The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  “There must be a different way,” she muttered.

  “There is not,” Dr. Chadwick declared in a singsong voice, shaking a finger by his ear and nearly hopping out of the house. “Good day, for now.” He crammed his hat on his head and disappeared out of sight.

  Josie leaned against the door and began to weep. There was nothing to be done but pray for death to come quickly to poor unsuspecting souls.

  That was the only way out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The glass reflected Braham’s figure—his disheveled hair, unbuttoned collar, and the slumped shoulders—a visible sign of the unseen grief that weighed him down. He stood at the window beside Aunt Myrtle’s bedside. Her slight breaths were barely detectable as she slept. All was quiet at this late hour. An unwanted calm. He turned to sit in the chair next to her. The creak of the floor sent a chill up his spine.

  On her bedside table, the candle’s unwavering flame saluted the woman who’d been Braham’s steady light all these years. All he could do was pray—not for the aunt who was certainly ready for her meeting with her Maker, but for peace for his own sorrow at losing the last of his family.

  Footsteps grew louder in the hallway, and Braham wiped his eyes quickly, straightened his collar, and folded his hands in his lap. When the door ached open, the flame stumbled with the push of air then wobbled upward to find its posture again. Minnie stepped in, holding a small tray with a vial and handkerchief. Her mouth fell open, and she took a step back. “Oh, pardon me, sir,” she whispered. “I—I was just bringing her next dose.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes. It’s round the clock, sir.”

  “I doubt it is wise to wake her.” Braham grimaced at the thought creeping in his mind. No medicine will do her any good now.

  “The physician that visited from Boston on Tuesday said it should be administered for her comfort.” Minnie’s eyes were lowered to the tray. It rattled in her trembling hands.

  “You are not in trouble, Minnie.” He sighed and stood up.

  “Thank you, sir. Mr. Bates seemed very certain that the doctor was one of the best. I just want to follow his orders.” She continued to the bedside, unaware of the sting of her explanation. Gerald’s help disguised his apathy toward his aunt’s well-being otherwise.

  “I am going to take a walk.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I need fresh air. Please, let me know if anything changes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Braham left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trudged downstairs, and stepped out into the cold night air. The breeze from earlier had picked up, inducing a low moan as it whipped through the stable window.

  Braham strode down the dirt drive, kicking the pebbles with the tips of his boots. He should be thankful for Gerald’s help in sending the doctor. Gratitude was difficult to dig up though, when Braham suspected his help had less to do with caring for their aunt and more to do with finding her favor at this final hour. He deflated his lungs with a long huff and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

  Braham began to run along the orchard. The wind became icy against his skin. Yesterday’s sunshine did nothing for the late hour. He felt its sting in his chest. The moisture clung to his shoulder blades.

  Time was slipping quickly now, and he must end this feud once and for all. He turned up to the main house. One solitary candle lit a window. It was the late Mr. Bates’s study. Gerald had returned, no doubt readying papers to sell the factory to Bellingham.

  So be it.

  Braham could work for anyone. All he wanted to do was work.

  He patted his front pocket. The folded letter crinkled against his chest. He would keep this by him as if it were the very proof of his existence.

  In a way, it was.

  Once he passed through the main house gate, he paused, placing his hands on his knees and catching his breath. Fatigue crept into his joints. His eyes burned with sleeplessness. He’d never rest until all was settled. Everything was abruptly coming to a head upon Aunt Myrtle’s death. She was the last person to care about the orphan boy who’d found favor in his master’s eyes. His aunt was the last person who’d favored Braham at all.

  Yet he knew that was not entirely true as he recalled Josie’s flushed cheeks and blue eyes, intent on keeping him by her side in the parlor this afternoon. She’d asked him to stay, but that doctor seemed competent enough. Regret had followed Braham all the workday long, knowing that he’d abandoned her to that stranger because of his own obligations to the factory. His incessant desire to protect Josie earlier today fought against his good sense, even now, with the looming house casting its moon-bound shadow upon him. The favor of a factory worker was little in comparison to the family who had made his life worth living. Even if that single worker proved to be a beautiful soul like Josie Clay.

