The Work and the Glory Page 15

  Across the room her aunt was on the sofa, working on a needlepoint cushion for one of the sitting room chairs. Her uncle was in the next room at the table, supposedly doing the books for the farm, but he had fallen asleep, his head on his chest, mouth partly open, snoring softly. As Lydia straightened, her aunt gave her a sharp look.

  Lydia noted it and smiled, moving over to sit next to her favorite relative. So unlike her mother, Aunt Bea was easygoing, quick to smile, filled with gentle patience and wisdom. Lydia reached out and took her hand. “What was that look for?” she whispered, not wanting to awaken her uncle.

  “What look?”

  Lydia laughed softly, not fooled. “Come on, Aunt Bea.”

  She looked at her niece sharply. “Sometimes the forbidden fruit is the sweetest on the tree.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened in surprise. “What does that mean?”

  “Your father is not going to look upon a dockworker as the ideal beau for his only daughter.”

  “Oh.” So her aunt had already heard.

  She went back to her needlework, fingers flying. “If your pa finds out…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  For a moment Lydia was tempted to brush it aside with a quick laugh, but it hit too close to her own concerns. “I know,” she finally murmured.

  Aunt Bea put her sewing aside. “And there’s something kind of exciting about knowin’ he will be furious with you for encouraging this Joshua Steed on, isn’t there?”

  Lydia was caught off guard. “It’s not that, Aunt Bea. I—”

  “Isn’t it? You be honest with yourself, child.”

  Lydia leaned back, closing her eyes. Joshua was tall, and she found the combination of his rugged handsomeness and his bold manner exciting. But she had to admit there was something a little bit titillating about knowing her father—and especially her mother!—would highly disapprove of her relationship with Joshua Steed. Not that she didn’t love her parents. She did, sometimes fiercely. But they were so…She sought for a good word. Traditional. Yes, traditional. They were so set on having her do things as they saw fit. Sitting in the parlor with your hands folded in your lap as you sipped tea from the china service. A proper courtship, a socially acceptable marriage.

  “Don’t ever forget the folly of perversity.”

  Lydia opened her eyes, startled by her aunt’s statement. She raised one eyebrow, questioning.

  “Sometimes we do things just to be perverse. Not because we enjoy it. Not because it’s right. But just for the sheer joy of being perverse. But it’s folly, pure foolishness.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, Aunt Bea.”

  She smiled and patted Lydia on the hand. “I’m not sure of what I’m trying to say either, dear. Don’t pay any attention to an old lady’s ramblin’s.”

  Lydia smiled, knowing her aunt never rambled. “Well,” she said, standing, “I’ve got to be up early if I’m going to get the store straightened before Mother and Father return on Saturday. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  She reached down and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “Good night, Aunt Bea.”

  “Good night, Lydia.”

  As she started up the stairs, her aunt called to her again. She turned. “Yes?”

  “Did you know the brother is your age?”

  Lydia looked at her sharply. “What brother?”

  “Joshua’s brother. Nathan.”

  “Oh.”

  Her aunt looked up, her face full of innocence. “Seems like a nice boy. Doesn’t have the fires of rebellion burning inside him that his brother seems to have.”

  Lydia frowned at the accuracy of the assessment about Joshua, then smiled fondly. “Good night, Aunt Bea.”

  She turned and went up the stairs, thinking about Joshua Steed. And as she stood before the mirror brushing out her hair, she found her thoughts turning to Nathan Steed. She thought about his gentleness, the way he had of saying some-thing with almost a droll somberness that would instantly make her laugh. Without thinking, she began to sing softly as she counted the brush strokes.

  In London city where I once did dwell,

  There was a fair maid dwellin’.

  Made every youth cry, “Well-a-day.”

  Her name was Barbara Allen.

