him is that inner voice that he listens to. His or Missy Penrose’s, no matter which. That’s why they still have fires and dancing on the Common.” He put his hands on the arm of his chair to lift himself. “No, no, I can do it. Come in and have a drink? No? Come over again, it’s always good to have company.”
He went across the lawn as if he had eyes to tell him the way, and when he got to the back door Maggie came and opened it, holding it for him while he entered. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said, going in. I waved, but she appeared not to have seen me, and I turned to go home.
15
When I reached the corner of the hedge, I heard the sound of hoofbeats along the road, and saw Kate coming down the lane astride Tremmy. She sat the horse well for the length of time she had been riding, though it briefly occurred to me that she was coming at too fast a pace. When she reined up beside me, her face was flushed and excited with the elation of being on horseback.
Remembering the former owner’s warning, I told her to be careful not to give the animal so much head. She leaned from the saddle and smoothed the mane over the ridge of the chestnut neck muscles. “She’s just high- spirited, Daddy. Watch!”
She flicked the reins, spun the mare, and rode her in circles around me as I stood in the middle of the road.
“Fine, sweetheart. But I think Tremmy’s had enough for one day, and so have you. Cool her off now, and give her her dinner. Don’t forget to rub her down,” I called as I went in the back door.
In the bacchante room, I discovered ladies come to call.
“Behold your seraglio,” said the Widow Fortune, looking up from her sewing. Her horse, she said, had a stony hock today, so she had come shanks’ mare with Mrs. Zalmon and Mrs. Green to bring us a gift, a little wooden keg of honey mead. She pointed to the dusty vessel on the piecrust table, saying she had not wiped it off, since she wanted me to see how old it was. I made myself a Scotch-and-soda and sat in my club chair. Kate came in with a can of polish and began using it on her boots. “Kate,” the Widow said, “You sit that horse like a reg’lar hussar.”
“I want a new saddle for her, only I’ll have to wait until next year.”
“How’s that?”
“Haven’t the money. I have to save out of my allowance.”
“Chickens,” the Widow announced. “You ought to go into business and raise chickens.” She gave me a look. “You put up some wire and stakes and build the child a chicken run. When the chickens get tired of laying, you can always eat ‘em. Beth, you promised me that recipe for chicken and crabmeat.”
“I’ll copy it out before you go.”
“What’s for dinner?” Kate asked.
“Steaks and salad.”
Kate made a face. “I’d rather have chili.”
“
Beth laughed. “Kate’s favorite thing in the world is Pepe Gonzalez’s chili.”
“You come to me for dinner one night, Kate, and let me fix you a nice clam chowder, and you’re bound to change your mind.”
“Clams is all spoiled over to Boston,” Mrs. Green said.
“No.” The Widow was shocked.
Mrs. Zalmon said, “There’s poison in the water makes ‘em go bad. People are dyin’ of it.”
The Widow shook her head. “Not content to ruin the land, now they must poison the sea. Think of that. No clams.”
“And oysters,” Mrs. Green put in. “Imagine. Today folks eat oysters whether the month’s got an ‘R’ or not. Things certainly have changed since I was a girl!”
“Cozy room, Ned,” the Widow observed, looking around. “Be nice for winter evenin’s.”
Mrs. Green made a mock shiver. “Ooh-winter, and so soon.”
“Aye, soon. People claim a New England winter’s hard, and I s’pose it is for them what’s soft. But I like to feel all tucked in by a blanket of snow come Thanksgivin’. And they say when winter comes, spring can’t be far behind. The shadblow will pop before you know it, and it’ll be Plantin’ Day again. There’ll be Spring Festival, and dancin’ on the green.”
“The maypoles,” Mrs. Green said.
“Maybe Worthy’ll be takin’ Kate to the maypoles.” The Widow gave her a bright look.
“Kate, darling,” Beth suggested, “why don’t you clean your boots in the kitchen?” Kate took her boots and polish away, mourning Pepe Gonzalez’s chili.
Suddenly a gust of wind blew down the chimney, scattering the ashes from the fire I had made to test the cleaned-out flue.
“Oh, dear…” Mrs. Green looked doubtfully at Mrs. Zalmon. The Widow glanced up behind her spectacles, then borrowed Beth’s shears to snip a thread.
“An omen, for sure,” Mrs. Zalmon said in a hushed tone.
Beth used the fireplace brush to tidy up the hearth. “Well, we can’t say the chimney isn’t drawing.”
I said I hoped so; Worthy and I had worked like dogs.
“I told you he was a good worker,” the Widow said with some satisfaction.
“What do you suppose can be the matter with Worthy?” Beth said. “I never saw such a change in a boy.”
Mrs. Zalmon replied, “Some young people want too much from life. More than they’re meant to have. Worthy don’t know how lucky a boy he is. To have been chosen the Young Lord is an honor most boys wouldn’t sneeze at. Look at Justin. See at the fine farm he’s made, the finest in the Coombe. Worthy could do a lot for his family by settin’ his mind in the village ways and not wantin’ to be a revolutionary. Ought to thank the Lord he’s been chosen, Worthy ought.”
“How was the Harvest Lord chosen before Missy’s time?” I asked.
Mrs. Zalmon explained. “It was done by vote of the ladies. Everyone met in the church the afternoon of Agnes Fair and dropped a ballot in the collection box.” Then, Mrs. Green continued, the most votes won. But when Missy came along and it was discovered she had the power, it was decided this year to give up the voting and let her make the choice.
“Still and all,” Mrs. Zalmon put in, “that’s not to say Missy done the best, choosin’ Worthy.”
“What will happen if he isn’t in the play?” I asked.
“Not in the play?” The Widow gave a sharp look. “He’ll be in the play, will he, nill he. People expect it of him.”
“People don’t always do what people expect of them,” I ventured. “Maybe he’s got other plans.”
Mrs. Green sniffed. “He can’t have other plans. Boys must do their duty, same as men. That’s the way it’s always been. Isn’t that so?”
“Maybe.” The Widow was thoughtful. “Clem always thought so. But then he was a most unusual man.”
“Clemmon’s gone to glory,” Mrs. Zalmon said. The Widow nodded, and bit the end of her thread off.
“Aye, gone to glory,” she repeated softly. “Where, God willin’, I’ll follow afore long.”
“Afore long? Never think it, Widow!” exclaimed Mrs. Green.
“One day soon I’ll be gone.” She sighed. “Then who’ll there be to pass it all on? Who’ll there be to tell the young? Young folks is so diff’rent today than when we was girls. Still, there’s Tamar-”
“Pshaw, Tamar.” Mrs. Zalmon was indignant. “Tamar take
“Tamar’s hoydenish, no doubt,” the old lady said mildly, “but she’s got character and strength. She’s of the earth, Tamar is. Maybe she’s not so spiritual as we might hope for, but she’s apt. If a pusson could talk to her-bring her ‘round, so to speak-”
“She’d be a sight better than the bad one,” Mrs. Green agreed.
“Who was Grace Everdeen?” I suddenly asked.
