Brookland (27 page)

“The fires have been cold almost three weeks,” she told Tem, before her sister went off for her evening's drinking. “Will you help?”

Tem pressed her lips together and made a wan attempt at a smile. “I don't see I have a choice,” she replied. “There's a singer down at the Twin Tankards this evening. Would you like to join me?”

Prue shook her head no. She did not think her sixteen-year-old sister should be out carousing like a workingman, and knew the neighbors disapproved; but she said nothing, certain it would pass.

“Pearl?” Tem asked.

She, too, declined. After Tem had left, she wrote to Prue,
I shll help you
.

“Thank you. I'll think on what you might do,” she said, but the thought fled her mind the next moment. She resolved to march upferry in the morning and tell Israel to mend himself.

Perhaps an hour after Tem left, however, Ben came to the kitchen door. He was breathing heavily when Prue let him in, and his cheeks were red from the cold. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“Father isn't at all well,” he said. “He's asking to see you.”

Prue and Pearl put on their coats, hats, and scarves, and followed Ben back up to his house. Maggie and Dr. de Bouton were both seated by Israel's bedside, and the sickroom stank of camphor and mustard plasters. Isaiah had been standing near the door, and retreated to the hallway to allow the others in. “Honey and thyme for the cough,” de Bouton was saying. He obviously saw the terror on Prue's face, for he said to her, “He'll recover, Prue. Few of the cases have proven fatal, thank God.”

Israel's face was greenish and waxy, however, and his breath was shallow, taken through the mouth.

“If you need me,” de Bouton told Ben, “I shall stop in at the Twin Tankards and then return home for the night.” His fingers were thick with arthritis, and it took him an age to close up his case. He nodded to Maggie and Pearl as he took his leave.

“Prue,” Israel said. He sounded like an old man. “Glad you've come.” He fumbled toward the bedstand for water, and Maggie lifted the cup to his mouth for him. “Listen, miss. It's going to be weeks before I'm well, and your father's tossing in his grave to see the distillery dark so long.” He stopped for a breath. “You and Tem can manage; or Izzy, will you assist them?”

“Certainly,” Isaiah said. Neither of the brothers enjoyed his apprenticeship on the farm, and both had long been considering what professions they might study to slip free.

“Good. Put the word out, start Monday. I'll be in soon 's I can.”

“Do you need anything in the meanwhile?” Prue asked.

He shook his head no.

“Maggie?”

“Thank you for offering, no.”

“Tell Tem she'll have to do her fair share,” Israel said. “No more of this idling about.”

Prue nodded, and she and Pearl both kissed his feverish forehead before they left. The next morning Prue wrote two copies of a sheet to hang up in the taverns, advertising the works' reopening the coming Monday; but before she could post the notices, Israel died of his illness.

The Winship and Horsfield houses were now both mad as Bedlam. M six sons and daughters were orphaned now, and Prue, Tem, and Pearl had barely recovered enough from their own loss to provide comfort to their friends. Ben and Isaiah were further in misery about the farm, which neither of them wanted, but which they did not believe they should sell. Prue, meanwhile, had been almost unable to consider running the works with Israel; without him, it seemed impossible, and she could not bring herself to start.

Within days of consigning his father to the ground, Isaiah had proposed marriage to Patience Livingston. When he arrived at the Winship house to tell them, his narrow face looked more pinched and anxious than ever. Prue, Tem, and Pearl were all horrified; Pearl threw up her hands, and Tem and Prue both shouted incoherently at the news.

“What?” Isaiah asked. His furtive misery made Prue wince. “I'm heir to my father's property. I can take a wife.”

“ ‘What'?” Tem asked. “Dear God, you must be starved for comfort to choose such a creature as she.”

An uncomfortable silence settled around them. Prue thought something similar, but had the sense not to voice it.

“Really, Isaiah,” Tem said. “If you're desperate to marry someone, why not my sister? At least she's pleasant some of the time.”

Prue swatted Tem on the head; and of course Tem's statement had offended Isaiah even more. “I should think the reasons I cannot marry Prue would be obvious,” he said, but Pearl and Tem were still staring at him. “Indeed the question might rather be why your sister has not married elsewhere by now.” Prue wondered if, despite how long she and Ben had carried on, her sisters did not know about him; or if they had divined her attachment to Mr. Severn and therefore thought Ben unimportant. “Besides which, it is Patience I fancy, and I think it stark rude of you, Tem Winship, to speak ill of her.”

“I apologize,” Tem said in an unconvincing tone.

