The Visionist: A Novel

by Rachel Urquhart

  “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?” I noted dryly. “But of little import now. Go on.”

  He opened the packet and held up the document. “And, as you can see, my father knew Benjamin Briggs.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I have been made aware of that.”

  He coughed as he looked down. Trask was not comfortable with having passed himself off as someone he wasn’t, and I liked him all the better for it.

  “Benjamin Briggs and my family were well acquainted. Indeed, I believe I was as close to being a son to him as anyone. My father—after whom I was named—had been his solicitor. Briggs last saw him not long before he…died.” There was a moment of silence in the room; then he spoke again. “He was in an awful state. He’d noticed Silas changing as he grew, knew there’d been something wrong, knew he’d done nothing to protect his own daughter… When he found out May was pregnant and had married out of shame, it tortured him. He ordered Silas to leave. That wasn’t long before the accident.”

  “So these papers,” I said, “how do they fit in?”

  “Well, as you can see, it’s Briggs’s will leaving May the farm and everything in it. He didn’t know what was going to happen to her once he died, but he wanted to be certain it would be she who’d have control of all of his property and not Silas. So he wrote what’s known as a ‘sole and separate bequest.’ It’s common enough, though most folks are pretty backward when it comes to these things. They assume that, as it did in the past, everything always goes to the man. No longer true. Less and less so, in fact.”

  “So Silas had no claim whatsoever? And this here—‘free from the debts of her husband.’ That protected May in some way as well?”

  “That’s right,” said Trask. “No matter how much of a reprobate Silas became—racking up debt, drinking, gambling, name your vice—there was no way anyone was going to be able to put a finger on that land to pay off what he owed.”

  I thought awhile on this. Briggs might have assumed he’d locked things up tight, but I doubted he’d ever met a man like Hiram Scales. As long as May owned the land, then May stood to lose the land—if Scales got hold of Briggs’s will and had his way.

  “You look troubled,” Trask said. “Pryor, please tell me about May and the children now. I ask out of concern for their welfare and for no other reason.”

  I paused. I wasn’t certain as to where I should begin, so I chose to build from bad to worse. “Well, as you saw for yourself,” I said, shooting him a significant look, “May Kimball was bought at auction just yesterday. What you don’t know is that I followed her to the horse barn where the man who bought her was keeping her. And I spoke to her—that’s how I came by this.”

  Trask stared at the envelope and turned it over. “And why is my name scratched here with a piece of charcoal? Seems awfully crude…”

  “It was a piece of burnt straw,” I told him. “May wrote that, just before she was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped!” he exclaimed. “You mean right then and there? In front of you?”

  I looked down. I was not proud of having failed to protect her once I’d finally found her. “That’s right,” I said. “James Hurlbut’s men.”

  “Why would anyone…?”

  “I believe you hold the answer in your hands, sir,” I said.

  “This ancient document? What can it possibly have meant to anyone save May—and possibly me?”

  “Speculators,” I said with a shrug. “James Hurlbut must have had an intuition. He had a feeling that if there was anything he needed to know about the land—any surprises he’d want to wangle free of before it went on the block—he’d get them out of May. These papers are exactly what he hoped he’d find.”

  Trask was speechless for a moment. It hardly seemed surprising that his next impulse was to suspect me. “And you, Pryor?” he asked carefully. “What is the genesis of your involvement in all this?”

  I hid nothing. “I’m afraid that, as you already know, I have been called upon to serve James Hurlbut a number of times over the years, as an investigator and facilitator of sorts. I’m not proud of the association. But suffice to say, I have reasons that are nowhere near as unworthy as the acts they force me to perform. Just as you did, he hired me to investigate the fire at the Kimball farm—a labor that has led me to secure the very packet you now hold in your hands. The situation worries me, I’ll be frank. From what I know of Hurlbut—which is more than I care to admit—I think that this farm is something he wants badly enough to… Well, you said it before, when we first met. May Kimball is in danger and the sooner she can be rescued, the better.”

  Trask looked as though he still needed convincing as to which side I was on. He bade me continue.

  “Not long after he approached me,” I said, “you appeared on the scene. So you see, in no uncertain terms, I am here on business.”

  “And yet you have chosen to return the envelope to me,” he said, looking perplexed. “What can you possibly have to gain by expressly going against Hurlbut’s wishes?”

  I hesitated a moment before uttering the truest words I had yet to speak. “I despise the man, sir. And I have seen and heard described the misery of May Kimball’s life several times over. I want no part in stealing what could be her last chance at turning her fortune around. Now, if I have answered your questions to your satisfaction, let us return to discussing the contents of the packet.”

  He turned, got up from his chair, and stood gazing into the fire. Something was on his mind.

  Finally, he made his way to a cabinet across the room, took a key from his pocket, and clicked open the lock. “I’ve a few things to show you, Pryor. And if your object is to scuttle Hurlbut’s plan, then I believe you’ll be glad to see them. I’ll warn you now, there’s a bit of a story attached.”

  “I’ve got time,” I said.

  He smiled as I beckoned him back to his chair.

