As the Sparks Fly Upward (19 page)

When Twyla looked, Colin saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “Thank you, Mister. It isn't bad to be owned by you.”

Colin shook his head. “I don't own you, Twyla. You'll be my servant for seven years and then you'll be free.”

She took the comb and ran it through her coal-black hair, then tried the brush. “I'll keep 'em always, Mister.”

She got up and came over to Colin. She held the comb and brush in one hand and reached to touch Colin's scar with her other. “The old doctor, 'e says you'll allus 'ave that scar.”

“Well, I'm no beauty, so it doesn't matter.”

At that moment, the bells began to toll all over London and Colin smiled. “Merry Christmas, Twyla.”

Twyla looked at the brushes and looked up at him. She gave him the first real smile he had ever seen from her, and then she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mister!”

Twyla

(1584–1587)

13

May 24, 1584

T
wyla moved around the room, making sure everything was in place, then walked to the fireplace, where she was cooking a stew. With a wooden spoon she stirred the stew, tasted it, and with a frown that made slight lines in her forehead, she muttered, “Don't got enough seasoning.” She removed three bottles from a shelf and added to the stew from each of them. She put the bottles back, then began to walk restlessly around the room. All of the cooking and cleaning were done, and Twyla felt bored. A look of discontent on her face, she put her arms across her chest and muttered, “I wish 'e would come before the food gets cold.”

From outside the house she heard the sound of someone chopping wood, and the faint voices of children at play. It was May now, the summer fully come. Twyla walked to the window and stared out at the scene. The house was set on a street that ran north and south, and she noted that the sun was already sinking low on the western horizon. The scene held a charm for Twyla Hayden. When she had first come to live with the two doctors, she had been tense, expecting nothing good from them, for she had learned to trust no man—nor any woman, for that matter. But that had changed, and now she smiled as she
thought about how she had become a part of the household—and an important part, too. Neither of the men could cook anything, and both were horrible housekeepers. It was Twyla who kept the house neat and clean and who cooked the meals that pleased them so much.

Impatiently she moved to the ladder and climbed upstairs to her small room. A thin afternoon light filtered through the window, and she reached over to pluck a dress that hung from a peg on the wall. Quickly she slipped out of the plain dress she wore for rough work and pulled the other dress over her head. It was a struggle, for though the dress had fit her perfectly six months earlier, now she had blossomed so that her figure was beginning to stretch the fabric. A thought came to Twyla.
Maybe I'm older than thirteen. I'm swelling up like a woman!
The thought pleased her, and quickly she picked up the brush that Colin had given her for Christmas. She ran it through her black hair with a sense of pleasure, then put it back in the chest and went downstairs again.

As she stepped off the last tread, the back door slammed. She moved quickly to see Clyde Maddox, the handyman, who had entered with an armload of wood. He dumped it in the wood box beside the fireplace, then turned and grinned at her. He was a burly man with blunt features and a pair of faded blue eyes. “How 'bout a bite to eat, sweetheart?”

“I'm not no sweetheart of yours, and I'm not your cook, neither! You have to come back after the gentlemen have eaten.”

“I'm not good enough, is that it?”

“You can't 'ave nothin' to eat,” Twyla said firmly. She turned to walk over to the fireplace to look at the stew but then felt his thick arms go around her, brushing against her chest. She quickly pulled a pin that was stuck in the front of her dress and rammed it into the handyman's arm.

“Ow! That hurt! Why, you blasted little vixen! I ought to take a stick to you!” Clyde rubbed his arm angrily, then glared at her
and said loudly, “You wouldn't 'ave stuck no pin in me if I wuz Colin Winslow, would you now?”

“Get out of here! You leave me alone!”

Maddox grunted and shook his head. Still rubbing his arm, he strode toward the back door. Suddenly, he turned and came at her. She held the pin up and threatened, “I'll run it right in your eye! Now get out!”

“It's gonna do you no good to play up to that doctor. He won't pay no mind to a servant girl. He'll marry him a rich woman, that's wot 'e'll do,” he grunted, then stepped outside, slamming the door hard.

Twyla wanted to yell at him, but she was trying to learn to control the anger that sometimes rose in her. When she had first come to live with Colin and Phineas, she had often shouted, and both men had rebuked her for using the profane language she had picked up on the streets. Maddox's words had stirred her and somehow made her feel guilty. She knew that she did have an affection for Colin Winslow, for he was the first man ever to show her kindness. She moved to a chair and picked up the huge orange-colored cat, who grunted with surprise. As she held him close he said, “Yow!”

“Yow yourself, Arthur.” Twyla rubbed her cheek against his silken fur. “I have to tell you things, because there's no one else to talk to.” She suddenly realized that her speech had changed somewhat during the brief time she had spent in this house. It was smoother now, for listening to the two educated men had gradually affected her. She also had learned better personal habits and bathed regularly. She was a quick young woman, and her good behavior pleased both men. “You're the only one I talk to, Arthur. I dunno' what I'd do without you.” She hugged the big cat for a moment, then put him down and continued to wait impatiently.

