A small lady with bright eyes stared at her from the doorstep. “You must be new around here. I’ve not seen you before.” She stuck a hand on her hip and swiped away a chestnut-brown strand from her forehead. Even though she stood in the shadow, her face gleamed white.
“I am new. To Gloughton. My name is Josie Clay—” She took care walking down the uneven path. “Are you Miss Young?”
“Call me Daisy.” She sighed, opening the door wider. “Josie Clay, I have spent most of the past twelve hours tending to a baby who made her way to this world upside down. Praise God that both mother and child live and breathe. But I am exhausted. Come in and let me get off my feet.”
“It is just that—” Josie tried to explain her urgent errand, but Daisy disappeared into the house. For such a petite woman, she was authoritative. She couldn’t have been much older than Josie, yet Josie felt young and timid compared to Daisy.
Josie entered a large rectangular room and closed the door behind her. A long table with benches on either side sat in the middle, and a bookshelf lined one entire wall at the far end of the room. A doorway beside the bookshelf spilled with light. Perhaps a well-lit kitchen? Savory smells of garlic, onions, and boiled meat watered Josie’s mouth.
Miss Young reclined on a cushioned window seat with her bare feet propped up on a pillow. “Come sit.” She waved her hand at the table. “I know your name and nothing else.” Daisy shoved herself up on her elbow.
“Mr. Taylor sent me.” Josie clasped her hands together, only inching toward the table, not sitting. “He said you would care to know that his aunt fainted before church today. They are on their way home.”
“Fainted?” The woman’s countenance changed like a cold wick lit with fire. She sat up quickly. “Oh dear.” She sprang to her feet and rushed to the door, slipping on boots and grabbing a cloak from a hook. “I do hope Aunt Myrtle has told Braham by now.” She shook her head. “This secrecy has gone on too long.” She ran into the other room. Clanking and clattering caused a ruckus followed by a slosh and splatter of something hitting the floor. “Rats,” Josie heard Daisy mutter.
Josie followed her. The room was indeed a kitchen, and Daisy was putting the fire out. “Excuse me, are you a relative?”
“Relative?” Daisy put the iron down and began to tie her cloak as she walked toward the front of the house. “Not related. But I’ve known the Bates family since I was a young girl. My best friend is that Minnie who just left. She’s Aunt Myrtle’s maid. I’ve called her aunt just the same as Mr. Taylor. My mother and Myrtle were near sisters.” She crossed herself. “My first lesson on distilling herbs was when Mother tended to Aunt Myrtle after her arrival to Gloughton.”
“Your mother was an apothecary?”
“Yes, and so was my father. He died when I was an infant. I’m the only one left and the only apothecary in Gloughton.” Daisy flung open the door and motioned for Josie to follow. “Come on. Minnie was just picking up Aunt Myrtle’s tonic. I’ve been treating her these many weeks—” Daisy hesitated; her mouth remained open. But she closed it, pressing her lips together. She shut the door with such force that the shutter slapped against the window. She took a key from her cloak pocket and locked the door. “I never do lock this door. But I’ve come home lately to it ajar.”
“Well, that’s alarming.” Josie looked about. “Was anything disturbed inside?”
“No. There are some rascals down the way who stir up mischief. I don’t want them getting ahold of my calomel. That will give them—”
“Terrible vomiting.”
“Ah, you know your remedies, I see.”
“I used to help my own mother.” She’d not mention Dr. Chadwick. “She was an herbalist and taught me much about healing.”
“Interesting.” Daisy stared at Josie, her bright eyes filled with intrigue. “You and I are not so different, it seems. We both have mothers who taught us. Is your mother a working apothecary?”
“No, she died two years ago.”
“As did mine.” She narrowed her eyes. “Very interesting, indeed.”
They left through the gate just as church bells began to chime the hour. Daisy threaded her arm through Josie’s. “Tell me, how do you know the Bates?”
“I only know Mr. Taylor, really. I work at the mill.”
