“And then?”
“Mr. Finch will give his report on your state of mind.”
“And then?”
“They will vote on commutation or execution. If it’s the latter, the only hope is the governor.”
“And if it’s the former?”
“You’ll be ordered to the asylum.” She turns again to the tea, pouring herself a cup and adding two spoons of sugar. “You have tested my principles.”
The steam snakes around her chin and along the ridge of her cheek. She blows over the cup and ventures a small sip. “I believe the death penalty degrades all of us. I believe it does no good in deterring crime or forcing penance. It is as brutal as the crimes that precede it. So I will speak for you.”
Another sip.
“But the lives you have wrecked, Lucy . . . In my heart I wish that you hang.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“It’s a good tract of land. Spruce and hardwoods.” Mr. Burton pierced the lamb chop on Eugenie’s plate and sliced the meat into cubes. “More northern than I wish, near Bethlehem, but it’s to be had for a song.”
Rebecca sat across the dinner table from me, with the Burtons flanking the ends. A silver candelabrum graced the middle of the table, the flames reflecting the tonic in Mr. Burton’s hair and the oils in the three of ours. We sat quite close, for the table leaf had not been added. Mr. Burton’s elbow jostled my own as he sliced the meat and then bent to the task of quartering her potatoes.
I slipped my hands to my lap and pulled in my arms, waiting until he had completed his quite unnecessary task.
Eugenie inclined her head and ran her fingers lightly over the rim. “I was capable of this myself, Josiah.”
“But we’d all be finished and on our dessert by the time you’d done it.”
“That’s not true.”
He speared a large bite of his own meat, his hand hovering above the plate. “And I like to spoil you.” He bit and chewed, lifting his wine goblet to swallow down the last dregs. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
Rebecca jolted forward—not enough for Mr. Burton to notice, but I could see the coil in her, and the questioning way she peered at him. “So soon?”
“Mm. If we’re to make the White Mountains before the weather.”
“I see.” She folded back in her seat and stabbed at her lima beans. “Well, we will certainly keep the house to order until your return.”
Mr. Burton tapped the stem of his glass with his ring, staring at her until her lids fluttered and her skin flamed. I followed his gaze as he turned to Eugenie. “You are nearly healed.”
She touched the bridge of her nose, then the edge of the cut on her forehead that was but a line now fading from red to pink. “Yes.”
“How does it sound, my Gene? Being the wife of a timber magnate.”
“Is the mill not enough?” She folded her napkin, pressing the corner to her lips before returning it to her lap. “Or do you grow bored with wool?”
“The mill needs a rail spur and we don’t have it. Not yet. But if I provide the timber, they might be amenable to laying the iron. I’ll be stopping in Concord.”
The blood blanched under my skin, leaving me with a sudden chill. “To see Aurora?”
“Among others.”
Rebecca’s fork scraped her plate. “I’m sure she’ll have much news for you, Cousin.” She smirked at me. “And if you’d be so kind as to pass a letter to Aurora, I’d be in your debt.”
“We’ll have a guest on our return.” Mr. Burton pushed his chair back and crossed his legs, draping his hands over his knees. He tipped his head toward Rebecca and then Eugenie. “Shall we tell her?”
“Not now, Josiah.” She twisted her fork and set it on her plate.
“But it’s fine news, isn’t it?”
“Josiah—”
Rebecca glanced from one to the other. “What’s the secret?”
“You, my dear, have had a proposal.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You can thank Eugenie for the wherewithal to mend the fence, but it seems Mr. Finch is quite fond of you.”
“Mr. Finch?” Rebecca pressed her hands to her cheeks. But they were not flamed with any pleasure. Her skin paled. She shook her head and then stared at Eugenie. “No.”
My stomach dropped. Eugenie had mentioned none of this to me. And as much as I disliked Rebecca, I would never give her to Finch. “Gene?”
“It’s something to consider, Rebecca. You should consider it.” Eugenie picked up her fork and returned to her meal.
