A Mischief in the Snow (14 page)

“Do you think
we
are safe?” Jemima Hurd asked, looking anxiously toward the windows that overlooked the lane.

“No one wants to murder you, Jemima,” Sarah Proctor answered. “Not for passion, not for gain. Though
if someone has already slipped in and taken your caudle bowl, then you and the rest of us
should
be more careful. Let us all be more watchful of our neighbors, until the perpetrators of these wrongs are discovered. Let us also pass on what we learn to one another—for we can hardly hope for much from our new constable, nor from our inept selectmen!”

“I certainly will,” Emily Bowers promised. “And I'll be glad when Hiram returns. I don't like the idea of sleeping alone, though my children are with me. But you, Mrs. Willett! If, as you say, Mr. Longfellow plans to watch Lem until the identity of Alexander's attacker is proven, won't you be alone? Will you be safe? Don't you have several good pieces of silver, and your mother's pewter, as well? I believe you have more than most.”

“Orpheus will be there to guard me. And I have stout bars on the doors.”

“Take care, my girl,” Sarah Proctor advised. “If it was Lem Wainwright, remember he will be nearby. And if it was not Lem, as you seem to think… then it must have been another of our acquaintance.
Trust no man
, Mrs. Willett, or you may be sorry for it.”

Doubting that she could trust herself in the company of these ladies much longer, Charlotte withdrew and made her way into the open air, hoping to learn more of interest at her next stop, not many doors away.

A
S SHE HURRIED
down the lane, Charlotte noted that the wind had veered, and that it now carried the sharp smell of snow. She turned where a new lane crossed her own, passed a few more houses and deserted gardens, and eventually came to one that was old and small.

Directly behind the dame school, the home of Jonah Bigelow and his grandson Ned stood under a tangle of denuded vines, canes, and saplings. In summer it was a quaint and leafy spot, but today it looked as if the house might be struggling for breath, within constricting bonds. Yet these could as well break the force of winter blasts, and keep those inside a little warmer. First impressions, Charlotte reminded herself, were sometimes inaccurate.

She mounted a sandstone stoop and stood beneath an undersized portico of rotting wood, where a descending current of wind brought smoke curling from the slanting brick chimney above. At her knock, a voice challenged the distant wail of the approaching storm, asking her to
enter. She lifted a latch of cracked wood, and went inside.

A man she knew to be near seventy years of age sat next to his fire, in a rocker no doubt as old. Neither appeared artful, nor in any way stylish. But each was pleasing, the chair for its solid comfort, the man for his open countenance.

“What is this?” Jonah asked, attempting to rise, then falling back. A stifled bout of coughing followed. When the old man finally lifted his face, contentment still glistened in his moist eyes. “Young Mrs. Willett! You're very welcome. Sit down, here in Ned's chair.” He indicated another seat with a sagging rush bottom but straight, sturdy legs.

Charlotte came in further, after she'd latched the door. Looking about she felt the wonder of childhood, for she'd entered a place she once imagined elves to live in. How many years had it been since she'd come here at her mother's side? And why had she not come since, with more bread and butter, to visit an old man who might find himself longing for company?

“Mr. Bigelow…”

“Please, you must call me Jonah. For you're a child no longer, are ye? But it'll be Ned you wish to see. Perhaps you've some small job for him to do? I'm afraid he left early this morning, off after a bird for the larder, so he may not be back for some time. Would you care for tea?”

Charlotte began to search the tiny kitchen at the edge of the room, finding what was needed.

“I'll lift the kettle from the crane. There, now.” Jonah set down the steaming iron pot, and poured from it as soon as Charlotte brought cups and a thick brown teapot, with a bowl for the warming water. When Jonah wet the tea, she was impressed by the strength of his arms, if his
legs were unusually thin. For some years, the village had watched Ned push his grandfather about while the elder sat in the bow of a handcart, from which he could greet all they met on their errands. She knew they could not afford a horse, though she barely recalled Jonah once riding a pony she'd befriended.

In another moment, Charlotte returned to the fireside with a jug of milk, a pot of sugar, and spoons. “I did come to see Ned,” she admitted. “But tell me how you are, Jonah. Yesterday, you were well enough to go out, I was glad to see.”

