The Glassblower Page 3

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The tour continued for a few more minutes, then Jordan led the way back to the glassworks and stopped at his desk.

  “My daughter is getting married in a few months,” he explained. “I’d like her to have some fine glassware to take to her new home. On Monday you can start working on these.” He pulled some sketches from a stack of papers on his desk.

  They were for drinking goblets, objects that required skill and experience without being difficult.

  “Aye, sir. How many and what color?”

  “Purple. I have a good supply of manganese.”

  “That’ll look grand on a dining table.”

  “I thought as much.” Jordan smiled. “Now, if you’d like to work for the two hours left to the day, I’ll have Thad show you where you’ll be working and introduce you to your assistant.”

  Jordan wove his way past furnaces and workbenches, racks of finished glass plates, and stacks of charcoal fuel to where Thad was just finishing up the first stage of a window. Thad let his assistant, a youth of fifteen or so years, carry the panel to the lehr for its gradual cooling, and he turned his attention to Colin.

  “Help him with everything he needs.” Direction given, Jordan returned to his desk.

  “He’s a generous and fair employer.” Dalbow jutted his chin in Jordan’s direction. “Better than some of the other glasshouses. What’s he have you working on?”

  “Windows, to start with.” Colin began to unpack his tools: the blowpipe, the tongs, various cutting tools. “Then I’m to make some goblets for his daughter. He wants them purple, but I’d rather be asking her what she wants for herself.”

  “Jordan doesn’t like us talking to his precious daughter, but if you can persuade him to let you discuss the glassware with her, that’s a fine idea.” Dalbow grinned. “She’s as strong-willed as she is pretty and kind, but you probably already figured that out.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Colin raised his brows. “How would I be knowing that?”

  “You’ve met her.” Now Dalbow was the one to look surprised. “At least you were talking to her outside the gate.”

  “I didn’t ken she was Jordan’s daughter.” He felt a twist in his middle that she had avoided telling him of her parentage, after knowing he worked for her father. “She’s a bonnie wee thing.”

  “The most eligible female in the county, now that Sarah Thompson is engaged. That is”—Dalbow grimaced—”as long as the interested party owns land. For any tradesman it’s as much as his job is worth to speak to her without permission.”

  “But I always help with dinner.” Meg frowned at Ilse Weber, the housekeeper, wife to one of the glassblowers and surrogate mother to Meg since her mother’s death seven years earlier. “No one expects you to cook and serve.”

  “It’s what Mr. Jordan told me.” Ilse spoke in a musical cadence, her lips curved in a perpetual and genuine smile. “It’s not trouble to let you be extra pretty for your guest.” Her smile broadened. “Especially not when it’s such a fine gentleman.”

  “Mr. Pyle.” Meg’s stomach felt as though she’d swallowed a lump of underbaked bread dough. “I’d rather you sat at the table and let me do all the work.”

  “Now, Miss Margaret.” Ilse laughed. “Mr. Pyle is the most eligible bachelor in the county. He could be dining with any number of girls, but he comes here.”

  “Because his farm adjoins ours.” Meg sighed. “He and Father want it to be the biggest farm in the county.”

  “You shouldn’t talk to me about these things.” Gently spoken, the scold nonetheless hit its mark.

  Meg apologized immediately. “I’d better go change my gown.”

  Feet still dragging, she climbed the steps to her bedchamber on the second floor. It was one of five bedrooms and overlooked a garden on the side of the house away from the glassworks. Most of the time she didn’t smell the smoke from the factory. Beyond the garden, her view gave her a vista of trees and fields, bare now after the harvest, and, seeming to protrude through the branches of a massive oak, one of Joseph Pyle’s chimneys.

  One of the chimneys. Unlike the Jordan house, which boasted four, Mr. Pyle’s dwelling possessed seven, as he had even more rooms.

  Meg thought having so many rooms for an unmarried man was silly. But she didn’t want to be the lady who made the huge, nearly empty building a home. She wanted to get married, just not to him. Or anyone else she’d met since she’d been of courting age. The difficulty was, she’d known all the eligible men since she was a child. If they were her age, they’d pulled her hair and played games with her. If they were older, they seemed like her father’s friends and just too dull.

