Free Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller Page A

left the room.
    The bright shine of the day had been tarnished, and Lydia wanted only to retreat to her room and remain there until dinner. She had a personal rule, however: when she wanted most to hide from the world, she must instead wade right out into the middle of it and play her part in things.
    Lydia found a shawl, as there was a breeze coming up from the shore, and left the house. Since she didn't want to encounter Brigham, she avoided the mill and his tree-stump office. And of course she wasn't ready to face Devon, either, knowing what she did, so she steered away from his building site as well.
    Lydia followed a path behind the great house, through a thicket of blackberry vines that snatched at her skirts, past giant ferns and clusters of hemlock and cedar and pine. Gossamer sunshine soaked through the leaves and, here and there, hearty ivy grew up the trunk of a tree like a green coat. Through it all was woven the secret songs of the birds.
    At the top of the high knoll there was a small, tree-sheltered clearing, and Lydia drew in her breath in surprise. There, square in the center, was a tiny cabin of unplaned logs. The door was at the far left, with three stone steps leading up to the high threshold, and a single window was set in at the opposite end.
    The place seemed oddly enchanted to Lydia, perhaps because she'd come upon it unexpectedly. It wouldn't have surprised her if Hansel and Gretel's witch had come hobbling out to greet her.
    Smiling at the fancy, she put her hands behind her back and called out politely, “Hello? Is anyone at home?”
    There was no reply, except for the irritable complaints of the birds, who were no doubt remarking to each other that she had a nerve, coming to call without an invitation.
    Lydia walked around the outside of the small house, looking at the neatly made brick chimney of the fireplace. There was no back door, she found, and no other window besides the one in front, but that wasn't surprising. Indian attacks were not unheard of in this part of the country, and the fewer points of entry a place had, the less vulnerable were its inhabitants.
    She recalled Millie's story, about her mother and Charlotte hiding under the floorboards when Charlotte was a baby, and laid one hand to the sturdy frame surrounding the door. Surely this was the same cabin, the home Brigham had built for his young bride.
    The thought gave Lydia an unexpected sting, and she sat down on a flagstone step, resting her chin in one hand. Sweetbriar clambered lushly up a crude trellis beside her, covered in fragrant pink blossoms, and she watched solemnly as a fat bee fumbled from one flower to another.
    She tried to imagine Brigham's wife, but no picture came to mind. She hadn't noticed a likeness on display anywhere in the big house, at least not those parts that she frequented, but then she hadn't been looking for one.
    Lydia sat awhile, enjoying the scent of the sweetbriar, then stood, her hands on her hips. The whole time, of course, her newest dilemma had been churning beneath the surface of her thoughts. She could not go to Devon with what she knew about Polly, for he had been kind to her and she wouldn't hurt him so cruelly. Perhaps she might tell Brigham, since he was clearly the head of the Quade family, but she feared his reaction. It was only too easy to imagine him in a towering rage, shouting at everyone, perhaps alienating his brother forever.
    Walking back down the path toward the main house, Lydia considered speaking with Aunt Persephone about the matter, but she ruled that idea out as well. The whole situation was simply too delicate, and besides, she knew so little about the old woman's temperament. Perhaps such news would vex her to the point of hysteria, or even apoplexy or heart failure.
    Jake Feeny was sitting on the back step, a cigar jutting out of his mouth and a huge basin of potatoes at his side. He peeled one deftly with a paring knife and dropped it into a pot of water as