Ten minutes later she stirred the stew again. Then from a cupboard she took a piece of paper and laid it flat on the table.
She sat on a tall stool, dipped a pen into a bottle of ink, and began to draw. Quickly, the image developed beneath her hands. This was her one gift, the ability to draw things. She'd always had this talent, even as a small child. The sketch emerged and she looked at it with satisfaction. She held the paper up and said, “Look, Arthur, there you are. Aren't you beautiful?” She turned the paper over and began to sketch again, this time with more care. The pen scratched on the paper, and the outside noises faded into the background. Finally, she picked the paper up and studied it. It was a picture of Colin. She muttered bleakly. “Mister don't even know I'm 'ere, and 'e don't care.”

A sound at the door caught her attention, and quickly she ran to the fireplace and threw the paper in it. She had never told Colin or Phineas that she could draw. She looked at Colin as he came in, noting his slumped shoulders and mussed hair.

“Hello, Twyla,” he greeted her, his tone weary.

“Hello, Mister. Come sit down and eat before it gets cold. I thought you was never comin'.”

“I had too many patients.”

“Well, now you sit there and eat a good supper.”

Colin slumped down in the chair, and Twyla put a wooden trencher loaded with vegetables before him. She went to the fireplace, got a loaf of fresh-baked bread, then dipped a full bowl of stew and put that before him too.

“Have you eaten, Twyla?”

“Not yet, Mister.”

“Fix yourself something and eat with me.”

Twyla was waiting for this, so she quickly prepared her food, sat down, and began to eat. She kept her eyes on Colin, who was thinking so deeply about something that lines furrowed his brow. She thought again how strange it was that he had taken her in. She had known nothing but harshness from men and she had expected the same from him, but he had been nothing but welcoming and grateful for the work she did. Now as she
studied him, she thought again how handsome he was. He had chestnut hair with a touch of red, and his blue-gray eyes seemed to change according to the setting and the color of his clothes. His complexion was fair and his mouth was well formed, though wider than usual for a man. His face was V-shaped, beginning with a broad forehead, then tapering down to a prominent chin. He was not a strong man, not heavy with bulging muscles, but he was quick in his movements. She wondered again why he had bothered with her, for at times it seemed to her that he did not even know she was on the planet. This disturbed her even now, so to get her mind off it she said, “Tell me what you did today.”

“Treated patients.”

“What was wrong with 'em?”

She kept firing questions at him until finally he shook his head as if to shake off a pesky fly. “Don't ask so many questions,” he snapped shortly.

“Well,
someone
'as to talk around 'ere!” The temper she was learning to control flared. “I'm 'ere all day with no one to talk to except Arthur. Now tell me wot you did.”

She saw her anger made him blink, then he chuckled lightly and smiled. “I guess I'm a little grumpy tonight. It's been a hard day.” He related several of the cases he'd treated, then asked, “What did
you
do today?”

“Same thing I allus do, cleaned the house and washed clothes and cooked. I worked all day trying to make this house nice for you and spent all day making the best meal I could. It might as well be fodder! You don't care about anybody but your bloody patients! Maybe if I was sick, you'd talk to
me
.”

Colin dropped his head and for a moment sat motionless, the food forgotten. Finally, he looked up and said, “I'm sorry, Twyla. I—I lost a patient today.”

“You mean he died?” Twyla asked softly.

“It was a young woman.”

Twyla saw the hurt in his eyes. She knew it troubled him deeply if one of his patients did not do well—especially if one died. Finally she said, “I bet you did your very best. You allus do.”

“Well, today my best wasn't good enough.” Colin looked up at the ceiling as if seeking an answer there. After a time, he lowered his head and looked directly in her eyes. There were times he would talk to her, but so often he was lost in thoughts that no one could tap. Now his voice was low. “I have been thinking, Twyla, about what she'll miss.”

“What do you mean, Mister?”

“She'll miss falling in love, getting married, going to dances. She won't be having any children. She won't have any of that—and it was my fault.”

“No, it wasn't!” Twyla said quickly. She wanted to go up to him and wrap her arms around him, but she knew that would be unseemly. “It wasn't none of your fault.”

He gave a short laugh and said, “I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you here to encourage me, child. It means a lot to me.”

Twyla wanted to tell him how much living in this house with him and Dr. Teague meant to her—to be plucked out of the hellish environment that she had grown up in and find a place of warmth and solace and peace. She thought every day about where she was now, a place where the two men showed her consideration such as she'd never known. All this was in her head, but she just could not say it, at least not now.
I'll tell 'im later
was her thought, but she wondered if she ever would.