A Difficult Boy (24 page)

Ethan's eyes widened. “What happens if they're not?”

“Then they have to go back to where they're from. The overseers of the poor didn't want to pay anybody to take care of Paddy. They said he would have to go to the poorhouse in Springfield, because he was there first, when his father worked on the canals in Cabotville. But the overseers in Springfield said he was from Ireland, and that's where he'd have to go.” Silas began to attack what remained of the brambles with his bare hands.

“All the way back to Ireland?” Ethan shuddered, recalling Daniel's description of the months he'd spent in the reeking, lurching, dark belly of a ship.

“But he didn't know or couldn't remember where he came from or if he had any family there. Still, they were going to send him anyway. I suppose they thought his passage was cheaper than having him on the town until he could earn his keep. You see, He could have let the overseers of the poor send Paddy away and have done with him. But He said Paddy could stay with us, and He worked out an indenture for him with the overseers, even though it would cost
Him
money in the end, since He'll have to give Paddy his wages when he's finished his service.”

At least Daniel would get to keep his wages, Ethan thought. From what he understood of his own bond, he wouldn't even see his wages, since Pa would have to hand the money back to Mr. Lyman to pay his debt to the storekeeper. Ethan doubted there would be anything left over.

Silas continued, “He said it was the least He could do for the boy, even though He got nothing from the town or anyone for it.”

The way Silas put it, it made Mr. Lyman sound compassionate and generous. But if he were all that generous, couldn't he have just made Daniel part of his family without any indenture at all? Ethan wondered. It seemed as though Mr. Lyman couldn't even be charitable—if indeed, Daniel's bond could be called charity—without imposing a legal obligation on the other person, with papers to be signed and prices to be agreed upon.

Ethan squeezed the brick hard, the rough parts biting into his skin. “But—but—”

“If He hated Paddy, He wouldn't have done that, would He?”

“But he beats him!” Ethan blurted. “He says Daniel's a thief and a liar, and all sorts of other things.”

Silas shook his head. “He's only doing His best to raise Paddy not to be any of those things, just the way He did with me. Just the way He's doing with you.”

“Do you think Daniel's a thief and a liar?”

Silas frowned, pondering the question so long that Ethan thought he wouldn't answer it. “He's never cheated me out of a fair day's work. But things go on that I don't know about, I imagine.” Silas nodded, as if settling something inside his head. “Paddy's a difficult boy.”

“So Mr. Lyman's right to hit him, then?”
To hit us
, Ethan added in his head, but he pretended he asked only for Daniel's sake.

“He knows His business.” Silas's face began to close up. He wiped his hands on his trousers, his fingers now peppered with scratches from the briars.

Ethan guessed the conversation would be over soon. But he had to ask one more question. “But
you
don't hit Daniel.” He knew it was true, even though he'd never asked. Daniel never drooped his head and hid his eyes in front of Silas. There was something about the way Daniel and Silas spoke—not quite as friends, but not as antagonists, either. “If it's right, why don't you hit Daniel, too?”

“He knows His business,” he repeated. “And I know mine.” Silas shouldered his hoe and turned away from the scrubby little lilac bush and the remains of Daniel's house. When they reached the road, he hesitated, turning to look back toward the house site, though it was now hidden behind the little hill.

“He must miss them awfully,” Ethan said softly, thinking of Daniel and his family.

“Awfully,” Silas repeated, his voice distant and strained. “Yes, I'm sure he does.”

“They were all Papists, weren't they?”

Silas blinked hard, as if Ethan had just woken him from a dream. “They were Catholics, yes.”

“Is it true what Mr. Merriwether says about Papists, that they're heathens and idolatrous and all that? That they're not even Christians? Do you think it's true that people like them go to hell?”

Silas held up a hand against Ethan's cascade of questions. “What I think isn't going to make a difference whether somebody's saved or not.”

Ethan chewed his lip. “It doesn't seem fair, that somebody would go to hell just for belonging to the wrong church.”

“They seemed like decent people,” Silas said.

It didn't matter, though, did it? Ethan thought. That's what the minister said. Being decent didn't count for anything if you believed the wrong things. He felt heartsick for Daniel's family. But Daniel, he could still be saved. Was that what Mr. Lyman meant? “What about Daniel? Will he go to hell?”

