Hester(19)

The single-room cottage has the mustiness of a cupboard sealed shut for a long time. My husband inspects the large hearth while I pry open the shutters. Cobwebs stick to my hands and dust fills the air. The smell of earth and wet rocks enters with the wind when the first window pops open.

“It’ll have to suit you,” Edward says.

It does.

The isolation at the edge of the woods puts me in mind of the cottage where I was born. The silver silence is a kindly one, smoothed by the sky and the soft purr of insects and the quiet forest life. I feel at ease but for the thought of the Witch Woods and the moans of the dead in the wind. But Zeke said those things are done and gone, and I’ve made up my mind to ignore that talk.

Edward and Zeke pace off the perimeter of the cottage clearing while I unpack the trunk and wipe down our new hearth. I’m stacking books on a small table when Edward comes inside with the Black woman from the docks, and two children close behind. I guess the girl to be about five, the boy about nine years old.

“This is Mercy.” Edward says. “The children are Ivy and Abraham.”

Mercy’s eyes are on the ground, but the two children peer up expectantly. I can see by the way the small ones look at Edward that he has been kind to them, and I am glad.

“They live up the rise, through those trees out back,” he adds.

Mercy is wearing a colorful turban and a plain dress belted with a length of felt that is embroidered with a bright chain of flowers. The children stand just behind their mother, Ivy holding up the ends of her apron and Abraham leaning to one side holding a large bucket covered with burlap. His curly hair is tinged with a reddish hue and his face is freckled—the freckles don’t seem right on Mercy’s child, but there they are. A light line of freckles dots the girl’s cheeks, too.

“I saw you in the market yesterday,” I tell Mercy. Her cheekbones are wide, her lips full, and she holds herself like a rod, straight and narrow and strong. I’m happy for a neighbor who might be a friend, and right away I want to ask if she meant to stitch the words I saw in her work, but I restrain myself.

“Likely did.” She still doesn’t look at me. “I sell my pieces to have a little extra for the children.”

“Mercy uses water from our well,” Edward says. “She sends the children to fetch it, and in exchange they bring eggs and things from the garden.”

With a tiny nod from her mother, Ivy steps forward and opens her apron. Inside are four brown-and-cream-colored eggs. I take one; it’s still warm. Abraham takes a few steps in my direction and puts down the bucket. He tries to suppress a grin, but when I smile, he lets the grin light his face. I can tell that the children are happy and loved, and this warms me to Mercy.

“Goat’s milk.” There’s pride in Mercy’s voice. “Fresh this morning.”

Behind her in the doorway, Zeke has taken off his hat and is holding it in his hands. He seems to be watching over Mercy and the children, and I wonder if he’s also the children’s father, for a cousin can also be a mate and there’s affection in his eyes.

“I’ve never had goat’s milk,” I say.

“Same as sheep or cow.” Mercy nods. “Boil it for curds or put it with oats or bread for supper.”

I’m touched by this welcome, yet the woman still hasn’t looked at me.

“The water is there for the taking,” I tell her. “There’s no need for you to bring me eggs and food.” I mean this to be a gesture of friendship, but Mercy seems not to take it so.

“Then you don’t agree?”

“Oh, but I agree very much—I mean to say that you can take all the water you need, and you need not give me anything in return.”

“I do what’s fair.”

I have the feeling she could stand for hours in the wind and never falter, never bend.

“I’m grateful.” I try again to show that I mean to be a friend. “I’m glad to have you as my neighbors.”

Mercy puts a protective hand on the girl and blinks up at me at last.

“We won’t be bothering you,” she says, and I can see she intends to keep her distance. “The children come in the morning, fast and quiet as you please. The chickens and goats can’t keep themselves.”

As she gathers her brood, she sees my mother’s gloves on top of our trunk.

“Pretty.” She bends to look more closely at the beadwork and letters entwined with angels. “Beautiful work.”

Her words shimmer when she says this. Perhaps it is not natural for a Scottish woman and a Black woman to become friends, but I’d like it to be so.

“My mother made them. She wore them on her wedding day, and I wore them on mine.”

“The Silas girl’s getting married this summer, you might show them to her mama,” Mercy says. “They’re special.”

Her words are a kindness, and I reach toward them.

“Wouldn’t you want the job for yourself? Your stitches are very fine, and your work is wonderfully intricate.”

I want to say more, but she doesn’t give me a chance.

“Got enough to keep me busy right here without it.” At that she turns and walks up the hill with her children, who leave as quietly as they came. Zeke lingers a moment longer.

“We’re up through those trees, on the other side of the low rise.” He points to where the trees thicken. “In case you need anything.”