Konrad followed Zeph inside, and Neva went down the steps and walked toward the hearse. Cullen said in an undertone to Glynis, "Wait for me out here, and I'll see you home."
"Cullen, I don't want to ride in that hearse."
"You don't need to. Zeph and Neva can take Brant's body back to town and you'll come with me." He motioned toward the back of the hearse, where Glynis now saw the Morgan tied. "You're not walking home alone, Glynis."
"I'll not argue with that."
"Can't think why I let you come here by yourself to begin with," he said, shaking his head as if he had just realized this.
"Your mind was on other things, Cullen." And he couldn't have known, she thought as he went back inside, that she would be imprudent enough not to wait for him.
She went down the steps, intending to talk to Neva, and had just reached the drive when she heard someone call to her.
"Miss Tryon? A moment if you please?"
She turned to see the servant Clements, with whom she earlier had nearly collided, coming toward her. He was a heavy man, balding, and he bore what appeared to be a perpetually sour expression. Clements had sworn, so Cullen said, that the last time he'd seen Roland Brant alive was a few minutes before nine o'clock the previous evening when he took to the library a bottle of whiskey. He did this every night, the man had said.
"Yes, Clements, what is it?" Glynis asked him.
"Mrs. Brant—that is, Mrs. Roland Brant—has retired to her room. She cannot be further disturbed tonight. But she requested that I inform you of something. Constable Stuart inquired earlier if all the servants were here and accounted for. We thought they were. But we've learned that one has gone missing."
"Missing? And you've only now discovered it?"
"She's just a kitchen maid, madam. Indentured to the Brant household." He gave Glynis a less disdainful look when he added, presumably in earnest, "It is said that she is cursed."
"What on earth do you mean, she's cursed?" said Glynis, and then instantly regretted her incredulous tone of voice, which would achieve nothing with someone who believed in evil spells. And Clements was hardly alone in his belief.
Since the man was now eyeing her with distaste, she tried again more cautiously. "Please tell me how this girl is cursed."
"They say she has been struck dumb."
"By that, do you mean the girl is witless? Or is she mute?"
"She never speaks. Not for a year now."
Did that mean the girl could not talk—or would not?
"I see," Glynis replied, hoping the man would be encouraged if she seemed to understand him. "Clements, why didn't anyone know until now that she was gone?"
"What with Mr. Brant being ..." He paused, swallowed, and continued, "That is, it seems no one noticed her absence today. But now that we've had time to reflect, it appears that she hasn't been seen since early last evening."
7
TUESDAY
He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light. He hath set me in dark places as they that be dead of old. He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out.
—Book of Lamentations
The girl had been awake for some time, lying as still on a marsh-grass pallet as the dead lie in the dark of their graves. The pallet was thin and spread on a dirt floor. When she had woken once before this, she had found herself wrapped tightly in a coarse wool blanket, and when she had twisted the injured arm, the pain made her gasp. It must have been loud, the gasp, because the sudden light of a torch was thrust in her face, blinding her, and she had heard the anxious whine of a dog. A liquid that smelled like the thick, biting odor of spirits was poured into her mouth, and she choked and gagged, but was made to swallow it. And as she lay there now, a picture came into her mind of a man with hair hanging over fierce dark eyes. His lips moved as if he were saying something to her, but she was too afraid to listen. He made her swallow something else, thin and watery with a bitter taste like that of chicory.
Now she could see a pale light coming from somewhere, and she wondered if it could be dawn. She rolled her head to one side. The light filtered across her in thin gray stripes, and she saw that it came from a small, square opening overhead and from between chinks of the logs that were stacked one on top of another to make a wall. She rolled her head from the wall to see a dark heap a short distance away. It looked like a mound of earth. When she tried to lift her head to see more, the wool wrapped around her made only a whisper of sound, but the dark mound heard and rose up and came toward her. She lay still, her eyes shut fast, fear running through her as a chill stream runs. Then she felt something rough and warm and wet on her cheek, and she knew it was the tongue of a dog.
She opened her eyes to look into the gleam of the dog's brown gaze before it settled down against her side with the warmth of a sunbaked rock. The heat of its body eased the cold, and the sound of its steady breathing made her think of waves lapping against a shore, or the wings of a moth fanning in flight.
She must have slept again, because suddenly she felt the air around her stir, and when she heard a faint hissing like that of steam from a fire, it made her afraid. The dog was gone, and strong morning light came through a door opening in the opposite log wall, where a flap of canvas had been pulled aside. She heard footsteps and a man, a man she thought she had never seen before, walked through the opening with something carried in his hands.
When she sat up and tried to inch back against the log wall, she saw that she was no longer bound tightly in the wool, but her left arm felt strangely heavy. She didn't know why, and she couldn't try to see it and watch the man at the same time. He had stopped just inside the door opening. She could see his eyes, so this was the same man who had come upon her in the swamp, with his fierce dark look and his sheepherding dog. His hair was as black as his eyes, but now it did not hang in lank strings over his face. It was brushed back and fell to his shoulders, shining like the mane of a horse. And the hair on his face was gone, leaving only a shadow in the hollow of his cheeks, so he must have just shaved the beard off. What he carried looked like an iron fry pan, and whatever was in it hissed and spattered as if the pan had just been taken from hot coals. She thought she smelled fish.
