waiting for a chance to talk with Mr. Ripley, but there was no opening.
When Mr. Ripley declared the meeting over, he walked out of the room with his wife and Margaret Fuller and Daniel had no chance to talk to him. Gradually the group broke up into small clumps of women talking with one another. Charlotte and Abigail walked toward Daniel.
"Are you going to write the story up for the newspaper?" asked Charlotte.
"Not too many people in Boston want to read about how to be good to your servants," he answered. "Not much excitement in that."
"Mr. Platt's interruption disturbed me," Abigail Pretlove added. "That man is full of anger."
"What's he worried about? No one is trying to take away his farm."
"But he's afraid nonetheless," insisted Abigail. "I met him on the road yesterday and he was talking about how the country is falling apart. His brother has lost a lot of money because Pennsylvania repudiated their bond debt. Maybe Mr. Platt thinks it will happen to him."
"He'd fight back if anybody tried to take anything away from him." Daniel responded, thinking about how fierce he had looked on the road shaking his hoe and talking about the Brook Farmers. "I'd hate to meet him on a dark road some night."
Thinking about darkness made Daniel realize he wouldn't have a chance to talk to Mr. Ripley today. He had a good two-hour walk ahead of him and if he didn't watch out, his boarding house would be locked for the night. There was a lot to think about on the way to Boston.
CHAPTER NINE
Abigail Tells a Story
October 16, 1842
Sundays at Brook Farm were busy and noisy. Sometimes a visiting preacher gave a sermon to a small group in the parlor; other days John Dwight would gather some of the students together to sing hymns. Always there was talking and music and singing. It was all very pleasant, but at times Abigail missed the quiet of the Sunday mornings when she was a child in Philadelphia.
She used to walk with mother and father to the Quaker Meeting House for First Day worship. How proud she was when her father decided she was old enough to sit and be quiet with the grown-ups for the service. The silence might be broken when one of the adults stood up and said something odd, "I saw a red-winged blackbird spring from her nest by Foxglove creek this morning and my heart was filled with the wonder of God's grace." Abigail would look at the sun streaming into the small worship room and wonder whether that was God's grace, or whether she would ever really know if it was. The silence was mysterious, but comforting and when the service was over she felt strangely contented.
On the Sunday after Winslow died Abigail decided to walk to Boston with Timothy. The news about Maura O'Malley had unsettled her. It was years since she had seen Mrs. O'Malley. What a godsend she had been when Timothy was born. What would have happened if Aunt Phoebe hadn't been able to call on Maura O'Malley at that terrible time? As Abigail walked along the quiet Sunday road she remembered driving out into the country with Maura and her nephew—Patrick, his name was. It was June and she was hot and sick and scared as the wagon jolted over the rutted road. Maura put her arm around her and rocked her as though she was a baby while her nephew kept singing to the horse.
Patrick and his wife Clare were cheerful and the three little children running around kept Abigail occupied. Maura got her through the birth. She didn't remember much about that except the moment when she first held Timothy and realized he was going to be with her for the rest of her life. She watched him now, running a stick through the grass at the side of the road, looking serious as he searched for jump-toads and bugs. Tears stung her eyes—he looked just the way Winslow had looked when he talked about all those books he read. She didn't want to think about that. She had to keep going.
When they reached Boston, she searched for the house where Maura used to live. What if she had moved?
When Mr. Ripley declared the meeting over, he walked out of the room with his wife and Margaret Fuller and Daniel had no chance to talk to him. Gradually the group broke up into small clumps of women talking with one another. Charlotte and Abigail walked toward Daniel.
"Are you going to write the story up for the newspaper?" asked Charlotte.
"Not too many people in Boston want to read about how to be good to your servants," he answered. "Not much excitement in that."
"Mr. Platt's interruption disturbed me," Abigail Pretlove added. "That man is full of anger."
"What's he worried about? No one is trying to take away his farm."
"But he's afraid nonetheless," insisted Abigail. "I met him on the road yesterday and he was talking about how the country is falling apart. His brother has lost a lot of money because Pennsylvania repudiated their bond debt. Maybe Mr. Platt thinks it will happen to him."
"He'd fight back if anybody tried to take anything away from him." Daniel responded, thinking about how fierce he had looked on the road shaking his hoe and talking about the Brook Farmers. "I'd hate to meet him on a dark road some night."
Thinking about darkness made Daniel realize he wouldn't have a chance to talk to Mr. Ripley today. He had a good two-hour walk ahead of him and if he didn't watch out, his boarding house would be locked for the night. There was a lot to think about on the way to Boston.
CHAPTER NINE
Abigail Tells a Story
October 16, 1842
Sundays at Brook Farm were busy and noisy. Sometimes a visiting preacher gave a sermon to a small group in the parlor; other days John Dwight would gather some of the students together to sing hymns. Always there was talking and music and singing. It was all very pleasant, but at times Abigail missed the quiet of the Sunday mornings when she was a child in Philadelphia.
She used to walk with mother and father to the Quaker Meeting House for First Day worship. How proud she was when her father decided she was old enough to sit and be quiet with the grown-ups for the service. The silence might be broken when one of the adults stood up and said something odd, "I saw a red-winged blackbird spring from her nest by Foxglove creek this morning and my heart was filled with the wonder of God's grace." Abigail would look at the sun streaming into the small worship room and wonder whether that was God's grace, or whether she would ever really know if it was. The silence was mysterious, but comforting and when the service was over she felt strangely contented.
On the Sunday after Winslow died Abigail decided to walk to Boston with Timothy. The news about Maura O'Malley had unsettled her. It was years since she had seen Mrs. O'Malley. What a godsend she had been when Timothy was born. What would have happened if Aunt Phoebe hadn't been able to call on Maura O'Malley at that terrible time? As Abigail walked along the quiet Sunday road she remembered driving out into the country with Maura and her nephew—Patrick, his name was. It was June and she was hot and sick and scared as the wagon jolted over the rutted road. Maura put her arm around her and rocked her as though she was a baby while her nephew kept singing to the horse.
Patrick and his wife Clare were cheerful and the three little children running around kept Abigail occupied. Maura got her through the birth. She didn't remember much about that except the moment when she first held Timothy and realized he was going to be with her for the rest of her life. She watched him now, running a stick through the grass at the side of the road, looking serious as he searched for jump-toads and bugs. Tears stung her eyes—he looked just the way Winslow had looked when he talked about all those books he read. She didn't want to think about that. She had to keep going.
When they reached Boston, she searched for the house where Maura used to live. What if she had moved?
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