The Secret Room - Excerpt
January 1, 1843
First of the year, and so cold overnight my boots froze to the porch floor! Not that I mean to write every day about the weather like my Grandfather Wethersfield did in his dull diary about his passage from England last century. We found out today that our neighbor, Mr. MacLeish, fell from the barn loft while pitching hay down to the animals, and has badly torn his shoulder. Dr. Corsing, the new doctor over in Claringdon, has said it may be months till he can work again. Or forever. Aunt Patience said it might be God’s penance to him for drinking whisky on the Lord’s Day. Father doesn’t know what to think. I overheard him telling Mother that he doesn’t know how he’ll get things done on his own, he’s so used to sugaring and haying and pruning with Mr. MacLeish. And shearing, come spring. Mr. MacLeish did all of our shearing, and this is a merino farm. I heard Father saying, “I think we may have to hire a man, Eliza, and that would cost a mint. We’d probably need to put him up in the spare room.” Mother didn’t like that idea a bit. “Every house needs a spare room!” she said. That’s about all I heard; I had tiptoed down the freezing hallway to listen next to their door. I know Mother would say I deserve some penance for misbehaving, but how on earth am I to learn what really goes on around here? I tried to keep a diary once before, when I was ten, but ended up abandoning it before February; besides, it didn’t say very much of interest. I am certain that I can make it to the end of the year this time, in a proper blank book, which Sam gave me last year for my twelfth birthday. Sam can be a terrible know-it-all to Janie and me—and just because he’s sixteen doesn’t mean he knows everything—but he does understand me better than most people. I wouldn’t tell him that, but I can write it here. In any case, I finally have things to write about this year! Today Kate came over for a visit, tramping across the snowdrifts between our farms, and she had news—apparently there’s a new girl in town! She’s Eleanor Worth’s cousin, a year older than us. Kate said her parents saw her in the Worths’ store, all dolled up in fancy city clothes. She’s probably horribly stuck-up. I wonder if she’ll be in school tomorrow? That’s enough for now. Winter term starts tomorrow, and I’ve just enough candle to make it upstairs. January 2, 1843 Short first day back to school! The schoolhouse certainly was drafty—thirty-five below outside, Mr. Parsons, our teacher, said. We could even see our breath by the stove. We came home early, well before dinnertime and recess, so that the Pierces and the Nearys could get back up the hill before the storm hit. We could see it coming like thick gray smoke across the Green Mountains from the east at dinnertime. My hands were so cold on the way home that I dropped the dinner pail and lost all the cake in a snowbank. Sam wasn’t too pleased. The new girl was indeed at school today, sitting next to Eleanor. Dolled up is putting it mildly. Her school-dress is trimmed with real lace, as on the Wethersfield christening gown. I imagine her Sunday best is frilled with lace as well! She wears her hair in curls, even for school. Her hand shot up in the air to answer every question Mr. Parsons asked. Saucy, Aunt Patience would say. When he asked where she came from, she said she was from Boston. “Why did Callie even come to Middleton at all?” Kate asked me at our desk. “To Vermont, in winter?” Kate and I have always sat together in school. We’ve been best friends ever since her family moved to the farm next to mine when I was five. She has bright red hair, like everyone in that clan, as Father would say, and about a million freckles. We make a funny pair, since I’m so tall, cramming my long legs up under the desk, and she’s so short that she can swing her feet if she wants to. Kate and I asked Eleanor about Callie between classes, while the older ones were busy with geography. Eleanor’s always been a friend of Kate and mine. Some of the boys make fun of her since she stammers. She hardly ever does when she’s talking to us, though—just when she’s nervous. Eleanor fiddled with her braids. “Callie’s boarding at the store with us for the term. Her mother died in a carriage accident in November, and my uncle is just too busy to take care of Callie. Her older brother, my cousin Thomas, is still in Boston, helping Uncle James with the press. It’s been just awful about Aunt Bess, but I’m glad Callie can stay here with us. I’ve always wanted a sister.” If something ever happened to Mother, I would hate leaving Sam and moving anywhere. I know you’re not supposed to hate anything, but I would, I really would. So I felt sorry for Callie, curls and all. Still, she can be trying—she says Middleton is frightfully quiet after Boston, which I think is quite stuck-up. Even if I secretly hope I can see Boston one day. She complained about not having a seamstress in town. Kate whispered to me, “Poor thing! As if she has any use for fancy frocks here!” I might have thought that, but I didn’t say it out loud! Maybe Kate is jealous of Callie? January 3, 1843 Kate’s opinion didn’t improve much today, for when we were doing math together, Callie exclaimed to Kate, “You can do fractions very well for being one of the younger girls!” At first Kate looked blank, and then we looked at each other, both realizing that Callie thought Kate was much younger as she’s so much shorter than the rest of us—especially compared to me. “I’m the same age you are!” Kate exclaimed furiously to Callie, her face as red as her hair. Callie looked surprised and then blushed. I could tell she felt embarrassed, and that she