The Companion

by Kim Taylor Blakemore

  She stood in her chemise and drawers, her arms clasped around her middle. “Will you hold me?”

  “Hold me.”

  Matron’s arms slip under mine, crossing and pressing, her palms cupping my breasts.

  “I don’t know what’s real,” I say.

  She tightens her grasp.

  “You are, though? Aren’t you?” I turn in her embrace. “You are.”

  Her lashes lower and flick open. Her eyes shadow and cloud but she does not look away.

  “I’m afraid.”

  She lifts her hand, hesitates, then touches the edge of my mouth with her thumb, traces it like a whisper. “I am here.”

  We returned to our habits, though the air snapped with unease. I smoothed the letters Eugenie had crumpled and discarded those nights past, laying them in a neat pile on her writing desk. She twisted the ink pen and played with the wire in her writing template, half listening with her head resting in a palm. Her demeanor was prickly.

  I sat next to her in a ladderback chair, my posture straight and wary, and how I wished for the comfort of the armchair. “Mrs. A. Martin asks again if you will attend the dinner and fund-raiser for the county poorhouse.”

  “No.” She waved her hand. “Answer as you will and get a draft from Mr. Beede of an appropriate amount.”

  “Do you ever go to these?”

  She frowned and motioned for the next letter.

  I sighed, arched my back to relieve a crick, and glanced at the return address. Aurora, whose handwriting was as familiar to me now as my own. I slit the seal with the letter opener and unfolded the missive. Certainly, it held another boast of a soiree well held or a speech to an academy of overeducated women or a rousing put-down by one of her husband’s acquaintances or the latest height in inches of each of the boys. “It’s from Aurora.”

  I took in a breath and then clamped my mouth shut as the words sliced my vision.

  Dear Josiah—

  Your Lucy Blunt is not who she says she is—

  “Oh.” I pressed my hands over the letter and stared at Eugenie.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Her handwriting is atrocious.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s see . . . Oh, look, Theo’s a third of an inch taller. And Portsmouth was a grand season this summer, though the mosquitos were close to unbearable. Celia Wainwright (you don’t know her, she’s younger than us by too many years to count, but you might remember Clarissa) is betrothed to . . .” My heart drummed in my ears. I stared at my hand, at the hangnail on my index finger and my nails that needed a trim, and made up stories of Aurora’s adventures in Portsmouth and then Dover in August. Could she hear the waver of my breath? The stutter between my assembled fictions?

  “‘Write back! Write back, my dearest. Your loving Aurora.’”

  I folded the pages. “Well then.”

  “She had a busy summer.”

  “Yes.”

  I stood, the letter clamped tight. “I think I would like a coffee. Would you like one?”

  She cocked her head. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired.” I pecked the top of her head. “And wanting a coffee. I’ll bring you one. And a sweet.”

  I crossed the yard and took the path to the woods, to the turn by the brook, and picked my way through bramble and vines. I sank to the piled leaves by the water’s edge and unfolded the pages of the letter.

  Dear Josiah—

  Your Lucy Blunt is not who she says she is—

  I have been much concerned, as you know, for the girl wields inordinate influence on Eugenie and I am afraid she is bent on a game Eugenie cannot win.

  It was Rebecca who first cautioned me, and to her I will be always grateful. She has been keeping me informed of the situation and has been kind enough to procure from your man the original letters of reference that came with the girl.

  Neither family knows of a Lucy Blunt. This alone should be enough to send her away—but I fear there is something darker, for both turned out a maid for theft of jewelry, and in one case the wife’s wall safe was plundered. They describe the girl as middling tall with dark hair and eyes, with education beyond her position and a sharp temper. The Damons gave the police the name Martha Adams. The Temples stated her name as Alice Pratt.

  Lucy Blunt is recorded as having died in Goffstown in 1834—at the age of 3.

