A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,21
chose something to repay their kindness. He might tell her more about their strange companionship, and how he'd become a part of their lives. Yet to ask would intrude on things that were no concern of hers—even if he wanted to give her answers, which she doubted.
Deciding the island would remain a mystery on many fronts, Charlotte heaved a sigh and went to join Richard Longfellow. She found him still with Jonathan, discussing the state of the roads from Worcester and Concord, and the highway that led to Boston. But she soon discovered an even better reason to go back up the hill. Along the well-trampled track came a man she preferred to avoid.
In dark woolen leggings and a black great coat, Christian Rowe sidled toward the ice pond in his usual disjointed manner, watching for anything amiss. Charlotte feared he might resume his peculiar attempts to please her with unctuous praise, unnecessary advice, and comfort, the last aimed at her lengthening term of widowhood. These things she found even more unpleasant than his previous disapproval, which had been bad enough.
She made a sign to Longfellow. In a moment, he and Jonathan saw what she did. Then the little party dissolved, as each hurried off in a different direction, seeking some distant occupation.
Chapter 7
WITH A LONG wooden paddle, Hannah Sloan finished pulling a row of brown loaves from the deep oven next to the hearth. Her face was damp and red, her linen sleeves pulled up to reveal the strength of her broad arms. She turned with the loaves, and slid them off onto a cooling board. This accomplished, she set the paddle down and went to re-latch the oven door.
“How warm it is!” said Charlotte happily, closing the door to the outside.
“It is, indeed!” said Hannah, with quite a different perspective on the matter. She wiped her brow and considered the state of her younger friend. Charlotte suspected Hannah had come to think of her as almost a part of her own family—it was not surprising, since they'd worked together for many seasons, taking care of the Howard farm. “You must be nearly frozen,” Hannah scolded. “And those boots will only hold the cold.”
Knowing it was true, Charlotte sat and removed them, and put on softer house shoes.
“Is anything worth hearing about going on down there?” Hannah asked.
“The usual.” Charlotte had already decided to keep to herself Lem's heated words with Alex Godwin, and Mattie's part in the fracas. No doubt the girl's mother would learn of it soon enough.
“The first loaves were good; these, I think, are better. Now the oven feels nearly right for rolls.”
Charlotte looked to the pan she'd filled earlier—bread dough smoothed thin, covered with a generous layer of butter, maple sugar, nuts, and cinnamon. She'd rolled it up, cut the soft log into small pieces, and placed these into a pan. They'd doubled in size.
“They'll be gobbled up in no time,” Hannah predicted.
“But what is it I've forgotten?” Charlotte murmured to herself. “I can't help feeling there's something.”
“Didn't you mean to start a stew?”
“Oh, yes. But still—” She went toward the cellar door. Another question from Hannah stopped her.
“That reminds me—the spoon there, on the table. That isn't one you've bought for yourself recently?”
“No. I'll tell you an interesting story—”
“I've been asking myself if it might be one of those gone missing.”
“Missing?…”
“Stolen, it's said, from Rachel Dudley. Though it's hard to believe, when you consider her husband's constable this year. Why he was ever elected—”
“Stolen! When, Hannah?”
“Rachel couldn't say. They've always been kept in a cupboard, locked up tight—her one small security, too valuable to use. You know the Dudleys are often in straits. But it would take some persuading to get Rachel to sell them. That set of spoons was the one fine thing given to her by her mother on her wedding day.”
“What does her husband say?”
“John Dudley claims to know nothing, and says there's little he can do about it! Given the fact that he's often in his cups—my Samuel sees him drinking often enough at the Blue Boar—it's hard to say what could have happened.”
“But you do think this is one of Rachel's spoons?” Charlotte picked it up.
“Emily Bowers told me yesterday each had a flower etched onto its bowl. There was also said to be a guild mark, and that of a London maker, like what you see there.”
“Locked in a cupboard, but loved… which might explain why it was recently polished. That surprised me, when I found it.”