A Difficult Boy (25 page)

Silas tilted his head toward Lizzie, but the cravat made him wince and hold it straight again. “I only thought . . . I thought it would be better if you joined us.”

Lizzie's eyelids fluttered. “Better?”

Silas cleared his throat. “I mean,” he continued, “you and Clarissa are friends, schoolmates, aren't you?”

Lizzie's eyes tightened. “Friends?” She turned away and busied herself with straightening the tea things on the big kitchen table. “We did go to the same school before she went off to academy, if that's what you mean.”

Silas's mouth relaxed. “There, you see? I thought it might put her at ease if she had a friend at the table.”

Daniel winced. Ethan didn't understand the word that Daniel muttered, but he guessed that it was not a nice one.

Lizzie picked at a clump of dough stuck to her apron. “I hardly think Clarissa needs me to feel at ease.”

The front door opened and closed, and feminine voices trickled down the hall. Silas shifted from one foot to the other, his head cocked toward the hallway.

“Si-las!” Zeloda's voice shrilled toward the kitchen.

Silas fidgeted with his cravat and collar. The damp corner drooped again. “Do I—am I all right?”

Lizzie raised her head slowly and gave him a thin smile. “Splendid.”

Silas grinned and spun out the door. The hall burst into greetings and giggles, soon muffled as Mrs. Lyman led the guests into the formal parlor and closed the door.

Daniel nudged Ethan toward the table. Ethan wasn't quite sure what had happened, only that it had dampened the sparks in Lizzie's eyes. He wished he could think of something clever to say to bring back her old smile, but all he could come up with was, “I'm glad you're having tea here with us, Lizzie.”

Lizzie smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes. “So am I.”

“He's a proper fool, Lizzie,” Daniel said, in the gentlest voice Ethan had ever heard him use.

Lizzie's eyes sparked. “I'll thank you to keep your own counsel before you go calling people names, Paddy Linnehan.” She bustled away to fetch a plate of bread and cakes from one of the side tables.

“Pity,” Daniel murmured in Ethan's ear as the boys settled into their chairs.

“What?”

“Pity you can't find a way t'be spoiling Clarissa's silk today, ain't it?”

“You'll see. There's nothing puts himself in a fine humor like a good string of trout on his breakfast table.” The boys' catch dangled from Daniel's hand in a shimmering iridescent bundle.

“Can I carry 'em?” Ethan's voice echoed as they stepped from the dusty road into the cool darkness of the covered bridge. It couldn't have been a more perfect afternoon—an afternoon with no less than two miracles in it. Silas had granted the boys an unexpected afternoon holiday, and Ethan had caught the biggest fish of the lot.

“You'll drag 'em in the dust and spoil 'em.”

“I will not!”

“Your arms'll get tired. You can carry 'em when we get nearer home.”

“I can do it.”

Daniel whirled, and Ethan found the end of the Irish boy's fishing pole poised against his chest. “Have at you, now,” Daniel said, curling his lip in a teasing sneer.

Ethan blinked. “Have what?”

The pole drooped as Daniel sighed and rolled his eyes. “It's what they say in that peddler's book of plays.” He resumed his stance, poised on the balls of his feet, fishing pole extended in one hand, fish held high in the other. “When they have a duel. If you'd read any of 'em, you'd'a known.”

“Oh.” Ethan's face lit up. Three months ago, no amount of coaxing could have induced Daniel to playfulness. Ethan wondered how many other surprises this new Daniel had inside him. Grinning, Ethan mimicked Daniel's posture. “Have at you, too!” he shouted, and flailed at his friend with his own pole.

The switches that Daniel had cut for fishing poles seemed to have a life of their own, bending the wrong way when one of the boys tried to score a hit, or wobbling when the boys tried to parry each other's blows, and generally doing exactly the opposite of whatever the boys tried to make them do. But that made the duel all the more fun. Ethan's giggles blended with Daniel's harsh barking laugh, echoing back to them from the bridge's rafters. By the time they reached the opposite side, both boys were red-faced and panting.

“Take that—” Ethan jabbed to the right. The end of his pole wobbled to the left. “And that—” With a whoop of laughter, he lunged, then retreated, backing up nearly to the mouth of the bridge.

Daniel dashed after him, feet slapping hard against the boards. He gasped in a breath, then suddenly stopped, his face returning to its usual blank mask.

“What?” Ethan said.

