The Boatman's Daughter: The Donaghue Histories, #5

By C. Jane Reid

Never trust charity. Ain't nothing ever free. 

Nan Prescott, daughter of the local drunk, works odd jobs around Metamora, Indiana, to earn their keep. Her only goal is to keep her and her pa from starving without losing their pride.

Bradley Donaghue has taken over his mother's small farm while occasionally leading mules along the Whitewater Canal towing barges. One day he hopes for his own family, but at the moment the farm comes first.

Carolina Beauregard, daughter of a prosperous southern gentleman, has moved with her parents to the small town. Her mother wants to find suitable husbands for her three daughters, but Carolina has bigger dreams. 

To fulfill them, she needs help. She sets out to win Nan's trust, offering to trade skills that they both are desperate to learn, but when the quiet and handsome Bradley shows Carolina the beauty of small-town life, will she change her plans for the future? 

Bradley still lives in the shadow of his parents. Is Carolina the one who will draw him out?

Nan yearns for a family, too, but can she find happiness in a town that looks down on her? 

The Boatman's Daughter, set in 1859 Indiana, is the fifth book in the saga of the Donaghue family. Each book follows the next generation of the family against the backdrop of the developing United States and features historical detail, strong individuals and their craftiness, and a crochet pattern by designer Laurinda Reddig.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spinning Tales Press
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393282761

C. Jane Reid

C. Jane lives in the Pacific Northwest where she loves the rain because it makes being a writer even easier with few bright, sunny days to draw her out of the house. She credits her upbringing in Indiana and her early adulthood in the West Texas Panhandle for her fascination with family history. Much like her characters, her own extended family live within a few towns (or at times only a cornfield) from each other. She spends much of her free time avoiding laundry and dishes by searching the web for interesting facts on things like how to make pawpaw jelly and the steps to loading a flintlock rifle. She loves old maps, old books, and old handcrafts. She also keeps a genealogy of all her characters but sadly hasn’t had time to work on the one for her own family. Life is funny like that. If you would like to learn more about her books and research, you can find more information on her website: www.cjanereid.com

Book preview

This book is dedicated to my late Aunt Judy Beaman. She was one of my strongest supporters and her help on this book shaped it into the story it has become. I wish I’d gotten it finished in time for her to see it.

Instead, the best I can do is to let everyone who reads it know that it wouldn’t exist without you, Aunt Judy.

Thank you. I love you.

Chapter One

FRIDAY, MARCH 25TH, 1859

Metamora, Indiana

A wet, furry shape rose from the side of the Whitewater Canal. Nan heard the familiar clicking of a muskrat.

Hello, Nan said as she knelt down on the towpath, fishing a bit of dried apple from her apron pocket. Wanting a treat? She held out the piece of apple and waited.

The muskrat pulled its round body onto the bank, head moving from side to side, its long, scaly tail still hanging over the edge.  It hesitated only a moment before ambling closer. It squeaked with each step, adding to its silly appearance, but Nan wasn’t fooled. The round ears, beady black eyes, fuzzy cheeks, and button nose might give the critter a foolish look, but if she threatened it, those sharp teeth could slice into bone. The local muskrats would fight fiercely to defend their homes and families. She admired them for it. She felt the same about her pa and their little cabin.

She tossed the bit of apple to the critter. Her pa would have spit nails to find her wasting food on what he called a damned pest, but she enjoyed watching how happy it made them to be given a treat. The second muskrat accepted the piece of apple and shoved it in its mouth to chew with squeaky pleasure.

Suddenly, the muskrat sat up, staring down the towpath the direction Nan had come. It darted with a speed surprising for its round body and disappeared over the edge of the canal.

Nan stood, looking down the path. She heard the jingle of harness and the familiar splash of water against a wooden hull.

A barge was coming.

Nan moved back into the trees to watch. She didn’t often get to watch the canallers at their work because she rarely felt welcomed in town, so her curiosity got the better of her.

She expected to see a barge loaded down with freight on its way to Cambridge City, but when the barge came into view, not only was it loaded with cargo, it carried passengers.

