CHAPTER ONE
A March wind roared and dipped down the chimney to tease the flames. I welcomed its frigid breath. The fire, combined with the activities of nine people, made an oven of the house. I regretted wearing the winter longies under my skirt. This was no night for woolen flannel.
In preparation for the sugaring, my father and brothers, along with our neighbor Mr. Long, had turned the industry of spile making into a contest, and a continuous shower of sumac shavings fell around the hearth. We would need at least five hundred of these spouts to tap into the maples. I divided my time between helping Mama clean up after supper and returning to the fireside bustle to sweep the floor, deliver mead, collect spiles out of the dust, and turn the metal rods on the coals so they stayed hot, ready to burn out the spouts’ centers.
Betsy and Grace, instead of making life easier by lending a hand, added to my labors. Greatly overestimating my interest in their latest skirmish, my two sisters followed me.
Before I could sidle away again, Betsy grabbed my arm. Her glare, however, was all for Grace. “Last week it was the headache. The week before that she whined about her blood feeling tired. Whoever heard of an eleven-year-old with tired blood? Ha.” Betsy, who was two years older than Grace, stared accusingly at the youngest. “Too weak to do her chores but not so ill to refuse the last cake. She’s not remotely sick.”
Grace, languishing against my shoulder, contradicted her with a series of honking coughs.
“A slight chill is all,” Betsy insisted, speaking louder to drown the hacking. “I caught the liar pinching her cheeks right before Papa returned, hoping to give herself a consumptive air.”
“A talebearer and an actress: Who’s worse?” I swatted Betsy’s leg with the broom. She’d stepped right in my dust pile.
Stumbling out of the way, she said in a vicious rush, “I know what she’s about. She wants Papa to pity her so he’ll let her have her pick of Mitten’s pups.”
“That’s not his way.” I returned the broom to the closet, confronted the maple-sugar buckets strewn by the back door, and began stacking them. “He wouldn’t single her out for a spaniel.”
“But he might let her name them, and she’ll choose stupid names again.” Betsy shot Grace a scornful look. “Mitten. Next we’ll have a Boot and a Pretty Coat and a Sock and—and—a whole trousseau of foolish titles.”
Grace coughed. “You’re so cruel to me. You’ll be sorry about that when I’m dead.”
A call for more mead interrupted Betsy’s retort. I detached my sleeve from her fingers and turned to the Invalid. “Don’t be a goose. You are getting devilish tedious.” Wrinkling my nose, I filled the mead pitcher. “Plus you reek.”
Grace gave her arm a tentative sniff. “Mama rubbed me down with sulfur and molasses.”
“That explains it.” I picked up the pitcher. “Now move.” The girls shuffled out of my way.
Mama had joined the gathering, her round face rosy and hands placidly folded in her lap. Her small feet kicked back the rocker, and as I turned from Luke’s replenished cup to fill our neighbor’s tankard, she gave me an approving smile. “Harriet’s a great help to me, Mr. Long. She made the bread we ate at supper—always does now, in fact. How she manages such a fine crumb and glossy crust, I don’t know. And she makes that mead at strawberry time. Good, isn’t it?”
Our neighbor took an obliging sip. “Very good.”
“Almost as good as her ginger beer,” Mama added with a meaningful wink and a hand brandished in my direction, like a peddler advertising a shiny pot.
I narrowed my eyes at her.
Mr. Long picked up the spile he’d started. “I think I remember that beer being uncommonly delicious.”
“If inebriation’s your aim,” I said, “you’re in the right company.” Indeed, except for Gideon, my favorite brother and also the only sensible one, the boys looked well on their way to gross drunkenness. “Mead, beer, currant wine”—I topped off Matthew’s drink—“I could run a tavern.”
“Harriet,” Mama scolded.
Mr. Long merely smiled and finished his spout.
Passing her on my way to the kitchen, I answered her reproving expression with a grimace.
