Soil and Ceremony

by Julia Byrd

  From the kitchen, I collected an armload of split logs. Then I ascended the grand staircase. At the second-story landing, I paused at the inset linen cupboard. My oil lantern was guttering, so I grabbed an entire stack of folded blankets and hastened away.

  Despite my stout pretense for Juno, the master bedchamber for me was little better than a nightmare. I stood outside the tightly shut door and squeezed my eyes closed. A quaver passed over my skin like the hide of a horse and settled in my hands. That evening, Joe’s last evening, I remembered in snatches. I’d been home for a break between university terms, but also because I knew things were going poorly. Surely Joe had picked that night as his last because he couldn’t handle the pain any longer, but also because I was there. If I had stayed away, would he have carried on?

  Mother’s lady’s maid, one of the last servants to be let go, had fetched me from my room in tears. I found my mother lying across Joe’s doorway in a motionless heap. Upon opening Joe’s chamber door, I had seen…No. My memory fractured, and my mind shied away from it.

  I dropped the pile of linens from my shaking grip and lowered the lantern beside them. Could I make the room my own? It was the master chamber, after all, and mine by rights. Or would it always be Joe’s room and the place of his most desolate moments? I had wanted Juno’s unique perspective on the problem, but she needed to sleep.

  The kitchen felt like mine. And the dining room…I had stood at the head of the long table and showed Juno how to brace the door closed. The hot house was mine from the moment I laid flat on the tile floor and stared up at the ceiling. The library was mine…no, ours. The library was all of ours. The study was mine, overlaid with the warmth of Everett. The attic with its stage and leather chairs was only mine and Juno’s.

  In sudden inspiration, I turned and traced my steps back to the kitchen. There the banked fire provided dim light. It took me a few minutes to collect beeswax candles, a rag, and a tin of lemony furniture polish. I pried the lid open and sniffed it cautiously—it was the same stuff Juno had used on the bannister and the walnut desk. Then I returned upstairs.

  Thus, armed with a housekeeper’s implements, I was able to face Joe’s door better fortified. I turned the handle and pushed through the entrance.

  Disused hinges squawked in protest. The air inside was stale but dry, and thankfully it retained no odors of previous life or decay. A huge, canopied bed was positioned on one wall. The style of the room was a faux-medieval mix that suited me not at all. Carved wood panels were well crafted but darkened the room more than plain plaster would have. A fireplace with a granite surround was twice as big as was needed to heat the space.

  And worst of all, thick beams overhead, like smaller versions of cathedral buttresses, arched against the ceiling. I suspected they served no structural purpose, only stylistic. Some Hood ancestor owed a debt to good taste. Joe had used one sturdy beam for his last act.

  I kept my eyes away from the ceiling. First, I peeled off my wet overcoat, boots, jacket, waistcoat, and trousers and slopped them all into a damp pile. Then, wearing only my shirt and drawers, I knelt to lay a fire. The little pile of logs looked comically undersized in the cavernous fireplace, but it provided some light. The cheery crackle competed with the water pattering against the windowpanes.

  The bed did not appeal. I was tired but restless, and I wanted something to accomplish. I stuck a handful of candles into the plain taper holders I found on the mantel and on the bedside tables and lit them all. If anyone—Roberts, Colney, Greeley—dared to approach Maida House before dawn, they would see from the glowing windows that someone was awake. Then I took the rag and tin of greasy polish to the casement and began rubbing at the frame. The wood had been battered by weather and neglect. The glass looked clean enough, given the rain that still sheeted down the panes.

  I let myself fall into the rhythm of the work. Rag, oil, rub. It was simple and clean. After finishing the window frames, I started on the paneling. The bright citrus smell kept me alert, and I moved a candlestick along with me to show the gleam of newly polished oak. I cleaned until my arms and back sang with pleasant exertion and my head was nearly empty of thought. No thoughts of the Colneys’ baby, the other lost infants, Greeley, or Juno. No thoughts of my mother’s cheerful humming or my brother’s death.

