"I did not dare to write," she said. "I was afraid that you might not tell me to come, and I had to come."
Rachel leaned forward to put a hand on Kit's arm.
"We would not have refused you if you were in need," said her uncle. "But a step like this should not be taken without due pondering."
"Matthew," protested Rachel timidly, "what is there to ponder? We are the only family she has. Let us talk about it later. Now Katherine is tired, and your work has been delayed already."
Matthew Wood drew up a chair and sat down heavily. "The work will have to wait," he said. "It is best that we understand this matter at once. How did you come to set sail all alone?"
"There was a ship in the harbor and they said it was from Connecticut. I should have sent a letter, I know, but it might have been months before another ship came. So instead of writing I decided to come myself."
"You mean that, just on an impulse, you left your rightful home and sailed halfway across the world?"
"No, it was not an impulse exactly. You see, I really had no home to leave."
"What of your grandfather's estate? I always understood he was a wealthy man."
"I suppose he was wealthy, once. But he had not been well for a long time. I think for years he was not able to manage the plantation, but no one realized it. He left everything more and more to the overseer, a man named Bryant. Last winter Bryant sold off the whole crop and then disappeared. Probably he sailed back to England on the trading ship. Grandfather couldn't believe it. After that he was never really well. The other plantation owners were his friends. Nobody ever pressed him, but after he died there just seemed to be debts everywhere, wherever I turned."
"Did you pay them?"
"Yes, every one of them. All the land had to be sold, and the house and the slaves, and all the furniture from England. There wasn't anything left, not even enough for my passage. To pay my way on the ship I had to sell my own Negro girl."
"Humph!" With one syllable Matthew disposed of the sacrifice, only a little less sharp than Grandfather's loss, of the little African slave who had been her shadow for twelve years. There was an awkward silence. Kit found Mercy's eyes and was steadied by the quiet sympathy she saw there. Then her aunt came to put an arm across her shoulder.
"Poor Katherine! It must have been terrible for you! You were perfectly right to come to us. You do believe she was right, don't you Matthew?"
"Yes," her husband conceded harshly. "She was right, I suppose, since we are her only kin. I will bring in the baggage." At the door he turned again. "Your grandfather was a King's man, I reckon?"
"He was a Royalist, sir. Here in America are you not also subjects of King James?"
Without answering, Matthew Wood left the room. Seven times he returned, bending his tall frame to enter the doorway, and with wordless disapproval set down one after the other the seven small trunks. They filled one entire end of the room.
"Where on earth can we put them?" quavered her aunt.
"I will find a place for them later in the attic," said her husband. "Seven trunks! The whole town will be talking about it before nightfall."
CHAPTER 4
AS THE heavy door shut behind him the cloud gradually lifted from the room. Rachel moved nervously to the table and began to wrap the leftover corn bread in a clean linen napkin.
"Before I do another thing," she said, "I must take this to Widow Brown. She's still far too weak to fend for herself. Forgive me for leaving you, Katherine, but I'll be back in no time at all."
"In no time," echoed Judith bitterly, as her mother hurried out into the foggy morning. "Just as soon as she's built up the fire and made gruel and tidied the whole cabin. With more than a day's work waiting here at home."
"Why, Judith," Mercy rebuked her gently. "What would you have her do? You know what the Scriptures tell us about caring for the poor and the widows."
"There's no Scriptures saying Mother has to be the one to do all the caring," Judith retorted. "She wears herself out over people like Widow Brown, and honestly, Mercy, if Mother were ill how many of them do you think would lift a finger to help?"
"I'm sure they would," said Mercy promptly. "Besides, that's not the point. You'll give Kit a fine impression of us, Judith, and anyway, we'd better start on the work that's waiting right here."
Judith did not move. Her attention had turned again to the row of trunks. "Do you mean to say that every one of those trunks is full of dresses like the one you have on?"
"Well, dresses and petticoats, and slippers, and such. You have the same things yourselves, don't you?"
Mercy's laugh was a ripple of silver. "But we don't! We can't even imagine!"