Mr. Burton lifted his eyebrows and gave a self-satisfied smile before turning toward Jacob. “More wine.”
Jacob grabbed a decanter and tipped it. The wine spilled like liquid garnets into Mr. Burton’s glass. He turned then to Rebecca, who covered her own small glass and shook her head. “I think these few sips have gone well enough to my head.”
“Lucy?” Mr. Burton asked.
“Lucy’s not fond of spirits,” Eugenie said.
Rebecca rolled her napkin tight in her fist and stood. “If I may be excused.” She didn’t wait for an answer but jerked away from the table and lurched to the hall.
Mr. Burton watched after her, sipping his wine. “Hm.”
I cleared my throat. “How long will you be gone?”
“I think a fortnight.”
A fortnight. Both a gift and a sentence. My funds had purchased the stagecoach ticket but I had not the money for the train, nor to switch to a different route after a number of stops. I had a fortnight to trade the bracelet from Eugenie somewhere, to escape the past—and the police—sure to return with Mr. Burton and Mr. Finch.
“Will Mr. Friday remain here?” I asked. I could hear the sawdust in my voice. Friday would be silent were I to ask him to take me to Peterboro or Jaffrey. No one would have an idea where the jewelry came from there. I could pretend to be a widow and simper and flirt with the dealer of silver and gold.
“Friday will accompany me. And Beede, of course.”
“Of course.” My shoulders grew heavy.
“Jacob will be the man of the house. And you’ll have the mule, should you need to hitch the cart for town.”
“When do you leave?” I asked.
“First light.” He lifted his glass. “I leave you to your house of women.”
I do wonder if he had some premonition when he mounted his horse, his leather bag slung across his chest like a soldier going to war, fearing his household undone on his return. His horse, the darker gelding, was skittish, and Mr. Burton circled him round with a shush while Mr. Beede and Friday loaded foodstuffs and supplies to the wagon.
Across the narrow valley, the mist strung along the treetops and rose in funnels through the bare limbs. The air was harsh and sharp, the frost hardening the ground and spitting sparks from the gelding’s shoe as he pawed the soil.
Jacob held the reins, and Mr. Burton patted the horse’s neck with hands cloaked in leather gloves. But the horse’s flank and shoulders already glistened with an anxious sweat.
“He doesn’t want to leave.” Mr. Burton threw a smile as we all stood on the steps. “Are we met, Mr. Beede?”
Mr. Beede waved from his seat next to Friday. “We are met.” And the wagon rumbled on the drive.
Jacob let loose the reins. Mr. Burton whirled his mount and loped after the wagon. But then he slowed and trotted back, reining in before Eugenie. She shivered under her robes, for we had not dressed for the morn and stood knock-kneed in our nightdresses and wraps.
He pulled his beaver hat from his head. “Be well, wife.” Then he settled the hat back and gave a squeeze to the horse, bounding across the yard to join the men.
Rebecca lifted and dropped her chin, then took the stairs, patting my arm as she passed. “Just us, then.”
“Rebecca. I didn’t know.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s what we planned, Lucy.”
“But, Finch? That horrible . . . Of all people,
Gene.”
“You can’t deny they’re well matched.” She pressed her hands to the door of her bedroom and laughed. “And now we have a fortnight together.”
“It’s too late.”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
I pulled my robe tight and paced the windows, lifting up and discarding an amber paperweight, a wingless fly caught forever in resin. Her pen threatened to tip from her writing desk, and I picked it up and set it on its holder. A fortnight. I cataloged Mr. Burton’s study, curious if he kept cash in a safe or a drawer I could pry with a hairpin. But when could I do that, with Rebecca always nearby and Delphine now staying the nights as the days grew too short and too dark to traverse the woods?
Another pace to another window. A view of the dead garden and the most delicate of plants covered in domes of glass. I flicked at a curtain. “We need to change these.”
“Change what?”
