Fairer than Morning (9 page)

Tom stood in the yard eyeing him skeptically. “You should let me try.”

“Don't be a fool. You're half my size.”

Tom stood up straight, squaring his thin shoulders. “Then I'll push.” He moved to the back of the cart and set his shoulder to it. “Ready, steady . . .”

Will heaved forward and the cart followed, Tom stumbling in its wake.

“Just don't stop!” Tom said, panting as he caught up with Will's steady, quick pace.

“Easier said than done.” Will's breath billowed behind him.

“I should come with you to help if you get stuck.”

“It's too far for you without a real coat and gloves,” Will said. “I can barely stand it even in this rag. Besides, the master'll have your hide if you don't finish with the pigs.”

Tom fell back out of sight, and Will couldn't look back and risk losing his momentum. He soldiered on. It seemed an eternity before he made it past the Good property and Dr. Loftin's stately home. His thoughts grew vague and slowed to nothingness, his full concentration simply on placing one foot in front of the next.

A rattle and a jingle drew his attention to the road ahead. Rounding the corner from the hill was a town coach with blue trim—Dr. Loftin's. The two grays drawing the carriage trotted briskly toward him. Will moved farther to the side of the road. The carriage and team were wide; there was barely space to pass even if it pulled off the path.

When the coach was only a few yards away, he saw with surprise that the man riding postilion on the nearer of the grays was Dr. Loftin himself. Usually he had a man in that saddle for him.

“Hello there, Will!” the doctor called. He pulled onto the dead winter grass, reining his horses to a halt, which caused the carriage to rock gently.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Loftin,” Will said. He had to stop his cart now, out of respect, and he prayed the road was smooth enough here to allow him to continue in a minute. He touched the brim of his cap and nodded his head.

“Where are you going on this frigid day?” The doctor's penetrating gaze took in Will's flimsy excuse for a coat, his raw, gloveless hands.

Will would have blushed in shame, but he was bloodless from cold. “I'm taking Master Good's donation to the poorhouse.”

“Oakum,” the doctor said wryly. “How kind of him.”

Will felt one corner of his mouth pulling up into a grin. He ducked his head to hide it.

“I see you've forgotten your gloves,” the doctor said. “Take mine. I'm nearly home.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn't.”

“You most certainly can. Here you are.” The doctor stripped off his gloves and handed them down. As Will approached and reached up for them, the curtain of the coach twitched, and a pair of blue eyes looked out at him from a china doll face.

“Susan!” he heard a girl's voice whisper. Behind the little girl sat an older girl, her face framed in a dark fur hood. She was pink at the cheekbones; whether from embarrassment or the warmth of the carriage, he couldn't tell. The curtain fell back into place, though it did not block the sounds of high-pitched giggling and shushing.

He was too glad of the gloves to care what they said about him for now. Later, he knew he would mind. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said stiffly, fumbling to draw the gloves over his fingers.

“My passengers are Mr. Samuel Miller and his young daughters,” the doctor said with a note of apology, as if to explain the laughter. “You will be meeting them soon, as Mr. Miller will be working with your master.”

“Very good, sir. And thank you again.”

The doctor nodded and clucked to the horses, and the carriage moved on toward the Loftin house.

The gloves were leather and lined with fur. He could not believe their luxurious softness and warmth. He flexed his fingers and hoisted the bars of the cart once more. It was like a blessing from God himself how the gloves cushioned the strain on his hands. His face might still freeze, but the gift would ease the pain of the journey.

As he trudged on, he remembered the last time Dr. Loftin had encountered him, by the pigsty that lay on the boundary between the two properties. The doctor had given him an orange, offhandedly, as if he always carried such things in his pockets for half-starved young men. Will hid it in his feed sack, sneaking it back to the barn where he and Tom tore it apart and ate it carefully, piece by precious piece. Will had to stop Tom from eating the peel, knowing that its bitterness would bring up the gorge and waste the sweetness of the orange in retching. He had tried it once himself.

Will buried the orange pips and peel so Master Good would not know that the doctor had given them food. His master's moods were unpredictable, which meant Will would have to find a very good hiding place for the gloves. But perhaps the doctor had intended to lend them, not give them. Will would return them as soon as he finished this errand.

The base of the hill loomed ahead. What of the yellow-haired girl whom he had seen on his last trip to the poorhouse? Was she still there? He almost hoped he would not see her, as there was nothing he could do. He couldn't even help Tom or himself. If they went hungry and cold, he had no business thinking of himself as a rescuer. For some reason, God had ordained that the girl, Will, and Tom be subject to the whims of others in this harsh world. He did not understand why it should be so. He tried to be a good person, as his mother would have wanted, but his master owned him by law, body and soul, for another year and a half. If he tried to break his indenture, the master would set the law on him and he would be recaptured. And even if he escaped, there would be no one left to protect Tom from the full force of Master Good's brutality.

Just the thought of the master churned sour anger in his stomach. The other day the master had knocked him down for what he called an impudent stare. Perhaps it was impudent— Will hoped it was. He didn't see how he could contain himself at all times in the situation at the Good house. He wasn't a boy any longer, but a young man of eighteen.

As he drew the cart to a stop at the foot of the hill and climbed the steps, the anger in his gut hardened into cool determination. He would help that girl, though he didn't know how just yet. He was sick to death of doing nothing for himself or Tom, imprisoned by the parchment he had signed. Even if he could not stand up for his own nonexistent rights, he might be able to do something for this young girl who was not legally bound to anyone.

When he arrived at the poorhouse door, his gloves muffled the thud of his knock. There was no answer. He pounded again, harder. Perhaps they could not hear.

