Bitter Harvest (13 page)

“Say hi to Seth when you see him,” Art called out to her retreating back.

Meg drove home in a pensive mood. Maybe she was still a city girl, but at least she had enough strength and energy to get out of her house. Others weren’t so lucky. No wonder so many older people headed south when they retired: no snow shoveling. Was worrying about hurricanes worse? Along the road to the house, she noted the stretch of chain-link fence that Bree had mentioned. Something definitely had hit it: the fencing was warped and twisted, and it looked like at least one metal post was nearly horizontal. But the snow pile shoved off the road by the plows didn’t even reach the fence. Had someone skidded early in the snowfall, hit the fence, and backed out again? Right now there was no way to tell.

She pulled into the driveway to see Bree wrangling the goats. She had them both on rope leads, but being curious creatures, they were pulling in opposite directions.

Bree looked relieved to see Meg. “Hey, can you grab one of these critters? They’ve been cooped up too long, and now they want to go exploring. You think they’ve ever seen snow?”

Meg grabbed one of the ropes. “I have no idea. Will they be all right in the pen?”

Bree was tugging her goat toward the gate to the enclosure. “I think so. We can check their shed to make sure it’s clean and dry, but I think they’ll be happier out here than in the barn, and we can keep an eye on them from the house. Oh, and we’ll have to make sure the water in their trough doesn’t freeze.”

“How’re we supposed to do that?”

“Ask Seth. He’s the plumber.”

After a few more minutes of wrestling, they managed to get the goats into the pen and the gate locked behind them. Winded, Meg leaned against the fence and watched them. They were playing, running and leaping, and tossing snow in the air. They looked entirely happy in their new environment, and she wondered what they would think when it melted away.

“Did the wood come?” Meg asked.

“Sure did. All nicely stowed away in the shed. I made sure the guy stacked it.”

“Did you pay him?”

“He said Seth had taken care of it, and not to worry.”

“Then I guess we should take some into the house and build up the fire, keep the place warm.”

“Good idea.” Bree came around Meg’s car and caught sight of the damage. “Hey, what happened?”

“Somebody who didn’t bother to identify himself ran into it in the parking lot at the market.”

“That sucks.”

“I agree. And probably below my deductible.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“Yes and no. I stopped by the police station in Granford and asked Art what I should do, and he more or less said to forget it. At least that way my insurance payments won’t go up. Well, let’s get that wood inside.”

Fifteen minutes later they had hauled a nice stack of wood, setting it by the fireplace, and Meg had added a few logs to the dying fire. “Lunch?” she asked.

“Sure, sounds good. And didn’t you say you had something you wanted to show me?”

“Oh, right. But that should wait until after lunch—no sticky fingers.”

“Then let’s eat.”

Fifteen minutes later Meg ventured into the dining room, where it was almost comfortably warm. Almost. The business papers were still stacked on the dining room table. “Bree,” she began.

Bree stopped her. “I know, I know—you want those numbers. How can I forget, when I have to walk by all this all the time?
And
you keep nagging me?” She waved at the orderly piles on the table. “Show me your new treasure, and then I promise I’ll get right on those numbers. Deal?”

“Deal.” Once again Meg retrieved the sampler from its place on the dining room sideboard, laid it on the card table by the window, and unrolled it. “Seth and I found this in an upstairs closet. From the dust on it, I think it’s been there for a long while.”

“What’s a while?” Bree asked, her eyes on the sampler. “I mean, two years or twenty?”

“Closer to two
hundred
, I’m guessing. There’s a date on it, so we know when it was made, but I don’t recognize the name of the girl who made it, Violet Cox. I don’t know if she lived in this house, or it was brought into the house by someone else. And when I found it, the power was out so I couldn’t check the Internet.”

“Huh. So what’s the story?”

“The top part seems to be a family history, one where everybody died young.”

“That’s kind of weird.”

“Seth says it’s not uncommon. A lot of people died in those days, and not in nice distant hospitals, but usually at home. Does that idea bother you?”

“You asking if I’m worried about ghosts in the house here? I don’t think about it a lot. I mean, obviously somebody’s died in this house sometime over two hundred years, but I haven’t noticed anybody haunting it. And if I did see a ghost, I don’t know why they’d have anything against me. Think a ghost would talk to me?”

Meg laughed at the idea of Bree trying to have a conversation with someone who had been dead for a century or two. “I have no idea. I think the general assumption is that they kind of pop in and out, and you can see them but not hear them. And sometimes it’s cold where they hang out.”

“Well, at the moment that describes most of the house, so we must have a real crowd here. Too bad they can’t help keep us warm.”

“So you’re okay with a little haunting?”

“Sure, no problem. You going to do some research on this? Are those tombstones?” Bree pointed to the sampler.

“I certainly think so. And yes, I’m going to keep looking. I’ve got the time right now, and there’s a lot of detail to work with.”

“Maybe it’s worth money,” Bree suggested.

“I hadn’t even thought about that. But if it comes from the family, I wouldn’t sell it. Anyway, I can do some hunting online, and then maybe I can talk to Gail at the Historical Society. If she doesn’t know anything about samplers, she can probably point me toward someone who does.”

“So let’s get started.”

“Us? You’ve got work to do. But I’ll stay here and keep you company while I check the Web.”

“You mean, keep an eye on me?” Bree grinned.

“Yes, that, too.”

Bree vanished up the stairs and returned quickly with more bundles of papers and several folders. Meg cringed: she could see no order in them, but at least it was a start.

“Damn, it’s still cold upstairs!” Bree said. “And I hear it’s going to go down to the twenties again tonight, so everything that’s melted will freeze solid. Good thing you got food today.”

As Bree started moving papers around she said, “Listen, about that sampler. The usual mourning stuff is urns and willows, right?”

