by Jodi Daynard
We played a game of chess, which my sister handily won within half an hour. I endeavored to play a tune on the pianoforte but gave up after sounding so many wrong notes that Maria covered her ears.
“It’s not my fault, Maria,” I said. “Nobody has thought to hire a tutor for me. How should I become proficient otherwise?”
“One hardly needs a tutor to learn a thing.” Here, my sister rose and approached the pianoforte. She nudged me aside and sat down. Then she gently placed her little hands on the keys and began to play one note after the other up and down the keyboard. She then played every other note, and within ten minutes she seemed to have memorized sufficient notes to play the first bars of “Over the Hills and Far Away.”
Mama appeared in the doorway and cried, “Stop at once, Maria!”
“Why should I? Is this not an instrument, meant to be played?”
Mama had no ready reply but needed to have the last word. “Well, but—do be careful!” she said. Once she had left, Maria and I laughed out loud. We thought it was amusing that Mama should not interrupt me but waited until Maria played something melodious. After this, we settled into solitary pursuits—I, a book; Maria, her diary. Papa had given her a large, heavy account book several years earlier, and she carried it everywhere, often writing stories in it. We were thus engaged for perhaps an hour when my sister set her diary in her lap, blinked quizzically, and swallowed hard.
“Maria, what is it?” I asked. “Are you unwell?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I felt a sudden—something.” She reached a hand to her throat.
“Allow me to tell Mama,” I said, rising.
“If you wish. I think I shall go lie down for a few minutes.”
Upstairs, I knocked loudly upon my parents’ door. “Mama! Maria is unwell. I believe we must call the doctor.” There was a rustling, and Mama came to the door, tying her dressing gown about her. Her face was pale, and her nose was red and chapped.
“What needs she a doctor for?” she asked, reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief. “It is but a cold. We all of us have it.”
“I fear it is no mere cold, but something else. She said—she said she felt something here.” I touched my own throat, in the hollow where my cross had been.
“It is early yet. Let us wait till suppertime. I doubt very much but it is this same dreadful cold we all have.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said. But, espying Cassie in the hallway approaching with a tray for Mama, I said, “Cassie, bring Maria some tea as well. She is poorly.”
Cassie nodded. Above stairs, we remained correct with one another. And, since Cato and Toby’s departure, I had not ventured into the kitchen at all.
“Yes, Miss Eliza.” She curtsied.
I went to Maria. She was sitting on top of the bedcovers, fully clothed, engrossed in her book, her legs crossed beneath her.
“Oh,” I said. “I thought to find you in bed, not on it. Are you better?”
Maria put a finger in her book to hold the place and looked up at me.
“Not worse, thankfully.”
“That’s a relief! I nearly had Mama fetch Dr. Bullfinch.” Just then, Cassie entered with her tray.
“Look, your tea arrives.”
“How nice. Thank you, Cassie,” said Maria.
“But brrr—it’s cold in here. Cassie!” I called, just as she was leaving. “We need a fire.”
“You know Mr. Boylston don’ let me touch da wood, Miss Eliza. Not befaw he say so.”
I silently cursed our father for allowing the fire to go out. He had his barouche and four, yet my sister was to go without a hint of warmth!
“Well, you shall do so now, Cassie, and if there’s a price to pay, I shall pay it.”
She nodded and left the room.
In short order, the fire was lit and raging. I sat upon the bed next to my sister and caressed her hair.
“You’re truly not worse?” I asked.
She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I am tolerably well, Eliza. Let us discuss something else. I find the subject of illness—especially my own—so tedious.”
“Very well. What should we discuss?”
“I believe . . .” she considered, “I believe I should like to discuss our dreams. You go first.”
“My dreams? Why, I—”
Maria turned to me and frowned. “Surely you have them, Eliza. We all do.”
I blushed. “Why, I suppose I have thought about the things Mama has said. Mama says I shall make a brilliant match and be the mistress of a large and stately home . . . Oh, but I should like to remain in Cambridge—”
“Stop.” Maria frowned. “Have you so little imagination as to dream only that which Mama has allowed? Surely you must have your own ideas about your future happiness?”
