One elderly woman hugged her and whispered into her ear, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Amy watched her move away, dazedly trying to make sense of the sentiment and concluding that the woman somehow knew she was Vern’s sister.
A cake had been hastily prepared—a single layer cake, badly mixed, riddled with dry lumps of flour. There was wine, and the attendees toasted the bride and groom as if there was all the time in the world; as if the world weren’t five months away from ending, as if there had never been another Mrs. Fitcher. Amy drank as much of it as she could, downing her glass at every toast, quickly reaching inebriation. The fog of drink blocked her longing and shut down her instinct for flight. She hugged Fitcher enthusiastically, hugged the members of her family. If Notaro had appeared then, she might have burst into tears, but he spared her. Perhaps he had taken to his bed. She wished she were with him. She wished she’d given in to him at least once while they lay in the leaves. Now she never could.
The rest of the day was a smear of events. People left, her family left, but Notaro didn’t drive them now because they had their own wagon. She was led by her husband up to her room. She recollected his giving her a lecture about the rules of the house. Her memory was foggy, but it must have been important. She would need to ask him to repeat them, although to do so would reveal how drunk she had been.
She found all of her belongings were in her room, which surprised her. She looked at her bed and thought of being in it with Notaro. She tried to undress, but it was too difficult to make her fingers work, easier just to fall back on the bed and sleep. At least she’d removed her shoes and stockings.
How long it was before Fitcher entered, Amy had no idea. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and there he was, drifting across the floor toward her. He seemed to float. She giggled and held out her arms.
What happened after that she either could not or did not want to remember.
The following morning at first light she awoke alone on top of her bedding with a dreadful headache and no clothes. It had rained in the night, and the morning air was thick with moisture, already steamy hot. When she rolled over and her back touched the sheets, she hissed and flopped quickly onto her stomach again. She reached around and touched her back. It stung to the touch.
She got to her feet, but too quickly. Her head throbbed and she squeezed her eyes tight until it subsided. She hadn’t felt this awful since Vern’s wedding.
There was a revolving mirror on the dresser and she moved in front of it, tilted it, then turned her back to it and looked over her shoulder.
Rows of welts ran from her shoulders all the way to the middle of her thighs. They weren’t deep slashes but they were angry and raised. She’d been whipped. She’d also had sex. Something cold trickled along the inside of her thigh, and a small bloodstain spotted the sheet.
Amy returned to the bed, perching on it cautiously. She recollected Elias Fitcher entering her room—or at least she remembered a kind of candlelit, drunkard’s dream in which he appeared. She couldn’t be sure any of it had been real. But the welts across her backside were real. Someone had whipped her during the night. The welts were less terrifying than the absence of any memory of how they’d appeared. Even drunk, she couldn’t imagine enduring such a beating unawares.
She looked about for the clothes she’d been wearing, but they were nowhere to be seen. The armoire hung slightly ajar. Someone had stripped her and then taken the time to put her clothes away. Nothing about that made sense to her. She got up—more carefully this time to let her thunderous headache subside. She opened the armoire.
There was a hook on the inside of the door. Her petticoat and dress dangled from it, and over the dress hung a braided leather cat with a wooden handle—the instrument of her punishment. It looked newly made, the leather strips dark and oiled.
She had been punished, and surely by no one other than her husband. He had punished her for her corruption. She’d gotten drunk at her wedding, she’d been intimate with another man, had lied to her family, and still here she was on the inside of Harbinger, where she would meet the end and the new beginning in the company of the blessed. That could not occur until some just punishment was meted out. She couldn’t expect to stand with the pure ones unless she herself had been purified, could she?
The justification for her whipping hung like an odor in the air, waiting for her to inhale. If the Reverend Fitcher had whipped her, didn’t she deserve it, and more? Hadn’t she humiliated him by getting drunk at the wedding? She was weak, tragically so, a puppet to her vices; and he was divine purity himself. She could not rail at him. He had simply seen into her soul, that she’d always known to be depraved. She might disguise it from her family, even from Kate, but not from Fitcher. Finally, Amy had found someone who recognized her sinfulness and responded to it.
It was, she decided, nothing less than she deserved.
She would get up now, dress and go to him, show him that she understood his message and would obey. He would guide her from her wickedness back onto the path she must walk if she was to regain Heaven in the company of the Fitcherites.
“‘…and straightaway many were gathered together, insomuch that there was no room to receive them, no not so much as about the door: and he preached the word unto them.’” Fitcher paused, glancing up at the assembly. He stared over them at Amy, his wife, who had entered in the middle of his quotation.
