“I want you to stay.”
“I can’t, Gene.”
“Anyone would understand. Josiah could—”
“All my father needs to say is I murdered my child.”
“But you didn’t. It’s your word against his.”
“And who would be believed?” I threaded my hands in my hair, dropped my elbows to my knees, and swallowed a sob. Then I gathered myself and counted out enough money for the train and a few days’ reprieve. “I promise to repay you.”
“No. Please.” She slid to the floor, her hands roaming my back and tugging at my hair, pulling me by the waist until my back was against her chest. “You can’t. I can’t . . .”
“Gene—” I strained against her hold, stuffing bills and coins in my waist purse.
Her body shook, tears dropping from her cheeks to slip along the nape of my neck. I trembled when her teeth grazed my spine.
I turned around to face her. “Come with me.”
Her eyes shifted back and forth. “How? You’re—”
I leaned close, her mouth near to mine. “Come with me.”
I pressed and coaxed, lowering us to the floor. My kiss was hard, the nip on her lip would bruise. “We could become anyone. We could see those monkeys we read about. In South America.”
She pressed her hands to my cheeks and dragged them down to my chest. She had always been tireless in the moments she wanted my affection. Her fingers caressed me. Possessed me. She memorized me bit by bit, much like she explored the raised maps I made for her that late summer. Sometimes she’d frown, as if she expected a different turn in the map, a different curve on me. But her hands continued their journey. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“Stop,” I said, and grabbed her wrists to hold her away. “You would really leave?”
“For you.”
This time, I possessed her.
Afterward, her fingers trailed my stomach, smoothing and petting my sensitive skin. The remaining coins dug into my back, and I eased onto my side. “Is this all your money?”
“There’s a lockbox under Josiah’s desk. But I don’t have a key.”
I scrambled up, straightening my nightdress.
“One bag. You can do that, can’t you? We’ll switch stage to rail . . . back again somewhere. We’ll sell these pearls . . . I don’t know . . .” My head pounded; I rubbed my forehead. “How could they not find us, Gene?”
“Cut my hair.”
“What?”
“I’ll wear trousers, Josiah’s not much taller than I, and—”
My heart thudded. “Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Come.” I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll pack your valise.” I reached to the top shelf and swung the leather satchel to the floor. “Pick the underthings you want. And give me the jewelry. I can stitch it in our travel clothes tomorrow.” My words tumbled, and I pulled her to me. “We’ll plan to leave on Friday’s stage to Boston, I think. Oh, Gene. You’ll really leave?”
She put her finger to my lips and tensed. “Sh.”
There it was: the smallest scuff of a foot against wood. A clink of glass.
Then silence. As if whoever was in the room knew they’d given themselves away.
Eugenie pressed her ear to the closet door. Her hand found my arm and she gripped into the soft of my wrist, letting go to stroke the tendons and down to my palm. “Delphine?”
My heart thumped hard enough I thought Eugenie would shush me again.
“It’s . . . it’s Rebecca.” She tapped the door. “Are you both in there?”
“Rebecca?” Eugenie’s voice was a brittle lilt. “What do you need?”
“It’s snowing.”
“Rebecca?”
There was no answer but the muffled thud of the outer door.
“Oh, Lucy. How much did she hear?”
“I’ll pack the bags tonight. Leave your shears out and I’ll cut your hair along the way. We’ll change stages in Goffstown.”
“And go where?”
“Somewhere without her.”
The flakes were fine as dust, flitting and lifting and settling on our shoulders. Cook stood with her hands on her hips and eyes to the sky, her lashes and cap sparkled white.
“Would you look at that?” Jacob stuck out his tongue to catch the flakes.
Rebecca kept her gaze on the granite steps. She wrapped her scarf round her neck and tugged at the knot of her wool bonnet. “You’ve not dressed yet?”
The chill air seeped through the thin slippers I had tugged on and slipped under my nightdress and up my bare calves. “Come, Gene.” I stole an arm around her waist and tugged enough for her to follow me down the steps to the drive and the sloping yard.