  A tap on the door startled me. I jumped to my feet, knocked over the candlestick, dumping hot wax onto the floor and snuffing the flame, then cursed. I don’t know if it was the thud or the invective, but Juno let herself in. She stood in the doorway, one hand clasping her dressing gown tight around her neck.

  “Are you all right?” she asked breathlessly. “What was that noise? What are you doing?”

  “You’re exhausted,” I reminded her. I crossed to the fire and plucked up a twig to relight the candle. “Go back to sleep.”

  She came a few steps forward and shut the door instead. “I am tired, but I didn’t like to think of you battling your ghosts alone up here. Why does it smell like—are you cleaning?” She released her grip on her dressing down, and the neckline gaped open to reveal the chemise underneath and a silvery wedge of skin.

  I shrugged. “Cleaning is its own ceremony, isn’t it? Quite sure I learned that from you. I want to…”

  What do I want? It felt too small and too large to explain. How does anyone hold up their corner of the world? What strength is passed down to you, and which must you build? Opere et Omissione.

  “You want to sweat until it’s yours, just like the cemetery,” Juno offered when I failed to continue. “You want to earn it. I know you.”

  “Yes.” She may have meant it metaphorically, but her words made me realize I was sweating and half-dressed. Between that and the earlier drenching that had left my hair lank and wild, I was unfit for company. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s very late.”

  “Is your ceremony completed, then?” she asked, tipping her head. She looked around the room as if checking for cobwebs. “You really must sweep before you polish, you know, otherwise the dust just sticks to your shiny surfaces. Did you speak any words of gratitude or forgiveness?”

  “Juno, please. I am just reclaiming this room, not auditioning for membership in your coven.”

  “I should hope not,” she murmured, a witchy glint of mischief entering her dark eyes. “Your wardrobe is entirely unsuitable.” She stepped in front of the fireplace, and the glow lit the outlines of her limbs through her dressing gown.

  I groaned and threw down my rag. I had no defenses against her when she turned her charm on me. “Stay over there,” I said and leveled a hopeless finger. “I’m filthy and in desperate need of a bath.”

  “Nonsense. You are only bearing well-earned traces of rainwater and lemon.”

  “And mud and perspiration.”

  She smiled. “You shall never convince me that you are repellent, but I accede to the larger point. What if I sit here before the fire and stay out of your way?”

  Without waiting for permission, she crossed to the pile of blankets I’d scavenged earlier and scooped them up. I watched in bemusement as she heaped a few on the floor in front of the fire to make a little nest. One larger wool blanket she wrapped around herself from shoulders to ankles. She sank to the ground, looking like an owlet with her eyes peering out.

  I shook my head and chuckled. “Fine, stay there. You’ll be asleep in two minutes.”

  “That’s the idea,” she agreed. She settled back into her improvised nest. “Perhaps three.”

  I retrieved my cloth and resumed cleaning. I scraped up the spilled, hardened wax. I must have proved very dull entertainment, for Juno stayed alert no more than five minutes. Later I stripped off my ruined shirt and used it to wipe the floorboards. Juno had rolled to face the dying embers.

  “I am grateful for my family and for a dry place to sleep,” I murmured under my breath. My knees ached as I clambered along the planks. My right shoulder joint popped every time I swiped. “I am grateful for my inheritance. My parents did no
thing that requires my forgiveness, but I grant it freely.” Sweat from my hair dripped onto the dark wood, and I turned the fabric to wipe it away. “I am grateful for the chance to become the master of Maida House.”

  A sleepy mumble came from the other side of the room. “You’ve been doing it for eight years.” Juno’s voice was muffled. I turned to look. Her eyes were still closed.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Joe only had the job for two years, Ben. You’ve been the master of this house for eight already. You are just revising your strategy.”

  “It’s not the strategy that’s changed,” I said softly. Juno’s eyes fluttered open to meet mine. “It’s me.”

  Chapter 24: Rite of the First Supper

  I awoke at dawn huddled between Juno and the cold fireplace, staring up at the ceiling beams where Joe had hanged himself and battling rude, insistent bits of anatomy, secondary of which was my bladder. It was a decidedly uncomfortable beginning to the day.

