A Place in His Heart (9 page)

August 1632

Mary longed for Barney's love and a babe but took much comfort in the sweet love Ben bestowed on her. Almost five, he still snuggled with her whenever he could, never letting her far from his sight. Joseph remained sullen. Why did it need to be so difficult? Had not they at times touched with their hearts?

She hauled the bucket of freshly drawn water up from the stream. Sweat trickled down the side of her face as she lowered it to the ground. She dipped her hand into the cool water and splashed her face. Joseph watched her—she could feel his eyes upon her. He would think she was intruding, but she needed the chance to talk with him.

“Why, Joseph, you surprised me. Those are pretty flowers. Shall we find a vase? You may use some of this water.”

He fingered the yellow coreopsis and blue bellflowers he'd picked in the meadow and the petals wilted at his touch. “They are not for you.”

“I did not think so. I do love them, even though they are not for me.”

“No, my mother loved them. She always loved all kinds of flowers. Why do you always think you can just take over and be my mother?”

“Oh, Joseph.” Pain jabbed at her heart. “Please do not think I want to take over for your mother. I can't do that and I know that. She was a fine person, your mother, and I know that you miss her. It wouldn't be right if you did not miss her. She loved you so and she deserves that.”

“You didn't know her, so don't tell me what you think about her.”

She stiffened. She must say this right. “Yes. I did not really know her. I hear all of the lovely things people have to say about her, and I wish that I had the chance. But you know something, Joseph? I know how much your father loves her and that tells me she was quite wonderful, indeed. I know her through your father's eyes and heart and that tells me everything I need to know. Promise me that you will think of her every day. Share with me all of the wonderful things about her that you know, so we can both feel close to her.”

Joseph's eyes misted and he blinked. He would think tears were babyish. His sullen face was an attempt to hold those feelings in. But she could see he was losing that battle. A tear wound its way down his cheek.

“Let me hold you, Jay, let me bear some of your pain, please.”

His eyes jerked toward her. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“Jay. My mother called me Jay after I scratched the
J
in the table. No one else has ever called me that. Not even Father.”

“'Tis my way to shorten names. Have you noticed I call your father Barney and Benjamin Ben? I like that. May I call you Jay?”

“I think so. But I still do not want to call you Mother. You're not my mother.”

“Of course. For your father's sake and mine, just be respectful. 'Tis all that I ask. Thank you for allowing me to call you Jay. Now, I shall fetch something to put the flowers in, but I think perhaps you should take them to your mother's grave. 'Tis a bit of a walk up that hill—I shall go with you. She will love them, and it shall give you a moment to think about her and remember her love for you. I'll be right back, wait here by the bucket.”

She started up the path to the house, but glanced back. He squatted next to the bucket, his back to her. His soft words, meant for his mother, drifted to her on a gentle breeze. “I wonder if it would be all right to like her. Only like her, that would be all. Mother, I could never love her like I love you. But mayhap it would be all right to like her.”

She brought back a red slipware jug, and he rose to meet her. He handed her the flowers and lifted the bucket to pour water for the thirsty nosegay. Mary lifted her apron and wiped a dusty tear from his cheek as the two set off to the cemetery.

Grass grew in tufts around the blue slate headstone, but it was recently trimmed and she knew Barney had been out to tidy up around the grave as he often did. She was sure, too, he'd stayed awhile, perhaps sitting on the sod and soaking up some sun. He felt close to Ann at those times and she was glad he could have the moments to himself.

She picked out the dried lilies from the clay pot next to Ann's grave, tucking the fresh coreopsis and bellflowers in their place. Jay quietly poured the water from the jug, and she stepped back to give him his own precious time.

They started down the hill and she smiled as Jay ran ahead. He finally slowed and turned back to her, offering his hand,
the red jug swinging in the other. A sigh that could shake the heavens escaped her as she clutched his hand, and she looked up, wondering if the angels indeed were taking note.

Barnabas swept crumbs into the fireplace. The last of his customers had left over an hour ago and he was able to close a bit early. Miss Tilly rubbed her side against his leg and he bent to give her ear a scratch. He untied his apron, wiped his hands, and dabbed at his damp forehead before he hung it on the peg. On a warm summer day like today, the heat of the oven drove him to the open door often. A breeze stirred as he watched Mary and Joseph step into the house. Her hand was tucked in his and it gave Barnabas cause to smile.

The past year had been difficult at times between his son and Mary. He'd made the decision early on to give her time to spend with the boys, and of course for visits and sewing sessions with Elizabeth. He'd kept control of the kitchen tongs and the duties that went with them. Every time he thought about passing the tongs to Mary, he remembered Ann and the day she received them.

But mayhap it was time. He could at least begin teaching her a thing or two about baking. The oven was still hot and a good fire ought not be wasted. Besides, the sun would set and the England mist would settle in to chill the air.

Yes, now would be an excellent time, but he had to give her due. She'd made a bit of progress already. When they first married, she did not know the difference between a simmer and a boil.

He entered the parlor and found her settling in to mend a stack of breeches. She looked up and smiled.

“I am thinking mayhap we should go to the bakeshop. I know it is hot, but 'twill cool off soon and it's a good time for a lesson.”

