The light flicked through the leaves of birch and oak, losing its way in the tangled growth of nettles and whortleberries that choked the forest floor. All round, the air was sweet and heavy with spring—yet I could not settle into the pulse of it.
Not after such a night.
Not with Mrs. Burton lifting her head to catch the warmth of the morning, curling her lips in a smile, letting out a contented sigh. Gripping my fingers with her lace-covered hands.
Certainly not with her husband so straight-backed and earnest, sitting also with a gloved hand in his.
“You must know someone who would do,” she said. “What of Tom Harken?”
“He’s gone to Lowell. I thought I told you that.”
“Did you?”
“This past October.”
She bit her lip. “Of course. I remember. Are the leaves unfurled?”
Mr. Burton blinked and gazed out at the trees. “Yes. I suppose they are.”
We turned on the post road, which ran by the ponds that fed the turbines that powered Burton Millworks Co. The road grew wider, and a succession of enclosed carts passed to deliver their shipments of muslins and wools to shops and finishers farther abroad. Mr. Beede took the opportunities between to pull near the brougham to address Mr. Burton.
“Temmet Martin is asking about the acreage . . .” and
“Amoskeag has lowered the bolt price of chenille . . .” and
“We’ve to decide on adding a carder . . .”
We were then upon the millworks itself. Two hulking brick buildings reverberated with the thrum of the turbines and heavy machines, and on each of the four stories the paned glass windows shook.
Mrs. Burton let go my hand. She picked at her collar, pressed her palm to her stomach, flinched at the bark of a rough dog that took to following us. Then she clamped her hands to her ears, shuddering forward against the clang and clamor.
“Are you well?” I asked.
“Turn us round.” She rocked forward, the skin of her knuckles taut as she pressed her hands to her ears.
Mr. Burton grasped her wrists and lowered her hands with impatience. “Not here, Eugenie.”
She clutched the rounded edges of the seat. “I want to go home.” Her voice was thin and tremulous.
“You asked to come.”
“Perhaps a turn by the churchyard for a bit of quiet?” Mr. Beede slowed his horse.
John Friday glanced over his shoulder, waiting for an order.
Mr. Beede gave a nod, then continued to the stables. The mare’s tail flicked as he maneuvered round a group of mill girls hurrying to beat the shift bells, their lunch pails bumping their skirts as they crossed the street.
Harrowboro was no Manchester. In Manchester, a day could be spent ogling the wares in the shops. No—here was but two blocks of merchants, and we were soon past the wood-and-brick shops and boarding houses.
Mr. Friday brought the brougham to a stop near the graveyard. Large drops of rain slipped from the tree branches and splattered the roof. A thin mist slipped between the trees and around the silent tombs and plain markers.
Mary Dawson would be buried by now, I thought. She would have been carried from the winter vault along with the others to reach her final resting place. I pressed my eyes shut against the sharp vision of her face under the lace, but the sight lingered.
There was a sway and drop of the carriage. Mr. Burton had stepped to the road, pulled at the hoops of Mrs. Burton’s skirt until they cleared the narrow door. He grabbed her upper arm, yanking her toward the turn to the church. There he bent to her, speaking words that made her skin blanch.
I hated him then.
I hated how her head bowed and how she took his arm to return, her walk as dull as a somnambulist’s.
“Here we are, Mr. Friday.” He opened the door on my side. “Miss Blunt.”
My heel caught on my skirt hem as I scrambled down; it was John Friday who gave his arm to assist me as I disentangled the fabric. My stomach soured. Was this my dismissal? Had we been careless when passing his door, a tread too heavy, a breath too rasped? Was I to be let go again to make my way to another town with another lie?
“Have your outing.” Mr. Burton lifted his hat and strode toward town and his office at the mill.
I nearly stumbled in relief. Not today.
Mrs. Burton turned an overly bright smile my way. “So much noise. I am quite twisted around. Tell me where we are.”