Four women sat on the flat roof of the barge, the slight breeze of the passing stirring the ruffles on their sleeves and skirts and tugging at their wide-brimmed hats. Nan didn’t recognize any of the women, which relieved her. She didn’t recognize the barge captain, either, a large, blond-bearded man showing all his teeth in a broad smile and wearing no hat so that the sun shone down on the pale, thinning hair of his head.

She did recognize the man driving the two bay mules that pulled the barge up the canal, and she drew back farther into the trees to be out of sight. 

Bradley Donaghue didn’t often drive mules, so Nan was surprised to see him behind the two hitched to the towline, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his fair hair mostly hidden under a battered leather hat. She hadn’t known he’d left his small farm, and that was saying something considering she worked there thrice weekly.

When had he left? She’d been at the farmhouse for her chores that past Wednesday, and she’d glimpsed him clearing the near field.

Darn her curiosity anyway. If he spotted her spying on the barge, word might get around that she was shirking her duties. She should already be at the hotel to scoop ash from the hearths. 

Thankfully, Bradley and the mules passed her without his noticing where she was hidden. She decided to stay where she was to watch the barge pass by, and then she could backtrack to the trail leading towards town. It was a longer route, but she’d avoid running into Bradley.

How far to the next lock? the barge captain called to Bradley as the barge drew even to Nan’s hiding spot. The man’s accent was thick, like he was from the south.

No others before town, Bradley called back.

Look, Father, there’s someone there, one of the women called.

Is there, you say? The man glanced from where he stood at the tiller. I don’t see anyone, Carolina.

There, in the trees. Hello! The young woman waved at Nan.

Nan’s face went red. She saw Bradley look back in her direction, his brow furrowed under the brim of his hat, but he was too mindful of the mules to be distracted for long.

Do you live here? The young woman called out the question, moving to the edge of the rooftop deck.

Do watch yourself, Carolina, the eldest of the woman called. They all shared the captain’s southern accent.

I’ll be fine, Mama. Do you live here? the young woman repeated.

Nan could duck back into the woods and ignore the woman. But Bradley had already seen her. Running now would make her look guilty and rude. She didn’t need to give the town gossips any more fuel to fire their tongues.

Annoyed with herself, Nan stepped out onto the towpath.

Do you live in Metamora? the young woman asked. The barge was sliding past, but not before Nan got a better look at the woman. She was younger than Nan first took her for, probably close to Nan’s own nineteen years. Her hair was honey brown and fell in gentle curls from under a stylish hat. She was dressed more richly than anyone Nan had ever seen. 

Her face reddened as she realized how she must look in her threadbare dress and tattered apron and shoes a size too large.

Do you live in town? the woman asked again.

Nan nodded, unwilling to speak. She was fiercely aware that they were all staring at her.

All but Bradley, but that was nothing new.

We’ll be neighbors, I expect, the young woman continued. My family, she said, gesturing to the other three women and the captain, we’re coming to live in Metamora.

So this was the family who had built the fancy new house in town. It made sense, Nan thought. A house that fancy would need a fancy family to live in it.

The barge moved steadily onward, pulled by Bradley’s team. Thankfully, it was getting too far away for the young woman to call out easily, but that didn’t seem to stop her.

You must come by to say hello! the young woman told her.

Nan didn’t attempt to answer such a foolish suggestion. Instead, she simply watched the barge slide down the canal toward the bend that would take them into Metamora.

When the barge was out of sight, Nan felt the tension ease from her shoulders. She no longer wanted to go into town and chance meeting the family on dry land, but she couldn’t shirk her work. Miss Coxen would find someone else to hire to clean out the grates if she did. She was already late.

There was no use for it. Bradley had seen her, so she might as well take the quicker route.

Sighing deeply, Nan turned toward town. She heard a squeak from the water. Two muskrats were swimming, keeping pace with her, glancing at her from time to time.

Heartened, Nan lifted her chin. The young woman would learn soon enough who Nan was and why Nan was no one to be invited over to a fancy house. Until then, Nan would go about her business like she always did, doing what work she could find to keep food on the table.

Maybe she’d look in some of the low patches near the stream on the way home for cattail shoots. The muskrats loved those. And Pa wouldn’t be so upset to find her feeding those to the muskrats as he would the dried apples.

