Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Tom’s only response was a raspy breath. He was asleep.

  The thought of Master Good’s likely reaction was terrible— but, oddly, Will felt calm. When sleep came, it was as if he fell slowly and gently into the massive cloud that waited for him, endlessly patient, behind Mr. Miller’s eyes.

  Nineteen

  IN THE NARROW CONFINES OF THE COACH, THERE WAS nowhere to hide.

  “You remember what I told you, boys,” Master Good said.

  Will’s palms were slick with cold perspiration. He laid his hands on his rough trouser legs to dry them without his master noticing.

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said.

  “And you?” The master pinned Will with his unblinking stare.

  “Yes, sir,” Will said. Better to lie now than in the courtroom. He didn’t like the sheepish expression Tom had been wearing. It promised no help from his testimony. At the thought of challenging the master alone, Will felt the walls of the coach press in on him.

  The rattling of the coach slowed, then ceased as the driver pulled up. Master Good shoved open the door and climbed down, Tom following with obvious reluctance and Will bringing up the rear.

  The courthouse was red brick and square, much like any other building from the city’s earliest days. Will followed Tom through the white double doors. At the far end of the room, a massive mahogany desk stood on a raised dais. Against the white walls, the dark desk stood out like a tower, topped by the figure of the judge in his curled wig. He leaned over the gleaming wood to murmur to the bailiff, who stood beside him.

  A number of other persons sat in chairs down below on the floor. Some of them engaged in conversation, others sat alone, waiting for their own cases.

  Master Good led Tom and Will to three empty chairs against the far wall. He made the apprentices sit closest to the wall, and he sat next to them as if to keep them from bolting from the room.

  Just as they were seated, the door opened again to reveal Dr. Loftin. He was dressed immaculately, not a wrinkle in his coat, not a hair out of place. But when he looked at Will, his brow was tense with worry and his green eyes shadowed.

  I won’t lie. But Master Good’s physical presence just inches from his left arm made him ill. Between his rebellious stomach and his dry mouth, it would be very hard to speak at all.

  His nausea grew worse with the passing minutes, as the judge rapped his gavel and delivered verdicts on two other cases.

  “Dr. Robert Loftin and Master Jacob Good,” the bailiff called.

  The two men stood and walked to the clear area in front of the desk.

  “Which of you brings the complaint?” The judge lifted his head wearily to examine them.

  “I do, Your Honor,” said the doctor, his hat in hand.

  “And what is the nature of the complaint?”

  “This man, Jacob Good, shot and killed a valuable brood sow belonging to me.”

  “Did you witness this act?”

  “No, Your Honor. But these young men back here can witness to it. And I found the weapon a few yards from where I found Lu—the sow. It belongs to Jacob Good. With your permission, Your Honor, I will tender it to the bailiff.” When the judge nodded, the doctor walked back to his chair, where he had left his medical bag. From its depths, he produced a black pistol. He offered it handle-first to the bailiff, who brought it back and laid it on the surface of the desk at the judge’s left hand.

  “Is this your pistol?” the judge asked Master Good.

  “Yes, Your Honor. But I must tell you—”

  The judge cut him off with a sharp rap of the gavel.

  “You, young man.” The judge pointed to Tom. “Approach. What is your name?”

  Tom got to his feet, noticeably unsteady, and walked to the front, standing apart from the master. “Tom Reece, Your Honor.” He looked very slight and young, tilting his head up to address the judge, his hair as unkempt as ever.

  “And did you witness the killing of the sow?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Don’t beat around the bush! Explain yourself.”

  “Well—uh—the pig went into the woods, and then—I heard a shot.”

  The judge frowned. “And did you see anyone in the woods?”

  “Tell him what you told me, boy,” Master Good said. “Did you not see the apprentice Will Hanby go into the woods?”

  Will’s nerves went taut. He felt the blood draining from his veins, leaving him like a figure cast in plaster.

