A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,19
Mr. Flint nodded absently as he dug around in his coat for his long clay pipe, which he finally pulled out. Jonah Bigelow seemed to take refuge in a cough, while Ned tuned his fiddle.
“Well, then,” said Longfellow, “I'll give it to Mr. Rowe, for the poor box.” He put the shilling into his coat pocket.
“A good idea, sir,” said Tinder.
“Thankee, sir,” said Jonah Bigelow, for no apparent reason.
Another friend now sought Longfellow's attention, this one using an insistent nose. This greeting from Orpheus led Richard to suspect Charlotte would not be far away. He patted the dog's head, and went to where Charlotte stood at a trestle table, holding a plate containing crusted wedges of cheese from her dairy. Richard waited patiently while she exchanged greetings with old Sarah Proctor, a tall, officious matron he knew to have a tough crust of her own. Standing by Sarah was her frequent companion and devoted follower, twittering Jemima Hurd, today covered by a vivid cape of Scots plaid.
When he supposed his neighbor had heard enough, Longfellow went closer, and pulled her away. The others quietly withdrew to their own business, though they remained, perhaps, close enough to listen.
“How goes the morning?” he asked.
“Hannah and I are baking. You may try our maple rolls in a few more hours.”
“Good. The high clouds increase, and I suspect the wind has something new in it. This morning, too, my barometer began to drop. I don't believe our work could have waited another day,” he decided, gazing to the sky.
“Then since we are here, everything is as it should be.”
“As much as it ever is,” he returned.
“Have you brought Diana?”
Longfellow looked back toward the knoll that rose between their houses. “My sister has gone to visit Charles Douglas, on the hill. I doubt it will help her, though walking may do some good. My advice was to join us later. We'll see if she humors me.”
“Mr. Longfellow!” A cry announced the arrival of Jonathan Pratt. The rotund landlord walked before a sled pulled by Tim the message boy. Peeping out from a swathe of blankets was a familiar metal urn, sure to be filled with sweet tea. A few steps behind, Rebecca, the cook's daughter, carried a frosted raisin cake.
Tim and Jonathan lifted the urn to the planks of a table; Rebecca increased the opening in the wrappings, to expose a spigot.
A commotion arose as the men on the ice put down their tools and came for a warming mug. Most were soon taught to select what was best—usually that made by the hands of each fair instructor. In the midst of all this, Ned Bigelow played on, a trio of dogs revolving around his feet.
“Where do the wagons go now?” Jonathan Pratt asked Longfellow, after the two had stepped back to make room for others.
“This next load will go to you. A good many, it seems, are already wagering away the silver we'll be giving them for the day's work.”
“Well, John Dudley would have taken most of it anyway,” said the landlord, not without reason. Longfellow, who had no love for the new constable responsible for collecting taxes, let out a groan. Jonathan grinned his agreement, and went on.
“Come June, I suppose I'll be repaid one way or another. Then our local friends, like my stopping guests, always begin to drool for ices and frozen creams, which they'll find some way to pay for.”
June was also the time when fresh meat in storage rooms became foul from the heat, Longfellow knew. He'd certainly noticed a stink coming from Jonathan's when he first moved into his house, across the road from the inn. Since the smell seemed to bring on the summer flux, he'd then decided to encourage the use of ice, hoping to protect the entire village.
While the two men continued to converse, Charlotte moved off to speak with Lem, who stood next to Alexander Godwin. Seeing them close in some private discussion, she stopped and waited. Today, Alex wore a round hat with a fringe of striped grouse feathers. His coat, though now unfashionable, was elegantly tailored. Its long doubled sleeves and huge buttons marked it as an old one, and she wondered if it had once been the property of John Fisher. This took her thoughts back to Boar Island. Shivering, she looked to the sun, noticing that it had lost some of its earlier strength.
She finally walked closer to the two youths, and began to make out hot words, delivered in