Lilac Spring Page 9

  He had a classic profile and lean cheeks. Although he was usually serious, she could always tell when something sparked his humor. The amusement was evident in the deep-set gray eyes long before it reached his lips.

  He was smiling now as he faced Annalise in the boat. Cherish could just imagine his teasing tone as he coaxed a response from her. His arms bent forward and back as he rowed them far out into the lake. What solicitude when he helped her bait her hook and cast her line! Cherish’s pencil lead snapped against her tablet.

  “Did it break?” Warren’s soft voice intruded. She glanced up to see him looking at her in concern.

  “Yes. Careless of me. I pushed it too hard,” she replied tersely.

  “Here, let me whittle a new point for you,” he offered.

  “No, thank you. I have a spare pencil.” She set down her sketching pad. “I don’t think I’ll do any more right now.”

  “May I?” Warren asked, reaching for her pad. “That’s very good.”

  “It’s just a rough sketch,” she answered hastily.

  A sudden shout of laughter drew her attention back to one of the other skiffs. She saw it jostling back and forth as one of the occupants landed a fish.

  “They seem to be having a good time,” she said.

  “What did you catch there?” Warren called over. “An old boot?”

  “Don’t you wish!” a voice shouted back as the fisherman held up a good-sized trout from his line.

  “We’ll have to redouble our efforts,” Warren told the other boaters. “They’re one ahead of us now.”

  After that Cherish decided to try her hand at fishing, as well. When she landed a trout, she felt vindicated. She held it up to Silas across the water when he caught one, too. They used to go fishing together, long ago.

  By midafternoon they had beached their craft on the crescent of sandy beach where the Townsends had a “camp,” the name for their sizable summer cottage.

  Warren grasped Cherish briefly by the waist and swung her ashore to prevent her getting her feet wet. She turned in time to see Silas rendering the same service to Annalise.

  “I shall put you in charge of the ladies,” Warren told her with a smile. “You can collect some kindling.”

  Cherish gathered her skirts, saying over her shoulder, “Come, ladies, let’s get this task under way. Annalise, why don’t you show us the way? Are there any footpaths?”

  “Yes, over here.”

  When they returned with armloads of fallen sticks, the men had the trout cleaned. “That’s just what we need.” Warren walked over to Cherish and relieved her of the wood.

  Soon they had a fire going. Cherish, hoping to show off her new culinary skills, joined Warren to cook the trout, but he refused her help. “This is a man’s affair,” he told her with a chuckle. “Fishing, cleaning our catch, cooking over an open fire on the beach.”

  “Oh-ho, is that so?” she answered with a laugh. He really was a nice person, she thought, looking up at his smiling face. Some woman would be blessed to have his affections. “And what are we supposed to do in the meantime? I warn you, we’ve developed quite a hunger all morning.” She glanced at Silas, who was crouched by the fire, feeding it twigs.

  “You have nothing to fear. I’ve done this many times. You’ll have the crispiest trout you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Crisp, I hope, doesn’t mean burned.”

  “Oh, Cherish, you wound me,” he said. As he spoke he was busy setting a frying pan on the fire and sticking a hunk of lard in it. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He left Silas in charge of the fire and took one of his friends with him to unpack the hamper they had brought.

  As they set the table, Cherish made an effort to get to know the other young ladies. She stole another look at Silas, who hadn’t addressed her once during their outing. He stood talking with Warren and another gentleman as they watched Warren roll the fish in flour and place it in the hot fat.

  Cherish felt tears prick her eyes. What had happened to her closeness with Silas? Didn’t he care at all about her anymore? Oh, Lord, help me to understand. I know I must trust You in this, but…but…it just seems…

  “Your father has a lot of plans for the lumber mill,” Silas said to Warren. The aroma of the frying trout filled the air.

  Warren smiled at him over the smoke from the hot fire. “Yes, he no sooner completes one venture than he comes up with a new one.”