Forcing her head high, she walked the remaining distance to Metamora.

QUAINT. THAT WAS THE only word for it. And quaint wasn’t a bad word. It was simply what the town was. Small, quaint, and in the state of Indiana. A state Carolina hadn’t learned nearly enough about before leaving Tennessee.

Why did you call out to that girl? Carolina’s mother asked her with dismay. You have no idea who that girl is. She might be an undesirable.

Carolina just managed to keep from rolling her eyes, which would have earned her an entirely different sort of scolding. An undesirable was one of the worst things a person could be in her mother’s eyes. Except being a Grayfield. That would have been much, much worse.

At least they’d left the Grayfields behind in Memphis, but Carolina doubted that would stop her mother from railing against them.

I don’t understand why we couldn’t live in Brookville, Mama complained, and not for the first time.

Viola, we talked about this, Carolina’s father told her. The opportunities are here, not in Brookville.

If you say so, Hubert. She spoke as if unconvinced. Carolina rather doubted anything would convince Mama that leaving Memphis was a wise choice.

As the barge came up to the short dock, she had a clear view of the buildings standing alongside the road across from the canal. The tallest building was Landon Dry Goods, a brick building of three stories. A smithy stood at the far end of the town, and a mill off the canal at the other. In between were a carpentry shop, a doctor’s office, a meat market in a curiously lopsided building, a grocer, a hotel, a cobbler and harness shop, and a drug store.

I think it’s perfect, her sister, Virginia, said.

You’ve said that about every small town we’ve passed through since Louisville, their youngest sister, Georgia, complained.

I can’t help it if I find small towns more appealing than the cities you and Mama fancy.

I never said I fancied them, Georgia argued hotly, but then Georgia seemed to do everything hotly. Mama believed her temper would cool after her coming-out, but Carolina rather doubted that being presented to society would make a bit of difference to Georgia’s temperament.

Do you think the whole town will turn out to greet us? Virginia asked.

Goodness, child, why ever would they do that? Mama asked in surprise.

It is a small town, after all, and we’re new here. That has to be exciting.

You must not think very highly of small-town folks if you think they have nothing better to do than to turn out when someone new comes to town, Georgia said drolly.

I think better of them than you do, Georgia, Virginia defended.

I think Georgia means that they’ll be too busy at their work, Carolina said.

I know what I meant, Carolina, Georgia snapped.

And weren’t you the one who said we’d be lucky to see a new book in six months? Virginia asked, rounding on Carolina. Or find a newspaper reporting on more than crops and livestock?

That was a statement of fact, Carolina told her, not a judgment, and one I still hold to.

We’ll get the Indiana American, Papa said as he came onto the top deck. I already made the arrangements. So don’t you fret, Carolina.

I’ve never heard of the Indiana American.

It’s out of Brookville, Papa said. And I’ll be looking into some other editions, too. Perhaps out of Indianapolis.

I do so hope the house is ready for us, Mama said as the barge bumped to a halt.

The mule driver tied up the two bay mules as Papa descended to the lower deck. Together the two men secured the barge and coiled the towline, and Papa slid back the barrier to step onto the dock.

You did a fine job driving the mules, he told the younger man. Carolina thought his name was Daniel. Or was it Douglas?

"Thank you, sir.

I appreciate you coming out to take over.

My pleasure, sir. I’ll see to the mules now, he said untying the two.

You’ve a place for them?

There’s a barn, he said, nodding toward the tidy building not far down the towpath from the dock. He led the mules there, speaking gently to them as he did.

Don’t they have a field? Georgia demanded as she followed their papa from the barge.

I’m sure they do, Papa answered airily. These folks know their business.

You should make sure, Papa, Carolina said as the man—Donald?—returned from the barn.

The girls are wondering if the mules have a field, Papa said almost apologetically to the mule driver.

Yes, they do, sir, the man answered thoughtfully. My cousin Jackson keeps them on his farm. I’ll lead them back there as soon as I’ve gotten them unharnessed and brushed. The barn is mostly for the mules coming through on the other barges.

So those stay locked away? Georgia pressed. Carolina had never known Georgia to be so driven by the welfare of working animals before. Maybe it was another sign of her contrariness.

