Nobody's Secret

by Michaela MacColl

  To Rowan, who prefers more crows in her murders

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Further Reading

  About the Auhtor

  I’m nobody! Who are you?

  Are you nobody too?

  CHAPTER 1

  Emily lay perfectly still, hidden in the tall grass, her eyes closed tight. A chain of wildflowers lay wilted around her neck. But no matter how quiet she was, the bee would not land on her nose. Emily, she told herself sternly, bees are special. You can’t expect the first one to accept your invitation.

  The bee thrummed. A delicate brush of wings tickled her cheek. Pollen drifted into Emily’s nose. She sneezed. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know that her quarry had flitted away.

  The crunch of nearby footsteps made her sigh. Had her mother sent Vinnie to fetch her already? In Mother’s view, to play truant from housekeeping was a terrible crime. Especially on laundry day. But this was the first day Emily had felt well enough to wander; she wasn’t going home yet. She willed herself to become as invisible as the blur of hummingbirds’ wings.

  The footsteps came closer. A shadow came between her and the sun. Someone was standing over her. She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter and thought only of the bees.

  “A young lady lying hidden among the wildflowers. . . . How unexpected.”

  Emily’s eyes flew open. A young man towered over her. Hastily, she sat up, craning her neck to see him. His silhouette was rimmed with sunlight and his fair hair glistened like strands of fine silk. Her sun-warmed skin suddenly felt chill.

  “Hello,” she answered warily, glancing toward the stand of white pines that stood between her and home. Then she took a closer look at his fine clothing and her confidence returned. From the high polish on his black shoes and the gold watch peeking from the left pocket of his vest, she could tell he was from a city, perhaps Boston or even New York. He couldn’t be more than twenty—twenty-two at the oldest. Harmless, she thought. “Are you a student at the college?”

  The college on the hill dominated Amherst’s landscape as well as the rhythms of the Dickinson family. Emily’s grandfather was one of the founders of Amherst College, and her father was its treasurer.

  “I’m no scholar,” he said, grimacing. “I’ve never had any interest in a formal education.”

  “I’m eager to go to Mount Holyoke Seminary next year.” She looked at him curiously, unable to fathom not wanting to learn everything about everything. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t want to go to school.”

  “I’ve been too busy living.” He shrugged. “What could I learn in college that I couldn’t learn traveling the world?

  The world! Rather than let her envy show on her face, Emily’s glance traveled from his well-trimmed hair to his shined shoes. “The civilized parts, I presume.”

  “I’m off to California as soon as I’ve finished my business here,” he said.

  Emily couldn’t imagine the courage it would take to go to the wilds of California. “You’ll need more rugged clothes if you are going West,” she pointed out, gesturing to his tailored coat.

  He burst out laughing, but it was a good laugh, not high-pitched and not too hearty.

  “May I assist you?” He offered his hand. After a brief hesitation, she put her hand in his. He easily pulled her off the ground. She was small and he was very tall. Her hand lingered on his and for just a moment she could feel the roughness of his skin.

  “Your hands prove you aren’t a student,” she said. “Amherst students rarely work hard enough to callus their hands.”

  “You’re the local expert on college students?” he teased.

  “I know all of them,” she sighed. “My father is . . . connected with the College.”

  To her pleasure, the stranger didn’t seem interested in her father. As if it were of no importance, he asked, “What were you doing down there, anyway?”

  She paused, considering his intelligent eyes. Finally, she told the bald truth without explanation: “Hoping a bee would land on my nose.”

  He nodded, as though that made all the sense in the world. The silence lengthened while Emily waited for the inevitable question. Finally she said, “You aren’t going to ask me why?”

  He pursed his lips. “I suspect you want to know what it feels like.”

  His easy understanding was like a blow to the body. She nodded, speechless.

  “But aren’t you afraid of being stung?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It hasn’t happened yet.” She paused. “But I’m sure it will be excruciating.”

  His forehead crinkled and his mouth twisted to stop a smile. “And that’s a good thing?

  “It’s a new experience. If you are sequestered at home, as I am, new experiences are to be savored.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be lucky,” he said. “I have a relation who keeps bees. He doesn’t even notice the beestings.”

  “I’m very sensitive to natural poisons,” Emily assured him. “Of all the girls in my botany class, I reacted most to poison oak. So if I’m stung, it’s bound to be painful. But I still hope a bee will visit.”

  “You’ve picked a good spot,” he said, “with all these wildflowers about.”

  “So far the bees have decided my nose is not the place for them.” She picked a long blade of grass from her braid of red hair and smoothed her dark cotton skirt. It was short, showing several inches above her ankle. Her mother scolded her daily to wear longer dresses that were appropriate to her fifteen years. Emily usually chose the shorter dress that permitted free movement, but today she wished she had listened to her mother.

  “Lavender is a favorite for bees.” He looked around and spied a purple bush. He pulled a sprig from it and handed it to her. “Try this.”

  She secreted his offering in her pocket. “And whom do I have the pleasure of thanking for my gift?

