The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (8 page)

“Well, you know, the Americans were trying to stop the British from capturing Philadelphia, and Dad says our ancestor rode like Paul Revere to warn Washington that the British were sneaking across the upper fords and . . .”

“Eddie, this is testing time, not show-and-tell,” said Mrs. Hettrick sternly. “You're giving away important answers.”

There was a rustling noise as everyone took a sudden interest in Eddie, who peered around suspiciously, then muttered, “Yeah, well, I'll still get the highest grade. My dad has told me all about the Revolution.”

Mrs. Hettrick sighed. “I'm sure he has, Eddie,” she said wearily, “but please just write down your answers and show me what you
do
know.”

Then I remembered my mother's note, and a fresh wave of sadness broke over me. Without a word, I handed the envelope to Mrs. Hettrick, and she scanned the page.

“Oh, Lars!” she exclaimed, turning to me. “I'm so sorry to hear about your great-aunt—a wonderful lady! How sad that you've only just moved in with her and now she's died.”

“Died!” Eddie yelped behind me. “Wait till I tell my dad!”

The look on Mrs. Hettrick's face made me hope, for a brief moment, that she might give Eddie the same treatment as Pat had. It was a little disappointing when she collected herself and merely told him to get to work.

I turned to the chapter on Brandywine and tried to read it, but the words blurred on the page. It might as well have been ciphering for all the sense I could make of it—or of anything else that long, long day.

When Mom picked me up that afternoon, I asked nervously what the funeral would be like.

“Its a memorial service, not a funeral,” she said, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “A time for friends to get together and remember Aunt Cass.”

Recalling my first long talk with my great-aunt, I murmured, “Friends, Quakers, or friends,
amigos?
”

“Both,” Mom answered. We rode along in silence for a few miles. Then she cleared her throat. “Look, honey, try not to grieve for Aunt Cass too much. She wouldn't have wanted you to. Just be glad you had the chance to get to know her and to bring her joy. And you did. Great joy.”

I interlocked my fingers and squeezed my hands together so as not to cry. Soon we pulled into a parking lot and stopped in front of a simple stone house with a slate roof.

“This doesn't look like a church,” I said. “It doesn't have stained-glass windows or a steeple or anything.”

“It isn't a church, silly. It's a meetinghouse. Come on.”

I hung back a little, worrying about what was going to happen. I shouldn't have been. Inside were several rows of chairs in a large circle. A few people sat quietly with heads bowed. I recognized only one—Judge Bank's.

My mother guided me to a chair in the front row and sat down beside me. Dad came up and asked in a whisper if I was all right. He saw my nod and sat down on the other side of Mom.

People started to filter in, greeting one another in hushed voices. Just before the time set for the service to begin, the Hargreaveses came in. My mother motioned them to join us and Pat sank into the chair next to me.

We all sat in silence. My heart was thudding so loudly it seemed as if everyone would hear it in the quiet room. I wondered when the minister would come in and start the service.

Suddenly Mr. Hargreaves stood up. “Let us be thankful for having Cass live among us for so long. She was a good friend,” he said, his deep voice ringing out in the meeting room.

“Is Mr. Hargreaves the minister?” I asked Mom softly.

“There isn't any minister. Everybody says what he feels. About Cass.”

“Oh.” I thought about this for a moment, then whispered again, nervously, “Am
I
supposed to say something, too?”

“Only if you want to.”

Other people stood up and talked about Aunt Cass. But it seemed to me that the person they were talking about was very different from the mischievous old lady I had known for so short a time.

Then Judge Bank rose to tell about his long friendship with Cass Hargreaves. I could hardly believe that this tall, solemn man was the same one who had worn a pig's snout to please Aunt Cass. It was as if he were a different person altogether.

A
different person altogether
, I thought. That was it. Each person here saw a slightly different side of Aunt Cass. Now we were joining all the pieces together, like a puzzle, into a kind of picture of Aunt Cass.

When it seemed as if no one had anything else to say, my mother stood up. “Now Patience will sing ‘The Riddle Song,'” she said.

