“Wait.”
I turned. The door was held but slight ajar, only enough for the woman to reach her arm out. A small felt bag hung and swayed in her fingers. She let it drop, a clink of coins. Payment for my silence.
The next afternoon, Mrs. Burton shook the powder from her letter, then held it up and blew against the paper to dry the ink. I had told her of the broken wires on the template, that perhaps it would do well to check it from time to time. I did not tell her about Rebecca’s deception.
“Will you read it back to me?”
“Of course.” I took the paper and smoothed it on the writing table. The printing was exact, large block letters spaced out as evenly as a girl’s embroidery alphabet. Even her name was laid out as such.
“Dearest Aurora,” I began. “Josiah and I send fond wishes and pray the winter has been kind. We are well here. Are the boys grown big and strong? I am thinking of adding an orange tree to the conservatory this—”
“No.” She slapped her hand on the letter, crumpled it, then shifted a blank piece of paper in her writing utensil. She stopped her pen above the inkwell and looked toward me. “Rebecca doesn’t watch.”
“I’m not watching.” I pressed my back against the chair and threaded my fingers in my lap. “How do you know I’m watching?”
She gave a muffled snort and set the pen in its holder. “Letters are personal.”
“You asked me to read it.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” She picked at a wire above her paper.
“I’ve just fixed that.”
“You can write the addresses. If you wish.” Then she pushed up her sleeve and pressed her index finger on the top wire, using it as a guide for the nib of the pen.
“I do. I’ll write the addresses. I’ll take the letters to town too. Make sure they’re delivered.”
“You’ll make Rebecca jealous.”
“So what?” I relaxed, my head lolling to look out the window at gray branches of maples and birches. A few pines brushed dark strokes through the forest. The sky hung like a sodden blanket, threatening an icy drizzle.
“Why did you lock Rebecca out?” I asked.
Her pen stilled. There was a quirk at the side of her mouth, but she did not raise her head. “Is that what she said?”
I shrugged.
“I can’t see your response.”
“I didn’t have one.”
“You did.”
I shifted in my seat. “I just assumed you’d—”
“Have you ever been doted upon and pestered to the point of screaming? You would wish for a break too.” Her finger lifted and dropped again to its place next to the pen. “She locked herself out. She was delirious, if you recall.”
“But you had her keys.”
“I only knew they were there when you pointed them out.”
“Why don’t you have your own?”
The pen clattered to the table. “All the questions! Is that how you lost your last spot?”
“I didn’t lose it.”
She leaned an elbow on the desk, resting her chin against her palm. “Were you always a washer-upper?”
“No, I—”
“Where was your last position?”
“Concord.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was—”
“Don’t tell me you liked it. You left it, if you weren’t fired. My guess is the latter.”
“I wasn’t fired.”
“And I didn’t lock Rebecca out.” She faced her desk. “I’m not allowed keys.”
“Why?”
“To keep me safe.”
“But don’t you wish—”
“I wish for a lot.” Her breath hissed through her lips. “You’re pestering me now. Go away.”
The cat’s bell tinkled as he leapt onto the desk. Mrs. Burton leaned forward to pet him and cooed as she rubbed her nose and cheek on his head. “Open the window as you go.”
Frog song.
Sweet and tenuous and the first sign of spring.
I closed my eyes and leaned over the lintel, not minding the drizzle and scalding bits of ice.
“Do you hear it, Mrs. Burton? Frogs.”
A laugh bubbled in my throat. I yanked open the other windows and pulled her from her chair.
Her wrists slipped from my grasp and she gripped the window frame, turning her head to listen. She spun round with a clap and stepped toward me, her palms finding my cheeks. Touching and then dropping away.
“Frogs,” she said.
We hugged the edge of the house, well away from the kitchen, more furtive than required, for there was no one to spy on us as we followed the song. The ground cracked under us, ice and mud mixing and slipping. I wore one of Mrs. Burton’s capes, bunching it carefully to not drag the ground, for she was taller than I. The silk inside smelled of the dried lavender that hung in her closets, and as the hood warmed, the scent of hair oil and verbena comingled.
