Bitter Eden (30 page)

She wrote as many letters as she could those first few months, and received news from Meg on nearly every incoming packet ship. In so many ways the letters going back and forth revealed the similarity of their lives: Frank was harvesting hops; Peter and Stephen were harvesting wheat. All three men raced against time, the weather, and the market. The letters also showed where the similarities ended. Frank continued to be beset with the problems of an old country in the throes of reform, and Peters life reflected

the vigor of a new country not yet hemmed in by laws and limitations. For once Peter had as much to do as he was able, and he stretched the days until there were no more hours to fill, with all the variety of enterprise he could. With fearless audacity and the fortune of a beginner, he plunged the inheritance he had received from James into the games that were becoming a part of New York—speculations, gold markets, railroads, shipping, and the buying and selling of cargoes on the chance his ship would come into port laden with spices and silks and hand-crafted furnishings status-greedy New Yorkers would buy before the ships were unloaded.

Some called New York the City of Ships, and it was true that one could barely see the sky for the masts that stretched upward all along South Street But it was not only the hustle and traffic-clogged streets that fascinated Peter; nor was his interest merely in making money. The longshoremen held his interest and admiration. They were plain men, ordinary men, not unlike the laborers in Kent, but as early as 1825 these men understood the strategic position they held on the New York docks, and had staged a strike. And here, in America, they had succeeded without an army of magistrates arresting all in sight, without hangings and unreasonable punishments. The laborer here was valued, and Peter felt a joy that he tried to describe in letters to Frank.

Callie also dutifully reported all these things to Meg and Frank and Anna, and received in return news that Frank thought Peter a fool who would end up penniless and begging for passage money home once the truth of the situation in America was known.

As Callie read the most recent letter from Frank aloud after supper, Peter and Stephen laughed.

"Frank never has any view but one," Peter said.

"Would you like to wager, Stephen, that he has been talking to Mrs. Foxe lately? If those aren't the words of that old horse blanket, 111 eat them. Wait until he hears we will be expanding the size of our fields this year. Be sure to tell him that in your next letter, Cal-lie. See if he still thinks we need passage money home."

Stephen laughed then. "I can tell you now what he'll say. He won't believe it. It's too near winter to be able to prepare additional fields."

"Oh, no, it isn't We'll do it"

Peter, true to his boast, insisted on clearing more of the land. He and Stephen worked with the field hands from sunup to sundown. By the end of that first harvest season, they had, by determination, grinding work, additional hired help, and sweat, cleared twenty-five acres in addition to the thirty-five-acre field Paul Grampe had put into wheat. Sixty acres would be ready for planting the foUowing spring.

But even with this, Stephen was not completely satisfied. Brewing season was well underway when they had arrived in America, and it was the first year he could not recall not having brewed at least small beer for the house. Paul Grampe had once thought himself of brewing and had the beginnings of a modest brewhouse, but he had never equipped it. The building stood empty and idle, a thorn in Stephen s side until he could stand it no more.

He gathered up what odds and ends he could find and began his brewing as though it had never been interrupted. Peter walked into the brewhouse to see him industriously fidgeting with the fire, trying to get the wort, a mixture of fermented malt, boiling properly. Peter looked at the oddities Stephen had collected. Hogshead barrels were serving as mash tuns and back coolers. For the copper needed to boil the

wort, a suspicious-looking object served. Peter touched it with the tip of his boot.

"Where did you come across that? It isn't what I think it is, is it?"

Stephen looked up from his awkward position on the floor. "Oh, don't mention it. Don't say a word about it, even to me. Callie will have my skin. It's her best kettle, but I had to have it. For the moment I have her believing there are thieving Indians about."

Peter laughed and gave the conglomeration of barrels and kettles another look. "What's this stuff going to taste like?"

"Well, it can only be small beer. Maybe a bit of stronger if I'm lucky."

"What are you using for hops?"

"A few of the wild . . . but mostly Tm not using them at all." Stephen beamed. "Jack told me of a way to use corn or molasses as substitutes. I've been experimenting, and have a pretty good mix. Jack says it's pretty good."