"I can," said Judith. "I've seen the ladies in Hartford. Kit, how soon are you going to open them?"
"Right now, if you like," said Kit willingly.
Mercy was shocked. "Judith—what will our cousin think of us? Besides, there is all the work to be done."
"Oh, Mercy! There's always work!"
"I don't know—" said Mercy doubtfully. "Father says the Lord loveth not idleness. But then, the Lord doesn't send us a new cousin every day. Perhaps He would forgive us for a little rejoicing—"
"Oh, come, Kit, show us now!" urged Judith, taking advantage of her sister's uncertainty. Kit was only too willing. As the first lid opened, all constraint was gone. Kit had never known many girls her own age. Her own eagerness rose at the sight of the two eager faces so close to hers. How amazing that a few clothes could cause such excitement. Kit felt a surge of generosity that was new and exhilarating.
"Imagine!" cried Judith, pulling out a handsome gown of filmy silk. "Five slits in the sleeves! Our minister preached against slit sleeves and Father won't let us make even one. And so many ribbons and bows! And, oh. Kit—a red satin petticoat—how gorgeous!"
"Here are the gloves." Kit opened a box. "There's a pair just like mine, Judith, and a pair for you, Mercy. Please, you must take them."
Judith had the gloves on before the sentence was finished, and stood stretching out her slender arms admiringly. Mercy stroked hers with a timid finger and laid them gently aside. Then Judith pounced on the dresses.
"Try it on," suggested Kit, seeing that Judith could scarcely take her eyes from a bright peacock blue paduasoy. Judith needed no urging. Dropping her own homespun skirt unashamedly on the floor, she drew the shining folds over her head.
"Why, 'tis perfect," exclaimed Kit. "It makes your eyes look almost green!"
Judith tiptoed across the floor, straining to see herself in the one small dim mirror that hung over a chest. Truly, in the vivid dress Judith was breath-taking, and she did not need the mirror to tell her so.
"Oh, if William could see me in this!" she breathed, ignoring Mercy's worried protests.
Kit laughed delightedly. "Well, 'tis yours, Judith. 'Twas made just for you. And there's a little cap with ribbons to match—now where did I put it? There! Now which one will be best for Mercy?"
"Goodness, what use would I have for such things?" Mercy laughed. "I scarcely ever get to Meeting." Kit hesitated, chagrined. But Judith's eye had fallen on a light blue wool and she lifted it impulsively.
"This would be perfect for Mercy," she exclaimed.
Kit unfolded the delicate English shawl and dropped it across Mercy's shoulders.
"Oh, Kit, how beautiful! I never felt anything so soft! Like a kitten's fur." Delight and protest struggled in Mercy's face. "I can't take anything so lovely."
Judith was back at the mirror. "Just wait till I walk into Meeting in this on Sunday morning," she squealed. "A few people I know won't hear a word of the sermon!"
"Why, girls! What on earth—?" Rachel Wood had come back unnoticed, and she stood now staring at her daughter in the peacock blue gown with something, half fear and half hunger in her eyes.
"Oh, Mother—look what Kit has given me!" cried Judith.
"I am looking," stammered her mother. "Judith—you look—I scarcely know you!"
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"You should, Aunt Rachel," Kit spoke up boldly. "Because you must have looked just exactly like that yourself. I know because Grandfather has told me how beautiful you were."
The two girls stared at their mother in astonishment. Rachel looked dazed. "I had a dress just that color once," she said slowly.
Kit dived impulsively into the trunk. "Put this on, Aunt Rachel," she coaxed. "See? It ties under your chin like this. Oh, 'tis just perfect! Go and look at yourself."
Rachel shied away from the mirror, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Under the little beribboned bonnet the years had dropped away from her face. At her brilliant eyes and tremulous smile her two daughters stared in unbelief.
"Oh, Mother! Wear that on Sunday! Promise you will!"