  He started to introduce himself, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m nobody important.” He grinned, revealing a mouth of straight teeth. “Who are you?”

  Emily paused. She was the eldest daughter of one of the town fathers and everyone knew her name. But this stranger didn’t.

  How dreary to be somebody all the time, she thought. Feeling very mischievous, she said, “I’m nobody too.”

  “Hello, Miss Nobody,” he said with an inclination of his head. “Do you live around here?”

  She nodded. “Just beyond that stand of white pines.” Harmless as he might appear, it wouldn’t hurt for him to know that her home and family were close.

  “It’s a pleasing spot. Amherst always was a pretty town.”

  “You aren’t from around here.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’ve visited Amherst before,” he said, “but I don’t belong anywhere.” The gleam in his eye forbade her to pity him. After a moment, he asked, “How old are you?”

  “Almost sixteen,” she said.

  “So fifteen,” he said, but in such a genial way Emily didn’t take offense. “And why aren’t you in school, if it’s so important? Are you playing truant?”

  “I go to
Amherst Academy. It’s just up the road off the Common, but we’re between terms right now.”

  “And you’re free to frolic with the bees? No chores at home calling out for you to do?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I don’t blame you, Miss Nobody,” he said. “I ran away from home to be free from what was expected of me.”

  “I’ll go home soon,” she said. “But only when the washing is finished!”

  “Much better to make friends with bees.” He looked around thoughtfully. “But if you’re fifteen—excuse me, almost sixteen—you’re old enough to know that if you really want to attract a bee, you need to be sweeter.”

  Emily felt a hint of a blush on her cheeks. “My family is always complaining of my prickly disposition,” she agreed.

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” He bowed gallantly. “I meant you must taste of summer. That’s what a bee wants. Close your eyes.”

  Emily pursed her lips, considering him and his odd request. His open visage reassured her, and with hardly any reluctance she did as he asked.

  “Oh!” she said, stepping back in surprise. He had dabbed her nose with a sticky substance. She opened her eyes and saw that he held a chunk of oozing honeycomb in his right hand.

  “This will summon every bee in the township.” His eyebrows lifted, almost daring her to take offense.

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we, Mr. Nobody?” Emily crossed her eyes to catch a glimpse of her nose.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “I must be going now.”

  “To California?

  “Soon. First I have to take care of some family business.” His genial mood disappeared like a shadow at high noon. He folded his honeycomb back in the handkerchief. She noticed a monogram with a bold “JW” embroidered with black silk thread. “Some unpleasant accounts need to be settled.”

  “Sometimes we have to endure unpleasantness to do the right thing,” Emily agreed, recalling more than one such occasion. “It’s often inconvenient.”

  “Unavoidable, in this case.” His voice had an edge belied by his gentle manner. “But unpleasantness is the last thing a pretty girl like you should worry about.”

  Emily’s forthright nature couldn’t allow such an untruth to stand. “I’m not pretty,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if it did not bother her at all. “I’m the plain sister.”

  “How refreshing to meet such modesty, but I think it’s misplaced.”

  Another item to add to his list of good qualities; he thought she was pretty. She crinkled her nose, wishing it wasn’t dotted with freckles. “That’s very kind of you, but I think you flatter me.”

  “Better to flatter than to wound. That’s always been my maxim.” He pulled out his pocket watch, a gold affair with a “W” engraved on its back. His face displayed his consternation. “It’s getting late. Good luck with your bee hunting.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Have a good day, Mr. Nobody.”

  “And you, Miss Nobody!” With a wave, he turned and strode away, disappearing into the hazy sunshine. Staring after him, she dabbed at her nose with a fingertip and licked it. The honey was full of clover, honeysuckle, and green apples, made by bees with discriminating taste. The hive must be nearby for the honey to be so fresh. Emily wished she had asked Mr. Nobody where to find it.

  She lay down in the grass, arranging her body straight and comfortable. Mr. Nobody’s honey was indeed the missing catalyst for her experiment. Only moments later, a large bee landed on her nose. Eyes closed, Emily concentrated on every detail. The vibration of the buzzing tickled her nostrils. She felt certain she could count each one of the bee’s six legs. Its fur smelled of flowers. And all the while, her body quivered, wanting to flee before the sting.

  Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it, staying at home

  CHAPTER 2

  Rain streamed down the windows. Translucent trails marked their passing like prison bars. A comfortable prison to be sure, Emily had to admit, with soft chairs arranged for conversation and needlework and books close at hand.

  She arranged the sprig of lavender just so in the center of the flower press and screwed down the glass plate to flatten the flower. When it was ready, she would put it in her most private of notebooks.

  Emily already knew what she would write in memory of her meeting with the mysterious Mr. Nobody:

  There is a flower that Bees prefer.

  She didn’t know which words would follow yet, but doubtless they would come to her.