Peter made a sour face, sitting down on the ground beside Stephen. Idly he fanned the fire. "If this is the stuff they drink, there's little wonder that the brewery industry is slow in growth here. It makes me all the more certain that we must get your brewery going as soon as possible. That's all there is to it. Even if it's only a few barrels at a time in the beginning we've got to get started. Callie can take it to market when she takes her butter and eggs. Once we give people a taste of real beer, we'll have so many orders well never fill them fast enough." He stood up> brushing himself off, and glanced back at the boiling wort "And for God's sake go buy yourself another kettle before she finds out that you have this one."

"Ahh, she'll never find out. She doesn't come in here"

Peter shrugged. "It's your neck, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Leave it to me. I can talk Callie out of anything."

Peter shook his head, eyes twinkling. "I hope like hell I'm around to hear that."

Stephen grimaced at his brother and continued working.

When Jack came later that afternoon, his first question was, "How's the brew? Any ready for a thirsty friend?" He lounged gracelessly across three barrels, "Any luck with the different mixes yet?"

Stephen shrugged, looking doubtful. "So far I haven't come up with anything that Peter will even try. No matter what I do it's never going to match a good ale—not even a good small beer. It's all second rate ... maybe not even that. About the best I can say for it is that it is drinkable."

"That should count for something. Maybe I'd better sample it again. My judgment is always good on these things."

"You'd do damn near anything for a free beer." Stephen laughed, drawing Jack his mug. He got up and handed Jack the beer and a mash oar. "Keep the mash stirring for me, will you? I want to catch Henry before he goes into town. I need some supplies. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Hey! Wait a minute. I came over to see if you're going to the dance Saturday night."

"I haven't thought about it. Maybe."

Jack hesitated. "Think Callie would go with me?"

"Callie? No."

"Why the hell not? What is it with that girl? I don't think she likes men. Every time I get around her she's as sldtterish as a new colt. Why don't you think she'd go with me?"

"I didn't say she wouldn't go with you. Just that she

isnt," Stephen said gruffly. "Keep that mix stirring. Ill be back shortly."

"Wait a minute! What do you mean, she isn t? You'd better tell me what's what. Do you want her for yourself ? Is that it?"

"Just leave her alone. That's all."

"Oh no, it isn't. That's not enough. If you want her, well, then 111 step back as a good friend, but otherwise . . *

"Otherwise just never step in. Stir!" Stephen said and left.

Stephen had been gone about twenty minutes when Callie stormed into the brewhouse. "There it is! I wouldn't have believed it!"

"Hello, Callie darlin," Jack drawled

"Where is he?"

"Gone. You don't need Stevie, not when Tm here." He grinned happily and put his arms around her waist, cuddling her playfully.

"Let me go, Jack."

"Don't be like that I just want to have a little fun."

"Jack! Let me go."

He aimed for her lips and got the sharp edge of her jawbone. "Let me go!" she breathed through clenched teeth. As his grasp tightened, she reached for the mash oar.

"Ouch! Damn woman!" he cried, hand over his ear. She swung again, catching him across the rear end. "I let you go! Be damned, you banshee—leave a n*an his healthy limbs!"

"Get! Out! Go!" she cried, swinging wildly as she chased him from the brewhouse.

Stephen stopped at the edge of the walk, but too late.

"You! Stephen! Indians indeed. The Berean tribe it was!"

"Callie—I'll give it back. Callie, calm down. For God's sake, watch what you do with that oar! Calliel— look, look IVe got another kettle. You can have yours." He backed away from the oar whizzing past him, "Callier he cried as he tripped over the garden border, falling hard on his back.

She walked toward him and then began to laugh. She placed the oar gently across the flat of his belly. "Seeing you flat on your back in the poison ivy makes it all worthwhile—thieving Indians and all."

Stephen didn't have the courage to look to see if he was really lying in poison ivy. He just lay there thinking about Jack running down the path, and began to laugh again.

Chapter 21

The first months in Poughkeepsie were the busiest and most exciting Callie had ever known. There were never enough hours in the day for any of the Bereans. Peter had been right when he had told them that everything for which they labored here would be theirs in a special way. Each of them had a sense of pride and accomplishment that seemed unique to them, and each of them changed in accordance with the new state of well-being.