  Braham quietly entered the house using the key that Gerald had demanded he was undeserving to obtain. He lit a lamp and traipsed through the dark halls of the place. Light shone from the ajar study door on the second floor. Braham set his lamp on the table in the hallway then entered the room, prepared for the confrontation.

  Gerald’s head lay atop papers on the large mahogany desk. Soft snores rustled the feathered quill with each breath. Braham considered slamming the door shut to awaken the oaf but thought better of it. He should just leave. Deal with Gerald tomorrow. Curiosity drew him closer though, as he eyed the writing just beneath Gerald’s hand.

  Blood pounded in Braham’s ears. He waded through a palpable silence as he approached the desk. The flowery script was difficult to read upside down, but Braham managed to steady himself by planting his hands on the desk beside Gerald’s splayed hair. The snores quieted and Braham’s every joint locked in place. He glared at the back of the man’s head, waiting for the slightest movement to signal his waking.

  The wind battled against the window. Braham took a slow step backward. Gerald gave a long, deep sigh and seemed to settle back into his rhythmic snoring. Assuring that he was indeed asleep, Braham did not move for several seconds. He stood with one foot pressed back, his palms melding with the wood surface, and his fingertips pressed hard near the dark ends of Gerald’s hair. If Braham were a child still, he’d be tempted to tug hard at those locks of the cruel person who slumbered. Gerald had often been found kicking at slaves and mocking Braham and other indentured family members. He probably controlled the plantation the exact opposite way his kindhearted father would have approved.

  Anger gripped Braham in that quiet moment, wondering what tyranny played out at Terryhold now, with this beast in charge.

  He pressed his shoulders forward and looked, once again, at the letter beneath Gerald’s hand.

  My Dearest Doctor Brown,

  I appreciate your short but successful visit to my aunt. I do hope that you found the other matters satisfactory, and will give a good word to the board. There is nothing I would rather do than serve you and your committee with the utmost satisfaction and efficiency. As you know, my fiancée has discovered a rather useful tool, if you will, to aid in the cause. While the funds are no longer at my disposal since my property remains unsold, the discovery makes up for it. I am confident we shall be able to provide the goods for the community at large.

  Braham reread it to be sure. This had nothing to do with the factory, it seemed. Except, perhaps, Bellingham had backed out on the deal. That was a relief. What was this business though? Gerald was well connected in Boston with many intellectuals—Harvard professors, lawyers, doctors—all belonging to some sort of society or board.

  What surprised Braham most, though, was the discovery of a fiancée. Gerald was not one to share his affairs with Braham, yet such an announcement would not be easily hidden around here. Braham slipped away from the sleeping man, wondering at the business that really was none of his concern.

  He crept into the hall, perplexed and a little ashamed at his snooping. Perhaps Gerald cou
ldn’t care less about Braham and his position at all. He may have just spat out his usual hatred in front of Bellingham because that was what Gerald had always done. It appeared that the true matter at hand lay in an exchange of goods—maybe cotton or cloth.

  As he stepped back into the night, he felt as though the wind might carry him away. His resentment had brought him to this place, and now he left it knowing that he was only a cog in the grand scheme. A cog that was a permanent fixture, thanks to his uncle. The hoot of an owl skipped along the branches of the rustling tree above him. The crunch of his soles on the ground sounded a steady pace. He breathed in the smell of grass and green and sleeping flowers, trying to find peace.

  The matter of Gerald’s disdain for Braham eclipsed the surprise of a hidden engagement, yet Braham could not shake the twofold sorrow that filled his heart. As he turned toward his home, he spied the orange glow from his aunt’s room, regretting losing an hour by leaving her alone—one less hour with her that he’d never revive again. He continued up the drive and thought about his uncle and his goodness.