  With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against the windowpane, straining to make out the graveyard on the far side of the garden. On the whole, the Dickinsons were very fond of their home on North Pleasant Street with its ample rooms, wide-planked floors, and large, light-filled kitchen, but only Emily counted the graveyard as one of the house’s assets. She enjoyed walking up the gentle rise to commune with its inhabitants, who were all but forgotten except for the names on tombstones, eroded by wind and weather. One of her favorite places to sit and think was at the spring-fed pond at the edge of their property that adjoined the cemetery. But not in the pouring rain, and not with Mother so suspicious.

  “Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, stop staring out the window. You aren’t going anywhere—not after you abandoned your sister yesterday!” Her mother was wrapped in quilts. Mrs. Dickinson half-closed her eyes, trying to ward off one of her devastating headaches.

  “Mama, it’s all right,” protested Vinnie from her position in the armchair next to the small fire, a purring tomcat on her lap and Godey’s Lady’s Book, her favorite fashion magazine, in her hand. As Emily had hinted to Mr. Nobody, Vinnie was the pretty sister, full of health and blessed with an easy disposition. Almost three years younger than Emily, she was already more popular at school. Her chestnut hair was thick and lush. Mrs. Dickinson had only recently let her begin to grow it out. “I didn’t mind doing Emily’s share.”

  Emily snorted. Vinnie had indeed minded, and had told Emily so in no uncertain terms the night before in their shared bedroom. But the Dickinson children always honored their alliance against their parents, much to the dismay of their mother.

  “Nevertheless, it was unfair of Emily,” Mrs. Dickinson continued. “Today she has to make up for it. Have you finished dusting?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Emily hastily retrieved the discarded dust cloth and rubbed at the window sash without conviction.

  “And you’ve polished the tables?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Emily said. Under her breath she whispered, “All the pestilence is swept away.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Dickinson was holding the Hampshire Gazette, the family’s preferred local paper. “I see your father’s business card is prominently displayed on the front page.”

  Emily came to look over her shoulder.

  Edward Dickinson

  Commissioner in Bankruptcy,

  Master in Chancery, Attorney

  Amherst, Ma

  “It looks very distinguished,” Emily said.

  Mrs. Dickinson’s eyes were already moving down the page. “More news about potatoes. Our potatoes were fine; I don’t see this blight they keep writing about.”

  Emily and Vinnie exchanged glances. Their mother was

  quite capable of ignoring anything that didn’t directly touch her home or family.

  “Girls, listen to this.” Mrs. Dickinson began to read from her favorite part of the newspaper, the Miscellany, where humorous and tragic stories were collected from all over the country. “It’s from Greenville, South Carolina.”

  Horrors of Hydrophobia: The Greenville (S.C.) Mountaineer states that a slave in that vicinity, owned by Mr. Hiram Cosley, was bitten by a mad dog a few days ago. . . .Two of Mr. Cosley’s sons took a gun and went out for the purpose of finding and killing him. They had proceeded some distance from the house without finding him, when the younger brother (12 or 14 years of age,) started back leaving the
gun with his brother. Before reaching the house he met the dog, which instantly sprang upon him, lacerating the back part of the neck in a shocking manner. The dog was killed, but the agony of the youth, both in mind and body, was distressing in the extreme. He begged his father to shoot him, and thereby avoid the horrid death of hydrophobia, which he supposed awaited him.

  Vinnie had displaced the cat to move closer to the edge of her seat and Emily was pacing as though the suspense were chasing her about the room. Mrs. Dickinson stopped reading.

  “Well?” Emily said. “What happened? Did he go mad?”

  “Did the boy’s father shoot him?” Vinnie asked.

  Mrs. Dickinson shrugged. “The story stops there.”

  “That’s not an ending!” Emily cried with frustration.

  Mrs. Dickinson carefully folded up the newspaper and put it aside. “The ending isn’t as important as the lesson. You’ll recall I’ve always told you to stay away from strange dogs.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll answer it,” Emily said, exasperated. A moment later she returned, holding a folded square of paper. “Our neighbor, Mr. Banbury, did us the courtesy of bringing our post. There’s a letter from Father.”

  “But we heard from him only yesterday,” Mrs. Dickinson said, taking the letter. “I hope nothing has happened in Boston. Perhaps his baggage has been lost?”

  “Mother, he’s been at the hotel for three days. If his baggage were to go astray, it would have happened by now,” Emily said.

  “I hate when he travels,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Why would anyone want to leave home?”

  “Mama, what does he say?” Vinnie asked, sounding almost as anxious as her mother.

  “I don’t dare read it,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “What if it is bad news?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Mother! I’ll do it!” Emily took the letter from her mother’s hands. Her strong fingers made quick work of the wax seal that kept the letter private as it traveled through the mail.

  Dearest Wife,

  I am writing because I forgot to mention that Jasper needs to be reshod this week. Please send Emily or Vinnie with him to the blacksmith. Take him to Mr. Magee in the center of town (not the smith on the north side of town). Remind our daughters that Jasper kicks. And when they lead him on the road, have them beware of any loud noises that might make the horse rear up and knock them down. They should stay to watch the blacksmith to ensure he replaces every shoe with new ones, but they must avoid breathing in the fumes from the smithy. I know you will not fail me. Do not worry overmuch, it is not good for your health.