Read Online The widow's war by Sally Gunning - Free Book Online Page B

inquire after your mother-in-law, not your horse.”
    “My horse! Hah-hah! Very clever, Freeman. But let me assure you, my horse would cost you a good deal more, and without certain benefits. You’ve been a single man a long time now, Freeman, some would say too long a time—”
    “I’ve a devoted sister waiting dinner for me, and I cannot linger,” Freeman said. “I’ve stopped here on my way only to tell you that Sam Cowett has decided to divide the woodlot.”
    “What the devil! What’s turned him?”
    “That was not for me to determine. I’ve also run into Smalley and took the liberty of telling him the news. He would indeed like to purchase. I do not represent him, you understand, but as I was coming this way I agreed to pass on the communication.”
    “Well, well, the bearer of good news on all fronts. I thank you, Freeman. Come in and take a dram to celebrate.”
    “No, thank you. I must be off. My regards to—”
    “Rest assured, I’ll inform the Widow Berry of your deep regard.”
    “I meant to say Mrs. Clarke. But you may of course pass them to the widow as well.”
    It was little consolation for Lyddie to learn that at the age of thirty-nine she could still blush like a virgin.

     

    The next day Lyddie picked another route to walk. She crossed the road to the mill and continued along the creek, but had gone some distance before she became aware of her surroundings, and once she did, she was astonished. The maple and cherry had popped out in pink knobs, and green spikes glittered among the brown mat of grass. She stepped over a log, peered into the water, and soon enough she saw the gray-green shadows of the first alewives. It was April. They had shed March at last, and she had barely noticed. Lyddie stood in a trance, watching the fish, wondering how much of the world she had missed in her preoccupation with her own circumstances. She had spent too many days like those herring, struggling against the stream. The fish heading upstream were not destined to lay their eggs, no matter how they hurried; many men lay in wait to net and salt and dry them and pack them into barrels to feed the slaves in the West Indies. But the herring going downstream were free to pass at will, as it was believed among the fishermen that the downstream fish were poison. So why not turn and let her own poisoned soul float in the direction that would cause the least trouble to everyone?
    When Lyddie got home she found Mehitable out among the chickens collecting eggs. With spring came so much more work; surely Mehitable would have some for Lyddie. She approached Mehitable with fresh eagerness.
    In the bright light of day Mehitable’s skin looked pale and tightly drawn, the veins showing clearly at the temples. Lyddie felt the old drop of fear in her chest. The skin was such a thin thing to protect the life’s blood; so many ills could stop the vital flow from within andwithout it. Lyddie went up and removed the basket from Mehitable’s arm. “Let me take on this chore, Daughter. And perhaps the buttery.”
    Mehitable smiled more easily than she had in some time, and for a minute Lyddie thought they’d come at last to a peaceful blending. “I’ve finished with the eggs, Mother, and Jane’s at the buttery. But there is an errand you could do for me. Cousin Betsey is short on eggs for her pudding. Take her this basket. Stay to dine. She asked it specifically. She says Mr. Freeman is in need of fresh conversation.”
    “If it’s fresh conversation he’s after, you’d best send Jane and leave me the buttery.”
    “No, no, I don’t think so.” Again, the smile.
    So, thought Lyddie, they all work to empty the stable together. She drew a shallow breath and exhaled evenly, slowly.
    “I refuse you only this, Daughter,” she said, “and for reasons I can’t at this moment explain. But I beg you, ask me to aid you in some other way. I’ve no fondness for idle hands.”
    Mehitable’s face closed up. “Well, then,