Moment:

But my trip back from Brewsters' was not yet over.

We were not far from the furthermost edge of Lucas Brewster's orchard when Sally B. and I began to more fully understand what the absence (and possible loss) of Cleopas might mean to us.

Nearly in sight of the Hayman family farm (though their house is difficult even in the winter to see from the track which leads on toward the village), our wagon's wheel snapped its spoke.

Dismayed (and feeling even more acutely that I had over-stayed my visit to Carrie Brewster), I bid Sally B. to run on to the Hayman house or barn, see if anyone was about and ask for assistance while I stayed behind, contemplating the splintered wood and the possibility that we might well not make it home until after dark.

I confess, also, that following an afternoon keeping company with Carrie Brewster (which had been pleasant enough), the idea of calling upon a second house which held yet another young lady kept from village society (in a word, Merriment Hayman)-and what's more, overseen by some sort of nurse or rural governess-type figure-was not one which held for me much allure.

And no matter what Sally B. might say, it had nothing at all to do with the fact my frock had become quite soiled (and rumpled) as I had made my way unescorted (by such as Cleopas) through the Brewsters' barnyard to join Sally B. at the wagon.

I simply preferred to wait alone with my own thoughts, rather than commence a second (also unannounced) visit.

I do not recall the last time I might have shared words with Merriment Hayman.

The sequestered and rather bleak life of the Hayman family has no need to be rendered by me here; suffice to say it has ever been difficult to understand what possessed the sober, retiring parents of Merry Hayman to name her 'Merriment', unless they meant to try and call some of that feeling down and into their lives.

Certainly as he arrived with Sally B., Amos Hayman had nothing of merriment about his expression.

He spent several moments examining the wheel's damage, and announced that although he was not a wheelwright he might well be able to assist us.

Naturally I assumed this meant he would be able to repair it for us. But it presently became clear that he meant to keep our wagon and drive us back to the village in his own rig.

He and I sat the seat, with Sally B. facing backward in the bed with our broken wheel.

Truth be told, I have very little familiarity with Amos Hayman, and am certainly unused to sitting in close proximity to men outside of my family's circle of acquaintance; much less farmers with rougher, countrified manners.

"Can't send you on alone," Mr. Hayman said. His tone seemed to say he'd wish to. "Though I've little enough interest in taking myself into town."

It seemed humorous to me, him calling our village a 'town' as though it were a place of larger importance and commerce than it is.

"How'd you come to be out so late of a day, Miss Outerbridge? And alone, at that. Your man-he already gone, then?"

His address of me as Miss Outerbridge rather than Miss Jenny-something I was more used to hearing in reference to Bess-unexpectedly discomfited me. I felt my brow draw together. "Cleopas has gone with my father to York City," I said, feeling no need to mention the present uncertainty of that trip's fate.

"Oh," he replied, seemingly on the edge of bewilderment. "Will you be keeping him paid-wage, then?"

I felt Sally B. draw herself up to seated attention behind us, her weight shifting in the wagon's bed.

I informed Mr. Hayman I had no idea to what he was referring. I do not know if my tone of voice kept to this side of civility.

"Why, it's all over that Malachi Outerbridge's all set to free his slaves," he informed me, as though it were the most rote relating of facts, and not at all unsupported hearsay.

Sally B.'s hand slap-grabbed the back of my seat. I half-jumped in response.

I let him know this was the most baseless of gossips I had heard in some time. I tried very hard to keep my chin steady. Even the notion of such an idea circulating as gossip had stolen what little there had been (seated next to this disconcerting half-stranger) of my composure.

"'Twas that attainder Major Hewlett placed on Selah Strong's property," he went on, just as though I had not naysaid him. "The Major has some sort of...moral conviction...against slaveholding. A body that wants to make good friends with him can't ignore it."

"Why," I countered, emboldened by the flaw I'd found in his remark. "Richard Woodhull has a housefull of slaves-African and indentured alike!"

"Aye, he's that, and Hewlett's ower-good opinion already established. He needs no grand gesture to gain that man's praise."

"And you think, you think my father has it not?" He was right. Richard Woodhull had no need to court Major Hewlett. Having been a visitor at Whitehall with Mama, I had seen their likemindedness in action. Indeed, Setauket's magistrate could ascend no higher in Major Hewlett's confidence and amity than were he discovered as the major's natural brother.