Mrs. Burton’s fingers dug into my arm as we moved. Her step faltered and she reached her foot out often to mind the way. Her elbow bumped my back when I stopped abruptly near the orchard fence.
The limbs of the cherry trees were riddled with brown buds, and just near the gate, a daffodil burst yellow against the post.
I took her hand and crouched down to the flower. “It’s the first daffodil. My mother always said finding the first one meant luck and love.”
“Did she?” Her fingers explored the stem and bell and stamen. She leaned in to smell it, the drizzle beading on the hood of her cape and freezing in the weft.
A shift bell pierced the air. The frogs ceased their calls. Just the drips of thaw from branch to ground remained.
I pressed my hand in the cape pocket and felt the jags of metal teeth, and the ring that held Rebecca’s keys. Our secret escape.
“Lucy.” Cook smacked a wood spoon against the table.
“I’m listening.” I straightened and stared at her.
“And I’m the archangel Michael.” She pointed to the mutton. “What herbs go to tender the meat?”
Five small wood cups were lined in front of me, each containing a different herb that I was meant to identify and choose for the tough old meat. I lifted the first cup and closed my eyes. “Tarragon.”
“Well done.”
The second: mint.
The third: rosemary.
And I thought then of lavender, and misnamed the fourth herb.
The lock on the kitchen door clicked, and Jacob entered, dropping onto the bench. Steam curled from him and his lips were bright red.
“Where’s your manners with your coat?”
“Sorry, Cook.” He pulled at his coat and flung it on a knob. He held up a finger, then scuffled around in the coat pockets before pulling out a glass jar. “First of the maple syrup.” He set it next to the mutton. His knee bounced below the table as he kept his gaze on Cook. Adam’s apple moving up and down, peach fuzz inking his chin—a boy still, awaiting his mother’s approbation.
Not that Cook was his mother. God help anyone with that.
“Theo Flieger’s already at the sap.”
Cook picked up the jar and held it to the light. “He’s kind to send it over.”
Jacob glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “Enjoy the orchard?”
“It’s basil.” I set the cup down, too sharp, but it caught Cook’s attention.
“Good girl.”
“Mrs. Burton wandered again.” Jacob smiled at me. “If it weren’t for Lucy finding her, who knows what would happen.”
“She didn’t wander. We went for a walk.”
Jacob blinked and kept staring. He pulled at his bottom lip, stretching it out and letting it pop back in place.
“In this drizzle-bit?” Cook asked. “We don’t need another down with an ague.”
“She’s perfectly fine. I left her by her fire—which I lit.”
“I was helping the Fliegers,” Jacob said.
“I’m sure you w
ere.” I picked up the last cup. “Bitters.”
The chaplain waits outside my cell, his bible held against his chest. His eyes are gray and do not leave my face. He stands in silence, like an overchiseled statue.
I remain on my cot, knees pulled to my chest, ankles crossed under my dress.
“Will you make your peace with God today?” He has the right voice for the pulpit but it echoes too loud.
“I am still damned,” I say. “Whether you attend to me or not.”
“Child—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He lifts a hand to placate, then places it back on the hard cover of his Good Book. “You must speak to him. He will forgive.”
Would he? He is already half turned away.
Chapter Ten
I dreamt of Mary Dawson last night—here in my cell, my cot a raft afloat in water bubbled black. She’s still here, splayed just under the water’s skin, just beyond my reach.
Simple Mary. Trusting Mary.
The skin’s sloughed off her legs. Green-white, thick, curled slabs of skin. Algae growing in all the crevices. Eyes poked and eaten, the lids rotted away. Nothing left of her ears, fingers stripped of flesh.
Her body twists and contorts, buoyed and sunk in the rings of an eddy. Her hair spreads and tangles and knots. Bruises darken the back of her neck and I feel a quickening of pity.
