Read Online Too Soon for Flowers by Margaret Miles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Miles
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three years, here in Bracebridge! Yet he had said little about it—in fact, he’d seemed reassured when she herself admitted none of them knew the girl well. But again, whatever was between the two had apparently taken place some time ago. While Phoebe had seemed less thanpleased to see the doctor, she
had
placed herself in his care. Really, thought Mrs. Willett reasonably, though it tweaked her imagination, it was none of her business, after all.
She turned at the crest of a hummock and looked back to see her house reddened by the setting sun. There in the garden, opposite what was now Phoebe’s bedchamber, stood something new—a contrivance made of poles and canvas: Will Sloan’s new shelter. Charlotte recalled her own early attempts at setting up just such a temporary camp on nearly the same spot, when she and her brother Jeremy were small. Turning away, she continued toward the river, seeing Jem’s face with her mind’s eye.
By his own reports, her brother was learning more of the physical sciences in Edinburgh, while she took care of the farm that had been left to him. Charlotte had received a letter only the week before, but that would mean the news was now at least six weeks old. From time to time, she wished she had wings, so that she might know what Jem did the very day she thought of him, across the great green pond (as their father had called the broad Adantic). This evening, however, she was content to remain where she was. Recently, she’d seen the teeming coffee houses and taverns, the rich shops and stores of Boston. She had also seen people sorely affected by the spectre of smallpox, and by the lack of employment after the departure of military business, now that the Great War was over. She had returned home to a familiar place where one might always profit from daily chores, and where simple pleasures were the only ones expected, as the seasons changed.
Charlotte suddenly felt in need of a strong cup of tea. Starting back toward Longfellow’s house, she watched a loose window wink at the last of the setting sun. Frogs began a chorus in answer to the rising wind, hidden beneath wild flag scattered around the meadow grass like fallen stars. The flowers reminded her of something else. Earlier,she had seen long, greenish fingers—pointing omens from the earth—rising along the southern dairy wall. Tomorrow, before they became too tough, she would snap some off and make an asparagus pie. The thought helped to keep her feet firmly on the ground as she made her way across a darkening field, toward the beckoning house, and bed.
IN HER BORROWED chamber just up the hill, Diana Longfellow continued to read on top of her quilt until the light had fallen off to nearly nothing, and the candle she had brought up from below had need of trimming. This accomplished, she rose to light a second. The moon, past full, would not be up for a good while, and the night would become far darker before it got any brighter.
This conclusion was a reflection not only of Diana’s celestial knowledge (which would have surprised more than a few of her acquaintances) but also of her gloomy mood. Tossing down a collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies, she then decided to pace the room for a while. That felt better, especially as a shift of soft Indian cotton played against her legs to soothe her. When she finally tired of that, she sat in her chair.
Struck by a new idea, Diana took paper, ink, and pen from her traveling bureau, and began a letter to Miss Lucinda Devens of Boston.
Tuesday evening, Bracebridge
from Mrs. Willett’s house
Dear Lucy—
I have Promised to relate to you Everything of interest about my Inoculation and Quarantine, but I must start by saying how I truly Loathe thecountryside! There is so little here to Sustain one’s Soul! Yesterday, Richard arranged a large dinner, during which we were given overdone Deer to eat; yet I suppose I should look for Squirrel Stew from our housekeeper’s pot, before
had
placed herself in his care. Really, thought Mrs. Willett reasonably, though it tweaked her imagination, it was none of her business, after all.
She turned at the crest of a hummock and looked back to see her house reddened by the setting sun. There in the garden, opposite what was now Phoebe’s bedchamber, stood something new—a contrivance made of poles and canvas: Will Sloan’s new shelter. Charlotte recalled her own early attempts at setting up just such a temporary camp on nearly the same spot, when she and her brother Jeremy were small. Turning away, she continued toward the river, seeing Jem’s face with her mind’s eye.
By his own reports, her brother was learning more of the physical sciences in Edinburgh, while she took care of the farm that had been left to him. Charlotte had received a letter only the week before, but that would mean the news was now at least six weeks old. From time to time, she wished she had wings, so that she might know what Jem did the very day she thought of him, across the great green pond (as their father had called the broad Adantic). This evening, however, she was content to remain where she was. Recently, she’d seen the teeming coffee houses and taverns, the rich shops and stores of Boston. She had also seen people sorely affected by the spectre of smallpox, and by the lack of employment after the departure of military business, now that the Great War was over. She had returned home to a familiar place where one might always profit from daily chores, and where simple pleasures were the only ones expected, as the seasons changed.
Charlotte suddenly felt in need of a strong cup of tea. Starting back toward Longfellow’s house, she watched a loose window wink at the last of the setting sun. Frogs began a chorus in answer to the rising wind, hidden beneath wild flag scattered around the meadow grass like fallen stars. The flowers reminded her of something else. Earlier,she had seen long, greenish fingers—pointing omens from the earth—rising along the southern dairy wall. Tomorrow, before they became too tough, she would snap some off and make an asparagus pie. The thought helped to keep her feet firmly on the ground as she made her way across a darkening field, toward the beckoning house, and bed.
IN HER BORROWED chamber just up the hill, Diana Longfellow continued to read on top of her quilt until the light had fallen off to nearly nothing, and the candle she had brought up from below had need of trimming. This accomplished, she rose to light a second. The moon, past full, would not be up for a good while, and the night would become far darker before it got any brighter.
This conclusion was a reflection not only of Diana’s celestial knowledge (which would have surprised more than a few of her acquaintances) but also of her gloomy mood. Tossing down a collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies, she then decided to pace the room for a while. That felt better, especially as a shift of soft Indian cotton played against her legs to soothe her. When she finally tired of that, she sat in her chair.
Struck by a new idea, Diana took paper, ink, and pen from her traveling bureau, and began a letter to Miss Lucinda Devens of Boston.
Tuesday evening, Bracebridge
from Mrs. Willett’s house
Dear Lucy—
I have Promised to relate to you Everything of interest about my Inoculation and Quarantine, but I must start by saying how I truly Loathe thecountryside! There is so little here to Sustain one’s Soul! Yesterday, Richard arranged a large dinner, during which we were given overdone Deer to eat; yet I suppose I should look for Squirrel Stew from our housekeeper’s pot, before
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