  He flipped a trout expertly with the spatula. The fish sizzled and spattered as the flour hit the grease. “The latest is to build some schooners to handle the lumber we anticipate coming through the mill. He seemed pretty impressed with some of your ideas last night. You were explaining something about using a deeper centerboard.”

  “Yes, I think it would have the stability of the keel and yet carry more cargo than the current centerboard models.”

  “If what you’re saying proves true, it would be ideal for the coastal trade the three-masted schooners now handle. It would be just what Father needs for the trade he envisions.”

  Silas didn’t say anything. He knew his idea would work, but he wasn’t used to selling his ideas to anyone. His glance strayed to Cherish, who was making herself useful as usual with a cheery demeanor among the women she’d just met. He marveled how at home she always seemed in any new situation. Completely unlike Annalise, who viewed her with awe.

  He could understand that feeling.

  He turned his attention back to Townsend. If he knew anything about Thomas Winslow, Cherish’s father had this man earmarked as a suitable candidate for his only daughter’s hand.

  Was that why Silas had made a deliberate effort to get to know the man to see what he was made of? To see if he was worthy of Cherish? Try as he might, Silas could find no fault with Warren Townsend. None at all.

  Why did that conclusion give him no satisfaction?

  It only left a bitter taste in his mouth, curdling the appetizing smell of frying trout to an acrid stench of smoke in his nostrils.

  The trout indeed proved delicious. Mrs. Townsend had sent along loaves of bread, pickles and salads. Seated far down the picnic table from Silas, Cherish did her best to join in the laughter and teasing of the company around her.

  After they had cleared up, one of the men, Ted, said, “Can you hike up to Dexter’s Summit from here?”

  “Yes, there’s a trail,” Warren told him, and pointed toward the woods. “It’s about an hour’s hike up.”

  “Who’s game?” Ted asked, looking around the company.

  “Oh, it sounds like what we need after all that trout,” Cherish answered immediately.

  “I don’t know,” Warren began. “It’s a rugged path, all uphill. Are you sure you ladies are up to it?”

  “Of course we are!” She looked at the other three women. All except Annalise quickly seconded her.

  Warren pulled out his pocket watch. “I don’t want to head back to Hatsfield too late. What do you think, Annalise?”

  “It is rather far,” she began.

  “Perhaps one of us could stay down here, to accompany the ladies who don’t feel up to the hike,” the other gentleman, Andrew, offered.

  The other ladies quickly scoffed at such a suggestion.

  Cherish watched Silas shift from one foot to the other. Afraid that he would volunteer to stay with Annalise, or that Warren would volunteer him, Cherish said, “Oh, come, we’re not so fainthearted, are we?” She deliberately addressed her question to Annalise. “The gentlemen didn’t let us prove our skill in the preparation of our meal. We must prove our worth in keeping up with them on the trail.” She gave the girl a sweet smile.

  She could see Annalise hesitating, glancing at her brother and back to Cherish.

  “We’ll help carry you back, Miss Townsend, if you weary,” Andrew offered, with Ted agreeing.

  Cherish saw the look in her eye, like that of someone who knows she’s trapped and has no recourse but to put the bravest face on circumstance
s and carry on with good grace. Cherish’s conscience fought with her desire to thwart Annalise’s will.

  “Very well,” Annalise said quietly.

  As Warren oversaw stowing the hampers away in the wagons, Silas wandered over to Cherish.

  “Do you really think it’s such a good idea to take a long hike after that meal, and with so many ladies present? I know you can do it, but what about the others? They’re probably not used to the activity you are.”

  “Oh, Silas, don’t be such a ninny. What’s an hour’s walk?”

  He shook his head at her, his face unsmiling. “What happens if one of these ladies twists her ankle? It’s all very well to say we’ll carry her down, but reality is quite a different matter from some fool’s romantic notion—”

  Before she had time to do more than make a face at his concerns, Warren was calling them to the hiking trail.