“Do you not know I married you for your culinary skills and that two cooks can spoil the pot? I know when I am better off.” Green twinkled in her hazel eyes. She looked happy.

“You will not get your way that easily. Come now, wife, I will show you what I know, but do not expect to master all of my skills. I know how to keep the mystery alive in a marriage,” he teased.

They entered the bakeshop and he helped her with a fresh apron. As he tied it around her waist, she reached up to catch wispy tendrils escaping her comb. He marveled at her slim figure and, forgetting momentarily why they were there, put his arms around her in a tight embrace and kissed the nape of her neck.

“You are, Barney, so, so . . . shameless. Was this a trick to get me alone? You know the minute we think we are alone, both boys shall suddenly appear.”

“Pray pardon, but you do inspire such things in me. Ah, now, what were we doing? Cooking—ah yes, cooking.”

“Ah, yes. Cooking.” With a grin she dipped her fingers in the powdery white flour and flung sprinkles across Barnabas's nose.

“Oh, ho! Two can play at this.” He scooped up a handful.

Mary scampered around the table, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds. She darted back and forth giggling, teasing Barnabas. Finally she gave herself up to him, as if ready to accept her fate. A shower of flour landed full in her face, coating her eyelashes like new-fallen snow.

“Ah, my sweet, I am so sorry. Let me wipe that.” He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and with great tenderness dusted her eyelids.

She leaned back in his arms, and as he moved to her nose,
her eyes opened and met his. “Barney, if ever I wonder why I married you, it would be this. You are the sweetest, most gentle man I have ever known.”

“I am fun too, am I not?” His grin was mischievous.

“Yes, fun and smart and the best baker I know. Now let us get to the matter at hand and you show me all that you know. About cooking.”

Turning toward the massive fireplace, he picked up the bellows and handed it to her.

Mary took aim at him, but he was quicker than she this time.

He redirected it to the fire. “No, my sweet, practice has begun.” He stacked some logs over the coals. “Now then, give it some air with the bellows. Do you remember what I told you about stacking it so the fire gets air? The logs form a tent. If you stack it tight, one on top of the other, the fire will smother. You will know your fire is not going anywhere if you do not see smoke or flames lapping about your wood.” He watched as the flames began to lick about the logs. “Aye, that's good, Mary. You have a fire.”

While they listened to the music of the fire snapping and crackling behind the closed oven door, Barnabas explained his inventory of implements and supplies in his bakeshop. Oh, he'd done that many a time for Mary, but he never tired of the tools of his trade.

“This copper cauldron I've had for as long as I've had my shop and is the largest. Here on the table are my other kettles and pipkins.” He waved at various iron and earthen pots that sat stacked next to his collection of sieves and skimmers, colanders and chopping blocks.

He pointed to the salt box that sat in a cove next to the chimney.

“'Tis to keep it dry, is it not?”

“Yes, my salt comes from Southwold and is costly. 'Twould not do to have it ruined.” He picked up a whisk of bundled birch twigs and swept some ash back into the hearth. “You remember well. And the more you practice working with the dough, the sooner it will be second nature to you.”

“Lizzie told me 'tis important to use all of the senses in cooking.”

“She is correct—the art of baking bread or preparing a proper dish is to remember to use your senses. You must feel the texture to know the consistency and taste it to know if you have the right amount. The aroma will tell you when it is done. Experience will teach you.”

He turned to the oven and opened the door. Mary drew back from the heat, but he nudged her to look inside. The soot had turned to a white-hot ash on the walls of the oven and he nodded toward the slice. She fetched the long hoe-like tool and scraped the embers to the pail below. He handed her several wet rags, and she brushed as much of the ash as she could from the floor of the oven, making it ready for the loaves of dough. She raised her brows and winked at her husband. “I feel like a scullery maid.”

Barnabas chuckled. “Yes, yes. Well done.” He took the slice from her and handed her the long wooden paddle. “This is the peel—just put your loaves right here, one at a time, and then place it on the oven floor.”

Mary removed a loaf from the long, wooden molding board and placed it on the peel.

“Now, make your cuts across the top and put it in. Close the door quickly because you want your oven very hot. Once we can smell the bread baking, you will want to check it often.”
He watched her expertly position four loaves in the oven and close the door.

She looked about the kitchen. “So what is next? Cakes?”

“Nay, we shall put a joint of beef on the spit to roast.” He pointed to the jack positioned at the top of the hearth, with the long chains connected to a wheel.

“Papa was amazed you have this contraption. Cook was too. Her son always turns the roast.”

“It is an amazing invention, to be sure. The smoke vane keeps it turning. Preparing the beef for the spit is the most work required.”

“Roast of beef is my favorite meal. 'Tis Joseph's and Ben's too.”

He liked it when she mentioned the boys. They were always close to her thoughts, he knew. “That it is. Methinks they are adjusting to our new life. I knew Benjamin would, but Joseph surprises me. I saw the two of you today, holding hands.”

“He and I had a chance to talk today. He told me I may call him Jay.”

A pain jabbed across his chest and the familiar sorrow he felt with thoughts of Ann settled over him. “Indeed?”