Her presence in the town was not common. I saw it in the long glances that followed us as I led her down the street and in the stupefied looks of the clerks. It didn’t help that John Friday kept pace with the brougham, even if it meant moving the horses five paces before setting the brake yet again.
At the confectioner’s—one of the few stores open so early of a morning—Eugenie grasped my elbow, allowing me to guide her past the few round tables to the glass case that housed a variety of treats. Across the counter a clerk of indeterminate age—but, if one took in his stomach, a fondness for his sweets—waited. His apron was starched white, his hair a bristling cap of ginger and gray.
“What do we have today?” Mrs. Burton asked.
He opened and then clapped shut his mouth, giving a flaccid sweep of his hand as if that would describe all the sweets. He looked at me. “Is there something in particular she’s looking for?”
“I’m particularly looking for chocolate.” Mrs. Burton’s grip pinched.
“Of course.”
“White chocolate?”
“Both imported from France and our own local, which I think you’ll find—”
“Two cups of cocoa milk, then. And tell me all the choices, Lucy, while we wait.”
So I did, starting from the sugar-dusted truffles on the top left corner to the marzipan cakes and sassafras sugar sticks on the farthest shelf. The clerk was tasked with offering samples. Mrs. Burton was fond of the caramels, and rolled one in her mouth and against her cheek as we traversed the case. “A marzipan for Mr. Friday.”
“Yes, I think he’d like that.”
“Which do you want, Lucy?”
“There’s so many. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“One of each, then.” She reached to touch my cheek, but I shied away. Still she searched, only dropping her hand when I murmured a quick thank-you to the clerk and took up the saucers and cups of cocoa. I set them on the nearest table, then took her hand and guided it to the chair.
“I would give you all of it, if you asked,” she said.
“I’d be in bed with dyspepsia for a week.” I smiled over the lip of my cup. “And what would you do without me then?”
“Let me spoil you.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She twisted in her chair and raised her voice. “I would like one of each, please. And an extra marzipan.”
“Mrs. Burton—” I placed my hand on her arm to quiet her.
“Eugenie. Please.”
“Eugenie.”
She looked toward the clerk. “Did you hear me?”
The clerk reddened. “One of each, Mrs. Burton.”
“Separately wrapped.”
“Separately wrapped.”
She gave a nod and settled back in the chair. “I will feed them to you,” she said, her voice soft again and meant to travel no farther than the width of our table. “One a night. To keep your breath always sweet.”
Mr. Friday was not at the carriage when I came out to give him the boxes of candy and the marzipan treat. Instead, a small boy stood in front of the horses, holding each by the ring of its bit.
“Oh! Who are you?” I asked.
The boy shrugged, took an apple from his pocket and fed it to the horses, leaving hunks to fall to the road. He licked the juices from the tops of his hands and stared at us. “Ginger drops are my favorite.”
“Where’s Mr. Friday?”
“Off and about. He said you’d give me a candy.”
But his eyes were crafty, and I knew
he’d been promised nothing of the sort. There was no sign of Mr. Friday. I glanced back through the window to Mrs. Burton, who sat with her chin on her hands and the pallor returned to her face.
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“He said you’d give me candy.”
“Well, I won’t.” I dropped the box to the floor of the brougham, then shook my head. Where could he have gone? It wasn’t his place to go anywhere. Now I was confronted with a little boy who would be trampled should the horses balk, and Eugenie sitting forlornly at a table awaiting my assistance.
But there he was, exiting the tobacconist across, shifting a package to his vest pocket.
“Mr. Friday!” I waved, but he did not respond. Instead, he strode along and turned the corner by the milliners. “What is he doing?”
“He said to watch the horses.”
“I know he said to watch the horses. But why?” I clenched my teeth. “Never mind.”
I spun on my heel and yanked open the door to the confectionary.
Mrs. Burton looked up. “You’ve been gone too long.”
“Not really. It’s just Mr. Friday . . .” But I would not finish. “Where would you like to go next?”
