Read Online Abigail's Story by Ann Burton - Free Book Online

not be agreeable on either side. My thanks for your consideration.” I replaced my veil and turned to Amri. “We shall return to Carmel now.”
    Nabal’s jaw sagged, creating another chin. “Do you imply that I am not good enough for you ?”
    â€œI would never presume to insult you so,” I said.
    â€œThen why do you go?” he demanded.
    â€œI would not prove suitable as mistress of this place.”
    His brow furrowed. “Why not?”
    Was he truly so addle-brained, or was it an act?
    I took a moment to gaze about deliberately. “This house is acceptable, I suppose, but I saw animals outside covered in vermin. Your tenants live little better than beggars, and filth breeds disease.” I let my nose wrinkle, ever so slightly.
    â€œThey live as they wish. I do not care as long as they do not step foot in here.” Now Nabal sounded defensive and rather anxious. “What sort of disease?”
    â€œMany kinds,” I said, very matter-of-factly. “In any case, it is obvious that you prefer living without the interference of a caring wife. For that, and for intruding upon your time, I am sorry. Peace be upon you, Master.”
    Nabal sat up, outraged. “You do insult me.”
    â€œThen I may only ask your pardon again.” I briskly adjusted my head cloth. “Come, Amri. There is no place for me here.”
    â€œHold.” Nabal rose from his chair, showing himself to be of average height, which only emphasized his softness and lack of form. His prominent belly swayed from side to side as he walked in a circle around us, inspecting me closely. “I would hear what makes you such a desirable wife, Abigail of Carmel.”
    â€œMany things.” I waited until I had his full attention before I continued. “I would bring thrift andindustry to my husband’s household. Slaves and servants cannot cheat me of a day’s honest work, for I myself can cook, clean, spin, weave, and dye wool, as well as attend to all other domestic tasks. I have not been kept indoors all my days, either. For two years now, I have sold daily at Carmel market.” I paused and took a deep breath, for I was about to admit what even Amri did not know. “What pottery I have sold there, I made with my own hands.”
    Nabal made a sound of disbelief. “Women are not potters.”
    â€œThis one is,” Amri told him. “She fashions the finest pottery in Judah, but she does not claim the work as her own. Her father is crippled, you see.” He gave me an admiring look. “Not many daughters would be as mindful of their family’s pride.”
    â€œI can see that,” Nabal snapped. “She has all but rubbed my nose in her modesty.”
    â€œHer parents raised her well,” Amri said softly. “Were I a younger man, I would take her above any other to wife.”
    â€œFine, let us assume that she is, in truth, what you say.” Nabal turned to me. “What zebed do you bring to a husband? Sheep? Goats? Land? How large is your portion of your father’s nahalah?”
    â€œI have . . . I bring . . .” I could not lie to him. There was nothing to be brought.
    â€œThis is the place?” a strident female voice called out. “By the Queen of Heaven, I have walked shorter distances to visit my relatives in the north.”
    â€œThe steward says they are in here,” another, familiar male voice said.
    The door opened, and Shomer and Cetura entered the feasting room. The rug seller carried a heavy roll of colorful woven wool, while the grain seller’s widow led four servants burdened with large, weighty sacks. Other merchants, similarly laden, followed them in.
    â€œWhy do they come?” I asked Amri in a whisper. I was terrified of seeing my father hobble in to demand I return home.
    â€œI sent word to the other merchants.” Amri smiled down at me. “Today the market comes to