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Ruth finished that wall in half the time, though it was more than twice the length, using all her tools, chocks, and every stone that came easily to hand. It turned out to be a lovely piece of work, and its proud owner made all her guests admire the clever way that Ruth had set a rosy-hued stone near her pink rosebush, and how care was taken to set off the tansy with a showing of green-tinged granite. With such an endorsement, several of her friends decided that they required similarly cunning masonry in their gardens, and Ruth had work waiting for her, months ahead.
The women liked having her in their gardens, not only for the quality of Ruth’s creations, but also for the mystery of her person. Africans had become almost as rare as pumpkin flowers in May, and it was a novelty having one so close at hand. A black woman in trousers, as strong as a man, was an oddity of the highest order.
Children tried to imitate her odd accent, young girls wondered if she had any knowledge of the spirit world, and people with abolitionist leanings guessed at lurid hardships that must have attended her life to the south. A few of the braver ladies tried to engage her in conversation, but the African barely said “thank you” for the draughts of water and the occasional biscuit she was offered. Her face betrayed no gratitude or impatience, nor anything else for that matter, and eventually, people stopped trying to peek behind the stolid mask she presented to the world. Soon enough, Ruth was as unremarkable as any other servant, and she began to feel just as invisible as them.
That changed on the day a roughly dressed young
stranger stopped to watch her work. He stared for a good
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half hour until the mistress of the house came out and asked him to state his business.
“That nigger looks like a runaway I heard about in Virginia,” he drawled, loud enough for Ruth to hear.
“This person is not a slave,” said Martha Cook.
“I suppose you can prove that, Mistress?” he said, bold as a fox.
Martha’s voice grew icy. “Sir, if you are calling me a liar in my own home, I shall thank you for your name and lodgings so that my husband, Judge Cook, can call upon you to settle the matter.”
The blackguard removed his cap and backed off,
sullenly begging her pardon even as he glared daggers at Ruth, watching his cash bounty slip away.
Ruth kept her head down during this exchange, but after she’d finished Mrs. Cook’s wall, she accepted no more assignments in Gloucester and eked out a small living up-country, repairing pasture walls and building animal pounds.
But when Martha Cook requested that she return to extend her wall a little, Ruth agreed. As much as she dreaded returning to town and the feeling of pale eyes on her skin, she could not deny the lady who had defended her against a bounty hunter. It was on the last day of that job that Ruth caught a glimpse of the sea serpent that had set all tongues to wagging.
Back in Easter’s parlor, the debate raged: Was it real or not? A fish or a fish story? A harbinger of the end of days?
Everyone who walked across Easter’s threshold announced an opinion, one way or another. Everyone, except for one particular fellow who came knocking early one morning, when no one else was about.
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Most of Easter’s visitors were spirited boys and girls from town, or sailors wishing to flee the sight and smell of water before shipping out again. The summer usually fetched up a small assortment of eccentrics, too: Englishmen in search of the unsullied American wilderness, or awkward fellows from Boston and New York who made the trek carrying sketchpads, paint boxes, or leather-bound notebooks.
But Easter had never had a guest like this one. He wore the drab, cassimere wool coat favored by traditional Quakers, though his white silk stockings were grimy from the road and the silver buckles on his shoes were coated with dust. Doffing a large flat-brimmed hat, he revealed a head of white curls stuck to a high damp forehead. “Pardon the intrusion, Mistress,” he said. “But may I trouble thee for a drink of water?”
“No trouble, dearie,” Easter said, tickled to be addressed so biblically. She gestured for him to follow her inside, limping on her still-sore ankle. “Take a seat. I’m Easter Carter and this is my place. You’re welcome to a draught of ale if you’re of a mind.”
“No, thank thee. Water will be ample blessing,” he said, blinking at the indoor dimness. He drained Easter’s cup and then mopped his face with a large handkerchief. “But perhaps thee could be kind enough to provide me with guidance. I am in search of the home of Abraham Wharf who was married to Anne Wharf?”
Easter leaned forward. “You knew the Wharf family, did you?”