Rosalind had come into her own after Jamie was born. She was slim again, and could fit into the most daring and beautiful gowns. And for once she found she had as many outlets as she wished for all her pent-up energies and her dreams. Here they could be real. Peter bought her a small, shiny black buggy, which she could drive herself. From the moment of the buggy's arrival, Rosalind was off on her round of visiting their neighbors and becoming involved in the local ladies' societies. Somewhat sheepishly she admitted to having learned to quilt, giving them all a good laugh

and Rosalind a feeling of warmth and belonging to the family she'd never had before.

By a steady process, in direct proportion to Rosalind's success at becoming what she considered a "lady/' Callie was eased out of the task of being Rosalind's companion. Rosalind had become far too grand and independent to tolerate Callie's haphazard interest in clothes, committees, and charities. So Callie's first concern was now Jamie alone. But she also cared for the dairy. For all intents and purposes, Callie ran the house. She was housekeeper, governess, and scullery maid all in one. It was no small relief when a maid was hired to assist Rosalind in sorting out the complexities of how a 'lady" should spend her day.

It was a hard year, but one Callie would always look back on as one of the happiest of her life. It was not only filled with work, but fun as well. And with the fun came a feeling new to her. Shyly she felt a tremulous stirring in Stephen's presence. It was a strange and confusing feeling, and she found herself avoiding him at times she might otherwise have felt free to enter his male world. And then there were times she seemed to be compelled to be around him no matter what. As her desire to be nearer him grew, her ability to act naturally, as she always had, became more difficult. Uncomfortable with her confusion over Stephen, Callie sought reasons outside of him for the cause, and she found them, unsatisfactory as they were. She was changing because her life was changing. All of them were becoming happier and more attuned to each other as their life developed.

The farm was taking shape. It was an exciting process to live through. It was no longer Peter alone who could see what it would become. Outlines of future fields were clearly visible. The stakes had been driven into the ground marking the place and shape of

the first brewery site—Stephens brewery. Day by day they were taking pieces of dreams and turning them into something real, something to be touched and seen. And best of all, they were happy doing it. As it had been when she had first come to live with the Bereans, the supper hour was again a raucous, happy time, filled with stories and laugTiter. She even enjoyed Jack Tolbert's jokes as long as he kept his hands and his intentions under control, which wasn't often. If he couldn't stir up trouble, he just wasn't happy. But he was a part of this new place, and without him it wouldn't be the same. So she liked Jack after a fashion, and sometimes admitted to herself she -would be happy if Stephen were as bold as Jack.

The winter came on with a snowy blast, but it was nothing like the damp winters she had spent in Kent. There were none of the tensions to keep them worried and strained. Peter was home every night with Rosalind. Slowly the strain that had been present in their marriage began to lessen, and Rosalind was more often than not a cheerful, active participant in their fun. She even took part in some of the winter sports that seemed to abound. The people along the Hudson looked upon their winters as a time for great fun. With Jack leading them, they all took to the ice. The river the Indians called the Shatemuc, which seemed so powerful that nothing could stem its flow, froze over. At first there were only the skaters who dared to move on the ice, but as the winter went on, sleighs and sleds began to make their appearances.

Jack was Poughkeepsie's official bonfire builder. He had claimed the title for himself, just as he bragged furiously that he could build a fire so warm and so large that it would keep the whole town warm till spring. No one disputed his claims. They were happy to let him do the work. In his own random

way, he was as reliable as the rising sun. The bonfire was always roaring when everyone appeared at the river for a day of racing and skating.

It was Jack who introduced them to the people at the sleighing races. As a result Peter, in accordance with his habit of wanting the best ever since they had come to New York, purchased the finest and brightest sleigh made. His horses were matched and of good bloodline. It was difficult to know who was prouder of his new possessions, Rosalind or himself. In any case the tempo of the city and the constant community activity of Poughkeepsie gave him adequate outlet for his energies and the need for excitement he had been hard-pressed to control in Kent Winter Sunday afternoons were filled with talk of sleighs, horses, races, and competitors. Jack often popped into the dining room just in time for lunch, usually on the pretext of having "Great news!"