Bitter Harvest by Sheila Connolly Read Free Book Online

was pretty iffy, but the skeleton was good—Seth had checked when he installed the apple holding chambers. So she might be cold, but she wasn’t in any danger, and there was plenty of food. And companionship. She was going to have a sleepover with Seth. Sure, they’d spent nights together, but not prolonged periods of time with little to distract them. They’d actually have time to talk, unless Seth went into his manic fix-it mode. Was this good or bad?
    Good , Meg decided. There were issues they’d both been tap dancing around for months, and maybe now they would have time to explore some of them.
    Seth was back in minutes, and after stamping off the snow—again—he came from the kitchen bearing two remarkably rusty but intact oil lamps that Meg dimly remembered hanging in the barn. “We’re good. You might collect any candles you have. Dorcas and Isabel said hi.”
    “Are they all right?”
    “They’re fine. Probably bored. Listen, you should also bring down blankets and pillows—I don’t think you’ll want to sleep upstairs.”
    “Even with a bed warmer?”
    “Even with.” He smiled.
    She went upstairs and started collecting quilts and pillows. He was right: it was freezing upstairs, and it wasn’t even dark yet. She wondered briefly if she had a chamber pot lurking in a dark corner. Making a trip to the bathroom later wouldn’t be pleasant. Maybe a bucket?
    Downstairs she dumped her trove of bedding on a chair. “So now what? What did people do in the old days?”
    Seth prodded the fire carefully. “When they weren’t working, you mean? Read. Sewed, since clothes were scarce and probably needed a lot of mending. Knit. Sat around the pianoforte singing. You don’t happen to have one of those, do you?”
    “Sorry, no. I’m not particularly musical anyway. And I’m not very good at knitting.”
    “Well, there are games—cards, backgammon, cribbage. Poker, if you want to be more modern. You have any games or cards?”
    “Maybe, although I’d have to hunt for them. I never had time for that sort of thing in Boston. Everyone I knew was always working, and even when we had time off, we’d usually just go to a bar or restaurant or watch a DVD.”
    “There are plenty of games at Mom’s house.”
    “Seth Chapin, don’t you dare go out in this weather just to get a cribbage board or whatever! Worst case, we can make our own playing cards.”
    “Now there’s the pioneer spirit!”
    “Can we leave the fire unattended? Because I was thinking of baking something.”
    “As long as there’s nothing flammable nearby, I think we’ll be okay—you’ve got a good, broad slate hearth here. Can I help?”
    “You can lick the bowl, if I can figure out what dessert is.”
    “Sounds good. Let me go downstairs and check that window, and you go start whipping up something in the kitchen.”
    “Yes, master.”

5
    While Seth poked around in the cellar—again—Meg inventoried her supplies. What was she in the mood for? The idea of peeling all those apples, and then trying to make a piecrust, had lost its charm. She wanted something solid and sugary. Not cookies: cake. Or gingerbread. Did she have molasses? She rummaged in her cupboards and triumphantly pulled out a sticky bottle. Yes!
    Seth came in, looking perplexed, as she was melting butter in a pan.
    “What?” she asked.
    “I don’t know why that window came open. The wood was pretty sound, all things considered, so it would have taken some real force to pull the eyebolt out, which is what happened. A freak gust, I guess. What’re you making?”
    “Gingerbread. I thought it fit the scene. You know, real Currier and Ives stuff. You know anyone with a one-horse sleigh?”
    “Sure, but he’s over in Hadley, remember? I don’t think he’ll be stopping by tonight.”
    They spent a companionable hour cooking, or rather, Meg cooked and Seth watched and commented.
    “You know, this is pretty sexist,” Meg said, as she slid the gingerbread into the