When the man started toward her, she shrank back against the wall. He stopped again, and stood staring at her, while the dog came forward and stood in front of her with its tail sweeping the dirt floor like a feather duster. Then it sank to its haunches and looked up at her with its keen gaze.
A few feet away from her was something that looked like a big tree stump, and the man took a few steps, bent forward, and put the pan on it. Then he turned and started back toward the door opening. The dog rose quickly, and its nose was nearly into the fry pan before the man, without looking around, said, "No, Keeper. No."
Even though he said this in a low voice, the dog dropped to the dirt floor like a stone. Then the man snapped his fingers, and the dog jumped up and went to him, tail swirling, and they left the girl alone with the fresh-smelling fish that made the juice in her mouth run.
With her eyes on the door opening, she started for the stump with the pan. It was then she saw why her left arm was heavy; it was wound with a thick, clean cotton cloth. It didn't hurt much anymore. But she saw, too, with a quick thrust of fear, that the wet cloak and the muslin dress and the shift she had worn were gone. She had on a large, yoked shirt, coarsely woven, and jean-cloth trousers that bunched around her waist, held up with a piece of rope like a drawstring instead of a belt. Even though the trouser legs had been rolled up, they dragged in the dirt. They looked, the shirt and the trousers, like what the man wore, but the shirt was not too big for him and the trouser legs only went to the ankle of his boots. She didn't want to think of the man taking off her clothes, so she looked at the pieces of fish in the pan, lying crisp and brown beside what looked like fresh dandelion greens. She started to pick up the fish with her fingers, but then heard footsteps outside and quickly backed away as the man came though the
opening.
He laid a small, carved wooden scoop in the pan and put down a tin cup of steaming liquid that smelled like sassafras. As he turned to go outside again, he said over his shoulder, "You should eat."
It was only a minute or two before the dog came back alone. It sat in front of her and watched her eat, its eyes going back and forth between her mouth and the pan, with its ears pricking forward at every bite. When she had almost finished, she looked at the opening of the cabin, and gave the dog the last piece of fish. The dog gulped it down and licked her fingers, its tail brushing back and forth, while she ran her hand over its fine-boned head. Then hot tears rolled down her face and she pushed the dog away.
When the dog jumped to its feet, she saw that the man had come back inside, and was leaning against the wall of the cabin, watching her. She wondered how long he had been there, and how angry he would be if he had seen her give the fish to the dog after he had said, "No, Keeper." But his eyes did not look fierce, so perhaps he didn't think it was bad, what she and the dog had done.
The man took a step toward her. She started to back away from him, but he stopped and dropped to a squat where he was.
"Does your arm hurt?" he asked in a low voice, the same voice he had used with the dog.
She looked at the dirt floor, wiping her hands on the bunched, jean-cloth trousers.
"It was a bad cut," he went on, as if she had answered him, and then asked a question of her own. "I had to hurt you to get the dirt out, so I poured some whiskey over it, and some into you. It should feel better now. If it's not, I can give you some more willow bark."
That must have been the bitter liquid he had made her drink. She shuddered, remembering, and maybe he knew why she shuddered, because suddenly he smiled. Then she saw that he was not as old as she had thought; not very young, but not very old, either.
"All right," he said. He was still smiling, and now his voice, rich and clear, made her think of the call of a wood thrush. "No more willow bark. Unless it hurts again. But you have to tell me if it does."
He was watching her, and she was afraid he would be angry when she didn't answer. She ducked her head, so he wouldn't see how afraid she was.
But he must have seen, because he said, "I know you're scared—you look scared—but you don't have to be. What's your name?"
She moved back a little, waiting for the anger.
"I won't hurt you," he said, and a line formed between his brows. "From the looks of it, you've been hurt enough."
He got to his feet, saying, "You cried out so I know you're not mute." She saw the question in his face. She looked away.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he said. "You must be able to nod, or shake your head, because you're not deaf, are you?"
She couldn't look at him. Tears were smarting behind her eyes, and that frightened her almost as much as he did, because she couldn't think why she should be crying. Maybe because he kept talking in that clear thrush voice, and asking her questions she couldn't answer.
"Why were you in the swamp?" His face looked as intent as the dog's had while she was eating the fish. "The closest town is Seneca Falls. Are you from there?"
She wanted to tell him No. No, she was not from Seneca Falls. But even if she could tell him that, he might know it wasn't true.
He went to the doorway, and stood there for a time with his arms crossed over his chest, just looking at her. "If you won't, or can't talk," he said, finally, "I'll have to go into town to find out who you are. You can't stay here. If I wanted company, I wouldn't be living in a swamp."
When he said that, that he would find out who she was, she felt her breath leave her. She struggled to her feet, and she could feel tears running down her face, the fear so thick in her throat that she thought she wouldn't be able to bring in air. She was shaking her head with her hair slapping against her face. And she knew he was watching her.
