The Glassblower Read online

  “You don’t want to marry Joseph?” Sarah’s hazel eyes widened. “Why not? He’s handsome. He’s amazingly blessed in his farm, and he’s nice. If I hadn’t met Peter, I’d have set my cap for Joseph.”

  “His eyes are cold.” Meg wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, savoring the warmth seeping through the china. “And what about the school? I can’t bear the thought of other girls being away while their mothers are dying, as I was. And if I can get it started and popular in the county, even girls like I was can stay home.”

  “He’ll let you teach the children for those reasons.” Sarah laid her hand on Meg’s arm. “It’s honorable, generous work, and any man would be proud to have a wife doing something like that. Peter said he’s happy to let me help you”—her cheeks grew pink—”until we have children, of course.”

  “I don’t know if Joseph will feel that way.” Meg sipped at her coffee, reveling in the heat going down her throat. “He kept talking about how he needs a wife to make his house beautiful.”

  “Does he mean new furnishings or just by your being in it?” Sarah grinned. “I’ll say it’s you he thinks will make the house beautiful and that he’s smitten.”

  “Maybe, but he’s never acted smitten. Father’s just mentioned he thinks a match would be a fine idea.” She sighed. “For all I know, he asked Joseph to marry me.”

  Sarah laughed. “I can’t believe that. But about the school. Did you ask him if you could still teach? Have you told him how you feel about children having to go away to get educated?”

  “No, I was too shocked when Father told me about the marriage.”

  But Joseph hadn’t objected to the school when she’d talked about it, explained how she hoped that, eventually, children could get a good education and live at home. He’d offered to send men over to clean it up and had, in fact, done so. He’d even agreed not to announce their betrothal until after her school opened and had sent her a gift of oh-so-expensive cocoa.

  “I probably am being silly.” Meg reached for a cookie but didn’t eat it. “I just want to marry a man who makes me look at him like you do Peter, and who looks at me the same way. This just seems like—well, it seems like a business arrangement between my father and Joseph, not a love match.”

  “I’m sure he must love you though.” Sarah gave Meg’s arm a squeeze and returned to her coffee and cookies. “You’re so pretty and kind and good at so many things.”

  “But he doesn’t look at me like he loves me, and he talks to Father more than he does me. Besides that, I don’t love him.”

  “You’ll come to love him.”

  “But what if—” Meg gazed into her coffee. “What happens if I find someone else to love first?”

  “Margaret Jordan, you’re one and twenty and haven’t yet. What makes you think—” Sarah gasped and set down her cookie. “You have met someone else.”

  “No. That is—” Meg pushed back her chair and paced to the hearth. She shoved a few sticks onto the already merrily crackling fire. Her face felt as hot as the flames.

  “Who? When? Where?” Sarah posed the single words like sharp cracks of a whip. “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing.” Meg pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I only met him once, so I can’t have any feelings for him. But there’s something about his spirit. His eyes are warm, and he looks right at you like he’s not trying to hide anything. He—intrigues me.”

  “Is this mysterious man handsome?” Sarah sounded like someone placating a child who talked about an imaginary playmate.

  “Hmm.” Meg closed her eyes and conjured an image of Colin’s face. “I think some people would think so. He has very strong bones and beautiful green eyes and red hair.”

  “Ugh, red hair.” Sarah made exaggerated shuddering noises. “That’s a vulgar color.”

  “Yours is auburn.” Meg laughed and faced her friend. “He’s from Scotland.”

  Sarah dropped her cookie into her coffee. “The glassblower? Meg, you can’t be serious about this!”

  “Of course I’m not. A body can’t be serious after one meeting and two glances. I said he interests me.” Meg squared her shoulders. “And if he interests me more than Joseph does, how can I commit my life to another man?”

  “Because you can never commit your life to one of your father’s workers.” Sarah gave her head a shake violent enough to send a curl tumbling from its pin. “No one would approve.”