  Erie Canal, Palmyra

  Chapter Eight

  If a village of less than five thousand could be said to have an unsavory part of town, for Palmyra it would certainly have been that portion of the village which paralleled the Erie Canal. Barely a block north of the more sedate Main Street, Canal Street was almost like another country butted up against Palmyra. Each had its own distinct citizenry, its own set of mores and traditions, even its own language—that of Canal Street being considerably more profane than that of the rest of the village.

  With such close proximity, it was difficult for the more respectable residents of Palmyra to totally ignore Canal Street and its denizens, but they did their best. Merchants and farmers had to go to the docks frequently to keep the flow of commerce moving, but they went only when required, and they rarely lingered once the transactions were complete. Women of any reputation at all totally avoided it, would blanch at the prospects of intermingling with the canawlers, the mule skinners, the dockworkers, and the bawdy women who served them. More than one child had his bottom warmed for heeding the siren call of such a forbidden and fascinating world.

  This was not a place of picket fences, green lawns, or neatly tended gardens. The alleyways and fence lines were lined with trash, blown along with the dust whenever the wind blew. Empty lots were littered with shards of rope, shattered crates, or even an occasional wagon box or broken wheel. The street itself was filled with the droppings from hundreds of ox, horse, and mule teams, filling the hot summer air with stench, breeding flies by the thousands, and making it imperative to step carefully.

  And yet this evening, just at dusk, Lydia McBride was heading for Canal Street. In her hand she clutched Joshua’s handwritten directions on how to find the Erie Warehouse Company. She was coming back into the village from the east. Even with her natural daring she had not had the courage to cross directly over to Canal Street from her home—a matter of a hundred yards or less. Her parents were at a dinner social sponsored by the Palmyra Merchants Association and had given her permission to stay overnight at the home of her best friend, Elizabeth Ann Rowley. Elizabeth Ann’s mother was in Ithaca awaiting the birth of a new grandchild, and her father was at the same meeting as Lydia’s parents. Elizabeth Ann, coconspirator in the evening’s plan, watched wide-eyed, half shocked, half envious, as Lydia exchanged the white shawl she wore for a dark one, put aside the parasol and gloves, and stuffed her long hair up under a drab-looking bonnet that shadowed her face.

  With a whispered thanks and a promise to be back before nine, Lydia had set out, continuing east on Main Street until she left the last of the village houses behind. Only then did she turn north and cut across the open fields to the canal and start back toward the main section of town. But as she approached the banks of the canal she gave a start. There was still enough light in the western sky to see by, and about twenty or twenty-five yards ahead a strange apparition appeared.

  She stopped dead, peering at the figure, trying to push down the instant rush of fear. There was a fleeting impression of some gigantic, two-legged spider, tall as a man, coming toward her. Then in a flood of relief, she realized she had come upon Abner Jenkin’s “ropewalk.” The last building on the east end of Canal Street was the Finger Lakes Hemp Company. But that was merely the warehouse. The actual making of the rope was done on the ropewalk, a path stretching almost a quarter of a mile eastward, out of the way of the traffic of the village. What Lydia saw now was the “rope spinner.” And as she looked more closely, she could see it was Abel Jenkins, Abner’s teenage son. “Ninety percent legs and ten percent freckles,” her father had once described Abel Jenkins, and that was what had startled her. The rope spinner moved slowly along the ropewalk, drawi
ng hemp fibers from a large bundle of fibers wrapped loosely around his waist. He would twist the fibers into long, thin cords. It was the bundle of fibers that had looked like the hairy body of a spider, and Abel’s gangly legs only added to the impression.

  Lydia veered to the left to avoid him. A few yards behind Abel she could see another figure, and assumed it was his father. The rope spinner was always followed by another person who would weave the cords together to form the thick rope which was so important to the canal boat traffic. But the last thing Lydia wanted right now was to meet someone who knew her. And both Abner and his son came in the store often. She averted her face and hurried on, feeling the boy’s curious stare on her back.

