The Glassblower (18 page)

“Nor I.” Colin faced Father. “Do you believe me, sir? And shall I tell you about the accidents in the glassworks? Nay proof there, you ken, and who else would wish to harm or discredit me?”

“Why would Joseph?” Father returned.

“Because of me.” Meg curled her fingers and squeezed for something to hold on to. “Because I insisted on being friendly with Colin and showed my preference for him over Joseph. If I didn’t insist on having everything my own way, he might not be pressuring Father over the loan money and—and—”

“Even if that were true, ‘tis no excuse for a man’s behavior,” Colin said.

“And little proof to lay against a man of Joseph’s prominence,” Father pointed out. “I won’t make accusations against him.”

Meg stared at Father. “But shouldn’t we ask him? That is, are you going to let him get away with this?”

“We don’t know he’s getting away with anything.” Father removed the glove from the tree. “Maybe he was here inspecting the damage, as we are.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Colin said, “this was here before Mr. Pyle could have gotten here.”

“Oh, uh, true.”

Now that he held the glove, Meg saw it was sodden, as though melting snow had soaked through the leather. No snow remained on the tree to drip as the sun melted it. None had remained on the tree when they arrived.

“We should at least ask him,” she pointed out.

Father turned on his heel and tramped back to the sleigh. Meg gazed after him for a moment then turned to Colin.

He gripped her hand. “We need to persuade your father to talk to Pyle, you ken.”

“Yes.” Head down, Meg followed her father, drawing Colin with her.

Father stood at the horses’ heads, stroking their gray noses and staring at the sky. “If we’re wrong,” he said as though talking to himself, “he will forget he’s given me a two-week grace period and call in the loan now. I can’t let him have the glassworks. I’ve worked too hard for it.” He faced Colin. “And you know as soon as he is the owner, he’ll dismiss you to get you away from Meg.”

“Aye, I ken.” Colin’s face paled against the vivid red of his hair. “My faith has been lacking in a number of areas in my life, mostly that I haven’t trusted the Lord to take care of my family, insisting I do it all myself. But how can I see my family in comfort here in America, giving them the grand futures, when Meg’s future as that man’s wife looks to be one of misery? I’ll risk losing my position here and return to Scotland before I see Meg married to that man.”

“Colin, no.” Meg clasped his hand between both of hers. “No, you can’t do that. I want your family here and you to keep your position.”

“Aye, you want.” Colin smiled at her. “But is that what the Lord wants? Or are we to trust Him to show us a different plan, one that is different from what we’re thinking?”

Meg started to speak, then she clamped her lips together. Colin was right. If Joseph continued to go around causing damage to property when people thwarted his will, he might end up harming a person.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll do what you wish, Father.”

“And I also, sir.”

“It’s a risk that could hurt all of us,” Father said. “But it’s one we have to take.”

“Is it faith or foolishness?” Father asked the question as he entered the house.

They were the first words he’d spoken since leaving the school. They paused at the glassworks long enough for Colin to return to work then they swept up the lane to the house. While Father took the horses to the stable, Meg ran inside to warm herself by the fire and prepare hot tea. She told Ilse to go home, that she would see to their meals.

Now Father stood wiping snow from his boots, rubbing his hands together, and gazing past Meg as though posing the question to someone other than her.

She chose to answer. “I’m trying to work that out, but I think it’s faith. I’ve been going my own way and not asking which way to go.”

“You had a good teacher in me, daughter.” Father came forward and hugged her. “I did the same in not asking the Lord if I should open the glassworks. I wanted to do this in memory of my father. I should have kept my promise to your mother. But Joseph offered to lend the money, so I went ahead. We’ll be profitable soon. The orders are coming in. But it’s not soon enough. Joseph will break his word to extend the contract past Christmas because you won’t agree to marry him.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about it?” Meg clung to him as she had when a small child, seeking comfort from a nightmare or skinned knee. “There’s no one else you can borrow from?”

“There is.” Father moved to the stove and held his hands to the warmth. “I approached some bankers on my last journey to Philadelphia. They didn’t want to take the risk, but I have orders I can show them. Joseph would be a fool to get rid of Grassick, but he will out of spite.”

“Because I pursued him.”

“I didn’t see him running away, daughter.” Father gave her a sad smile. “The two of you …”

Meg waited. Father remained silent.

She licked her dry lips. “When will we talk to Joseph?”

“Call it the weakness of my belief that the Lord will work this out according to His will,” Father said, “but I’d rather wait until I hear from the bankers.”

“And if they say no?”

Father squared his shoulders. “We will still talk to Joseph about the incidents. In the meantime, my dear, don’t let him press his suit.”

Meg squirmed. “He’ll suspect something. I can’t do this to you or Colin. I’d rather marry Joseph than see the two of you suffer.”

“It’s not your decision, Margaret.”

“But—” She bowed her head. “Yes, sir.”

She didn’t know how she would obey her father, knowing it risked his future and Colin’s.

“Go pack your things,” Father said. “I’ll go ask the Webers if you can stay with them.”

Her proximity to Colin alone would anger Joseph. Nonetheless, Meg ran upstairs and began to pack a small trunk with clothing for several days. In the kitchen again, she filled a basket with some delicacies for the Webers—a loaf of sugar, a tin of chocolate, butter, jam, and a packet of raisins. She thought for a moment then hefted in flour and spices and more dried fruits. They would bake for the Christmas Eve party, and the children could help, stealing as much dough as they liked. It was the least she could do for destroying their chance at an education.

When Father returned to collect her, she was hauling a sack of flour from the pantry. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He took the bag from her and carried it to the waiting sleigh. He returned for her trunk, and she followed him, swinging the basket. In moments Father drew the horses up before the Webers’ cottage.

