24. Penny
Penny
I was nervous to meet Rosie’s family, half-convinced Kit’s warnings about the members of the cult would be proven out in this group of strangers. But upon entering the Saunderses quaint cottage, any fears I had were put immediately at ease.
Like Kit’s house, it was small, with the kitchen and living room in immediate view.
But, drastically different from Kit’s home, this space overflowed with warmth and clutter.
Furniture lined every wall, and the shelves were laden with knickknacks and leatherbound books.
With a stack of teacups here and a mug full of collected bird feathers there, I felt like I was being introduced to the people who lived here before any of them came into sight.
Rosie tugged me across the threshold where we were greeted by a towering man who must have been her father.
Lean and tall, he wore plain linen clothes streaked with dirt a shade lighter than his umber skin.
His hands were similarly muddied, and he wiped them on a towel tucked into his belt before offering to shake with me .
Rosie stepped alongside the two of us. “Penny, this is my father, Gerald.”
“Welcome to Ashpoint, Penny.” Gerald’s smile was bright and steady. “Very glad to make your acquaintance.”
His tight grip had my fingers aching as he pumped my arm up and down, making the braids in his hair bounce against his forehead.
“Likewise, sir,” I replied, and he beamed wider.
“Good to see this one has some manners,” he said, tipping his head toward Rosie. “Unlike that oaf, Anders.”
The name triggered recognition, and I thought back to the crowd that had descended on Kit and me in the smithy that morning.
Anders had dominated Kit’s attention while I was preoccupied with Reimond and Thoma.
I liked those two already. They were kind and shared the sorts of glances and passing touches that made me suspect they were closer than mere friends.
“Anders?” I echoed to be sure I’d heard correctly. When Gerald nodded, I added, “I met him earlier.”
“Did you?” The older man’s smile turned mischievous. “What did you make of him?”
I could have told him about Thoma’s horses or Reimond’s sheep, but the boisterous lumberman had made less of an impression on me. All I really remembered was his voice roaring over Thoma’s soft mumbles.
I frowned. “He’s… loud.”
Gerald barked a laugh. “Polite enough to leave it at that.” He clapped his palm heavily on my shoulder. “Good man. I hear my daughter is planning to teach you a bit of baking?”
“Shortbreads,” Rosie informed him, and she took my arm again.
She pulled me into the kitchen, where mixing bowls and jars of dry goods were already laid out .
Her father chuckled in our wake. “I’ll be in the garden if you need anything,” he said. Exiting out the front door, he left us in the quiet house. I had no doubt more people lived here, but rather than ask after them, I wondered something else.
“What grows here so late in the season?”
Rosie and I arrived at the kitchen counter, and she peeled away from me to wash her hands in the sink. Once she finished, she gestured for me to do the same.
“He’s clearing out the beds and getting ready for next season,” she said. “We don’t grow much here. Just potatoes and onions and marigolds. My mother loves marigolds.”
“We grow potatoes, too, and sometimes onions, at home…” I trailed off, worrying that I shouldn’t have mentioned the farm until Rosie picked up where I’d stopped.
“Where you’re from?” She grabbed a pair of aprons from the wall. I couldn’t help but be reminded of making bread with Sayla the evening before I left with Kit. I also couldn’t help but wonder if that was the last time I would ever see my sister. Rosie reminded me so much of her.
I nodded. “Eastcliff. My mother and sister live there. We have a farm.”
“You do more than grow, then!” She laughed. “I bet the Right Hand was pleased to hear about that.”
Her statement sucked the wind out of me. I bobbed my head again with far less enthusiasm. “He was.”
The fall of quiet prompted Rosie to turn toward the ingredients and begin listing them off.
Flour, sugar, butter, and a pinch bowl with dried sprigs of lavender made for a short list of supplies.
With a wooden scoop in hand, she opened the jar of flour and began measuring into one of the smaller bowls, rattling off quantities and ratios that I wasn’t sure I’d remember. My mind was still on the farm .
After creaming the sugar and butter together with the lavender in the largest bowl and then adding the flour, she gave me the wooden spoon she’d been using and ushered me closer to the counter and the dough in progress.
“Stir that until it forms a ball,” she instructed.
I did as told, and she moved to the stove, feeding small logs into the firebox and checking the oven’s temperature before turning back toward me.
She stood with one elbow propped on the counter, watching silently until she couldn’t hold in whatever question she’d been mulling over.
“Penny, what happened to your hands?”