  “Why not?” Meg’s jaw hardened. “This is America. Mr. Jefferson himself said that all men are created equal.”

  “That may be true,” Sarah conceded, “but not everyone thinks that, including your father. You know he doesn’t like you being friendly with the glassmakers.”

  “Yes, I know.” Meg returned to the table, poured fresh coffee and cream into her cup, and pushed it to Sarah to replace the one now filled with a soggy cookie. “He says he doesn’t want to create resentment amongst them by showing favoritism to one and not the other. And I wish I could disagree on that head. But he’s a stranger here without any family, unlike all the other men. And I want to be friends with anyone I choose, so long as he’s a Christian of course.”

  Sarah gave her a long, contemplative look. “But what if you end up liking someone as more than a friend? Could you choose between him and your father?”

  Meg said nothing. It was a question she hoped never to have to answer.

  Colin packed the goblets in a nest of straw and lifted the box onto his shoulder. After two weeks of catching mere glimpses of Margaret Jordan, he must now meet with her face-to-face to get her approval of the goblets for her wedding chest. He would also give her the happy tidings that carpenters were installing the windows in her school that very day, windows he had created with his own craft.

  The latter news made him smile. He could imagine her joy, the way her golden brown eyes would light with joy. The former report burdened him in a way that made no sense.

  “You do not even ken the lass,” he admonished himself. “And you’ve been warned off.”

  He had also been given permission to take the first few goblets he’d created to Miss Jordan for her approval. Perhaps he was happier about the opportunity than a brief encounter called for. Nevertheless, his footfalls felt as light as the breeze stirring the bare branches of the trees as he set out for the Jordans’ house. Sunshine warmed his shoulders, and the air smelled pungent with fallen leaves and pine.

  He made short work of the quarter-mile trek through the woods and arrived at the back door of a fine, big house built of brick and stone, with several sparkling windows on each floor. Beyond the green-painted door, a woman sang a psalm of praise in a high, clear soprano. A hundred feet away, a handful of horses stood in a paddock, munching hay and a few tufts of leftover grass, and outside the adjacent stable, several black-and-white kittens cavorted and tumbled under the supervision of a charcoal- and silver-striped tabby.

  “You wee beasties look happy.” He smiled at the felines then knocked on the back door.

  The singing stopped. Footfalls tapped on the floor. The door opened, and Miss Margaret Jordan stood framed in the opening.

  Colin caught his breath. He’d thought she was a bonnie lass in the gloom of a cloudy day. With sunlight brightening her porcelain-fine features and drawing deep red lights out of her dark curls, she was even prettier than he remembered. That she wore a white apron dusted with flour over a plain blue dress added to her charm.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Grassick.” Her smile of greeting seemed as bright as the sunlight. “How good of you to call.”

  “This isn’t a call.” He sounded curt and worked to soften his tone. “I’ve come by way of business.”

  “I see.” Her gaze swept past him. “My father isn’t here. I thought he was at the glassworks.”

  “He is. He sent me over with these.” He shifted the box to both his hands, holding it in front of him like a shield. “They’re for your approval.”

  “My approval?” Her eyes danced. “
Then please come in. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thank you.”

  He thought the smell of it brewing fresh in the warm, sunny kitchen was fine, but he’d never cared for the taste.

  She laughed. “What am I thinking, offering you coffee? You probably prefer tea. I do have a bit here. Father doesn’t like it much. His father forbade them to have it in the house after the tea tax before the Revolution.”

  “Revolution, you call it?” He stepped over the threshold but went no farther.

  No one else seemed to be around, and he thought being alone with her in an empty house was too improper.

  “What do you call it?” She busied herself with a canister of tea, her back to him.

  “The unpleasantness with America.”

  She laughed as he hoped she would, the bubbling notes as pure as the song she’d been singing before he knocked.

  He set the box on the table. “Tell me if you like these—send word by way of Ilse or your father. I should be going.”

  He should be running was more like it.