  Cherish breathed in the spicy scent of balsam and spruce as they trudged over the floor of dried fir needles. She tried to convince herself the day wasn’t a complete fiasco, but she had a hard time ignoring the sting of Silas’s words. He hadn’t spoken two words to her the entire time, and when he finally did, it was only to reprimand her as if she were a child.

  For the second time that day, tears threatened to spill over, and she brushed at her eyes impatiently. Why was he so concerned about Annalise’s welfare, anyway? For that was what it boiled down to, didn’t it? He didn’t care two pins for any of the rest of them. It was precious, shy Annalise Townsend who concerned him. It used to be Cherish who held that place.

  She grabbed a tree branch to help her up the path. What had begun as easy and wide soon became narrow and steep, so they had to walk in single file.

  By the time they reached the summit, the group was quiet for the most part, tired and footsore. The mid-May temperature was not yet too high, but the day was sunny and the climb had them feeling warm.

  “Oh, how breathtaking!” Cherish gazed down at the lake from the bare rock promontory Warren led her to. Down below was the lake—a flat, shiny mirror, only a portion of the vast body of water visible through the heavy forest surrounding it.

  “This was worth the climb, wouldn’t you say?” She turned to Ted, who stood on her other side.

  “I should say so! And we’re none the worse for it, are we?” He turned to the ones straggling up the trail. Last came Annalise, leaning heavily on Silas’s arm.

  “Annalise! Are you all right?” Warren asked, walking quickly toward his sister.

  “Yes, quite all right,” she answered. “It’s just that I wore these new boots.”

  Silas led her to a large rock.

  “Oh, it feels good to sit down,” she said with a sigh.

  “Why don’t you take the boots off?” Warren asked, crouching at his sister’s feet. “I can pour cool water over your feet from my canteen.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid if I take them off I’ll never get them back on again. Let me just sit here a moment.”

  Cherish’s feelings warred between irritation and compassion. This time the latter won out. She walked over to Annalise and perched on the seat beside her. “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t wearing comfortable shoes.”

  Annalise gave her a wan smile. “It’s not your fault.”

  Silas went off to stand at the edge of the promontory. Why was it every time she came near Annalise, he walked away, and every time Cherish walked away, Silas was at Annalise’s side?

  “Well, why don’t you rest them a bit and perhaps we can take the walk down more slowly?”

  “Yes, I should be fine.”

  Cherish gave her a final smile and rose. Smoothing her skirts, she walked toward the edge and came to stand near Silas.

  When he didn’t say anything, not even an “I told you so,” Cherish remained silent, as well. The last thing she wanted was to admit to him she’d been wrong. So she surveyed the scenery. After a while she was lost in it, seeing it from a painter’s eye. The camp down below was no longer visible, hidden by the dense forest, nor were any of the others she knew nestled among the trees at intervals along the lake’s edge.

  Silas’s voice interrupted her observation. “Are you satisfied with the view?”

  She couldn’t escape the sarcasm that tinged the soft tone. She ignored it. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a long trek downward, nevertheless.”

  “Since when have you become so concerned with such practicalities of life?”

  “Since I have become so closely associated with someone else’s pain.”

  “Well, perhaps you can allow another gentleman to take over from you for the second shift.”

  “You’ve become awfully callous since your return. Is that part of the European polish you gained overseas?”

  “Perhaps I learned not to need a man to prop me up in every circumstance.”

  They didn’t look at each other during the short exchange and spoke in soft tones, contemplating the tranquil scene.

  “It seems to me you’ve become very intolerant of those weaker than you.”

  “It seems to me you’ve become quite the champion of the underdog. Is that because you’ve learned to play the role to perfection yourself?”

  “You are perhaps the best judge of that.” Even though her words had meant to sting, his tone revealed nothing but calm.

  “I can only judge by what I see.” After a moment she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I can better use my European polish elsewhere.”

