The Rebellion of Jane Clarke Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Sally Gunning
vivid eyes, and strong jaw hadn’t changed. As Jane made note of these things it occurred to her that this woman was much closer than Mehitable to the age Jane’s mother would have been had she lived. As to any other coincidental likeness Jane couldn’t say—the little she remembered of her mother had long ago gotten mixed up with the death’s-head angel that topped her gravestone, complete with
painful grimace. But as the older woman folded the younger into a hug that included the milk jar and a fair amount of sandy dirt, Jane seemed to remember that as well.
Jane handed the jug to her grandmother, who peered into it and beamed. “Milk!”
“My mother says you must miss your cow.”
“And my hens. And all that should be growing out of the ground.” Jane’s grandmother carried the milk jug into the house; Jane followed. There too she saw the effect of her grandmother’s long absence in the frost of salt on the windows, the thirsty wood, the mildewed plaster, the cobwebs that hadn’t yet surrendered to the broom. Jane’s grandmother seemed to notice it as Jane did and slashed the air in frustration. “I’ve been at work on the place since I came and not a minute of it shows.” She set the milk on the table and sat down on one side of it, waving at Jane to take a seat on the other. She said, “Now, Jane. Tell me all that goes on.”
All that goes on. The list was long, but for a grandmother who was nearly a stranger a shorter list would do. Jane began with Nate’s fall, went on to her sister Anne’s first stitching, from there to Neddy’s good report from his tutor. She considered mentioning Winslow’s horse, but already, despite the neglect, her grandmother’s house had settled over her with a peculiar kind of sheltering peace—in such a place such words would sound profane. Instead she asked, “How long do you stay at Satucket?”
“Eben joins me as soon as he can; we stay as long as he can.”
Jane looked with greater care at her grandmother. Despite all the rumors about her grandparents that had floated around the village, this was the first time Jane had actually thought of them as the human beings behind the rumors, thought of the human feelings that had locked them together despite such rumors. Now that she looked, she could see the claims of husband versus home battling all across her grandmother’s features. And indeed, there was something in the house that made Jane reluctant to leave it. She found herself saying, “I was to marry Phinnie Paine, but I may not now.”
Jane waited for one of her grandmother’s “licentious opinions” but none came. Her father often said his mother-in-law was the only woman of his acquaintance who could speak her mind with her mouth closed, but Jane discovered nothing in her silence either. She decided to continue along. She told her grandmother of her conversation with Phinnie, of Phinnie’s riding off, of the letter her father required, agreeing to marriage in the fall.
When Jane finished, her grandmother surprised her by saying, “ ’Tis no easy thing to go against one’s father.”
“No.”
“Your father does business with Mr. Paine. He may assure you of a fair trade with the man; he may not assure you of a fair marriage.”
“You’ve met Phinnie Paine?”
“A time or two.”
“And how did he take you?”
“What little I took I liked well. Which is of course no greater help to you.”
No.
THE LOOK JANE RECEIVED from Mehitable as she entered the keeping room told her she’d been overlong at her errand, but she’d still returned long before her father could be expected back from Nobscusset. Bethiah and Hitty were pressing butter into molds at the keeping room table, but with Mehitable’s eyes on her back, Jane continued past them to her room. She sat down at the little table by the window, took up her pen, touched it to the ink, held it over her letter book, set it down again. The idea of writing a letter to Phinnie by itself
painful grimace. But as the older woman folded the younger into a hug that included the milk jar and a fair amount of sandy dirt, Jane seemed to remember that as well.
Jane handed the jug to her grandmother, who peered into it and beamed. “Milk!”
“My mother says you must miss your cow.”
“And my hens. And all that should be growing out of the ground.” Jane’s grandmother carried the milk jug into the house; Jane followed. There too she saw the effect of her grandmother’s long absence in the frost of salt on the windows, the thirsty wood, the mildewed plaster, the cobwebs that hadn’t yet surrendered to the broom. Jane’s grandmother seemed to notice it as Jane did and slashed the air in frustration. “I’ve been at work on the place since I came and not a minute of it shows.” She set the milk on the table and sat down on one side of it, waving at Jane to take a seat on the other. She said, “Now, Jane. Tell me all that goes on.”
All that goes on. The list was long, but for a grandmother who was nearly a stranger a shorter list would do. Jane began with Nate’s fall, went on to her sister Anne’s first stitching, from there to Neddy’s good report from his tutor. She considered mentioning Winslow’s horse, but already, despite the neglect, her grandmother’s house had settled over her with a peculiar kind of sheltering peace—in such a place such words would sound profane. Instead she asked, “How long do you stay at Satucket?”
“Eben joins me as soon as he can; we stay as long as he can.”
Jane looked with greater care at her grandmother. Despite all the rumors about her grandparents that had floated around the village, this was the first time Jane had actually thought of them as the human beings behind the rumors, thought of the human feelings that had locked them together despite such rumors. Now that she looked, she could see the claims of husband versus home battling all across her grandmother’s features. And indeed, there was something in the house that made Jane reluctant to leave it. She found herself saying, “I was to marry Phinnie Paine, but I may not now.”
Jane waited for one of her grandmother’s “licentious opinions” but none came. Her father often said his mother-in-law was the only woman of his acquaintance who could speak her mind with her mouth closed, but Jane discovered nothing in her silence either. She decided to continue along. She told her grandmother of her conversation with Phinnie, of Phinnie’s riding off, of the letter her father required, agreeing to marriage in the fall.
When Jane finished, her grandmother surprised her by saying, “ ’Tis no easy thing to go against one’s father.”
“No.”
“Your father does business with Mr. Paine. He may assure you of a fair trade with the man; he may not assure you of a fair marriage.”
“You’ve met Phinnie Paine?”
“A time or two.”
“And how did he take you?”
“What little I took I liked well. Which is of course no greater help to you.”
No.
THE LOOK JANE RECEIVED from Mehitable as she entered the keeping room told her she’d been overlong at her errand, but she’d still returned long before her father could be expected back from Nobscusset. Bethiah and Hitty were pressing butter into molds at the keeping room table, but with Mehitable’s eyes on her back, Jane continued past them to her room. She sat down at the little table by the window, took up her pen, touched it to the ink, held it over her letter book, set it down again. The idea of writing a letter to Phinnie by itself