Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(22)

“First time in this city?” he asked.

I nodded again. Seeing that I had little to lend to a conversation, the man began to whistle, leaving me free to look about. The wagon bounced down the rutted road that cut through a dense forest, and I was soon sorry for having no gloves, fearing splinters as I gripped tight to the side of the wooden cart. We passed by a number of small farms where the fields had been cleared and chickens wandered about the gardens and apple orchards. The farmhouses were solidly built of stone or brick, and though most were not of large size, they looked sturdy.

However, my interest soon shifted as we came closer to the outskirts of Philadelphia. Large coaches raced by our small cart, and when our driver picked up the pace, joining the pandemonium, more than once I anxiously glanced back to make sure that Henry, clinging tight, was still with us.

As we entered the city, we slowed again to merge onto the gray cobbled streets, where I gaped in disbelief at the towering three-and four-story brick buildings that lined the streets. On my flight from Tall Oaks, I had been so frightened and then so ill that I had scarcely taken note of any town that our coach drove through. But now, wholly alert, I stared about at the frantic pace of the city as we passed row upon row of vast buildings, most of which had overlarge signs announcing their wares: tobacco and segars, coffee, boots and shoes. I had never imagined so many offerings all in one place.

When we arrived at Market Street, huge green awnings stretched out over brick walkways to shelter what was offered for sale. Men, women, and children, many burdened with multiple baskets, called out to one another, adding to the bedlam as they scurried among the stalls. We passed first the fishmongers, the smell of fish ripe in the air, and then the farmers selling their vegetables, heaped high in barrels and boxes. Next to them, women wrapped in white aprons sold butter, cheese, and brown and white eggs. From my wagon seat, I could see butchers in bloody aprons farther on down, cutting away at slabs of red meat while customers waited in line.

Our driver pulled his horse to a stop under one of the awnings, then leaped down to hitch his horse in such a way that the back of the cart could serve as a stall for his produce. After we thanked the driver for the ride, Henry led us away while I stumbled over my own feet as I gawked.

It took a while before we found Lombard Street, but the storefront sign displaying three prominent balls, the mark of a pawnshop, was easy to find. I hesitated at the door when Henry insisted I go in alone. Fingering the ring in my pocket, I felt a sudden reluctance to sell it. Would Grandmother be angry with me for doing this? Yet I needed to find work and a place to stay. I reminded myself that I had other pieces of her jewelry sewn into the lining of my jacket, so I took a deep breath and stepped into the shop.

The vendor was eager to have the ring, and any hesitation I had quickly left when a good-sized purse was offered in exchange for the jewelry. It felt like a small fortune, and on my exit, I greeted Henry with a smile as I held up my gain.

He frowned. “You bes’ put that away!” he said, and though I quickly put it in my pocket, he scolded, “What happen to you back at the tavern? You don’ learn nothin’?”

“I just wanted you to see—” I said.

“I don’ need to see nothin’,” he said.

At another time I might have felt the sting of his criticism more acutely, but since I had achieved success with the sale, my mood was light. “Let’s go back to where we came in—to Market Street,” I said. “There was so much to see.”

“Don’t forget, you lookin’ for work,” Henry said.

“Today?” I said.

“Winter comin’,” he reminded me.

Even though his words sobered me, I could not stop my growing excitement as I stared at all there was around me.

“Look at this!” I pointed out to Henry over and over again, and more than once Henry quietly reminded me to keep moving if I stopped short to observe shoppers or tradesmen at their work.

We were not far from Market Street when I caught sight of a beautiful window display. Through a large pane of glass, sun shone in on two silver birds, posed as though they were strutting about, their long tails dragging down behind them. “Look!” I said to Henry. “Silver peacocks!”

Henry moved in for a better look.

“Grandmother had two silver birds just like these. They always sat on our dining room table, but when I was younger, she let me play with them. She said that they had been purchased in Philadelphia!” I thrilled at the sudden remembrance. “Do you think they made them here?” I asked, but Henry only shrugged indifferently.

I looked up at the sign overhead. “Burton’s Silversmith.” Then I noticed a sign set to the side of the birds. “The sign says that they need help,” I said.

Henry brightened. “You got to go on in,” he urged. “I wait out here.”

“You want me to go in there? Now?”

“Good a place as any.”

With no job skills to offer, I was embarrassed to present myself, but I decided to at least make a show of it to appease Henry.

A bell startled me when it rang on my entry, and an older man, seated at a table behind a counter, looked up. Though he continued to polish a silver object, he glanced at me over spectacles that sat on the end of his short nose. He was seated beside a window, and the sun shone through his white hair that circled out from around the pale bald top of his head. I turned to the display case in front of me, filled with snuffboxes and watch chains, but something else had caught my eye. I went closer in and saw the same tubular whittling knife that I had taken from my home at Tall Oaks and now carried in my pocket. I leaned down to get a better view.