  I crushed the pages and bent over, hitting my forehead with my fist. “No. No.” I crawled to the brook and flattened the papers on a stone. “No.” I tore each into shreds and bits, scattering them to the channels of water, waiting until all had slipped under the surface or frayed against stone and branch.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Names are curious inventions. They can stand for nothing and everything, be dropped and forgotten or fought for to the death. I put them on like cloaks and discarded them when they started to wear thin and let in the cold.

  In Henniker, as Martha Adams, I did steal a pair of pearl drop earrings, two gold bracelets, and a silver-and-onyx ring from Mrs. Rachel Damon. The objects were not declared missing until weeks had passed, for they were fripperies collecting dust and only noted during the housekeeper’s annual inventory of an overstuffed household.

  The takings were not for me. My father had found me. Stepped in front of me as I made my way along the river on my afternoon off. He was gaunt, his beard a forest of gray, his suit coat much repaired at the cuffs and collar.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You mistake me for someone else.” I turned on my heel to leave, to be anywhere but with him.

  “Daughter.” He rested his hand on my forearm. I turned my head from the stench of him—the mildew sweet of his clothes, the heavy round of his breath, the sweat of his poverty. “Will you not look kindly on me?”

  My limbs shook. “I have nothing for you.”

  “You look like your mother.” His fingers gripped and held me. “Anything you can give me.”

  “I have nothing.”

  He smiled then, and I was jolted by memories, the way the skin wrinkled around his eyes, and the warm comfort of his arm curled upon my shoulder. There’s my little girl.

  I swayed against him, allowed the kiss to the top of my head, just as before when Mother still lived.

  His breath was warm on my scalp. “Does your employer know about the babe? Such a tragic end.”

  I grew chilled, fixed to the spot. How could he know? Only Albert knew the truth. Only Albert. He must have tracked down Albert in his search for me and any penny he could grapple from my fist.

  “Just a little coin to tide me?”

  In Concord, as Alice Pratt, I tended to the Temples’ pimply teenage daughters. Delia and Nancy simpered and pouted and spent most of their time in front of mirrors. Their mother wasn’t much better and left me—Alice—to fetch both necklaces and allowance money for the days she and the girls paraded the town. Concord was low on nightlife, but the days were filled with the intrigue of bored wives and political husbands.

  Father found me again in the Temples’ parlor. He pulled at his beard and drank a small tipple of sherry while nodding to his long-faced host. When I made to leave with a tray of empty glasses, he cut in front and stopped my way. “I will always find you. When I need you.”

  Mrs. Temple was lax about closing her safe. The door was ajar and the painting of lilies and flax tilted and bulged from the wall. I had an apron with a large pocket.

  Father got the necklace and I used the money to gain another life. Lucy Blunt’s, to be precise. A name carved on a gravestone half buried in snow.

  I am not a thief, though I have stolen.

  I am not murderer, though I have killed.

  Rebecca turned in surprise from the small secretary in her attic rooms. I had never had opportunity to call on her there. The room was plain: pot stove, chaise longue in faded blue, a single lamp on the secretary, a single chair. The low ceiling made me want to hunch over and cover my head against a bump. Through a narrow door
I spied a bed with a neat coverlet, a cherry dresser, and a standing mirror tarnished black at the corners. The room smelled of rose water and naphthalene, though I doubted a moth could breach the windows, shut tight as they were.

  She did not move from her desk nor did she say a word in greeting. Her hands clamped round the desk’s edge. Yellow-red knuckles. She touched the scar at the edge of her lip with her tongue. The desk itself was bare of all but an ink bottle, pen, and sheet of paper half blackened with words.

  Her eyes darted from me to the hall, and I turned to see what caught her attention. Nothing was there, save the upturned frame of a child’s bed that had been removed from the nursery and replaced with the full sleigh bed I called my own.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  Her pale eyebrows lifted slightly. She relaxed against the desk and stared. “Oh, quite enough, Lucy Blunt.”

  Which meant she knew next to nothing.

  I stepped toward her, examining the wallpaper (parallel lines of roses on damask), straightening a still life of vase and dying flowers, then reached past her to pick up the letter.

