Lilac Spring (8 page)

Annalise gave her a wan smile. “It’s not your fault.”

Silas went off to stand at the edge of the promontory. Why was it every time she came near Annalise, he walked away, and every time Cherish walked away, Silas was at Annalise’s side?

“Well, why don’t you rest them a bit and perhaps we can take the walk down more slowly?”

“Yes, I should be fine.”

Cherish gave her a final smile and rose. Smoothing her skirts, she walked toward the edge and came to stand near Silas.

When he didn’t say anything, not even an “I told you so,” Cherish remained silent, as well. The last thing she wanted was to admit to him she’d been wrong. So she surveyed the scenery. After a while she was lost in it, seeing it from a painter’s eye. The camp down below was no longer visible, hidden by the dense forest, nor were any of the others she knew nestled among the trees at intervals along the lake’s edge.

Silas’s voice interrupted her observation. “Are you satisfied with the view?”

She couldn’t escape the sarcasm that tinged the soft tone. She ignored it. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”

“It’s a long trek downward, nevertheless.”

“Since when have you become so concerned with such practicalities of life?”

“Since I have become so closely associated with someone else’s pain.”

“Well, perhaps you can allow another gentleman to take over from you for the second shift.”

“You’ve become awfully callous since your return. Is that part of the European polish you gained overseas?”

“Perhaps I learned not to need a man to prop me up in every circumstance.”

They didn’t look at each other during the short exchange and spoke in soft tones, contemplating the tranquil scene.

“It seems to me you’ve become very intolerant of those weaker than you.”

“It seems to me you’ve become quite the champion of the underdog. Is that because you’ve learned to play the role to perfection yourself?”

“You are perhaps the best judge of that.” Even though her words had meant to sting, his tone revealed nothing but calm.

“I can only judge by what I see.” After a moment she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I can better use my European polish elsewhere.”

When she left, Silas kept his eyes on the view below him, not revealing by a flicker of an eyelash that Cherish’s words had meant more to him than the hovering of a pesky blackfly.

The lake’s tranquillity mocked him. He was feeling anything but tranquil inside.

He was seething. If he had an ax in his hand right now, he would be hewing down a tree. If he had an adze, he’d be hollowing out timber. If he had but a simple chisel, he’d be hacking away at a block of wood.

But he had nothing in his hands. He could only clench and unclench them.

He was in polite company after all. He must control every word, every impulse until he was alone again, working with the wood.

He only hoped his temper cooled by the time he had to turn around and face the company again, the misters and misses Townsends and Bradshaws and Belvederes, all the polite society of the town of Hatsfield, or—as Cherish would probably put it—the crème de la crème of this down east town. Weren’t these the people Winslow wanted to impress? Wasn’t that why he’d been sent on this dismal weekend in the first place?

That evening at the Townsends’ mansion, Silas sat beside Annalise on a narrow settee as a hired band played tune after tune. He watched Cherish being twirled around by Warren and wondered how he could get so worked up over one girl he used to see as a kid sister and who clearly saw him as nothing but her father’s lackey, there to do her father’s bidding and then scorning him for it.

He glanced over at Annalise. And here was this new girl, in whom he wasn’t the least bit interested, making cow eyes at him, as if he were some sort of hero.

A hero was the last thing he felt like. The image of a downtrodden, servile hireling kept dancing around in his mind. Is that what he’d become in all these years of doing Mr. Winslow’s bidding, saving every penny he earned, waiting for that day when he would have enough to strike out on his own?

Oh, God, when can I have my dream?

Would he just grow old like Ezra and Will—mere laborers on the yard, put out to pasture the day he got too old to lift the heavy timbers?

Had he been fooling himself all these years?

C
herish felt the weight of remorse beat down on her like a caulker’s mallet with each passing hour.

Aunt Phoebe set a wicker basket at Cherish’s feet with a thump. “There you go.”

Cherish groaned as she glanced at the pile of tightly rolled white linens. After a weekend of pleasure, the realities of housekeeping duties had awaited her at Haven’s End. She’d spent the day before bending over a hot washtub and hanging things out on the line. Today it was over a hot stove, heating flatirons and taking them over to the ironing board to press everything that had been washed.

“All that?” Would she get to the boat shop today at all?

She sighed as she bent to retrieve a garment from the basket and shook it out. A man’s white shirt.

Could it be Silas’s? She draped the damp garment over the narrow end of the ironing board and began to press the shoulders. The steam rising up from the white cotton smelled fresh and clean, embodying all the outdoor air the cloth had received the day before.

Cherish flipped the shirt over and began pressing the broad
expanse of back. Her thoughts couldn’t help going back to the weekend. By their return to Haven’s End, neither she nor Silas was speaking much to each other.

Things hadn’t improved in the interim. She’d seen him only at dinner and supper the day before, when he’d come in and silently eaten his food, merely nodding in greeting to her.

A scorched smell reached her nostrils.

“You better watch what you’re doing there,” Celia commented, looking up from the pile of clothes she was folding.

