Read Online Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elena Santangelo
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have weighed at greater length why John Brennan discarded his two most constant companions, but my mind soon turned to other concerns. The first was the purchase of a penny loaf from a peddler at the college corner, so that I might break my fast as I walked. Then, afraid the cold air might snap my fiddle strings, I paused to open the case and loosen the pegs. Soon after, my attention was set to keeping my footing upon Richmond Road, still slippery in places with mud from the rain of Friday past. In the best of weather, a swift walk of little more than an hour should bring me to Fair Grove, the Akers’ farm. This day my journey would take half again as long.
In the drier spots, the face of Thomas Carson the elder seemed to float before my eyes. His children both favored him. A kind face, as I’ve said, until contorted in death. A result of cramp colic, so our company doctor had pronounced. Would that it had been so.
Troubled, I bent my musings to the more agreeable matter of which ditty to teach Mistress Polly at her lesson. By the time I’d come to Fair Grove, I’d settled upon “Sweet Is the Budding Spring of Love,” as fitting her range and tone, and having a lyric harmonious to her youth.
Noah Akers greeted me at his doorstep, seeming abashed that his garments were finer than my own, though his smile was broad. “Good to see you, Ben. And as usual, never without your fiddle. Beer for you?”
“I’d best take small, thank you. If I down strong beer before we commence, I should make no sense of your ledger.” I knew I should address him as “Mr. Akers” now that he’d become my employer, but I could not bring myself to do it. Noah had been one of my messmates during the last campaign, and we’d been through much together. Moreover, at eighteen years of age, he was a half decade my junior. But a fine lad he was—honest, stalwart, and loyal to his friends.
“Here are my sire’s papers,” he said, bringing me into his dining room, where he had spread the accounts of his estate upon the table. “Sit, Ben. I’ll fetch the brew and we’ll begin.”
Setting my case upon a chair, I surveyed the room while he was gone. The wallpaper, furniture, and draperies were all lesser mimics of those I’d seen in more affluent houses. His mother’s hand, no doubt.
While Noah was in the army, his sire had made shrewd gains, not the least of which had brought the family a parcel of land, the recompense of a gambling debt by a Tory departing posthaste for England. The elder Akers had perished during this last month, and his son had become a new, ill-prepared landowner, with a mother and three young sisters to support. Noah was better suited to the plow than the pen, and so had asked my assistance in the sorting out of his father’s business.
When he returned with brimming tankards, I asked, “One favor, sir?”
“Name it, Ben.”
“The Widow Carson believes I’ve come here to give you a lesson of introduction upon the violin. As new gentry, she presumes you would be in earnest to learn the arts of music and dance.”
He frowned as he set his burden down upon the table. “Mother has said I ought as well, but the price of tobacco was too low this harvest—”
“Yes, I know. The Virginia market is in excess and all export must sell through Robert Morris.”
“As you say,” he agreed, though in truth, Noah had little understanding of trade. As I said, better suited to the plow. “At present, all else is too costly. I’m sorry, Ben, but perhaps next year I should afford your instruction.”
“You mistake my purpose. I am well aware that no music master can now make a living, save among the very rich, who already employ their own masters. I have no intention of starving while trying to pursue an unprofitable trade. Yet, I desire Mrs. Carson to think I pursue it.”
“Ah.” Noah’s smile was restored, with a knowing glint in his eye. “I prefer younger maids myself, though for a seasoned woman, the
In the drier spots, the face of Thomas Carson the elder seemed to float before my eyes. His children both favored him. A kind face, as I’ve said, until contorted in death. A result of cramp colic, so our company doctor had pronounced. Would that it had been so.
Troubled, I bent my musings to the more agreeable matter of which ditty to teach Mistress Polly at her lesson. By the time I’d come to Fair Grove, I’d settled upon “Sweet Is the Budding Spring of Love,” as fitting her range and tone, and having a lyric harmonious to her youth.
Noah Akers greeted me at his doorstep, seeming abashed that his garments were finer than my own, though his smile was broad. “Good to see you, Ben. And as usual, never without your fiddle. Beer for you?”
“I’d best take small, thank you. If I down strong beer before we commence, I should make no sense of your ledger.” I knew I should address him as “Mr. Akers” now that he’d become my employer, but I could not bring myself to do it. Noah had been one of my messmates during the last campaign, and we’d been through much together. Moreover, at eighteen years of age, he was a half decade my junior. But a fine lad he was—honest, stalwart, and loyal to his friends.
“Here are my sire’s papers,” he said, bringing me into his dining room, where he had spread the accounts of his estate upon the table. “Sit, Ben. I’ll fetch the brew and we’ll begin.”
Setting my case upon a chair, I surveyed the room while he was gone. The wallpaper, furniture, and draperies were all lesser mimics of those I’d seen in more affluent houses. His mother’s hand, no doubt.
While Noah was in the army, his sire had made shrewd gains, not the least of which had brought the family a parcel of land, the recompense of a gambling debt by a Tory departing posthaste for England. The elder Akers had perished during this last month, and his son had become a new, ill-prepared landowner, with a mother and three young sisters to support. Noah was better suited to the plow than the pen, and so had asked my assistance in the sorting out of his father’s business.
When he returned with brimming tankards, I asked, “One favor, sir?”
“Name it, Ben.”
“The Widow Carson believes I’ve come here to give you a lesson of introduction upon the violin. As new gentry, she presumes you would be in earnest to learn the arts of music and dance.”
He frowned as he set his burden down upon the table. “Mother has said I ought as well, but the price of tobacco was too low this harvest—”
“Yes, I know. The Virginia market is in excess and all export must sell through Robert Morris.”
“As you say,” he agreed, though in truth, Noah had little understanding of trade. As I said, better suited to the plow. “At present, all else is too costly. I’m sorry, Ben, but perhaps next year I should afford your instruction.”
“You mistake my purpose. I am well aware that no music master can now make a living, save among the very rich, who already employ their own masters. I have no intention of starving while trying to pursue an unprofitable trade. Yet, I desire Mrs. Carson to think I pursue it.”
“Ah.” Noah’s smile was restored, with a knowing glint in his eye. “I prefer younger maids myself, though for a seasoned woman, the
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