The Glassblower (2 page)

“Please don’t let me fall.” She sent up a murmured prayer and stepped on the lowest branch she could reach.

The limb held firm. It didn’t even bow under her slight weight. She caught hold of higher branches and drew herself up another level. Despite appearing as though it would tumble into the creek with the first winter storm, the tree remained strong. Half a dozen more sets of limbs took her over the water. It bubbled and splashed, sending up white plumes where it broke at the rocks. Meg’s head spun, and she lifted her gaze to the kitten not more than a yard away.

The poor creature clung with paws no bigger than her pinky fingernail. Its emerald green eyes took up half of its face, and its pink mouth opened and closed in constant cries for help.

“I’m—coming, baby. Hang—”

Her foot slipped off the branch. She let out her own howl for aid.

“Hang on, lass, I’ll be right there.”

The voice, deep and masculine, slammed against Meg’s ears like a blow, and she jumped, losing her grip with one hand. She glanced to the road to make certain she wasn’t hearing things. Unfortunately she wasn’t. A man sprinted around the bend in the lane, long legs making short work of the distance, bright hair glowing like a sunset.

Meg wondered what would happen if she let herself fall into the creek. She supposed she’d be badly hurt instead of merely sinking far enough into the water to swim away and come up out of the man’s sight.

“All for a silly kitten,” she grumbled.

“Ma–row?” that silly kitten responded.

Meg narrowed her eyes to glare at him. She may as well rescue him. If she couldn’t go down, down, down into the water, she may as well go up, up, up to the cat.

She reached up and grasped the next higher branch. Her left foot snagged near the trunk of the tree. She raised her right foot for the next stair-step limb.

“Do not—” the man called.

Too late. Meg stepped onto the branch. A crack like a rifle shot echoed through the trees, and the limb gave way.

Nothing but thin air lay between Meg’s right foot and the creek twenty feet below. Her left foot began to slip.

“Ahh—ahh—ahh!” she shrieked.

Nubs of pine needles dug into her palms. Her arms ached with the strain of keeping herself from falling. “Hold on, lass, I’m here now.”

And he was. A firm hand grasped her right foot, set it on a sturdy toehold, then repeated the process with the left.

“You can move your left hand to the lower branch, can you now?”

With him so close to her, she noticed his accent, a rolling burr of the
r
‘s and musical cadence. She wondered who he was. She hadn’t heard of any newcomers.

How mortifying to have a stranger see her in such an ignominious position. Nearly as embarrassing as having someone she knew see her acting in so unwomanly a manner.

“Are you too frightened to move then?” The man’s tone was gentle. “Come now, it’s not so far down.”

It sounded like “doon.”

“Lass?” He tapped her foot.

Her foot was encased in a sturdy leather boot but was far too exposed with her skirt kilted up into her sash. Her stomach felt as though it dropped into those boots. Her face burned despite the cold. Perhaps if she scrambled down the tree, she could run off before he discovered her identity. The deep brim of her hat should obscure her features from his position behind and below her.

“Let go of the branch with your left hand.” The command was firm but calm. “Place it on the branch below it.”

The kitten yowled.

Meg managed to release her left hand from the limb and reach for the little creature. With her feet now on a lower branch, she fell far short of the feline. Her outstretched hand flailed in the air. She teetered on her perch.

“Do not tumble into the burn, lass,” the man admonished her. “I doubt I can catch you. Just grab the branch below where your right hand is.”

“But the kitten …” At last she managed a squeaky explanation.

“Do not fash yourself about the wee beastie. I’ll fetch her down. But first I must get you on the ground.”

“All right then.” Meg took a deep, steadying breath.

The faster she got down, the faster she could get herself away from this stranger who was seeing her ankles. Even if her boots covered those ankles, for anyone to see the tops of her boots was improper.

“I can do it,” she added.

“I have no doubt of it.”

With the cat staring at her with wide, accusing eyes, Meg curled the fingers of her left hand around the lower branch. She managed to release the grip of her right hand enough to move it below. Her balance improved at once, and she made the slanting descent with ease and speed if not grace. Always she knew the stranger moved ahead of her, watching her, ready to steady her if she slipped again.