She turned her palms to the snow, grasping at the chips and flecks that shimmered silver on her teal shawl. “It’s too early. It’s barely November.”
A wind whipped the fine snow, surrounding us in white. The black of the tree line disappeared; the house and the others blurred and came into focus in bits and pieces only to scatter again with another flurry.
I folded her arm under mine, pulling her close. “Have her play the piano after dinner. I’ll gather what we need,” I said, my voice low.
She nodded.
“Are you sure, Gene?”
But Jacob’s whoops covered her words.
I couldn’t stop the chatter of my teeth.
“It’s too cold,” Rebecca called. “You’ll catch your death.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eugenie was wrong about Josiah’s height. He was taller than she by at least a head. When I held up his jacket, I was dismayed at the breadth of the shoulders.
Yet, there were so many pockets to secrete the jewels and cash. Local notes, for quick use, folded in the cuffs. Boston notes tacked under the felt of the high collar. Coins to a leather purse I’d found on Mr. Burton’s dresser were tucked into one breast pocket, and the spare watch with its fine filigreed plating rested in the other. The pearls snaked their way down the lining of the lapel.
I kicked my foot at the bottom of my skirt. It was heavy with the earrings and brooches I’d stitched into the fold of the hem. I wore the emerald-and-gold bracelet.
How Rebecca mauled the keys of the pianoforte. The horrid grate of it set my teeth to edge. I perched on my bed, scanning what remained to pack. The valise yawed open, awaiting the coat. I tucked the trousers and shoulder braces to the bottom, along with the shears. Underclothing. Hairbrush. Two pairs of wool stockings. Mr. Quimby’s collar, most insisted upon. Camisoles, petticoats, a pair of stays, a wrap to later bind Eugenie’s breasts. A white-and-blue striped shirt. Hard collar. A round of bread and square of cheese I’d slipped from the larder, along with a tin of tea I scooped from the container Cook had left open on the counter. My envelope with Ned’s hair kissed and slipped into the inner pocket. The silk embroidered memento mori of Eugenie’s children, a keepsake I was certain she would come to miss.
I bent the needle to the hem of the left sleeve, stitching away an ambergris cameo and a pair of cufflinks set with onyx and diamonds.
One jewel at a time to trade. One depot at a time to plan the next.
The pianoforte stopped. I raised my head, pricking my thumb. I sucked the drop of blood. Shook out the sting of it. Zebidah would be alarmed that my sewing had not improved in the arching years since my struggles with the samplers.
There. The bass notes of a quadrille, the beat slowing and stuttering and then proceeding with confidence. I tied off the last knot, bit the thread, shoved the needle into the wrist cushion and set it aside. I rolled the coat into the valise, then shut the clasp and slid it under my bed for the morning.
The room had grown cool; I opened the stove and stoked the fire, then did the same in Eugenie’s room. The embers flared red and glowed through the glass window.
One last thing.
A letter to be written.
To Aurora.
From Eugenie.
/> I sat at her desk, sliding the writing tablet forward, then took a sheet of paper from the drawer and slipped it under the wires. My stomach grumbled; Cook had sent up only cold cuts, a thin pea soup, and molasses bread, with a message she was ailing and taking herself to bed early.
How often I had watched Eugenie at this desk: how she held her pen near to vertical, how her thumb and forefinger, stained with ink, traced the wire.
A pluck of a match, the hiss of the wick. I turned the burner on the oil lamp and replaced the chimney.
My Dearest Aurora, Josiah has shared your concerns re Lucy. The situation is to hand. We have forgiven her and wish you will not mention any of this to Josiah when he visits. Rebecca is an idle
I pulled the page and rocked the ink blotter over the words, then followed with a sprinkle of powder. To the other side then.
woman and prone to fits of fancy. Ignore whatever else she should choose to vex you with.
Your Dearest Friend
E.—
I would leave it at the coach stop for the Concord-bound mail. With luck, it would be delivered to Aurora by the evening. Just a note to gain me more time.