At this, Mr. Hayman shook his head, like a master saddened by his pupils' lack of comprehension. "Man can't win with politics, Miss. Try to bunk with the Tories when they're on top. Should the Continentals-Tallmadge's runaway boys and the like-gain the upper hand, good luck trying to convince them you've reformed. And what to say for yourself should the Tories then re-gain power?"

He shared this conundrum in such a way that it was impossible to know if one side in the present war appealed to him more than the other.

I found myself so distracted and surprised by the content of his speech-this obvious misapprehension about Papa-I had no comment to offer him, in dissention or agreement.

He spoke on in his earlier vein about our house slaves. "If your Pa sets his slaves free, and finds he cannot afford them at paid-wage, my house could make use of a girl," he said, and here he turned about and actually looked at Sally B. "I'd pay a fair wage: food, bed of your own. Pleasant company of my daughter."

I found myself outraged at his impropriety. Offering work to our Sally B.! While I rode alongside him!

Sally B. at least knew better than to answer such a question. But her eyes had grown wide in a way that I could not ignore, and in which find myself yet thinking about.

Mr. Hayman left us at the front door, refusing an invitation to come indoors and warm himself even before it was offered. He was courteous enough to let us know he would take the broken wheel (which had ridden with Sally B. in his wagon's bed) over to the wheelwright's and arrange for its repair and for us to be informed when we might send someone out to his farm to place it on our wagon and receive it back in Setauket.

Before we stepped over the threshold and into the house, I made certain to catch her arm and ask Sally B. what she might even think she would do with something such as freedom.

"Go find 'Lijah," she told me, and something sparked in her face I don't know if I'd ever seen before. Elijah is her brother, lately owned by Selah Strong, and since Christmas and the attainder, sent off to York City (and possibly on from there) working for His Majesty's Army.

She went inside quick enough after that, and I tried not to let Hayman's idle talk stay with me as I went to tell mother we were home and share something (but not all) of my visit and the broken wheel. I said nothing of Ben Tallmadge's letter to Carrie Brewster. I said nothing of Amos Hayman's gossip and misapprehensions.

She said nothing of her obvious distress that had Cleopas or father been home, such an event would have caused far less concern and bother. Said nothing of her anxiety (like unto my own) over still not receiving word from them.

I thought Sally B. had forgotten about Hayman's chatter as well, but as I awoke when she climbed into the bed we share, her breath, warm in the cold of our room, blew across my cheek. "You find out, Miss Jenny," she said, low and slightly hoarse-as though it were a hard thing for her to speak. "You find out if Mister Malachi gonna let us all go free. I gotta know. Won't sleep right 'til I do."

I wanted to tell her not to be silly. There was no truth to such a thing. It would never happen. Papa had never so much as contemplated it. It was but a stranger's idle talk. But something inside told me such words would upset her, kindle anger in her. Instead I asked, through my own haze of being half-asleep: "Papa is not here to ask-how should I discover such a thing?"

"You can read, Miss Jenny," she said, tucking the counterpane under her chin now with an air of confidence. "Your papa's got a world of papers in his study. 'Answer's in them, sure enough."

She is not wrong. Papa's papers enough to fill several lesser men's libraries. He is not home, and his study stands vacant. I have spent enough time in the last years demurely clerking for him when he was most in need of it since Simon finished his apprenticeship and moved on to York City and the Fisks.

I write, as on display here, a smooth, readable hand, and my ability with sums exceeds that of most other girls. Of course Papa had never wished anyone to know I was assisting him in his business matters. I never worked in his office, but always in private. But I know things. Things not even Sally B. may suspect. Where he kept his most valuable papers. Where the monies are held. What there was of a code that he used for his most important dealings.

All that is left now is to ask: in his absence, would it be lack of faith in him to seek through such things for evidence to prove Amos Hayman mistaken? Would such action of itself prove me disloyal? Even as I try to vindicate him?

Will dear Papa ever return home for such a betrayal of mine to matter?

A/N:: moment - n. formal 2. importance 'the issues were of little moment to the electorate' (see momentous)