Read Online Mood Indigo by Parris Afton Bonds - Free Book Online
Authors: Parris Afton Bonds
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saw in their hazel depths a wry humor at her inferior product.
He picked up the thick, poorly hackled linen thread she had combed and rolled it between his callused fingers. His head shook in a sad commentary on her work. Holding up a forefinger to catch her attention, he took up the hackle and a handful of damp flax, then deftly drew the fibers through the hackle. Little tow was left, and the resulting thread he passed her was fine and silky to the touch. His eyes caught hers to see if she understood the way he had done it.
She nodded and touched his shoulder in gratitude. “Thank you, Josiah. But I don’t think I shall eve r make an adequate spinster.”
After he left, she rose and stretched, rubbing her hands along the back of her narrow waist. Holding her hands out before her critical eyes, she reflected that not even her maid Meg’s were so chapped and red. But then Meg had not washed linen in burning lye soap.
This much deterioration in the space of a fortnight! She alone was doing the tasks Wychwood’s numerous servants performed: Betty the cook, Becky the scullion, Jenny the washwoman, Mimia who ironed, Sally the seamstress. Jane’s life had been one of unbroken elegance, of rustling silks, of feather boas and belt knots, of tuckers and lace flounces, of French perfumes and rose-scented soap. And now all she knew was drudgery from dawn to long past dusk.
And then there was her complexion. Her hand went to the fresh red scar that pitted her chin. A glimpse in the looking glass Ethan Gordon used for shaving revealed that her hair, tufting from b elow the mobcap, resembled frizzled, carrot-red flax tow. What would she look like after a year in this God-forsaken land?
Longingly her gaze went to the delicately beautiful harpsicord in the parlor’s corner. It, like the elegantly furnished bedroom opposite that of Ethan Gordon’s, was so out of keeping with the rest of the rooms, which bore a distinctly sparse, masculine stamp. The back-country house had been constructed from heavy timbers, with thick doors meant to withstand Indian attack.
He had built the house with tall door lintels to accommodate his enormous height; yet both the kitchen and the bedroom across from his had shorter door frames, so that if Jane forgot to stoop, as she often did, she, too, bumped her head. And what of the gleaming new copper sauce pots? Why were they unused?
When Ethan Gordon built the house, he evidently had a wife in mind. Whom?
Her fingers itched to run along the harpsicord’s ivory keys rather than rub themselves raw on the spinning wheel. But she had no choice. Ethan had set before her the task that morning—with some impatience at her ineptitude for keeping house. If she failed at this, as she did more often than not at cooking, he might just sell her, as he had threatened.
Ethan Gordon did not yell at her, nor did he whip her. No doubt most masters would have done so immediately upon discovering their maid’s lack of domestic skills.
Most important, he made no untoward advances. But then, could she expect a lusty eye from him, or any male, when she presented such a bedraggled spectacle? He seemed totally unaware of her presence, except when she broke a dish or burned the bread or tore his shirt while trying to wash it.
Her lips flattened with frustration at her predicament. She was no nearer joining Iterance than the day she signed her indenture papers almost two months before. She began to pace, her feet taking her from the ell into the parlor with its hearth, then back again to sta nd before the spinning wheel. She had to start laying plans.
Ethan, she knew, was working at the smokehouse, hanging from the rafters t he last of the ham he had butchered. She gathered her skirts and hurried up the roughly planed staircase. Her petticoat snagged on a splinter, but she yanked it free and sped on up to his bedroom on the second floor.
Opposite the fireplace was the gigantic bedstead, obviously built specially to
He picked up the thick, poorly hackled linen thread she had combed and rolled it between his callused fingers. His head shook in a sad commentary on her work. Holding up a forefinger to catch her attention, he took up the hackle and a handful of damp flax, then deftly drew the fibers through the hackle. Little tow was left, and the resulting thread he passed her was fine and silky to the touch. His eyes caught hers to see if she understood the way he had done it.
She nodded and touched his shoulder in gratitude. “Thank you, Josiah. But I don’t think I shall eve r make an adequate spinster.”
After he left, she rose and stretched, rubbing her hands along the back of her narrow waist. Holding her hands out before her critical eyes, she reflected that not even her maid Meg’s were so chapped and red. But then Meg had not washed linen in burning lye soap.
This much deterioration in the space of a fortnight! She alone was doing the tasks Wychwood’s numerous servants performed: Betty the cook, Becky the scullion, Jenny the washwoman, Mimia who ironed, Sally the seamstress. Jane’s life had been one of unbroken elegance, of rustling silks, of feather boas and belt knots, of tuckers and lace flounces, of French perfumes and rose-scented soap. And now all she knew was drudgery from dawn to long past dusk.
And then there was her complexion. Her hand went to the fresh red scar that pitted her chin. A glimpse in the looking glass Ethan Gordon used for shaving revealed that her hair, tufting from b elow the mobcap, resembled frizzled, carrot-red flax tow. What would she look like after a year in this God-forsaken land?
Longingly her gaze went to the delicately beautiful harpsicord in the parlor’s corner. It, like the elegantly furnished bedroom opposite that of Ethan Gordon’s, was so out of keeping with the rest of the rooms, which bore a distinctly sparse, masculine stamp. The back-country house had been constructed from heavy timbers, with thick doors meant to withstand Indian attack.
He had built the house with tall door lintels to accommodate his enormous height; yet both the kitchen and the bedroom across from his had shorter door frames, so that if Jane forgot to stoop, as she often did, she, too, bumped her head. And what of the gleaming new copper sauce pots? Why were they unused?
When Ethan Gordon built the house, he evidently had a wife in mind. Whom?
Her fingers itched to run along the harpsicord’s ivory keys rather than rub themselves raw on the spinning wheel. But she had no choice. Ethan had set before her the task that morning—with some impatience at her ineptitude for keeping house. If she failed at this, as she did more often than not at cooking, he might just sell her, as he had threatened.
Ethan Gordon did not yell at her, nor did he whip her. No doubt most masters would have done so immediately upon discovering their maid’s lack of domestic skills.
Most important, he made no untoward advances. But then, could she expect a lusty eye from him, or any male, when she presented such a bedraggled spectacle? He seemed totally unaware of her presence, except when she broke a dish or burned the bread or tore his shirt while trying to wash it.
Her lips flattened with frustration at her predicament. She was no nearer joining Iterance than the day she signed her indenture papers almost two months before. She began to pace, her feet taking her from the ell into the parlor with its hearth, then back again to sta nd before the spinning wheel. She had to start laying plans.
Ethan, she knew, was working at the smokehouse, hanging from the rafters t he last of the ham he had butchered. She gathered her skirts and hurried up the roughly planed staircase. Her petticoat snagged on a splinter, but she yanked it free and sped on up to his bedroom on the second floor.
Opposite the fireplace was the gigantic bedstead, obviously built specially to
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