The Devil's Cold Dish

 

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To Laura, again. My beta reader.

 

Chapter One

When Will Rees finally arrived home, much later than he'd expected, he found his sister Caroline in the front parlor. Again. Since Rees and his wife Lydia had returned from Salem several weeks ago, Caroline visited often and always with the same demand: that Rees support her family. Almost eight years ago, in the spring of 1789 he had surrendered his farm to his sister in exchange for the care of his then eight-year-old son, David. Caroline and Sam had not only used the farm so carelessly it still wasn't as productive as it had been, they had beaten David. Treated him like a hired man instead of their nephew. Rees had sent his sister and her husband packing over two years ago, but Caroline still felt the farm should belong to her. And she was even more determined since last summer, when Rees's punch had left her husband, Sam, touched in the head.

This time she'd brought Sam with her, no doubt to impress upon Rees his culpability in Sam's disability.

“Look at him,” she was saying to Lydia when Rees paused in the doorway. “My husband has no more sense than an infant.” Although Rees did not like his sister putting pressure on his wife, his gaze went unwillingly to Sam. He was trying to catch dust motes floating through a patch of sunlight and humming quietly to himself. “I must mind him just as I would a child,” Caroline continued. “Sam can't work or help at all.” The truth of that statement sent a quiver of shame through Rees, although he knew he'd had no choice. Sam had attacked Rees and would have beaten him bloody if not stopped. “You see how he is—” Caroline gestured, her voice breaking. Rees eyed his sister. Dark rings like bruises circled her eyes, her hair was uncombed, and she looked as though she hadn't slept in weeks. Despite himself, Rees felt guilt sweep over him.

“I promised we would help you, Caro,” he said, startling both women and drawing their attention to him. “I promised and we will.” Lydia's forehead furrowed with worry when she saw his dirt-smudged clothing and the cut on his cheekbone. He acknowledged her concern with a slight nod; they would speak later.

“Finally,” Caroline said. “You disappear for weeks and even when you do return to Dugard, you don't stay home.”

“I've been home this fortnight and more,” Rees said, keeping his tone mild with an effort. “I had an errand.” He'd promised himself while still in Salem that he would try to treat his sister with more understanding and respect. But he was finding that promise almost impossible to keep. “Sometimes I suspect you come calling when you know I'm not at home.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Caroline's eyes narrowed.

“I've told you more than once your paltry help isn't enough.” Her shrill accusation rode over his measured tone. She glanced at Lydia. “I'd hoped another woman would sympathize but I've been disappointed in that as well.” Her furious countenance swung back to Rees. “Why don't you understand? I can't manage on my own. I want to bring my family here. To this farm. We can stay in the weaver's cottage. You aren't using it anymore, not since you and Lydia wed.”

Rees sighed, tired of this well-worn argument. He didn't want Caroline and her family living so close. Rees knew his sister. Caroline would expect her sister-in-law to cook and clean for her family and would order her around like she was help instead of the mistress of this farm. As if that weren't enough, Caroline would find fault with everything. Her oldest, Charlie, would help David, but the two girls were too little to work much. “We've discussed this,” he said. “You own your own farm.”

“Charlie can have that farm. Oh, why won't you help me?” Caroline wailed. “You have plenty. This farm is rich. You have sheep and cattle as well as chickens and other poultry.”

Rees could not bear to see his sister's anguished expression and looked at Lydia. She almost imperceptibly shook her head. Although a Shaker when he met her and well-used to offering charity, Lydia had no more desire to see them move in than he did. Lydia knew how difficult Caroline could be.

Caroline, catching Lydia's negative gesture, turned on her with a furious glare. “You think you've fallen into a soft bed, haven't you?” she shouted. “You greedy—”

“We'll help you bring in whatever you planted in your fields,” Rees said, his deep voice cutting off his sister's charge. Caroline sent one final scowl toward Lydia before returning her attention to her brother.

“And what would that be?” she retorted. “Sam can't work. Charlie planted only a few fields and a vegetable garden.”

“You must have hay,” Rees said. He wanted to point out that she could have put in winter wheat last fall. The wheat, once it was harvested, would have given them a bit of cash. But he elected not to repeat something he'd said several times already. “If the fields went to grass…” Haying should have been finished weeks ago but perhaps something could be salvaged.

“Will you and David bring it in?” she asked. “Maybe I could sell it. I've sold the horses and most of the livestock … well, I had to,” she said, catching Rees's expression.

“I'll help you in the garden,” Lydia volunteered.

“Most of that's been eaten,” Caroline said angrily. “It's not doing well anyway. I couldn't keep up with the weeds and now the squash has some kind of insect; the vines are withering. There isn't anything to put by for winter.”