We’ve a field outside town for them, the young man said. I’ll unload the other two now, sir.

You go right ahead.

What a fine start they were off to in their new town. Accosting their mule driver about the conditions of working mules.

Still, it was good to know they were well treated. The animals had worked hard pulling the barge.

I still don’t see why you had to send for those mules and driver, Mama said.  The others were fine. And what about that pilot you let off at Harrison? Doesn’t he work for you?

Papa wanted the chance to captain by himself, Virginia said.

Papa chuckled. There might be a bit of truth to that. But it is good to get to know these waters, he added.

These waters, Mama repeated, and if she were any less of a lady, she would have scoffed. It’s hardly the Mississippi.

This town has a good reputation, and the canal is sound, Papa said. I think we’ll do well here.

When will they finish the canal to Indianapolis? Virginia asked.

We’re going to see about that soon as we can, Papa promised.

Carolina stepped from the barge and looked across the towpath to her new hometown. There were a fair amount of townsfolk about, going into the local businesses or gathering in twos and threes along the street. Mostly women and children, she noticed, but a smattering of menfolk here and there. No one was dressed nearly as fine as her family. The locals were mostly farmers and their wives, she suspected, dressed modestly in clothing meant for labor.

She envied them. She tired of being mindful of her skirts simply to walk across the street, and forget going more than a block or two in the stiff shoes Mama had insisted she wear. They pinched at the toe and rubbed at the heel even through her stockings.

Compared to the modest clothing of the townsfolk, she felt ridiculously overdressed. How long would it take Mama to realize they were no longer in Memphis?

A man and wife dressed in finer clothing than their fellow townsfolk approached. The couple was close in age to her own parents, in their forties at the very least, and a young man near her own age trailed behind them. He was handsome and seemed to know it, grinning widely at Carolina and her sisters as he neared. He wore a dapper hat—like his father, as she supposed the older man must be—but he hadn’t donned a coat over his shirt and vest. It was a curious mixture of formal and casual that would shoot Mama’s eyebrows into the air.

Mr. Beauregard, how do you do? The man held out his hand, and Papa shook it heartily.

Just fine, Mr. Barnes, and happy to be back.

You remember my wife, Amelia Morley Barnes. And this is our son, Phillip.

Of course! Such a pleasure to see you again. This is my wife, Viola, and my daughters Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia.

What lovely young women, Mrs. Barnes exclaimed. Phillip, are they not the loveliest young women you’ve seen?

Welcome to Metamora, the son said rather than answering. He doffed his hat with a half-bow.

Carolina allowed enough of a smile across her lips to be polite. Thank you, sir.

Please, it’s Phillip.

Ah, Bradley, Mr. Barnes called to the driver, mules give you any trouble?

No, sir. Just seeing to them now, he answered as he unloaded the two mules that had been stabled aboard in the barge’s stalls.

I’ll give you a hand, Phillip offered. He accepted the lead rope to the dun mule. The driver, Bradley, Carolina now recalled, kept hold of the brown and white patched mule and led the way to the barn.

Thick as thieves, those two, Mr. Barnes said as soon as the two young men were out of earshot.

I didn’t realize your son knew how to handle a mule, Papa admitted to Mr. Barnes.

He’s picked up a thing or two spending time with Bradley, but he hasn’t got quite the knack to driving them.

It is hardly an occupation for our Phillip, Mrs. Barnes said with a stern look. Did you have a pleasant journey from Memphis? she asked Mama, her expression widening into a smile.

It was pleasant enough.

I’m sure you’re eager to rest. We should show them to their new home, Wayne.

Of course, my dear. Please follow us, and we’ll send a few of the fellows to help you unload afterward. Phillip! His bellow startled Carolina, her sisters, and Mama.

Yes? Phillip called back, looking past the mule he led.

Gather up a few of the boys as soon as those mules are stabled.

We will.

I think you’ll find this a lovely little town, Mrs. Barnes said to Mama as if Mr. Barnes hadn’t shouted down the street.

Mama responded with a weak smile.

The Barnes led them down the street. It was wide enough for a good-sized wagon, and the road was cobbled, which helped to keep their shoes dry, but Carolina’s shoes were not meant for cobblestones, and she found herself walking with mincing little steps that annoyed her.

