Longfellow turned to see a number of young women in full cloaks, most often scarlet, lining the sh.o.r.e, cheering as a compet.i.tion began to see which of the current crews could cut the most blocks before they came together. Older women and small girls arranged food on trestle tables, keeping baskets full of the rolls donated by the Bracebridge Inn's landlord, Jonathan Pratt, serving soup from pots in double-tiered tin boxes lined with coals. Not far off, by a snapping bonfire, jugs offered a more pungent form of refreshment.

Shifting his attention away from the main bustle, Longfellow watched the adjacent ice, dotted with low islands of blueberry scrub. Here, skaters raced or circled one another on blades of steel, antler, or bone. Boys bundled until they resembled sheep romped nearby, awaiting turns. Waging serious battle, the eldest threw hard missiles of old snow and fell according to the rules of the game; younger brothers simply rolled about on their own.

One of these, Longfellow saw, was Mrs. Willett's occasional a.s.sistant Henry Sloan, happily at war with a.s.sociates from the village dame school. Henry's sister Martha skated by with Lem Wainwright. The pretty pair pa.s.sed Rachel Dudley, newly arrived, who stood watching with her children Winthrop and Anne. As yet, all three seemed uncertain about what to do with their rare holiday. Considering what he knew of their daily lives, Longfellow was sure they richly deserved a reprieve.

It occurred to him that this winter scene resembled a Flemish village he'd enjoyed while on a visit to the Continent-one painted by the Elder Brueghel, who'd lived two centuries before. Not a great deal seemed to have changed, though Richard believed his own countrymen to be more sober and attractive than old Peter's peasants. Yet to be fair, he had to take into account some of the least fastidious members of the village-for instance, Jack Pennywort and his friends.

Where was Jack? Hadn't word reached him of an exciting tale awaiting his perusal, offering him employment? Longfellow patted his pocket to make sure he still had the wretched book, then looked back along the road. He could see several figures climbing the long slope-and there was the pair he sought, one weaving, one with a foot dragging a little behind. Longfellow presumed d.i.c.k Craft had tested the cold that morning, and had then taken several nips before venturing out. At least he would make some honest effort on the ice, if pocket silver performed its usual magic. After that, Longfellow supposed, d.i.c.k and his club-footed companion would enjoy the evening hours the more, on returning as usual to Phineas Wise's snug tavern across the river.

Deciding their approach would take some time, Richard ambled over to a trio of older men who sat beside the blazing fire, deep in conversation with a lad.

"What is the news today, gentlemen?" Longfellow asked, bowing generously to age.

"Nothing of great interest, sir," Thaddeus Flint a.s.sured him. A regular patron of the Blue Boar, he'd come up early with a friend named Tyndall, long known as Tinder. Between this quail-like pair sat another elder of somewhat smaller stomach, though he had a chest shaped like a barrel. Jonah Bigelow gave a gap-toothed grin. He attempted to stand so that he might return the courtesy of one of their selectmen, newly reelected. The effort caused him to wheeze, and he sat down again. The ancient complaint in his lungs was one well known to the village; none grew alarmed, nor did they think to ask particularly after his health. Still, it seemed to Longfellow that Jonah Bigelow's grandson, who stood listening, gave a worried look at his grandsire.

"Are we to have music, Ned?" Longfellow asked, eying a battered wooden box at the young man's feet. This sat next to an open canvas seed bag from which peeped a wooden handle, and a brown scarf with white snowflakes. He realized the latter was Mrs. Willett's work, for he'd watched her knit it the year before.

"Music it shall be, sir, if my fingers cooperate." With a slow smile sometimes called charming, sometimes roguish, and often enough both, Ned bent to open the box's bra.s.s latch. Inside, on well-rubbed velvet, lay a softly glowing violin, and a horsehair bow. He lifted both, and set the instrument against his chin and shoulder. His knowing fingers drew the bow slowly across the strings. The resulting tone caught the attention of many; after a curious pause, pleased voices and laughter arose.

"Music," Longfellow commented, "is useful in lifting both heart and load-as I believe Hesiod once remarked, did he not, Ned?" He smiled as he received a rivulet of joyous notes in reply.

Ned now began to bend and saw in earnest, producing a popular tune. For the amus.e.m.e.nt of those near the fire and to return feeling to his toes, Mr. Tinder got on his feet and jigged about. He was joined for a moment in a jesting gavotte by Mr. Flint; Jonah Bigelow slapped his knees and cried out his approval until a fit of coughing stopped him. Then all three, quite winded, resumed their neat row, like so many kegs on a tavern shelf.