By the time she attained the ground, her heart beat so hard she could scarcely breathe. Her hands shook as she tugged her skirt free from her sash, her legs trembled, and she hugged herself against the cold blast of the wind and to stop the shivers coursing through her body.

“Your cloak?” He picked up the garment and draped it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She caught hold of the collar before he let go.

Their fingers grazed, and a shiver different than those produced by the cold air raced through her. She looked up to his face, more than a head above hers, and her mouth went dry.

He had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen—eyes as green as grass before the summer heat turned it brown. Eyes as green as the emerald in her mother’s betrothal ring but much warmer. Eyes as green as the kittens’, though certainly not frightened. The thought made her smile.

He smiled in return. “There now, was that so bad?”

“Yes.” She glanced toward the tree and up to where she’d dangled. “Quite dreadful.”

The man laughed. “Then you’re a braw lass to climb a half-dead tree after a wee kitten.” He glanced at the more subdued but still squirming bag of cats. “You were rescuing them, I presume?”

“Certainly.” She stiffened. “Did you think I risked my life so I could toss them into the creek?”

“Nay, lass, nothing so unkind.” His fair skin tinged a fiery red that clashed with his hair. “I’ll be fetching the wee thing down.”

He swung around and climbed the tree with the agility of a feline. In moments he was reaching his hand toward the kitten. The ungrateful little beast darted away, dug its claws into the trunk, and streaked to the ground.

Meg snatched it up and hastened for the sack of its relatives. The others protested and writhed, jabbing claws through the sacking and setting up a caterwauling loud enough to be heard across Delaware Bay. She could scarcely hold on to her burden.

“Allow me.” The stranger appeared beside her, holding out a broad, long-fingered hand with several white scars crisscrossing the back of it. “I’ll take care of the wee thing.”

“Thank you.” She relinquished the kitten into his hold. The tiny feline nestled into the palm of his hand, and he stroked its soft fur with a forefinger before lifting the burlap bag and tucking the kitten into the mouth.

“They don’t much like it.” He cradled the bag in the crook of his arm. “I can carry it for you if you don’t have far to go.”

“No, not far.” Meg lowered her gaze to the toes of her boots and gestured down the road. “It’s no more than half a mile.”

“Then, if you’ll give me a moment to fetch my bag, I’ll accompany you. I’m heading that way as well.”

“I’d best not.”

Father didn’t care so much if she walked the half mile to the school building on her own, but if she returned home in the company of a stranger—a male stranger—Father would likely insist she go nowhere without someone accompanying her. That was never a difficulty when her friend Sarah was well, though once Sarah married, she would be too occupied with her husband to join Meg in her projects, and Meg didn’t want to be thwarted because Father placed restrictions on her movements.

“I don’t think I should.” She glanced up the track toward the charcoal burners, wondering if she dared cut through the trees to her house. “I can manage.”

“Perhaps you can, but—ah.” He grinned. “I beg your pardon. I am forgetting my manners.” He set down the bag and removed the small round cap from his head. “My name is Colin Grassick, newly arrived in New Jersey from Edinburgh—Scotland.”

“How do you do?” She bobbed a curtsy and posed a question so he wouldn’t notice she had no intention of giving him her name—so he could tell no one he had rescued Miss Jordan from a tree. “What brings you so far from home?”

“My profession.” He indicated the leather bag he carried, which was at least a yard long and clanked metallically. “Your profession?”

Meg feared she sounded astounded, but he didn’t look like a professional man. He wore simple dark wool breeches and worsted stockings, brogans, and a plain wool jacket. Doctors and lawyers wore finer suits and top hats; light, leather shoes with buckles; and showed snowy shirts with cravats. Maybe they did things differently in Scotland. She hoped so—not that what he did for a living made any difference to her.

He gave her a gentle smile as though understanding what she was thinking of his appearance. Or maybe she was staring too long.

“I’m a glassblower,” he told her.

She gave him an overly bright smile to mask the unreasonable stab of disappointment in her middle. “Then I assume you’re heading for the Jordan glassworks?”

“Aye, that I am.” His face lit as though the prospect of working in the hot, noisome glassworks made him happy. “Shall I carry the kittens until our paths part?”