He took several steps toward her, stopping when she cringed back against the wall. The dog let out a short whimper and came to her side to lick her hand.
"I won't touch you," he said, "if that's what you're frightened of." It was not a question, but his face looked as if it had been. "Or is it because of what I said? About finding out who you are?"
This time it was a question, but all she could do was look at him.
"How can I know what you want unless you tell me?" he said. "I'm not a mind reader."
She put her hand to her throat, and she could hear herself gasping for air.
He came toward her again, and this time he didn't stop when she shrank against the wall, but stood right in front of her. He didn't touch her, he just stood there with his thumbs hooked under the waist of his trousers.
"All right," he said, "I'm going into town. I don't go any more than necessary—I have no love for that place—but I need to find out who you are, and where you belong. If I go by way of Black Brook, I should be back by dark. I'll leave Keeper here with you."
She tried to see him through the blur, and she tried to stop the tears, too, and she couldn't. He raised his hand slowly and reached toward her face, but when she shied away, his hand dropped to his side.
"My name is Gerard," he said to her. Then he turned, and went outside. She heard him say to the dog, "Stay here, Keeper. Stay!"
She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before she went to the doorway. He was striding down to where the water met the land, and to where a bark canoe lay nearly hidden in clumps of marsh marigolds the color of butter.
She stood there with the dog beside her and watched him push the canoe out into the marsh. Once, before he climbed into it, the dog whined and took a few steps forward as if to follow him.
The man Gerard said, "No. Stay, Keeper!" and the dog sank to the ground, muzzle on its front paws, its eyes fixed on the man in the canoe.
When the man dipped the flat-bladed paddle, it sliced through the air with flashes of silvery light as he struck out over the desolate stretch of water. She watched him until, shrouded by mist and the tall marsh weeds at the mouth of Black Brook, he was lost from sight.
8
We are fond of talking of the mysterious things in nature—of earthquakes, volcanoes, whirlwinds, pestilences, and other marvels of the material world; yet these do not begin to compare in strangeness and importance with the developments of the human heart.... The great questions of our future history do not turn upon marvelous phenomena in the heavens or under earth, but upon the play of human passions.
—the June 1861 issue of Harper's New Monthly Magazine
It was the clatter of wagons outside one of her bedroom windows, together with the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, and the boisterous shouting of men, that finally roused Glynis. Otherwise, she thought, glancing at the clock on her bedside table, she would likely have slept until noon. But what could be going on out there? It sounded as if half of Seneca Falls had suddenly converged in her landlady's front yard.
She threw on her green silk undress and rushed to the window, where it became clear that the commotion was not in Harriet Peartree's yard, but in the one next door, belonging to Vanessa Usher. Cayuga Street had been transformed into a crazed jumble of heavy dray and rack wagons. More were arriving every minute, while a dozen burly men hailed one another with gibes and laughter as they milled around the jammed road. Glynis smiled at their exuberance, thinking it possible, given the past months of foul weather, that some of these men had not met since the previous autumn.
She opened the window on the warmth of a sunlit morning and leaned her arms on the sill. Although most of the men below were still fraternizing, some had begun to haul from the wagons scores of flowering trees. Heavy burlap wrapped the clumps of soil around roots of redbud and crab apple and wild cherry and plum, all of which were nearing full bloom. It made for a magical scene, and only that particular year, with its miserable, cold, wet spring, could have brought these trees into flower at the same time, bursting into color practically overnight. Glyni
s decided that this horticultural wizardry, usually left to the whims of the weather gods, must have been summoned by a wave of Vanessa's wand and was now, even as Glynis watched, materializing directly at her door. And the reason for this feverish activity, it had slowly dawned on her, was Emma's approaching wedding. It was slated for the first day of June, a mere four days hence.
Plans for the ceremony and reception to take place on the spacious Usher grounds had been in the making for months. Ever since the second, Glynis guessed, that Vanessa had learned of Emma's engagement. And given the artistry she had displayed on prior occasions, Vanessa would undoubtedly create the most beautiful wedding scene ever beheld in western New York. Even if she had to move heaven and earth to do it.
Earlier in the year, a pragmatic Emma had asked her, "If the wedding is held outside, what will we do if it rains?" To which Vanessa had replied, "It wouldn't dare rain.'" Thus disposing of the heavens. And apparently, from the look of things on Cayuga Street, this was the day the earth moved.
But how, and from where, did Vanessa conjure all those trees?
Birnam Woods come to Dunsinane.
Glynis sank to the edge of her bed, the previous night leaping to mind and delight in the morning draining away. She glanced at her clock again, and now noticed a coffee cup and saucer on the bedside table. When she picked them up, the coffee pale with cream the way she liked it, she found a note underneath.
Aunt Glyn—
So where were you last night? Out carousing somewhere, and with the handsome constable too, I wager! Have some errands to run, but I'll see you later, here or at the library.
Must the Maiden Die Page 8