He continued to look at her as he said, “So it will be here. Many will be gathered, more than we have room to receive. Even now they are on the road to us. The lame, the blind, the sick. Those hopeful of salvation, those certain they won’t receive it. All of them are coming to us.”
The pulpit that yesterday had towered over her as her bondage was proclaimed now seemed small and distant. She moved to the last pew and sat. Her husband continued to sermonize about the new arrivals. He talked about the people he had met on the road, the people who had come to the tent to hear him—as many here had done once—how worried they were. “Yes, my friends, now that time is running out, more and more souls will sense the approach of the Next Life. They know they must face their God and He will not hear their excuses for the lives they’ve led, for the repentance they have left undone—any more than I shall listen to it. Harbinger had best be peopled by those who truly repent their sinful ways. As more of them come to us, each of you must look to yourselves and determine if you are so devoted to salvation as they. If your spirit is not set upon the path, now is the time to admit it. You may give voice to your feelings, but the Angel of Death knows what you’ve placed in the locket of your heart and he will act upon the secrets you keep there. Keep them from me if you so desire, but you keep them at your peril. For when the angel confronts you, he will not ask. He will not care for the excuses that ring you like a wall. He will slaughter the deceitful and corrupt among us just as surely as he will smite all those outside our fold.
“It is time to know your heart!”
The last word echoed around the hall. Amy jumped at the sound of it. It had been nothing like when her father tried to preach. While he often persuaded her, his words were flat and stumbling. Fitcher was speaking to her and about her. No one else. He described what she knew about herself. The question—the fearful dilemma that he had expressed so well—was how to purify the heart before the angel looked upon and judged you. It was fine to announce your wish to shed your sin, but quite another to succeed. His sermon was an extension of the cleansing he had begun last night, that she had discovered only this morning. She would be shriven. He must shrive her. She could not do it alone.
Nevertheless, she dreaded the act of contrition, for she must—if she confessed all—admit to her relationship with Notaro. She might admit it to an angel (for an angel would know already), but not to Fitcher. Not to her husband; and surely not on the first day of their own new life.
The others left for breakfast until only she and her husband remained in the hall. When Fitcher came up the aisle, he halted beside
her. His face expressed no emotion, as if he were waiting for her to assign it one.
Amy reached for his hand and clutched it with both of hers. She looked up into his ice-blue eyes and said, “Thank you, sir, for reminding me of my sinfulness. My behavior of yesterday—I admit that I love your wine too much. It was—it was only right that you punished me for my wickedness.”
His towering look softened. “Then you recognize this condign punishment?”
“I do.”
“You were insufficiently punished in your former existence?”
“I was, yes. Papa, he—they didn’t know.” She tried not to let her voice quiver as her lip did, but it was difficult. “I mean, they knew nothing of what runs so deep inside me. The secrets of my heart are as you describe them.”
He drew his hand away. “Then I shall make it my duty to purify you here. I can forgive much, but not sullage. My wife must be pristine and unblemished come the day we meet our Lord.”
“I want to be.”
“Good. Good.” That seemed to resolve the matter for him. He said, “Now, dear Amy, dear bride, I have gifts for you that I couldn’t present you with last night.” He paused to let that statement prod her once more on the matter. “I’ll bring them to your chamber after breakfast. You must go and eat with the others. The shifts don’t last very long. When you’re done with your meal, I’ll join you in your room.”
Holding out both his hands, he raised her to her feet and then walked with her through the doors and across the foyer.
After a meal that was bland and unsatisfying, Amy tried to help with kitchen duties, but didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She looked for someone to give her orders, but no one did. They moved around her like ants around a piece of wood, their routines already established without her. She didn’t know whether she could ask—no one spoke during the meal, and silence reigned in the kitchen as well. Confused and frustrated, she withdrew to her room.
She walked silently along the hall. The door to her chamber was open and Elias Fitcher was already inside. He’d thrown open the window and curtains, and light like a fireball blazed now through the gauzy canopy at the head of it. Fitcher stood beside her bed, holding her stockings like a bouquet beneath his nose. He must have sensed her presence, because all at once he dropped the stockings. His smile was already in place by the time he faced her.
She walked into the room.
She saw on the bed a large garland of flowers, possibly the same ones that had bedecked the altar the previous day. In the center of them sat a white box tied in pink ribbons. Fitcher stepped back and gestured toward it.
Someone had made the bed—the covers were straightened and folded, pillows arranged decorously.
Amy knelt on the bed to retrieve the box. She turned then, with one knee tucked under her, and faced him as she undid the ribbons.