  Tom was silent. Will couldn’t see his face.

  “Well? Speak, boy!” The judge’s face flushed red against the whiteness of his wig.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Will went into the woods after the pig.”

  Will found it hard to hear what else they were saying through the thick, dreamlike state that had overcome him—as if his ears had been stuffed with wool. It simply was not possible. Will had expected Tom to be silent, but not to betray him—and commit perjury. But Tom was indeed telling the judge that he believed Will had taken Master Good’s pistol and killed the sow.

  “And you? I presume you are this Will Hanby. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Will realized that the judge was addressing him, but his tongue was as leaden as his ears were stopped. He glanced to his left and noticed Dr. Loftin regarding him with eyes squinted in disbelief, mouth slightly open. Was that skepticism at Tom’s story, or sudden doubt in Will?

  If I defend myself, they will not believe me. And even if they did—if Dr. Loftin supported me—Tom would go to jail for perjury.

  “Answer me, young man! Do you deny it?”

  He still could not speak. Through his shock came sharp, painful pity for Tom, who was perfectly wretched standing there by himself. You may turn me over to them, but I will not do the same to you, my brother.

  The doctor murmured to Will from where he stood. “Speak, if you are innocent!” He was clearly perturbed, his look urgent.

  “You see, Will does not deny it, Your Honor.” Beneath the mock chagrin of Master Good’s tone, Will heard a note of triumph.

  “You realize, Jacob Good, that you are responsible for the deeds of your apprentice.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And you will pay due recompense to Dr. Loftin for the loss of his sow. What would that sum be, Doctor?”

  “At least fifty dollars, Your Honor.” Dr. Loftin looked back and forth from Will to his master, obviously baffled.

  “Then you will pay that sum, Master Good?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. And I believe the law allows me to add the value of that debt to the term of my apprentice’s service. It will take an additional two years for his labor to earn out that sum.”

  “Two years? Would it not be closer to one?”

  “Not when I subtract the cost of lodging and board, Your Honor. Plus the still-amateurish quality of his work.”

  “Very well. But there must be papers drawn up.”

  “I have them ready here, Your Honor.”

  He planned it all in advance. The papers at the ready, leaving the gun in the woods, threatening who knows what to Tom. But Will could not believe that the master had killed Lucy just to trap him into more years of misery. No, that had been a freakish fit of temper and envy. It was afterward that the master must have seen how to use it to his own advantage.

  Master Good strode up to the desk and handed a piece of parchment to the bailiff. The judge took it, scrutinized it, and laid it down in front of him. With a dip of his quill and a few scratches, it was done.

  But apparently Master Good was not finished.

  “Now, Your Honor, I think it only neighborly that my apprentice admit to what he has done and tender his apology to the good doctor.”

  Will’s spine stiffened. I will not. It was intolerable as it was. He would not add perjury to the list of his sins.

  Master Good paced over until he was so close that Will could feel his hot breath on the side of his face and smell the tooth-rot. “Come now, boy! Do what
’s honorable. Apologize for the heartache and time you have cost the doctor.” Though the master’s tone was still oily, Will could see the hatred flaring cold in his eyes. There would be hell to pay if Will did not comply.

  I will not. Will stared at him defiantly. After a long moment, Master Good spun away.

  “You see what I have to contend with, Your Honor!”

  “A rebellious apprentice is a sore trial.” The judge looked bored, drawling his words. “You must teach him better character than that.”

  “You can be sure I will do my best, Your Honor.”

  “Pay the fine to the bailiff, who will count it and give it to the doctor. And clear the floor, if you please. There are others waiting.”

  Will saw a flush creeping up the back of the master’s neck and ears as he placed the bills in the bailiff’s hand. He knew who would pay for that rage.

  As they left the courtroom, Tom still avoided Will’s glance, though his head was down and he was even redder than the master.

  No matter what, I would not change places with Tom at this moment.