  “No need.” She spooned tea into a china pot then crossed the kitchen to close the door. “Ilse is around the corner in the housekeeper’s room doing some mending. She can hear every word.”

  Colin relaxed—a bit. “But I should not stay.”

  “Of course you should. If Father sent you here to show me something for my approval, then he expects you to take the message back to the glassworks.”

  “Aye, well, probably so.” He began to extract a goblet from the straw. “They are of my making.”

  “What are they?” She left tea scattered about and dashed to his side.

  The smell of yeast and apple blossoms rose from her, aromas of new life. A new life like the one he hoped to have here in New Jersey, a life he wouldn’t have if he let himself be too friendly with this lady.

  Someone else’s lady.

  He moved to the other side of the table. “They’re glasses for you.” He lifted a goblet from the straw and set it into her hands.

  “Oh my.” Cradling the goblet in her fingers as though it were no more substantial than soap bubbles, she turned toward the window and held the glass up to the light.

  Sunshine glowed through the bowl of the glass and flashed and sparkled off the twirling stem, turning it into a shimmering amethyst. For several minutes she simply gazed at the piece, turning it, tilting it, holding it to her lips.

  Colin had thought the piece still too plain, despite his enhancements to the original design. In Margaret Jordan’s hands, it looked fit for a princess.

  Yet she stood in silence for so long his mouth went dry and sweat prickled along his upper lip. Any moment now she would turn and thrust the glass at him, tell him to return it, and inform her father it was nothing she wanted on the grand dinner table she would have with her new husband, the man who owned the biggest house in the county.

  She faced him all right, but she didn’t thrust the goblet at him. She held it out, forcing him to remove it from her fingers, brushing her smooth skin as he did so.

  “It’s—spectacular.” Awe made her voice husky. “I don’t think our glasshouse has produced anything so beautiful. Is Father going to sell them in Philadelphia shops?”

  “Not these.” Colin gave her a quizzical glance. “These are for you.”

  “For me?” She frowned. “Why would I need purple goblets?”

  “For your marriage.”

  “Oh, that.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “What nonsense. Joseph Pyle has many fine glasses all made in France. Crystal glasses. He doesn’t need me to bring more.”

  “Then you’ll be telling Mr. Jordan that, not me.”

  Colin couldn’t stop himself from continuing to stare at her. Never had he met a young lady who was so cavalier about her upcoming nuptials nor one who turned down a fine gift from her father.

  “I do the work given to me.” He added the last to keep the barrier between them.

  “And how many did Father tell you to make?”

  “A baker’s dozen in the event one breaks in years to come.”

  “Hmm.” She tapped a forefinger on her chin and gazed at the ceiling as though expecting to find some text written there.

  She remained in that pose for several moments in which the crackling fire in the stove and the snip of scissors around the corner made the only interruptions.

  Then she laughed. “Mr. Grassick, do please tell my father I would like these for my betrothal dinner party and so I will need two baker’s dozen.”

  “I’m thinking that’s not a good idea.” Colin repacked the goblet in the straw. “It will take me weeks to make that many with all the other work we have to do.”

  “Oh, I do hope it does. Many weeks.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe the end of January at the earliest?”

  “Aye, it could take that long.” Colin forced his gaze away from her alluring face.

  She was up to some trick, and he wasn’t certain he wanted to be involved. Yet Mr. Jordan had said to ask Margaret what she thought of the work before making more.

  “If she doesn’t like them,” her father had said, “we can sell them with ease.”

  He hadn’t given instructions about her reaction if she did like them. Colin would simply tell Mr. Jordan what his daughter said and work from that.

  And with every goblet he formed on the end of his pipe, he would wonder why she wanted to postpone even the announcement of her betrothal. He would wish she wanted the work hastened. A lady promised to another man was far easier set from one’s dreams than one who remained free.