Silas's face hardened, as if he'd drawn a set of shutters closed against something. For a moment he looked almost as old as his father. “There's worse things a boy can have on his soul than belonging to the wrong church.”

“Why do I have to take my tea in the kitchen?” Ruth said, plucking at Lizzie's apron.

Lizzie swirled the last bit of icing onto an enormous cake. “Because Mrs. Lyman's having company.” She turned to the fireplace to dip some water from the massive hot-water pot into the teakettle.

Ruth trailed after, one hand tugging Lizzie's skirt. “But Florella and Zeloda get to have their tea in the big parlor.”

“Florella and Zeloda are almost grown.” Lizzie gently maneuvered Ruth away from the steaming water. She scooped some coals onto the hearth and set a trivet on top of them.

“Paddy's bigger'n both of 'em. But he has to have his tea out here.”

“That's different.” Lizzie set the teakettle on the trivet to steep.

“Why?” Ruth trotted after Lizzie as she headed to the buttery to fetch some cream.

Lizzie rolled her eyes at Ethan and Daniel. Freshly scrubbed and combed, the boys stood in the doorway, waiting for her orders. Ethan pressed his lips together to smother a grin over Ruth's endless string of
why
s. He didn't think Lizzie would welcome his smile. Her face was damp and flushed from the frenzy of cleaning and dusting and sweeping and polishing and cooking that Mrs. Lyman had imposed on all
the girls. She brushed impatiently at the tendrils of hair that crept out from her cap, its wilting ruffle flopping over her forehead.

Daniel stooped so that his eyes were level with Ruth's. “Lizzie's needing your help with the baby. And you're better at that than your sisters, ain't you, now?”

Ruth's eyes grew wide. “Really?”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows at Daniel, then turned an inquisitive glance toward Ethan. He shrugged. He didn't think he'd ever heard Daniel talk to Ruth before. Most of the time, the Lyman children and Daniel ignored each other.

Lizzie collected herself as Ruth looked to her for confirmation. “Of course. You're such a big help to me all the time, Ruth.”

Ruth beamed, stretching herself to stand a full half inch taller. She strutted over to Aaron, who babbled and kicked in his high chair. The two stared at each other solemnly for a moment. Then Aaron emitted a smell that filled the kitchen. Ruth backed away, her lower lip working into a pout.

“Anyway,” Lizzie added hastily, “you can have your own chair in here. And so can Ethan.”

Ruth stuck a finger in her mouth. “But I like sitting on Silas's lap. Can he have tea with us?”

“Maybe you ought to'a stopped talking while you were ahead, eh, Lizzie?” Daniel teased.

Lizzie frowned, although her eyes recaptured some of their usual twinkle as she stepped past the boys into the cool dimness of the buttery. “And maybe
you
ought to fetch some chairs.”

Daniel bowed low, like a character from his fat little book of Shakespeare plays, then spun away.

“What's got into him?” Lizzie whispered to Ethan. A cloud of flies rose as she lifted the cloth covering one of the milk pans and skimmed some cream into a little pitcher. “He
never—I mean . . . well, I could swear he smiled.”

Ethan shook his head, trying to puzzle it out. Part of it, he supposed, was that Daniel had managed to sneak in a brief, secret ride just before milking. The joy of it had stayed on his face all the way through milking, turning the cattle out to pasture, and returning to the house to wash up for tea. But Ethan couldn't tell Lizzie that. Instead, he said, “I think he's glad to have his tea in the kitchen.”

Ethan was glad, too. Being exiled from Mrs. Lyman's company meant he'd have a chair to sit in to enjoy the treats that Lizzie and the girls had slaved over all day: orange fool and lemon pudding and syllabub and jumbles and white gingerbread and other things that smelled tantalizingly of cinnamon and nutmeg and mace and cream and raisins and brandy.

“No.” Lizzie waved away the hopeful flies that hovered by the milk pan. “There's more to it than that.” She draped the cloth over the pan and tugged it down around the edges. “Something different about him. It's like he's . . . not changed, but chang
ing
. Just this spring, it seems he's been, well, not as sour as he used to be. Haven't you noticed—” She laughed and stopped herself. “Of course you wouldn't. You don't know what he was like before you came.” Her eyes narrowed at Ethan, then she shook her head. “Perhaps it's just Paddy growing up.”