But the color had suddenly drained from Rachel's face. A chill swept across the room from the abruptly opened door. On the threshold stood Matthew Wood, staring from his awful height at the littered room, the gowns tumbled over chairs and benches, and the guilty faces of his womenfolk.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
"The girls were watching Katherine unpack," Rachel explained helplessly. "How are you back so soon, Matthew?"
"Can a man not come back for an axe helve without finding his house a shambles?"
"I guess we forgot ourselves." Rachel's fingers jerked at the bonnet strings.
Judith was not so easily intimidated. "Look, Father!" she attempted, "Kit has given me this dress. Did you ever see anything so handsome?"
"Give it back to her at once!"
"Father—no! I never had—"
"Do as I say!" he thundered.
"Uncle Matthew," broke in Kit. "You don't understand. I want her to have the dress."
Her uncle regarded her with scorn. "No one in my family has any use for such frippery," he said coldly. "Nor are we beholden on anyone's charity for our clothing."
"But they are gifts," cried Kit, tears of hurt and anger springing to her eyes. "Everyone brings—"
"Be quiet, girl! It is time you understood one thing at the start. This will be your home, since you have no other, but you will fit yourself to our ways and do no more to interrupt the work of the household or to turn the heads of my daughters with your vanity. Now you will close your trunks and allow them to get about the work they have neglected. Rachel, take off that ridiculous thing!"
"Even the gloves, Father?" Judith was still rebellious. "Everyone wears gloves to Meeting."
"Everything. No member of my household will appear in public in such unseemly apparel."
Mercy had said no word, but now as she folded the blue shawl and laid it quietly on top of the trunk, Rachel found courage for her only protest. "Will you allow Mercy to keep the shawl?" she pleaded. "'Tis not gaudy, and 'twill keep off the draft there by the chimney."
Matthew's glance moved from the shawl to his daughter's quiet eyes, and barely perceptibly the grim line of his jaw relaxed. So there was one weakness in this hard man!
"Very well, Mercy may keep the shawl. I thank you for it." The bitter word was forced out just in time. Had it not been for this hint of grace, Kit's anger might have erupted in a scene that would have spoiled all her chances on this first morning. As it was she felt an unwilling respect that made her hold her tongue and set to work folding and replacing the piles of clothing.
Judith's tears were packed away in the folds of the blue dress. There was silence after the door had shut once more.
"Well," sighed Rachel, "'tis all my fault. I can't blame you girls, but at my age—and the board not even cleared from breakfast."
Kit looked back at the table curiously. "Don't the servants do that?" she inquired.
"We have no servants," said her aunt quietly.
Surprise and chagrin left Kit speechless. "I can help with the work," she offered finally, realizing that she sounded like an overeager child.
"In that dress!" Judith protested.
"I'll find something else. Here, this calico will do, won't it?"
"To work in?" Disappointment had put an edge to Judith's tongue.
"'Tis all I have," retorted Kit. "Give me something of yours then."
Judith's cheeks went scarlet. "Oh, wear that one. You can help Mercy with the carding. You won't dirty yourself at that."
Kit shortly repented her offer. For four mortal hours she sat on a wooden bench and struggled to grasp the tricky process of carding wool. Mercy demonstrated on two pieces of thin board to which were fastened strips of leather set with hooked wire teeth. From a great pile of heavy blue wool she pulled a small tuft, caught it in the wire teeth of one board, and drew across it the second board till the fibers were brushed flat.
"Isn't the color pretty?" she inquired. "Mother promised Judith that if she helped with the shearing this year we could buy some indigo from the West Indies. Judith hates handling the greasy wool and washing it, but she will be happy with the blue cloth." In one deft motion she plucked the wool from the teeth and rolled it into a fluffy ball.
It looked so easy, but the moment Kit took the wool cards into her hands she appreciated Mercy's skill. They were such awkward things. The wool fluffed and stuck to her fingers and snarled in clumps. She suspected that Judith had chosen this task on purpose.
"You're getting the knack," approved Mercy when a few misshapen little balls finally lay in the basket.
Kit eyed the great heap of wool. "You have to do all that by yourself?"
