Page 20 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER SIX August 30th, 1793
Directions to the housemaid: Always when you sweep a room, throw a little wet sand all over it, and that will gather up all the flue and dust.
I’ll never complain about a cold day again,” I vowed after another week of unceasing heat. Grandfather watched from the shade as I cranked the wheel of the mangle. “Do you remember how thick the river ice was New Year’s Day?”
Grandfather patted his pockets absentmindedly. Silas crouched next to his chair, intently watching a quivering cherry branch.
“I remember how many cords of firewood I carried and how the wash water by my bed froze every night. No, thank you, Madam, I’d rather a warm day than a cold one. My bones ache at the thought of another frost. Have you seen my pipe?”
I threaded another wet tablecloth through the mangle to squeeze the water from it. The flagstones were cool beneath my bare feet, but the sun burned red as it mounted the sky. Another oppressively hot day.
“No, I haven’t seen your pipe. And I adore winter. My favorite part was skating around the ships locked in solid by the ice. The Bensons were there, and the Peales, remember? It was delightful.”
Grandfather’s white eyebrows crept skyward. “Speaking of Mr. Nathaniel Benson,” he started. “Were we?” I inquired.
“Your mother heard that the young man was behaving improperly toward you at the market.”
I let go of the mangle. It swung around and hit me in the leg.
“Ouch. No, I mean. Nathaniel was a gentleman. He expressed his condolences on the death of Polly Logan.”
Grandfather coughed once. “Better he should express himself into a better apprenticeship. He’ll come of nothing dabbling in Peale’s paint pots.”
The tablecloth came out the other end of the mangle, and I dropped it into a hickory basket. I waved at the bugs hovering above my head. “I do not wish to discuss Nathaniel Benson. That market is full of busybodies,” I grumbled.
“You are right about that. Let me help you, girl.” Grandfather rose stiffly. We each took a handle of the basket and carried it to the clotheshorse, a rope strung between two wooden frames that we used for drying clothes and linens. Silas crept to the base of the cherry tree, tail twitching, head steady.
Eliza came through the gate as we spread the tablecloth over the line to dry.
“She certainly has you busy,” Eliza chuckled.
“All of us,” answered Grandfather. “Look there.” He pointed to two sacks by the back door. “She sent
me to fetch those Arabica beans! Me, the hero of Trenton and Germantown reduced to a simple errand boy. What has the world come to?”
“Father! Are you trying to kill us all?” my mother yelled from a kitchen window. “Your pipe is near to burn a hole in the table. And where are those coffee beans? We’ll have customers soon.”
“Some days I’d rather face the British again than listen to the sound of my dear daughter-in-law,” Grandfather said. “Ho! Look at that cat.”
—Hannah Glasse
The Art of Cookery, 1747