  While to his uncle, Gerald and Braham were adopted cousins, Gerald only thought of Braham as the man who ran the factory. He would never be the family member that he’d been under his uncle’s care. No, Braham was nothing to Gerald. And, while Braham cared little for the ways of such a pompous man, Braham could not deny the disappointment that came from a hopeless death of his uncle’s dream for them, proven by the very fact that Gerald had not even announced his news of a future wedding.

  Josie plucked the fine teeth of a rosemary branch, her knees sinking into the earth. The weak morning sun unfurled its rays upon her ivory skin. Her past two nights were restless after handing over her wages to the horrible Dr. Chadwick. She could not manage to fulfill her interview for the next newsletter edition on Friday evening. Last night, she only pretended to be asleep beneath her bedcovers while her roommates read by candlelight. All the while she prayed and worried that she’d made a mistake.

  The tiny green leaves between her fingers released a spicy aroma that reminded her of Mother’s sachet. A songbird began to sing beyond the wall. Josie tipped her head up and closed her eyes. The soft brightness through her lids was cut off abruptly. She opened her eyes. A shadow swallowed up every bit of light, and she turned in haste.

  Alvin stood above her. The rosemary fell from her palm. Josie scrambled to her feet as the leaves scattered on the ground.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you,” Alvin said.

  “You did not,” Josie remarked. “Why are you here at this time? I expected you later—after church today.”

  “Taking care of other business.” He kept his squinty eyes on the kitchen door. Fran’s noisy preparation was underway.

  Josie could not look at him much longer. Her bitterness brewed faster than the tea in Fran’s pot. “I’ll not discuss this business with you here.” No, not here, in this blessed patch of life. Let one place have no memory of these ill-doings. This garden had become her sanctuary. Josie brushed past him and went through the gate. She waved at him to join her beyond the wall as she hurried to the edge of the canal.

  When he came up beside her, he unfolded a document. “I see you’re making yourself known around here. But I wonder about this Mistress Mystery.” He waved the freshly published newsletter. “The town’s not onto you, are they?”

  Josie snatched the page away and found the article to which he referred:

  Mistress Mystery Sighting:

  She skims the grounds of Gloughton Mill,

  slips in and out like cotton dust.

  Give us a clue, miss, if you will,

  as to what you wish to hide from us.

  ’Twas about Audra. She’d forgotten the verse. “It is not I they speak about.” But sadly, she could see how she might fit the same riddle. Her interview was just beneath it. She shoved the page back to Alvin’s hand. Josie did not have the stomach to read through her reminiscent words about Mother’s garden, her fondness of healing, and her philosophies of tending to the sick.

  Josie was not who anyone thought. She was the same as Audra.

  “How could you risk my father’s life for a lump of money?” The question had rolled in her mind as she tried to sleep last night.

  “What?”

  She threw a sharp glare at him. “You didn’t give Chadwick the ultimatum you promised.”

  Alvin furrowed his brow, keeping his eyes lowered. “I doubt he’ll do anything. He’s too distracted by his experiments.” He squatted down and scooped up some water, splashing his face. He’d not shaved in quite some time. Josie imagined his hands pricked with the sharp stubble. “Honestly, it is a waste of flesh to provide for Chadwick.”

  “But you must, that is the only way—” Josie bit her lip, ashamed at her stance.

  “His work will get him nowhere.” Alvin gave her an apologetic shrug. “He’s in an insignificant village, with little apparatus to truly learn much from his dissections.”

  “So, you do not care that he might call the authorities? Do you not care at all about the mess you’ve dragged my father into?”

  “Care?” Alvin spat into the water he’d just washed with. “I saved you from that clumsy doctor’s knife.”

  “It will do no good if he is caught,” Josie snapped. “There’s no doubt you will go down with him.” She bore a look at Alvin. “You must appease the doctor.”

  He shifted from one foot to the next then walked away. “Your doctor will get his body.” He flipped up his coat and sat on a nearby bench.

