. “You must be mistaken.”

“No, ma'am.”

With a groan, she rose and pushed past me to charge into the pantry. There was the clack of jars opening and closing. She emerged, a petulant curl to her lip.

“How very stupid to let the staples fall so low. Why have you not warned Mr. Pratt?”

I didn't allow the insult to alter my expression. “I warned him two weeks ago.”

Her nostrils flared. “I shall speak with my husband. You had better be telling the truth. Now, go to Mr. Foster at once and fetch more.” She waved me toward the door.

“Mr. Foster will not sell to us.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “For what reason?”

“Perhaps your husband can explain.”

I could only imagine the scene. Mrs. Pratt would rage at my master. He would know the source of her information, and I would be lashed again for sharing his secrets. It might be wise to check the garden.

Mrs. Pratt's expression passed through a variety of emotions in rapid succession, ending with determination.

“Follow me.” She disappeared into the yard.

I glanced around for a place to hide my book. In the large kettle?

“Susanna?” Mrs. Pratt huffed from the doorway. “Was I not clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I hurried to keep pace. Her lumbering walk was surprisingly swift. She headed to Mr. Foster's store and paused outside. “Wait here.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She clomped up the wooden stairs and through the threshold. Voices raised and faded. After a time, my mistress returned.

“You may enter and collect a new portion of sugar. Mr. Foster will also provide cinnamon and ginger.” She awaited me at the bottom of the stairs.

A thin-lipped Mr. Foster stacked the supplies in my arms. As I accompanied my mistress to the Pratts's property, I pondered what else to serve for dinner. A skillet of cornbread would go well with the pot of beans, and perhaps I should search the garden for more cucumber.

Deborah had the four youngest children in the yard. When Dorcas spied us, she ran over. “Mama?”

“Leave me be, Dorcas.” She turned to her eldest daughter. “Is your Papa home?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Deborah gulped. “He says he has returned for dinner.”

Mrs. Pratt gave a sharp nod and entered the house. The door closed with a soft click.

Deborah scooped up John and followed me to the kitchen. “Where has Mama been?”

“The store.”

Dorcas poked her head in the door. “What do you have?”

“Spices.”

“Will you make a treat today?”

I shook my head regretfully while I fetched cornmeal and a bowl.

Shouts erupted from the house. Dorcas spun around and ran. Deborah and I rushed to the door.

“I do not know what to make of this,” Deborah said, her arms tightening protectively around the baby.

“Nor do I.”

She quivered with fright. “I do believe it is time to check on the chickens.”

“A wise choice.” Backing into the kitchen, I wondered how quickly I could disappear into the garden. If only I hadn't started the cornbread. I returned to the worktable and mixed the batter with vigor.

“Delilah, Dinah, come,” Deborah called, urging her youngest sisters closer. No sooner had they thumped down the rear stairs than Dorcas slipped in through the front door.

“Susanna, I have never heard them so angry. Papa told Mama the mill is faring poorly at present…”

I had wondered about that, although it made little sense. After the excitement of adding a new grindstone for wheat—shipped all the way from France—I would have thought their business would increase. How could any of us have known that closing the mill for a few short weeks would have such a lingering effect?