  “Here is the first,” he said. “I’ve held it in secret for more than six years now.” He handed me a single page of sworn testimony. The signature at the bottom—firmly marked and accompanied by Trask’s familiar seal—was that of Mister William Peeles, my drinking partner from the squalid Ashland tavern.

  I, William Peeles, do solemnly swear in the presence of solicitor Barnabas Trask Esq. that on this 11th day of March in the year 1836, I aided in the birth of one Benjamin Briggs Kimball, Jr., born alive and healthy of May Briggs Kimball and Silas Kimball this very morn.

  Signed, William Peeles

  I looked up expectantly.

  “Peeles came to me directly from the birth,” Trask said. “Silas had threatened to kill the boy unless May left him, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the outside world. Peeles, being a decent and perceptive man, knew well enough to go along with the scheme while Silas was watching, but he also knew that the boy would be out of an inheritance if there was no record of his birth. He wasn’t a doctor, but he’d birthed the infant and was willing to swear to it. He never told May what he’d done. He feared Silas would find a way to beat it out of her.”

  “So, May doesn’t know about this?” I asked.

  “No. I never told her. Peeles asked me not to. Said if anything ever happened to May because of what he’d done, he’d never forgive himself. But now that Silas is dead, I see no reason for her…”

  “Well,” I said, “clearly you’ve never met a Shaker by the name of Elder Sister Agnes. May shouldn’t be told about this until both of her children are free and clear of those people.”

  “Is that where they are?” Trask asked. “May put them with the Shakers? That’s…well it’s a sad irony, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when Briggs came to my father, he told him that he’d discussed the Shakers with May. Just wanted her to know they were there, and that she needn’t feel any shame if she ever had reason to go to them. Funny how things come full circle.”

  “Isn’t it though,” I said. “Lucky she paid him no heed—well, in one respect,
anyway.”

  “Why’s that?” Trask asked.

  “Because had she signed up, she’d have lost that land her father went to such lengths to secure for her. The Shakers would have made her give it to them, as part of their ‘covenant.’”

  “Hmm,” Trask said, looking pensive. “Well, there’s no point worrying about that. Here. Exhibit B.”

  He handed me a second document. “What’s this?” I asked, genuinely confused. “It looks like a deed. A deed signing the farm—May’s farm—over to…you.”

  Trask shrugged. “She didn’t trust Silas—not for a minute. Once he started acting strange, once he started beating her in earnest, once he attempted…”

  “To murder Ben,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Go on.”

  “Well, she came to me behind his back and said she wanted to put the land where he could never get it. The children were too young for her to pass it on to them, so I suggested that she deed it to me.”

  “How convenient,” I said, sarcastically. Perhaps Trask was the crook I’d suspected from the beginning—just sharper than I’d given him credit for.

  “That’s not all I suggested,” he said quickly, handing me yet another document.

  It was a trust agreement. It said that as soon as Polly came of age and Trask deemed her to be in a good position to take charge of the land as well as Ben’s interests, he would promise to sell it back to her—for one penny. And if she ever fell into the same misfortune as had her mother, then he was to hold on to the property and manage it in such a way as to benefit both Polly and Ben.

  May had not left her children unprotected at all. Indeed, she’d shown remarkable foresight. With Barnabas Trask as the legal owner—even if only temporarily—no one could put a finger on the farm. Ruined as it was, the property would be there for the taking just as soon as the Kimball children were ready to receive it.

  “Now that you know the whole story,” said Trask, “do you have any idea what you are going to do with the information?”

  I was uncertain at first how to answer. The instinct to guard my thoughts and actions had deepened over the years. Now, it paralyzed me. What was I going to do? Between them, May and Trask had beaten a formidable villain in the form of Silas Kimball. But were they any match for James Hurlbut? Or, for that matter, Elder Sister Agnes?

  “I believe, sir, that Briggs’s original—and now defunct—will could be traded for May’s safe return. Then, once she is back in safe hands, she will accompany me to the Shakers and tell them that Ben’s birth was never recorded and, as such, that he is useless to them. It’s what she believes to be true, after all, so I’ve no doubt she’ll be convincing. Finally, it’s my assumption that, having determined neither child to hold great promise as a ‘believer,’ the Shaker sister will release Polly and Ben from their indenture and the family shall, once more, be reunited.”

  “Very neat,” said Trask. “But how will you find May?”

  “I have my sources, sir,” I answered. “One important detail: Do you have a second copy of Briggs’s will? One with an unbroken seal? It will be more convincing to Hurlbut if it looks clean and official. The envelope May held onto for all these years—well, it’s pretty worn out.”

  He reached into the cabinet and handed me his copy of the sealed will. He had something else he wanted to say to me.

  “You know,” he said, “I tried to persuade May to leave the farm. I told her that she and the children could live in peace and safety here with me, but she would not come. I think she was afraid of what Silas was capable of. In the end, helping her to secure the farm was the only thing I could do for her. Seems so little, really. Given the horror of her life.”

  “But it wasn’t so little, as it turns out,” I said, standing up and heading for the door. “It’s not just saving her life now—it’s saving her children’s as well.”

  I smiled and held out my hand. He shook it firmly.

  “You know where to find me, should you need any assistance,” he said.

