“They aren’t near any grazing lands so we don’t get bothered much. And they never go into town alone so few are brave enough to trouble them there. And, they give some folk work in the readying of the wool for market. As long as we stay up here it seems they find it tolerable enough. Our biggest problem is wolves. The boys are out hunting some now as we recently lost a lamb to the beasts.” Mrs. O’Neal shook her head. “I tell them they should just kill the things but, mostly, they harry them until the pack moves away.”
Emily sighed. “Fair, I suppose. The wolves have to feed themselves too. It is just that the very idea of wolves in the area gives me a chill.”
Mrs. O’Neal nodded. “Feel the same way but you are right. Animals are just trying to stay alive. Do you knit?”
“A bit. Small things. You have yarn? Some from the MacEnroy sheep?”
“If there is a plentiful amount, yes, I get some. I do the scouring and scrubbing and we have some women in the town who do the carding and spinning. It works out well for all of us.”
“It certainly seems to.”
“Especially since we do not grow enough crop to make much money. We grow for us and some for market but we could not live on that. I often think there is nothing these lads can’t do.”
“You sound like a proud mama,” Emily said, and grinned when Mrs. O’Neal laughed.
“Can’t help but marvel at all they do.” She tossed the potato peelings into the bucket. “I think they knew how to build things since they were small but everything else they just learn. They decide which one of them will find someone skilled at it, then he goes and learns the skill and comes back and teaches the rest.”
“It is the best way.” Emily added her peelings to the bucket. “I did it before we came to this country. I felt one of us should know some basic skills like cooking so I hunted down ones who were willing to teach me. I was rather surprised how difficult that proved to be. It turned out to be very fortuitous as I think my sister could burn water.” She smiled sadly when Mrs. O’Neal laughed.
Mrs. O’Neal put the bucket by the back door, washed her hands, and then began to prepare the meat for roasting. “Why did you come here?” she asked. “I can tell you are educated and all.” She noticed Emily’s look of unease. “ ‘Fortuitous’?”
“It is a common word,” Emily said, not wanting the woman to keep asking questions for she knew she could not lie to her.
“About as common as that dress.”
“Oh. I thank you for cleaning it. You did an excellent job.”
“I got it soaking before the blood dried. Now, don’t try to distract me. Why did you leave England?”
Emily sighed. “My sister was beginning to show that she carried a child. David was only the local blacksmith’s son and it would be a match everyone frowned on.” A partial truth that she hoped would satisfy the woman.
“A bad match.” Mrs. O’Neal shook her head. “I was considered the same for my Tommy. He was an educated fellow and I was only the daughter of a seamstress. He was also Catholic and Irish and I was not. My Tommy realized his family was going to make our life hell and so we came out here. His sister was saddened about it, and Tommy was their only son, but he was adamant. We had ten lovely years and I am still trying to forgive them for driving us away.”
“Because he died here,” Emily said softly.
“Which is silly of me. Some fool in Boston could have killed him. Killing an Irishman wasn’t all that unusual there.” She put the meat in to cook then turned to study Emily for a moment. “I think you feel something like that.”
“Yes. Something like that.” Emily suspected what she felt was far stronger and more bitter than what Mrs. O’Neal felt. “Is there anything else I can do?” She wanted something that would dim the sad memories stirred up by their talk.
Mrs. O’Neal set a huge bowl of pea pods on the table. “Shell the peas. Done that before?”
“Yes. That is a lot of peas.”
“We have twelve, no, thirteen people to feed and many of them male. Several of them still growing boys. They are like locusts in a field after a full day of work.” She set down a bowl to put the peas in. “Then we do some carrots and, after that, apples, as I mean to make a couple of pies.”
“A couple of pies?”
“They all have a sweet tooth.”
Emily laughed and concentrated on the peas. It was pleasant to sit in the kitchen talking recipes and helping Mrs. O’Neal prepare the meal. She thought of her friends back home and knew many would be an even mixture of horrified and fascinated. A smile twitched at her lips as she thought of her friend Penelope Whitman, who had been her friend since they were very small. That woman would fall down laughing if she could see her now. Emily missed the long talks and laughter they had often shared over tea.
By the time Mrs. O’Neal had all the apples she needed for her pies, Emily was exhausted. It embarrassed her that helping with such simple chores had worn her out. When she stood up she had to grab the edge of the table to support herself. She glanced toward the door leading out of the kitchens and was not sure she would be able to reach it without sprawling gracelessly on the floor.
“You are looking very pale,” said Mrs. O’Neal as she stepped close to Emily. “Done in now, are you?”
“It is ridiculous,” Emily muttered. “I have done nothing but lie abed for days and all I have done now is sit here and ready vegetables for cooking. That should not weary me so.”
“You may have been lying abed but your body was working hard.” Mrs. O’Neal put her arm around Emily’s waist to help hold her up. “When folk stay in a sickbed for a while they always find the first few days of being back on their feet hard work. Let’s get you back up to bed. There are a few hours for you to rest before the meal is set out.”