I came here from Cincinnati, Mrs. Barnes said to Mama, and I can tell you I’d never go back. It is so refreshing living in a small town where one knows all the neighbors.

Carolina could think of half a dozen reasons why that could end in heartache or feuds, but she kept quiet.

Hubert assures me that this is the finest town east of Indianapolis, Mama said in an even tone.

Oh, it is. I know Brookville tends to draw more new folks, but here not long ago Dr. Tate came to live and opened his practice, and Mr. Sigersen started his cobbler and harness shop. And we get several barges coming through each week, often with folks stopping over.

Where do they go? Georgia asked.

On toward Connersville or Cambridge City, but they stop and see town. We have a hotel, Mrs. Barnes added to Mama, that draws quite the crowd. Finest hotel outside Indianapolis.

How far is it to Indianapolis by carriage? Mama asked.

Oh, two or three days.

Mama’s mouth tightened into a line.

It will be so lovely to have such fine young ladies as neighbors, Mrs. Barnes exclaimed. I do hope you’ll come for a visit as soon as you’re settled.

Are we neighbors? Virginia asked.

Your house is down from ours. Dr. Tate took the house next to yours. My father, Peter Morley, used to own it until he passed two years ago and my mother went to live with my sister in Indianapolis.

Peter Morley oversaw construction of the canal, Papa added for his family’s sake.

Oh, he loved this little town, Mrs. Barnes gushed. Built the house so he could return between seasons.

Most of the stores and craftsmen’s shops were situated on the main street in front of the canal, with what looked like houses on a few streets beyond. A row of larger houses stood across the canal. Carolina was surprised the town wasn’t bigger to hear Mrs. Barnes go on about it. She wondered if Mrs. Barnes had seen many other towns in her lifetime.

Doubtful. It would be too painful to leave her lovely little town.

Carolina chided herself. She was starting to sound an awful lot like Georgia.

This is our little home, Mrs. Barnes said, gesturing to a two-floor house set amid a tidy yard of white lilac and purple heather. Eight windows lined the front of the house, four top and bottom. The house was whitewashed brick with wood shutters painted red. There was no porch to speak of, and the place had a plain, utilitarian look to it that made Carolina glance in alarm at her mother.

Mama’s mouth had nearly disappeared into a thin line that was attempting to hold in the emotions overcoming her.

I adore clean lines on a building, Mrs. Barnes said. And a tidy yard. Oh, Mr. Barnes keeps a little garden in the back, and I grow cutting flowers, but I think the house should speak for itself.

It certainly has clean lines, Carolina said politely when her mother did not speak.

Mrs. Barnes beamed at her.

Dr. Tate’s home, Mr. Barnes said as they passed a smaller version of the Barnes’s home. He’s a widower, Mr. Barnes added. Lives quite alone. He’s a quiet neighbor, you’ll find.

And here is our home at last, Papa announced.

Carolina breathed a sigh of relief when their new house came into view. It had nowhere near the clean lines Mrs. Barnes boasted of in her home. It had gables, a porch wrapping two sides of the building, and the part of the house jutting out from the front at one end was lined with windows.

Mama sighed. Oh, Hubert, it is just what you promised.

Papa took Mama’s hand into his and raised it to his lips. I promised you the finest house in Franklin County, and I always keep my promises.

Yes, you do.

Come see inside, my dear.

Papa led Mama up the short set of stairs to the porch while Carolina and her sisters trailed after. Carolina didn’t miss that Mrs. Barnes made to follow until Mr. Barnes took her firmly by the arm.

They would have a frequent visitor, she suspected. Hopefully Mrs. Barnes could hold a conversation that did not revolve around the loveliness of small-town living, but she rather doubted it.

She wondered what the rest of their neighbors would be like and feared that her hopes of escaping the social stuffiness that had nearly smothered her in Memphis might not come to pass.

THEY SEEM LIKE DECENT folks, Phillip said as he leaned on the stall door, watching Bradley brush down Whiskey. The bay mule had his eyes half-closed in pleasure.

I suppose.

You don’t like them?

