Whisper Falls by Elizabeth Langston Page B

must be thrifty with the sugar, as well.
    An idea stirred, a happy memory of my grandmother’s favorite sweet. Much better than a cobbler, in my opinion.
    I grabbed a pitcher of milk.
    Dorcas sighed with pleasure as she watched me carry ingredients to the table. “May I help?”
    â€œNo, little one,” I said with a smile. Dorcas would likely place more fruit in her mouth than in the recipe, “but I would enjoy conversation.”
    A shadow darkened the door. “Conversation about what?” Deborah watched us with suspicious eyes.
    I clamped my lips together, reluctant to answer the unwelcome visitor.
    â€œSusanna is making a cobbler.” Dorcas leaned her elbows on the table and propped her face in her hands.
    Deborah sniffed. “Is Jedidiah’s dinner pail ready?”
    I added a double portion of berries to the baking dish. “On the bench.”
    Deborah snatched up the pail in one hand and held the other out to Delilah. “I’m taking our brother’s meal to the tutor’s house. Would you like to walk with me?”
    The little girl slid off the bench and grasped her eldest sister’s hand. They disappeared through the doorway, Deborah’s strident voice talking as they went.
    I relaxed again.
    â€œSusanna, do you want to hear the news?”
    â€œIf you like.” I found a wooden bowl and spoon, only listening with part of my attention. Dorcas needed little encouragement.
    â€œAll right, then. Did you notice that Deborah seems upset today?”
    Deborah Pratt was unpleasant far too often for it to be news. “What’s the reason for her unpleasant mood?”
    â€œJacob Worth ignored her at the tutor’s yesterday.” Dorcas sighed. “I can’t wait until she’s old enough to marry and leave our house. Then I shall be the eldest daughter.”
    â€œShe’s only thirteen. I fear you have a long wait.”
    â€œMama says fifteen is an excellent age to marry for a clever girl. But you are right; two years is quite a long time,” Dorcas said, her lips puckering into a tiny rosebud of despair. She watched as I added flour and sugar. “Do you like cobbler?”
    â€œVery much,” I said, reaching for the milk.
    â€œDo you ever get to eat any?”
    I glanced at her face, but it was guileless. She hadn’t learned the rules yet. Servants ate only what the family left behind. “Not often. The Pratt children like to eat the entire sweet.”
    â€œYes, we do, and there are so many of us.” She bobbed her head, her cap slipping. “Three after me. Since you joined our family, you’ve had many babies to raise.”
    I didn’t know whether to laugh or ignore her. Dorcas dearly loved stories from her infancy, and she never grew weary of hearing them. I went along—as she knew I would.
    â€œIndeed, I have. You were still toddling when I arrived. You were far too busy to mind if you fell over and bumped your head.”
    â€œI was a sweet baby.”
    â€œThe best. Always cooing and beaming.”
    â€œI was no trouble.”
    My eyebrow shot up in mock surprise. “I don’t remember it the same way.”
    She giggled. “I was an easier baby than your sister.”
    â€œThat is true.” Phoebe had been delicate at birth. Although not quite six years old myself when she was born, I tended to her and my mother while my father and brothers handled the chores. That period had given me the knowledge to care for babies, a skill which the Pratts had used often. “My sister didn’t begin life with your robust health.”
    â€œSusanna,” Dorcas gasped and surged onto the worktable to frown at the bowl, “you are adding too much milk.”
    I smiled at the top of her head. “I thought I would make a sonker.”
    â€œWhat is that?”
    â€œIt’s a cobbler with too much milk. Sonkers were a specialty in the town where my grandmother grew up.