The Turning Read online

  She laughed. “Not a good Christian? Is that what you’re trying to say? Well, Miss Maudie, we’ll see about that. At which meeting house does your family attend services?”

  I told her and she nodded. “I’ll talk to your parents on Sunday then.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t worry, girl. I know what I’m doing. Now sit on the bench.”

  As she spoke she rifled through the recipe book, finally placing it in front of me. She pointed to a page.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s start with something simple.”

  On Sunday, I was fraught with anticipation. What would Imelda do? I had not told my parents about the errands I ran for her and was afraid that, when they found out, I would be in for a whipping or possibly worse. I thought about the wooden stocks that sat in the town square and imagined myself imprisoned in them, at the mercy of anyone who passed by.

  At the meeting house, I sat nervously through the service, which was long and tedious. All I wanted was for it to be over so I could race home and hide in my room and, by the time we said the final “Amen,” I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of Imelda in the meeting house nor was she outside on the steps.

  Silently thanking God for my reprieve, I was surprised when a woman stepped out of the crowd gathered outside and approached my mother and father. She was dressed as we were, her hair was hidden beneath a white cap. But her eyes flashed when she saw me and I was shocked to realize that beneath that plain garb was the woman I knew as Imelda.

  “Master Prichard,” she said politely to my father, her voice without a trace of the accent I knew so well. “May I introduce myself. I am a widow newly moved here from Ipswich and I run a small apothecary in town.”

  My father nodded. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Widow …?”

  She smiled demurely at him. “Widow Adams, sir, and the pleasure is all mine. By chance soon after I moved here, I met your daughter, Maude, and finding her a pleasant and dutiful child, offered to employ her to assist me. Of course, I could not do this without your permission. Thus, that is why I am here today.”

  “This is not your regular place of worship?” my father asked.

  “No, sir. I worship on the other side of town, at the Newport Meeting House. But I came here today to introduce myself and make your acquaintance.”

  I watched my father take this in, surprised. He seemed wholly entranced by her, even though, in her Puritan garb, she looked as plain as the rest of us. Staring at her, I wondered how she had transformed herself so.

  They spoke a few minutes longer, then my father waved to me.

  “Come here, Maude,” he commanded. “Do you wish to take a position with Widow Adams?”

  I hesitated for only a second. “Yes, Father. I want to be of use.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then you shall. But you still must shoulder your responsibilities at home.”

  Imelda smiled. “I will see to it that she does not work so late as to be a burden to you. And, I will pay her for what she does.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was going to be allowed to work and learn and be paid for it to boot.

  My father put his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him.

  “You will accept whatever Widow Adams gives you. And, you will bring these wages home and turn them over to your mother. Is that clear?”

  My father waited for my answer, his face stern.

  “Yes, Father,” I replied dutifully. “I will bring whatever Widow Adams deems me worthy of to my mother.”

  “Good,” my father replied, turning away and, once again, gazing at Imelda. “Would you care to take the Sabbath meal with us, Widow Adams?” he asked.

  “Thank you, kind sir, but I am expected at my cousin’s home on the other side of town. Perhaps another time.”

  “You will always be welcome at our house,” he replied. “Good day.”

  “And good day to you, kind sir.”

  My father took my mother’s arm, turned his back on Imelda, and began to walk away. I stood frozen as she flashed me a mischievous grin, then bowed her head and took her leave.

  I followed my parents, astounded. Was this woman a magician … or, perhaps worse … a witch? This thought boggled my mind and I wondered, indeed, what I had gotten myself in for. In less than a heartbeat, she had entranced my father and convinced him of her piousness. My mother, too, seemed kindly disposed to her. What would they think if they saw her as I did? Which was the real Imelda? Was she actually the kindly widow she presented to my parents or the free spirit I thought I knew?

  These questions, though they troubled me, I decided to ignore. More important, was that I was now free to learn and no longer had to lie to my parents. Smiling at what I thought was my good fortune, I vowed to be a sponge and soak up all the knowledge I could. There would be time later to unravel the riddle that was Imelda.

  Apprenticeship

  FROM THAT DAY forward, I spent my free time with Imelda, learning and helping her in her shop. I had a good memory and soon no longer needed to consult her grimnoire for the ingredients in the simple potions she charged me with making. Most were common remedies – an elixir to cure congestion or a balm for sore muscles. And as I worked, with mortar and pestle, Imelda sat beside me working, too, but at more complicated concoctions.

  Some days, we would leave the shop and venture to the woods to search for herbs, berries, and mushrooms. When our baskets were full, we would return to her rooms, where we would hang them to dry.

  By the time I turned sixteen, I was so adept at making these herbal remedies that it came to the attention of some of Imelda’s customers.

  “And, I want your girl to make my potion,” I heard a woman say one day. “The balm she made me eases my aches and pains with great efficacy.”

  I feared Imelda might take umbrage at this, but she didn’t seem to care. She would simply smile, nod, then instruct me to do as the customer wished. And, one day she took me aside to praise me.