But the door opened, and to his surprise, it was not the old woman but the same young girl he had met before. She regarded him with equal surprise, her eyes shadowed by her bonnet, her fair hair twisting down in locks over her shoulders. “You have a delivery?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. This was his opportunity to talk to her alone. “What's your name?”

“Emmie. Emmie Flynn.”

“I'm Will Hanby.” They stared at each other. The faint smudges of exhaustion under her eyes emphasized her fragile beauty, the drooping grace of a flower blighted by frost.

“Where's the old woman?” Will asked, afraid the crone would scream from the hallway at any moment.

“Dead,” Emmie said. “Yesterday.”

Will could not say he was sorry. Without the old woman's sharp tongue to drive him away, perhaps he could figure out a means to help the girl.

“But the new overseer for the women will come soon,” Emmie said.

He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Why are you here? Can I assist you in some way?”

Her expression grew distant. She brushed away a truant lock of hair from in front of her face. “No, there's nothing you can do.” She turned away.

“Wait.” He put his hand on the door for fear she would try to close it. “I know a man who knows the owner of a glass factory. Would it be possible for you to work there?” He had no idea whether Dr. Loftin would even agree to ask Mrs. O'Hara such a thing, but it was his only recourse.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “But I would have nowhere to live.”

“There are boarding houses near the factories. It would be better than . . . here.”

She turned back to face him, lips parted as if to say something, but wordless, just searching his face. “All right then,” she whispered, and fled down the hall.

When Will returned from the almshouse, he pulled the cart up beside the pigsty and walked back to Dr. Loftin's home. The white back door set into the white brick was discreet; he would not disturb anyone if he passed the borrowed gloves to Dr. Loftin's maid.

But for the second time that day, a door opened to reveal someone he did not expect. It was not Mary in her uniform. Instead, a chestnut-haired young woman in a red dress stood on Dr. Loftin's threshold. “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice gentle, her words clear. “I should not have answered on Dr. Loftin's behalf. I was just passing by when you knocked. Would you like to speak with him?”

“Yes.” He was painfully aware of the mud streaking his trousers, his hair that Jane Good had hacked into unkempt waves with blunt scissors. Compared to this dainty girl in her fine dress, he was a crude, dirty savage.

Just then, Mary the maid walked up behind the young lady. “Miss Miller, don't trouble yourself. I'll get the doctor,” she said, and was gone as soon as she had come.

Miss Miller. This was the saddler's eldest daughter, then. They stood awkwardly regarding each other. He noticed that her eyes were deep brown and fringed with dark, thick lashes. Eyes that looked sad and kept secrets.

“You work for the saddler?” she asked.

“I'm his apprentice. One of them.”

“Then perhaps you and my father will work together.”

“My master has told me so,” Will said, the taste of self-loathing bitter in his mouth.

She shrank back a step. What could he expect her to do, face-to-face with a foul-smelling youth who spent his days in pig slop and his nights in a barn with animals?

Now the doctor came to the door and stepped in front of her with a polite, “Miss Miller.” She retreated down the hallway; Will watched until her straight back and the dull gleam of her skirt disappeared from his view.

“Yes?” the doctor asked.

“Your gloves, Doctor,” Will said, offering them to him. “Thank you.”

“Oh no, I intended for you to keep them.” The doctor's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Do you not need them?”

“Sir—Doctor—I could not keep such a pair of gloves,” Will said, searching for an excuse. “They aren't suited to my work.”

The doctor paused. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“But I think you may need them for your journeys to the poorhouse, at least,” the doctor said. “Keep them. I have others.”

Will nodded and tucked them under his arm. “Doctor . . .” He did not know quite how to proceed, but waded into the matter. “There's someone at the poorhouse whom I wish to help. I was hoping you might have some influence with an employer. To get her a position . . . perhaps in a factory.”

Dr. Loftin crossed his arms and raised one hand to stroke his white close-cropped beard. “I don't often ask my friends for that variety of favor.”

Will's heart sank.

“How old is this woman?”

“She's just a young girl, about my age, Doctor.”

“And you have some reason to believe that she's a hard worker, not a drinker or an immoral woman?”

“I believe in my heart she's a good girl, sir. And I know she works hard, her hands were blistered.” He had another thought and blurted it out. “If she was immoral, she wouldn't be in the poorhouse. There's plenty a house with its doors open to loose women in this city.” Will could not believe he had said such a thing. He kicked at the ground with the worn toe of his boot.

“A good point.” The doctor smiled faintly. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, sir!” He wanted to shake the doctor's hand, but he should not overstep his bounds. He kept his arms rigid at his side instead.

“I'm pleased that you wish to help someone in need. I know God will bless your compassionate heart.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Good day to you.”

Will turned to go, ashamed. The doctor might not think him so compassionate if he knew of his black, violent hatred for his master.

“And, Will—”

He looked back at the doctor.

“Would you tell your master that Mr. Miller, the saddler, wishes to meet him at his convenience? Perhaps later today.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

Will started back toward the Good house. He heard a click behind him as the doctor closed the door on that other world, where people spoke in soft voices and thanked apprentices—a world of satin and rosewater.

As he crossed the Loftin grounds and drew level with the doctor's large stable, something moved at the edge of his vision. He looked over by the barn to see a man watching him. The man said nothing but slipped out of sight around the whitewashed corner of the building. Strange. Dr. Loftin's grooms were usually either in uniform or dressed in work clothes, but the man by the barn was in a greatcoat and hat. Perhaps it was Mr. Miller, the saddler. If so, he was not very friendly to give such a piercing look to Will but make no greeting and disappear like a specter.