  As she entered the main section of Canal Street, she slowed her step, staying close to the buildings so as to stay out of sight of any curious eyes that might look in this direction from Main Street. In a moment the smell of the street almost overwhelmed her, and she groped in her purse for a handkerchief and held it to her nose. She was the only woman in sight, and the curious looks or brazen stares of the men she passed frightened her a little. But she also felt a rush of excitement to be in this part of the village again. She had not been here since the canal had been finished two years earlier, and the rush of commerce had drastically changed its nature.

  At the corner of Market Street she stopped and held Joshua’s note up to the last of the fading light. Go to Market Street, then two buildings more. Enter the narrow alley there, go back about fifty paces, and enter the door on the left marked “Erie Warehouse Company.” It would be unlocked for her.

  As she took a breath and started to turn, she saw three men approaching. They slowed their step as they saw her. One leered hungrily at her, and again she felt a quick stab of fear. Then the other mumbled something. There was a burst of laughter and they passed on. Suddenly any exhilaration she felt was gone, and the foolishness of what she was doing hit her. And with it came a sudden burst of irritation that Joshua would ask that she venture into this part of town on her own. Just last week the Wayne Sentinel had reported that a wheat broker from Syracuse had been knifed and nearly killed. Joshua had brushed that aside, pointing out that the man had been down by the docks after midnight, for heaven only knew what reason. Joshua assured her that as long as she came before dark there was no reason to be nervous.

  When Lydia had told Joshua she would be free this night, he had told her of his problem. The night watchman at the warehouse was sick and Joshua could earn another twenty-five cents a day by sleeping there after his regular twelve-hour shift. There was no way he could leave, but why couldn’t she come to see him? She shuddered a little. Canal Street was bad enough. To be in a building, unescorted, with a man was something else. To have those two unthinkables combined. If her parents ever found out…

  She frowned, chiding herself. No one had made her come. And she was honest enough to admit it was partly the very daring required which had prompted her to accept Joshua’s invitation. Angry at her own hesitation, she thrust her handkerchief back into her purse, took a deep breath, breathing through her mouth, and moved on. In a moment she came to the alley. It was a narrow passageway between clapboard warehouses two stories high. The alley was in almost total darkness, and the smell of urine and something long dead assaulted her nostrils.

  She chewed at her lip as she stared down the darkened passage, then peered at the instructions one more time. One part of her whispered with some insistence that if she had one lick of good sense she would bolt back the way she had come. Another voice jeered at her, reminding her that Joshua would know why she had not come. He had an uncanny ability to cut through any subterfuge, and she knew he would laugh quietly at her timidity.

  Behind her, a man came around a corner. He was smoking a cigar and carried some kind of bag slung over his shoulder. In the semi-darkness he looked big and foreboding. Lydia made her decision. Gulping in a quick breath of air, she plunged into the foul smell of the alley. She walked quickly, fighting the rising panic, wanting to dart a look back over her shoulder. What if the man chose to follow her? Or what if Joshua weren’t at the door? Her breath exploded from her lungs, and as she drew in another, she nearly gagged. The stench was overpowering.

  There was the door! She nearly flew to it, and knocked sharply, fighting back the overwhelming desire to batter at it with her fists. It opened almost instantly and Joshua was there, standing large and strong in the doorway. Never had there been a more welcome sight. She fought back the panic, fought back the overpowering temptation to throw herself into his arms. She smiled demurely, then curtsied slightly. “Hello, Joshua.”

  “Hello, Lydia.” He stood back, opening the door wider and bowing low as he motioned her in. The smell of wheat and flour, hemp rope and molasses was heavy on the dusty air, but after the alley it was like the breath of cherry blossoms in spring, and she breathed it in deeply.

  Joshua shut the door and secured it with a cross beam. He turned back to her and grinned. “I about decided you weren’t coming.”

  She laughed lightly, catching her breath quickly now. “Isn’t being late part of a woman’s way?”

