Underground

by Gayle O'Brien

  She knew she shouldn’t. She should find out where to find a computer and then tell him she probably wouldn’t see him again. She should finish her laundry, then go home and hide until it was absolutely necessary to come out again.

  Instead she said, “Okay, see you there.”

  Annie watched from the café window, her clean laundry in a garbage bag by her feet. In the time she’d been to the Town Hall and back the snow had come down hard, then stopped, leaving everything covered in soft white. The sun reflected the snow, making the surroundings brighter.

  It was, she surmised, a beautiful winter’s day in New England.

  Annie was one of four customers in the café. Two were a couple in their 50s, sharing a newspaper, wearing matching waterproof boots. The other was a girl, about Annie’s age, intently making her way through a stack of college brochures.

  Annie thought about the brochures that had come unsolicited through their old mailbox, all places her mother wanted her to look at, but that Annie only glanced at. Jenna and Marcy had showed her their lists, all large universities that had, as Jenna put it, “the best sororities ever.” Annie’s mother’s list was all small, private colleges in the middle of nowhere.

  Kind of like here, Annie thought.

  The smell of food in the café was overwhelming. Standing at the counter ten minutes earlier to order a mug of tea – the cheapest item on the menu – had been agony. Freshly baked bread sat on high shelves, as if daring Annie to take them. In the display case were blondies, bagels, muffins, tortes, cheesecakes and strudels.

  Just wait until you get home, she repeated to herself. Your one burrito is waiting.

  Theo entered the café as if on a breeze, his face flushed and glowing. Annie clasped her hands around her hot tea.

  “Hey Steph,” he said as he passed the girl with the college brochures.

  She looked up. “Hey, Theo,” she said brightly. Annie watched as the girl opened her mouth to say more, but by then Theo was already at Annie’s table.

  “Good, you’re still here,” he said, sitting down next to her. Their thighs brushed. Annie shifted away. Theo didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Can I get you something?” she offered.

  “Maybe in a minute, first things first.” He took a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his fleece and laid it flat on the table. “Here’s what I’ve got. The Jennings moved to Battenkill in 1835 and they started building the house you’re now in. It wasn’t finished until 1850, which explains the stained glass above the door. Mr. Jennings disappeared from the census list in 1865, which probably means he died that year. But at least one or two members of the family stayed in the house until the 1940s. Then a family trust was set up, and the house has been owned and managed by it ever since. However,” he turned the page over, “the house’s inhabitants have been sporadic. It’s been empty for the past five years. I asked Shirley about it. She said the people who manage the trust are in some kind of legal battle over whether to sell it or keep it.”

  She looked at the list of names and her shoulders sank. No Samantha Weston.

  “What’s the matter?” said Theo. “You seem, I don’t know, disappointed or something.”

  “Sorry. I really appreciate your help. Thank you. I was hoping you’d find a particular name, but it’s not there.”

  “Which name?”

  Anne shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, come on. Consider it payment for my effort. You can’t just dangle something like that in front of my face and then take it away.”

  Annie feared she’d angered him, but then saw that his eyes were laughing.

  She reached into her backpack and pulled out the Bible.

  Theo held up his hands. “Oh, no,” he teased. “Don’t think you can distract me by preaching a sermon.”

  Anne pulled out the envelope from where she’d wedged it into the book’s binding. She removed the letter, unfolded it and gently placed it on the table.

  “Whoa,” said Theo, leaning over and squinting at the faded ink. Annie watched his eyes move over the handwriting, then back up to the top of the page.

  “1861!” he exclaimed, and a few people in the café turned to look. “Where did you find this?”

  Annie hesitated, unsure of how much should she tell him. It was better, she knew, to be overcautious than not cautious enough. Still, she reasoned, the house was its own entity; its history had nothing to do with her or her mother or how they’d ended up in Battenkill. And she wanted to find out more about Samantha Weston. What could be the harm in sharing the mystery?

  “I found a hidden room in my basement. It’s underneath the stairs. There’s a bed and a lantern and a wooden crate. On it was this Bible, and in it was this letter.”

  Theo’s fingers hovered over the letter, as if fearing it might disappear. Annie waited for him to laugh, to say it was obviously a fake, or at least that it was nothing to get excited about. Instead he said, “This is amazing!”

  “Really?”

  “I mean, look at this! A real letter from a real person, written – what – over 150 years ago? I’ve never seen anything like this. We’ve got to find out more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like who she was, where she went afterwards, and why this letter was never sent, don’t you think?”

  “How?”

  “There’s lots of ways. Internet, for one.”

  If only, Annie thought.

  Theo stood up. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t decide what I want to do more – see this room of yours or go home and start searching the Web.”

  “You can’t come to my house,” she said quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “My … my mother. She doesn’t like to have visitors.”

  “How come?”

  Annie’s head flooded with the truth. Because she’s frightened of every strange sound and shadow. Because she’s been scared to death so many times that in some ways she’s actually dead. Because she’s been so scarred she can’t actually feel anything anymore. And yet, for the first time, Annie had found something to make her rise above the fear of the past year: Samantha Weston.

