The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Read Free Page A

no
la-di-da moods . Sell me a pair of
horseshoes, would you, Smith?”
    Tyrel busied himself with fitting
and shoeing the man’s horse, putting aside his concerns about the change in
John Carver. A personality changed by a lightning strike? It seemed
preposterous. Most likely it was exactly what John had hinted at—his wife was
about to present him with a fifth child and was giving him hell about bringing
in more money. He got an idea.

 
    *
* *

 
    John put the last of his finished
wares into the small handcart and bent over to lift the yoke. Once it began rolling,
the burden moved along easily enough. Maggie had asked that he bring bread,
vegetables and candles when he came home. She made a point about the
candles—he’d been burning far too many of them, working late into the night in
his shop at the side of the house. Making matters worse, her brother Sean added
to the discussion by disparaging the work of an artist, saying John should
instead do something useful with his time, helping out on the plot of farm
land.
    He put his brother-in-law’s
comments aside and turned to wave at his wife, feeling a rush of emotion at the
sight of the thin woman, hugely pregnant now, with little Siobhan perched on
her hip and the next two hanging on to her skirts. Her old smile briefly lit
her face, bringing back memories of their courting days. Ethan had begged to
come with his father, but the six-year-old didn’t yet have the stamina to make
it through the long market day without becoming tired and whiny. Maggie was a
good mother and an excellent cook, given what she had to work with. It was no
wonder her temper ran a little short these days. He turned to the rutted road
that led the half-mile to the side gate of the town wall, hurrying, as he was
already getting a late start.
    At the gate a stream of patrons
were making their way toward the open square where tables and blankets were
spread with food and wares. A butcher displayed cages of chickens, squawking
wildly, and sides of meat. Someone else showed piles of dirt-crusted potatoes
and carrots; one woman’s table was laden with lengths of cloth. The women who
paused there looked longingly at the pieces dyed in reds and blues, but
purchased the plainer tans and grays which must have been less expensive. An
old man under a wooden shelter hammered at a strip of tin, forming the handle
for a teapot.
    John hurried to his customary
spot. Pushing his cart up against the wall of a two-story stone building, he
whipped out two blankets and began setting out his display of plates and
kitchen implements. A section of tree stump made a stool, and his box of
chisels afforded him the ability to work when he wasn’t waiting on a customer.
He looked at the sky. Clear, for a change. If the clouds began to threaten
rain, he would need to get out the poles and tarpaulin of oiled cloth and erect
a shelter over his work area.
    His interest quickened as he came
to the cloth-wrapped packet that held the wooden box he’d begun making two
weeks ago. From the smaller of the two lengths of alder branch he’d blocked out
the rough shape of the piece with his hatchet—a rectangle about two hands in
length and one hand wide. The depth would be sufficient for a lady to store her
bits of finery; a man might use it for his pipe; an important courier could use
it for the safe keeping of letters. Perhaps one day a letter to the king would
be carried all the way to London in this very box!
    He set the parcel on the open end
of the cart, the place that afforded a reasonably stable surface for working,
then dragged the stump-seat near to it. Peeling back the cloth covering, he
felt a moment’s disappointment.
    In his mind, the lidded box was a
fine, polished piece, worthy of that letter to the king. But in reality the
carved quilt pattern had not turned out as well as he had hoped. He had made
the mistake of applying a stain to the entire piece without testing a small bit
first. The walnut oil was too