“Indeed I do. As I was saying, I should like to remain in Cambridge, or Boston at the very farthest.”
Maria sighed.
“Well, what do you dream of, Maria?”
My sister closed her eyes. Her hands rested in her lap.
“I see a large house.”
“Ha—you see!”
“Nay.” Maria reached out her hand. “A large house in the country.”
“In the country? Not far, I hope?”
“Yes, Eliza. Far from here. In the western parts of our county, perhaps. A large house filled with women.”
“Women?” I cried, appalled at the thought.
“Women friends. We shall write, or paint. We shall prepare our own meals and wear what clothing we like. At table, we may talk about art, or the books we read—or write.”
Maria’s talk shocked me. “This is your dream?” I asked bewilderedly. “No husband, no children?”
“I don’t see them when I close my eyes. That doesn’t mean they won’t happen. I see the other, however.” Maria then changed the subject.
“Would you like to read one of my stories?” She reached for the diary on her bedside table.
“Oh, yes. I love your stories. They are always so full of adventure.”
“Here. Read upon this. It’s about an Athenian woman who cares for wounded enemy soldiers during the Peloponnesian war and falls in love with one of them.”
Taking up the heavy ledger book, I looked askance at my sister, for the subject was slightly daring.
“And you say you care nothing about love, Maria. Humph!”
“It’s just a silly story, written for my own amusement. Read it.”
I read Maria’s story aloud until I noticed that her eyes were closed. Gently, I put the book on the side table and went round to the fireplace, where I quietly added a few logs. Then I kissed my sister’s forehead before leaving—how she burned! Perhaps it was the proximity of the hot fire—Yes, certainly, it was the fire, I thought.
Maria did not descend that day for supper; Cassie brought her a tray but found her asleep and tiptoed out of the room. I did not worry overmuch, but I slept ill and, the following morning, bolted from my bed to check on my sister. She was turning fitfully, but her eyes were closed. She had thrown the covers off herself in the night and when I pulled to adjust them, I noticed a bright rash across her neck and chest. I leapt back in fear and ran to tell my parents.
“Maria has a rash! A bright-red rash!” I cried, having entered their chamber without knocking.
“Have Cassie fetch Dr. Bullfinch,” Papa mumbled. I did so at once. Cassie left the house and returned half an hour later with Dr. Bullfinch, the family doctor. He did not stay long, which relieved me greatly. After he had left, I entered Maria’s chamber and found her sitting up and staring at the flickering fire. Her cheeks had lost their hectic redness.
“Dearest,” I said, sitting myself next to her. “How are you? What was that rash? Was it not the canker rash? What did Dr. Bullfinch say?”
“Oh, the rash has paled. Look.” Maria pulled the bolster off to reveal her neck and shoulders. They were nice and white, with just a thin streak of ruddy pink on one side of her neck. I sighed wi
th relief. “I shouldn’t like to complain, but I am bored. Dr. Bullfinch says it is but a cold, and that the rash has not the telltale bumps of the canker rash. I shall soon be well, he says, and yet he has forbidden me to read or write or do anything!”
“Shall I open the curtains?”
“Oh, yes. With any luck we shall see something interesting.”
“We may be so fortunate as to see Dinah shaking out the carpets.” Dinah was a young servant girl belonging to the Vassals. We often saw her knocking the dust out of a carpet by the side of the house.
“Oh, look!” Maria pointed. There, in our maple tree beyond her window, against the bright white dusting of snow that clung to the branches, stood a brilliant-red cardinal. “Eliza, isn’t he gorgeous? Do you suppose he knows he’s so gorgeous, and so very red?”
“I hope not.” I laughed. “For Lord knows our males are puffed up enough with pride as it is. Oh, Maria,” I said, embracing her, “I’m so glad you’re better. I’m so relieved.” After a few moments, I had a thought. “Dr. Bullfinch has not forbidden listening, has he?”