“What’s it like to die, Mary?”
But she has no mouth to answer.
The cot isn’t as heavy as I expected. The window not as high. The bars are strong enough to hold my weight.
Twist the sheet tight, Lucy.
Jump on the count of three.
Death sits on the stool just outside my door.
I hang and twist, my big toes scraping the floor.
Death shakes his head.
He’s smaller than I thought, effete even, legs crossed and high brown boots swinging away, waves of white cotton peeking from his red coat. He smiles and his mouth is soft and round as a woman’s.
Don’t struggle, he says.
My hands are clenched round the sheet.
Let go. And he flings his arms wide.
Let go. I do.
For one brief moment the world is honeysuckle sweet.
But my body betrays me. Hands claw the sheet, toes press upward, lungs heave and burn.
Death laughs and shakes his shiny curls. His sneer cuts through the gray. Who knew his teeth glowed so white?
Matron grabs me tight and grunts as she struggles to lift me. I can’t see anything but the spittle at the corner of her mouth. I didn’t think I’d made a sound. Her nails press through my shift and dig under the bone. I grapple to release the noose; she’s given me enough slack to free my neck. Then she clasps me tight to her, pulling my head into her shoulder, collapsing our bodies to the stone floor. She smells of garlic and damp. She’s the first person who’s held me since it all went so wrong.
LeRocque’s eyes flick to the scabs on my neck but he doesn’t say anything. I’m certain Matron told him about my “episode.” Even Gert sent a word from the laundry, though Matron didn’t want to pass it on to me. She screwed her eyes tight, as if the taste of the message were tart as vinegar. “Gert says she’d have tried the same.”
“I just wanted a choice,” I say to LeRocque. That’s the extent of my explanation. My voice is rubbed raw.
There’s a tic in his cheek when I say this, and he rolls his shoulders in that big coat. He bites his lip.
I know what he wants to say—they didn’t have a choice, did they? It’s a fair criticism. LeRocque does not want me to hang, but his faith has never wavered in my guilt.
He slaps his hands on his knees and pins on a smile. “I’m going west.”
I nod. My head is so heavy. I reach behind me to pick at the paint on the stone. “Where?”
“I’m thinking of Independence. Maybe beyond.”
“Out to the buffalo you showed me the picture of?”
“Think of the stories. The Shawnee and Apaches and Gringo Joe and . . .”
“And no one reads of me anymore.”
Why would they read of me now? I stink of sweat and piss. Remember when I was clean and careful with the slop pail, pulling my skirts up to keep them from the damp? Picking maggots from the meat in my stew. Look at your dainty lass now, Mr. LeRocque. What do you think about this rotting thing you now see? I reek like the river. See me lick the wall for water, because there’s no pail. See me scratch the stone walls and hump the bedframe for want. See me curl in the corner, for they’ve taken the bedding from me.
What a pretty picture you drew of me once. Remember the crowds that came? I had so little time to myself. The Fallen Woman, so capable of terrible deeds. Adored and reviled in turns.
I am too real now. I am too much a monster.
With spring, the house gurgled awake, stretching in sighs and groans. The dog’s teeth of ice on the edges of the windows pooled and began their gummy chew of the panes. White paint bubbled, slipping into the veins of the wood, curling at the joins with the floor. The no-see-um flies swarmed and battered the glass, their buzz a constant threat.
Cook wore a battered brim hat that swung with wine corks, though I still spied her swatting her hand at the black flies that found their way through. She took to the kitchen garden, a basket slung on her arm, and she lumbered along each row, stopping every few paces to glare at a seed packet. The corks bobbed and swung as she read the packet print, then stared at the ground near her boot.
How Cook had awaited these seeds! Straight from the Shakers, she said. And though they were the oddest lot of worshippers she’d ever encountered, she took great joy in their seeds.