  When she left, Silas kept his eyes on the view below him, not revealing by a flicker of an eyelash that Cherish’s words had meant more to him than the hovering of a pesky blackfly.

  The lake’s tranquillity mocked him. He was feeling anything but tranquil inside.

  He was seething. If he had an ax in his hand right now, he would be hewing down a tree. If he had an adze, he’d be hollowing out timber. If he had but a simple chisel, he’d be hacking away at a block of wood.

  But he had nothing in his hands. He could only clench and unclench them.

  He was in polite company after all. He must control every word, every impulse until he was alone again, working with the wood.

  He only hoped his temper cooled by the time he had to turn around and face the company again, the misters and misses Townsends and Bradshaws and Belvederes, all the polite society of the town of Hatsfield, or—as Cherish would probably put it—the crème de la crème of this down east town. Weren’t these the people Winslow wanted to impress? Wasn’t that why he’d been sent on this dismal weekend in the first place?

  That evening at the Townsends’ mansion, Silas sat beside Annalise on a narrow settee as a hired band played tune after tune. He watched Cherish being twirled around by Warren and wondered how he could get so worked up over one girl he used to see as a kid sister and who clearly saw him as nothing but her father’s lackey, there to do her father’s bidding and then scorning him for it.

  He glanced over at Annalise. And here was this new girl, in whom he wasn’t the least bit interested, making cow eyes at him, as if he were some sort of hero.

  A hero was the last thing he felt like. The image of a downtrodden, servile hireling kept dancing around in his mind. Is that what he’d become in all these years of doing Mr. Winslow’s bidding, saving every penny he earned, waiting for that day when he would have enough to strike out on his own?

  Oh, God, when can I have my dream?

  Would he just grow old like Ezra and Will—mere laborers on the yard, put out to pasture the day he got too old to lift the heavy timbers?

  Had he been fooling himself all these years?

  Chapter Eight

  Cherish felt the weight of remorse beat down on her like a caulker’s mallet with each passing hour.

  Aunt Phoebe set a wicker basket at Cherish’s feet with a thump. “There you go.”

  Cherish groaned as she glanced at the pile of tightly rolled white linens. After a weekend of
pleasure, the realities of housekeeping duties had awaited her at Haven’s End. She’d spent the day before bending over a hot washtub and hanging things out on the line. Today it was over a hot stove, heating flatirons and taking them over to the ironing board to press everything that had been washed.

  “All that?” Would she get to the boat shop today at all?

  She sighed as she bent to retrieve a garment from the basket and shook it out. A man’s white shirt.

  Could it be Silas’s? She draped the damp garment over the narrow end of the ironing board and began to press the shoulders. The steam rising up from the white cotton smelled fresh and clean, embodying all the outdoor air the cloth had received the day before.

  Cherish flipped the shirt over and began pressing the broad expanse of back. Her thoughts couldn’t help going back to the weekend. By their return to Haven’s End, neither she nor Silas was speaking much to each other.

  Things hadn’t improved in the interim. She’d seen him only at dinner and supper the day before, when he’d come in and silently eaten his food, merely nodding in greeting to her.

  A scorched smell reached her nostrils.

  “You better watch what you’re doing there,” Celia commented, looking up from the pile of clothes she was folding.

  “Oh—what?” Cherish lifted the iron and looked with dismay at the singed area on the otherwise pristine white garment. She set the iron down and touched the brown part, hoping it might rub off. But no. It was burned through. Part of the cloth began to fray under her fingernail.

  “What am I going to do?” she said in dismay, feeling doubly worse for the damage she’d done. First the taunting insult and now this? Was she ever going to do anything right?

  Aunt Phoebe walked over to the table. “Learn to keep your mind on your work, for one thing.” She took the shirt up from the ironing board and eyed it critically. “It’ll have to go in the ragbag. Pity. That was one of Silas’s good shirts.”