I glanced around, wondering which of the old women was Patience.

The voice that broke the silence came from the chair next to mine. It was Pat Hargreaves who sang the song—sang it in a high, clear voice with her eyes shut tight.

 

I gave my love a cherry without a stone
.

I gave my love a chicken without a bone
.

I gave my love a ring without an end
.

I gave my love a baby with no crying
.

 

As she sang the other verses, I thought about what a riddle Aunt Cass had been. All along, she who had seemed so lighthearted, playing silly tricks on me, was also the serious woman everyone else had talked about. It didn't surprise me that she had liked this song, with its words so full of tricks, its melody so simple and beautiful. It suited her.

At the end of the song, my mother began to thank everyone on behalf of Aunt Cass's family.

“Wait!” I jumped to my feet. “I want to say something, too.”

With a look of surprise, Mom sat down again.

I cleared my throat nervously. “I . . . I didn't know Aunt Cass as long as the rest of you,” I said. “But I was probably the last person she helped in a big way. She did something for me that I needed more than anything. She helped me feel at home in a strange place. And . . .”—I paused, took a deep breath, and went on—“and she also short-sheeted me. Twice.”

As I sat down, there was a murmur of quiet laughter.

I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Pat, who gave me a quick, shy glance, then stared down at the floor.

“Please don't tell the other kids about my name. They'd only make fun of it,” she whispered.

“I won't tell anybody. And,” I added awkwardly, “the song was good.”

“It was Aunt Cass's favorite. I used to sing it to—h-her.” She started sobbing, and the Hargreaveses took her away.

My parents and I made our way through the people, stopping many times for Mom to greet old friends and introduce Dad and me. Finally we reached our car, only to be stopped by Judge Bank.

“Sandra, I know this is not the proper time or place to talk, but you should know that Cass made a will some time ago that left Penncroft Farm to this fellow with a bee in his bonnet about immortalizing his ancestors. He might try to take possession soon if you don't come up with that last will—the one Cass put in that hidey-hole of hers.”

Dad shook his head. “That Cass—always did love a good riddle, and now she's left us with a pip.”

“According to what she said . . . on Halloween,” my mother said, clearing her voice and trying not to cry, “anybody with the right spirit can find it. I guess we'll just have to summon up the right spirit,” she quavered.

Judge Bank hugged Mom and shook hands with Dad and me, then unlocked the door of his antique car. Ordinarily I would have begged for a chance to get a close look at a Model T, but not that day. There was an important riddle to solve first.

7

I ended up that long, sad day sprawled on my bed trying to decipher the dotted lines and colored squares on my history book's map of the Battle of Brandywine. “Chadd's Ford, Jeffries' Ford, Jones's Ford, Brinton's Ford,” I read to myself, feeling very confused. “Sounds like a bunch of car dealers.” I snapped the book shut and lobbed it to the other end of my bed. As I looked up, my eye was caught by the portrait of my ancestor. I went over for a closer look. “You must have been around during the Revolution,” I said aloud. “Wish you could fill me in on Brandywine and what happened with all those darned fords.”

I turned to the Pennsylvania map Mom had put on my wall and examined it closely, hoping to find a clue. Chadd's Ford was there, a little town next to Brandywine Creek, but the black line of Route 1, the highway crossing the creek nearby, didn't show a ford or ferry or anything other than a plain old bridge.

I threw myself down on the window seat. My rear came down hard on something knobby. “Ouch!” I said loudly, discovering a metal hinge. Curving my fingers around the edge of the seat, I gave a hard pull. The top flew up, slamming into my nose, which started to bleed. Pinching my nostrils with one hand, I stuck my other inside the hollow base and felt a box—a box big enough to hold a will. My heart thumping, I lifted out the box and gingerly opened it. There was nothing inside but a black leather flower. Disappointment made me throw it down and growl, “Looks like I got a bloody nose for nothing.”