  At least the rain had stopped. At some point during my scrubbing-turned-ceremony, I had formed a clear idea about the path ahead. Sarah Greeley, Juno, Everett and Mrs. Toth, this monstrous manor, Roberts and the suspicious villagers, and our village’s infant mortality rate were all a knot to be untangled at once.

  Juno twitched and stirred. I turned to watch her awaken. She stretched both arms over her head and arched her back, then groaned luxuriously. It did nothing to help any of my anatomy.

  “Stop that, madam, I beg of you,” I grumbled, “or I shall add torturer to the roll of your crimes.”

  She shifted onto her elbow and batted her lashes. “You usurped the fireside position.”

  “It’s still my house, I believe.” I flopped back down and focused on the beams overhead. The fragmented memories were there, and I suspected they always would be, but they did not set me trembling. “And you usurped every last one of the blankets.”

  “Poor man,” she said in a teasing tone. With one hand she plucked up a corner of her tangled wool nest and extended it towards my exposed chest. “Do you wish to reclaim them?”

  “Once I start peeling layers of fabric from you, my lady, I do not intend to stop until the job is done.”

  “Mmm,” said Juno. “I applaud your intent, but you may require further education. Removing layers of fabric is merely the beginning of the job.” She stretched out a hand to me.

  I was sorely tempted. With the slightest tug, I could have pulled the blanket and wrapped us together in a cocoon that sealed out the rest of the world. Instead, I told her the truth.

  “I would very much like to laze all day with you—”

  “You won’t be lazing.” She flexed her fingers, and her sharp nails pressed into my chest.

  “But it must wait for another day. I promise.”

  Juno retracted her claws and eyed me through slitted lids. “Make me no vows you cannot keep, Benjamin.”

  “Never. It’s a promise.” I smoothed an unruly, waving lock of dark hair from her forehead. “Juno, I meant what I said. When I have you to myself, you won’t need a nest of wool blankets, because I intend to rouse every inch of your beautiful skin to burning heat until you cannot take another minute of me.”

  “Try me,” she dared in a whisper. “I’ll wager I can tolerate your attentions for a good, long while.”

  The image of Juno flushed with warmth from head to foot consumed my imagination. I forced myself to scramble to my feet and turn away. “I am returning to Maida Green. We have a funeral this afternoon, and the rain will have turned the path to muck.” My clothing from the previous day was still in a damp pile. I eyed it in distaste. “I have the seedling of an idea, but I need your help. I will host a dinner party here. People will talk and socialize like neighbors, and my mother and I will exert some of the Hood influence. You gave me the idea when you fetched Mrs. Roberts last night. I’m bringing everyone together to clear these noxious rumors and suspicions with good food and common sense. All of us, myself included, are a community, and we should act like it.”

  Her expression turned serious, and she nodded. “You’ve truly realized I’m not the problem. I almost thought I’d dreamt it.”

  “On the contrary, you are the solution to several of my problems. You stopped our ridiculous fight with a single word.”

  I felt her eyes on me as I wrestled with my trousers. “You’re going to have to ask me eventually, you know,” she said obliquely. “Otherwise I’ll ask you myself.”

  I knew exactly which question she referred to, the question that lay between us and around us. “Don’t,” I said. “Let me.” I shrugged into my coat, still shirtless, and folded the waistcoat and overcoat over my arm. I just needed to slink back to my cottage without anyone seeing me. Juno nodded, her eyes dark and unreadable. I twitched a smile in an attempt to return her mood to lightness. “I’ll see about ordering a new suit for dinner next Friday. Unless you think I should appear dressed like this?” I plucked at the wrinkled collar of my jacket.

  Her gaze skimmed over my torso, and her dimples flashed. “I like you as you are, but perhaps a suit—and a shirt—would be less distracting.”

  “As it pleases milady, of course,” I said as I turned the doorknob. “Until tonight.”

  I had plenty of work to occupy my time if I was to keep Maida Green running while opening Maida House. We had about ten days to prepare for the dinner party.