Rees sighed. “We'll offer you what we can,” he said. “I promise you, you won't starve. I'll make sure your family always has food. But you can't live here. And that's final.”

Caroline stared at him for several seconds. Rees had the clear sense she did not believe him. “But Will,” she said, tears starting from her eyes, “what happens if it snows and you can't get to us? And my children are in rags, how will they be clothed? They won't be able to attend school.”

Rees opened his mouth, but before he spoke his wife rose from the sofa and moved to his side. With the birth of their first child two months away she moved slowly and clumsily. “We will do everything we can do for you,” she said. “Of course we don't want you and your children to live in privation.”

“But you can't move in with us,” Rees repeated.

Caroline's mouth turned down and her eyes narrowed. “You'll be sorry,” she said. “You and this—this blaspheming wife of yours. Oh yes, I've heard what debaucheries those Shakers get up to in their services.” Lydia flinched. “Come, Sam,” Caroline said, sounding as though she was calling a dog. But Sam stood up and meekly followed her from the room.

“Blaspheming?” Lydia repeated. “Debaucheries?”

Rees frowned. “Don't pay any attention to my sister,” he said. Caroline seemed to think Lydia should be ashamed of her Shaker past.

“Charlie,” Caroline shouted to her son as she ran out the front door. “Charlie. We are leaving.” Rees and Lydia followed Caroline out to the front porch and watched as she climbed into the cart. It, and the oxen Charlie used for plowing, were quite a comedown from the buggy and fine horses she'd once owned.

Charlie came out of the barn with David close behind him. Charlie was almost as tall as his cousin but his fair hair had begun darkening to brown and he had Sam's brown eyes. He wore the embarrassed and impatient expression of a boy with unreasonable parents. He and David slapped one another affectionately on the back and then he trotted rapidly toward the cart. He waved at Rees and Lydia before scrambling into the driver's seat. The battered vehicle hurtled down the drive in a cloud of dust.

“Don't feel guilty,” Lydia said, turning to her husband with a fierce glare. “We will help them as much as we're able. And remember, Will, Sam attacked you. Besides, their farm would be more productive now if he hadn't spent most of his time gambling and drinking in the Bull.” She did not say that Caroline could work harder but Rees knew she thought it. His sisters hadn't been raised to work the farm. Both Phoebe and Caroline had gone all the way through the dame school and, unlike many of their contemporaries, could read and write. Caroline fancied herself a poet and believed farmwork was beneath her. Unlike Lydia. Rees didn't know very much about her childhood and his wife avoided his questions, but he understood she had been raised in an affluent family from Boston. Still, her strong sense of duty and her years spent with the Shakers, where work was a tribute to God, had instilled in her a willingness to turn her hand to anything. Even pregnant, she'd thrown down her cooking utensils to help with the haying at the beginning of the month. And Dolly, Rees's first wife whom he had lost to illness along with the babe she carried, had loved the farm, just like David did now. David did the work gladly and although only sixteen he worked harder than most men. Thank the Lord, Rees thought now, most of the haying had been done by the time he had returned home. Of all the jobs on the farm, and Rees disliked the majority of them, he loathed haying the most.

“I'll take some of the cloth I purchased in Salem,” he said, “and add some of the homespun so she can sew clothes for the children.”

Lydia's lips twisted. “I suppose she'll want us to do that as well,” she said. And then added quickly, “That was uncharitable of me. I'm sorry.”

“Unfortunately,” Rees said, “you're probably right. Caro hates sewing too. I swear, my sister could try the patience of a saint.”

Lydia sent Rees a glance indicating she could say more if she wished. But she chose not to, instead closing the door to the parlor and preceding him down the hall to the large kitchen at the back.

Rees felt the familiar lift of his spirits as they entered. This was the room they lived in, a large room with east-facing windows and a door opening to the south. Rees's parents had added on a room to the side and a large southward-facing bedroom over it. Rees had always used that space for weaving, since the best light streamed through the windows. He and Lydia, once they'd married almost eight months ago, had chosen it as their bedchamber as well. Fifteen-month-old Joseph slept in the crib next to the bed and the other four adopted children occupied the rooms on the old side. But not David. He had moved himself into the weaver's cottage, claiming it was just for the summer. Rees suspected the boy would not return to the house even with winter. He said there was no room in the house. But while it was true the house was cramped now with five extra children, Rees thought David had moved less because of space and more because he resented these interlopers. Rees groaned involuntarily. David reacted to every perceived slight with hurt and anger, as though Rees had abandoned his son all over again. Rees sometimes wondered if David would ever forgive his father for leaving him with his aunt and uncle as a child.