“The curtains.” I shook them and let them drop. “The curtains.”
“Come. Stop being so fractious.” Her voice dropped low. “We’ll make our own little world right here, like we did in Keene. There’s just us, now.”
“There’s not just us.”
“Of course there is.”
“No, there’s not. There’s Delphine. There’s—never mind.”
“Delphine? Your jealousy is quite misplaced.”
“Where should I place it, then?”
“You’re who matters. Why do you not believe it?”
“There’s Mary Dawson.”
Her face paled. “Poor Mary.”
I clenched my fists. “Tell me about Mary.”
“But there’s nothing to tell.” She slid along the wall and lowered herself to a chair. “Why are you like this? I thought you’d be—”
“I think Mary killed herself because of you.”
She took in a harsh breath and clamped her mouth tight.
“Nothing to say?”
“I rarely spoke to her.”
“Did she come to your bed too?”
I picked at this, though I’m not certain I would have found peace with any answer she gave. She was either cruel for using and spurning the girl or cold for thinking nothing of her when she died. Perhaps it wasn’t peace I was after, but confirmation she felt as little for Mary as she would eventually for me, and thus my leave-taking could be done clean in anger, rather than muddled with regret.
“There is nothing to know.” She spread her hands across the chair arms and sat back with a sigh. “She was a simple young woman who liked to please. Not as you’re thinking.”
“What should I be thinking?” My gaze ticked upon each painting in the room. I should have mapped the safe much before this point. Kept the knowledge tucked like a rabbit’s foot in my pocket.
“She brought flowers and I don’t know, a crème from town, or I don’t really know. I don’t remember.” She gave a dismissive wave. “Rebecca no doubt noted every indiscretion. It doesn’t matter, it—”
There was a quick rap at the door, then a jiggle of the handle. “Hallo? Mrs. Burton?”
I strode over, twisted the key and opened the door to a slit. “What?”
“Good morning to you too.” Delphine held up a pail of kindling. “May I enter? Unless you wish to freeze.”
I grabbed the handle. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re leaving us? Is that true?”
“No.”
“But I saw the stagecoach ticket. In your room.”
The pail dropped from my grasp, clanging and spilling out strips of wood. “What were you doing—”
“Was I not supposed to—”
I slammed the door. My hand gripped the key tight enough the metal bit into my skin.
The room was silent. Eugenie remained in her seat; only the flush on her chest gave anything away.
I let go of the key, curling my hands into fists and rubbing them against my skirts. “Delphine doesn’t know what she’s . . .”
She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m in trouble, Gene.” My breath felt trapped and I forced the air through my teeth. “I need money. And I need to leave.”
She loved me. I know she did.
“No.”
Where is Matron? My hands are blue with cold. My fingers draw lines of ice on the wall, and my breath freezes into shards of glass.
“I won’t listen to you.” With a flick, I lift my soiled skirt over my head, crouching and retreating as far into the corner as I can. It’s warmer here under the skirts, and dark. And if I wrinkle up the skirt hems, I can press them to my ears and keep Mary out.
There, there.
She tilts her head and she is whole, wide eyed, skin clear and plumped.
Don’t hide. Her fingers gentle away my skirt. There, there.
She draws so close, her legs straddling my lap, knees pushed to hips, her dress thawing and dripping, soaking my skirts and the skin of my thighs. Her breath is like sleet.
You shiver. I shivered.
“She didn’t love you.”
I should have killed her. It was too late by the time you did. Too late.
Mary leans back on her haunches and studies me. The moonlight slides through her, splintering against the cell door.
So many lies.
My nails scrape the floor. I can’t turn without her shifting in front of me.
She lets out a long keen and grabs the back of her head. Then she straightens and turns her palms in a plea.
She was kind to me. She was my friend.
It’s not safe to walk in the woods, she said.
Let me walk you home, she said.
Mary blinks. Mary kisses my lips.
So many lies.
