Brookland (35 page)

“No, not tonight. Hello.”

“Hello.” He blinked at her. “Well, welcome. Ellie has the afternoon off, and I'm nearly done cleaning up after the boys. I don't know where they find so much mud.”

“Thank you, Will, but I've come looking for our surveyor.”

“Oh.” He glanced off toward the fitful smoke rising from Ben's central chimney and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “He appears to
be at home.” Ben had hung a bright placard from the tree by the road; it read
Benj. Horsfield, King
^s
County
^s
Surveyor
. “Another time, then. But I haven't seen you in a while. Is aught amiss?”

“Not at all,” Prue said. “Business is fine. Tem grows more capable at the distillery, and I'm working on another project, I believe for the public good.” Even in the waning light, however, she could see that he meant between them. “And your school? Does it fare well?”

“Yes, by God's grace. Twelve pupils now, and only eight of them incurable rascals.” He began to laugh, but instead cleared his throat. From the corner of her eye, Prue saw Ben draw back the curtain in his nearest window and peer out at her. She felt she might forget to breathe. “Well, I shouldn't keep you. But I've missed your visits. I have told Pearl as much.”

“Thank you,” Prue said. She wondered Pearl hadn't passed the message on; she was usually so punctilious. “I have been too busy at the works for social calls, but I look forward to visiting again soon. I'll come later in the week.”

“I shall anticipate it,” Will said.

He stood in the doorway watching as Prue crossed the dry grass to Ben's door. She knocked, as if she had not seen him standing there behind the window. He opened the door and stood aside to let her into his hall, and she raised her hand to Will Severn before she stepped inside. As soon as he'd closed the door, Ben gathered her up in his arms. He was newly shaven and in his shirtsleeves, and he smelled exactly as he always had, and better than Prue had recalled. At one level she was thrilled to be in his embrace; at another, all she could bring herself to say was, “I can hardly believe you didn't come visit.”

“My Prue,” he said, and kissed her ear. “Hello.”

“Hello. Why didn't you come?”

“I wanted to get myself in order,” he said. “I wanted a haircut and a shave, and to set up house before I came calling. I've been two years away from home and society; I thought it best to get settled.” He pushed her away to arm's distance to examine her. His cowlick was sticking up, as usual. “You're even prettier than I remembered.”

“I'm wearing a dress.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

“You've been here for days,” she went on. She would have liked to
stop herself, but couldn't seem to. “You might have come. And what of all these months of silence?”

“I was marking roads deep in the wilderness, Prue; there wasn't any post there. Didn't I write you when I could?” He pulled her in close again and leaned down to kiss the side of her neck. “When I could manage a letter, I had time for but one, so I dashed a line off to Isaiah and told him to tell you I was coming. Did he not do so?”

As Prue recalled, Isaiah had told her of Ben's approach as if it were a secret; but she said, “He did.”

Ben kissed her once more. “Come in, then. I am making supper, and I shall show you my house.” The house was built, like Mr. Severn's, on an English plan, with a neat central hall, the sitting and dining rooms to either side, and a kitchen at the back. Only the cook fire was lit. “Will you let me take your coat?”

When Prue removed it, he draped it over the banister. He untied her hat strings himself and put the hat on top of the coat.

“I saw my neighbor detained you,” he said.

“He is my friend, you know.”

“And a good man. I think a bit lonely. This shall be the dining room,” he said, indicating a room that contained nothing but two crates, “and this the parlor.” In that room, his theodolite was set up on its tripod beside a stool with books and a compass stacked on top.

“I hope your brother can spare you some furnishings,” Prue said.

“He's given me some plates already. Of course, he's hurt I won't live with him, but I can't abide Patience or that baby.” He led her by the hand back into the spacious kitchen. “I'm nearly done cooking. It'll be a bachelor supper, but I'd be delighted if you'd join me.”

Prue did not know what waywardness in her character made her want to refuse him, but it prevented her answering.

