Sweepings of the Street [EXCERPT]

Chapter 2: The Decision

Several days passed, and Father remained confined to the bed. Fourteen hours without Mother and Thomas were interminable; they worked longer shifts now to compensate for Father's incapacity. Abigail basked in Sarah's company, asking for stories or funny sentences for her to transcribe until Sarah's head hurt. Mother and Thomas' arrival hardly released Sarah from Abigail's clutches, for they were so exhausted that they often fell asleep without their dinner.

Sarah had just found enough freedom to open her trunk and begin to organize the jumble of items within when the door opened. She closed the trunk with a sigh and went into the sitting room to greet Thomas and Mother.

"How was work?" she asked.

Thomas yawned in response and sank onto the bench that remained at the table.

"Long," said Mother, who stood in the doorway to Father's room. Four days had passed with little improvement to Father's leg. "Did Dr. Mortimer come today?" she asked, accepting the plate that Sarah offered her.

Father nodded with a sigh. "He says I'm not to be on my feet for a few more days, and the cane won't be sufficient until a few months from now. He's going to find me a crutch of some sort, but it'll be a pound or two, a few days of Thomas' wages."

Mother pursed her lips in sympathy. "You may have to stay home from church this week, then."

Sarah had noticed that the cupboard and the barrels were a bit less plentiful than they usually were, which wasn't saying much, but it worried her. Her wages had barely made a dent in her family's income, but Father's had been a far bigger portion.

"We received a letter from Deborah," said Father, perhaps to change the subject. A mail coach had delivered the letter from Sarah's aunt that morning, and Sarah had paid the letter-carrier eight pence, the fee for its fifty-mile journey from Oxford.

"How is she?" Mother asked. Thomas had nodded off against his hand, his food untouched. Abigail was sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth, drawing with her pencil in her left hand, Sarah noticed with amusement. Not in the mood to correct her, Sarah turned her attention back to her parents' conversation.

"She's well," Father said. "She was grieved to hear about the accident, of course. Her wedding anniversary is approaching as well, and that day is painful."

Sarah had not spent ample time with her uncle Richard Hathaway before his death in the Battle of Waterloo in June of 1815, but on Christmas of that year Deborah had been in mourning in both clothing and demeanor. The Lees hadn't seen her since then, although Deborah and Father kept up a regular correspondence.

Abigail rose and examined the letter on the table. "She writes small," she proclaimed. "And fancy."

"She's done it for far longer than you have," Sarah called to her. "Besides, we would have paid twice the price if she had written a second page."

Abigail frowned. "We pay for what she writes?"

"Aye. God knows why."

Mother surveyed Father with an air of knowing exasperation. "I suppose she's offering more money, and you are refusing it."

Sarah cringed in anticipation. Every time a letter came from Deborah, her parents repeated the same argument.

Father heaved a sigh. "We do not need Deborah's help," he said. "I've said it before. I appreciate her offers, but I am not depending on my elder sister for money."

Mother sat on the bench that was still at Father's bedside. "This is no place for your stubbornness. She wishes to help us, and you've just lost your job. You ought to accept that..." She lowered her voice, but Sarah could discern the words poor and money.