  Father, however, insisted she wed soon. He wanted grandchildren before he was too old to enjoy them. He wanted a son.

  Mr. Pyle made a perfect son. He turned to Father for guidance on business and other matters since his own parents died when he was Meg’s age. A union between the two families, what was left of them, made sense even to Meg.

  “But I want someone I choose.” She spoke aloud as she drew a blue muslin gown over her head. “I want someone who will let me have my school and my cats and maybe a dog.” She yanked tight the ties under her bust. “Please, Lord, don’t let Father make me marry anyone I don’t want to.”

  An image of the glassblower flashed through her mind, that strong-boned face with his frame of sunset red hair. He would let her keep her school.

  He wasn’t considered eligible—alas. She may as well greet the dinner guest.

  With her dark hair brushed and pinned up so a few curls fell on either side of her face, she waited until she heard first Father arrive home then Mr. Pyle enter the front door a few minutes later. Then she waited for a few more minutes before making her descent to the parlor.

  “Margaret, there you are at last.” Father rose and came forward to lead her into the room. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at her father and then Joseph Pyle.

  He bowed and returned her affable expression, except for his eyes. They were so cold, like the bay on a clear January day: a lovely pale blue but not welcoming.

  She couldn’t help herself from comparing those icy azure eyes to eyes the color of spring grass. Eyes like emeralds with the warmth of a flame burning inside them. Eyes that belonged to a man who had stepped beyond the gates of the glassworks and, in belonging there, stepped out of her world, as her father and friends defined it.

  She had to force her smile to remain on her lips.

  “I concur with your father’s assessment, Miss Jordan,” Mr. Pyle said.

  Meg repeated “Thank you,” like a sailor’s parrot. She didn’t want to say she was pleased he could join them, as she knew she should. It seemed too close to lying.

  “I believe dinner is ready,” she said instead. “May I assist Ilse in bringing dishes to the table, Father?”

  “No no, she can manage on her own.” Father shook his head. “Joseph, why don’t you escort Margaret into the dining room.”

  “With pleasure.” Mr. Pyle strode forward and offered her his arm.

  Meg rested the mere tips of her fingers against the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead the way across the entryway and into the dining room. A fire blazed on the hearth, warming the chamber and reflecting in the ruby glasses on the table. Those glasses had come from England with her great-great-grandmother, who had sailed across the ocean to marry a man she had never met—a colonial at that—because her father had lost all his money. Meg wanted not to merely know but love the man she married.

  She released Mr. Pyle’s arm as soon as politeness allowed.

  “This is so much nicer than dining alone.” Mr. Pyle drew out Meg’s chair. “I eat in the kitchen or at a table in the parlor more than in my dining room.” He waited for Meg to seat herself, then he nudged the chair closer to the table before taking his own seat across from her and on her father’s left.

  “Company a
lways makes a meal more pleasant.” Father sat at the head of the table and nodded to Meg to direct dinner to be served.

  She knew many of the wives and daughters of the successful farmers, the ones like her father and Joseph Pyle, who could afford servants rarely lifted a finger with meal preparation or serving. Perhaps because Ilse had taught Meg about running a household after she returned from boarding school, she didn’t like the older woman waiting on her. She rang the bell then clasped her hands around the edge of the table in an effort to hold herself in place and not jump up to snatch serving bowls from the housekeeper the instant she pushed through the swinging door from kitchen to dining room.

  The aromas of roast pork and vegetables wafted along with her. Across the table Mr. Pyle’s eyes lit with pleasure, and he licked his lips.

  “The pork is fresh, not cured,” Meg told him. “And no one cooks it better than Ilse.”

  “Ach, child, you flatter me.” Ilse blushed as she set the steaming dishes on the table. “I went ahead and carved the roast in the kitchen, Mr. Jordan. This is easier, ya?”

  “Much, thank you.” Father nodded his approval. “And bread rolls?”