Turning to leave, Longfellow caught sight of something in the snow. He stooped to retrieve it. Moments earlier, it seemed, a shilling had been dropped.

"I a.s.sume this belongs to one of you?" he asked. Their response was curious. Each stared at the thing, and then back to his inquiring face. They next glanced furtively toward one another.

"Come, now-it must belong to one of you?" he tried again.

"I came out with none today, sir," said Tinder, "thinking I'd not need money." Mr. Flint nodded absently as he dug around in his coat for his long clay pipe, which he finally pulled out. Jonah Bigelow seemed to take refuge in a cough, while Ned tuned his fiddle.

"Well, then," said Longfellow, "I'll give it to Mr. Rowe, for the poor box." He put the shilling into his coat pocket.

"A good idea, sir," said Tinder.

"Thankee, sir," said Jonah Bigelow, for no apparent reason.

Another friend now sought Longfellow's attention, this one using an insistent nose. This greeting from Orpheus led Richard to suspect Charlotte would not be far away. He patted the dog's head, and went to where Charlotte stood at a trestle table, holding a plate containing crusted wedges of cheese from her dairy. Richard waited patiently while she exchanged greetings with old Sarah Proctor, a tall, officious matron he knew to have a tough crust of her own. Standing by Sarah was her frequent companion and devoted follower, twittering Jemima Hurd, today covered by a vivid cape of Scots plaid.

When he supposed his neighbor had heard enough, Longfellow went closer, and pulled her away. The others quietly withdrew to their own business, though they remained, perhaps, close enough to listen.

"How goes the morning?" he asked.

"Hannah and I are baking. You may try our maple rolls in a few more hours."

"Good. The high clouds increase, and I suspect the wind has something new in it. This morning, too, my barometer began to drop. I don't believe our work could have waited another day," he decided, gazing to the sky.

"Then since we are are here, everything is as it should be." here, everything is as it should be."

"As much as it ever is," he returned.

"Have you brought Diana?"

Longfellow looked back toward the knoll that rose between their houses. "My sister has gone to visit Charles Douglas, on the hill. I doubt it will help her, though walking may do some good. My advice was to join us later. We'll see if she humors me."

"Mr. Longfellow!" A cry announced the arrival of Jonathan Pratt. The rotund landlord walked before a sled pulled by Tim the message boy. Peeping out from a swathe of blankets was a familiar metal urn, sure to be filled with sweet tea. A few steps behind, Rebecca, the cook's daughter, carried a frosted raisin cake.

Tim and Jonathan lifted the urn to the planks of a table; Rebecca increased the opening in the wrappings, to expose a spigot.

A commotion arose as the men on the ice put down their tools and came for a warming mug. Most were soon taught to select what was best-usually that made by the hands of each fair instructor. In the midst of all this, Ned Bigelow played on, a trio of dogs revolving around his feet.

"Where do the wagons go now?" Jonathan Pratt asked Longfellow, after the two had stepped back to make room for others.

"This next load will go to you. A good many, it seems, are already wagering away the silver we'll be giving them for the day's work."

"Well, John Dudley would have taken most of it anyway," said the landlord, not without reason. Longfellow, who had no love for the new constable responsible for collecting taxes, let out a groan. Jonathan grinned his agreement, and went on.

"Come June, I suppose I'll be repaid one way or another. Then our local friends, like my stopping guests, always begin to drool for ices and frozen creams, which they'll find some way to pay for."

June was also the time when fresh meat in storage rooms became foul from the heat, Longfellow knew. He'd certainly noticed a stink coming from Jonathan's when he first moved into his house, across the road from the inn. Since the smell seemed to bring on the summer flux, he'd then decided to encourage the use of ice, hoping to protect the entire village.

While the two men continued to converse, Charlotte moved off to speak with Lem, who stood next to Alexander G.o.dwin. Seeing them close in some private discussion, she stopped and waited. Today, Alex wore a round hat with a fringe of striped grouse feathers. His coat, though now unfashionable, was elegantly tailored. Its long doubled sleeves and huge b.u.t.tons marked it as an old one, and she wondered if it had once been the property of John Fisher. This took her thoughts back to Boar Island. Shivering, she looked to the sun, noticing that it had lost some of its earlier strength.

She finally walked closer to the two youths, and began to make out hot words, delivered in snarls and harsh whispers.

"Not if you know what's good for you, you won't, G.o.dwin!" Lem said to the fat boy.