“I'm sure Abiah's making something better, but stay for the company.” His kitchen was spotless, and had nothing going in the fire but a tarnished copper pot of boiling potatoes. One other such pot—an expensive item, Prue noted, and not acquired in Brooklyn—hung from a hook on the wall, and there were two wooden bowls and a few plates on a shelf. Other plates, covered in dishrags, stood on the sideboard. “I'll wager it's better drinking at the Winships', too.” He let go her hand to pour her a mug of beer from a covered pitcher on the table.

“I should have brought you some. But then, you should have come to see me.”

“What's got in you?” he asked. “You didn't used to be so snappish.”

“I haven't heard from you in months!” Prue almost shouted.

“But not from lack of affection,” Ben said. “I do apologize, but it's done now. Drink up, eh?”

The beer was cool and mild, and she thought it had come from the Philpots'. “I, too, am sorry,” Prue said.

“It's no matter.” He refilled his own cup. “D'ye ever pay my brother in gin?”

“Perish the thought,” she said, taking the seat he held out for her. The two chairs didn't match, and the other had a hole in its rushing. “I pay the men part of their wages in liquor only because they demand it.”

He leaned down to kiss her head. “Prue, I promise I shall never again leave for so much as a week without writing you. I only asked because he hasn't brought me one blessed ounce.”

“He takes little for his own consumption. He's the oddest man imaginable for a distillery; or the best.”

“I could have told you that. And I think the drink would do him a world of good,” he said, going to mind his pot. “As for me, I buy from the alehouse, like any other man.”

“There'll be no more of that. Let me leave with an order tonight, and I'll send it up to you tomorrow”

“Now, you see? When the lads suggested I ought not to choose a girl in britches, I knew I'd prove them wrong.” He began spearing the potatoes, and deposited them in a wooden bowl to cool. “I do sometimes wish Isaiah were a better drinking companion,” he said.

But Prue thought it had very likely been love for the product had done her father in, and she sometimes worried it would level Tem. Ben cut off a chunk from his cake of butter and broke some rosemary from a dried branch on the windowsill. “Milk, Ben,” she told him. “Salt,” as if she'd mashed a potato in the past fifteen years.

“I can manage it,” he said, pointing around with his index finger in his search for the milk, which had no place to hide in the spare kitchen. “Out in camp, we gents cook for ourselves.” He pulled a dishrag off a second pitcher, poured some in, added a pinch of salt, and mashed the potatoes. “ 'Tain't fancy,” he said, serving his handiwork into two cracked blue and
white bowls, which had once been his mother's, and setting one down before Prue. His grin made it clear how little he valued fanciness; and brandishing two forks, he sat down with his leg touching Prue's.

She was surprised to find the potatoes good, and her face must have shown it.

“Didn't know bachelors cooked, did you?” he said.

“The Philpots cook,” she said. “No womenfolk in camp to feed you?” She heard the faint challenge in her voice, and half wished she could retreat to Will Severn's and begin her visit anew.

Ben stood again and brought back from the sideboard a plate covered with an old checked cloth; beneath it was half the cold carcass of a roasted chicken. He ripped off the remaining drumstick and perched it on the flat edge of her bowl.

“Thank you,” Prue said.

“I know you're awaiting your answer. The only women traveling with a company of surveyors are likely to be whores, if you'll pardon my saying so.”

“As I thought.”

“One is far better off eating what one can cook oneself.” He was blushing through the freckles on his cheekbones. “I notice you haven't married anyone since I've been gone.”

“Whom would I marry?”

“I can think of a few candidates.”

Prue wanted to tell him none of them had come calling but had the sense to keep this to herself.

Ben said, “Well, eat your supper.”

The chicken was as savory as the potatoes; and Prue knew she was behaving badly, but she couldn't stop herself. “I'm sorry, Ben.”

He examined his plate. “I should prefer you quit apologizing, and instead were happier to see me.”

“I'm happier to see you than I can express,” she said.

