“I’m to bed,” I said. I lit a nub of candle in its plain glazed holder and stood.
Cook glanced up, a slight hesitation as she caught my gaze, perhaps a tint of embarrassment from her earlier behavior. But she pressed her lips in a line and gave a quick nod to allow my freedom.
I unlocked my door and opened it, then waited a brief moment before pulling it shut again and turning the key. I snuck a look back at the turn in the hall—Mr. Friday now played a piece that set Cook’s foot thumping. My fingers trailed the hallway walls, nails dipping in and out of the crevices between boards. Pressing against the wood and pausing for the telltale give that would provide me access to the floors above.
And there, five paces beyond the linen room, the hidden door swung open at the lightest touch.
The steep narrow stairs were bathed in the black of night; I was glad for the scrim of candlelight, though its reach was frugal at best. I edged into the space, clicking the latch behind me and shifting my foot until my toes found the first riser. The walls were rough to the touch of my palms, and I knew in the daylight would be but whitewashed wood that belonged neither upstairs nor down. Though the kitchen stairs were a short flight, the yard at the front of the house curved down toward the town and river, and thus I found myself on a square landing that turned to a second flight of stairs.
I heard movement on the steps above me and froze, my hand thrown flat against the sudden erratic beat of my heart.
“Who’s there?” I whispered, lifting the flame toward the sound.
I was met by a pair of eyes, dark black and shiny as a doll’s. It was Mrs. Burton, sitting on the top step, wrapped in a simple gray cloak, her hair unadorned and tied back with a thin ribbon. I caught her staring at me, her expression both curious and awaiting, though of what I knew not. I had to remind myself she was blind. Her forehead was smooth, her cheeks high and tapering to a narrow cleft chin. Fine lines etched the corners of her eyes, sharp shadows of laughter and life. Her skin was pallid, and as my eyes settled into the low light, I saw the cracked dry flesh of her lips and the pulse of the vein along her throat. Her mouth quivered and she pulled in a quick breath.
“Hello, Lucy.” She reached out her hand, and her fingers twitched slightly as she waited for my hand to meet hers.
“How do you know it is me?”
“My jailer’s asleep in her rooms, and your Cook is enjoying a reel.” She let go my hand, then closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. “He plays so beautifully.”
My ears tuned to the muffle of music that came from under the door. “Why don’t you go down and listen to it properly?”
“Why don’t you sit down and listen from here? Though I don’t think that was your intention.”
“My intention?”
“You came to steal a bauble or ogle at the mad wife.”
“I was only—”
“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” She tilted her head and looked in my direction. “Do you play whist?”
“Whist?”
“Rebecca hates it.”
“And Mr. Burton?”
Her lip curled and she let out a cheerless laugh. “He’s not inclined toward cards.” She gathered her skirts close to her legs and pointed to the landing. “Sit and play a game with me.” From the purse at her waist, she pulled a deck of cards and fanned them out before me. Each was punched with a sequence of raised dots. She touched her fingers lightly to the corners before scooping them into a stack and pressing them into a shuffle. “German whist? Thirteen-card start.”
I placed the candle at my side and arranged the cards.
“So, which was it?” she asked. “To steal or to ogle?”
“Maybe a bit of both.”
“And do you cheat at cards?”
“On occasion.”
“But not tonight. Not with me.” She touched the three of hearts that sat atop the kitty. “What’s your bid?”
I don’t know how many hands we played. She was ferocious, and my attention to the game began to wane with each loss.
“You were in my room,” I said.
She frowned and picked the corner of a card with her thumb. “Is that your room?”
“Yes.”
“Mm. It’s technically mine. Isn’t it?”
“Technically, it is.”
She flicked her hand, then reached forward to gather the deck, tapping the edges straight, reaching once more in a circle for an errant jack or ace. “Tell me more of you, Lucy Blunt.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“I have few visitors.” She shifted, straightening her legs and bouncing her knees. “Humor me.”