  “My mother’s not very well. It’s better if I can go home first and see how she’s doing.”

  “Well, how about this, then. You go home and make sure she’s alright. Then come to my house.”

  Annie gulped. “Your house?”

  “I’m going to find out everything I can about Samantha Weston and Mont Verity.” He paused. “Don’t you want to know too?”

  Annie stood up to meet his eyes. “Yes. Of course I do.”

  “Good,” he said, and turned to go. At the door, he paused. “Oh, and Annie?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are going to show me this room. Don’t think you’re getting out of it.”

  Annie felt a smile fill her cheeks. “I won’t.”

  Chapter 6

  Samantha was dreaming. Even though she knew it, she couldn’t make it stop. Everything was blurry, like looking out of the window during a thunderstorm. Voices surrounded her, but they could not be deciphered. A horrible sensation burned across her senses until she felt she might explode.

  Consciousness slowly won over unconsciousness and the pieces of her dream found their real-life counterparts. She blinked until the blurriness gave way to clear vision. Oma waved smelling salts under her nose.

  “Come on, Miss Sammy, wake up.”

  Samantha was in bed. The clock on her mantelpiece read half past five. I don’t remember coming in here to lie down, she thought. She searched her memory, then the images hit her: the gun, the scarecrow and Royal’s vapid presence.

  Outside her bedroom door, voices raged.

  “You have the audacity to starve our daughter without even consulting me?”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “How could you do such a thing? She’s st
ill a growing girl.”

  “Growing in the wrong direction, if you ask me …”

  “All this fuss, Madeline. The cotillion, the dress, the list of men I wouldn’t let near my daughter under any other circumstances, and for what? We’ve already decided who she’s marrying.”

  Samantha shot up.

  “Lie down, Miss Sammy,” said Oma.

  “Shut up, Oma,” Samantha whispered. “I need to hear this.” She strained towards the door.

  “You know perfectly well why we’re doing this. A cotillion isn’t just for potential suitors. A debutante’s coming out sets a precedent for how she’ll be received in society for the rest of her life.”

  “Look around you, Madeline. There’s a war coming. Everyone knows it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Even the Fabres aren’t worried. Major Fabre says it will be over before it’s even started.”

  Samantha heard her father sigh, as he often did when talking to her mother. “I’m going to talk to our daughter. I want her to have a real meal in her room by the time I’m finished or so help me Madeline I will stand at our front gate tomorrow and turn away every single guest, and I will tell them it’s because you’re flatulent.”

  Her mother gasped. “You wouldn’t …”

  Samantha stifled a giggle.

  “Yes, I would. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to my daughter.”

  Samantha lay down. “I’ve been asleep this whole time,” she whispered to Oma, closing her eyes before the girl could respond.

  Her father’s heavy footsteps entered the room, and Samantha felt the comfort of his familiar scent. He always smelled of the outdoors, like freshly scythed grass slowly drying in the sun.

  “Leave us, Oma,” he said, and the slave quietly obliged.

  Samantha felt her father’s weight on the end of her bed and it reminded her of being a little girl. Her father would sit with her almost every night and tell her stories about when he was a little boy, running barefoot through the fields and woods. There was no main house then – just a small wooden cabin where they lived while the main house was being built. He would tell her how the grand white house in which they now lived literally grew out of the land, its foundations laid when he was no more than knee high, the whole house completed by the time he entered manhood. He would tell her how he stood behind his father in the cotton fields, watching him plan rows and spacing between plants, determining which fields were fertile and which ones needed to rest. He would tell her that he was never happier than when he was at Mont Verity, in his fields, smelling the freshly-budded cotton blossoms and inhaling the moist air. Samantha and her father had this in common. She, like him, never had any desire to leave this land and this house.

  Her father placed his gentle hand on her shoulder. “Samantha,” he said. “I need you to wake up.”

  She opened her eyes. Her father looked exhausted. Dark blue pockets sat under his dull eyes. His posture was bowed, as if his broad frame and shoulders had lost their ability to stand in strong, straight lines.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  “First of all, I’m sorry about this … the food thing your mother dreamt up. If I’d known …”

  His voice faltered. “It ends now. Oma will bring you something shortly.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  He folded his hands over his crossed knee. “And I’m sorry about this whole cotillion nonsense. But thank you for going along with it so far.” He paused. “It means a lot to your mother.”

  “I know,” said Samantha.

  “I need to tell you something, Samantha. Something I should have told you the minute the decision was made. Your mother didn’t want you to know until after the cotillion. But I think you have a right to know.”

  Samantha held her breath.

  “You’re going to marry a Fabre.”

  Samantha threw her arms around her father. “Oh, Papa, thank you so much. Eli and I …”

  Her father pulled her arms away and held them tightly in front of her. “Samantha,” he said. “It’s Royal.”

  Samantha waited. Her father had just made a mistake. Any second now he would correct it.

  He didn’t. She thought of Royal at the shooting range, mocking Eli and undermining her. Now she regretted not shooting the scarecrow into smithereens. Royal was everything she despised: pompous, self-important and too focused on being good at everything to know how to laugh.