“Ah, you helped with that wounded woman, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes, how did you know?”
“Audra told us about it. She’s Minnie’s sister.” Daisy pulled them down to a dirt path where a cart and horse waited. “If it weren’t for your occupation as a mill girl, I’m afraid you would be my competition.” She yanked herself up on the bench.
“I will return—” Josie began to turn back to the lane.
“Come along.” Daisy waved her to join her. “Perhaps we could work together? Aunt Myrtle means very much to me. She truly is like an aunt—or even more, a mother. Two educated opinions would be reassuring—or at least, undeniable.”
“Has she had this problem before?”
“Before? I don’t know. But it’s only a symptom of something worse. She has a tumor.” She hung her head and sighed. “Besides, her age is against her—she’s the oldest woman in town.”
Josie gripped at the cart’s edge. The town’s oldest woman?
Her insides lurched as if she’d taken the calomel.
This Aunt Myrtle, beloved by her nephew and Daisy, was to be the very body she’d signal for Alvin to steal away.
Chapter Seven
Braham stood at the window, rubbing the thin curtain between his fingers. Every corner of the property flung him back to when he was a boy—fully dependent on the love of his father’s master turned guardian, and fully trusting in the woman who now lay resting on the bed behind him. He could imagine himself, scrawny legs and wild hair, walking down the road that curved around the house and past the orchard.
Wheels whined from below. Daisy sat atop her cart with Miss Clay beside her. Never before had a mill girl come out to the Bates estate. He had little desire to maintain a professional countenance when he wrestled with his childish emotions. Even so, he buttoned his waistcoat and straightened his cravat.
He left the window and approached the bed then clasped his hands over Aunt Myrtle’s. “Daisy has arrived. She’ll know what will be best.”
“I’ve taken the tonic already.” She kept her eyes closed. “Minnie brought it.”
“Yes, but perhaps there is something else that can be done. You know Daisy, she does not always use drink and food.” She was a good apothecary, he’d give her that. Although it was difficult to speak well of her. Nearly every place on this land that reminded him of his childhood was no doubt shared with Daisy. They had become good friends, just like their guardians had. But as they grew, Daisy became more attached to Gerald. The first days of the factory’s opening were miserable. Braham had worked long and hard only to spend his few short hours off chaperoning Daisy and Gerald. When Gerald returned down south after his visits, Braham was relieved and kept to himself, while Daisy, who’d absorbed much of Gerald’s animosity toward the ward of his father, sat at home writing letter upon letter to the man who would eventually break her heart.
Gerald did little to hide his snobbery when he began to attend balls down south and then later when he would travel north to Boston for society gatherings. Once he became well connected in the city, Daisy was nothing but a village apothecary’s daughter.
Minnie tapped at the ajar door and stepped inside, announcing the women’s arrival.
Daisy sailed to the bedside, acknowledging Braham with only a nod and a smirk. The poison of Gerald’s distaste for him would remain potent at every interaction with her. She cooed, “Aunt Myrtle, you look beautiful.”
He peered at the door and waited for Miss Clay. Yet she did not come. He decided he would rather play the part of employer and go find her than sit in Daisy’s disdainful company.
Braham descended the stairs, spotting Miss Clay admiring the view out
the parlor window. “Welcome to my home.” He cleared his throat.
She spun around, her hand pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. Her sapphire eyes were red rimmed, and her cheeks were flushed. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Taylor. How does your aunt fare?” Tucking the handkerchief in her cloak pocket, she rushed toward him, an earnest concern flashing across her own grieved face.
“She is better,” he mumbled, moved by her display. She mirrored the emotions he had tamped down at Aunt Myrtle’s bedside. His heartbeat was so strong that it no doubt caused the air to shimmer around them. Or was his vision wobbling because of her beauty, even in her sorrow?
His breath caught in his throat.
An escaped tear slid along her jaw, and without thinking, he caught it with his finger. Miss Clay’s lips parted, and his pulse thrummed in double time. He let out his trapped air, disturbing a gold strand from her forehead.