"And if I do?" came a quick answer. "You'll beat beat me, I suppose?" It was said with a sneer. Alex rightly imagined he had little reason, at the moment, to fear a blatant attack. me, I suppose?" It was said with a sneer. Alex rightly imagined he had little reason, at the moment, to fear a blatant attack.

"See if I don't!" Lem growled, his voice betraying rising fury.

"Then you are both both going to be sorry." Alex took a step forward, his hands clenched into threatening fists. "Give me any more trouble, and I'll gladly tell the whole world that you-" going to be sorry." Alex took a step forward, his hands clenched into threatening fists. "Give me any more trouble, and I'll gladly tell the whole world that you-"

He had no chance to finish, for Lem gave him a shove that knocked the wind from his body.

In a few moments more they circled one another. Then they came together in what might have seemed, from a distance, to be a clasp of friendship. Yet Charlotte could see sharp blows were being delivered, as first one and then the other took a turn. Both tried to hide what they were up to, but it was no good-Sarah Proctor and Jemima Hurd turned shocked faces.

Martha Sloan hurried forward, her cardinal cloak flying, her displeasure apparent. Fearing what might come next, Charlotte interrupted the young men herself.

"Good day, Mr. G.o.dwin!" she called out loudly. They stopped, exchanged a few more words in threatening undertones, and took several steps apart. Lem stooped to retrieve his hair ribbon, while Alex turned to pant and glower.

"I've been hoping we'd find a chance to speak," Charlotte said more gently.

"Then I'm sorry, madam! For I am off to write something down, as I should have done before." before."

Why, she asked herself, did she suddenly think the same? Wasn't there something she, too, had meant to write down, and remember?

"Could we talk later?" she asked. "When you have a moment to spare? You'll return this afternoon?"

"I most certainly will," G.o.dwin a.s.sured her with a fresh sneer. "And then, I will have something for Mr. Longfellow! Good day to you, madam," he said, touching his hat to her, giving no sign to Lem or to Martha Sloan as he stalked away.

Mattie stood at Lem's shoulder, her pale blue eyes snapping, though she somehow managed to hold her tongue.

"I see," said Charlotte, breaking the charged silence, "that you've given Henry his chance on the ice-and this year, he's learned to stop himself before charging into others. An accomplishment to be proud of."

"Agreed," Lem answered, addressing her thoughts rather than her exact words. "Yet sometimes, a man man has no choice." has no choice."

"Lem Wainwright," Martha exploded, "what could be lost in one turn with him, out on the ice?" He looked at her in some confusion.

"Nothing, I suppose," he finally answered. "Was it what you wanted, Mattie?"

"No-but just how should I have refused? You'd already gone off to prove you skate better than I do. Didn't you? Didn't you?" Didn't you?"

"What if I did?"

The girl turned her face to the sky, her lips pressed tightly together.

"Well," said Lem at last, "there's nothing to be done about any of it now, I suppose. And all that skating has made me hungry."

"Go on, then, and try my suet cakes. My sisters may say I made them for you, but we all know how fond of them my father is." my father is."

Imagining they must have further words meant only for one another, Charlotte turned away to examine ideas of her own. The exchange she'd heard earlier had been a curious one; she wondered just what Alex G.o.dwin had suggested. She also asked herself if Lem would one day come to real blows with his apparent rival, or with any other. She hoped not, though lately she'd seen his capacity for anger grow with the rest of him. So, too, did his pride.

They would both both be sorry, Alex had said. Did he also threaten to make Mattie suffer? For what? And what good would it do to write his thoughts down for Richard Longfellow, instead of telling her father, or even Hannah? Was Alex about to make a bid to court Mattie himself? Or did he feel, perhaps, that she had led him on, only to make Lem burn with jealousy? If that had been the case, she'd apparently succeeded! Hardly an official matter, but such were the games, Charlotte recalled uneasily, that often occupied young men and women whose lives were still unsettled. be sorry, Alex had said. Did he also threaten to make Mattie suffer? For what? And what good would it do to write his thoughts down for Richard Longfellow, instead of telling her father, or even Hannah? Was Alex about to make a bid to court Mattie himself? Or did he feel, perhaps, that she had led him on, only to make Lem burn with jealousy? If that had been the case, she'd apparently succeeded! Hardly an official matter, but such were the games, Charlotte recalled uneasily, that often occupied young men and women whose lives were still unsettled.

She wished she'd been able to ask Alex about the spoon she'd found beneath the dock, below the house he often visited. Later, she would also ask what the two women needed most, before she chose something to repay their kindness. He might tell her more about their strange companionship, and how he'd become a part of their lives. Yet to ask would intrude on things that were no concern of hers-even if he wanted to give her answers, which she doubted.