“Oh—what?” Cherish lifted the iron and looked with dismay at the singed area on the otherwise pristine white garment. She set the iron down and touched the brown part, hoping it might rub off. But no. It was burned through. Part of the cloth began to fray under her fingernail.

“What am I going to do?” she said in dismay, feeling doubly worse for the damage she’d done. First the taunting insult and now this? Was she ever going to do anything right?

Aunt Phoebe walked over to the table. “Learn to keep your mind on your work, for one thing.” She took the shirt up from the ironing board and eyed it critically. “It’ll have to go in the ragbag. Pity. That was one of Silas’s good shirts.”

Cherish bit her lip, her self-assurance dropping another few notches. “I’m sorry.” Why couldn’t she say those two simple words to Silas?

Her aunt thrust the shirt at her. “No use moping about it. You’ll just have to sew him a new one.”

Cherish took the garment back from her, seeing it in a whole new light. “Yes, I shall, shan’t I?” She smiled at it. She would make him a new shirt and with it, apologize for that awful remark she had made. Although he hadn’t referred to it, she felt it lying between them like a leaded keel.

“Can you show me how to use your new sewing machine?” she asked her aunt.

“Certainly. You’ll have it sewn up in a jiffy with that.”

Nodding, Cherish picked up another shirt and went to the stove to grab a hot iron.

After a week of steady work in the boat shop, Cherish and Silas had cut out the mold, a temporary structure made up of pine boards, over which the hull would take shape. Unlike the schooner down below on the stocks, this smaller boat was built upside down. They were now shaping the frame around the keel, stem and sternpost they had built over the mold.

Silas straightened from the cedar rib he was planing down to the correct width and rubbed the back of his neck. He expelled a gust of breath as his glance went over to Cherish, who crouched over their original loft, the full-sized working drawing of the hull. It was a network of complicated lines, curves, initials and numbers.

He wondered how much a man was supposed to take and still keep his distance. Everywhere he turned, Cherish was there. It seemed a dozen times in the afternoon, at least, her hand would touch his, or her arm reached across his, and always that innocent look in her eye, which made him wonder whether she was aware at all of the havoc she was causing with his senses.

“I think some of those ribs are ready now,” he said when she stood from the loft. “They’ve been sitting in the steam oven a good while. They should be soft enough to bend.”

“All right. Let’s get them out.”

He put on some mitts and opened the specially built oven to extract the narrow wooden strips that would become the vertical rib frames of the hull.

It was hot work, keeping the stove under it going at full blast, to supply the steam necessary for the metal box where the wood strips were set.

“Watch out for the steam when you first open the door. It can be very hot.”

“The planks seem just right, as soft as putty,” Cherish said as the two laid the strip over the mold, bending it to conform to its curve and clamping it down.

“We’ll let it dry and harden before taking it off again to plane. Come on, let’s get another one.”

After she had assisted him with two of them, she told him she could do one by herself.

He went back to planing one of the dry ones he’d shaped to the frame the day before.

He had to admit that Cherish was the best worker he’d ever had. He’d decided from the outset he’d treat her just like any man who worked alongside him, and she’d proved her worth. She did everything he did, everything he asked. She’d even made some good suggestions.

But how much of her proximity was he supposed to endure before he did something foolish?

“Ouch!”

He swiveled at the sound of her voice. She was standing at the oven door, holding her fingers up to her mouth. Silas hurried over to her.

“What happened?”

She smiled ruefully from around her fingers. “Burned myself on the steam.”

“I warned you about it.”

“So you did.”

“Come on, let’s pour some cold water on those fingers.”

He led her outside to the hand pump. He began pumping on the handle, and as soon as the water began to flow out, he took her hand and held it under the stream of icy water.

“Feel better?”

“Much,” she said with a smile.

He looked down at her slim hand lying in his. It was turning red with the cold. He glanced back to see her watching him gratefully. When she looked at him like that, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

Why couldn’t he forget that night? Why couldn’t he forget the feel of her mouth under his?

“You’re always patching me up.”

He shrugged, letting go of the pump handle and her hand at the same time.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you at the lake.”

He pretended he didn’t understand. “What was that?” he asked casually, already beginning to turn away toward the door.

She cleared her throat. “Calling you an underdog.”

Slowly he turned around, his hand on the doorknob. She hadn’t moved from the pump. When he said nothing, she continued. “It was mean. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Forget it,” he answered lightly. “It was the truth, wasn’t it?”

He opened the door and motioned for her to go ahead of him.

She stood her ground. “Of course it wasn’t!”

“I
am
nothing but your father’s hired hand.”

“You are
not!
You’re the finest worker he has, the best shipwright in all Haven’s End and Hatsfield and—and—beyond.”

Not wanting to let her praise move him, he reentered the boat shop. He walked to the oven, hearing Cherish quickly walking after him. He removed the soft wood strip Cherish had been about to get when she’d gotten burned. He took it over to the mold and began laying it down over it.

Cherish came to stand beside him, holding the bottom end in place while he bent the rib to the contours of the mold.

“How do your fingers feel? Are you up to this?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“They’re fine. Just a dull smoldering. It’ll pass soon enough. My fingers should be used to this, after all the ironing and baking I’ve done this week.”