“I believe it slipped his mind.” She smiled mischievously.
I opened the Odyssey and took up where my sister had left off. Then for several precious hours, we were travelers to a glorious, ancient world, where our beloved hero battled monsters and survived by his wits.
Maria fell asleep while I was reading, and I left her seemingly much improved.
That afternoon, my sister surprised us all by coming down to dinner. My sister had dressed herself as usual and done a smart job of it. Her blouse was properly buttoned; her petticoats fell straight down, not hitched up on one side or inadvertently tucked into a stocking, as they often were. She had even brushed and pinned her hair. It looked so glossy that it shone. And yet something seemed not quite right about her. Maria’s dark complexion had a pale, waxen cast to it. Her walk down the stairs was too slow, and she needed to grasp the banister for balance.
“Are you certain you are well enough to stir, Maria?” I asked. “It is cold—Cassie can bring you something in your chamber.”
“No, no,” she objected. “I’m bored to tears. Truly. I’m resolute that I shall sit in the library and read.” She proceeded to drink some tea and smilingly accepted a kiss on the side of her head from Jeb, who had loaded his plate with ham, biscuits, and Cassie’s special brandy sauce.
“Sister,” he mumbled after having already taken a huge bite of ham, “I made something for you.”
Jeb proffered a J-shaped wooden item that lay in his lap.
“Oh, no. Not another pop gun.” Maria rolled her eyes.
“The very same.”
“You’re very sweet, Jeb. Perhaps this time I shall find a use for it. You know I dislike shooting things. Well, perhaps I can load it with bread and shoot pellets out to the ducks.”
Maria smiled while she spoke, but I saw that she ate nothing and merely poked at a lone slice of ham.
“You take no nourishment,” I remarked unhappily.
“I suppose I’m too excited to eat. Come—if you have finished. Join me in the library.”
Our parents, reassured that Maria was on the mend, announced their plans for the day. Mother said that she would spend the day creating menus for Cassie, and did we fancy fish or fowl for Sunday dinner?
“Well, since we all seem to be announcing our plans,” Jeb stood, “let me announce that I plan to go abroad. It is cold but sunny, and they have cleared the main road. I shall walk about town pretending to be a college lad with a fine parson’s job ahead of me, paid well to spout nonsense.”
“Jeb! Have a care, will you?” Our father frowned and glanced at Mama, who had just stepped into the dining room.
“What?” Jeb laughed in astonishment. “Are we to pretend that I am fit for a scholar’s life? Oh, we are all so dull! I shall die of our dullness!” Jeb cried. “Eliza, do you wish to walk with me?”
“I’ve told Maria I would sit with her in the library,” I said regretfully, for I should have liked to go abroad.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, adieu! I am heartily sick of this house. We all behave as if there were nothing of importance beyond it.” And, apparently finished with his tirade, Jeb departed. Our mother ran to the door and called after him fretfully, “Your cap!” But he was already far down the road.
“That child gives me a headache,” Papa sighed, shutting the door against the cold.
I took Maria’s hand, and we walked to the library. She sighed. “I wish I had the energy to go abroad. I wish it were spring, and doing so were not such an ordeal.”
“I know,” I said. It was not so simple for us as it was for Jeb. We had petticoats to drag through the snow and ice, boots to lace, bonnets, mitts, and capes to adjust. The very thought was exhausting. Of course, no one had the least idea of Maria’s going abroad just now.
We installed ourselves in the library by the large windows. The afternoon sun, in its decline, was brilliant, and melting ice from the tree branches refracted a rainbow of colors before dripping out of sight. I had hoped to see Mr. Cardinal again but did not. That was a disappointment, for his careless beauty gladdened my heart, igniting within me every sort of foolish hope.
Maria and I played a game of chess, which I won after a struggle. I might have exulted more had I not been alarmed by her sluggishness, her pallor. We then read companionably for near an hour: I, A Midsummer Night’s Dream; she, the Odyssey. After an hour, however, she grew fatigued.
