Chapter 1
September 1777, Hopewell Village, Berks County, Pennsylvania
Fifteen-year-old Rachel Palsgrove slunk along the side of the rough stone building, hugging her body so close to it that the sandstone scoured the skin on her face and arms. The new crescent moon was barely visible tonight. The silhouettes of trees and buildings were hardly discernible, and this side of the furnace building was dark and deep in shadow. She moved slowly, her feet whispering in the tall, sweet-smelling grass. There were no trees nearby, so no dry leaves crackled underfoot. Her heart thudded, and bile rose in her throat, but curiosity drove her forward to the one small window. Her booted feet felt the ground tentatively. A soft spot or rabbit hole might twist an ankle. Reaching the window in the middle of the long wall, she peeped around its corner, spat on her fingers to wipe the caked-on dirt from the glass, and then rubbed her grimy fingers on her pants.
What is happening inside, she wondered. A brilliant glow illuminated the interior of the building. Red-hot liquid iron poured from the giant ladle hung from the pulley overhead. Sparks flew everywhere. Men scurried with their sand-filled mold boxes, positioning them under the river of metal. Near them, a team of workers struggled with a much larger mold box several feet high. Fascinating. She had never seen a mold that size. Usually, the furnace cast stove parts or iron pots. Furtively, she glanced down the wall to make sure no one was coming. Yells from inside made her turn back to the window. Her father, the furnace founder, shouted and gestured for more men to help support the large mold box as a heavy load of iron filled it.
A rustling at the far end of the building startled her. She could see nothing in the darkness, but the sound of someone approaching was unmistakable. She slithered as quickly as she could in the opposite direction. Before she turned the corner, she glanced back to see someone outlined by the glow of the window. Who else is here?
As Rachel backed around the corner, strong arms encircled her, squeezing her tight. Hot, rancid breath filled her ears. “I warned you yesterday evening to stay away, and here you are again,” George Coggins growled.
She struggled in his grasp. “Let me go!” she squealed. “You’re hurting me.”
A teamster loading his wagon across the way looked up at the commotion. His cream-colored team stamped their feet. “Do you need help, Miss?” he called.
“Mind your own business, Jesse,” George retorted. “She knows she shouldn’t be here.”
The teamster looked away and continued his loading.
“What did you see in the window?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I never got that far.”
He relaxed his grip, then grabbed her arm and jerked her away from the building. She stumbled behind him.
“Go home,” he commanded, flinging her forward, “and don’t come back.”
“Please don’t tell my father I was here,” she begged, rubbing her bruised arm.
“I must. You’ve left me no choice. Now go.”
She sniffed back tears, then hurried down the lane toward home, glancing over her shoulder once. He was still glaring at her, a greasy lock of black hair draped over his forehead and burly arms crossed over his chest. Father is going to whip me when he finds out.
Rachel crossed the little wooden bridge spanning French Creek that carried runoff from the waterwheel at the furnace. A short distance later, she turned onto the path to her house, then peered in the window. The keeping room was empty. The structure was dark, just as she had left it several hours ago.
She lifted the latch and entered the kitchen. The smell of freshly baked bread in the pie safe permeated the room. As she turned to tiptoe up the stairs, a stern voice from the keeping room commanded, “Come here, Rachel.”
Now I’m caught again, she thought as she slunk into the room. “Oh, Mother, I thought you were in bed.”
“Sit down.”
Rachel crossed the room to the chair. Her mother struck a match, and the candle on the table beside her flickered to life. Silhouettes of Rachel and her mother danced on the walls. On the settee, Rachel saw the shirt her mother had been sewing earlier beside the sewing basket. Her mother sighed at the sight of her daughter crumpled in the chair.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return. Where have you been? I’ve warned you over and over about going out at night.”
Rachel’s leg jigged. “I get so restless, Mother. I can’t stay inside.”
“Running around the village in the middle of the night is shameful behavior for a young woman. We’ve been through this before. Why don’t you listen?”
“Hopewell is so different at night, Mother. Everything seems to come alive. The creatures roaming around—skunks and possums and deer. There are the nighttime sounds of crickets and katydids in the meadow and the people bustling at the furnace. I want to see it all.”
“There’s no time to explore every night. Your curiosity will get you in trouble. You should be in bed, especially tonight. You must prepare for the dance tomorrow evening. There are lots of chores to be done before then.”
“Must I go to the dance?” Rachel whined.
“Yes, your schooling will be done soon, and you need to find a beau. You’ll never meet one spending all your time in that smelly barn with horses or with your nose in a book.”
“But I don’t want a beau, Mother.”
“You can’t stay with Father and me the rest of your life. You need to start wearing dresses and not breeches all the time. They’re not ladylike. You don’t want to end up a spinster with no means of support. Now go to bed.”
“Yes, Mother.” She knew further discussion about dresses, the dance, and marriage was hopeless, but she wasn’t about to give up her late-night excursions. Hopewell bared its secrets at night, and she yearned to discover them, no matter what the consequences. You can’t stop me!