“I came for your congratulations, you know, and think this a pauper's welcome.”

“You have all our apologies,” Prue said. “Of course we are glad for you.”

But the ditch had been dug. Now, in addition to the potential misery of having Patience in the house every time she went to visit, Prue needed Isaiah for an overseer, and she could not ask when he was angry at her whole family. She began walking upferry with gifts, exactly as her workers had done: a chicken Abiah had roasted, fine bayberry candles from the Chardonnons' shop, a songbook Pearl was done looking at. He took all her gifts as stone-faced as his intended bride, but when at last she arrived with a gallon of gin, he invited her in to make some headway on it. He wasn't much of a drinker, but probably thought Ben would enjoy it, as well as Prue's company.

The liquor gave her boldness. “Isaiah,” she said. Before her, beside her gin and in their mother's next-best china, was a cup of the tea the Horsfields all favored, which smelled, for all the world, of smoked bacon. “I need to reopen the works. I want to hire you in your father's place.”

Ben, who'd been knocking his spoon around his teacup, stopped and said, “Hey?”

“I don't know,” Isaiah said.

Ben repeated, “Hey!” But Prue knew what he thought: that she should have asked him, preferring his companionship; as if the countinghouse were her bed.

“Hush,” she said to him. “Later. Isaiah, I lose money every day the fires sit cold, and your father himself knew we were losing men to the Longacres. He wanted you to help us. My father thought the same.”

Isaiah said, “It seems soon to think about anything.”

“Not too soon to think about marrying,” Prue retorted. Then to apologize she poured him another drink, though she didn't suppose he'd touch it.

“I don't know what to tell you, Prue. I am not ready. Even if I were, I'm uncertain I'd want to do it.”

Prue shook her head no. “What else should you do, mind this farm? Who could be more precise and exacting a foreman than you?”

Ben replaced his cup in his saucer so loudly, Prue was surprised it didn't shatter. “Why do you ignore me?” he asked. “You shall have to coax my brother into this, while I'm eager for the work.”

“Ben, we shall speak of it later, without fail. Isaiah, if you say me no, I will advertise for a replacement. But you must choose.”

Ben stood, took his coat, and left the house without excusing himself. Maggie said, “Now you've done it,” but Prue didn't care what she thought.

Isaiah looked as if Prue had rubbed his fur against the grain. “I know what our fathers wanted, but none of us imagined it would come to pass so soon.”

“Exactly so,” she said. “And do you want to manage this farm? Or do you think Patience will consent to marry you while you apprentice yourself to some trade? I'll pay you half again more than your father earned. You'll keep the accompts alongside me, so you'll see it plain.”

“Christ, Prue, I don't think you'd lie to me.” His eyes looked mournful. “I'm sure you're correct, this is what I should do.”

She reached across the table for his hand. “Monday week. Take the night to think it through.”

He nodded solemnly. “I dislike you all speaking so ill of Patience. Ben as well. I don't take it kindly.”

“I'm sorry,” Prue said. “We shall find a way to be friends. Where do you suppose I'll find him? I should apologize in that quarter as well.”

Maggie said, “I think I heard the barn door open.”

Prue could not imagine what the house would be like, with both her and Patience in it. Maggie seemed to hear the thought, and drew herself taller in her chair. As Prue stood, she said, “Tomorrow, Isaiah. I shall entertain high hopes till then.” She let herself out their kitchen door and stood in their muddy yard overlooking the Shore Road and the straits. It was a warm, gray November afternoon.

Losee rang his bell below and cried, “Over!”

“Ben Horsfield?” Prue said as she walked over the dead grass toward the barn. She noticed the Horsfields' apple trees had a few last fruits hanging among their shriveled leaves.

The barn door creaked open. Ben stood leaning sullenly against the doorpost. The moment he saw Prue walking toward him, he backed inside.

He'd lit a small oil lantern such as the one he'd given her, and it cast speckled light on the floor. The two horses stamped and burred as she entered, and a rat streaked across the rafters. “I've come to apologize,” she said.

He closed the door and latched the hook and eye, which had proven invaluable in their childhood games of war. He took her hand and sat down in the center of the hay-strewn floor. He kissed the side of her face, and a flicker of electrical current traced the path his lips made, as if a storm were brewing over Jersey. He said, “Why does it matter what our fathers wanted? They're both gone.”

“But Isaiah has exactly the temperament for the countinghouse. You wouldn't be happy at the ‘factory all day”

“I'd rather be with you, at the distillery, than wondering what sort of beetle's got into my damned corn.”