  Dearest Aurora,

  I am afraid she means Eugenie great harm. Just yesterday, I came across her tipping an extra dose of laudanum in the coffee and then rummaging through drawers looking for—oh! I don’t know what, I’m not of that criminal persuasion to hazard a guess.

  Josiah does not listen to me, though I have been clear there is much amiss. Although, I think he remains home more often these evenings because he is beginning to doubt the girl’s intentions. Have you—

  I folded the letter and laid it back on the desk. “Did you take the bell off the cat?”

  She blanched. “Why would I do that?”

  It took one more step to press my cheek against hers. She leaned away but did not secede her position. “Because you seethe with jealousy.”

  “I protect her.”

  “You love her.” I pushed my nose against the cartilage of her ear. “And she doesn’t love you.”

  She wrenched away, slapping me hard enough that I stumbled back. I grabbed her wrist as she lifted her hand again, forcing it to her side.

  “What lies did you tell Aurora?”

  “What lies have you told us? What do you want?” Her lip quivered and she dropped to the chaise longue. “What do you want from us?”

  “All of this.”

  “It’s not yours to have.”

  “I already have it, Rebecca.” I slid the folded letter toward me, moved to the stove, and opened the grate with the tongs. The embers sputtered and lit white gold as the fire consumed the paper.

  Aurora’s coming. Matron says she will be here. “She’ll be by in the morning.” That’s what Matron says. “She’s bringing news of the petition.”

  I can’t sleep. I stand at the door and wait as the moon crosses the wall in an arc.

  After I’m dead, they’re tearing down this building. I’m the last of its inhabitants. Sometimes I can hear the murmurs of its past guests. We’ve all complained about the damp. The warden plans to replace it with a brand-new cellblock of red brick and black iron and a stove at each end for warmth.

  Matron says . . .

  Matron says . . .

  I put the flat of my hands between the cell bars and against the rough iron door that keeps me locked tight for the night. But she’ll be by to open it soon and Aurora will be here, and I think Mr. LeRocque is bringing me a lemon curd tart and telling me which papers will carry the news of my hanging. He says that’s important, not just for his own pocket, but for the public to know a woman’s been hung. He promises to write me in the right way and that’s why he comes every day, though sometimes not. Sometimes he looks askance and doesn’t believe that I’m innocent of at least some of the charges.

  I am afraid for my life.

  When did you write that, Gene?

  I am afraid for my life.

  In those stilted block letters you labored over for hours. No one believed me when I said it was about Rebecca.

  I don’t like this time. Cook called it Devil’s Purgatory. She rose early as she did to get round it. She said a brisk start to the day takes care of the Devil’s play.

  Lucy . . .

  No. Stare at the door. Matron’s coming soon.

  A touch of ice on my shoulder. I twist away. There they are, lined like dolls on the floor, legs splayed, bare feet, blackened soles. Mary’s lace is half receded and her empty eye gapes at the floor. Eugenie—

  I screw my eyes shut but it doesn’t matter. How she stares. Her hands cross at her chest. Her hands stained black and flecked with dried blood and vomit.

  “Look what you’ve done, Lucy.” Rebecca peers at me, then coos down at the baby coddled in her arms, lifting his hand to kiss each tiny blue finger. “Look what you’ve done.”

  God, how my body remembered the thrum of the millworks. I rolled my shoulders forward and hurried past. I had begged off the afternoon reading with Eugenie, saying Cook was in need of vanilla and lard for the night’s dessert. Jacob was not free to go. Yes, I would bring a present back.

  I was under no delusion regarding my status at the house, no matter how I might have frightened Rebecca. The opportunity would not come again to waylay any letter Aurora might send her brother, and there would be even less opportunity to defend myself against the charges.

  There was no choice but to flee, though the thought wearied me. I stopped in an alley and allowed myself tears before gathering my wits.