“I grow no worse, though every day a little older. But it's more than some can say! Many's the man I knew here as a youth who's in the ground now. Yesterday was a fine day. Good company, good ale, a sip of something braver,” he said with a wink. “Enjoyable things to chew on, too, thanks to our good women. I only wished I could have been some help out on the ice, as I once would have been. Still, I can tell a story or two while Ned plays his fiddle. I suppose that's worth something.”

“So do I,” she assured him. Feeling less of the day's chill, Charlotte took her cloak from her shoulders. Then she leaned forward, and poured out their tea.

“In fact,” said Jonah, “I enjoyed a few old tales myself yesterday, including some I couldn't quite recollect, told by Mr. Tinder and Mr. Flint. Ornamented, perhaps, for the benefit of the young men around the fire. One day, when we're no more than history ourselves, I hope they'll recall the old folk, dead and gone.”

Charlotte decided her questions could wait. “Tell me, Jonah, wasn't it iron-making you were engaged in?” She saw a shadow pass over the old man's face. After that, he appeared to resign himself.

“Something I've not often been asked by a young lass!

We used to make ingots not far from here, out of bog iron long gone—that which supplied smiths, ferriers, and even some who cast pots, like this old veteran of many a campaign.” He bent to return the black kettle to its crane, and went on.

“Back then the land was thick with trees, you know, which were took down to make the charcoal. Every year they cut miles of it down, and other damned souls burned the logs under great piles of sod—mountains that glowed for a week and more, day and night, covered to keep the air out. Very bad work that was, and many died of it, I'm sorry to say, falling in while seeing to the state of things on top, always keeping the blanket tight. A quick way to go, it may have been—but not a pleasant one to think on.” He took a sip of his tea.

Charlotte imagined the gruesome work for herself, while she waited to hear more. Jonah's hands, she noted, shook as he curled them around his cup. “What did you do, Jonah?” she finally asked.

“I, and many another, took the baked wood and used it to smelt out iron from ore. In beehives, as we called 'em. Great furnaces they were, with bellows taking the heat so high, the Devil might have felt at home inside! Once the ore melted, we'd throw in lime, and skim off what came to the top. The iron we drew off below. Twice a day it flowed down to molds on a sand floor. Sows and pigs, that's what came out of our beehives. Sold so others could melt 'em down and re-cast the iron, or more likely beat it into plate. Nowadays, better ore is mined from caverns underground, and I thank God none of those is near to our village. For men who do such work burn out, like the furnaces. A furnace is often rebuilt. But a man is not something to be torn down and raised back up again.

Once my lungs were afflicted, I was never much good for anything else. To be sure, the making of iron is a good business. But for some, at least, it's an unprofitable one.”

Charlotte was sorry to have reminded him of the cause of his infirmity. After gazing quietly into the fire, she poured a second cup of tea for them both. Jonah accepted his with a smile.

“Ned, now, won't fall into the same troubles as I did. I doubt he'd be fool enough to do the work, even if it was offered him…”

Perhaps sensing her silence held less than approval, Jonah was quick to add something more. “The boy takes good care of me, which is more than many a grandson will do.”

“I wonder if I should ask—is it true you and Ned aren't quite blood relations?”

“That is something we rarely mention, lass. But it's true enough Ned is my wife's nephew. I suppose Moses Reed told you, when he brought you to the ice yesterday. He has a sharp eye, and a mind that's nimble,” said Jonah. “And a good memory.”

“You were once neighbors, I think?”

“Many years ago. My wife was quite fond of him— called him ‘little Moses, of the Reeds.’”

“Jonah,” Charlotte asked while the old man still chuckled, “I'd like to hear another old story, if you wouldn't mind. Can you tell me something about Boar Island? Do you recall when the house was built?”

This time it was Jonah who looked away toward the fire. Regretting her curiosity, Charlotte wondered what unhappy memories her new question might have revived. A short convulsion of coughing followed. After that, his eyes came back to hers.

“I do remember something of that. I was, oh, twenty-two then. It's a fact I often seem to recall those days better than what happens now!”

“I've sometimes wondered why, when such a great house was erected, it had so little effect on our village. Not many here have ever visited the island, have they?” she prodded gently.