Prue laughed and stroked his hair. Her body reached for his like a horseshoe for a magnet, but she held herself in place. The horses, apparently satisfied she wouldn't make any more ruckus, snorted and resettled themselves.

“At all events, I shan't be a farmer,” he said. Prue took this for the same sort of posturing that had made him say as a boy he'd be a pirate, and she kept smiling at him. “It's not a joke. Isaiah and I have spoken. He'll hire a man—perhaps one of Patience's cousins from Flatbushand I shall become a surveyor.”

“Oh, come,” she said, and tapped lightly at his breastbone. “And survey what? We know the bounds of every holding in Brookland, and it's too late to mark out the plots for Olympia.”

“Not here, Prue. Whom could I learn it of here? I shall go to Boston, to apprentice myself to Hiram Bates.”

This Mr. Bates was well known, rumored to be a burly, boisterous man. “Surely there's naught left to survey in Boston? Any more than here?”

Ben pushed a loose hair back from her brow. “He lives there. I'll spend three or four months in the workshop, learning the use and calibration of instruments. From there, after the thaw, we journey out past Albany and Troy, and thence westward, into the open territory formerly of the Iroquois Nation. There is a great need for surveying now, as so many wish to settle there. I had planned this before Father died. Before any of this had come to pass.”

Prue knew she should congratulate him, exactly as she should have congratulated Isaiah, but could only ask, “Why did you not tell me sooner, then?”

He stroked her temple again. She was irked at him, but she butted up against his hand like a cat. “I was waiting to work up the nerve. Some days I imagined you'd give up your training to come with me, others I knew you never would. Now, of course, you can't.” He drew his lower lip between his teeth briefly, as if waiting for Prue to contradict him. “In truth, a surveying expedition is no place for a woman.”

“I'm not a rosebush,” Prue said. “I needn't be swaddled against the weather.”

“But you wouldn't leave your business, either.”

Prue was as vexed with him as he had been with her in the kitchen. “I'm not certain I understand. A moment since, you were angered because I choose to employ your brother over yourself; and now I learn you've planned to leave all along. Which is it?”

“A choice. If my life is my own, I shall learn surveying and travel the
land. If it is not, I would assist you in your work. But I shall not remain in Brookland tilling a few acres of sandy soil.”

“I am bound to my father's business,” Prue said. “Shackled, with irons.” He tried to stroke her hair again, but she took his hand and held it in her own. “You may decide whether you stay or go, but I should be happier if you remained.”

As she said it, however, she wondered if, in fact, she meant it. She would be running the distillery and would have little time for dilly-dallying; and then, too, if he left, she wondered how her relations with Will Severn might progress. She tried to banish the thought.

“If I do leave,” Ben said, “I give you my word I'll come home again as soon as I'm able.” He kissed her; but she knew Maggie and Isaiah were watching the barn door from the kitchen, and she extracted herself as quickly as she could.

The next day, Isaiah came to the house with his hat in his hand and asked for his father's position. Prue held him close. Abiah clucked at her and said, “Sakes, woman, it's not as if he's asked you to wed him.”

“Truly, I think it better,” Prue said.

When Prue at last posted her bills that afternoon, they named Isaiah Horsfield as the distillery's new manager, and the date of reopening as the third week of November 1795. Prue knew events of greater moment took place in the world—France had just set up its Directory, for example, and Prue understood that country's tumult in recent years made anything that had gone on at home look like a squabble in a chicken coop—but in Brooklyn, Winship Daughters Gin was all the week's news. Wherever Prue went, men who might once have scoffed at the idea of a girl taking over a manufactory paused to shake her hand. Simon Dufresne stopped her in the street to hug and congratulate her, and when she pulled free of him, she thought she saw his eyes glisten. When she took her first trip to New York—she had a great deal to see to there, in the acquisition of supplies, the appeasement of creditors, and the hiring of men to replace those who'd gone to the brewery—she brought Pearl home a cone of candied violets, then tormented herself with anxiety over what a paltry gift they now seemed, as a reminder of the dead. And a few days before the distillery reopened, Ben lit out for Boston. He kissed her a long good-bye before climbing aboard the ferry, and promised to write as soon as he was settled. She did not have time that week to
sit home and brood about his departure, but it was difficult to lose him, no matter how ambivalent her feelings toward him. Late in the winter, one of Patience's cousins would arrive to superintend the farm; and for the nonce, Isaiah thought he could make do with his hired hands.