Deciding the island would remain a mystery on many fronts, Charlotte heaved a sigh and went to join Richard Longfellow. She found him still with Jonathan, discussing the state of the roads from Worcester and Concord, and the highway that led to Boston. But she soon discovered an even better reason to go back up the hill. Along the well-trampled track came a man she preferred to avoid.

In dark woolen leggings and a black great coat, Christian Rowe sidled toward the ice pond in his usual disjointed manner, watching for anything amiss. Charlotte feared he might resume his peculiar attempts to please her with unctuous praise, unnecessary advice, and comfort, the last aimed at her lengthening term of widowhood. These things she found even more unpleasant than his previous disapproval, which had been bad enough.

She made a sign to Longfellow. In a moment, he and Jonathan saw what she did. Then the little party dissolved, as each hurried off in a different direction, seeking some distant occupation.

Chapter 7.

WITH A LONG wooden paddle, Hannah Sloan finished pulling a row of brown loaves from the deep oven next to the hearth. Her face was damp and red, her linen sleeves pulled up to reveal the strength of her broad arms. She turned with the loaves, and slid them off onto a cooling board. This accomplished, she set the paddle down and went to re-latch the oven door. wooden paddle, Hannah Sloan finished pulling a row of brown loaves from the deep oven next to the hearth. Her face was damp and red, her linen sleeves pulled up to reveal the strength of her broad arms. She turned with the loaves, and slid them off onto a cooling board. This accomplished, she set the paddle down and went to re-latch the oven door.

"How warm it is!" said Charlotte happily, closing the door to the outside.

"It is, indeed!" said Hannah, with quite a different perspective on the matter. She wiped her brow and considered the state of her younger friend. Charlotte suspected Hannah had come to think of her as almost a part of her own family-it was not surprising, since they'd worked together for many seasons, taking care of the Howard farm. "You must be nearly frozen," Hannah scolded. "And those boots will only hold the cold."

Knowing it was true, Charlotte sat and removed them, and put on softer house shoes.

"Is anything worth hearing about going on down there?" Hannah asked.

"The usual." Charlotte had already decided to keep to herself Lem's heated words with Alex G.o.dwin, and Mattie's part in the fracas. No doubt the girl's mother would learn of it soon enough.

"The first loaves were good; these, I think, are better. Now the oven feels nearly right for rolls."

Charlotte looked to the pan she'd filled earlier-bread dough smoothed thin, covered with a generous layer of b.u.t.ter, maple sugar, nuts, and cinnamon. She'd rolled it up, cut the soft log into small pieces, and placed these into a pan. They'd doubled in size.

"They'll be gobbled up in no time," Hannah predicted.

"But what is is it I've forgotten?" Charlotte murmured to herself. "I can't help feeling there's something." it I've forgotten?" Charlotte murmured to herself. "I can't help feeling there's something."

"Didn't you mean to start a stew?"

"Oh, yes. But still-" She went toward the cellar door. Another question from Hannah stopped her.

"That reminds me-the spoon there, on the table. That isn't one you've bought for yourself recently?"

"No. I'll tell you an interesting story-"

"I've been asking myself if it might be one of those gone missing."

"Missing?..."

"Stolen, it's said, from Rachel Dudley. Though it's hard to believe, when you consider her husband's constable this year. Why he he was ever elected-" was ever elected-"

"Stolen! When, Hannah?"

"Rachel couldn't say. They've always been kept in a cupboard, locked up tight-her one small security, too valuable to use. You know the Dudleys are often in straits. But it would take some persuading to get Rachel to sell them. That set of spoons was the one fine thing given to her by her mother on her wedding day."

"What does her husband say?"

"John Dudley claims to know nothing, and says there's little he can do about it! Given the fact that he's often in his cups-my Samuel sees him drinking often enough at the Blue Boar-it's hard to say what what could have happened." could have happened."

"But you do think this is one of Rachel's spoons?" Charlotte picked it up.

"Emily Bowers told me yesterday each had a flower etched onto its bowl. There was also said to be a guild mark, and that of a London maker, like what you see there."

"Locked in a cupboard, but loved... which might explain why it was recently polished. That surprised me, when I found it."

"Where?"

"Beneath a landing. On Boar Island."

"What on earth were you doing there?" there?"

"I went skating yesterday afternoon," Charlotte returned mildly. Her heart, however, began to beat quickly.

"Ah, my joints ache just to think of it... did you decide you'd climb up and have a chat with the two old women?" Hannah asked with growing disbelief.