“I’ve seen them shake and shiver,” she’d told me, her eyes aglint as she tore open the long-awaited seed box. “Think the floor beneath them would give out from the stamping. Such a set of tongues. But I suppose God knows their language as well as ours.”
I picked up stones lifted by the frost and tossed them to the pile.
“We’ll switch out the garlic this year. Should have had it by the east fence to begin with. I think beets and Brussel sprouts here.”
I waited on my knees, trowel to soil, breathing in the thick earth, just turned, that smelled as sweet as a baby’s crown. The thought was sharp as a knife; I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them to the sky. Cook tapped beet seeds in my palm, and I prodded and poked and planted the row.
At the end, I pushed my fingers into the loam and pressed a handful into the fist of my palm. I slipped the trowel in my apron pocket and turned to the house. Cook had left the door wide to air out the kitchen and winter-stale quarters.
“You’ll not dillydally and traipse dirt on those floors.”
I kicked my boots against the stone step but did not answer. What could I say? I was taking a handful of soil to Mrs. Burton because I thought she would enjoy the smell. Because I wanted her to slip the cage of her rooms, and perhaps entice her to the garden to plant.
Mrs. Burton was in a chair by the sitting room window, looking out as if she could image the taut blue stretch of sky. The clear vial she held in her hand was in danger of tipping into her lap. She turned her head at the sound of my step, but it was in languor, and her expression was muddled by the laudanum she had chosen to drink instead of tea.
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
“Cook needed me for the garden.” I looked to the tea and tray I’d dropped off in the morning, both of which were untouched on the round table nearby. I squeezed the dirt in my fist. “Have you sat here all morning?”
“I might sit here all day.” She pulled her lips into a frown and brushed the hair from her temple before turning back to the window. Her hand slipped from her lap, letting loose the vial to fall into the folds of her dress, the liquid darkening the fabric.
My jaw tensed as I crossed to her. “Lucky it’s only me here.” I grabbed the vial and set it on the sill. “Can you stand?”
She grip
ped the chair arms to push herself further into the seat. “I’m quite content here.”
“We need to change your dress.”
“I’m not a child.” Her face flushed with anger and her back went rigid. But she felt the lap of her dress, her fingers stopping, then curling away from the spill. She hung her head, and her lips moved as if she were scolding herself. Then she reached out and grabbed the side of my skirt. “What do you look like?”
Quick she moved, grasping at my waist and elbows, pulling me down until I kneeled in front of her. Her thumbs pressed the curve of my shoulders and slid down to my wrists, exploring bone and tendon, turning my closed palm up. She hooked her fingers around mine, working them open to touch the dirt I’d held tight.
“I’ve brought you spring,” I said.
She bent to it, the crumbles of earth still left in the creases of my palm, and inhaled.
I was unprepared for the brush of her thumbs on my jaw, and I flinched.
“What do you look like?”
Her hands wavered and waited. Our faces were near to touching, my cheeks warmed by the sun tilting to afternoon. The hall clock sounded the quarter hour, and the pendulum ticked a beat before the watch at her waist. I dropped my hands to her lap. Her index fingers grazed my jaw again, then pressed into my cheeks before tangling in my hair.
“What color is your hair?”
“Brown.”
I inhaled at a sharp twist of the roots and the scrape of her nail.
“Dark brown or light?”
“Nearly black.”
She pressed her palm to my forehead, thumbs stroking the rim of my brow, then circling to the soft skin of my lids. I could not breathe. I was too rapt in such intricate attention. My heart thumped and jagged in my chest.
How she concentrated, two tight furrows between her eyebrows, mouth pursed and serious. “Your eyes?”
“Also brown.”
“Walnut or caramel?”
“Just brown.”
The clocks ticked, discordant and overloud. A cool bead of sweat rolled between my shoulder blades.
“I see . . .” Her lips whispered against mine, then hesitated, then pressed. Such softness, such fullness. Her breath sour and sweet with alcohol, cinnamon, and another herb I could not name.
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