  “But … but, Papa. I hate Royal.”

  “You don’t hate him, Samantha.”

  “Papa, he’s awful. He’s mean, he’s boring, and … Papa, how could you do this to me?”

  “I promise I have good reason. Your sister is gone. You know Mont Verity will go to you. I need you to stay close, to make sure that everything our family has worked for over the past fifty years wasn’t for nothing.”

  “But, Papa, that’s exactly why I should marry Eli! Royal will inherit Dominion Royale. How can he manage two plantations at once?”

  “Royal and I are still working out the details. It looks like the best course will be for you to reside at Dominion Royale after the wedding. When I’m gone he will hire someone to inhabit and oversee Mont Verity until such time that an heir is ready.”

  “An heir! You mean you’ll wait until I have a son and he’s old enough? Papa, I am a suitable heir. Eli is a suitable heir.”

  Her father shook his head.

  “Samantha, there’s something about that boy I’ve never liked or trusted. I really do think this is the right decision.” He stood up. “Now, you rest. Oma should be here soon with your supper, a proper supper.” He turned to leave.

  Samantha’s eyes burned. “Papa, please don’t make me marry Royal. Let me stay here.”

  Her father paused at the door, and Samantha exploded in desperation.

  “I won’t even marry Eli! I’ll stay a spinster and I’ll run Mont Verity better than any man. You know I can, Papa. You know what I can do.”

  She watched her father sigh and lower his head. “You know that can’t happen, Samantha. It’s the law.”

  “Then change it!”

  “Samantha,” he said sternly. “There are far greater concerns now than altering long-standing traditions so that you can get what you want.”

  “Like what?”

  “Samantha, it is possible that our country is on the verge of a great change. I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better. This is just how it has to be.”

  “I hate Royal!” she shouted. Her father left, leaving Samantha to fall onto her bed in a heap of tears.

  When supper arrived an hour later, Samantha planned to reject it. Did her father really think that such a gesture mitigated his larger offense? She imagined leaving the tray outside her door, untouched. Or even better, dropping it from the upstairs landing and letting it crash onto the marble floor below. The whole house would hear it, maybe even some of the slaves working outside, too.

  But Samantha weakened. Faced with fried chicken, browned potatoes, creamed corn, two biscuits still warm from the oven and pecan pie drowning in cream, she forgot everything Madam LeMonde had taught her about table manners and etiquette. Never had food tasted so good. Samantha did not stop until all plates were clear. Outside her window the sky flooded with the best God had to offer: purple and blue streaks against the vibrant orange of the setting sun. Sated for the first time in days, she lay down on the chaise, put her hands on her full belly and fell asleep.

  When Samantha awoke from her food-induced slumber, it was dark. She lay on the chaise, wondering if she should muster the strength to move. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed ten times.

  “Eli,” she whispered. “I have to get to Eli.”

  She jumped up and threw open her bedroom door. Oma and Chimi rose from two chairs that straddled the entrance to Samantha’s bedroom. Behind them, the house was eerily silent.

  “I’m going out,” she said.

  Oma and C
himi stood together, blocking Samantha’s exit.

  “Sorry, Miss Sammy,’ said Oma, “but you gots to go back in.”

  “What?”

  “We’s got our orders, Miss Sammy,” said Chimi. “And we can’t let you out. You staying put until the cotillion tomorrow.”

  Samantha looked past them. The hallway was quiet. A faint light emanated from the stairwell, yet no sound or movement accompanied it.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They all been tol’ to get an early night, since we all gonna be up befo’ dawn and prob’bly not back in bed until the next dawn.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes. “I meant Mother and Father.”

  “They at the Fabres, Miss Sammy,” said Oma. “Said they had matters to discuss.”

  Samantha spoke through gritted teeth. “Well you send Mother a message that she can’t keep me locked up in here like some … some … slave.”

  Oma ignored the slight. “It ain’t your mama’s orders, Miss Sammy. It’s your daddy’s.”

  “Papa?” The idea made Samantha’s knees shake. Not only had her father ordered her confinement, but he was at the Fabres right now planning … she didn’t even want to contemplate what he was planning.

  Samantha lunged forward. Oma and Chimi grabbed her.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. The two slaves pinned her to the wall, surprising her with their strength.

  “Now you listen, Miss Sammy,” Chimi hissed. “We gots our orders. Your daddy says we can tie you up if that’s what we gots to do to keep you here. Now, I don’t want to have to do that. So for once, Miss Sammy, do as you are told and sit tight. It’ll make it easier on everyone.”

  Samantha’s eyes darted between the two women. She looked for a weakness, for a hint of wavering resolve. But there was none. She turned around and closed the door behind her, disbelieving what had just happened.

  She waited until she heard Oma and Chimi sit back down in their chairs, then tiptoed across the room to the window. She opened it, bracing herself for a creak that would give her away. There was none. She lay down on the windowsill to push herself through. Her back brushed the frame and the window shifted slightly in its place. Her bedroom door flew open. Oma’s voice halted her.