  This man, enjoying the refreshing water and still morning air was unmoved by the topic at hand—proof that his soul was bankrupt by his deadly bargains.

  Josie tipped her chin in the air and approached him briskly. The news with which she would melt his cool demeanor sat on her tongue. She lowered and sat next to him. “The doctor has my wages now. You and my father will not get one penny, until the doctor receives—”

  He leapt to his feet. No apathy now. Every muscle in his face was pulled taut, and his eyes bulged. “You gave him your wages?” He grabbed at his chin. “What about your father?”

  “It was for him. Dr. Chadwick promises to keep quiet now.” Josie shot up, leaning in and narrowing her eyes. “Give him what he wants, Alvin, so my father can get his money.”

  “You are a foolish woman!” He swatted at the air between them and began to pace along the canal. “What a disloyal wretch you’ve become.” He wagged his head.

  Josie clenched her fists, resisting the urge to push the man into the water. She marched up to him and yanked at his arm, turning him toward her. Emotion stabbed at her throat and eyes. She feared all that she would pour out into this quiet morning might be louder and stronger than any steam loom. “Disloyal? You’ve turned my father against all that is good. The moment he escapes debtors’ prison, you drag him into this business.”

  Alvin licked his lips and spoke quietly. “He is a good man. It is not what you think.”

  She stared at him. What could she believe anymore? It didn’t matter now. Whatever it was, Dr. Chadwick had been correct. Alvin seemed to be worked up enough to finally make good on his promise. “The quicker you repay Dr. Chadwick, the less threat my father has to deal with.”

  “I did not expect this from you, Little Josephine Clayton.” His face relaxed from his frustration.

  “Expect what?”

  His gurgling chuckle irritated Josie’s ears. “You—to turn against your father for your own desperate need of a corpse.”

  Josie’s stomach turned. “That is not it at all—”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” He adjusted the cuffs on his dirty work coat, seemingly pleased with himself.

  Josie shook away the guilt. “Will the next body go to Dr. Chadwick?”

  The sound of mourning doves answered before Alvin. He fiddled with his coat, gazing across the canal at the sleeping village. Any moment, the bells would signal the first call to church. But first, she needed to be assu
red that Alvin would cooperate. He began to walk leisurely along the canal, kicking at debris with every other step. Josie took quick, short steps behind him to keep up. He turned his head slightly and said, “Do you know why your father began in this business?”

  “What?”

  He paused then annunciated each syllable. “Do. You. Know. Why?”

  “You turned him onto it with your desperate need for money.”

  “Well, that is the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” He chuckled again then faced the canal, arms crossed over his chest. “No, your father, fool that he is, wanted to take your mother to the city—to some doctor who could help her find a cure. When I discovered this business was lucrative, your father was desperate enough to help. Oh, he’d never go on runs with me while your mother was alive, but he would give me the cart as payment, and as long as he kept food in my belly and a place in his barn, I’d give him part of the earnings.”

  “You did this while you lived with us?”

  “Aye. It was for your mother, of course. But she died. The past two years have been difficult—what with your father kicking me out and then you falling ill.” He slid his eyes in her direction, a crease between his eyebrows. “The day I found you with Dr. Chadwick was the day we returned from New York. Your father had been desperate for money, for your cure, and he begged to be a part of it.” Alvin bit his lip. “And I needed the help. Some help he was.”

  Josie’s chest was tight with this news. Her buried grief was dug up with Father’s exposed secret. “Why are you telling me this—”

  “Because you are a fool to give your wages to that doctor, when all your father has wanted was to keep his land, and to one day have you return to him.”

  “I did it for Father. I do not want him to go to prison,” Josie mumbled, her throat squeezing tight.

  “Even if Dr. Chadwick could find law enforcement who aren’t paid off by body snatchers, I doubt they’d come seek out your father. Your greater concern is the men harassing your father until we’ve paid up.”