The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  “No, not to work. In fact, I do wish to speak with Miss Clay.” His voice cracked, and he shifted his weight. Miss Clay’s lips circled into an O. Heat crawled up his neck.

  Before any other word passed between them, her father’s man appeared in the back of the courtyard. Unexpected appearances were this ruffian’s specialty. Braham knew better than to judge a creature by his tattered clothes and ugly sneers, but Miss Clay had mentioned her own aversion to him too.

  “That man is here again.” He nodded in his direction, and both women turned. The man fiddled with a satchel, his face darkened by the large-brimmed hat.

  Miss Clay’s face drained of color. “Oh, if you will excuse me, I shall see what he wants.” She detached herself from the cook’s arm and hurried away from them, calling from over her shoulder, “Please save me a seat at church, Fran. I shan’t be long.”

  “I would like to speak to you, Miss Clay,” Braham shouted after her, a defense marching along his shoulders as his whole body tensed.

  She swiveled around to face him, holding her bonnet to her head. “Perhaps after church, sir?” She glanced quickly at the man on the other side of her then back at Braham. “I fear he has word about my … my father.” Her chest heaved with labored breath, and she appeared to wait for his approval.

  He gave a curt nod. She turned and ran the rest of the way.

  “My, she seems more nervous than a trapped deer,” Fran mumbled as Braham offered his arm.

  “Yes, she does.” And he did not like it, nor his reaction to the new employee who was as much of a stranger as that man. Yet, she seemed terrified—a look that flung Braham to earlier times he wished to forget. “I do wonder why that man keeps hanging about. I spied him last evening, and now he arrives today.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Miss Clay mentioned that he works for her father.”

  “Perhaps her father is ill,” Fran suggested. “I do hope that is not so. She is a kind girl. Gives me company in the kitchen garden.”

  “The garden?”

  “Yes, you have not visited in some time, Mr. Taylor.” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Much has happened, hasn’t it?” Braham tilted his head to the tall factory, the red brick washed in sunlight. He would not worry about the office now. “How are my vegetables?”

  “They are well cared for.” Fran patted his arm.

  “Good.”

  They strode across the courtyard and turned to town. Fran went on about her recent crop of carrots, while Braham tried to enjoy the stroll. However, his mind was back with Miss Clay facing that man. Braham prayed her father was not ill, nor that the man had some nefarious intent for the woman. There was a story here not being mentioned. One that held more than the care of a daughter for her father or a man escorting a woman to a career. Something lay beneath it all. He had seen the unraveling of secrets before. His father had hidden his need to leave Ireland, trying to forget among the cotton rows of the Bateses’ Georgian plantation.

  “Miss Fran, I will wait here to be sure Miss Clay knows her way to church.”

  The cook stared at him. “Very well. See you there, Mr. Taylor.” Did she wink as she turned to cross the bridge?

  Braham leaned on the rail, trying to shove aside his thoughts. He craned his neck to see if Miss Clay was in any harm, but the low branches of the elm hid his view.

  The same fear he’d grappled with as a child shone clearly in the eyes of the new mill girl when that man appeared. A dormant protection woke up in Braham with great force. He gripped the rails, refraining from storming into their meeting and demanding an explanation.

  What was this factory to Josie Clay? Truly a place to work? Or a place to escape?

  Chapter Six

  Alvin waited for her along the thick wooded edge of the courtyard, opposite the entrance into the village of Gloughton.

  “What is it, Alvin?” Josie’s heart raced. Would this plan begin tonight?

  He rubbed his stubbled chin and squinted over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to Mr. Taylor and the cook turning down to the bridge. Mr. Taylor looked back at them. Josie wished she was the one on his arm going to church—not standing here with this crooked creature.

  “Is my father with you?” She looked around, but she could not even find Alvin’s cart. “How is he?”

  “Your father is seeing things.” Alvin finally spoke. “Forget debtors’ prison, I fear he’s going insane.”

  She pinned him with a desperate stare. “What does he see, Alvin?”

  “Shadows that he swears are men.” Alvin rubbed his jaw. “I assured him that we have time, and they won’t be after him … yet.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Alvin shrugged his shoulder—an unsettling answer. Josie’s insides were crumbling in anguish.

