SATURDAY, JANUARY 23
Barnabas Lambard plays the fiddle. I cannot explain why this astonishes me, but it does. He’d seemed a more serious type, I suppose. One does not typically equate a law enforcement officer with being a musician. But those same hands that sent James Wall sprawling to the ground are every bit as nimble with bow and string. He stands on a large stump, in the corner of the mill, sawing his way through a lively rendition of “Soldier’s Joy.”
“I’ve always liked this song,” Ephraim says, bumping his hip against mine. He’s been playing host for the last hour, wandering around the mill, greeting everyone who arrives. “It’s an old Scottish ballad that the pipers and fiddlers would play while soldiers chugged whiskey in preparation for battle.”
“Let’s hope a battle doesn’t break out tonight,” I say as my eyes drift to where Cyrus is spinning Dolly around the dance floor. I have not forgotten what happened at the last Frolic.
Ephraim shrugs. “You know how these things go. It isn’t uncommon for fists to fly toward the end of an evening. After that nasty cider has been passed around for hours.”
“That only happens when one boy thinks another has had more than his fair share of turns around the dance floor with a pretty girl. Were that to
happen, I’d put my money on Barnabas. I’ve seen his fists in action.”
“So far Dolly has only danced with her brothers. There’s no reason for him to get jealous just yet.”
There is a cloud of fine, powdered sawdust in the air, kicked up by the swirling, dancing feet of sixty young people as they match the beat of the song. It’s a wonderful kind of chaos, and the mill smells of dust and woodsmoke, joy and sweat, whiskey and apple cider. It also smells of mating. Not sex per se, that is entirely different—though none of the parents here tonight are fool enough to think it couldn’t happen—but mating, that ritual common to all species. The flirting. Posturing. Choosing. Dancing. The occasional kiss, stolen in the dark, hidden from watchful eyes. It all has an ancient smell. Like dark soil and ripe fruit. Like humanity at the most basic, elemental level.
“The world must be peopled!” Benedick so helpfully observed in Much Ado About Nothing. It remains my favorite Shakespeare play for that line alone, though the rest of his monologue about Beatrice’s virtues doesn’t hurt. So it’s no wonder there are fifteen chaperones at the mill tonight, parents gathered along the edges of the room, or sitting in the loft sipping from their own jugs of cider and ale and whiskey, keeping a weather eye on their children below.
When Barnabas grows tired after the fifth song, the dancers take a break. They fill their cups and wander over to the table for a bit of food. John Cowan—the young blacksmith’s apprentice—weaves through the crowd and holds out his hand for the fiddle. He arrived with Catherine Pollard this evening and has been dancing with her since the first song. I look to where Abigail watches him with interest. More refined in her drinking tastes than most, she nurses a mug of mulled wine. It isn’t only John Cowan she’s keeping an eye on tonight, but Moses as well. He didn’t arrive with Hannah given that we’re hosting the dance, but he has stayed close to her side all evening.
“It isn’t easy, is it?” I ask, after making my way to the loft where Abigail leans against the rail.
“What?”
“Keeping your eyes on two at once.”
“That is why the good Lord gave me two eyes in the first place,” she says with a grin. “It’s you I pity.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got four children of age down there, and only half the eyes needed to keep track of them.”
“Ephraim is here.”
She laughs. “But as usual, he only has eyes for you.”
Abigail isn’t wrong. I can feel the heat of my husband’s gaze as he moves through the mill, and when I look to him, he greets me with a ready smile.
On the other side of the room, Barnabas whispers something to John Cowan. He no more looks like a musician than I a pirate, yet he climbs onto the stump, sets bow to strings with an exquisite gentleness, and begins to play. The tune that rises is every bit as lovely as the one Barnabas finished a few moments ago, though slower.