I flipped through my tales, tossing aside those that would beg further questions. “I’m the girl in the moon.”
“Are you?”
“I slipped right off and landed in a field. Outside Newburyport.”
“Ah! We were neighbors,” she said. “I’m from Portsmouth, originally. And your family? Still there?”
“I have no family.”
“But everyone—”
“I don’t.”
It was then I heard the absence of John Friday’s music, followed by the quick rap on Jacob’s door and then Cook’s nightly “God rest” before she retired to her bed.
We waited, still and quiet, until the greatest sounds were the hiss of the candle and the slide of the cards back into her pocket.
“It’s late,” I said.
She leaned toward me. “You wouldn’t happen to have a sleeping draught I could . . . Never mind.” She rose, smoothing her hair and skirts. “Good night, Lucy Blunt.”
Chapter Five
I will hang next Thursday. I’ve been given the time: 10:15 a.m. Not just “sometime in the morning,” but this specific time that falls neatly between the men’s constitutionals and their lunches. I’ve been excused from the laundry that day.
Matron is attending; she told me it is required of her, but I noticed she is not indifferent to the duty. As she read the missive, her cheeks drooped and she turned a greenish blue. She averred it was man’s sin to hang another. I told her it was man’s sin to kill another, and there was nothing to wipe that stain from me.
10:15 a.m., Mr. LeRocque.
What does the Almanack bode for the weather? How many spectators will pack the yard? Ten? One hundred? Will they wipe sweat from their brows or huddle under black umbrellas? Will Matron guide me through the crowd? Will people hiss murderer? Will the man who puts the noose around my neck really wear a hood? Or will his face be naked? Is he handsome, this man, this face that will be the last I see? Will he look at me at all? Or will he mask me in black wool too?
10:15 a.m. At least there’s no clock here to bludgeon me. Maybe I should stay ignorant—not ask the day, not ask the time. But it will be there, anyway, tapping the backs of my eyelids when I close them and chittering in my ear when awake.
I don’t know how to beg for mercy, and there is no chance I will receive it. I am as detached from atonement as the Devil. All I can do is endure the days and outlast the nights. Wish they would end and plead they do not.
It’s near spring now. Look at my window: the icicles no longer bare their teeth. And the sky is blue, like Cook’s gingham spring dress. The ground to the laundry is more mud than dirt, and spears of flecked grass push toward the promise of thaw.
“The linen room will flood. And the wall behind the glasses and plates will bloom with mold. Who’s there to clean it?”
Mr. LeRocque stares at me. He swallows, the lump of his Adam’s apple gliding under the skin of his throat. The directive flutters at the tips of his fingers, as if the formal decree of execution will scorch.
I drop my head against the chill of the wall. “Tell whoever’s at the house now that a mix of lye and chamomile does the trick. And not too hard with the brush; gentler strokes save the paint.” I grip my legs tighter to my chest and dig a bare heel into the floor. “What have you brought today?”
�
��Rum cake.”
I glance at this gift left just inside the bars, at the deep brown of it and the sugared orange peels curled atop. I envision Mrs. LeRocque lifting the last piece out of the baking tin. Perhaps her mouth is tight with disapproval of her husband’s request for cake or pudding or pie. I have so far been most impressed with the lemon tart.
“I like rum cake.”
LeRocque beams and relaxes back in his chair, his hands slapping his knees, the paper flittering from his grip. He reaches out, grasping, the chair tilting awry and resettling as he captures the note. Lays it on his knee, smoothing it as best he can. Then he lurches up, legs splayed like a sailor as he stumbles and walks the corridor, breathing in and out.
He fumbles in his coat, pulling a long handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth. He holds himself up against the wall with one hand, wheezing, not looking at me. Eyes screwed shut, lips flapping like a fish.
“You’ll need a stronger stomach than that, Mr. LeRocque, if you’re to visit on Thursday.”
He turns suddenly, face sheened with sweat and the handkerchief balled tight. Crouches down and reaches a rough hand through the bar. I do not want his comfort.