"Oh, the others help between times. But of course, there are so many things I can't do. You don't know how nice it is to have you to help. 'Tis a marvel how much faster the work goes when there's someone to talk to."
Fasti All this time and that great pile hardly touched! But Mercy had sounded sincere. How dreary it must be for her, working here day after day. Kit was ashamed of her own impatience. Suddenly, under Mercy's friendly smile, the question that had been troubling her all the morning burst out.
"Do you think I did wrong, Mercy, to come here?"
"You did exactly right," smiled Mercy.
"But your father—"
"Father doesn't mean to be unkind. It has been very hard for him here in Connecticut."
In the months since her grandfather died there had been no one whom Kit could trust. Now she found herself saying the words she had never dared to speak.
"I had to come, Mercy. There was another reason. I couldn't say it this morning, but there was a man on the island, a friend of grandfather's. He used to come often, and afterwards I found he had lent Grandfather money, hundreds of pounds. He didn't want the money back—he wanted me to marry him. He tried to make me think that Grandfather had wanted it, but I'm sure that was not so. He wanted to pay everything. He would even have kept the house for us to live in. Everyone expected me to marry him. The women kept telling me what a wonderful match it was."
"Kit! How could they? Was he dreadful?"
"No, he wasn't really. He was very kind. But Mercy, he was fifty years old, and he had pudgy red fingers with too many rings on them. You see, Mercy, why I couldn't wait to write? You do see why I can't go back, don't you?"
"Of course you can't go back," said Mercy firmly. Her hand reached for Kit's and pressed it warmly. "Father has no intention of sending you back. You will just have to prove to him that you can be useful here."
By the end of that first day the word useful had taken on an alarming meaning. Work in that household never ceased, and it called for skill and patience, qualities Kit did not seem to possess. There was meat to be chopped, and vegetables to prepare for the midday meal. The pewter mugs had to be scoured with reeds and fine sand. There was a great kettle of soap boiling over a fire just behind the house, and all day long Judith and her mother took turns stirring it with a long stick. Judith set Kit to tend the stirring while she readied the soap barrel. Kit tried to keep a gingerly distance from the kettle. The strong fumes of lye stung her eyelids and stirring the heavy mass tired her arms and shoulders. Her stirring became more and mor
e halfhearted till Judith snatched the stick in exasperation. "It will lump on you," she scolded, "and you can just blame yourself if we have to use lumpy soap all summer."
Toward evening they set her at the easiest task they could devise—the making of corn pudding. The corn meal had to be added to the boiling kettle a pinch at a time. Before half of it was consumed, Kit's patience ran out. The smoke made her eyes water, and there was a smarting blister on one thumb. She suspected that Judith had invented the irksome procedure just to keep her busy, and in a burst of resentment she poured in the remaining cupful all at once. She learned her mistake when the lumpy indigestible mass was ladled onto her wooden trencher. There was nothing else for supper. After one shocked stare, the family downed the mess in a silence that made Kit writhe.
After the candles were lit, Rachel and the two girls picked up skeins of yarn and began to knit as Matthew drew the great Bible toward him across the table. Matthew's voice was harsh and monotonous. Kit could not keep her mind on the words. Every muscle in her body ached with weariness. As the reading went on her head grew heavier, and twice she jerked herself painfully back from the brink of sleep. The others, intent on their knitting, did not notice. Only when her uncle closed the Book and bent his head for the long evening prayer, did the clicking needles cease.
Kit, in her eagerness, went up ahead with a candle into the chilly bedchamber. But once there she remembered that in the morning she would need a fresh gown from the trunks to replace the soot-stained calico. Going back down the stairs she overheard some words not intended for her ears.
"Why does she have to sleep with me?" Judith demanded in a sulky tone.
"Why, daughter," her mother rebuked her, "are you not willing that your cousin should share with you?"
"If I have to share my bed will she share my work? Or will she expect us all to wait on her hand and foot like her black slaves?"
"Shame, Judith. The child tried her best, you know that."