Lizzie'd seen it, too, then: something different about Daniel, the way he held himself, the way he set his face. Something that showed more and more as spring worked its way into summer. Ethan pursed his mouth, trying to figure it out as he followed Lizzie back into the kitchen. But the answer wouldn't come. “Maybe he's just glad he won't have to listen to Mr. Pease's jokes,” Ethan said.

“Hmmm.” Lizzie set the pitcher of cream on a tray already laden with puddings and cakes. “Well, Mr. Pease hasn't been
invited for tea. Nor Mr. Wheeler, either. Mr. Lyman wants only one young gentleman at the table.”

“Why?” Ruth asked.

Lizzie's lips pressed into a thin line.

Footsteps thudded down the back stairway, and Silas burst into the kitchen. “Lizzie! My collar won't stand. And look!” He flapped the ends of his cravat. “I can't get them even.” He was decked out in his finest burgundy vest and black tailcoat, freshly brushed. His cheeks were pink from his recent shave, and a little dab of soapsuds lingered by his left ear. One corner of his starched collar stood properly at attention along his jawline. The other sagged like a wilted flower.

Lizzie's shoulders drooped momentarily, then squared as she stepped toward Silas. She wiped away the soap with a corner of her apron and tugged at the wayward collar. “Of course it won't stand. You've got it all wet.” Her mouth couldn't seem to decide whether to smile or to frown.

“I'll have to change, then.” Silas turned toward the stairs, then spun back, shaking his head. “No, there's no time. They'll be here any minute.”

Something nudged Ethan's elbow. He turned to see Daniel standing nearby, a chair in each hand. He set the chairs down quietly and retreated to a corner of the kitchen, nodding at Ethan to join him.

“Here, let me see.” Lizzie snapped the cravat off Silas's neck and fiddled with the edges of his collar. She creased and straightened it, then made several wraps with the cravat high around Silas's throat so that it forced the collar into its proper place. Silas had to hold his chin high, but the collar behaved. The result looked very elegant and very uncomfortable.

“Make sure you tie it good and tight,” Daniel said.

Ethan stifled a giggle. Though Silas looked as though he wasn't listening, his ears reddened.

Lizzie's lips gathered in an unruly pucker. For a moment, Ethan thought she might stick her tongue out at Daniel. Instead, she sighed and gave Silas's cravat a final tug. “There. It'll stay up fine once it dries. Just don't move your head too much until then.”

Silas looked in the tiny mirror in the corner of the kitchen. “It's perfect. Lizzie, you're a wonder.”

Mrs. Lyman appeared like a thundercloud in the doorway. “Silas, no dawdling, if you please. The Smeads will be here any moment.” She swooped toward the table, captured the tray Lizzie had prepared, and swirled back toward the door.

“Yes, ma'am,” Silas said meekly, like an oversized naughty boy.

Mrs. Lyman rustled into the formal parlor, which she and the girls had spent the afternoon preparing with a starched white tablecloth and napkins, flowers from the garden, and the best dishware and silver.

Silas rolled his eyes at Lizzie. Their mouths and noses wrinkled in a shared snicker. “Lizzie, no dawdling, if you please,” he mimicked. He crooked his elbow toward Lizzie to escort her into the parlor.

Lizzie shook her head and backed away, wiping her hands on her apron. “I can't—”

Silas's forehead creased. “But you always take tea with us, Lizzie.”

Lizzie shook her head again. “Mrs. Lyman wants me to mind the children.”

Silas glanced around the room. He seemed to expect help to spring magically from the teakettle or the pudding dish. “Well, um, Paddy could mind them.” He looked at Daniel, who seemed to be trying very hard not to make a sour face.

Lizzie's laugh sounded oddly brittle. “Oh, and I'm sure Paddy knows all about changing nappies and feeding babies.” She gathered a handful of her faded brown skirt. “Anyway, I can't sit to tea with the Smeads with my clothes smelling of cows and cheese and dirty nappies, can I?”

Silas wrinkled his nose. “I don't smell anything.”

“It doesn't matter, Silas. I'll have my tea in the parlor tomorrow.” But it did matter. Ethan could tell from the jagged sound of Lizzie's laugh and the way she had to work at making her mouth smile.