“Go away.”
I want my bed. It’s four steps away, but my legs are heavy as lead. The best I can do is crawl to the mattress. Pull the sheet up over my head and press myself to the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I know this cell as well as I knew my room at the great house. Eyes open or closed I see the high walls, crude and rippled. The paint peels in the north corner, and the east has turned a shade of salmon. The floor lists to the door and picks up a slant near the slop bucket. There is light only as God or the whim of the matron provides it. Laura Reed’s gone back with the other four women. At least for now, she is quiet and tamed. The cells are empty of people but stuffed with stores: saws and glue and a broken barber’s chair, an old pump, a warped shaft, a cracked pulley. Matron told me yesterday there is a new wing at the asylum for the women. That the warden would get his wish soon and all the women would go. That it wouldn’t do to move me with them. Too much trouble.
Lucy Blunt was good.
Lucy Blunt was bad.
Lucy Blunt will be hanged.
On Thursday.
Cook would appreciate the candied peels. A little sweet and a little tough, same as what follows us breath to breath, she’d say.
I’ll give the slice to Matron. She’s got a sweet tooth and hasn’t once denied my gifts. Mrs. LeRocque’s gifts.
I roll over, avoiding the corner of the mattress that’s damp and chill from water that collects in the corner. If I press my eyes tight enough, I can hear the mistress’s laugh, bright and loose like the drips along the window ledge. I can taste the cake she offers me, a thanks for some task or other: the sugar coat of rum on my tongue, the tang of salt in the crumbles, and her self-satisfied smile.
Never mind how the gift was procured or the consequences of her generosity.
The snow had abated, though not the freeze. With each small step to the well, my boots punched through the icy shell of it.
No amount of salt could melt the paths. John Friday had taken to spreading the straw he’d mucked from the stalls along the trackways and footpaths to the woodlot. The dull echo of ax against trunk was a regular beat as he and Jacob cut the timber that the house consumed without repent.
In the deep night, I sneaked through the hall to the hidden door, but found no one waiting on the other side.
Then came the return of Misters Burton and Beede. Jacob first noticed the bob of lanterns and jumped from his seat at the table. He pressed his hands to the windowpanes. “They’ve got Rebecca.”
“Why is she outside?” I asked.
Cook and I started, making our way to the glass. The lanterns grew brighter, met by another as John Friday trudged from the stable to take the horses’ reins. Mr. Burton dismounted and reached up to the figure nestled behind Mr. Beede. His arm circled Rebecca’s waist and he lowered her down, hands under her arms to steady her and shift her from the horse’s nervous hooves. Mr. Beede slung a heavy leather bag to the ground and alit.
Cook slapped a towel on her shoulder. “They’ll need something hot.” She snapped her fingers at me, but I was setting out cups and bowls before she could follow with a command.
Then the kitchen was full of the smells of horse and camphene oil and wet wool. Jacob took hold of Rebecca’s arm as she swayed forward. Jackets were shed and valises dropped and Rebecca was maneuvered to the long bench at the table. Her lips were a deathly blue, her skin bright red at the nose and gray on the cheeks. A thin moan tumbled from her lips and then she tensed and cried out in delirium.
Mr. Burton filled the room, wide shoulders, deep voice, tall enough to touch the ceiling without reaching. His gaze caught mine across the table. “Who locked her out?”
I won’t deny my hands trembled as his attention pierced. Cook’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut, and her neck mottled pink.
“Is there no one upstairs, then?”
How were we to know what went on upstairs? Or how Rebecca could decline all of a sudden, when not more than an hour or two prior she’d rapped the door and collected the trays for dinner?
Mr. Burton leapt the steps to the manse proper, shouldering past Mr. Beede, who trailed behind in a scuttling echo of boots.
“We’ll move her to your room, Lucy. Jacob—” The two lifted Rebecca, and her arms swung loose. Her eyes were glassy and rolled round in a chaotic pattern.