didn’t mean it, but Kate glared at her. Eleanor, always a peacemaker, smoothed things over, and we all sat together at lunch, but Kate’s definitely got her dander up, as Grandmother would say. She even said after lunch, “Well, it’s my turn to fill the stove. I don’t imagine Callie will take her turn—she might get soot on that lace!” Callie had gone to the outhouse, but Eleanor heard Kate, and looked upset. Who knows how next week will go… January 4, 1843 When the snow came yesterday in the late afternoon we were ready for it. Father and I patched a hole in the roof above the guest-bed just in time, the hole from where a heavy branch hit the ell of the house during the ice storm the other week. I held nails. Father said we must keep the spare room in good shape, since a hired boy will come this spring. I don’t like that idea much; we’ve such a big family as it is. There are already so many boys around. I know Father needs the help, though, with Mr. MacLeish hurt. Still, Father has been secretive about whom he would hire. “Can Seth come, Father?” I asked. Seth is my favorite cousin. He’s always making us laugh, and brings his fiddle when he visits. “Well, perhaps. I have some other ideas,” Father said. I wonder what that means! January 5, 1843 This is my fifth entry. That’s farther than my last diary ever went! This afternoon, Kate came over to knit. I hate knitting, but Aunt Patience says I must learn some lady-like tasks, and I’ll put up with it if I’m with Kate. We got tired of it, though, and Aunt Patience got angry when she found the two of us playing cards in the spare room. Kate and I had borrowed a deck from Eleanor. Aunt Patience threw them in the kitchen stove downstairs, and now we’ll have to buy Eleanor a new pack with the nickel that was in my Christmas stocking. How mad Kate was! She was about to say something to Aunt Patience, but I elbowed her. Kate told me that Miranda Neary wants to have a Valentine decorating party early next month for the girls in school, even the younger girls like us. Miranda is the age of our older brothers. “What boy do you think she’s after?” I asked Kate. “Well,” Kate told me, “I asked her the same thing, and she blushed!” I suppose Miranda will have her choice of beaux; she’s very pretty, with her thick, curly hair all done up, and she’s very determined. Miranda’s sixteen—she might be able to think about young men, but Father and Mr. MacLeish would probably lock Kate and me up in the chicken coop until the year we’re supposed to finish school if we mentioned such a thing. Then Kate said, “Miranda told me she was inviting Callie—I can’t see why she has to.” “She’s being kind to Eleanor,” I replied. “Besides, I think Callie seems nice.” Kate tossed her red curls off her shoulders and shrugged. “You can be friends with her if you want to,” was all she said. Well, maybe I will be! January 11, 1843 Nearly a week gone! I’ll resolve to write more. We put in our orders for seeds today at the store in town. Father let me get extra sweet peas and some pinks for my corner of the kitchen garden. It seems so long since last August! I’d give anything to be able to run outside barefoot now. It’s even cold where I’m sitting in the back parlor, at the opposite end from the fire. Aunt Patience gets to sit right next to the stove where it’s warm, in the rocker. As though her temper needed any warming up! But she says she deserves the stove after weaving up in the cold attic all day. I wanted to say that I’d sat in a freezing schoolhouse all day and walked home in a gale, but I bit my tongue. Tonight Father is worrying to Sam about how we’ll get through lambing without Mr. MacLeish to help. He says he can’t find a hired man in the village, and he’ll have to look further afield. I wonder what Mother will think of that, having a stranger in the house? Mother is already in bed. She’s tired, with a baby on the way. I can’t wait for a new baby in the house! Aunt Patience says I might be singing about it less when I see how many diapers there are to wash, but I don’t care. We haven’t had a new baby since Janie, and she’s six now. I hope it’s a boy, who can sleep with Sam. Janie and I are crowded enough in our room. January 16, 1843 Callie Worth has started up an Abolitionist Society at school! This should liven up the winter months. She asked me and Eleanor and Kate to join, and I pretended to know what “Abolitionist” meant, so as not to seem an ignorant country girl. Kate didn’t know either, but predictably, she rolled her eyes when Callie wasn’t looking. I guess Eleanor knows, since she said she liked the idea. A club does sound kind of stuck-up, but maybe Callie is just townish. January 18, 1843 I asked Father what “Abolitionism” meant, and he said it refers to the conviction that slavery of any man is immoral, and that its institution must be ended at all costs. When I asked him how all the cotton would get picked in the South, he said that was for the Southerners to figure out. I think he’s right—here on our farm, we do all the work ourselves. Mother certainly doesn’t have a maid to help her cook and iron, though I heard her mutter yesterday while doing all the laundry that she wants one, especially with a baby on the way. Father said, “Imagine if you were owned, Susannah, and if someone could sell you miles away at any time.” That’s just so horrible to think about—and I haven’t really, till now. It’s not as though we study much about it at school, since Mr. Parsons comes from the South. He told us that his family has slaves! I told Father that, and his eyes flashed, but he just quietly told me that Mr. Parsons is there to teach us to read and write, and so we should treat him with