  Juno that evening spoke of what she knew about Mrs. Pfeiffer and the others who had lost children. She’d felt my same helplessness over so many tiny graves and the dangerous cloak of silence around the losses. Together, we decided on a course. My thought had been to defuse percolating suspicions by bringing together all the factions—Sarah Greeley and her father, Mrs. Toth and her children, a few influential villagers, and Juno suggested we include the bereaved families to demonstrate our mutual goodwill. It wasn’t perfect, and there were no miracles to be worked, but it was better than nothing. At least we would stifle the gossip and whispered accusations.

  I passed much of the regular work at Maida Green to Everett and much of the management of the manor house to Juno. Mother and Sarah planned the dinner menu and hired staff. I made decisions and spent money I didn’t have. On Tuesday I spent an entire day in the study, reviewing Father’s records and deciphering Joe’s as best I could. It left me considerably wiser about just how much knowledge I had yet to acquire and itching for honest labor. I spent that evening reviewing the essential points of my plan with Everett. I didn’t want him surprised, and I needed him to look out for Sarah.

  On Wednesday I posted dinner invitations, five of which went to the men who had purchased the bulk of the Maida Estate acreage. On Saturday I retrieved my new suit from the tailor. It wasn’t cut on the front lines of London fashion, but it would help me look the part of a gentleman landowner. I submitted my hair to Mrs. Toth’s scissors, as I had done for years, and she tutted as she always did. Lucy’s kitten streaked around the room in a blur of feline importance. I left them with a kiss and their dinner card. Despite the short notice, we had already received several acceptances for our invitations. Mother congratulated herself, and I did not disagree, although I thought curiosity likely drove the attendees as much as social civility. Were they expecting to see Maida House in ruins? Did they think me a stammering simpleton? I papered over my worries by preparing as best I could.

  I stole kisses from Juno in every hallway and quiet corner of the house. She whispered filthy, wonderful things in my ears and often left my shirttails loose from her inquisitive hands. I knew she was impatient for me to ask the question on which both our hearts depended, but I forestalled her frowns with endearments and evasions.

  * * *

  On Friday morning I left Maida Green through the front gates and walked into the village. I needed to speak with Greeley, but it had to seem like a chance meeting. I loitered at the greengrocers for a while. Then I revisited the wine merchant’s store, where the same nervous girl worked behind the counter. />
  “More wine, Mr. Hood?” she asked, smiling and touching her hair.

  “I might need quite a lot of wine for a party. But what I would really like, Miss Meading,” and when I leaned one hip against the shop counter, her cheeks flushed, “is a lot less talk about my people. I should think a smart girl like yourself, especially one who overhears things from time to time, might help with that. If you happen upon gossip that names Everett or any of the Toth family, would you help me to squash it? Label it nonsense and change the subject. Don’t repeat it. Very easy. What do you think?”

  “I’m not a gossip.” The young woman pursed her lips.

  “Of course not,” I agreed easily. “That’s why I thought to ask for your help. And have I mentioned that I’m thinking of placing a large order for Maida House? A very, very large order.”

  Abigail Meading understood the implication. She inclined her chin. “Of course, Mr. Hood. Naturally, I wouldn’t repeat gossip about the Toths.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And…label it nonsense and change the subject?”

  “Clever girl,” I said, beaming like a schoolmaster. “Now, let’s discuss some vintages.”

  She was only too happy to assist, and I put a dozen bottles on the counter within minutes. I was inspecting a bottle of sherry when Greeley emerged from the chandlery. With a murmured apology to Miss Meading, I asked her to have my purchases delivered and strode outside. I kept my head down and bumped into the man as if I hadn’t noticed him.

  “Watch it, now,” he grumbled. Then he looked up, and his face darkened. “Say, you again! Hood, I swear to God, if you even think of—”

  “Of course not. I’m a civilized man, and you’re no trouble to me. You haven’t been anywhere near Sarah or Mrs. Stephens.”

  “No,” he replied. “Damned women are a blight.” He scratched at his arm through the coarse fabric of his coat.