  On the journey back, they were all silent. Master Good buried his nose in a newspaper and Tom leaned his head against the side of the coach as if he were sleeping, but with the way his head bounced around, Will knew that he was shamming.

  Too soon for Will, they arrived at the Good house.

  “Tom, go attend to whatever Mistress Good may need.”

  Tom slunk off in the direction of the house.

  “You follow me,” the master said to Will.

  Will obeyed and headed toward the barn behind him, but his muscles knotted and his thoughts raced. He will beat me. Should I defend myself? What have I to lose? His breath came fast, though he tried with all his might to appear calm and unsuspecting. As soon as he strikes me, I will fight back.

  “Sit down,” the master said, indicating the stitching bench. Will reluctantly complied. The master turned his back and walked to the table where he stored his tools. To Will’s surprise, he picked up the dusty Bible that had sat there unopened ever since Will could remember. The master flipped through it, then held open a page and handed it to Will.

  What’s this? The master had never quoted scripture at Will before, never even mentioned the name of God. Will looked down at the page.

  “Read chapter six, beginning at verse five.” It was unfamiliar to find a chapter and verse. Will hadn’t done so since he left the Quaker’s farm. But eventually his finger found the place. He read aloud, with rising distaste that he struggled to disguise. “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling—”

  Stunning force struck him on the back of the head and he fell forward off the bench. His forehead struck the packed ground, and a roaring filled his ears. A thud against his gut—the pain robbed him of breath. Again. Again. Something snapped under the barrage of blows. Now the pain was constant and he faded in and out of awareness. There was a pause and something yanked at his arms—the master, removing his shirt. Stinging, slicing pain on his back—a whip. It went on endlessly. He was dimly aware of a warm wetness spreading under his groin. He had lost control of his bladder—he heard the master chuckle and the kicking began again. He tried to draw another breath, but the crushing agony in his side and gut would not let him. He was suffocating. His eyes were open, he thought, but he could not see—God save me.

  Nothingness rose up and swallowed him.

  Twenty

  ONCE MORE SHE STOOD BY THE WHEEL OF THE CARRIAGE, watching as Allan and Mr. Holmes raised their pistols. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come. Mr. Holmes collapsed facedown on the white hillside. Then the snow began to move under her, though her feet remained still. Paralyzed, she glided toward Mr. Holmes.

  The man who had served as his second knelt beside him, head lowered. As Ann drew near him, he looked up. His face was ghastly green and his eyes shrunken into their sockets like a corpse. He shot to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Ann. “Murderesssss!”

  “No,” she tried to say, but her mouth only worked silently. The corpse-man grinned.

  “I will show you what you have done,” he said. He extended a withered hand to Mr. Holmes and rolled him over on his back. The face contorted in death was not Mr. Holmes’, but Will the apprentice’s.

  She awoke gasping, a child’s whimper escaping from the vanishing edges of her sleep. It took awhile to slow her breathing. Her back and neck were coated in perspiration; she felt it turning cold as she lay gazing at the wood shingles above her. Lord, forgive me. I should not have left without trying something else to help Will. Please have mercy on him and protect him from his master. I humbly ask in your Son’s holy name. Amen.

  Prayer was the only thing that brought her even the slightest peace after the nightmares.

  She rose from bed, grabbed a woven blanket from its place on her hope chest, and toweled herself off. It wouldn’t do to take a chill, not when the dampness of the spring thaw could turn any cold into a full-blown ague.

  She slipped into her house shoes and wrapped herself in her coat to walk to the front room. Striking a match, she lit the hurricane lamp on the side table and closed its glass door to keep it alight. When she lifted it and cast its glow on the mantle, the filigreed hands of the clock revealed that it was already five o’ clock in the morning. She might as well rise now as try to go back to sleep for another half hour. Such early wakings had been frequent since her return from Pittsburgh.