“Lucy? What are you doing in here?”
I startled, dropping the pen to the wires. Ink splashed from the nib. “I’m packing your letter case.”
Eugenie leaned her shoulder against the wall. Her head tipped, and she ran her tongue along her lower lip. “All right.”
My stomach lurched. “Laudanum or brandy?” But I knew which it would be.
“You would have had a sip, too, if you had to listen to that playing.”
“Give it here.”
“She says I’ve betrayed her. That it’s unforgivable, what I’ve done.” She listed back, planting her foot and holding her arm out to the side to restore herself before she tumbled over.
I launched from the chair and dug at her skirts, grabbing through the folds to find the pockets. I pulled the small laudanum bottle from the right pocket, not caring the seam ripped.
“You’re not my keeper.” Her words slurred flat.
“No, I’m not.”
“Good.” She walked to the bed, unsteady enough to reach for the bedpost. “Go away.” She made a heaving sound and covered her mouth.
I sprung to the bed, grabbing the chamber pot from underneath and shoving it at her just in time for her to be sick.
She gulped in a breath, then spit the dregs of her vomit into the pot. I set it to the floor, then kicked it underneath the bedframe.
“Will you be sober enough to travel?” I lifted the water ewer from the dresser, glad it was full, and poured her a tall glass. “Drink this.”
She took a small sip and grimaced.
“Drink it down. It’ll help.”
I waited for her to finish, then took the glass and set it on her bedside table.
“Turn around. I’ll undress you.” The buttons fought me as I undid them. Or was it the shake of my hands? “Where did you get the laudanum?”
A laugh rolled in her throat. “That particular bottle was in the clock case. You didn’t think to look there, did you?”
I lifted her arms one at a time, tugging at the sleeves and pulling the top of the dress so it folded at her waist. My hands twisted the buttons of the skirt and wrangled it down to the floor. “Step out.”
She pinched the side of her waist and fumbled with the buttons. When I moved to help, she slapped me away. She left the underskirts to fall atop the dress and sank to the bed.
“I need to loosen your stays.”
“How are we getting to . . . the . . .”
“We walk.”
“In the snow? My skirts—”
“You’ll lift them and walk.”
“In the snow.”
“I have woolen stockings for you. You’ll be perfectly warm.”
She pulled the pins from her hair, and it fell in heavy waves every which way. She gathered and twisted it to a loose bun. “Do you know how I met Josiah?”
“No.”
“I was in the servants’ corridor at . . . someone’s. And he found me. He said, ‘I think you’re quite turned around.’ He found me.” She sank to the bed. Her shoulders slumped and she rested her elbows on her thighs. “Oh, Lucy. You want too much.”
“You’re not going.” My chest constricted against the sharp sting of those words. The room spun away. Settled again in place. I yanked the clothing from the floor, snapping them smooth and laying them along the hope chest at the foot of the bed.
“Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. There isn’t time to be angry.” I smacked the pillows into shape.
“You’re angry anyway.”
She fell back, rubbing at her face as I lifted her feet to the mattress and unrolled her stockings.
“Scoot up. Take your nightdress.”
She rolled it on and then caught my hand as I moved to straighten the neck of it. “Don’t be angry.”
My throat was tight, holding in the pleas I knew would be useless. I moved the ewer from the dresser and tipped it to the glass. “Finish the water tonight.”
“Forgive me.”
I kissed her forehead. “I never saw you dressed as a man, anyway. It was a ridiculous idea.”
Then I waited. Rebecca had not settled to bed. I could hear her footsteps crossing the boards above in the ritual of getting ready to sleep. Clothes to the wardrobe, nightdress from a drawer. A washcloth to the face and underarms. Wood to the stove. The creak of the mattress. There.
Eugenie’s breathing slowed and steadied. God knows what her slurried dreams would conjure. I stroked her hair, slowing to caress the small scar. “Goodbye.”
I slipped off my boots and passed through her closet to the narrow servants’ hall, treading close to the wall to avoid loose boards. There was no light; I traced the wall and curled my toes over the stair risers as I descended to the first floor.