“John Fisher,” Jonah began in earnest, “first bought the isle, then sent across the sea for a ship full of masons and carpenters. That would have been in 1718—fifty years ago. And he brought with him a master builder. He and Fisher knew other men who'd settled to the north of us, across the Merrimac. It was their quarries that supplied the rock they floated in on barges. Once the house was begun, Fisher welcomed parties made up of these men and other sporting gentlemen he was acquainted with, not a few from his homeland. He only sent for his wife and daughter some time later, when the place was nearly finished. And the hunting parties continued, for the first boars had multiplied, once they'd driven out whatever else lived wild there.”

“Why were so few from Bracebridge invited to visit the island?”

“Our minister at the time was an old Puritan, a sour apple by the name of Dr. Pruitt.
He
had no liking for the place, or what he heard went on there. Hunting for sport— men dancing with many young ladies—none of them taking a proper interest in religion, though Lutherans, I think some were—all of this, he told us at meeting, was sinful. He forbid us from having anything to do with the builders, and as Fisher had his own friends up in Nova Scotia, it was them that cleared his goods, and sent them on to Salem— so he had no need of us, nor Boston, either! We did see the house going up, and some of us might have gone to take a
peek or two. But we mainly stayed away. All but James Godwin. It was Godwin who sold Fisher his liquor, at a good profit, which I suppose Dr. Pruitt might have envied. Then around twenty years ago, Fisher went to meet his maker. After that only Alaric Jones went to the isle, to do chores for the two women who stayed on. The rest of the world forgot them, or at least left them alone.”

Charlotte had further questions, but before she could ask another, Jonah delivered a query of his own.

“What brought you here today, Mrs. Willett? Was it to ask Ned for his help, as I guessed earlier? Or was it something quite different?”

“You've not been out this morning?”

“I may still walk a bit, but not for long. With Ned gone, I usually stay indoors. A cruel wind, too, has come upon us.”

“Something worse came last night, Jonah.” Charlotte repeated the tale of what Lem had discovered, and what she and Richard Longfellow had brought back to the village. When she was through, Jonah Bigelow continued to watch her intently, his faded eyes unblinking.

“That hatchet,” Charlotte added, “is what has brought me here. Yesterday it rested near Ned's feet, not far from your own. Can you recall? Did someone else come and take the canvas bag, or remove the hatchet from it, while you sat there?”

“A woolen scarf on top, you say,” he answered slowly. “I did see that, for I recall thinking it would be warm. I asked myself who'd left it. But then, having a nip of something to warm myself, and perhaps another after that, I lost track of things. This hatchet, now, I wasn't aware of. You might ask Mr. Flint or Mr. Tinder. Or John Dudley. Though I doubt any would tell you more.”

“And Ned?”

“Ned seems your best hope. He rarely takes anything to drink beyond small beer, for it worsens his playing, you see. I'm sure he never got to be as bad as we were—and later, he had no trouble helping me home.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, some time after two. Most were still enjoying themselves, but it seemed time for me to go.”

Seeing her disappointment, Jonah added a comforting word. “You needn't worry about Lem Wainwright. He's a good lad. Each time he's been here lately, he's been cheerful as can be.”

“He comes here?” she asked abruptly.

“As men will seek out others, to discuss this and that, you know. Lately, it's most often been to talk about a pretty miss. I once thought Ned might be interested in Mattie Sloan—but it seems it's Lem she's chosen. A good wife she'll make him too, once he's old enough to ask.”

Charlotte suddenly heard the wind she'd forgotten— felt it, too, as the door swung open and Ned Bigelow came inside. He glimpsed two figures out of the corner of his eye and gave a start, peering into the gloom to see who sat next to his grandfather.

“Mrs. Willett?” he asked, before he was entirely sure.

“That's right,” Jonah said quickly, “come to see you, and ask a question. I warned her you might be gone a while, looking for a bird for our dinner.”

Ned took off his hat and slipped out of his coat. While still wearing a mitten on his right hand, he reached down to unbuckle his leather overshoes. He cast these aside as well, and took a small crock from a shelf. Then he came to sit easily on the edge of the brick hearth, his back against the wall. Charlotte again noticed his intelligent eyes, unkempt hair, and barely bearded cheeks that glowed from
the wind. Imagining that at this moment he did look something like a grasshopper, she smiled.