“Shhh.” Daniel's hand twitched in a sharp slashing motion. “Listen.”

All Ethan could hear was the water rushing under the bridge and a jay scolding them for disturbing his rest. Then he caught a high musical tone that sounded like a woman singing. It floated in on the breeze for a moment, then disappeared.

Daniel muttered something in Gaelic and made a quick
gesture, touching his forehead, breast, and shoulders. Then he shoved his fishing pole and the string of trout into Ethan's hands and ran.

“Daniel! Wait!” Ethan plodded after, holding the fish high to keep from trailing them in the dirt.

Daniel stood in the middle of the road, his head tilting to the right and left like a questing dog's.

The singing grew stronger: a high, clear treble purer than any voice Ethan had ever heard in the singing school.

Daniel let out a ragged cry that seemed torn from his heart rather than his throat. He ran toward the sound and disappeared around a bend in the road.

The trees and underbrush near the river gave way to pastures and fields of silvery blue-green rye. Away from the muffling trees, Ethan could hear the singing more clearly. The sounds were at once familiar and foreign, like the gibberish of a dream voice.

Daniel stopped at the crest of a little hill, looking down at the road winding toward them from the east. He scrubbed at his face with his palms until his cheeks and forehead turned red. Then he paced, sweeping his hands through his hair so that it stood up in unruly spikes.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

Daniel shook his head raggedly. “Naught. Naught but me being a fool.” He stumbled toward the edge of the road.

Ethan squinted down the hill at an approaching wagon. It crept along at a leisurely stroll, the sunlight winking and shimmering in silvery lights on its contents. Daniel turned his back on the view and wiped his sweating face with his sleeve.

The wagon drew close enough for Ethan to recognize the serenely plodding horse and its globular driver. “Daniel, look! It's Mr. Stocking!” He waved at the peddler.

Daniel shrugged and headed in the opposite direction. “S'pose it is,” he replied dully.

Mr. Stocking urged Phizzy into a trot, neatly pulling the splay-footed gray gelding to a halt in front of Ethan. “Well, if it ain't young Mr. Root.” The peddler swept off his hat and bowed deeply. “I thought I recognized your physiografication. Didn't I say so, Billy?”

Ethan's gaze shifted to Mr. Stocking's companion: a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, slouched in the seat. Blond curls strayed out from under a deep blue cap that almost exactly matched the boy's eyes. He wore a spencer of the same blue material, with brass buttons that winked as brightly as Mr. Stocking's wares. Billy's face looked as if it might tend toward round-cheeked fullness if he weren't so lean. The leanness made his face a shade less than pleasant—that, and something hard around his eyes.

“Aye,” Billy said, the sound tilting upward at the end. The word had nothing musical about it.

Ethan stared, trying to connect the boy on the wagon with the song. “That—that was
you
singing?”

“Aye,” the boy said again. His jaw tensed, as if the question were a challenge.

“Not a finer treble in three counties, eh, son? Pity it won't last more'n a couple more years.” Mr. Stocking's spectacles winked as he glanced from the boy to Ethan. He nodded toward the fish in Ethan's hand. “'Pears you and your comrade-in-arms have had a successful day.” He looked beyond Ethan to where Daniel lingered at the roadside. The peddler's mouth widened in a broad grin that fully exposed his gold tooth. He bobbed and leaned forward. “Good day, Mr. Linnehan,” he called out. When Daniel didn't come any closer, he flicked the reins and drove the wagon over to the boy. “Looks like you boys're afoot today.”

“Aye,” Daniel said, his face closed and hostile.

“Hop aboard, then. No sense preambulating when you can ride in style, eh?”

“You're going the wrong way.” Daniel crossed his arms and jutted his chin in the direction from which Mr. Stocking had come.

“Ah, but that's the beauty part of this peddling scheme. I got no fixed itinerary.” He accentuated the
tin
part of the word, laughing at his own pun.

Daniel remained stone-faced. “I don't fancy being thrashed again.”

Ethan moved closer to Daniel. He'd once thought he'd never forget that switching, but the moment he'd recognized Mr. Stocking, all he'd thought of was the peddler's stories and gifts, the joy of the race, and Daniel and the peddler's enigmatic parting. With Daniel's words, the betrayal was suddenly fresh again. No wonder Daniel was angry.

“Thrashed?” Mr. Stocking repeated. “Someone saw us racing, huh? Oh, boys, I am sorry. I thought we were discreet as Pharaoh's wife.”

