stoutly, “every word I have spoken to you — how I feel about you, about us — and I know I shouldn’t say it, but every word is true, I swear on my mother’s head.”
She stared at him, angry, but moisture springing into her eyes.
“Now I know,” he went on, “you would rather I left this minute. But I intend to spend the afternoon here clearing stones. Forget for a moment the past — let us just share one afternoon alone together. For had fate been otherwise, the Good Lord might have arranged for us to do this for the rest of our natural lives. I want just this one afternoon to remember.”
She glanced at him, then lowered her eyes, perhaps so that he would not see any tears start, and turned away. “All right, this one last time, let us work together.”
***
Heart soaring, James fell easily into his Indian run. Dusk would soon be falling; a dangerous time to be heading back to this trail. Why on earth had he left it so late? He had been warned about thieves, so now, he was on the alert. He had to get this glue from the cabinet-maker’s and stitching from the Garretts back as quickly as possible. But no point in running so fast as to collide with danger.
His body was bursting with feelings for Catherine. Such a glorious afternoon, working side by side with her for those few cherished hours. Time wasted? Not in the slightest. Because getting to know her would sustain him over the many weeks of summer as he laboured in the mill. The days would be so long, he knew. But perhaps another chance would present itself.
He stopped to listen. Voices ahead? As he stood panting, he became sure. Two men, laughing. Now what?
He waited. Were they coming toward him? Or was he overtaking them? From the odd sounds of their broken conversation, they were staying in one spot. Not good. Better not risk it. This glue and this stitching were vital. He turned into the deeper woods.
Again, he blessed his Micmac friends for their moccasins that allowed him to move through the under growth silently. He picked his way carefully past thickets and through bushes, going around the thieves waiting, perhaps, to pounce.
He stopped again. The voices had grown quiet, as if they had heard him. Silence lay like the dusk around them. He didn’t move. And apparently, neither did they. After a time, their voices began again. Did they suspect a deer, a bear, even a moose? Had he been successful? Reaching the trail, he set off again at his swift Indian pace; he wanted no more impediments to his getting that glue and stitching to the mill.
Chapter Nine
Delighted with the success of James’s mission, Mr. Hall watched him repair the belt for the main pulley in his tent, a ways off from the other cabin. Hall allowed as how he much preferred this solitary existence — feelings James shared. The whale oil lamp beside them on a stump threw a glow onto Ben’s swarthy face as he sat watching with dark eyes.
One end was now glued, stitched, and beeswaxed, and the second one lay before them. Mr. Hall pulled at it to test it. “You’re better ’n any of us. You’ll make a fine millwright one day.”
James set to stitching the other end, wearing his “palm,” a heavy leather covering for his hand with a loop for the thumb. He thrust his sailor’s awl, about four inches long, rounded at the eye, into the heavy canvas of the belt. “Well, ’tis a farmer I’ll want to be, sir, although I certainly enjoy this time here at the mill.”
“A farmer, is it?”
“Yes sir, I have a modest piece of land and I am about to start on my new house. I have the foundation prepared, rocks from the brook, but next I need lumber.”
“So that’s why ye want boards from me instead of all cash?”
James nodded.
“I can see ye done yer bit o’ stitching in the Navy.”
“Aye. You can’t work in the Navy as long as I did without learning something of all that. Our uniforms — I was a Midshipman — had to be just so, you know. No mother or wife to sew
She stared at him, angry, but moisture springing into her eyes.
“Now I know,” he went on, “you would rather I left this minute. But I intend to spend the afternoon here clearing stones. Forget for a moment the past — let us just share one afternoon alone together. For had fate been otherwise, the Good Lord might have arranged for us to do this for the rest of our natural lives. I want just this one afternoon to remember.”
She glanced at him, then lowered her eyes, perhaps so that he would not see any tears start, and turned away. “All right, this one last time, let us work together.”
***
Heart soaring, James fell easily into his Indian run. Dusk would soon be falling; a dangerous time to be heading back to this trail. Why on earth had he left it so late? He had been warned about thieves, so now, he was on the alert. He had to get this glue from the cabinet-maker’s and stitching from the Garretts back as quickly as possible. But no point in running so fast as to collide with danger.
His body was bursting with feelings for Catherine. Such a glorious afternoon, working side by side with her for those few cherished hours. Time wasted? Not in the slightest. Because getting to know her would sustain him over the many weeks of summer as he laboured in the mill. The days would be so long, he knew. But perhaps another chance would present itself.
He stopped to listen. Voices ahead? As he stood panting, he became sure. Two men, laughing. Now what?
He waited. Were they coming toward him? Or was he overtaking them? From the odd sounds of their broken conversation, they were staying in one spot. Not good. Better not risk it. This glue and this stitching were vital. He turned into the deeper woods.
Again, he blessed his Micmac friends for their moccasins that allowed him to move through the under growth silently. He picked his way carefully past thickets and through bushes, going around the thieves waiting, perhaps, to pounce.
He stopped again. The voices had grown quiet, as if they had heard him. Silence lay like the dusk around them. He didn’t move. And apparently, neither did they. After a time, their voices began again. Did they suspect a deer, a bear, even a moose? Had he been successful? Reaching the trail, he set off again at his swift Indian pace; he wanted no more impediments to his getting that glue and stitching to the mill.
Chapter Nine
Delighted with the success of James’s mission, Mr. Hall watched him repair the belt for the main pulley in his tent, a ways off from the other cabin. Hall allowed as how he much preferred this solitary existence — feelings James shared. The whale oil lamp beside them on a stump threw a glow onto Ben’s swarthy face as he sat watching with dark eyes.
One end was now glued, stitched, and beeswaxed, and the second one lay before them. Mr. Hall pulled at it to test it. “You’re better ’n any of us. You’ll make a fine millwright one day.”
James set to stitching the other end, wearing his “palm,” a heavy leather covering for his hand with a loop for the thumb. He thrust his sailor’s awl, about four inches long, rounded at the eye, into the heavy canvas of the belt. “Well, ’tis a farmer I’ll want to be, sir, although I certainly enjoy this time here at the mill.”
“A farmer, is it?”
“Yes sir, I have a modest piece of land and I am about to start on my new house. I have the foundation prepared, rocks from the brook, but next I need lumber.”
“So that’s why ye want boards from me instead of all cash?”
James nodded.
“I can see ye done yer bit o’ stitching in the Navy.”
“Aye. You can’t work in the Navy as long as I did without learning something of all that. Our uniforms — I was a Midshipman — had to be just so, you know. No mother or wife to sew
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