He realized just how close he stood to her and stepped back. “Excuse me.” He whipped his hand behind his waist, the tear still lingering on his fingertip.
Miss Clay lowered her chin. “I apologize for my unbecoming state. It is difficult to hear of such illness as your aunt’s—” Her brow folded deeply in thought. “I—I am reminded of my mother’s own struggle.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.” She breathed in deeply and lifted her face. “My mother was ill for many months. I do not wish that on anyone.” She drew close and put her hand on his arm. “I do not wish that on those who love the patient most.” Her smile did not reach her eyes, but her words sounded sincere. “Mr. Taylor, I am so sorry.” Even though she spoke a considerate kindness, there was something that slowed the pace of his overactive pulse, causing him to step back once more.
The woman was desperate with her apology, as if she herself had caused the misfortune—as if she needed him to believe her words for more than just comfort to him, but some kind of peace for herself.
Josie returned to the boardinghouse, spent from the tense afternoon at Mr. Taylor’s home. After their desperate interaction in the parlor, his cook insisted Josie dine with them. Minnie, who had nearly ignored her on the path to Miss Young’s, served them. She was just as aloof in the dining room as a servant as she was as an errand runner for Myrtle Bates’s tonic.
Now, Josie hung up her bonnet and cloak on one of the empty hooks and decided to retreat to the garden before dinner was served. She had no desire to take up interviews with the newsletter gals or pretend to focus on books and papers with her roommates.
She craved anonymity. She longed to hide, even from herself. The anguish pressed outward from deep within. Would she explode from the pressure? Only if she could crawl out of her very being would she find freedom at last. Her spirit recoiled. Who had she become?
Fran stood over a pot with her back to the kitchen. Josie tiptoed across the stone floor and slipped out the open door without being noticed. She felt like a child, but even if in foolish tiptoeing, there was also some joy in her childishness. How she wished she were a child once more, wrapped in the arms of her mother, protected from the pitfalls of this world.
The sun bled red from beyond the garden walls, tingeing the sky in a subtle pink. Sparrows hopped along the stone, and a robin flew to its nest in the towering elm just beyond the building.
Josie ran her fingers over large rhubarb leaves, remembering her mother’s warning, “Only the stalks, Josephine. We never use the leaves except to stop the weeds.” Mother would lay out the leaves across fresh-tilled soil, protecting the bed from pesky weeds.
But to eat the leaves? That could kill you.
Josie dragged herself to the bench. Just like the rhubarb, she was also made of two parts. One—thankful and hopeful, knowing goodness would follow her if she remained faithful. But the other—part of a dangerous plot, twining its way around all the goodness, hiding her with its broad reach like the poisonous leaves of the rhubarb plant.
What horror to know that the man who had entrusted her to work in his mill, and whose money she would take, would grieve the next victim of Dr. Chadwick’s twisted exploration by the very signal from Josie’s hand?
She looked down at her tense fists and unfurled her fingers. There were no dirt stains as there had always been at home. When was the last time she’d felt the earth beneath her nails?
Falling to her knees, Josie began to part the canopies of plants, begging relief for her pristine fingertips. The weeds hid behind the rosy stalks then paraded around the cabbages that mounded further down the bed. Daggers of weeds invaded the fragrant marjoram and delectable thyme in the kitchen herb plot. Every plant had its purpose in Fran’s dishes, and the weeds tried to force their death. Pluck, pluck, pluck. The cool soil clumps fell apart from the exposed tangle of roots. Josie tossed them onto the flagstone path by her knees. The sharp edges of the stones dug through her skirt and stabbed at her kneecaps, but she continued, feeling the urgency to lose her thoughts among the beds.
Josie would much rather be useful with her grubby fingers and sweating hairline than disturbing the earth for more frightful reasons. This was where she belonged. Among the life that smelled of a wholesome dinner and a helpful remedy. The treasures of life were here among the greens, pinks, browns, and purples. And the yellows. Such beauty in the yellow center of chamomile flowers—like a swollen light held up by the pure white petals. Josie plucked the pretty daisylike flower and twirled it about.