I led the way, unlocking the door, then rolling the ribbon that held the key from my wrist, and setting it atop the chest of drawers before striking a match to a candle that fluttered and flamed to life. The ewer was empty; I lifted it and returned to the kitchen as Cook and Jacob took to settling her.
Mr. Beede stopped my hand as I raised the ladle from the water urn. “Come. You’re to help Mrs. Burton now.”
He lifted the leather satchel, forgotten in the fright. And after holding the door had me follow up the stairs.
The sitting room had a high ceiling, the walls a wash of blue that could not leaven the weight of the deep plum curtains closed tight against the night nor abate the heat of the fire. Portraits hung along each wall: powdered wigs and dead pheasants and voluminous skirts and half-cocked hunting rifles the main features of each. The only painting that varied from the Burton family lineage occupied the space above the fireplace: a larger-than-life study of the woman who shifted in the chair below. The cheeks in the oil above had an apple glow, and the bare shoulders a becoming roundness. Mrs. Burton, though, had neither. Her eyes were puffy, and her dress plain, buttoned hastily and undone at the throat.
At our entrance, Mr. Burton turned from the window. “You’ve brought the girl.”
“Yes.” Mr. Beede gave a half bow and pulled me by the wrist until I stood directly in front of Mrs. Burton. “I’ve brought Lucy to assist you with your . . .”
Mrs. Burton twisted to her husband. “Rebecca didn’t tell me she was sick.”
“We’ll not fret.” He touched the top of Mrs. Burton’s hand and continued to the hall.
Mr. Beede swallowed and moved to follow him. But then he turned back, lifting the leather bag from his shoulder and setting it on the rug near my skirts. He moved to the doors, then turned to us. “We’ll fetch the doctor in the morning.”
Mrs. Burton grasped the edge of the round table. “For Rebecca?”
“For Rebecca.”
And then we were alone.
“Why would she be outside?” I asked.
Mrs. Burton picked at her collar. Her thumb poked at the lace until it rent a hole that she then patted flat. “They’ll say I sent her out. I didn’t. But they’ll say I did. She’ll say I did.” She stood from the chair and paced between a settee of gray velvet and a marble-topped card table. “She had a headache at dinner. I remember she said she had a headache and was feeling out of sorts and would eat in her room. I�
�m sure the tray is still there if you want to . . . no—she brought it down. It’s with mine.”
She veered away from the table, toward the double doors, and stumbled over the bag Mr. Beede had left. I reached to catch her, but she swung away. She clenched her skirts in her fists and her breath went shallow. Then she dropped to her knees and searched the floor until her hands grappled the buckles on the bag.
She gripped a small, blue glass vial of clear liquid. In one motion, she untwisted the cork and took a sip. “There.” She crouched back on her heels, let out a sigh, and then pressed the cork tight with the flat of her palm. Then she smoothed her skirts and stood, shifting the bottle to a skirt pocket.
There was a tinkle of a bell and a flicker of movement to my left. A large orange cat dragged itself from under the settee and lumbered across the floor to disappear behind a hutch.
We both followed the sound of the bell.
“That’s Mr. Quimby.”
“Is he a good mouser?”
“Does he look it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
She swallowed a sob, then bent forward, dropping her head in her hands. Her hair, now loose from the comb, fell forward and hid her expression.
The bell again, harsher this time. Spoon on metal pot. There’s no steam from it; Matron has carried it across the yard, and the drizzle will have congealed whatever makes up the stew.
The decree that states my time of death is folded, the words are out of sight, though she’s left it neat by my bowl and spoon.
She’s taken the rum cake.
As I knew she would.
Chapter Six
Her name was Eugenie Charlotte, but I did not know that until later. Later still, I would call her Gene, and perhaps then I should have been more careful. But that night, as Rebecca lay a floor below in semiconsciousness, I knew only her fear.
“Oh God.” The mistress—Eugenie—dropped her head in her hands. Then she turned in a rush, stopping just at the boundary to the hall to gesture me to follow. “Come.”
The Companion Page 4