  Not that he was free to be even so much as dreaming about her, but no amount of determination had released his mind from her image. Now it would be even stronger. He had scent and touch to go along with the vision of amberbrown eyes and shining curls; fine, white skin and—

  He snatched up the box. “I’d best be going.”

  “You won’t stay for tea?” She gave him a coaxing smile. “It’s the least I can do for your effort in bringing the glasses here for me to inspect. And for taking my message back to Father.”

  “‘Tis my work for which I am well paid already.” He knew he sounded brusque, but he needed to resist the temptation to stay, and pushing her away seemed like the best way to do so. “I need no extra favors. Good day to you, Miss Jordan.” He offered her a bow over the box and exited the house faster than was probably polite.

  Standing firm against her attractiveness though he might, he couldn’t keep himself from stopping by the stable to admire the kittens. They had grown in the past two weeks. A pan of milk, so yellow it must have come from a goat, stood in the cool shade by the door, and all the cats wandered over to lap from it in the midst of their play.

  One kitten perched on the edge of the trough, leaning precariously over the edge to scoop up water with its rough pink tongue. Colin wondered if the one on the trough was the wee beastie who’d scampered up the tree and nearly caused his first would-be rescuer to tumble into the burn.

  Smiling he stroked the silky head with a forefinger. “Good afternoon, you little scamp.”

  The cat purred and butted its head against his hand.

  “Aye, you remember me then?” Colin smiled at another cat trying to grab his sibling’s long tail. “Have a care with your perches in the future.”

  With a pat he turned to be on his way back to the glassworks. From the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of Margaret Jordan framed in the kitchen window. She was watching, her face alight with amusement. He touched his cap in acknowledgment of her presence, and she waved in response.

  Colin resumed his walk—for about twenty feet. In those few paces he felt something latch onto the back of his boot. He stopped. He hadn’t noticed any sort of vine or creeper on the path in which he could have caught his foot.

  It was the kitten from the trough, tiny paws wrapped around the back of his ankle as though its few ounces could stop him from going away. />
  “You daft beast.” He stooped and scooped up the kitten.

  Purring, it nestled against his neck, warm and soft and smelling of hay. For a moment he considered keeping it. Only for a moment. It wasn’t his cat to take, even if it had decided it wanted his company.

  “Let’s take you back.” Resolute he marched back to the stable and deposited the cat among its clan—

  The first time. In the next quarter hour he repeated the action three more times. The fourth time, footfalls pattered across the stable yard, and Miss Jordan took the kitten from his hands.

  “Let me fetch a basket and some rags so you can take her home with you,” she offered.

  “Nay, I cannot have one of your cats.”

  “Why not?” Her gaze swept the horde of felines. “Do you think I’m likely to run out of them?”

  “Nay, but—” He laughed. “If ‘tis all right, some company would be fine in that great big cottage I have all to myself.”

  “Then come back inside and have your tea while I prepare the basket.” She spun on her heel and marched to the house, apparently expecting him to follow.

  Colin hesitated. With her holding the cat, nothing stopped him from going. Nothing stopped him from staying, either.

  Nothing except good sense.

  five

  While Ilse served Mr. Grassick a cup of tea at the kitchen table, Meg fairly skipped up the steps to the linen press for clean rags then back down to the pantry for a covered basket. All the while, the kitten rode on her shoulder, purring and kneading its needlelike claws through the fabric of her dress. Meg rubbed her cheek against the kitten’s soft fur and smiled into those emerald green eyes, so like the glassblower’s.

  Not just any glassblower, either. Meg had seen glasses and vases, serving bowls and candlesticks imported from the centuries-old glassworks in Europe, and the craftsmanship was fine. Thus far she had seen little produced in the Salem County works that came close to demonstrating not merely the skill but the artistry Colin Grassick’s goblets exhibited. He possessed a gift, and a yearning in her heart told her to find out what made him so humble in accepting her awe and admiration. If she could persuade him to take his time with the tea, perhaps talk to him about a few other pieces Father intended for him to produce, she could learn what lay in his heart.