Fitcher's Brides by Gregory Frost Page B

afterward. It seemed to have bled into her skin. She hoped the store would have plenty of candles for sale.
    Van Hollander didn’t know them, and when they walked in, he was busy assisting some other people. Vern turned her attention to idly inspecting the dry goods he offered. He had large burlap bags of flour, cornmeal, dry beans, and of ground feed for animals and bags of potash for making soap. There were some bonnets, beside a stack of folded shirts all of simple muslin. Pre-made clothing was so new a product that the shirts here were all of a single size, which looked to Vern large enough to fit most men. There were bolts of calico in plain dark colors and stripes, glassware and china, jars of maple sugar and syrup and horehound candies, a small barrel of eggs in lime water, bottles of blackstrap and flax seed oil, shovels and leather fire buckets. Her foot slipped at one point, and she looked down to find that she’d stepped in someone’s spit tobacco. The dusty floor everywhere seemed to be spotted with the stuff. It had been thus in Boston, too, but more on the streets than indoors. The habit disgusted her. At least her father had never taken up spitting.
    While Vern made her circuit of the store, Lavinia pulled out a purse and began to count half and quarter eagles, as if to see how much she would be able to buy. She counted her money openly, making certain that Van Hollander heard the clinking and saw the coins. Vern noticed first. Lavinia seemed to the girls to have an infinite supply of money, the source of which they had thus far failed to locate.
    The dour-faced Van Hollander lit up like a lantern at the sound and sight of those coins. Vern imagined that he was more often paid in less reliable currency—probably bungtown coppers and useless State Bank notes, and maybe even a pig in a place like this. He concluded his transaction with a desperate haste and fairly flung himself in Lavinia’s direction. She introduced herself and Vern, and explained where they were living. If the name Pulaski meant anything to him, Van Hollander knew how to mask it. “Mrs. Lavinia,” he said, immediately intimate, “what is it I can do for you today?”
    â€œCandles. We need some candles.”
    He blanched. “Mrs. Lavinia, I so regret that the very first thing you ask of me I don’t have. The great truth of it is, I sold the last of ’em to the folks at Harbinger yesterday late, quite unexpected. I could have some for you by Thursday if that’s consolation. And it’ll do you no good going across the road to Eggleston’s, as they bought up all of his, too. It’s a big place they have to light out there, with all them buildings and people. Are you familiar with the estate of Reverend Fitcher?”
    â€œYes, I am acquainted with it,” she said dryly, and Vern had to restrain herself from laughing aloud at her stepmother’s obfuscation. “I believe if you have spermaceti for sale, we will solve our lighting problems for now.”
    He nodded enthusiastically. “That I do have, in buckets. And I’ll cut you the price, as I can’t fulfill the other.”
    Lavinia nodded. “Then we’ll make do. I believe we have the rest of the ingredients for candles.” She cast a glance at Vern for confirmation.
    â€œWe have beeswax, yes’m. We could use alum.”
    Van Hollander said, “And you’ll be needing wicks then?”
    â€œVernelia?”
    â€œWe’ll need some. I don’t believe we have any.”
    Van Hollander collected the items. As he placed the wicks on the counter he asked, “What else might I get for you?”
    â€œSome salted pork or beef if you have it. Some butter and preserves. And can you tell me where one might purchase vegetables?”
    The answer it turned out was from him. He had a back room to the store where he kept potatoes and onions, cheeses, raisins, and coffee beans along with