The Webers ran out to greet Meg and her father, Ilse and Hans along with their three children, who ranged in age from six to fourteen. Neat and clean and smiling, the children seized the food and insisted they carry it into the house for Meg.

“Do you enjoy baking, Gretta?” she asked the eldest.

She nodded, her blond braids flopping against her shoulders. “Yes, I always help Momma.”

“I don’t bake.” Hans, the youngest and only boy, wrinkled his nose. “I only eat because I’m going to be a glassblower.”

If the glassworks still existed.

Meg determined to make things work out for the sake of these children, too.

“You can eat as much as your momma says you can.” Meg resisted the urge to hug him, and she returned to the yard to bid her father farewell. “God be with you and the bankers,” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head and climbed aboard the sleigh. “I’ll leave the horses at the inn and take the next stage.”

He clucked his tongue and snapped the reins. The horses trotted forward. The sleigh swept around the corner and disappeared.

Meg pressed her folded arms to her belly to minimize the emptiness inside. “Lord, what is the right answer? I want to know now.”

No answer came to her, so she returned to the house and plunged into baking preparations. Martha Dalbow joined them later in the day, and the time flew by. As occupied as she was, Meg kept glancing out the windows, hoping for a glimpse of Colin, fearing a sight of Joseph. She saw neither of them. Hans Weber said Colin was working late at the glassworks.

“He will be all the week.” Mr. Weber shook his head. “That young man works too hard. He needs a pretty wife to come home to like I do.”

Ilse laughed and blushed, and the emptiness inside Meg grew. This kind of love was what she wanted. She saw it in them, in Martha and Thad, in Sarah and Peter. She doubted she would find it with Joseph. His actions, even if he were not guilty of cutting the tree and destroying Colin’s work, assured her that her first impression stood solid. What she would say to him upon their next meeting, she didn’t know.

Late the following afternoon she needed to find out. He rode up to the Webers’ front door shortly after dinner. Meg saw him through the parlor window and grabbed her cloak off a hook in the kitchen before running to answer his knock.

“Don’t go anywhere with him,” Ilse insisted.

“I won’t.” Meg opened the door and stepped onto the stoop, shutting herself outside. “How are you, Joseph?”

“I’m well.” He eyed her up and down. “You have flour on your hem.”

“I wasn’t expecting a guest.” She shook out her skirt, sending some of the flour onto his shining boots. “May I assist you with something?”

“Why are you here, and where is your father?” He delivered the questions like a volley of gunfire.

“Father is away, so I’m staying here.”

“I should have been told.”

“Why?”

“I’m your affianced husband.”

Meg wrapped her cloak more tightly around her shoulders against the brisk wind. “No, you’re not.” She made herself look into his eyes. “Nor will you be until we have made the impending marriage official.”

“Which is right now. If your father is so irresponsible he runs off and leaves you in the protection of these people”—he sneered at the simple, whitewashed cottage—”then you need to be allied with my name for the sake of your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Meg drew herself up to her full height. “No one in this county is more respectable than Ilse and Hans Weber. My reputation is likely safer with them than with you.”

“Indeed.” Joseph smiled, and his eyes glowed with such a cold blue light that Meg felt as though he shoved an icicle through her chest. “You don’t understand, Margaret. I can destroy your father and that Scot you fancy. If I can’t have you as my wife, I will have the glassworks as my business, and all these good people you think so highly of for no good reason will be out of work. They’ll be on the roads and so will you.”

“No.” Meg flattened her hands against the door behind her for support. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You’ll have no choice unless it’s to marry me.”

“Why?” She cried out in desperation. “Why do you want to marry me so much that you’d destroy others’ lives?”

Joseph shrugged. “Because I want what I want. You’re the prettiest and most loved girl in the county. The best. I must have the best.”

Meg stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m not the best, Joseph. I’m selfish and self-centered and want—”

She caught her breath. With her words seeming to ring around the yard like the gate bell, she heard them again and again and realized how close to Joseph’s words they sounded.
I want … I want
…

“We can talk again after Father returns.” She turned the door handle.

Joseph caught her wrist. “You will not walk away from me until I say you can.”

“You have no right to tell me to stay here.” She struggled to free herself.

His grip tightened. “When you’re my wife or I own the glassworks—”

“Stop it.” Meg wrenched her hand free and pounded her fist on the door. “I will never be your wife, and you will never own the glassworks, once Father hears of this.”

“You’d prefer your father lose everything for the sake of your delicate sensibilities?” Joseph laughed. “That won’t get you very far when you’re homeless.”

“We won’t be homeless once the bank—” Meg slapped her hand across her lips—too late. She’d let the cat out of the bag.

Colin nodded to Louis, the senior apprentice who usually helped him. “This is the last of the purple bowls we’ll be making for this order if you’d like to go to your supper.”

“Not if you’re going to stay and work, sir.” Louis, young, fair, and eager to please, hovered near Colin’s bench. “We still have the purple silica if you’d like to finish that set of goblets. I was counting them, and with the twelve at the Jordan house, you only have three to go.”

Colin had made several of Meg’s goblets on Monday out of pique that she insisted she was responsible for fixing everything. Other than carrying her off to one of the states he’d heard about, where couples could marry without any sort of notice—rather like Scotland’s own Gretna Green—he didn’t know how else to stop her, except to pray for the truth to come forth and the situation to resolve. Even if that meant he was wrong and Joseph Pyle was a decent, if somewhat greedy, man, Colin wanted the best for Meg.

Finishing the goblets felt like defeat, as though he had given in—or up. Yet his practical side told him not to let the already-heated purple glass go to waste and have to be reheated at another time.