Lilac Spring. Ruth Morren AxtellЧитать онлайн книгу.
you run along home and do what your aunt bids. You still have your watercoloring, don’t you? Why don’t you walk down to the harbor and paint some of the ships? Then tomorrow we’ll sail over to Hatsfield and you can do some shopping, visit some acquaintances and get to know the Townsends better. We’ll make a full day of it.”
“Papa,” she said quietly, swallowing her frustration with an effort, knowing it would do no good to vent it before her father, “what are you going to do about replacing Henry?”
Her father ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of impatience. “I haven’t figured that out yet. At this point, I don’t need any extra hands.”
“Then let me help you out a while, until you do decide!” She stood and came around the table to her father and put her arms around his shoulders. “Please, Papa! I’ve learned much about draftsmanship over the years. It’s true I haven’t been here full-time as Henry was, or—or—Silas, but I made Henry teach me everything you taught him. I can help with the lofting. I can keep the books. They didn’t only teach us to be ladies at school. I learned solid geometry. I learned enough arithmetic to keep track of your bills and expenses.
“Oh, Papa, please, please, say yes!” Annoyed with herself even as she gave him her most persuasive smile, and wondering why, with all her new maturity, she still had to resort to little-girl tactics, she held her breath, awaiting his reply.
“Oh, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm for you to putter around a bit here in the office.” He gave her a stern look. “But only up here. I don’t want you down on the yard. And get these silly notions of Silas out of your head. I know whom to put in charge of what in my shipyard. I know my men better than anyone else.
“Now, you spend some time with Phoebe, doing as she tells you, paint me some nice sailing pictures and play hostess for me the way I asked.”
He turned to the shelf behind him. “If you do all I tell you, you can have this.” He handed her a wooden half-hull model of a boat, about a foot and a half in length.
She took the smooth wooden boat, which was attached to a plank of wood. Above it was labeled in neat print “13’ Whitehall.”
“It’s a model for Ernest Mitchell. Let’s see how much you do know. You loft it, and I’ll judge what you’re capable of.”
Her eyes widened in delight. She’d gotten what she’d come for! “Really, Papa?”
He smiled at his daughter’s delight. “Get along with you. Go make yourself useful somehow so I can get back to my work.”
Deciding she’d better table her arguments in Silas’s favor for the present, she gave her father a quick hug, “Oh, yes, Papa! I’ll be the best hostess! I’ll become the best cook and housekeeper Haven’s End has ever seen! Thank you, Papa!”
She bent and gave him a kiss on his whiskered cheek, then fairly flew out of the office, headed for the workshop.
She was halfway out the office door, her mind spinning with ideas, when her father’s voice stopped her. “Remember, we’ll go to Hatsfield tomorrow. I want you to be especially nice to young Townsend and his sister.”
“Of course, Papa. I’ll put on my best company manners and play the lady to the hilt.”
Silas came into the boat shop after working the morning down in the yard, hewing timbers with an ax for the frames and planks for the schooner keel that sat on the stocks down on the beach. Although the spring day was still fresh, he felt hot and thirsty from his labors.
He stopped short at the sight of Cherish at the worktable.
He glanced down at his sweat- and tar-stained work shirt. “Hello, Cherish. What are you doing here?” He felt suddenly awkward before her dainty femininity. He wasn’t used to the new, grown-up Cherish. At least she looked more like her old self in a cotton frock and apron, her hair tied back with a bow.
She gave him a frown. “Not you, too! Didn’t you think I’d be here?”
He wiped his shirtsleeve against his forehead as he approached her. “Not quite so soon. You’ve only just arrived home.” He raised a brow skeptically. “Did you miss this place so much?”
Her eyes chided him. “This place and its people.”
He could feel himself flushing under her intent slate-blue gaze. For a second it seemed she was referring to him alone. Shaking aside the foolish notion, he observed, “At least I have less trouble recognizing you today.”
She glanced down at herself. “Yes, my gowns are all put away for the moment, though I suppose I’ll be diverting you tomorrow with a latest Parisian creation.”
“Don’t tell me—another party?”
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything more. Her tone turned brisk. “Papa has given me this half-hull for a thirteen-foot Whitehall. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to loft it.” She grinned, suddenly transformed into the little girl he remembered, always out to prove she was as capable as the men around her.
He neared the table and reached for the model. As he did so, an elusive fragrance reached his nostrils. It reminded him of dew-sprinkled lilacs in June. He didn’t remember ever smelling perfume on Cherish before.
He cleared his throat and turned his mind back to the boat in front of him.
“Well, you certainly tagged after Henry enough to know everything he knew. But it’s been two years since you’ve stepped into a boat shop. Aren’t you afraid you’ve forgotten a few things?”
She touched the model with a fingertip. “I think it’s one of those things that isn’t easily forgotten. Just looking at this hull brings back all sorts of recollections.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, mischief lighting the blue depths of her eyes. “Anyway, we are going to loft this together.”
“We?” He quirked an eyebrow up. “Since when am I a draftsman?”
“Since Henry left…and Papa has no immediate plans to replace him.”
Silas was surprised. “He doesn’t?”
She shook her head, sending the little dangling earrings with their minute turquoise stones shaking. Then she frowned. “He says at present he doesn’t need anyone else. He told me it has been slow around here. Has it?”
Silas looked out the square-paned window that overlooked the shipyard below. The tide was out, leaving smooth mudflats visible, with rivulets of water running between them in crooked lines down toward the sea.
“Yes, I suppose it has, this past year especially. We used to average three good-sized vessels a year, up to seven-hundred-ton ships, in addition to the smaller craft.” He nodded down at the stocks. “That’s a fifty-ton schooner—small for us—and it’s the only sizable order this spring. Everything else is like this.” He motioned toward the model on the table.
“Do you think things will pick up?” she asked.
“Hard to say. There’s still a lot of building going on farther down the coast.”
“Do you think Henry was right to head south?”
He shrugged. “Some say the days of sail are numbered. The opening of the Suez Canal in ’69 spelled the beginning of the end for the clipper trade.”
“But what about us here down east? Apart from the passenger steamer service from Boston and Portland, we don’t see much use for steam. All the fishermen sail, even out to the Grand Banks.”
“Yes, I think there’s still a demand for the smaller fishing schooners and those used in the coastal trade. But eventually I see even those supplementing their vessels with steam.” He shrugged. “And more and more of the larger schooners are being built with steel hulls. I don’t know if they’ll prove more successful than wood, but the fact is, shipping companies look at cost. The steel