“I think so. How do you know that?”

“That’s just kind of general info—you know, weeping willows and all that? Now, on your piece you’ve got tombstones instead, and then one girl or woman weeping. Then there’s a list of a bunch of people who were family members, and who were all dead by the time the thing was made. Right?” Bree looked at Meg expectantly.

“Yes, and that’s about as far as I got. Since all these people died before 1849, if they lived in Massachusetts they may be in the online vital records. Massachusetts did a much better job of keeping records than other states did. And before you ask, I haven’t had a chance to look in the cemetery to see if they’re buried in Granford. It’s under several feet of snow at the moment. If, on the other hand, this sampler comes from out of state, it’ll be harder to trace.”

“From the looks of it, whoever made the sampler was the only one left to mourn. And she was only twelve, poor kid. Sad.” Bree took a last look, then settled herself at the dining room table. “I’ll get to work now—and you can start digging up dead people on the Internet.”

Seth appeared as the sun was sinking. He pulled his truck in behind Meg’s car in the shed, and then went around to open the passenger door. Max jumped down, his fascination with snow apparently unabated. Seth stared at the back of Meg’s car for a moment before he came to the kitchen door.

Meg opened it quickly. “What news, traveler?” she said.

“Have you been reading old books today? You sound a bit archaic,” Seth said, stepping in after stamping his boots on the stoop. Max slipped past him and skidded on the kitchen floor.

“No, but I’ve been digging into family histories, looking for information that fits my sampler, now that I can use the Internet. Max, don’t eat that—I don’t even know what it is.”

Seth wrestled what looked like an old sock from Max’s mouth. “Any luck?”

“Not so far. I’m finding that a lot of things aren’t on the Internet. For starters, it looks like the family didn’t come from Massachusetts, which is going to complicate things. How about you?”

“Not bad, all things considered. Of course, we’ve already exhausted the Granford budget for snow removal, and it’s only December. But no casualties of the storm, so far. Did the wood come?”

“It did. Bree made sure it was stowed away, and we’re already using it. Any word on the furnace situation?”

“End of the week—maybe. No promises. My offer still stands, if you get tired of roughing it here and want to come over to my place.”

“We’re doing fine, thank you. Want to stay for supper?”

“I was hoping you’d ask. What happened to your car? Skid?”

“Nope. I was parked in the lot at the market and some idiot must have backed into me. And I thought I was nice and safe, parked next to a snowdrift. Probably whoever it was assumed it was the snow that he hit when something went crunch, and went on about his merry way. Jerk!”

“Sorry. You do seem to be having a streak of bad luck.”

“Tell me about it. You want something to drink? Hot or cold?”

“Coffee would be good. I’ve been outside most of the day, and I’m not sure I can feel my fingers.”

“Coming up.” Meg mentally reviewed the food she had bought and decided on a home style chicken stew. With dumplings. She pulled out chicken, carrots, onions, and started chopping things. When the coffee was ready, she nodded to Seth. “Help yourself.”

“What? You aren’t going to serve me?” He stood up before she could take him seriously.

As she chopped, Meg watched him: he did look tired, and he was moving slowly, at least for him. She had the feeling that overseeing the affairs of the town under current circumstances probably meant a lot of shoveling, and she knew how exhausting that could be. “You want to take a nap or something?”

He laughed. “Don’t tempt me. If I lie down I may not get up again for a while. Can you talk and cook at the same time?”

“I do believe I can. What do you want to talk about?”

“Furnace options, for a start.” As Meg sliced and sautéed, he enumerated the plusses and minuses of several models and sizes of oil furnace . . . Meg found herself losing the thread of the story, but kept nodding and throwing in a comment now and then. Was it un-feminist of her to just tell him,
you decide
? Why was she supposed to know anything about furnaces? She had been a banker; now she was a farmer. Neither one included even a short course on heating systems.

She realized that Seth had fallen silent. When she glanced over at him, he was slumped back in his chair, his eyes shut. She wasn’t worried that he was about to fall out of his chair, so she went on about her business, until she had set a casserole to simmer on a back burner of the stove. Now all she had to do was figure out how to make dumplings. She knew she’d seen her mother do it, so how complicated could it be? Not that her mother was a poor cook, just a disinterested one. And when was the last time she’d seen Elizabeth make dumplings? Twenty years ago? Meg realized her own mind was drifting, and got up and went to the shelf in the kitchen to retrieve an old copy of Fanny Farmer, the one with three generations of grease stains marking its pages. There had to be dumplings in here somewhere . . .

Bree clattered into the room and stopped at the sight of Seth in the chair. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Meg suppressed a laugh. “Interrupt what?”

Bree grinned. “His nap?”

“I’m not asleep, I’m just resting my eyes,” Seth volunteered, without opening his eyes.

“Yeah, right,” Bree replied. “When’s dinner?”

“Half an hour, maybe?” Meg said.

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“Sure.” As Bree disappeared up the stairs, Meg sat down at the table with her cookbook. “Do you like dumplings?”

Seth opened his eyes. “Are you talking to me? I like almost anything, particularly if someone else makes it. Dumplings sound great.”

“Dumplings it is, then,” Meg said. She leafed through the book until she found the recipe she was looking for. But she still didn’t get up. She was tired, but pleasantly so. The room was comfortably warm, and the chicken stew bubbling quietly on the stove smelled wonderful. Sure, she had plenty to worry about, but finding a furnace and replacing her bumper weren’t going to happen in the next couple of hours, so she might as well enjoy the moment. Here, with Seth, in her own kitchen. How many generations of family members had done exactly the same thing? Although, she had to admit, few farmwives had had the luxury of sitting down, not with a hungry family and a few farmhands to keep fed.