I hesitated, glancing at the spoon clutched between my mangled fingers. She’d noticed my scars the first time we met. I’m sure her father had, too, when he shook with me.
When it took me more than a few seconds to answer, she crowded closer. Blush stained her cheeks deep burgundy. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. It just looks… painful.”
“It’s not,” I said quickly. “Not anymore. It happened a long time ago.”
For some reason, I didn’t want her to know. That shame had chased me since I was nine years old, something everyone in Eastcliff knew about me. I didn’t want my time in Ashpoint to be tainted by the same judgment, so I was grateful when Rosie took my silence as a cue to change the subject.
“Next time, I’ll have to show you how to make pecan tarts,” she said. “We have an orchard nearby, and the pecans will be ripe soon. You can pick them up off the ground and fill your pockets.”
I returned to mixing as Rosie sprinkled more lavender into the bowl.
Behind us, the front door opened. I expected her father’s return or perhaps the arrival of the rest of her family. Instead, a lanky young woman with long brown hair let herself into the house. Rosie turned toward the newcomer.
“Tessa, I told you to come over later ,” she said with puzzling emphasis.
The guest, Tessa, grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long.” She aimed her attention at me. “You must be Penny. New to town, right?”
She crossed the room with surefooted strides. When she came into range, I expected her to offer her hand like Rosie’s father had. Instead, she propped her fists on her hips and looked me up and down. “I don’t know, Rosie. Isn’t he a little scrawny?”
Rosie’s blush from earlier was mild compared to the deep burn that seared her cheeks now. “He’s fine, Tess. Just fine. It was his friend I was telling you about. The new blacksmith?”
I remembered Tessa now, or at least the mention of her. Rosie had implied that her friend was on the hunt for a suitor and may find a match in Kit. The idea rankled me no less now than it had then.
Tessa’s scrunch-faced skepticism shifted to intrigue at the mention of Kit. “Is he scrawny?”
Rosie shook her head. “Not at all.”
Internally, I cursed Kit's strong shoulders, and his build so much more muscular than mine. Little wonder he drew notice. He'd drawn mine, after all.
A lump clogged my throat as I thought back to the feeling of his arms around me and chest against me, when he scooped me off the living room floor. We were close for that fleeting moment. It gave me ideas, fantasies about what might have occurred if I hadn’t vomited all over him.
I squinted at Tessa with her smooth tan skin and glossy brown hair, and I wished she was a bit less pretty. Maybe if she had a gnarled nose or pocked cheeks…
“What’s he like?” Tessa’s musings interrupted mine. “This blacksmith?”
“Grouchy,” I said. “The first time I met him, he threatened me with a knife. I don’t suspect he takes kindly to strangers.”
“He is a bit… terse,” Rosie interjected. “But could be different with people he knows well.” She nudged me as though expecting me to confirm her statement. I would agree, but not with the part she wanted me to.
“I think terse is an apt description,” I said.
Tessa’s features relaxed, and she laughed. “That suits me. I don’t fancy chatty men.” She wound her way past Rosie and me to peer at the spread on the counter. “Oh, shortbreads! Bring me some later, won’t you Rose? They’ll pair nicely with the ham I’m making for dinner.”
With a flounce of her gingham dress, she headed for the door to leave as abruptly as she’d come. “Penny, would you put in a good word with your friend for me? I look forward to meeting him soon.”
My jaw tightened as I watched her go. I didn’t realize my fists had clenched, too, until Rosie touched my wrist.
“Don’t mind her.” She smiled gently. “I think you’re strapping.”
I huffed a breath and turned back to the baking supplies.
“They’re about ready to roll out.” Rosie grabbed the dough I had mixed into a ball and passed it back and forth between her hands. Setting it on the counter, she stepped away and returned with a rolling pin.
“You know how to use one of these?” She held it aloft.
“Of course.” I took it from her, and she moved back while I rolled the dough across the floured workspace. “How thick should it be?”
She held up her thumb and forefinger to show a narrow gap. “About like this.”
Nodding again, I set to work, smoothing the dough into a pale brown sheet flecked with gray buds of lavender. Rosie stood by till I finished, then grinned her approval when I handed the rolling pin over.
She set it aside and collected the used scoops on her way to the sink. Pumping in water, she glanced at me. “I like you, Penny. You’re not like the other men here.”
I gathered the rest of the dirtied dishes and passed them to her.
“How so?” My brow raised.