  “I am forgetting them.” Coloring nearly as deep a red as the goblets, Ilse scurried from the room.

  Meg bit her lip. The poor woman couldn’t carry everything at once. But she tried. In her next entrance she balanced plates of bread rolls, butter, and fresh apple slices.

  “That is everything until the sweet.” She bobbed a curtsy and scurried from the room.

  “Joseph,” Father said, “do ask the blessing.”

  Mr. Pyle prayed a brief but sincere-sounding message of thanks for the food and company. Father passed the dishes to Mr. Pyle first then Meg, admonishing her about how little she ate.

  “You were out for quite a while today, Margaret. You need to keep up your strength.”

  “This is—” Meg stopped arguing and took another spoonful of stewed carrots.

  “So where were you out to today?” Mr. Pyle asked. “Visiting Miss Thompson?”

  “No, Sarah is ill. I was visiting the school.” She turned to Father. “Now that you have a new glassblower, will I get my windows? I’d like to be able to protect the school from vandals.”

  “Vandals?” Father and Mr. Pyle said together.

  She nodded. “Someone dumped a load of soot in the middle of the floor.”

  “Disgraceful.” Mr. Pyle scowled over a forkful of roasted potatoes glistening with butter. “I’ll send two of my men over to clean it up for you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Pyle.” Instantly Meg warmed toward him. “But you needn’t go to such trouble. I can clean it.”

  “Never. It’s no trouble. They’re laborers I keep on all winter, but they haven’t much to do.” He set down his fork with the food untouched. “But do, please, call me Joseph. We are such old friends that we needn’t stand on formality.”

  “Well, um …” Meg glanced toward Father.

  “I think it quite appropriate to use Christian names.” Father gave them each a benevolent grin. “Considering you’ll be married in the spring.”

  four

  Meg buried her fingers in the pale pink velvet of Sarah’s wedding dress. The plush fabric reminded her of the furry kittens she had rescued from the rowdy boys and who now lived in the stable, adopted by a motherly feline. And inevitably thoughts of the cats reminded Meg of Colin Grassick.

  She’d seen him twice in the past week. Neither time had they been close enough to so much as exchange polite greetings. The first time she caught sight of him on the far side of the glassworks gate, he’d smiled then avoided her eyes. The second time she lifted her hand and waved. He’d nodded in response but hurried away to the door of the glasshouse.

  “The new glassblower is a fast and skilled worker,” Father had told her. “He’ll get you your windows straightaway.”

  The joy of that knowledge fell under the shadow of her father’s announcement that she would marry Joseph Pyle on April 28, the Saturday after Easter and at least a week before any planting would commence, even if the spring proved to be a warm one. She had sat at the table stunned into silence, her insides feeling punched and unable to accept food. She would rather go to bed without supper for a week, like a recalcitrant child, than comply with her father’s wishes. She had never outright disobeyed him in her life. Reaching her majority at one and twenty changed none of that. He was her father, and she lived in his household. But she couldn’t do it, simply could not marry that man.

  Not when nothing more than the sight of the near stranger, the new glassblower, made her heart skip a beat or two.

  “If you’re going to cry all over my dress,” Sarah said in a light tone, “I won’t let you help me with the embroidery.”

  “I’m not crying.” Meg blinked rapidly and dislodged a tear from her lashes. “Or not much.”

  “Don’t you like the color?” Sarah’s porcelain-perfect face glowed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be getting married in red to match my hair?”

  Meg laughed. “You’d look a fright. This pink is perfect and so soft.”

  “So expensive.” Sarah knit her brows as she bent toward the minute stitches of silver embroidery around the square neckline. “It came all the way from Paris. Daddy does spoil me.”

  Mr. Thompson could afford to spoil Sarah. He owned a large farm, as well as a lumber mill near the coast and most of the charcoal burners.

  “He loves having a girl after four boys,” Meg said with complete truth, “and he wants your wedding to stand out.”