I recognize “Whiskey for Breakfast” after the first few notes. My father once told me that the song was an ode to those who stayed up so late that they, quite literally, had their whiskey before their breakfast. And based on the determined look in Barnabas’s eyes, I see that he requested it on purpose. He flexes his fingers as he moves around the edge of the room toward Dolly. Her eyes light up at the sight of him.
And there it is, the ask.
Barnabas bows and holds out his hand in question. Dolly curtsies and receives it.
And then they melt into the crowd of dancers, her arm around his neck and his hand at her waist.
Clever boy, I think.
After watching them dance for a moment, I leave Abigail and return to the main floor and go to stand beside the wide double doors, hoping for a draft to cool me down. When Ephraim sneaks up behind me and kisses me below my ear, I startle, then lean against him when he laughs.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Since what?”
“Since we last hosted one of these.”
“Hmm.” He presses his chin against my temple. “Must have been when Lucy was being courted by that Town boy.”
That Town boy, I think. Aaron Town is his name, but my husband has never forgiven “that Town boy” for getting his daughter pregnant out of wedlock. He’d married her well in time for the birth, of course. They were in love, after all. But Ephraim remains inflexibly old-fashioned about such matters. “Do not take what doesn’t belong to you,” he has lectured our sons on endless occasions. I don’t have the heart to tell him that—in one case, at least—I suspect the lectures have been in vain.
“Would have been sooner if your sons could be bothered to court someone.”
“They’re mine now, are they?”
“Only seems fair we trade off taking the blame.”
It’s hard to find anyone in the swirling crowd, but eventually I see Jonathan’s bobbing head and then the flash of Sally Pierce’s auburn hair. She has worn it down tonight, and it gleams in the lamplight. As usual, she looks at him with those ridiculous mooning eyes.
“Sally’s convinced him to give her one dance, at least.”
Her cheeks are round and her smile bright. Sally is a lovely girl. Tall but not towering. Buxom. And I notice that her gown has been cut to enhance these assets instead of her waistline.
“It’s not the first dance,” Ephraim tells me. “That’s the third. You haven’t been paying attention.”
“It’s not Sally I’ve been looking for.” “Who then?”
“Sarah White.”
Ephraim puts his hands on my hips and turns me around to face him. “I thought you weren’t going to meddle?”
“I’m providing options. That’s all.”
He smiles at me, broad and teasing to show he’s not displeased. “I never said it was a bad idea.”
“It would solve two problems at once. She’d be safe and provided for.
And Cyrus could finally settle down with a family of his own.” “Does love not factor in?” Ephraim asks.
“I suspect he’s there already. And yes, she might take a bit longer. But love can grow between two people. I’ve seen it happen more than once. Besides, we were lucky,” I add. “For us it exploded.”
“As it did for Lucy,” he tells me, and I can see how the admission pains him. “As it is for Hannah now. And for Dolly too. They’re nearly blinded by love out there on the dance floor. It’s coming off them in waves, like steam from a pan. You’d want something less for Sarah?”
“It’s a better future than raising a child on her own. I only want her to be open to the idea.”
“And forcing it on her will do that?”
“I would never force anything. I just…” “What?”
“I want to see what would happen between them if the idea was given a chance to grow.”
“It will never work if it’s your idea. It would have to be hers.”
I nod, understanding. “Because it’s a woman who does the choosing.” “And you need to consider that perhaps she has already chosen.”
“A man who got her pregnant and left her with a child? Clearly she chose wrong.”
“Wrong or right doesn’t matter. Sarah isn’t here tonight. She’s made that choice at the very least.” Ephraim kisses me on the nose, then pats me on the bottom and goes off to join the other fathers in the loft.
Well, I think, maybe she just needs another opportunity.
The song ends and the dancers catch their breath, but then John Cowan begins his third song, “St. Anne’s Reel,” and a wave of laughter rises above the music. Cyrus and Young Ephraim are shadow dancing in the middle of the circle, each with an invisible partner. By the end of the first verse they’re both clapping and stomping their feet, and by the end of the second, they’ve acquired real partners from the crowd.
