desk on some kind of ledger. At one point in Alice’s back-and-forth he looked up and caught her eye; he rose and came into the keeping room.
“Tell me, Widow Berry,” he said. “Do your plans for Alice leave her time to run a small errand to Sears’s store?”
The widow looked up from where she leaned over the fire, stirring it up for the kettle. She peered at Freeman. “I could allow of an errand.”
“Very well.” Freeman led Alice out the door and into the yard. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bill, one pound old tenor, worth about three shillings in silver. “I’m in need of a tin of tobacco.” He pointed. “To get to Sears’s store you take this landing road all the way to the King’s road and turn right along it. Beyond the mills you take a right at the fork and soon beyond the fork you’ll see the sign for the store—a red and black barrel. Don’t go beyond or you’ll end at Yarmouth.”
Alice closed her fingers around the note and ran into the road.
THE LANDING ROAD dipped and jogged with sun-dried spring ruts, and Alice stumbled more than once, too busy looking around her to mind her feet. She passed few houses on the landing road, more when she took the turning onto the King’s road as Freeman had directed, but most of the houses looked simple and tight, nested low to the ground like the widow’s. Nearer the mills Alice found some grander houses of two full stories, even saw a door and knocker that reminded her of Verley’s; her steps stuttered, then strengthened, as a small flame of anger found her. Why should every fine house have a Verley in it? Why not a Morton? But the thought of Morton did nothing to cool her. He should not have given her to the Verleys. He should have taken her back when she asked him.
Alice worked her way past the first grand house and came to a long, broad tavern building hugging the road. Behind the tavern the millpond shimmered in a slice of newfound sun, its waters somersaulting down the hill into the millstream below. The mill wheel spun under the force of the spring flood waters, churning gobs of spray into the air that the sun turned to minute snowflakes, reminding Alice of the spray on her first ocean voyage. How far she’d come! And how fine a day! How fine a village! Alice walked, and looked, and the anger that had leaked out dissolved into the clean salt air of Satucket.
The road near the mills grew busier, but not with the kind of busyness Alice had been used to at Dedham, or even Medfield. She passed an Indian in English clothes, a red-haired man driving a cart full of barrels, a pair of women in silk dresses, and a tumbling, noisy, mismatched group of children. None spoke to Alice, but they all took note of her, as she might have taken note of any stranger in her own village. Alice passed them all with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, keeping tight hold of Freeman’s bill.
At the fork she turned right and almost at once saw the sign with the red and black barrel. The house looked little different from the widow’s except for the sign, but the door stood open, and Alice stepped inside it. Shelves stacked with crocks and sacks and bolts of cloth lined the walls; several crates littered the floor. A man knelt over the crates calling out the contents while a woman stood behind him marking each item in a ledger: five reams writing paper, two dozen cakes soap, one dozen horn buttons. They both left off work and looked up as Alice entered.
Alice told them her made-up name, and where she was staying. She told them of her errand for Freeman.
The man said, “So he’s back, then?”
The woman said, “The widow too?”
Alice nodded. The man and woman exchanged a look. The man got the tobacco and set it down on the counter. Alice put Freeman’s bill next to it. The man gave her back two shillings eight pence.
Alice curtseyed and left the store, holding the coins tight in one hand, the tobacco tin in the other. She retraced
“Tell me, Widow Berry,” he said. “Do your plans for Alice leave her time to run a small errand to Sears’s store?”
The widow looked up from where she leaned over the fire, stirring it up for the kettle. She peered at Freeman. “I could allow of an errand.”
“Very well.” Freeman led Alice out the door and into the yard. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bill, one pound old tenor, worth about three shillings in silver. “I’m in need of a tin of tobacco.” He pointed. “To get to Sears’s store you take this landing road all the way to the King’s road and turn right along it. Beyond the mills you take a right at the fork and soon beyond the fork you’ll see the sign for the store—a red and black barrel. Don’t go beyond or you’ll end at Yarmouth.”
Alice closed her fingers around the note and ran into the road.
THE LANDING ROAD dipped and jogged with sun-dried spring ruts, and Alice stumbled more than once, too busy looking around her to mind her feet. She passed few houses on the landing road, more when she took the turning onto the King’s road as Freeman had directed, but most of the houses looked simple and tight, nested low to the ground like the widow’s. Nearer the mills Alice found some grander houses of two full stories, even saw a door and knocker that reminded her of Verley’s; her steps stuttered, then strengthened, as a small flame of anger found her. Why should every fine house have a Verley in it? Why not a Morton? But the thought of Morton did nothing to cool her. He should not have given her to the Verleys. He should have taken her back when she asked him.
Alice worked her way past the first grand house and came to a long, broad tavern building hugging the road. Behind the tavern the millpond shimmered in a slice of newfound sun, its waters somersaulting down the hill into the millstream below. The mill wheel spun under the force of the spring flood waters, churning gobs of spray into the air that the sun turned to minute snowflakes, reminding Alice of the spray on her first ocean voyage. How far she’d come! And how fine a day! How fine a village! Alice walked, and looked, and the anger that had leaked out dissolved into the clean salt air of Satucket.
The road near the mills grew busier, but not with the kind of busyness Alice had been used to at Dedham, or even Medfield. She passed an Indian in English clothes, a red-haired man driving a cart full of barrels, a pair of women in silk dresses, and a tumbling, noisy, mismatched group of children. None spoke to Alice, but they all took note of her, as she might have taken note of any stranger in her own village. Alice passed them all with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, keeping tight hold of Freeman’s bill.
At the fork she turned right and almost at once saw the sign with the red and black barrel. The house looked little different from the widow’s except for the sign, but the door stood open, and Alice stepped inside it. Shelves stacked with crocks and sacks and bolts of cloth lined the walls; several crates littered the floor. A man knelt over the crates calling out the contents while a woman stood behind him marking each item in a ledger: five reams writing paper, two dozen cakes soap, one dozen horn buttons. They both left off work and looked up as Alice entered.
Alice told them her made-up name, and where she was staying. She told them of her errand for Freeman.
The man said, “So he’s back, then?”
The woman said, “The widow too?”
Alice nodded. The man and woman exchanged a look. The man got the tobacco and set it down on the counter. Alice put Freeman’s bill next to it. The man gave her back two shillings eight pence.
Alice curtseyed and left the store, holding the coins tight in one hand, the tobacco tin in the other. She retraced
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