The first time I got a glimpse of the house in the middle of forest and fields, I felt a glimmer of hope. It was well kept, and the windows made a friendly face with the front door and the little gate that separated the yard from the road. The door flew open upon our approach, and a woman, her skirts in hand, ran to greet us, a little black-haired boy on her heels. A burly man, a hat on his head and his sleeves rolled as if he’d just stepped away from his labors, called out to the reverend as we drew to a halt.
“Don’t be afraid, Deborah,” the reverend said gently. “You will not be mistreated here.”
Boys tumbled out of the barn and came in from the fields, boys of all sizes, though most appeared older than me. Reverend Conant seemed to know all their names and greeted each one, but I didn’t know which name belonged to whom. There were so many, and I had very little experience with other children, especially boys. They watched their father help me down from the mare, though it was not an inability to disembark as much as trepidation that had kept me rooted to my seat instead of sliding to the ground.
Deacon Jeremiah Thomas wore two frowns, one on his brow and one on his lips, but his wife, Susannah, a woman who barely reached his shoulder, was his opposite in every way. His soberness, I would come to find, was not cruelty. He was not jolly, but he was just, which was a far better quality in my opinion. Susannah Thomas smiled at me and grasped my hands.
“Sylvanus did not tell us you were so grown. You are so tall for ten and already a young woman.”
I nodded but did not smile. I expect I looked rather fierce too, though I was simply afraid. She introduced me to her sons, oldest to youngest. Nathaniel, Jacob, and Benjamin were eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen. All three were midheight and slim with dark hair and freckled noses, which they wrinkled at me. I don’t know what they were expecting, but I was clearly not it. Elijah was heavier set with lighter hair and an easier smile. He was fourteen, and thirteen-year-old Edward was his mirror image, as if Mrs. Thomas had birthed her sons in sets, whether they were born at the same time or not.
Twelve-year-old Francis and Phineas were actual twins, and the dark hair and sparer frames of their older brothers reemerged with them. I was taller than both, and the one named Phineas scowled when his mother cooed over my height. David and Daniel were twins as well, and ten like me, with curly brown mops that needed grooming. I was a sight taller than them too.
Jeremiah was the youngest, at six, and the only one who didn’t seem to have a double. I was hopeful, for Mrs. Thomas’s sake, that the six years after Jeremiah meant she wouldn’t be having any more.
“We will try not to overwhelm you, Deborah, though we are very excited to have you here. It will be good to have another female in the house. You will help civilize my sons.”
Someone snorted at that, though I could not be sure who. Mrs. Thomas turned and looped her arm through Reverend Conant’s and announced that supper was ready.
“Wash and come inside, boys. Deborah, bring your things. I will show you where you’ll sleep.”
Mrs. Thomas turned her attention to Reverend Conant, and they walked into the house, chatting like old friends. Deacon Thomas was already leading the horse to the trough, and I hoisted my satchel, hiked my sagging stockings, and prepared to follow. The Thomas boys had fallen into quiet conference, and I froze, my back toward them, straining to hear.
“She’s plain as a fence post.”
“Shaped like one too.”
“And her hair is the color of straw.” Whoever was speaking snickered. “Maybe she could stand in the field and scare away the birds.”
“Her eyes are pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like hers.”
“They’re creepy! We’ll have to set up a watch each night, to keep her from slaying us all in our beds.”
I laughed at that, the bark of mirth surprising us all, and I turned to flash a wicked grin in their direction. Better they fear me than dismiss me.
“Her teeth are good,” someone muttered, and I laughed again.
“She’s downright peculiar,” the oldest brother said, but the boy named Phineas had begun laughing too, and one by one, the others joined him.
I did not civilize the boys.
It might even be said that they radicalized me.
They slept in the big loft above the great room in berths built into the slope of the roof. Only David and Daniel, the youngest set of twins, slept in a regular bed, and it was hardly big enough for the two of them. They slept with their heads on opposite ends, their feet tickling each other’s noses.