Page 23 - Fever 1793

Grandfather stepped between us.
“Matilda,” he said in a honey voice. “Of all the maids in our city, surely you deserve a day of rest, a day to drink tea and eat sweet cakes. But if you must stay here, I’m sure your mother and Eliza would be able to find a suitable list of chores to keep you from boredom. You know how they detest idleness.”
The kettles, I thought. They’ll make me scour the kettles again. My hands ached at the thought.
“And I’ve heard their cook excels at pastries. Don’t give their young Edward a thought. Enjoy yourself. Let your mother enjoy herself. I will direct the replacement troops here at the coffeehouse.”
Mother looked at the old man. He just wanted a quiet afternoon, that much was clear. I saw him wink at her. I didn’t know which one made me angrier, but somehow they had both won.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go to tea. Huzzah.”
As soon as I conceded defeat, Mother turned her attention to the most important issue—tea-drinking clothes. We had tea-buying clothes, tea-brewing clothes, and tea-serving clothes, but we had no taking- tea-with-the-Ogilvies clothes.
Mother’s solution lay in the bottom of the trunk in our chamber. She would wear her unfashionable ivory-colored gown, last seen at a victory ball after the War. She said it only had a few stains and fit well. At least she didn’t run to fat like some she could name. That was that.
Finding the proper clothes for me was another matter entirely. I could wear my church petticoat, but I needed a proper short gown to cover the bodice. My one fancy short gown was too small, and I hadn’t filled out enough to wear any of Mother’s castoffs.
“You’ll have to wear the old one,” she said. “I’ll let out the side seams as far as they can go. Perhaps Eliza can do something with your hair.”
“You are determined to make this as unpleasant as possible, aren’t you?” I asked.
For once, my short-tempered answer did not rile her. “Pretend you’re in France, dear,” she said lightly. “The ladies there always do their hair.”
Eliza’s idea of a hairstyle began with brushing me bald. The more I whimpered, the harder she tugged. In the end, I bit my lip and sulked.
“I’ll sit nicely at the table,” I said. “But you can’t force me to talk to their young Edward.”
“Hush.” Mother stitched my dress as fast as she could, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric like a bumblebee darting through flowers. “It’s not too early to search for a suitable man. With your manners, it could take years. Edward Ogilvie has four older brothers. A bride with an established business, like the coffeehouse, is the best he can hope for.”
“You make it sound like I’m one of Mrs. Epler’s chickens, ready for market. Ow, Eliza, won’t you be finished soon?”
“Have patience and keep your head still,” she said. “If you cared for your hair properly, I wouldn’t have to wrestle it.”
Nobody was on my side. I crossed my arms over my chest and pouted. “I don’t know which is worse, banishing me to the Ludington farm or marrying me off to an Ogilvie.”
Eliza combed through a lock of hair stuck together with dried jam. “You’re a few years away from a trip to the altar, Mattie, and you are too soft to live in the country,” she said. “You have city hands and a weak back. You wouldn’t last a week on the farm.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” I said.
She tugged my hair hard and tied it in a green and gold ribbon. “That’s the best I can do,” she said. “If we had more time, we could try to curl it.”
“No!” I covered my head with my arms. “I like straight hair. And I don’t need a husband to run the coffeehouse, Mother. You don’t have one.”
“Try this on and don’t be vulgar,” Mother said as she broke the thread with her teeth. “You’ll marry one day, don’t you worry. Just pray that when you do, your husband won’t be fool enough to fall off a