  He shoveled air in through his nostrils. “Your father is worrisome. His nerves are giving him fits of anxiety now. He carries his rifle everywhere he goes.” Alvin wiped his brow.

  The same black fog that eclipsed her consciousness on Dr. Chadwick’s table began to invade her from both sides. “He must not understand completely—”

  “He’s as desperate as you were to escape the knife, Josephine, although you were saved from your demise within minutes.” His lips twitched as if to smile with pride. Josie’s lips curled in bitterness. “Your father’s troubles are far from being over.” Alvin folded his lips together then let out a sigh. “That’s why I am here. We must be diligent.” He leaned close. “Do you remember the old blacksmith who was in his last days in Ainsley?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. It had been a tough week with Mr. Brown. He was in much pain, and once again, Josie was left without the doctor’s help while he dissected the dead.

  “Did you give him something to ease the pain? Perhaps quicken his eternal sleep?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh Alvin! I would never induce death. He was given a tea of Bee Balm to help calm him.” She lowered her voice. “He died on his own.” She let those last words stab at the air between them. She wished they would pierce his conscience too.

  “We do what we must to survive.” Alvin clutched at her arm, and even though she wanted to squirm away she was thankful to be held in place instead of collapsing from a fainting spell. “I have found one who does not have much longer on this earth. If we could help her along—”

  “You know the first person we will—” She could barely speak. “We will take?”

  “I do.” He looked off in the distance. “I have been—er—scouting out the surroundings. Who knows when the factory will offer up its next victim.” He patted the bag at his hip. “These here mushrooms are a good excuse when my lurking about is questioned by nearby farmers and townsmen. They are in season now—” He pulled one out, a large brown one with rust-colored edges. “Remember? Your mother’s favorite.”

  He did not have to say it. Josie knew her mother a thousand times better than he did. She could almost taste Mother’s gravy on her tongue.

  “In my hunting for these, I have also found the oldest living person here. Rumor is, she is suffering from an incurable illness.”

  Josie’s heart began to thrum. The nostalgic taste turned bitter, and she could nearly smell the sickness of Mother’s last days. She whimpered, and Alvin gripped her tighter.

  “Be strong, Josie Clay. If there’s any woman who is strong, it is you, I’d say.” For a second, she saw the hard worker of her father’s farm—before he sold his soul to the closest bidder of fortune and grit.

  “Yours is the least incriminating duty,” he mumbled. “You’ll be safe from any accusation—as long as you play your part well.” He tapped her nose with the same dirty finger that stole from the earth. Alvin made every penny from robbing and spying. His hands, no matter how much he might scrub them, were covered in the muck of graveyard soil and the blood of someone’s deceased family member.

  Both remaining Claytons had been infected with such defilement, no matter how Alvin tried to les
sen their participation.

  Josie took a step back, shifting her eyes across the courtyard. “I must go. The factory expects its workers to attend church.” She was relieved to have an excuse to leave this man. Yet part of her did not feel satisfied. Would she ever feel satisfied without communicating with her father? Josie tried to soften her voice. “Please, have my father write to me. I’ll have my first wages in a week’s time. Please bring a letter when you come.”

  Alvin gave a slight nod. “Go to church, Josephine. I’ll check on your father.” He began to walk away, adjusting the satchel from his shoulder to across his chest. “If only you could fix up these mushrooms for our dinner.” He rubbed his jaw. “One day, perhaps.” He disappeared into the wooded area.

  Hot tears pooled in Josie’s eyes. The resentment that had sprouted for her father now withered, turning back into pity for the man—and herself, truth be told. Mother would be ashamed to know the unlawful acts they were tied to.

  Josie strode across the courtyard. When she turned the corner to the bridge, she slowed her pace. Mr. Taylor was at the bridge’s railing, his broad shoulders set back and his attention on the canal waters below. She swiped at the moisture in her eyes and approached him. He noticed her when she was only a few steps away.