  He laughed with her, obviously happy she had come. A whale-oil lamp sat on a table and another burned from its holder on the wall, giving the windowless room a warm and cheerful glow.

  He pulled out a crudely made wooden stool and she sat down. He leaned back against a table built into one wall of the small office. “I know this is a bad place to have you come, but I’m glad you did.”

  “I can’t stay long, Joshua. If anyone sees me before I get back to Elizabeth Ann’s house, I’ll be in more trouble than I even want to think about.”

  He nodded. “I know, but it’s been almost two weeks since we had a chance to be together. And they found out the watch-man has tuberculosis. It could be another week or so before they find someone to take his place.”

  She nodded, studying him as he talked. He had changed noticeably in the three months since he had left his family and moved into town. Much of that was attributable to the heavy dark beard which covered the lower part of his face. Normally, Lydia didn’t care much for beards, but Joshua’s was neatly trimmed, and she found it enhanced his narrow face and prominent features, making him even more handsome than usual. He had also filled out under the rigorous demands of dock work. He was still lean through the waist, but his upper body was more muscular, his shoulders broader, his step more firm and sure.

  But the changes ran deeper than just the physical differences. When he had first come into the store the previous fall, he had still been a mostly gawky, awkward boy, fumbling for words, quick to blush. Now most of that was gone. He spoke quietly for the most part but with a surety of word and purpose. He rarely blushed anymore, a trait Lydia had watched disappear with a trace of longing. He was confident, sometimes almost brash, moving out to grasp life before it slipped through his hands. Two weeks ago he had kissed her for the first time. It was the only hesitation she had seen in him in almost a month.

  He was watching her with a sardonic grin. “And what is going through that pretty little head of yours?”

  Startled that she had gotten lost in her thoughts, she shook her head quickly. “I was just thinking how much you’ve changed since you started working here.”

  He hooted softly. “What? Turned from a man into an ape?” He hunched over, scratching under his arm pits and making grunting noises.

  She laughed.

  “That’s what the foreman here wants. Apes. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Don’t even sweat. Just keep moving them bales of cotton. Keep them bags of wheat moving onto the barges. Here comes another wagon. Up and at it you animals.” His voice had gone from light humor to heavy bitterness.

  She slowly sobered. “If you hate it that badly, why don’t you get something else?”

  He shrugged.

  “I saw where Stephen Phelps is looking for a store clerk.”

  “Yeah,” he retorted. “At half the pay I’m making.
”

  “Half the pay but twice the working conditions.”

  He shrugged. “I can take the working conditions.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice a little, though they were alone. “I send the family two dollars a month to help out. It costs me two more for room and board. The other six dollars I’m putting away.”

  That was the first Joshua had ever talked about savings, and it surprised her. “Good for you, Joshua.”

  He sat back, openly pleased with himself. “I figure a year, maybe a year and a half, and I’ll have enough to buy me a wagon and a team of my own. There’s real money to be made in the freight business.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” It occurred to Lydia that being a teamster might be fine for a man but not quite as wonderful for his wife and children, but she didn’t say anything. It pleased her that he had plans beyond the noise and filth of Canal Street.

  “Speaking of your family,” she said, “they were in the store last week.”

  He frowned a little. “Nathan too, I suppose?”

  Lydia did not miss the sudden petulance. She had mentioned Nathan once or twice in their recent conversations, and learned quickly that Joshua was jealous of any attention his younger brother paid to her. She was pleased she could shake her head. “No, just your mother and the other children.”

  What she did not add was that Nathan had come in by himself just that morning, something that was happening with increasing frequency.

  Joshua didn’t say anything.

  “They asked about you.”

  “And did you tell them everything was wonderful?”

  “Joshua,” she said softly, “why are you so bitter about this? It’s not your mother’s fault you and your father don’t get along.”

  He softened immediately. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He took a quick breath. “How were they?”

  “Melissa gets prettier every day. And blushes to the tips of her toes when I suggest it to her.”