Bradley frowned at his friend. I barely know them, Phillip.

You spent the day with them.

No, I spent the day with Whiskey and Bourbon.

Phillip chuckled. You know how that sounds, don’t you? Did Jackson name them for that reason?

It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. Bradley patted the mule and moved to the next. Whiskey nosed him, flicking his long ears.

But you don’t expect me to believe, Phillip continued, that during this entire day, you didn’t form a single opinion about our new townsfolk?

Bradley was quiet a moment. They talk like they’re from the south.

They are from the south.

Then I guess my opinion was the right one.

He hid a smile as Phillip sighed in exaggerated frustration.

Is your mother planning a party? he asked his friend. Mrs. Morley Barnes was known for her social engagements.

When isn’t Mother planning a party? Phillip rubbed Whiskey’s ears. This time it’s a tea party. She even asked your aunt to make her new tablecloths.

Aunt Sally would be happy to teach your mother how to make her own, you know.

Oh, she’s offered, but Mother doesn’t believe a woman needs to know more than embroidery and the occasional hemming.

And yet she asks Aunt Sally to crochet her new tablecloths.

Irony is lost on Mother.

Bradley chuckled.

Seriously, Bradley, what did you think of them?

They seem nice enough. Mr. Beauregard knows boats, that’s for certain.

Does he know barges?

River barges. Canals seem newer to him, but he picked it up fast enough. Asked good questions about driving the mules, too. And he wants to meet Jackson.

Did you find out how many barges he owns?

At least three. I heard him talk to the captain of this one about it.

Speaking of, where is the captain? How long is the barge going to be tied up here?

He’s on the next barge with the first mule driver and his team.

Do you know them?

I’ve met the driver before. You’ll recognize him. He bought those two mule-jack foals off Jackson two years ago. Still has them, though they aren’t ready for the towpath yet.

The streets were bustling today, Phillip said as Bradley began rubbing down the patched mule.

I noticed that too. It’s not entirely odd for a Friday.

True. Except Fayette was here, Phillip told him

Bradley looked up. Fayette? Was Jackson with her?

I didn’t see him. Tris and Verity were with her, though.

On a Friday? Bradley asked. His cousin’s wife usually came to town on Mondays.

I imagine she wanted an early start on next week, Phillip guessed.

That’s probably what she told everyone. But Bradley knew different. Fayette would want a look at the newcomers to see who was of an age to marry, and then she’d tell the rest of the family.

Phillip seemed to share his thoughts. Do you remember when Dr. Tate moved to town this fall? He picked a good time of year to come to town. The mothers only had a few weeks to try to marry him off to a daughter before winter caught up with us. And he managed to dodge that rather nicely with the excuse of having to set up his office. He’s not the only eligible man here, either, Phillip added. And now there are three young women come to town.

Bradley froze, his gut sinking. He stared at his friend, who smiled knowingly.

You know what it’ll be like, Bradley, Phillip said. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices how unattached we are.

I know. He doubted anyone in his large family had forgotten that he was nineteen and not courting any woman. What are you going to do about it? he asked Phillip.

Watch and see who Mother picks out for me and then pick someone completely opposite.

Bradley blinked. You aren’t serious.

Phillip laughed. No. Well, not completely. What about you?

I have no idea. Hide at the farm?

They know how to find you there. And then you’ll have to put up with Nan.

Bradley straightened. I saw Nan today. She was hiding along the towpath.

Hiding? Why?

I have no idea. One of the girls spoke to her, though.

One of the Beauregard girls?

Bradley nodded.

What did she say?

She asked if Nan lived in town.

And what did Nan say.

Not much.

That’s not surprising. I suppose they’ll learn about Nan Prescott and her pa soon enough.

Bradley didn’t answer. He didn’t care to talk about Nan, even to Phillip.

Bradley?

I need to finish with these mules, he said, then lightened his tone. And aren’t you supposed to be fetching the boys?

I guess I am. You know you’re one the boys I’m to fetch, right?

I know. I’ll be out as soon as I get everyone fed here.

Take your time.

Phillip sauntered from the barn, whistling. Bradley stared at him, surprised by his carefree attitude over the whole matter.