Mama had abandoned every effort of subtlety. We’d always seen a lot of Mr. Long. He was our nearest neighbor, not yet the age of my oldest brother but already the sole proprietor of a farm larger than our own. His parents had died of influenza almost three years ago. An only child, he’d escaped the contagion’s deadly clutches and, afterward, somehow managed his grief and the family farm at the same time. More than managed. The property had thrived under his care. He was still my brothers’ close friend, but his greater responsibilities set him apart, made him seem older.
Before he’d turned seventeen last year, my mother had stopped calling him Danny and started addressing him as Mr. Long. “You don’t call an accomplished gentleman Danny,” she’d explained when I had questioned the change. Her deference irked me because she expected me to share it—and because, in recent months, she’d decided to make him her son-in-law with or without my endorsement. She was the one who had invited him to dinner, surely hoping an evening involving whittling spouts would give him the chance to shine, for everyone in Middleton, New Hampshire, knew that Daniel Uriah Long had a special genius for carving wood. It would be impossible not to know this. Each thing he built, from the topmost rafter of his house to the armrest he fashioned for the end of his meetinghouse pew, bore his initials and a date: D.U.L. 1808, D.U.L. 1806, D.U.L. 1809.
There was nothing specifically wrong with Daniel Uriah Long. I’d be the first to admit that he was an excellent farmer. And yes, he boasted a strong frame capable of handling the most arduous task, a handsome if reticent face, and expressive gray eyes that showed an appreciation for the absurd even when his unsmiling mouth didn’t. As for his initialing, I really couldn’t accuse him of vanity, since, in all fairness, most men of my acquaintance signed their handiwork. In fact, south of us, one whole side of Ebenezer Felde’s barn sported, in large letters, his entire last name. Daniel Long was simply a great one for puttering with wood. This, of course, resulted in a surplus of initials.
And those initials, shy of one letter, said it all. His every aspect lacked impetuosity, mystery, devilment. It was difficult to work up a romantic passion for Mr. D.U.L. Yet, inexplicably, he’d managed to stir within his plodding heart an interest in me. It was no secret in Middleton that the man hoped, in the near future, to fix me with his tedious initials.
Just the thought of this expectation raised my hackles. After I finally folded the towel in the kitchen and joined the fireside circle, now raucous with my brothers’ ditties, I was feeling particularly mulish and shook my head when Papa requested a song.
The scent of singed sumac hung in the air. Plenty of spiles filled the few maple-sugar buckets between Matthew and Gideon, but Mr. Long continued to whittle away at one, from time to time answering a question or sharing a brief observation, usually without looking up. In the reddish light, I could see that along the spout he’d carved a tiny but intricate leafy vine. “Rather fancy for a spout, isn’t it, Danny?”
My father frowned at my waspish tone, but Mr. Long nodded. “Habit.”
His mildness goaded me to add, “You forgot to etch in your initials.”
Quick as a snap, his eyes met mine. “So I did.” He rectified the omission and held out the spout. “For you.”
Surprised by the gesture, I didn’t immediately take it. Then, just as I leaned forward to accept the gift, he retrieved it, leaving my hand dangling stupidly.
His mouth quivered. He suppressed the smile and murmured, “Perhaps I ought to carve your initials in it as well, since it will be yours.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
I folded my arms. “I doubt there’s room for anything else on the little thing.”
“I’ll squeeze them in. It’s H then…?”
“S,” I offered grudgingly.
“H.S.W., Harriet S. Winter,” he said evenly as he carved. “What is the S for? Sarah? Sally?”
I tightened my mouth and shook my head. I despised my middle name. If only the S did stand for Sarah or Sally.
Betsy the Tattler, sitting at Papa’s feet, offered, “Submit. That’s what it stands for.”
For the first time that night, Mr. Long laughed. “Submit. Oh, that’s rich.” As he presented the spout, he asked, still grinning, “And do you?”
I took it with a slow, ungracious show of disinterest but answered curtly and quickly enough: “No. Never.”
Copyright © 2018 by Melissa Ostrom