The sound of a whip spliced the air, disturbing her small dose of peace. A horse whinnied just beyond the garden wall. The back gate flew open and a woman burst inside, slamming it shut. Covered from head to foot in a long dark cloak, she leaned up against the gate like she had escaped something dreadful.
Josie sprang to her feet. As she drew close, the intruder removed her hood, revealing her face. Audra Jennings held no frown, but cheeks taut with an exhilarated smile and narrowed catlike eyes that Josie would hardly forget.
“Is anything the matter?” Josie cleared her throat as she rounded the center patch of leafy plants surrounding a birdbath.
Audra tilted her head back against the gate and loosened the tied ribbons around her neck. “The matter?” She shook her head, nibbling her lip as if she pondered a delicious secret. Perhaps she did.
“I see.” Josie stepped back. Dear weeds, I’d much rather spend my time with you than with that woman. She found her pile of gnarled roots scattering the path beneath the rosemary shrub. Once more, she took to her knees and continued her chore. Yet all grew dim as Audra stood above her, her bruised boot tapping on the stone beside Josie.
“What do you know of me?” Audra hunched over farther, darkening even the brightest flower.
“I know nothing.” Josie continued to nudge aside the fuzzy lamb’s ears without pressing too forcefully. “You appear to be well enough tonight. So, nothing is the matter, is it?”
“Right.” Audra stood to her full height and cradled her wounded arm. “Although, if anyone should be questioned, I’d say it’s the newest mill girl. She’s found herself all over town, and it’s only been a week.”
Josie stared up at her.
“You’ve been seen on the arm of Mr. Taylor, so I’ve been told.”
“He offered to show me to church.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Ah, yes, but to dine at his home also?” She strode away, heading to the kitchen door. “He is quite the catch. But somewhat of a bore, in my opinion.” She stopped short of the doorstep, running her fingers along some creeping ivy. “Just mind where you tread, Miss Clay. There are webs in Gloughton that you do not want to be caught in.”
As Audra slipped into the warm glow of the kitchen, Josie diverted her eyes down to the soil. What did that woman know about webs? Although she had seemed like a spying spider during the short time of Josie’s stay here. If the woman knew anything at all, she’d know that it was Josie who was watching for her prey. The newest mill girl was the creeping spider, having just dined with her first victim a few short
hours before.
Josie could not focus on weeding anymore. Anxiety stayed close, as if Audra had sprinkled it about as she passed by. Josie collected some lavender, marjoram, and spearmint to dry for quick remedies. When she passed through the kitchen, she greeted Fran quickly then tried to calm herself enough for the busy dining room.
Little Liesl found her at the washbasin, and together they sat at an empty table. The girl laid a volume on the table between their place settings. “Have you read William Shakespeare, Miss Josie?” she asked.
“My, that is quite a complicated English work you read, young Liesl.” Josie covered the leather binding with her hand. “My mother read it to me as a child. We’d act the scenes for Father on wintry mornings.” She sat back against her chair and drew her hand to her lap.
Before slipping into the brighter corners of her mind, the aroma of the herbs in her apron pocket nudged her to the present moment. She gave a slight smile to Liesl, who then reached over and plunged a serving fork into the roasted chicken and leeks at the center of the round table. Josie served herself and, after a short prayer, began to eat. With every forkful to her mouth, the scent grew stronger. Perhaps the pungent smell of her garden work lingered on her hands even after a good washing? Her pulse made an erratic thrust in her chest, and she slid her eyes to the book.
What, will these hands ne’er be clean?
The tragedy spoke from the closed covers, not as Lady Macbeth, but in Josephine’s own voice. Even if she had a future beyond this season as Alvin tried to convince her, would she wear the stains on her memory? Would she ever be able to wipe them away?
No prayer could erase the memory, she feared, no washing could make her clean.
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