  “Hello, Miss Clay.” He wrung his hands. “I—I wanted to be sure that you did not need my assistance—” His eyes were eager as they glanced behind her. “I am concerned about that man—” His Adam’s apple bobbed above his cravat. “I am concerned about you, Miss Clay.”

  “Oh?” Josie’s throat tightened. “I am in no harm, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That fellow does not appear a trustworthy sort. I have seen him near my home.”

  “He hunts mushrooms,” Josie blurted.

  “Mushrooms?” Mr. Taylor tilted his chin.

  “Yes, he even showed me his satchel filled with them.” She gave him a weak smile. “They are in season.” He looked down at his pocket watch. She scrunched her nose. Alvin better not be up to anything else but mushroom hunting and eavesdropping.

  Mr. Taylor tucked his watch in his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “That is not what I expected, but it is a relief, for sure.” He looked up and down the bridge and then held out his arm. “May I escort you to church?”

  She nodded, slipping her fingers onto his woolen jacket. It carried the fresh scent of a warm blanket soaking up the sun. She wanted to lean into him and absorb the comfort that Braham Taylor offered this day.

  As they walked across the neatly lined boards of the bridge, a gap offered an occasional glimpse of the shimmering waters below. Josie released the last bit of air she’d held on to so tightly. All thoughts of Alvin and crime slipped away as she reveled in the fact that this man had waited for her, was escorting her to church, and for now, considered her nothing less than a mill girl.

  After they left the bridge, the wrought iron fence of the Gloughton cemetery rose next to them. Crooked tombstones and stoic crucifixes were guarded with lilac shrubs, just like her own mother’s grave. Her mood darkened. She shivered at the thought of the heaping dirt upon her own life-filled grave. How long had she sat as worm’s food? What care did Alvin take when he first thought she was dead? He had been gentle with the work horses on Father’s farm. She’d often admired him for it. That was until he showed up with the first corpse for Dr. Chadwick, revealing the grim work he’d traded for a full pocket. To think that Father had hired such a man.

  Mr. Taylor glanced down at her, and she realized the tight grip she had on his arm.

  “Forgive me.” She forced a smile. “I do not care for cemeteries.”

  “Nobody does.” He chuckled softly then placed his hand on hers. “Do not worry. Look, we can almost see the steps of the church.”

  They passed a tavern and a tailor’s, each with dark windows beneath their signs. A narrow church with a towering bell tower arose beyond a blacksmith’s yard. At the top of the church’s steps, an elderly woman gripped the rail. She was dressed in white and wore a pretty hat piled with lacy frills tied beneath her chin in a purple ribbon.

  Mr. Taylor quickened his pace. “Ah, there is my aunt.” He pulled his arm away from Josie and hurried to the bottom step.

  “Braham, dear. You had me worried,” the woman called in a shrill voice.

  Mr. Taylor offered Josie his hand and led her up the steps. “Aunt Myrtle, this is the newest girl at Gloughton Mill, Josie Clay.”

  Josie quickly dipped into a curtsy. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning.” The woman clutched at Mr. Taylor’s arm. “My nephew told me of your rather tardy arrival that first day. I trust that you have adjusted to the work now?” Her cold stare was nothing like her nephew’s kindness. Josie was taken aback, scrambling to answer. But the woman did not wait for her and instead pulled Mr. Taylor away and led him to the door. As he reached to open it, the woman swayed from side to side then let out a cry and crumpled backward. Josie caught her by the elbows just before she fell to the floor.

  “Aunt Myrtle!” Braham released the door, dropping to his knees beside the woman.

  She moaned and wagged her head back and forth, her eyes shuttered behind cinched lids. “Get me home, Braham. Get me hooome,” she groaned.

  “Miss Clay, will you carefully sit her up?”

  Miss Clay leaned forward so Aunt Myrtle settled against Braham’s chest. His heart raced beneath her frail shoulders resting against him. “Please, will you get our driver? He should be in the last row—Jim Barlow.”

  Miss Clay disappeared inside the church.

  “There, there, Aunt.” He slipped his arm around her waist and carefully brought her to standing. “We shall get you home.”

  He should have never made her wait for him. His suspicions about that man had gotten the best of him and caused his aunt unneeded anxiety.