Ethan's lower lip jutted out. “Nobody saw us. You told,” he said.

Mr. Stocking pulled himself up straight. He tugged his jacket into place as it rode up his belly. “I did no such thing. I may be a peddler, but I never betray a confidence.”

“You told Mr. Pease, and he told Mr. Lyman, and he thrashed us.” The memory burned Ethan's cheeks.

The peddler lifted his hat and rumpled his thinning hair. “Now I never said a word about racing to a soul, and I'll swear that on Phizzy's rump. . . .” He rasped a finger across his chin. “But there was a fella . . . yes, a big strapping farmer-fella, nearly slick enough to make a peddler . . . yes, I did talk to him about you boys. I mentioned I'd been at the
farrier's, and he asked if I'd seen two boys riding a chestnut mare. I said indeed I had, and commented on what an excellent example of equine-imity she was. Then he said that Irish boy, he's a rare one for riding, and I'd'a been lying if I disagreed, wouldn't I? But we never talked about racing.” He glanced up, as if the memory were written in the air for him to read. He shook his head. “No, no, can't say the subject was brung up. I was only complimenting your talents, not telling your sins, son.”

“The riding alone was enough to get us thrashed,” Daniel said.

“He don't let you
ride
?” The peddler's eyebrows arched nearly to his hat brim. “Now there's a damn-fool waste of time, sending two boys on an errand with a horse and not even letting 'em
ride
. You'd think a man as skinflintish as your Mr. Lyman would'a heard that time is money, wouldn't you?”

“Not when it comes to lads riding
his
horse.” Daniel's eyes hardened to gray stone.

“And my carelessness cost you boys a thrashing.” Mr. Stocking's voice softened, losing its playactor's bravado. The peddler shook his head and doffed his hat, his eyes soft behind his glasses. He swirled his gray-speckled hair into an unruly nest that matched the discomfort in his face. “My deepest and sincerest apologies. I wouldn't have no harm come to you boys, not with me owing you so much.”

Daniel's frown eased into a neutral line. “
You
owing
us
?”

“Well, you, sir, particularly.” The peddler pointed at Daniel. Phizzy's nose bobbed in agreement.

Daniel's pale eyebrows twisted in confusion. “For what?”

“An idea.” Mr. Stocking settled his hat back on his head. “A very profitable idea.” The peddler jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Hop aboard, boys. I'll tell you while you ride.” He nudged his companion with his elbow. “Go on, Billy, make
some room for these gentlemen. Pile up the goods around 'em so no tattlers'll spot 'em.”

“They're no more gentlemen than I am,” Billy muttered as Ethan and Daniel clambered aboard.

Mr. Stocking took Billy's arm and squeezed, forcing the boy to turn and look at him. “Friends of mine is friends of yours, and you'll treat 'em civil, understand?”

Billy's cheeks reddened. He dropped his eyes with a murmured “Yessir.”

“Good.” Mr. Stocking flicked the reins and angled the wagon back and forth across the road until he'd turned it back the way he'd come. Once under way again, he cleared his throat. “Now, William James Michael Fogarty, this is Mr. Ethan Root and Mr. Daniel Linnehan, and it's them I have to thank for the pleasure of your company.”

All three boys' eyes opened wide.

“Us?” Ethan asked.

“Them?” Billy said at the same time.

Mr. Stocking grinned at the boys' surprise. “Well, I confess I wasn't thinking on you fellas when I first seen Billy. He was sleeping under the bridge down by Factory Village, looking so decrepit I thought somebody'd killed him.” One green eye disappeared behind a wink. “He taught me to play the Good Samaritan, didn't you, son?”

The tension around Billy's eyes softened as he straightened and thumbed his lapels. “You never been kicked so hard, I bet.”

“Or so thoroughly.” Mr. Stocking rubbed his shin as though it still hurt. “Tried to do the boy a kindness, and he assaulted me. Imagine. Kicked me and run off.” The wagon seat groaned as Mr. Stocking turned sideways on it, so he could give the boys the full effect of his story. Phizzy plodded steadily along without the little man's guidance. “‘Bad luck to
you,' I says, and goes on to my business. Not two hours later, I'm down in the Patch, trying to sell a fine Gaelic lady one of my milk pans. I turn around and what do I see but this same rogue trying to carry away an entire tin kitchen!”