“Got burned?”

“I’ll say.”

“You should have told me. I’d have taken the frame out.”

They worked silently some minutes more before Cherish spoke again. “Are you still saving for your own shipyard?”

His eyes met hers. What did she think, that he would be her father’s lackey forever?

As if reading his thoughts, she asked, “How long do you think before you’ll…you’ll have enough?”

He surveyed the bent wood critically. “Hard to say. It’ll be one of these days.”

“We’d miss you,” she said softly.

“Maybe you could come work for me,” he quipped. “Try being my lackey for a change.”

Her laughter gurgled up at him, touching his nerve endings like a teasing feather.

“I’d like to come work for you.”

He looked at her, not expecting such a ready reply.

Then she smiled impishly. “But only if you make me a full and equal partner.”

“Oh, yeah?” He turned away and began walking to the oven again. “Well, I won’t have to make any decision right away. At the rate I’m going, it’ll be a long time before I have enough to tell your father goodbye.”

“I’m glad. I mean, I’m glad we can still work together.”

Her words made him stop midway to the oven. But he refused to acknowledge their effect. Her words at the lake still rankled. He continued walking.

Cherish was at her wit’s end. What more must she do for Silas to see her as a full-grown woman? Although he was polite and helpful, she sensed a widening gap between the two of them. Working in the boat shop, going to choir practice, sitting together in church, instead of drawing them closer, only seemed to increase the distance.

She couldn’t believe the rift had been caused merely by a few careless remarks, which she’d apologized for. She knew Silas; he wasn’t one to hold a grudge this way. He certainly didn’t seem angry or hurt, just aloof. Friendly but aloof. What was wrong with him? she asked herself for the hundredth time.

She craned her neck around, easing the ache that was forming from bending over the plane on the workbench. She brushed aside the curls of wood in its wake.

She brought Silas treats she baked. She had finished his shirt, but had ended up stacking it in with the rest of his laundry instead of presenting it to him. She’d decided it would be more fun to be a secret giver.

Even though it was a plain white shirt like all his others, she’d placed her own sign upon it by monogramming his ini
tials on the corner of the front pocket. That was how she knew he was wearing it today.

She hid a smile as she carried over the bent frame, hardened to its original firmness over the mold. The mold and emerging hull sat over a ladderback, a horizontal wood foundation upon which everything rested, insuring a perfectly level surface for the upside-down hull.

She laid the bent frame over the mold at its proper position. The boat was beginning to look like a skeleton, with the cedar frames descending vertically from the keel.

Silas helped her clamp the frame back on the mold.

She observed the lock of thick golden hair that fell across his forehead as he bent forward.

“Only three more to go,” she said. “Then we begin planking, right?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered without looking up. The shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. She was proud of that shirt. It couldn’t have been better made if it had been sewn in a factory or by a skilled seamstress.

She had decided that morning she’d try a bolder approach. Now her heart hammered against her chest as she wondered whether this was the moment to begin.

She wet her lips. “Silas?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever think what it would be like to kiss me?”

He said nothing at first, but his motion on the clamp stopped. He straightened, but continued looking at the wood rib. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“Remember that night? How your lips touched mine?”
Could he have forgotten?

She was beginning to regret her boldness, when he finally said “Yes” in a low tone.

She swallowed, determined to say her piece. “Hasn’t that made you think what it would be like if we really kissed?”

His fingers fiddled with the clamp screw.

Deciding she had gone too far to back away, she admitted, “It has made
me
think of it.”

She was standing so close to him she could trace the outline of his jaw if she but raised her hand. “I liked the feel of your lips. They were soft and warm.”

“Cherish!” His gray eyes registered shock at her words.

“What?”

“Your father!”

“What about him?”

“What would he think about this conversation?”

“He’s not here. Besides, what is so wrong with our kissing each other? We’ve known each other forever.”

He made a strangling sort of laugh and jabbed a hand through his hair, pushing away the golden thatch. “You think your father would consider those good reasons to kiss you?”

She touched the monogram on his chest pocket. She outlined the letters with her fingertip.
SvdZ

Then she flattened her hand and felt the pumping of his heart through the thin material.

“Don’t!” His voice was lower now, like a whispered supplication.

“What?” she asked, not understanding his reaction. “You act as if you’re scared of me.”

He stepped away from her without replying.

Had she been too daring? she wondered as he walked away.

“Cherish.” He stood at the worktable all the way across the room.

“Yes?” she asked hopefully.

“I—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I hope you don’t behave like this with all the young men of your acquaintance.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Others might misunderstand. You’re used to being pretty independent. No doubt you’ve gotten a lot of other ideas, having traveled, and all that. But you know, people here in Haven’s End are still pretty conventional.”

“Of course I don’t behave like this with anyone else!” She could feel her face redden with shame that he should even think such a thing.

“I’m glad to hear it. I just want to caution you. You’re a young girl. I’m a bit older and I know…I know how men are. I just don’t want you to find yourself in a situation where the man might not be as honorable—”