An awkward moment looking at each other passed before Ben put his fork down, and Prue climbed into his lap and wrapped one hand into his hair. Now when he kissed her, his breath tasted of rosemary. He tucked her head into his shoulder, as if he could pull her closer than she already was. She had not forgotten about the electrical charge that passed from his skin to her own, but her memory of it had been pale indeed beside
the pleasure of the thing itself. “Prue,” he said. “What's this about a bridge?”

“Did Isaiah tell you?”

“He did. And that Tem has been running the works. He said you want to bridge the East River.”

“I do.”

Ben reached around her for his mug and took a long pull from his beer. “You realize it would be a masterpiece—a miracle of engineering?”

Prue nodded her head against his shoulder, then pulled back so she could see his face. He regarded her as if she was ordinary and sane, as had long been his habit, no matter how odd others might have found her. “Yes, I do. But I believe it can be done. I wonder if Isaiah doubts it.”

“He does, of course, but also mentioned he knew none of the specifics of your plan.” Prue felt stung, and Ben obviously saw it. “Isaiah's not your man for such a thing. He's too fond of order and routine.” He waited a moment before going on. “You know he tried to dissuade me from my chosen profession, not because of any inherent danger, but because he disliked the idea of my mucking about through the squelchy bits.”

Prue could not help smiling at this. “Isaiah hasn't even seen a sketch of the thing. And I believe it has a chance at working—it seems so, at least, in the calculations and the drawings. I shall build a model and see what I can learn thereby. But I came this evening to ask your assistance.”

“And not to kiss me?”

“And also to be kissed by you.”

He did so, then said, “I'm not a bridge builder, Prue.”

“But you have a theodolite. You can survey the proposed course of the bridge and see if I've projected the angles true. And surely, in your work, you've had some experience preparing the groundwork for large structures?”

He shook his head no. “I do know a thing or two about rock and soil, and I observed some blasting for tunnels as we worked; but what I really know is trigonometry. Of course I can survey the site. I would be delighted. That is, I'm willing to be of service in whatever fashion I may; but I repeat, I am no bridge architect. Can you show me what you have thus far?” He reached to the back of her head and removed the pin that held up her hair.

“I can, indeed.” It was difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. “Pearl will check my calculations and see if she can do better with the drawings than I. On such drawings as I imagine she can render, we should be able to build a preliminary representation.”

He unwound the hair down her back. “I've good maps as well, which may be of use. I believe, however, we need to discuss my payment for this service.”

Prue was surprised at this, but did not wish to say so. “Whatever the going rate is, of course. Whatever you tell me is fair.”

“Well, I am paid by the job for surveying. I don't know how men are paid for building bridges.”

“Nor do I.”

“These will be my terms. First off: I shall have as much gin as I can drink.”

“That, of course. We've settled that already.”

“Second: If the idea appears unfeasible, I shall be permitted to absent myself from the project without incurring your wrath.”

“Naturally,” Prue said.

“Third: As I now have a house of my own, with a bed in it, I should like to ask you to stay with me this evening. With the understanding that, on a date of your choosing, I shall make an honest woman of you.”

Prue wondered if she had somehow misheard him. She felt sure she would have given up her dreams of Severn years ago, had Ben only asked; though she could not be certain she remembered that passion in all its complexity. She had never doubted Ben loved her, not in her innermost heart, but there was something marvelous in this audible proof. At the same time, she did not see how she could wed him. Winship Daughters Gin was hers in its entirety, but the moment she married, it would become her husband's property. This seemed an intolerable circumstance.

“I don't think it bodes well for me that you haven't answered,” he said.

“No.” Prue realized this answer was as equivocal as her silence, but he was smiling at her. “That is, it doesn't bode ill.”

He kissed her again, and kept his hand on her nape. “Then what do you say?”

“That I don't know if I can be any man's wife.” The words sounded
harsher than she'd meant them to. “I love you, Ben. I always have. But if I marry, I shall lose control of my distillery; and I don't think I could abide it.”