  “You’re a natural at this,” she said. “Perhaps you have gypsy blood.”

  I was shocked. “No, missus,” I said. “We are of pure English stock.”

  She laughed and shrugged. “Don’t get so upset. There’s nothing wrong with gypsies. They are an old and honorable race of people. You could do worse, you know.”

  I looked at her skeptically, as it was well known that gypsies were a lawless and godless band of heathens who were often known to be thieves and murderers. But I said nothing, wondering if perhaps she was actually one of them.

  However hard I worked, both at the shop and at home, I still had some time to myself. My best friend that year was Rebecca Johnson, daughter of the town’s farrier. Becca and I were the same age and had attended school together. I often saw her at church and, after services, would walk with her. She was a pretty girl and was spending time with the minister’s son. It was expected that, in a few years, they would marry.

  “I have to tell you,” Becca said one afternoon as we left the church. “I saw the most beautiful boy last Wednesday.”

  I looked at her, puzzled. “A beautiful boy? You mean a baby?”

  Becca laughed, then took hold of my hand and pulled me off the road, down a path toward the wharf.

  “No, silly. A boy. One about our age or, maybe, just a little older. And …” she said, leaning close and whispering in my ear, “He’s a Hebrew.”

  I looked at her, shocked. “A Hebrew? Where?”

  “Over in their part of town.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  She grinned. “Mother had to pick up some special medicine for Grandpa. Only the Hebrew physician stocks it. She bade me go with her so she wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Really? What was it like?”

  “Oh, not much different than the market on this side. Lots of stalls and vendors. Louder and more crude, to be sure, but much the same.”

  “So?”

  “That’s where I saw him. At a bakery
. I think he works there.”

  I nodded. “So, what was so special about this Hebrew?”

  Becca sighed. “He was beautiful. Dark eyes and lashes like a girl’s. And, he smiled at me.”

  “Becca Johnson!” I cried. “What about Peter? Are you throwing him over for a … a heretic?”

  She laughed. “No, silly. I am true to Peter. But I can look, can’t I?”

  I knew then that she was only teasing me and I laughed with her as we walked home, talking now only about Peter, the handsome young Hebrew forgotten for the time being.

  It wasn’t long after that incident that Imelda bade me take a vial of powder to the Jewish section of town, a task I was reluctant to take on.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked. “Jews are no different than you. Stop lollygagging and get that powder to Mrs. Jacobs.”

  I could tell Imelda was beginning to anger, but still I hesitated.

  She stared at me hard for a minute and, when she could see my resolve weaken, opened the door and pushed me outside.

  “Off with you,” she commanded. “Or you’ll feel the brunt of my disappointment!”

  “Yes, missus,” I finally muttered then turned and fled down the street.

  The Jewish section of town wasn’t far from Imelda’s shop and soon I was walking down a narrow alley lined with stalls. Vendors were yelling, hawking their wares, and people of all sorts wandered around, buying and selling.

  I made my way through the crowd, keeping my head bowed, eyes lowered, not wanting to bring attention to myself. When I found the house I was looking for, I made short work of delivering my package and set about to find my way home again.

  The streets were even more crowded than before, and as I walked past one of the displays, a man jostled me, sending me careening. I fell backward into one of the stalls and watched in horror as the vendor’s goods went flying about. The vendor screamed then began yelling at me.

  “Look what you’ve done, you clumsy girl,” he cried. “You will have to pay for this … all of this!”

  Tears blinded my eyes and, as I tried to move away, I bumped into yet another stall, sending its contents flying. The second vendor joined the first and they both began to harangue me. Not knowing what to do, I wrapped my arms tightly about my body and, once again, tried to find my way out of the crowd and away from the angry vendors.

  I had not moved but an inch when I felt a hand take my elbow, steadying me. I looked up. My rescuer was a tall, lanky youth who I guessed was two to three years older than I. His hair was dark and over his clothes he wore a long white apron. He gazed down at me and smiled.

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said softly. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  The first vendor paid him no mind and continued to berate me, wagging his finger in my face. The boy frowned and stepped around in front of me, acting as my shield.

  “Shut your trap, Levi,” he said to the vendor. “Can’t you see this poor girl’s lost? Where are your manners?”

  He then turned to the second angry vendor.

  “And you, too, Hiram. She’s just a child. You should be ashamed.”

  The two men were silenced, both looking a bit shamefaced, when the boy turned back toward me.

  “Let me guide you, miss,” he said as he steered me away from the stalls and out onto a broad street, lined with shops. We walked in silence for a while then he turned to me.

  “Can you find your way home from here?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine now.”

  “Good. I’m glad. What’s your name?”

  I was slightly taken aback by his forwardness, but there was something about him that I felt was special.

  “Maude,” I finally said. “Maude Prichard. I live on the seaward side of town.”

  He grinned. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Maude Prichard. Let me introduce myself. I am Micah Levine, the baker’s son. That’s our shop over there.”