  “That I do.” One final question buzzed about my head like a mosquito. I turned to Trask. “Why do you think May carried around her father’s old will?”

  He looked pensive, and a little sad. “I imagine she just wanted to have a souvenir to remember him by. That, and it was the last thing anyone ever did to protect her.”

  I could not help feeling a familiar melancholy sweep over me. My mind traveled far away to that solitary house on that solitary hill, the door to my roomful of regrets thrown open wide. May had seemed such a broken woman, yet she’d managed to care for her kin anyway. Could I have done better looking out for mine?

  Polly

  THE BOTTLE WAS small and cool in her palm. She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a slip of paper. It had been torn from a book. Trembling as she tipped the page towards the window, Polly began to read.

  The intestines should be kept moderately soluble during the cure; for this purpose the purgatives of the more stimulant, or drastic, kind are found most efficacious, as jalap, black hellebore, scammony, aloes, mercury, bitter apple, &c. these are found to influence circulation and promote the discharge: in addition to which horehound has been much extolled by the French. Hellebore has also been used in the form of tincture, but its action is violent, and if given in a full dose, is found to purge too roughly and profuse.

  At the bottom, Charity had written just two sentences.

  The tincture of Black Hellebore is made to be drunk in four small sips over two days. Morning, night, morning, night.

  That was all. She had not even signed it.

  Polly looked back over the strange text. Though the title at the top had been torn through, she could still make it out. Menstruation Obstructed. So this was how the other sisters were told to bleed their wombs. She shuddered and looked once more at the bottle.

  So small, such dark liquid, just four tiny sips to out Silas from her body. It was all she could do not to drink it down then and there. Charity’s note told her to be careful, but Charity’s concern was not for Polly. It was for the believers. They must never know that their Visionist was a whore. They must never know that she took poison to kill the child inside her. If this purging was to be done, it was to be done quietly.

  Polly crumpled the page around the bottle and shoved it back under her pillow. Cold and empty, her room felt like a cell. Now that she had the means to force the curse from her body, the moments until it was done stretched endlessly before her. She knew the bleeding would be dangerous. Too much, too fast, girls died from this all the time.

  She took her cape from the peg in the hall. She felt weak, it was true, but she needed to work in order to clear her head. Besides, her presence was required in the sisters’ workshop. There were seed packets to be made, and they were far behind in fashioning the number they hoped to have ready in time to sell to the World. Spring seemed farther away than ever, yet the months were deceiving. It was almost the end of February.

  Polly’s thoughts swirled as she walked along the path. There were so many things she needed to sort out. When would the inspector and her mother be coming for her? Elder Sister Agnes had not mentioned the day. Why was he so keen to see her, this Simon Pryor? The only reason she could think of was that he meant to arrest her. Had Ben’s birth been recorded? She’d never wondered before, for what child thinks of such things. If it had, she would need to warn Mama to say nothing about it. It was imperative that Elder Sister Agnes be convinced that she had no reason to hang on to Ben, that he was illegitimate and could thus bring the believers no promise of property.

  Then, there was the child inside. With every passing hour, she wanted more fervently for it to be gone from her womb. She could not figure out how old it might be, so often had Silas forced himself on her in the months before she came to The City of Hope. If she left things for too long, the cure would kill her. Yet she could not take the poison here, for who would help her if it all went wrong?

  She stopped. She would go to Elder Si
ster Agnes and ask when the meeting would take place. That would determine everything.

  Polly stood in the doorway of the eldress’s workroom. She was breathless from her walk to the Church Family meetinghouse.

  “Why are you here, Sister?” the eldress asked. “Visiting me is all well and good, but do you not have something more important to occupy your time?”

  “I need to know when the inspector and my mother are coming,” Polly said. “If I am to leave with them, there are…things I would like to do.”

  Elder Sister Agnes regarded her closely. “Things? What things? Are you planning a final Vision? Something for the believers to remember you by?”

  Polly closed her eyes. “No,” she said sadly. “Nothing like that.” Her legs felt weak and she wished that the eldress would invite her to sit. She could feel a cramp coming on. She fought it, did not want to bend over and clutch at her stomach.

  “Sister Polly?” the eldress asked. “What is wrong? Come sit by the stove. You look quite unwell.”

  Polly crossed the room and fell into the chair that the eldress had indicated. She was tired, so tired.

  “What is it, Sister Polly?” the eldress asked. Her tone was not hard. “I can assure you that you’ll feel better for telling me.”

  Polly looked up with tears in her eyes. What did it matter anymore? What did anything matter? She was leaving. There was no punishment the eldress could mete out that would be worse than what the World might do to her.

  “For all the time I’ve been here,” she said. “You have wanted me to confess, Eldress. Well, here I am. You needn’t worry that I’ll let down the believers. You have determined a plan to keep that from happening. And Charity. You cannot be displeased that she has come to hate me. All that’s left is for me to help you understand why.”

  Polly sat up as tall as she could and told the eldress everything. About her father’s vile ways, the fire, the fact that she’d left him to burn, her last glimpse of him rolling out of the flames, and finally, the child. She told the eldress everything and it was a relief.