I head over to the food table to see what I can do about my growling stomach. Abigail Pollard has brought an entire side of roasted beef for the occasion, and the other families have contributed as well, each bringing their specialties. There is chicken cooked in beer, venison loin stuffed with apples, and pork ribs to round out the meats. Any number of roasted vegetables including carrots, potatoes, turnips, and chard. A wheel of cheese
—now deformed, with chunks pulled out of it by greedy fingers. Breads. Jams. Biscuits. Cakes. Pies—of both the fruit and meat variety. Roasted nuts and dried fruit and, of course, dozens of jugs of cider, ale, mead, and whiskey.
I’m debating among the assortment of sweets when Sam Dawin joins me at the table.
“What’s a married man such as yourself doing here tonight?” I ask.
He shrugs, studying a plate of apple tarts, deciding which looks best. Plucks one from the pile. Takes a large bite. “May likes the music,” he says, trying not to spit crumbs.
I saw them come in earlier. May has been in the loft most of the evening with a handful of other married women, watching the dance below. She looks tired—and a little green—but also happy. It doesn’t seem that anyone else is aware of her pregnancy.
“Is she feeling better?” I ask. “Depends on the day.”
I nod at the table. “Bread will help. As will the cheese. Try the dried fruit as well. But I’d stay away from anything with lots of spice or salt. Give her mild foods over the next few weeks, and I’d wager she will feel better in a month.”
“Thank ye, Mistress Ballard. I will.”
I choose a rhubarb tart. These were made by Abigail as well, and the crust is made with butter, so flaky it crumbles onto my chin when I take the first bite. I expect Sam to load a plate for May, but instead he takes his own tart over to where Jonathan rests against the wall, taking a break from this new dance. Both men lean against a pile of stacked boards, a single foot propped up beneath them. Arms crossed. Heads bent. Talking. Both of their
faces are clouded by some trouble that seems out of place this evening. Jonathan leans his head toward Sam’s ear. Mutters something. Sam spits. Jonathan balls his fist. They are clearly angry, but not with each other.
Jonathan says something with an expression of finality. Then Sam nods.
As though they’ve come to an agreement.
After a moment, their attention turns back to the dance, surveying the crowd.
Jonathan takes turns watching Moses and Hannah, then Barnabas and Dolly. He’s not said a word to me about these new suitors, but clearly, they haven’t escaped his attention. The gesture is protective and tender, and I am stunned to find that tears prick my eyes. For years I have vacillated between pride and worry when it comes to this boy of mine. I desperately want him to be a good man like his father. I am also painfully aware that you cannot make a child be anything he is not. But this—the watchful vigilance over his sisters—makes me feel as though all is not lost.
I turn away just as John Cowan launches into another thumping song. Someone taps my shoulder. And there is Cyrus. His dark, curly hair is mussed. Hazel eyes shining. He smiles, broad and handsome.
Then he bows.
And extends his hand.
You think it will break your heart to have a child who suffers in this way. One who is seen as damaged. You think, perhaps, that it is your fault somehow. That if only you’d done something different, taken better care of him, this would have never happened. And then he asks you to dance on a cold January evening, and you realize that perhaps you are a fool. And whatever his life may be now—different than you’d imagined all those years ago when he grew in your womb and curled into the hand you set upon your stomach—he is perfect.
I return the smile.
Curtsy.
Give him my hand.
Let my boy lead me onto the dance floor.
“I am sorry,” I tell him.
Cyrus lifts an eyebrow in question. “That she didn’t come.”
He shrugs, as though to say it isn’t a big deal, as though he never thought she would. But there is a cloud of disappointment in his eyes. And just before we step into the song, I look up to find Ephraim standing at the rail of the loft. I can see it there, written on his face, plain as day: heartbreak. He wants for Cyrus exactly what he found for himself. Then the song swells, the beat rises through the floorboards, and I am swept away.