  I made my way to the chemist’s. The travel office sat at the rear of the shop. I took a seat in a cane chair and waited for the proprietor, Mr. Elijah Watts, to complete his arrangements with a man who wanted a round-trip stage and train junket to Durham. The traveler tucked his tickets into his jacket pocket and tipped his hat to me before exiting.

  I knew I was far short of the monies required to traverse the counties and territories between Harrowboro, New Hampshire, and St. Joseph, Missouri. I had regained my deposit from the depot in Keene. Well, Mr. Friday did. Still, it would do until I could sell or trade the bracelet.

  Mr. Watts gave a gesture for me, then spread his hands across the counter and waited for me to speak. His lunch of gherkins and a wedge of farm cheese sat on a table just beyond a thin set of curtains. He gave it a yearning look, then returned his eyes to me.

  “I would like you to map for me the quickest route to St. Joseph. And the cheapest.”

  “There’s nothing cheap about that sort of journey.”

  “See what you can do.”

  His fingers smoothed the crinkled corner of a blotter, and his eyes traveled my dress. My finery, Cook had said. Finery enough he would not pick the cheapest route.

  He cleared his throat and opened two thick books of timetables, licking his fingers to turn pages and pointing and tapping in approval of this departure or that. “It’s late in the season. You’ll be stuck in Missouri for the winter. If you’re thinking of crossing the plains west.”

  I glared at him. “Just St. Joseph.”

  Winter. My heart thumped hard and slow. The prospect of a winter with little sustenance and a gambling chance of employment subdued me.

  “I assume there’s lodging houses.”

  “Plenty.”

  “Then I’ll need a list of the affordable ones.”

  He peered at the shelves on the side wall and pulled out another booklet, this with a sketch of a prairie schooner and a pair of oxen embossed on the soft cover.

  While he perused the lodgings, I glanced back to the chemist’s and the door to the street. The wind gusted, and the leaves lifted and circled before careening away.

  “Will you be traveling with someone?”

  “Hm?” I turned to him. “A single reservation. I’m meeting my uncle and aunt.”

  We came to an agreement and I left a deposit with a promise to return by midweek with the remainder of the fare.

  “One other question. How frequent is the stage to Boston?”
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  Another walk to the warden’s. Matron’s got her head lowered. She pulls my elbow and then the chain at my waist.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Her breath notches as she pulls it in. She shakes her head and knocks on the door. A pebble’s gotten in her shoe; she twists her ankle to the side and keeps the weight on her left leg.

  A young girl opens the door. She’s lean and angular like a colt. The warden’s daughter. “You’re her.”

  Her mother comes forward, hands worrying the pin at her throat. “Come in.”

  The daughter follows behind us, and when I look back she’s bug-eyed and no doubt formulating what she’ll tell her friends at school.

  Matron has tamed her expression to a blank mask and only lifts her mouth in a smile when the mother comments on the day.

  “I’ll be outside.” Matron moves aside for the daughter to close the door.

  The room is not changed from the last, though the space seems brighter without the presence of Mr. Finch. Or perhaps it’s the reflection of Aurora’s cream linen dress bordered with ribbons of velvet gold. She moves toward me, the light from behind casting her face in shadows.

  “You look as I expected.” She swerves to the sofa. “Sit.”

  “I’d like to stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” She sits and rests her arm along the cushions. “There’s tea on the tray if you wish it.”

  “Will I hang?”

  “I forget you are so plainspoken. Not if I can help it. Though the odds—”

  “I won’t go with Mr. Finch.”

  “You won’t have much say in that.” She presses her hands to her knees and rises, moving to the window. “Tomorrow I speak before the assembly to plead for your clemency. They gave mercy to Letitia Blaisdell when I fought for it three years back. Even though she confessed.” She lifts the teapot, then sets it back in place. “I will be frank with you, Lucy. Your petition has gone nowhere, as I thought it might. You don’t show remorse. Not even a little. But there are men in that room who abhor capital punishment, and it is to them I will aim my speech.”