  “I know.” The crease between Sarah’s auburn brows grew deeper. “It’s just so ostentatious when most girls get married in their Sunday best. But don’t think I’m ungrateful.” Her head shot up, and she grinned. “I’ll just have to have several parties to have an excuse to wear it.”

  “That’s right, and you’ll be going to Philadelphia with Peter several times a year.”

  “Then maybe Daddy should have brought me more fabric.” Sarah giggled.

  Meg smiled, but this special gown for Sarah’s wedding to Peter Strawn no longer made her as happy as her friend. Side by side with Sarah, she set aside the sleeve she was hemming with nearly invisible stitches. “I need a rest, or I’ll strain my eyes. Do you want me to make us some tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee would be lovely if you have some of those cookies of Ilse’s.” Sarah knotted her thread. “But I’ll come with you. You’re right about straining our eyes. It’s awfully gray today.”

  “It’s been gray for a week.” Meg led the way from the dining room, where they had spread the gown across the table, to the kitchen.

  Ilse stood at the worktable grating sugar from a fat, conical loaf. Cinnamon permeated the kitchen air, and Meg and Sarah sighed with pleasure.

  “You are like my children.” Ilse laughed. “You want coffee and cookies, I know. I have just taken them from the oven and am now grating the sugar for your coffee. Miss Meg, you run out to the springhouse and fetch the cream, but take your cloak. It’s raining.” She turned to Sarah. “You should not have come out in this weather with you being sick so recently.”

  “It wasn’t raining when I left.” Sarah looked as chagrined as a scolded child. “I’ll just have to stay until it stops.”

  “You certainly can’t take your dress out in the rain.” Meg snatched her cloak off a hook.

  A blast of icy wind hit her the instant she opened the door. Her nostrils flared, picking up the sharpness of snow amid the faint odor of charcoal from the glassworks. Cold moisture struck her face and pinged off a metal bucket by the door.

  “Sleet,” she called out and slammed the door.

  She dashed through the half frozen rain, grabbed a pitcher of cream from the springhouse, and ran back. Her feet and hands were numb by the time she slipped into the warmth of the kitchen.

  “You might need to stay all night.” Meg set the cream on the table. “It’s awful out there.”
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  “Maybe I should go home now.” Sarah stood by the door to the dining room, her posture stiff. “I could leave my dress here so it doesn’t get ruined.”

  “Of course you can leave it here. I’ll put it in one of the spare rooms, but—” Sarah narrowed her eyes at her friend. “What’s wrong?”

  “It is my fault.” Ilse twisted her hands in her apron. “I didn’t know you didn’t tell Miss Sarah that you were getting married.”

  “Oh.” Meg pressed her cold hands to her now hot cheeks. “I thought—I didn’t think—Sarah, please don’t be angry with me. You must understand—” She glanced at Ilse.

  “You’d think you would tell me something so important.” Sarah’s lower lip quivered. “We’ve been friends since we were in the cradle.”

  “Yes, but …” Meg sighed. “Let’s clear your gown off the table so we can have our snack in there by the fire.”

  Without a word Sarah spun on her heel and pushed through the swinging door.

  In silence Meg prepared a tray with coffee, cream, and sugar, while Ilse stacked several cookies on a plate. Meg nodded her thanks and carried the tray into the dining room. Sarah had packed her gown and the special embroidery threads into its canvas bag and added wood to the fire.

  “I am sorry,” Ilse murmured as she set the plate on the table.

  “It’s all right.” Meg gave the housekeeper a smile. “She’s just hurt.”

  “No, I’m not hurt.” Sarah yanked out a chair. “I’m angry.”

  “Of course you are.” Meg spoke in a soothing tone. “Then you’ll be hurt, then you’ll laugh at yourself.”

  Sarah chuckled. “You know too much about me.” She sat and reached for a cookie redolent of cinnamon and butter. “So why did you think I wouldn’t be upset about your not telling me about your getting married?”

  “Because I want it to go away.” Meg dropped onto her chair and poured them both coffee, adding large dollops of cream and pinches of sugar to both cups. “I don’t want to marry him.”