  She went back to her room and dressed, first in an old flannel shirt of her father’s that was faded, but still thick and warm. She pulled on the men’s trousers she preferred for her dirtiest work on the farm, belting them at the waist with the string she kept just for that purpose. Two weeks of mucking stalls and milking had turned the refinements of city life into a distant memory. The peace and solitude of the farm was balm for the bruises the city had left on her conscience.

  On her way past the girls’ bedroom, she saw they were still fast asleep. By this time, her father was usually awake and dressed, going about his own share of the farm’s chores. But of course, he had ridden out on his ministerial rounds soon after their return and had only been back for a day at a time between trips. She was always uneasy in his absence, but her former nightmares about her mother had been replaced by her recurring dream of the duel and the apprentice.

  The best cure was hard work, and there was no shortage of it. Dawn had come by the time she finished with the horses and cows. She trudged back to the house to make breakfast for herself and the girls. Sure enough, when she came in the door, they were up, fully dressed and huddled by the hearth with their hands stretched out toward the fire.

  “What are we doing today?” Mabel asked.

  “Chores, silly,” Susan responded before Ann could. “What do we always do?”

  “Be kind, Susan. We’ll eat first,” Ann said. “It’s too cold to go out without something warm in your bellies.” Not to mention that she didn’t mind cooking over the warmth of the hearth after her time outside.

  “Then what?” Mabel asked.

  “You two can churn some butter. I just milked.” Ann poured some of the milk into the floury mixture she was stirring in a large wooden bowl. It took on a creamy texture.

  She had just ladled some of the batter on an iron griddle propped over the flames when a knock came at the door. Startled, she fumbled with the big kitchen spoon and dropped it on the floor.

  “Susan, rinse this off with the pitcher water. It’s on the stand,” she said in a low voice. Ann went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Eli,” came the reply, muffled by the wooden barrier between them.

  What on earth?

  She flicked a glance at her sisters. Like a couple of bird hounds, they pointed their little noses at her, their eyes bright with curiosity.

  She had done her best to avoid Eli by staying out of town as much as possible. Part of her yearned to speak with him, but her
time in Pittsburgh had disturbed her so much that she preferred solitude.

  She unbarred the door. She smoothed her face into an expression of serene welcome, then took hold of the handle and pulled.

  He was paler than she remembered, whether from nerves or from gloomy weather, she couldn’t tell. But pallor suited him. With his high cheekbones and fair hair, he looked like a wandering angel forlornly seeking the way back to paradise.

  “Hello.” He gave her a tentative smile.

  “Good morning.” She wished the girls hadn’t crowded up behind her elbows. Even more fervently, she wished she were not wearing trousers.

  He didn’t notice or, if he did, pretended to be oblivious. “You’ve been so elusive that I thought I had better ride out here to see if your return from Pittsburgh was merely a rumor.”

  “My father isn’t home.” She wanted him to stay—now that his presence tugged at her from only a few feet away—but that wouldn’t be proper.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes stayed on her for longer than they should.

  She noticed the fullness of his lower lip. Hot blood suffused her face.

  It was awful to know she must be noticeably reddening. No matter how calm she kept her expression, she could not control her color. But Eli seemed, if anything, encouraged.

  “I’ll be on my way then,” he said. “But I wanted to ask you—would you like to ride with me to the Murdochs’ tomorrow? They’ve invited all the young people to a bonfire to pop corn and sing. In the afternoon, around three.” Now he had that telltale casual tone that bespoke real nervousness.

  Ann became aware that her little sisters were greedily drinking in every word of the conversation. And she smelled something burning. “Susan, go take the pan off the fire. Use the rag, don’t burn your hand. And, Mabel, go find your dolly. She must be hungry too.”

  “She already ate breakfast. She’s sleeping now.” Mabel didn’t move, her little head cocked at a mischievous angle, her hair mussed.

  “Go wake her up.” Ann gave her an ill-disguised glare.

  Even when the girls walked away, she hesitated.