  He gathered up the fragile lady into his arms—her head against his shoulder, and her legs hanging over his other arm—then he carefully descended the steps.

  The driver hurried down the steps and ran to get the carriage. When the carriage arrived, the driver helped Braham situate her inside.

  Miss Clay waited at the bottom step. “Sir, can you direct me to the nearest physician?” She blocked the bright sunshine with her gloved hand. “I can be sure to send for one to tend to your aunt.”

  “You are very thoughtful, Miss Clay.” He pointed down Main to the first intersection. “There’s a small cottage at the bend along Mosgrove Way. Call on Miss Young. She will not be at church today as the Hendersons have just given birth to their fourth child in the early hours this morning. But she will want to be wakened for news of my aunt.” Miss Clay nodded and hurried down the street.

  Braham slipped inside the carriage. The scent of old leather and his aunt’s lavender fragrance engulfed him as he settled beside her. She leaned against the wall, dabbing her forehead with a lace handkerchief. Her skin was much older than he’d noticed before, the carves and folds appeared jaundiced.

  Braham’s teeth gripped so tight his jaw began to ache. When they began to move forward, Aunt Myrtle pushed back against the cushion and closed her eyes. As they turned onto the old country lane, dust began to cloud the small space.

  “I am sorry that I caused you to worry, Aunt.” Braham spoke low, the guilt twisting his throat. He’d promised himself to care for this woman just as she had cared for him when he was a boy—just as much as he cared to run the mill as successfully as his uncle.

  “Oh dear,” she exclaimed before coughing into her handkerchief. “My, my, this dust.” She lifted her head and leaned toward him. “This has nothing to do with you, son.” Her light eyes sparkled with moisture. Only the slight tip of her brow suggested that they pooled from emotion and not because of the gritty air.

  Aunt Myrtle pressed her lips together in thought. After a pause, she said, “Do you recall the spring when you were fishing at the back of the property, and I was trapped in my room with a terrible
cold?”

  “I recall you sending Minnie down with a coat. And I refused it.” He could almost hear his aunt’s holler across the treetops: “You wear that coat this instant, Master Braham. Or else you’ll go to bed with no dinner.”

  Aunt Myrtle patted his knee. “I was in a tizzy over a slight breeze only because of its effect on my chest and throat.” She gave a wistful smile. “I knew what I was facing, so I wanted to protect you.”

  “You are a good guardian.” He smiled.

  “Today, I did not worry about you going to the factory or sitting in church. If you thought my spell was because of some worry you caused me, that isn’t so.” She settled her back into the seat again. Her profile, with the slight hooked nose and thin rosy lips was near-identical to her brother’s. A sad flutter disturbed Braham’s steady breath.

  “Braham, I cannot protect you from what ails me. There is no coat for the sadness I’ll bring. No hot tea and warm blanket for its chill.” She licked her lips and shook her head. “No, there’s nothing to be done. But I want you by my side as I suffer through it.”

  “Suffer—” He leaned forward. “What do you mean, Aunt Myrtle? You fainted. It is not uncommon, especially when I caused you to worry about my errand.”

  “You are not listening, boy. I was outside because the spell was coming on. I am ill, Braham. And it will be the death of me.” Her stare was dry, no emotion or tears. “I am dying.”

  When Josie arrived at the small gate in front of an overgrown garden, she was curious who this Miss Young might be and wondered if Mr. Taylor was foolish to not inform a physician about his aunt’s incident.

  The gate squealed open, and Josie waded through overgrown grass. A shutter hung on one hinge in front of a dingy window that flanked the low entrance to the cottage. Josie jumped when the door flung open.

  A young woman stood in a traveling coat and bonnet. She glanced at Josie then pushed her nose up to the sky as she called over her shoulder, “You have a visitor, Daisy.” She stepped from the dark house and squinted. “My, it’s as bright as a Georgia day out here.” She continued down the path, passing by Josie as if she weren’t there. “Excuse me, I must get back to the house.” Her polite words did not change her aloof look or tone of voice. A citrus scent followed her. Perhaps lemon balm? Josie had often administered it to a patient’s sour belly.