our village. I want you to tell me what’s made you run off. Tell me your story, child.”
Her story. Oh, that it was a story, and someone else’s, or if hers, one that could be turned to another ending! Or had Alice already had her chance to turn her story and taken the wrong turning? Should she have passed by the sparkling ocean, the burned hands, the white handkerchief, the pretty ship, and found some kind of work in Boston? No, not Boston. Boston sat too close to Verley. What, then? Should she have set out toward Philadelphia and looked for her father there? Oh what, then?
The widow still held Alice’s hand, her own scarred palm rough and lumpy against it. She sat in patience, waiting for Alice to speak. Alice couldn’t see Freeman from where she sat, but she could feel him, the man of law, standing tall and upright, somewhere behind her, waiting too to return her to Boston, to return her to Verley. Alice pulled her hand from the widow’s and tucked it into the folds of her skirt. She said, “I finished out my time at Boston. I came to Satucket to look for work. There is all my story, madam.”
The widow dropped Alice’s hand, got up, and poured out the tea into three thick, earthenware mugs. She picked one up and carried it to Alice, but Alice had some trouble collecting it, because of her trembling.
The widow said, “You may stay here as long as I’ve a bed free, while you look for work in the village. You may work at what chores I give you to pay for your keep. You may start with the chickens. The egg basket is on the peg by the door. The coop is behind the barn. Keep your eye on the one-legged one; she’ll pick off your shoe bindings if you don’t keep ahead of her.”
NINE
T he door Alice passed through on her way to the chickens was thick, and she didn’t expect to hear as well as she’d heard on the stairwell, but as she bent to the latch she could hear Freeman’s courtroom voice well enough to burn her ear.
“I’d like to know what possible hope that child has of finding work in this village without a single piece of paper to recommend her.”
“She said she would write—”
“Please.”
“All right, then.”
“I can’t say how strongly I disagree with your decision to keep her here. I can’t say enough what a grave disservice you do her. If you think perhaps of recommending her yourself—”
“You needn’t remind me how far my recommendation might take her in this village. To be of any use to the girl it must come from another.”
“If you mean to say it must come from me—”
“You’re well trusted in this village.”
“And how long do you imagine I should be trusted when she slits one of our neighbors’ throat, as she might well have done her master’s?”
“I don’t understand how a man of your sensibility could look at that girl and think her a murderer. Why, if she were a murderer you would help her! But as a runaway servant you turn your back on her.”
“I should like very much to help her. I should like to offer her free passage back to Boston and fair adjudication in a court of law.”
“Then offer it to her. She already has my offer. We’ll see which one suits her better.”
“Against yours I imagine I might save my breath.”
“Then save it, sir. I’ve a cow needs milking.”
Alice scrambled away from the door and around the barn to the chickens. The widow’s bandage gave her little trouble; in fact, it gave her freer use of the hand now she knew it was protected. Once she’d filled the egg basket she helped the widow with the milk pail; she rationed the milk between the jug for drinking and the pans for cheese making, laid the cheesecloth over the pans, and carried the jug to the cellar. She worked with just as much speed as she could manage with care, and she believed the widow looked pleased with her effort. As to Freeman, he had gone away into his room, one of the two below-stairs; Alice could see him through the door at work at his
Her story. Oh, that it was a story, and someone else’s, or if hers, one that could be turned to another ending! Or had Alice already had her chance to turn her story and taken the wrong turning? Should she have passed by the sparkling ocean, the burned hands, the white handkerchief, the pretty ship, and found some kind of work in Boston? No, not Boston. Boston sat too close to Verley. What, then? Should she have set out toward Philadelphia and looked for her father there? Oh what, then?
The widow still held Alice’s hand, her own scarred palm rough and lumpy against it. She sat in patience, waiting for Alice to speak. Alice couldn’t see Freeman from where she sat, but she could feel him, the man of law, standing tall and upright, somewhere behind her, waiting too to return her to Boston, to return her to Verley. Alice pulled her hand from the widow’s and tucked it into the folds of her skirt. She said, “I finished out my time at Boston. I came to Satucket to look for work. There is all my story, madam.”
The widow dropped Alice’s hand, got up, and poured out the tea into three thick, earthenware mugs. She picked one up and carried it to Alice, but Alice had some trouble collecting it, because of her trembling.
The widow said, “You may stay here as long as I’ve a bed free, while you look for work in the village. You may work at what chores I give you to pay for your keep. You may start with the chickens. The egg basket is on the peg by the door. The coop is behind the barn. Keep your eye on the one-legged one; she’ll pick off your shoe bindings if you don’t keep ahead of her.”
NINE
T he door Alice passed through on her way to the chickens was thick, and she didn’t expect to hear as well as she’d heard on the stairwell, but as she bent to the latch she could hear Freeman’s courtroom voice well enough to burn her ear.
“I’d like to know what possible hope that child has of finding work in this village without a single piece of paper to recommend her.”
“She said she would write—”
“Please.”
“All right, then.”
“I can’t say how strongly I disagree with your decision to keep her here. I can’t say enough what a grave disservice you do her. If you think perhaps of recommending her yourself—”
“You needn’t remind me how far my recommendation might take her in this village. To be of any use to the girl it must come from another.”
“If you mean to say it must come from me—”
“You’re well trusted in this village.”
“And how long do you imagine I should be trusted when she slits one of our neighbors’ throat, as she might well have done her master’s?”
“I don’t understand how a man of your sensibility could look at that girl and think her a murderer. Why, if she were a murderer you would help her! But as a runaway servant you turn your back on her.”
“I should like very much to help her. I should like to offer her free passage back to Boston and fair adjudication in a court of law.”
“Then offer it to her. She already has my offer. We’ll see which one suits her better.”
“Against yours I imagine I might save my breath.”
“Then save it, sir. I’ve a cow needs milking.”
Alice scrambled away from the door and around the barn to the chickens. The widow’s bandage gave her little trouble; in fact, it gave her freer use of the hand now she knew it was protected. Once she’d filled the egg basket she helped the widow with the milk pail; she rationed the milk between the jug for drinking and the pans for cheese making, laid the cheesecloth over the pans, and carried the jug to the cellar. She worked with just as much speed as she could manage with care, and she believed the widow looked pleased with her effort. As to Freeman, he had gone away into his room, one of the two below-stairs; Alice could see him through the door at work at his
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