“Thank you.” She nodded then set out along the road, telling herself he wouldn’t find out anything. The glassworks came before the entrance to the farm.

He fell into step beside her, hefting his bag of tools and the sack of kittens, the latter squalling with every step. He didn’t say anything, and she strove for a conversational gambit. Walking beside a stranger, one doing her a favor, without speaking felt uncomfortable.

“No one’s mentioned Mr. Jordan hired another glassblower,” she blurted out.

“I expect no one thought it important to you.” His long legs set a fast pace for her to keep up with. “Ladies don’t usually take an interest in business matters.”

“Not usually, no.” She pattered along beside him as they stepped beneath the trees. “But we don’t get a lot of newcomers here, especially not ones from Great Britain. Are you meeting Mr. Jordan at the glassworks?”

“Aye, he told me to come straightaway for the introductions and to get the key to my room.”

“Room?” Meg couldn’t stop herself from letting out a breathless laugh. “Mr. Grassick, you get a whole cottage if you’re a master glassblower.”

“Truly?” He slowed and gazed down at her. “I never expected so much.”

“It’s the only way Fa—Mr. Jordan can lure qualified glassmakers here, providing them with housing big enough for a family.” She peeked at him from beneath her hat brim. “Do you have a family coming?”

“If all works out here, aye.” He gazed up at the bare branches of the oaks stretching above them, thick enough with the accompanying pines to darken the lane in broad daylight. “My mother and the bairns.”

“You have children?”

He hadn’t mentioned a wife, just his mother. “Nay, my younger brothers and sisters.”

“How young?” Meg’s tone grew excited. “Young enough for school?”

“Aye. Five of them.”

“Five pupils for my school.” Meg let out a contented sigh.

“A school?” He stopped in the middle of the road. “The sort any bairns can attend? I mean—” His face colored.

Meg smiled. “Yes, a school for all children. At least I will soon.”

“Seems an odd thing for a young lady to do.” He resumed walking too quickly again.

“Not for me.” Meg nearly skipped to keep up with him. “Father asked me what gift I would like for Christmas last year, and I told him I wanted to open a school for the children who don’t have the means or time to go to the city for boarding school. There are quite a lot of them, like the boys who had the kittens. So he gave me permission to clean out an old, abandoned cottage and repair it a bit, so I can teach there. It’s taken awhile, but soon the children can at least learn to read and write. Maybe it’ll help them get a trade. We have so much need for skilled craftsmen here in America, but we don’t have many schools out here in the countryside.” She stopped walking at the end of a lane guarded by wooden gates. “This is the glassworks. If you pull that rope by the gate, someone will let you in.”

“Thank you.” He looked toward the gates but didn’t make any move toward them. “Can you manage the kittens, then?”

“Yes, I don’t have much farther to go.”

“I’d be that pleased to carry them to your destination for you.” He didn’t look at her.

She kept her gaze on the road and building beyond the gates, certain someone stood before the glassworks door returning their regard. Her nose tickled with the strong scent of charcoal from the chimneys sending smoke from the great furnaces into the cloudy sky. She’d love to keep his company a bit longer, love to have more time to learn about his family and why he came all the way to America when the United States and Britain weren’t getting along all that well. But if she let him walk her home, he would know who she was.

“Thank you, but you’ve done quite enough for me already, and you mustn’t keep Mr. Jordan waiting.”

“True, but I’d be that honored to serve you.”

“Serve me?” She laughed. “I feel like I should be doing something wonderful for you. Your coming is such an answer to prayer for me. I can’t open the school until I have glass in the windows. It’s simply too cold.”

“Does Mr. Jordan not have the window glassmakers already?” He glanced at her, his arched brows drawn together.

“He has window glassmakers and men who make drinking glasses. But people want more and more glass for their windows, and with the embargo last year, not much is getting imported from England or France.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Jordan says he’d give me the glass, but he needs to fulfill orders from paying customers first.”

“Aye, ‘tis the way of businessmen.” He handed her the sack of now-quiet kittens. “Someone’s coming to the gate now, so I’d best go in. Perhaps we will meet again.” With a courtly bow, he headed for the gate.