  He pointed to a small establishment across the street, and in a flash I realized that this was the boy that my friend, Becca, had spoken about. And, she was right … he was beautiful.

  “Micah,” I said, softly, pronouncing each syllable carefully. “Thank you for saving me.”

  The boy laughed. “Those men are all mouth. You would have been fine without me. But, given the opportunity to rescue as girl as beautiful as you … well, I couldn’t pass that up.”

  I blushed. He’d called me “beautiful.” No one had ever spoken of me that way before.

  I smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to do, then turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he said. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  I looked at him, puzzled, but nodded and watched as he ran over to the bakery. He came back a minute or two later, holding something wrapped in paper.

  “Here,” he said, offering me the package. “A sweet for your journey home.”

  I raised the offering to my nose and inhaled. It was warm and smelled delicious.

  I grinned. “Thank you again, Micah Levine. But I have nothing to give you in return.”

  “Your presence alone is gift enough. Might I be so forward to ask if I could meet you again some other time? Perhaps, on my day off?”

  My eyes widened in surprise. Was he asking to court me? He was most surely a Hebrew … a heretic in the eyes of my faith. To spend time with him would be a sin. Yet, I wanted to see him again and, really, what was one more sin on top of the pile I had already accumulated?

  “What day is that?” I asked.

  “Thursday. I work only in the morning. The afternoon is mine. I could meet you on your side of town. By the wharf.”

  I thought for a moment, then smiled. “At two?”

  “At two,” he said firmly. “Meet me by the fish monger’s stall.”

  “The fish monger,” I repeated, nodding. “At two. Now I must be off. I’m late already.”

  He grinned at me, then quickly, before I could object, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Till Thursday, Maude,” he said, laughing, then turned and ran back to the bakery.

  I stood quite still, staring as he retreated into the shop, my hand resting on my cheek where I could still feel the warmth of his lips.

  Thursday, I thought, my heart racing. Thursday.

  First Date

  THE NEXT FEW days passed at a snail’s pace. My inability to concentrate caused me to make many mistakes at Imelda’s, incurring her wrath on more than one occasion. But, try as I might, I was unable to focus on my work – all I could think about was Micah and our meeting on Thursday.

  At home, I fared no better. I spilled the milk and broke the eggs, causing my father to call me a stupid girl and, as punishment, after dinner I had to stand in a corner reading scripture until it was time for bed.

  But, finally, Thursday arrived and, as I gazed at my reflection in a pail of water, I wished I had clothing like Imelda’s – colorful and gay – instead of my plain gray and white attire.

  Sighing as I finished my morning chores, I bade my mother good-bye, saying that I might be home later than usual that evening.

  “But you will be here for supper, won’t you, Maude?” my mother asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

  I kissed her on the cheek then left for Imelda’s shop.

  When I arrived, the woman was already at work.

  “Sit,” she said, as I walked in the door. “And start on that batch of lavender.”

  “Yes, missus,” I replied.

  “And try not to be so dimwitted today. I don’t know what’s got into you.”

  I didn’t reply, just nodded and kept my head down, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

  The morning dragged on and we worked in silence. We took a short break for lunch and as I ate my bread and cheese, I could feel her staring at me. Finally, she laughed.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, clapping her hands with joy. “It’s a boy! It has to be
. Has little Maudie got herself a boyfriend? Tell me!”

  I could feel the heat move up my neck to my cheeks and as my face reddened, Imelda only laughed harder.

  “I am glad to be the cause of such merriment,” I finally said.

  Tears were beginning to well in my eyes and when she saw them, Imelda stopped laughing and looked at me with sympathy.

  “I’m sorry, little dove,” she said. “That was rude of me. Now, sincerely, tell me, is there a boy?”

  Her voice was gentle, and when I turned to look at her, I could see only kindness in her eyes.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m meeting him this afternoon.”

  “Mmmm,” she murmured. “And, who is he? Someone from your church?”

  I hesitated, not sure if I should tell her the truth or not.

  “Come on, Maude,” she said softly. “I’m not here to judge you.”

  I nodded and swallowed hard. “No, he’s not of my church. He’s … he’s a Hebrew.”

  There, I’d said it and I waited meekly to be chastised. Moments passed…

  “A Jew?” she finally asked. “Did you meet him at the market when I sent you on that errand?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Micah and I think he’s maybe two or three years older than me. He works in a bakery.”

  “And, is he handsome?”

  Again, I blushed. “Yes,” I stammered. “He’s very handsome.”

  “Good. And, has he kissed you yet?”

  I sat silent, unable to admit that he had, indeed, kissed me, even though it was only on the cheek. But Imelda was not to be denied.

  “On the lips?” she asked.

  I shook my head, my eyes cast down, unable to meet her penetrating gaze.

  “Then, on the cheek, I suppose.”

  I nodded.

  “So, when you meet him this afternoon, will you let him kiss you on the lips?”