I keep my face neutral as he threatens his students. Allenwon’t forbid anything edible—not if he gets a share. The linen tea towel isremoved from the wheat buns, and the smell of yeast and sweet butter fills theair. Allen takes some buns for himself from the basket, gives the rest toCordelia, and vacates the classroom.
We must steal the dunce cap while the coast is clear. And thathateful ruler as well.
The children form a line, whispering to each other about thefood. Cordie gives each of them a slice of cheddar, a large bun and a dollop ofstrawberry preserves. I am thanked often. Twenty-seven times to be exact. Theyfinish the rolls at their desks and then leave for the dining hall and the thincup of beef broth the orphanage provides. I have Cordelia rewrap the remainingbread in the linen cloth and put it on Mr. Allen’s table.
Hopefully, he won’t notice the missing ruler and dunce cap.
Willard Little Hawk carries our empty baskets out to the wagonand Cordie and I follow him as far as the door. I am about to step outside whenSim Harrow touches my shoulder. He helps in the kitchens at the orphanage andsmells like the broth they eat for dinner. “That sure hit the spot, miss. Wenever know what you’ll bring, but it’s always tasty.”
I accept his appreciation with a smile. In a few months, he’llbe too old for this place and will have to fend for himself. I can’t imagine abright mind like his being wasted at the button factory.
Schedule new project, I remind myself. Find quality employmentfor Simmons Harrow.
Willard returns and ushers Cordie and me out to the buckboard. Itisn’t a big rig, but sizable enough to pick up some crates of chickens at Hollister’sMercantile. Cordelia and I sit on the bench seat next to Willard as he drives downHigh Street, amid clatter and dust. We pull around behind the store, and ourhorse Jem comes to a stop. Willard jerks the brake lever into place, then flipsthe reins around the hitching post before going inside.
A special corner in my heart is reserved solely forHollister’s. I met Tom Craddock here. He was seven and I a year younger. Tompulled my braid, asking if I wanted a piece of the toffee he had just bought. Ireplied in my head, Of course I do, silly boy! and he told me not to berude. He’s been hearing my thoughts ever since.
Cordelia pokes through her reticule. “I need some new ribbonand thread.”
I nod, thoughts of love and destiny still warming my insides.
“And you’re coming with me,” she adds.
There are people within the store whom I don’t especially like.I hear them chatting away near the bolts of fabric, and I would rather not dealwith unkind townswomen today. I shake my head and yawn at Cordelia. She takesthe hint, lickety-split, and climbs down from the wagon.
“All right. We’ll do it your way, Miss Hester. I know I’llregret this, but I don’t have the energy to fight you at the moment. I’ve araging headache after listening to Mr. Allen all morning.” Cordie leans in andlowers her voice. “Don’t even think of leaving this bench. Or I swearbefore the Almighty, I will quit this very hour if you hare off again.”
Now that’s just throwing down the gauntlet.
Surely Cordie must know me well enough to foresee the effect ofher words. I never met an ultimatum I didn’t want to defy. But I decide tohonor her wishes as I listen to my companion stomp toward the mercantile. Iwouldn’t want her to quit this hour or any other. She’s the loveable sort,despite her pushy tendencies, and most days I almost forget that she’s paid tobe my friend.
Alone now, I stretch and listen to the surrounding streets. Afew people are wandering about, no one too close. A catnap seems just thething, like the ultimate indulgence. So I lean back, tilt my bonnet over myface, and concentrate on dozing. For all of five minutes. Sunlight engulfs mybody, and I feel energized rather than fatigued.
Willard exits Hollister’s with a crate of noisy poultry,causing our horse to yank against his tether. He’s a gentle old love, thenoblest of animals. Yet squawking hens can have a negative effect on equines,even a fine Welsh cob like Jem. Willard deposits the birds into the back of thewagon and returns to the mercantile for another brood.
A few minutes pass, then someone—sounds like a man—walks thelength of the sidewalk outside Hollister’s, directly to our hitching post. Hedoes something with the reins. Slowly, quietly. Alarmed by his secretivemanner, I shove my bonnet back into place and sit up. I smell strong emotionnow and shrink from it. Blood. Hatred. Whoever stands at Jem’s head is filledwith the unholy passion.
Out of the wagon, Hester. Find help.
Before I can move, the reins are dropped and the brake leverreleased, followed by a brutal snap of a whip. Poor Jem takes off in a panic. Igrasp the iron railing that runs along the bench and slide over to the driver’sside. Everything is so loud it’s difficult to think.
Be calm. Get Jem under control. The wagon pitches forward, and I’malmost tossed off. Deus miserare. That was close. Taking a deep breath,holding the railing for dear life, I squat down on the boards where Willard’sfeet rest when he’s driving the wagon. Dirt and pebbles from Jem’s hooves flyinto my face. Calmness, be damned. Get those bloody reins, you fool! Slow thehorse down! I run my free hand around the boards, but there is nothing. Thenthe vehicle slams to the left, and my body flips back up to the bench seat. Ilie across it now, stomach down, feet hanging over the side of the wagon. Howcan I save myself? O di immortales.
The chickens in the wagon bed squawk an octave higher, and myeardrums feel as though they will burst. This situation would almost becomical. Except for the fact I’m in mortal danger and a threat to thepedestrians in my
