A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,47
goblins,” she concluded with a smile.
“You may think such warnings come only from simple folk,” Jonah replied soberly. “Yet odd tales have been told about that place for a long, long while. Once it was called the Devil's Isle—and no one dared to live there before John Fisher came. Is that not a little strange, when it's surrounded by good hunting and fishing, and water meadows? It is because something goes on there—something none of us can explain. And such things will continue to occur, I think, long after we're gone.”
Jonah Bigelow sat back and rocked, regarding his guest seriously.
“I promise I'll keep what you say in mind,” she said to soothe him. “But I must start for home, before the storm truly arrives. Thank you for tea, and your stories.”
“Will you come back to visit us again, lass? I should like to hear what you discover about poor Godwin. And I still have plenty of other stories to tell.”
“I would be very glad to come.”
“Good! And Ned knows even more about the distant world than his grandfather, reading so many books and newspapers. The islands to the south are his passion now. He will tell you all that's said of the pirates of the Bahamas—or our colony at Kingston—or trade with Tobago, even—if you'd like to hear of such things.”
“I would,” she answered honestly, for she'd wondered what Ned learned from his varied sources, surely different from the volumes in her father's library.
Yet now, she thought, she had no time to hear exciting tales of distant lands. For without a doubt, they had more than enough excitement of their own to deal with, in Bracebridge.
Chapter 15
FACING A BITING wind, Charlotte trudged up the Boston-Worcester road, with only her thoughts to temper the difficult going.
She'd heard that Alex Godwin was less than a pleasant soul; she now was sure he'd enjoyed few friends. What had truly surprised her was that Lem often visited Ned and Jonah Bigelow. She knew he went off to see others some evenings, but he'd rarely said, lately, where it was that he went. She imagined Ned, unlike Alex Godwin, had many friends, for he had an enjoyable way about him—a desire, and an ability, to please. But she supposed his friends might be quiet ones. Some would wish to avoid having fingers wagged at them by village scolds. Could it be that Lem put her in this category? She thought not, and asked herself again why he would want to keep his visits to the odd little house a secret. Perhaps it was because of Hannah. The displeasure of Mattie's mother was something he would not care to risk, while he tried to win her daughter.
Jonah's story of the furnaces had been interesting. Again, she considered how much the present owed to the past, and how often this debt remained unpaid. Life had given little reward to Jonah, it seemed. Some, like Sarah Proctor, organized assistance for widowed or abandoned women and their children. But Jonah Bigelow, she supposed, made do with what he'd saved, and possibly what he'd invested somewhere. It could also be that relatives to the west, grateful for the care he'd given Ned, continued to help them. It was not her place to ask, though perhaps when she next stopped in, she might see if there was something else she could do.
A pair of high voices broke into her thoughts, for they called out her name. Turning her back to the wind, Charlotte saw a horse that carried two children somewhat precariously, on a makeshift saddle of rope and blankets strapped to its bowed back. The Dudley children, Winthrop and Anne, waved their arms, trying to attract her attention.
She walked back to meet them, and soon felt the nuzzle of a moist, warm mouth against her own.
“Whoa, mare!” cried Win, a youth of thirteen. Still holding the reins, he slipped down from the saddle leaving Anne, four years his junior, on top. “Mrs. Willett!” he cried, moving very close, then stepping back to make a small bow. “I have a message from my mother. I'm glad I found you, before we had to go all the way up the hill. We borrowed a horse from our neighbor, but she's not very willing and would rather go home!”
“As we should all be thinking of doing, Win,” said Charlotte, blocking the wind from him as best she could. “Is something wrong?”
“It's only that our father—well, Mother's not happy. About her spoons.”