When Mrs. Lee and Andrew Noble turn to look at Ezra Brewer, Nancy signals me to run with her behind a bush.
“Why are we hiding?” I sign. “He already saw us.”
“Exactly. He won’t expect us to follow him. It’s the perfect cover. This way we can see what he does next. He probably thinks we just went on our way,” she replies.
We peek out from behind the bush. She’s right. Andrew is continuing up the high road. What is he up to now?
We squat behind an oxcart until it turns down a lane. We walk quietly and keep a safe distance. When Andrew stops and turns around, we jump on the stone wall and climb the nearest apple tree. It has dropped its leaves, but the branches are thick and tall. Hopefully, we are merging, like good spies.
I go first and startle when I spot someone sitting on a branch above me. It is Sally Richards!
Her hair is tucked under a mobcap. She wears a brown patterned dress that is too large for her. I recognize it as one of Nancy’s old ones. Mrs. Skiffe will only have a Wampanoag girl working under her roof if she looks like a proper English girl.
For a moment, I panic. If Sally is neglecting her duties at the Skiffe household, Nancy will become belligerent. Nancy is now by my side, and she sees Sally. When their eyes meet, they seem neither friends nor enemies.
On the high road, Andrew turns around and comes toward us, stopping under a nearby tree.
We all remain still.
If he looks up, we have been stealthy for naught.
Nancy faces Sally and puts her finger on her lips. Sally nods.
“I’ve been watching the two of you,” Sally signs.
“We’ve been following him,” I admit.
Nancy scowls at my disclosure.
“Why?” Sally asks.
“I distrust him,” I sign, opening my fist like I am throwing a stone.
Sally nods and signs, “A person comes, rowing a mishoon or canoe, uninvited. He scouts the land and takes things that don’t belong to him.”
“Meaning what?” Nancy signs, with a twisted look on her face. I suppose she feels her father is being attacked for his claim on Wampanoag land.
Sally points at Andrew. Nancy huffs.
I’m glad I am sitting in the middle. To ease tension, I sign, “What is he doing?”
We can see only the top of Andrew’s head. He seems to be taking another sample from the ground.
“Dung beetles?” Sally guesses.
“Or dung,” Nancy signs. It is a sign not used in polite conversation.
The three of us struggle not to burst out laughing.
Just when we cannot hold our breath a moment longer, Andrew picks up his satchel and walks back up the high road with a steady stride.
We climb down. Nancy is still sulky.
“I must return home,” she announces.
“Me too,” I sign. “Thanks for your help. I’ll keep you apprised of further developments.”
She softens a bit and walks up the high road.
“Are you going to see your papa at our farm?” I ask Sally.
She nods. I suggest we walk together. Sally hesitates, then agrees.
Even a year ago, I would not be seen walking with her. But if Papa doesn’t treat Thomas differently from other men, why should I treat Sally differently from other girls?
I ask her, “What were you doing up in the tree?”
“I need a private place sometimes,” she explains.
I take up a birch stick as we walk. After we pass the Hillman house, I stoop to look at a fallen bird’s nest, turning it over with the stick. There are still bits of shell in the dried twigs from when the nestlings hatched. They have probably already flown away for the winter.
Sally crouches to see what I’m seeing. “Spotted sandpiper.” She identifies the species by finger-spelling. She also pays careful attention to small, discarded things. That makes her a different kind of companion than Nancy.
Mr. Butler is standing on the stone wall with his spyglass as we pass. He doesn’t address me, and I ignore his disapproving glare. I hope Sally doesn’t see it.
“Have you entered Bayard’s paddock again?” I ask her.
“I have,” she signs, smiling. “And he took the new salt lick I gave him.”
“But aren’t you afraid of him?” I sign.
We stop to watch a black-crowned heron swoop down to snatch a herring from an icy brook.
“No,” Sally signs hesitantly. “He’s a good horse. He’s just wounded. He’s lost his young master.”
“George,” I sign, and lower my hands.
“I have a plan to put Bayard at ease again,” Sally signs. “I’m trying to talk Papa into bringing two horses from Aquinnah. We will run Bayard between the good horses until he learns from them.”
“Oh, I’d like to see that!” I tell her.
“Maybe one day,” she signs dreamily.
When we approach the pastures, I wave to the sheep. They reciprocate by chewing their wheat straw and staring blankly at me. I spell “baa” on my fingers. Sally smiles at my jest.
A shyness comes over us. I am embarrassed that I cannot invite Sally to tea with me and Mama. Will there ever be a time when we can be true friends?
Sally waves while she walks toward the barn. I wave too and head for home.
The kitchen is warm and bright from a blazing fire. Papa is relaxing by the hearth with his pipe, reading the Farmer’s Almanac. I am startled to see Andrew Noble sitting at the table, talking rapidly at Mama. Why has he returned?
Mama looks up when she sees me. Her eyes shine bright. She looks different. More hopeful, perhaps?
“You’re home sooner than I thought,” Mama signs and speaks at the same time. She is speaking for Andrew’s benefit. This makes her signs more like spoken English and less like our special language.
Before I can respond, Mama turns to Andrew and speaks without signing. I groan inwardly. What is she saying?
After I hang up my