I opened the door a crack. The lamps in the hall had been snuffed. The grandfather clock ticked. My chest clutched as I thought of the bottles and vials sitting below the pendulum’s swing. I hesitated, wondering if I should bring some, a balm for my unease, then thrust off the thought, turning my attention instead to the door hard to the right.
A quick step from my hiding place, and in one movement I twisted the knob to Mr. Burton’s office and sneaked inside.
The room was snow bright; none of the curtains had been drawn. I crept to his desk and lowered myself to my knees. Ledgers and loose papers circled the legs and sat in stacks around his chair. I slid a stack and peered into the space. Then I lay on my stomach and swung my arm until it connected with something hard and metal and heavy. I grappled to find the lock’s strike plate, then wrapped my hand on a corner and turned the box so the lock faced me. With my free hand I pulled a long hairpin from the crown of my head and pushed the tip into the keyhole. I felt the shift of a tumbler, and the pin slid closer to its prize.
Another dull click. The pin snapped.
I pressed my hands to my chest to slow my heart. Then I rejoined the task with another pin.
But the other jammed in the tumblers, and there was no egress for another. There was nothing to do then but lug it upstairs and hope I had the strength to carry it until I found another way in.
I reversed my route, my steps burdened with the load, and once in my room lowered it to the floor, lighting a candle to keep sentry until morning. The brass fittings gleamed. Inside that box was freedom from my father, and enough money, at last, to stop running.
I collapsed back on my bed.
Soon.
I woke with a jolt, my slumber and a shifting image of Eugenie in black trousers and a topcoat fading with the pounding at the door.
“What is it?” My eyes were glued with sleep. I rubbed the crystals from my lids and stood. “Stop pounding.” I lit the stub of candle, holding the pewter base as I unlocked the door.
Delphine stood in front of me, her hair half wild. “There’s some
thing wrong with Mrs. Burton.” She twisted her fingers and gasped as if she could not get a full breath. “I came to light the fires.”
“With Gene?” I stared at her.
“Rebecca said to wake you.”
I turned to grab the door handle that adjoined our rooms. But the door held tight. Locked. My skin prickled and a heavy dread filled my chest. “No. It’s all wrong.” My foot caught the heavy hem of my skirt. “Where’s Jacob?”
“At the barn.”
“Go down and fetch Cook.”
She took to the stairs, her boot heels echoing as she crossed the floor below.
Eugenie’s door was open. I kept the candle in front of me, a feeble shield against the blackness that streamed around. I stepped into the room. Stopped. Set the candle on her desk. I grabbed the edge to stop another fall as my skirts, heavy with jewelry, caught under me.
The candle threw a half circle, catching the damasked wallpaper. My eyes slid along the walls and windows, to the warp of the trees and the yellowing sky.
The water glass lay on its side, just a breadth out of her reach. The empty ewer rested on her splayed bare arm. Her skin was a horrible gray. She lay on her stomach, the sheets coiled like ropes round her legs. The pillows were soaked a scarlet red. Her head lolled over the edge of the mattress, hair cascading and curling in a pool of bloody black vomit.
Rebecca stood on the other side of the bed. Her fingers played with the silk ribbons that braided the collar of her nightdress. She twisted them round her fingers and unfurled them. Her gaze flicked to Eugenie’s body. “Oh,” she said, and took in a shuddering breath. “Oh.” Her fingers wound the ribbons again, rose pink and mint green.
“What have you done, Rebecca?”
“Now she’s no one’s.” She stepped round the bed and moved to the door, gripping her hand to the frame.
I swallowed back bile. “What have you done?”
Her lips stretched into a grimace. “Monster.” She took a step back, a quick glance to the balcony and when she looked to me, her mouth quivered open and closed and her nose bled down her chin. “You’ve murdered her.” She grabbed the railing and raised her voice, like an actor pitching words to the very last stall. “Get the constable. Lucy’s murdered her.”
The Companion Page 23