Mr. Friday was seated on his perch by the time we had regained the street. He kept his gaze forward and followed us as we walked to the milliners and then on to the apothecary. The boy tagged along for a while, eyeing me despondently when I still did not give him a treat. Then he was gone in a flash, chasing the peddler as he clanged the cowbell and lifted his hat to me before urging old Jedd on to a trot.
When we returned to the house, Rebecca jerked from under the portico and down to the drive. “You can give her to me now.” She opened the brougham door before John Friday set the brake, lurching forward with the motion of the carriage. Her eyes grew wide with surprise, lips tight, feet staggering under her skirts. “Stop the carriage. Stop the—”
Friday pulled the reins and stopped our motion. The door swung, pushing Rebecca into the body of the vehicle. She set her legs wide and gripped the frame for balance. “You stupid man.”
“Rebecca!” Eugenie stamped her heel on the floor.
With a gasp and swallow, and hands braided politely, Rebecca lowered her head. “I apologize, Mr. Friday. I was overcome.”
Mr. Friday nodded before descending from his seat and moving to open Mrs. Burton’s door. “My apology, Miss White.” But I saw the flash of anger cross his features, darkening the raised scars on his cheeks. Saw the clench in his jaw before he lifted his hand to help Mrs. Burton down. “Ma’am?”
Rebecca grabbed for Mrs. Burton’s hand. “Why didn’t—”
“Help Lucy with the packages.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Friday walked Mrs. Burton to the front door, leaving Rebecca and me behind.
A rumble of thunder sent us both to gather the packages. We stood, Rebecca and I, on either side of the brougham, the seat and rumpled blankets between us.
“It’s not your place,” she said.
I did not answer. Merely lifted packages of linen napkins and brocade running mats to my arm.
“She’ll tire of you.”
The sky turned yellow green, then darkened. Dollops of rain pelted down, splattering the soil and pinging the gravel. I balanced a box of candies on the fabric and sprinted for the front door, shifting aside to let Friday pass back to the brougham.
Rebecca hid her gaze as she passed him by. She pushed her shoulder to the door and we both tumbled into the entry. The hall was empty, the only feeble light coming from the open door to the morning room. Rebecca snatched the box from me and set off down the hallway. She slowed midway, turning partially back. “Don’t confuse pity with love.”
She continued on with a small clearing of her throat as she neared the door. “It’s only me, Eugenie. Now, what have you brought . . .”
The door was shut with a thump and snick of the latch.
My shawl dripped rainwater along the carpet as I made my way to the kitchen stairs.
There were no more words from Eugenie that day or evening. Rebecca came down for the trays, and Jacob retrieved them on his rounds to bank the stoves and fires. Mr. Burton read late in his study and sent Beede down to the kitchen near eleven for a final glass of port.
Cook skillet-fried breasts of grouse, and I scrubbed the burnt leavings until the skillet was raw as my fingers. Only then was she satisfied and left me to finish the rest.
It was hours before I slipped to the servants’ hallway. I pressed my hand to Eugenie’s door, waiting for her to turn the lock. Hoping she would.
I slid down the wall and pulled my knees to my chest. Leaned my ear to the wood. All I heard was the muted tinkle of Mr. Quimby’s bell as he crossed the closet floor. The bell rang and then the sound slipped away as he moved into the bedroom.
How I wanted to whisper I am waiting, to murmur I am wanting. But I daren’t: the waning rain had left too much quiet, and the narrow hall was still.
Chapter Fifteen
The house was a frenzy of activity as the day of Aurora’s visit neared. The piano tuner came and went. Mr. Beede and Jacob carried curtains and paintings down from the attic and hung them in the great room. John Friday took to the conservatory, snipping and shaping the roses, and planting calla lilies, gardenias, hanging ferns, and a sapling orange tree too young for the one fruit that bent its trunk. It was the first time I’d seen him with any expression save a scowl. I watched him shuffle the white ceramic pots from one place to another, each day adding something new until the room was awash in a lush green. He festooned the doorway with teal velvet bows and waited for Mrs. Burton to join him on a tour.
