Page 59 of The Evening and the Morning

“You still love her.”

“Oh, yes,” said Edgar. “I’ll always love her.”

The weather turned stormy. One night in the second week of September there was a terrific gale. Edgar thought the church tower might be blown down. However, all the buildings in the hamlet survived except one, the flimsiest—Leaf’s brewhouse.

She lost more than the building. She had had a cauldron brewing on the fire, but the huge pot had been overturned, the fire extinguished, and the ale lost. Worse than that, barrels of new ale had been smashed by falling timbers, and sacks of malted barley were soaked beyond rescue by torrential rain.

Next morning, in the calm after the storm, they went out to inspect the damage, and some of the villagers—curious as ever—gathered around the ruins.

Dreng was furious, and raged at Leaf. “That shack was barely standing before the storm. You should have moved the ale and the barley somewhere safer!”

Leaf was not impressed by Dreng’s tantrum. “You could have moved it yourself, or told Edgar to do it,” she said. “Don’t blame me.”

He was impervious to her logic. “Now I’m going to have to buy ale in Shiring and pay to have it carted here,” he went on.

“People will appreciate my ale more when they’ve had to drink Shiring ale for a few weeks,” Leaf said complacently.

Her unconcern drove Dreng wild. “And this isn’t the first time!” he raved. “You’ve burned the brewhouse down twice. Last time you passed out dead drunk and nearly burned yourself to death.”

Edgar had a brainstorm. He said: “You should build a stone brewhouse.”

“Don’t be daft,” Dreng said without looking at him. “You don’t put up a palace to make ale in.”

Cuthbert, the portly jeweler, was in the crowd, and Edgar now noticed that he was shaking his head in disagreement with Dreng. Edgar said: “What do you think, Cuthbert?”

“Edgar’s right,” Cuthbert said. “This will be the third time in five years that you’ve rebuilt the brewhouse, Dreng. A stone building would withstand storms and wouldn’t burn down. You’d save money in the long run.”

Dreng said scornfully: “Who’s going to build it, Cuthbert? You?”

“No, I’m a jeweler.”

“We can’t make ale in a brooch.”

Edgar knew the answer. “I can build it.”

Dreng gave a scornful grunt. “What do you know about building in stone?”

Edgar knew nothing about building in stone, but he felt he could turn his hand to just about any type of construction. And he yearned for the opportunity to show what he could do. Displaying moreconfidence than he felt, he said: “Stone is just like wood, only a bit harder.”

Dreng’s default position was scorn, but now he hesitated. His gaze flickered to the riverside and the sturdy moneymaking ferryboat tied up there. He turned to Cuthbert. “What would that cost?”

Edgar felt hopeful. Pa had always said: “When the man asks the price, he’s halfway to buying the boat.”

Cuthbert thought for a moment, then said: “Last time repairs were done to the church, the stone came from the limestone quarry at Outhenham.”

Edgar said: “Where’s that?”

“A day’s journey upriver.”

“Where did you get the sand?”

“There’s a sandpit in the woods about a mile from here. You just have to dig it up and carry it.”

“And the lime for the mortar?”

“That’s difficult to make, so we bought ours in Shiring.”

Dreng repeated: “What would it cost?”