“My eyes close, Eliza. Perhaps I shall lie down for a bit.”
“Oh, do, dear. You’re not yet well.”
She smiled, her lids fluttering shut. “This story transports me so, with its palaces whose brazen fires ‘make night day.’ Oh Eliza, by such magical means am I able to travel the world! Do you think everyone understands the magic of books? Of seeing not what is, but what might be?”
“But you’re so very good at seeing what is, Maria. Without you, I would hardly know what was real.”
Maria sighed and considered my words. “It is a burden always to see things in their true light. Books—they are such a wonderful escape, don’t you see?” But even as Maria said these words, I saw her shoulders roll forward. I set my own book down and helped her up the stairs. She paused upon the landing. “But how I am out of breath!” Maria placed a small hand on her chest.
“Come, darling. Let us get you out of your gown. Shall I call for Cassie to bring you something? A dish of tea?”
“Oh, yes, I would like that.”
We entered her chamber. It was such a pretty room, with its tiny pink flowers on the wallpaper; a gossamer crocheted canopy hung above the mahogany bedstead. From her chamber, my sister had views north, across our orchards, and east, to the Vassal house and the same ice-slicked maple tree we saw from below.
Her room was quite cold once more. Cassie and I got the fire going and managed to undress Maria and get her into bed. The bed was cold, too, and Maria shivered. Cassie left the room to get the tea. I lay myself down on the bed beside my sister and wrapped my limbs around her, to warm her.
“Oh, yes, that is good. That is better,” she said, snuggling into the warmth of my body. She closed her eyes. “I believe I shall be able to sleep now. And when I wake, I’ll fly back to the isle of Helios, to see what the fierce sun god has done with the poor hungry sailors who have eaten his beeves. It will transport you, Eliza.”
“I look forward to it,” I said.
“I’ll finish it by the Sabbath, I am sure, and then it shall be yours.” It was then Thursday. Maria shut her eyes, and her breathing slowed; I sat up. Cassie entered with tea and a biscuit, but I shook my head, mouthing that she was already asleep. Cassie set the tea down on the bedside table. Beyond the window, the sun continued to turn the ice to sparkling rain. I heard the church bell ring. Suddenly I saw the cardinal again! He was just there, beyond the window, standing on his gray stick legs and snip-snipping with his triangular black beak. I drank the tea meant for
Maria and left soon thereafter. Behind me the fire glowed brightly. All seemed well.
I descended the stairs and sat in the library, looking out upon the whiteness. I dreamed of spring and lively gatherings. But I was jolted out of my reverie by a piteous shriek from above. I ran at once to Maria’s chamber to find Cassie standing over a dropped tray and broken china. Maria lay on the bed, eyes open, lips blue, breath gone. She had left Odysseus and his men forever, on the isle of Helios.
4
THE FUNERAL WAS HELD THAT MONDAY AT the new church. The snow had turned to ice in places, and we slipped precariously as we walked behind the funeral carriage to the chapel. We suffered the pitying stares of shopkeepers and farmers who seemed surprised to learn that those who lived on Brattle Street were not, in fact, immortal.
Our parents walked ahead of us, side by side but not touching, worlds apart. Papa broke down periodically; Mama’s eyes seemed not to blink, and Jeb and I leaned on each other as we walked behind them. “I don’t see how we shall go on,” I whispered. “The pain is too much.”
“What choice have we, Eliza, if God wishes to give an eye for an eye?” His tone was bitter.
“What mean you, ‘an eye for an eye’?”
“What else would you call it?” Jeb laughed mirthlessly. “God would have them know what it feels like to lose a child.”
“Surely that cannot be.” I frowned.
“What? Do you not believe in a vengeful God, Eliza? Have you been asleep at services all this time?”
“Vengeance against whom, pray, and for what?”
“For Cassie, of course.”
My brother’s anger, and the town’s anger, and the shock of his pronouncement, was all too much: I burst into great heaving tears.