I was glad, finally, to chuck the slops to the pigs, glad at least for a break from Cook’s incessant instructions. On a return to the kitchen, I spied Mr. Friday and Mrs. Burton through the panes in the conservatory glass. He pointed out each petal and leaf, nodding and answering whatever query she made. She wrinkled her brow as she listened, hands restless to explore. It was the orange tree that delighted her most. She cupped the fruit to her nose, breathing in the scent. She returned again to the tree once Mr. Friday’s rounds were complete.
A figure stepped in front of me, jarring my vision. Jacob had a ladder hooked on his shoulder, and hands curled over a leg. He chewed a sprig of grass. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” I glanced toward the glass room. But Mrs. Burton had left, and Mr. Friday was closing the interior door.
“You’re lazing,” Jacob said.
“I’m not.”
He jerked forward, the ladder swaying, then reached to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear.
“You scratched me.”
“I didn’t.” The ladder wobbled as he took a step away. His face was a perfect orb of red. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I took the empty slop bucket in both hands and walked beside him. “What’s the ladder for?”
“Need to repaint some corners of the sitting room I missed. Sorry again.”
“Go off with you, then.”
“Ayuh.” He strode ahead, turning on his heel near the back door. “I was wrong. You’re prettier than Mary Dawson.”
I laughed. A great loud laugh.
He clenched his jaw and made to enter the house. The ladder caught on the frame and he tugged it through. “Shouldn’t be like that, Lucy Blunt.”
No, I shouldn’t have laughed. He was just a boy, but he didn’t need the reminder.
Cook chewed her pencil down to the nub while crafting menus. I carried each up to Mrs. Burton for approval, following her from room to room in the afternoon to read off the delicacies and treats—candied walnuts, eel in jelly, roasted lamb with tarragon butter, cold pheasant breast, garlic Brussel sprouts, meringue of lemon, pear tarts.
She waved a hand and turned her attention to straightening the trim on the davenports, then fluffed and rearranged the pillows at the corners. “Aurora doesn’t like pears
. Have Cook make it with plums.”
“Plums it is.” I followed her as she charted her course from the sofas to the game table, the game table to the piano. “Thursday’s breakfast will be octopus in strawberry jam.”
She rested her palm on the instrument’s seat, then shifted it back an inch. “Apricot would go better. Though I defer to Cook’s tastes.”
“As you should.”
She moved to the windows, smoothing the curtains and bending to the floor to drape the fabric just so.
“Centipedes drizzled with chocolate.” I bent a knee to the piano seat and plonked a middle C. “Baby frogs. Baked.”
“Ask her to add extra salt to keep them tender.” She leaned a hip to the deep window frame and spread her hands across the lip of it. Her eyebrow lifted as she looked in my direction. “Baby frogs indeed.”
“Does Aurora dislike those too?”
“How is the room?”
“Improved. Though Mr. Burton glares too much from his portrait above the fire.”
“Does it show a dimple in his left cheek?”
I dropped my knee from the piano seat and turned to the painting. “I see a very small indent there.”
“Then he’s smiling.” She pushed away from the frame, untying the apron from around her waist, twisting it round and round as she ambled close to me. I remained still, facing the painting, pressing my back against her when she stepped close. “Centipedes, hmm? Would you use a spoon or fork?”
“You’re losing your touch at whist,” I murmured. “I think I won two out of three sets last night.” My attention was split between her fingers slipping into mine and keeping an eye toward the hall.
“I like when you win. You’re generous with your earnings.”
My skin flushed, as if her hands traveled me, and I thought I might faint from the pleasure. “Should I come tonight?”
“Every night.”
Of course, this was impossible.
She heard Rebecca before I did. “There you are.”
Rebecca wore a white cap and apron over an old frock of graying cotton. Her arms were full of crumpled muslin that trailed the floor. “Yes, here I am.” She bit down on her lips and forced a smile.
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