The day before my trial, the constable stood watch as the gravedigger dug into the soil. Shovelful by shovelful he dug, until the metal made dull contact with Mary Dawson’s coffin. Her body was transferred to the cellar of the Justice of the Peace. I can imagine the stench.
The back of her skull was crushed. As if from a large stone and calculated anger. The bone fragmented and there was no chance she could rescue herself from the water.
“It was Rebecca,” I whispered.
“Not guilty,” my counsel noted, this time without the smell of spirits on his breath. “The force of the stream. The crush of the ice. A drop from our gravedigger’s hands. Let us promptly reinter this poor drowned girl before her family finds the grave amiss. I think two charges of murder are enough anyway. Don’t you, gentlemen?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you, so squeeze your eyes tight and stay sat.”
Gert shuffles away, leaving me standing by the drying racks. The boiler bangs and wheezes, and I wonder when the warden will get around to replacing it. Low on the list, I think, as the laundry doesn’t bring in money like the shoes and the cabinets. It’s damp here and nothing fully dries. All the bedding and clothes go out with a tinge of mildew and return the same.
“Don’t say your Gert hasn’t done something for you.”
“You’ve done more than enough.”
“For your last shift here.” She turns my hands, hers puckered and cold from the tubs still, and lowers a cloth bundle to my open palms.
I close my fingers around it, feel the slim stalks and trace the petals soft as silk and velvet. I lift the bouquet to my nose. Open my eyes to the spray of color. Wildflowers. Orange and purple and brightest red. Yellow pollen flaked across browns and spring blue.
We turn over two tubs, sit between the mounds of sodden clothes. Gert unknots another cloth and breaks a ginger cake in two, never minding the crumbs settling in her lap. Spicy and sweet and thick. Cook would approve of the addition of the apple.
“My boys always liked the apple in it.”
The black hand on the clock ticks away a minute. The scrollwork is intricate, made for a place kinder than this. “Mrs. Kepple will be speaking before the legislature now.”
“Will she be?” Gert chews,
her jaw twisting around and her eyebrows drawn down. “She’s a fearsome one. She’ll set the tail between some legs, that’ll be certain.” With a click of her tongue, she shoves the last of the cake in her mouth and swallows it down. “One last thing.” She half stands to peer across the racks, sits again when she’s certain the other two women aren’t paying us attention. She takes a small folded paper from the cloth that held the cake and sets it atop the flowers.
I unfold it.
Rough thick scrawl: Youv bin a good help with the laundry. Don’t forget Gert when she comes to knock at Peter’s. And Remembr—God do not hold you to yer sins.
The safe was not behind a painting, but rather cut into the closet wall directly behind Eugenie’s dresses. We kneeled shoulder to shoulder, the skirts that I’d tugged from the hangers bunched and crumpled behind us, bills and silver coins stacked in front of us. I held up the lamp, turning again to the closet door to make certain it was shut.
“Does Mr. Burton hold any Boston notes?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
My throat contracted in panic. All the notes from Eugenie’s safe were worth little ten miles beyond Harrowboro, even less by Stockbridge, Mass., and nothing at all by Hartford.
“Bank of New York?” I grabbed at her.
She startled and pulled her arm away. “Don’t do that. You know not to do that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“God.” With a shake of her head she stood, stepping on the bills and scattering the coins. “Why did you tell me this? Why did you tell me any of this?”
I set the lamp to my side, gathering the money and the strands of pearls that now snaked and tangled. I laid a hand to her ankle to prevent her from kicking over the lamp. She wrangled her leg from my grasp, pressing her back to the inset drawers and biting her lip. “Will he find you? Your father?”
“I don’t know.” I pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve to mop my forehead and neck. “It’s suffocating in here.”
“Where will you go?”
“Boston, St. Joseph, somewhere in between or beyond. I have to go.”
“When?”
“Two days. Three at the most. Rebecca sent a letter with Mr. Burton. To Aurora. Rebecca will do anything.”
The Companion Page 22