Three young ladies new in town. Bradley could imagine what all the women in his family were going to say about that.

Chapter Two

I THOUGHT LELAND LED the service well today, Aunt Sally said as she handed out another plate heaped with food.

He’s been working on it for the last two evenings, Leland’s wife, Ruby, said with no small trace of pride.

Did he come with you today?

He’s gone with Garrett to see about the roof on Jackson’s livestock barn, Garrett’s wife, and Ruby’s twin sister, Rosie said.

I suppose Beau’s gone with them, Aunt Sally asked Flora.

Both Beau and Able, Flora answered. Is this coriander I’m tasting?

Aunt Sally smiled. I’m so pleased you noticed. Here, Bradley, take this to Coreen.

Oh, I can still fetch my own plate, Flora’s mother said, waving Bradley out of the way. She limped to the table, leaning heavily on her stout cane.

Bradley returned to his customary place near the corner of the room under the stairs as the women circled the table, filling plates for the children and themselves. Aunt Sally, as eldest amongst them, served the choicest dish, a goodly roast, to everyone.

It was the first Sunday in the new year that all the women were able to gather together. The roads had been impassable for weeks, and only one or two ladies would make the trip to the farm after the church gathering to share a late luncheon before taking out their handwork to stitch as they chatted. As soon as the weather and the roads allowed, more and more of the families came, women towing children of all ages, sometimes accompanied by husbands, more often accompanied by the dogs. Bradley had grown up amongst these women, nearly all of them related to him by blood or marriage. His mother had begun hosting the Sunday gatherings nearly as soon as they had a house to host them in.

For some reason, even though his mother had died nearly a year ago, the women still turned up each Sunday at his house, bearing food and handwork and the latest gossip.

If he were honest, he didn’t mind. The farmhouse was lonely during much of the week, and he took pains not to spend much time inside. The place still spoke in his mother’s voice with every creak and bore the touch of his mother’s hand at every corner, so Bradley spent his days in the field when there was farming to be done and in the barn when there wasn’t. It was never hard to find work to occupy himself while the sun was up, and when it began to set, he had a place at Jackson’s table with Fayette and their children and his Aunt Sally, just a short quarter mile away through the woods.

Those evenings when the weather was too foul for traveling even that quarter-mile, though—those evenings he hurried through his meal and made for his room far earlier than usual. Those evenings he’d sit in a chair by the oil lamp, a blanket wrapped around him, and he’d pull his mother’s work-basket close and crochet and allow himself to remember the days when she filled the farmhouse with warmth and laughter. He’d recall those rare times when his father lingered between his journeys, and they were a family. He’d crochet until the wick burned low and began to gutter, and then he’d put away his project, usually a cap or cowl as he preferred to work in the round, and take himself to bed to stare into the darkness.

But not on Sundays. Sundays were overflowing with family, and the house lived again.

As the meal finished, the children were chased outside to run in the fresh air. Bradley used to join them, or walk with the older boys to the stream or the fields, but lately he remained inside to help clear the dishes. The ladies gathered in the parlor afterward, where there were always more chairs than necessary the rest of the week but on Sundays every seat was filled.

Did you have a safe journey from Harrison? Aunt Ruth asked Bradley as he went to the hearth to check the coals.

Yes, ma’am. The mules did their job well.

Jackson trained them up as good as anybody could.

No trouble on the way down? Delia asked.

Patch balked at the lock again, Bradley told her. I made sure he wasn’t hitched when we came through with the barge.

The same lock?

The very same.

What will Jackson do with that mule if he keeps balking? Flora asked

Hitch him to a plow, I expect, Fayette answered her sister. They both chuckled.

Send him over here, Aunt Sally told Fayette. Bradley could use another mule for the field. Chattanooga is getting on.

How was the new family? Ruby asked the question on all their minds. He noticed the ladies shift toward him expectantly, pausing at their various stitching.

They were well.

Oh, that’s not what I mean at all, Bradley, Ruby chided.

It’s no use getting it from him, Ruby, Rosie said. But I know Fayette went into town yesterday.

I might have, Fayette said with an air of conspiracy.