respect, as we would any teacher. So I suppose I’ll just have to bite my tongue and keep quiet about it. Anyhow, we’re to have meetings on Tuesdays at recess. We’ll make sure Mr. Parsons doesn’t know what we’re talking about. Today at lunch, Callie said she’s been to Quaker Abolitionist meetings in Boston. Not that we’re Quakers—we go to the Congregational church, same as everyone in Middleton—but she says that in Boston, lots of people are Quakers, and that other people go to the Abolitionist meetings, too. Quaker friends of her parents even had a runaway slave staying with them. He got a job at the shipyard. She says it’s common to see Negroes all over Boston, families even. She says some dress just like town folk. I’m excited about the club! Maybe Kate and Callie will get along with something to work on together. January 19, 1843 Kate doesn’t want to join our Abolitionist Society! She told me on our walk home from school that her father said as newcomers in this country, their family should accept America for what it is, and realize that different states have different customs. He said the North should mind its own business, and we should, too—what do we know of slavery, anyhow, and what could we do about it from up here in Vermont? I felt confused. His ideas are so different than Father’s. Then I said, “Kate, do you think he’ll even need to know what we’re talking about at recess at school?” Kate stared at me and said, “Of course I need to listen to Father.” I feel torn—part of me thinks Kate isn’t joining just so she isn’t a part of Callie’s group. Does she really believe we should accept slavery? And it feels so wrong to be joining a club without Kate. We’ve always done everything together. But Father said standing up against slavery is the right thing to do, and I think he’s right. Besides, even though Callie’s a bit of a snob, with all her airs, I’m curious to know more about Boston. Will Kate get over everything if I join Callie’s society? January 20, 1843 Sam said he talked to Mr. Sloane at his store today when he went in with Mother on Saturday, and he told Sam that he saw catamount prints up on Morris Mountain, in the spruce. That’s right behind our house! No wonder Morrie and Squirrel made such a racket, carrying on and barking last night. Sam and I really want to see a catamount ourselves, but we’re not sure whether to tell Father about what Sloane saw, or he’ll be out with his rifle, on account of the sheep. Mr. Sloane is an odd bird, as Aunt Patience would say. He’s terribly elegant with his silk cravat and perfectly combed white hair, but his language is coarse. And he’s so mean! I heard him tell one of the Pierce boys to stop being “Negro-like” and sneaking candy. Except that’s not the word he used. When I told Father about it, he said he’d quit going to Sloane’s store if he used slurs like that at the expense of men who can’t stand up for themselves without the fear of dreadful punishment. He also said I should never use such a word, so I won’t, even here in my diary. Whatever Father thinks, I feel sorry for Mr. Sloane. This past summer, the Pentoosuck rose higher than it’s ever done, and Mr. Sloane’s store is on Mill Road, right near the bank. When the rain came, his storage cellar with his goods got flooded. Father said Mr. Sloane lost a dreadful amount of money, but he’s cleaned up his store and reopened. Whenever I help with errands, I try to go sometimes to the Worths’ and sometimes to Mr. Sloane, to give him business. I wonder if our Abolitionist Society can help Mr. Sloane change his views? January 23, 1843 Callie and Eleanor had a tea for the Ladies’ division of our Abolitionist Society. Callie made fancy French cookies called Madeleines—they were delicious. I’m impressed enough that Callie can cook anything, being from the city. She said she’d share the receipt, and her eyes got teary when she said her mother taught her how to make them. I didn’t know what to say. What on earth would I do without Mother? I told the girls about Kate, and what her father said, and why she didn’t come. Callie pursed her lips together and said, “Why can’t Kate make up her own mind and stand up for what’s right?” I felt like saying that it’s not fair to ask Kate to disobey her father, but then I was thinking that I’d pretty much told Kate exactly what Callie said, and I felt like a hypocrite, and while I was thinking, Miranda said, “Why don’t we have a society to help another cause? My mother said we could do a lot more with a Temperance Society, to get some of the ne’er-do-wells in town to stop drinking." I thought that was quite a good idea, but Callie pulled a long face, and she said, “That’s not the point. I’m sure fighting drink is a good cause, but slavery is horrible. Thousands and thousands of people are mistreated every day, just because they’re born colored. And even up here in Vermont, we need to start somewhere. If Southerners think all of the North is against them, maybe they’ll actually think about ending it!” Then she gave us each a back copy of the Liberator to look at. That’s the Abolitionist paper her father sent from Boston. Even thumbing through, I could tell there would be a lot of pictures and stories. I was still thinking about Kate, so I said, “Callie, I really want to read the articles—may I borrow this copy and bring it home? Maybe we could all think about which society we want to have, and vote on it at school tomorrow?” Callie paused a minute, but agreed to the plan. We’ll see what happens! |
The Spare Room By Jenny Land Published by Voyage 
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P. 802-751-8802 | F 802-751-8804 | www.brigantinemedia.com | neil@brigantinemedia.com