“
Nothing
, Lars? That's the cockade of my brother, Will!” It was Geordie, lounging on my bed, buckled shoes and all. “He wore it on his hat. The color showed he sided with Washington. Why, that cockade was Will's only uniform for a good long while.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “What about his blue-and-tan uniform like George Washington's?” I found my history book and opened it to a picture of Washington.

Geordie sprang up from the bed. “Your ignorance is vastly amusing, Lars. Early in the war, hardly anybody had a real uniform—except for rich people like Washington. And those uniforms were all different colors, not just blue and buff. Some American uniforms were as red as the ones the British soldiers wore.” He looked at the history book picture and chuckled. “Nay, country boys like Will were lucky if they had a whole pair of ordinary breeches, let alone a whole uniform. Sometimes they'd make themselves leather hunting shirts to use for a sort of uniform. In truth, Washington liked to have them wear those shirts, because the British figured everybody in one was a genuine sharpshooter. Most of those American boys couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but they surely did look the part!

“Will was proud of this cockade,” Geordie went on, stooping over to pick it up. “Many didn't even have these. Why, when the army marched through Philadelphia, General Washington ordered all the men to put green leaves in their hats so there'd be at least one thing uniform about the troops. 'Twas just before the battle at Brandywine Creek.”

“Brandywine!” I crowed. “Great—I was just wishing old George there could talk and help me with this.” I waved the Brandywine study sheet at him. “Guess I've been studying too hard. I'm talking to pictures as well as ghos—that is, shades.”

“Indeed,” Geordie remarked dryly. “I'll tell you about that terrible day, but only if you stay mum. Badger me with questions and I'll not go on. 'Tis a bargain?”

“'Tis,” I echoed, barely knowing what I'd bargained for.

 

That fall of 1777, after Will left home, was probably no stormier than any other, but I remember it as a blustery, tempestuous time. Doubtless my memory is clouded by my father's fury and my mother's despair over Will's joining the patriot forces. As time passed, Father's anger settled down into a sadness that changed him. Before, there had been songs and playful tricks to lighten the tedium of fruit picking. But that fall there was no Will taking away my ladder to strand me on a limb, and no Will's whistle summoning me to cool off in the pond when Father was not
about. No, that fall there were but three of us filling our shoulder-hung buckets, our hearts aching as much as our arms
.

One September evening, as Mother was making apple butter and I was stringing fruit for drying, Father came storming into the kitchen. “Another folly of those rebel hotheads,” he exclaimed bitterly. “And this one's likely to ruin us!
”

Quietly, Mother put down her paddle and swung the kettle out away from the coals. Then she moved across to Father. “Seat thyself, Laban, and try for a bit of composure,” she said softly
.

“
Composure? And what composure do they show, those madmen calling themselves the Continental Congress? A congress of traitors, I say. Madmen and traitors!
”

I swallowed. “What did the Continental Congress do, Father?
”

“
That so-called Congress has officially decreed that apples can no longer be exported to England. Our half-picked crop—now worthless! We might as well feed it all to the pigs!
”

“
Nay, Laban, don't take on so. Surely Geordie can sell the apples in Philadelphia or peddle them to the country inns.” Mother passed her hand over his dark hair affectionately
.

Father's expression softened. He looked at me and smiled. “Poor Geordie. Seems only yesterday you were playing with gewgaws. Remember the toy soldier from England that I bought in Philadelphia when you were still in leading strings?
”

I nodded. Next to the cup and ball that Will had carved of apple wood from our trees, that lead soldier had been my favorite toy. How Mother had protested when Father had given the small grenadier to me! With her Quaker beliefs, she didn't think it fit for child's play
.

I also remembered Father's present for Will that same day. The day our first apple shipment to England (arranged by Benjamin Franklin himself) had occasioned a special treat. Father had brought Will a signet ring inscribed grandly in Latin with our family joke about Will's stubbornness and name: “Ubi Voluntas Via Ibi Est” (“Where there's a will, there's a way”). I wrenched myself back to the present and replied to my father's question
.