Bradley relaxed on a stool near the hearth, the focus off him for the moment, and watched the women. The youngest amongst them had him by ten years, but only Coreen looked older than her years. Aunt Sally and Aunt Ruth, both nearly seventy, were still spry, with identical gray hair, though there the resemblance ended. Although Aunt Sally’s wrinkles were from contentment and Aunt Ruth’s from dismay, they both wore their widowhood with dignity. Bradley hadn’t had the chance to meet either of his uncles before their deaths, but he knew all about them as if he had. No one let those who had passed go unspoken in his mother’s house.

Well, almost no one. Father never had been good about speaking of the dead.

Delia was laughing at the way Fayette was describing how the four Beauregard women walked down the street like they were teetering on the verge of collapse. Where Aunt Sally had been like a grandmother to him, his cousin Delia had been almost a second mother. He was closest in age to her children, only a year older than Mallory and a few more years older than Richard and Scott. He got along well with all three of them, but as he’d nearly grown up with them, they could be as annoying as siblings at times. And ever since his mother had passed and his father had taken to the trails, he’d taken over the responsibility of the farm and that had changed his relationship with his cousins. They looked at him differently. He didn’t feel much different—just busier and with more to lose if he made a mistake—but they treated him like he was an adult rather than a young man not yet twenty. It was disconcerting.

Three daughters, Flora said with a knowing smile. That’ll upset the apple cart around here.

Mallory will have some competition, Ruby added.

Unless she’s set her cap at someone in particular? Rosie asked.

Wasn’t that Cole Sigersen I saw speaking to you and Mallory on Friday? Flora asked Delia.

Delia didn’t look up from her crochet, but it was easy to see her smile. It might have been.

Do we know his family history? Aunt Ruth asked.

He’s from Ohio. His family is all back in Portsmouth, and they’ve been cobblers for a couple generations.

But where is he from originally? Aunt Ruth pressed.

Oh, Aunt Ruth, we’re all Americans now, Rosie said.

It doesn’t hurt to know where we come from, Aunt Ruth told her with a sharpish tone. Sharpish tones were lost on Rosie and Ruby, however.

Delia grinned. They’re Irish.

All the women looked surprised.

I don’t suppose he’s Scots-Irish, Aunt Ruth asked.

Now that would be asking quite a bit, Delia told her.

So he’s not Presbyterian.

We haven’t seen him at the meeting house, Aunt Ruth, Fayette reminded her gently.

He goes to the Episcopal church, Delia admitted.

The ladies nodded.

Well, at least he’s not Catholic, Aunt Ruth finally conceded.

Ruby and Rosie chuckled, but Aunt Sally frowned. Now, Ruth, we don’t speak ill of others in Bea’s house. You know that.

Fine, fine.

That eldest Beauregard girl, what was her name? Flora asked her sister.

I didn’t catch it. Bradley, did you hear?

Carolina, he said, then immediately regretted it as all eyes turned toward him. And Virginia and Georgia, he added.

Rosie and Ruby laughed. Oh, that’s rich, Ruby said. Were they named after states?

What’s rich is that coming from you, Miss Ruby Redd, Aunt Ruth said crossly.

You won’t hear me argue that, Ruby told her, undeterred. And since Rosie and I had such silly names, we can’t be faulted for poking fun at others.

They’re fine names, Fayette defended.

Are you jealous you didn’t think of it first, Fayette? Rosie asked.

I’m quite pleased with the names I chose for my children, Fayette answered with a lift of her chin.

Bradley turned away to poke at the coals, hiding his expression. Her children would have something to say about that, and had, often, when their mother wasn’t around—even nine-year-old Japhet, who was starting to insist on being called Jeff.

Well, I had a look at them, too, Ruby said, and they looked like fine girls.

You should have told me you were going into town, Rosie told her sister. We could have gone in together.

Did you go?

Of course I went. I had to have a look at them.

I noticed Mrs. Foster watching from the mill, Fayette said.

Everyone was watching, Rosie told them. You’d have thought we’d never seen newcomers before.

They must think us the biggest bores, Fayette said with a frown.

Oh, I expect they don’t know what to think of us yet, Aunt Sally said without looking up from the shawl she was edging. But give it time. I’m sure one of us will make the wrong impression.

"Don’t say that,