“This is a little something, a trifle,” he said.
She opened the box and pushed aside the tissue within. She took out the marble egg between her thumb and forefinger.
“Careful not to drop it,” he warned.
“I would never.” The egg was milky white and shot through with blue mineral veins. She rolled it across her other palm. The smooth surface was polished and unblemished. The tiny veins sparkled.
“Now,” he murmured, “I hope that you will carry it with you wherever you go. It joins me to you, knowing you have that in your hand, or in your pocket, or somewhere about your person. Its properties are, I think, quite soothing.”
She agreed. Even as she stood there, its coolness in her hand seemed to insulate her from the humid heat of the room.
“Here,” said Fitcher, and he took the egg from her. “Unlace your gown and lie upon your stomach.”
She glanced warily from him to the armoire and back again, but she obeyed. She unbuttoned the front of her dress, then shrugged it down to her waist and pushed down her undergarment. She climbed upon the bed then and lay facedown.
At the first touch of the egg to her back, she made a little gasp. As lightly as a feather Fitcher rolled it over the welts. The first time, the sensation stung ever so slightly, like nettles brushing her skin; but afterward only the coldness of the marble remained, and she felt comforted. She looked from where she lay at the mirror on the dresser. She saw herself in shadow, and the Reverend Fitcher glowing in the light coming through the window. The imperfect mirror warped the image, made his figure twist, cut hers in two with a shard of light. An instant later the sun passed behind a cloud and they both were cloaked in shadow. She moaned, and the sound surprised her. She luxuriated in the sensation rolling down her back. The egg dipped down to her buttocks and rolled up again, like a blanket to cover her, to let her sleep.
He withdrew the egg. The room was warm again, and he stood, waiting for her. She got off the bed, her hands covering her small breasts. She couldn’t feel the welts on her back now. She glanced over her shoulder at the mirror. Her back appeared smooth, free of any marks.
Seeing her confusion, Fitcher lifted the leather cat from the cupboard door. “This,” he said, “is for punishment. This”—he held out the egg—“for palliation. It does not cure, but makes the punishment bearable, just as punishment makes our sins themselves bearable.”
He dropped the egg so that she had to catch it, thus uncovering herself. She pressed it to her breast. Blushing, she stood exposed, and for a moment thought of Michael Notaro—the look on his face when she’d first let him see her breasts—and remembering it, knew she needed more punishment yet.
“I must attend now to my duties,” he said. “You’ll have yours, too, which I’ll show you. This evening, we’ll take up the matter of purification.” He started to turn away, but hesitated. “Oh, and I will lead at least one more crusade between now and the new life. To Boston, to Providence. When I’m gone, you will be the person in charge here.” He hoisted a ring of keys out of his jacket. “These will give you access to everything in Harbinger—with a single exception.” He held out the clear glass key. “This one is not to be used. What it unlocks is not to be opened. Do you understand?”
“Not to be opened, yes. I understand.”
He smiled, “Of course you do, my dear,” he said. “All of you do.” It struck her as an odd thing for him to say. He must mean everyone in the community.
He put the keys back inside his jacket and left Amy in her room, with the cold marble egg like a stone heart between her breasts.
Twenty-three
AMY HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING that she was living her sister’s life.
Fitcher directed her to make candles, but this proved to be next to impossible in the summer heat. Tallow refused to maintain a shape. It dripped off the hung wicks like blood from sacrificial lambs. It stayed in the molds, but when she flipped them over in the cold water and took out the candles, the bottoms went soft and they began almost immediately to bend.
Vern was the one acquainted with the chandler’s art—not she. She had only watched and couldn’t have told the difference between tallow and spermaceti except for how it smelled.
Rooting around for a solution, she went into the cellar of the shop and found boxes of candles her sister had made. The cool cellar kept them intact: There were dozens of boxes containing hundreds of candles lying in straw. Vern had prepared enough light to repel an army of darkness. Amy picked one up and looked at it. It was hard, not melting. Somehow Vern—and it had to be Vern’s handiwork, didn’t it?—had fashioned ideal candles, candles that could stand up to anything short of a direct attack of sunlight, candles like vampires asleep in their boxes. Amy was both amazed and thankful. She swore never to speak ill of her sister again.
She brought out a box. By herself she lugged it up to the house and left it in the foyer, where people could see it and take candles as they passed by after their meals. The first box lasted three days. She added up what she had stored and speculated that they might last until cold weather returned, and she could make tallow ones. After that would
come October, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about making candles anymore. In the Next Life, divine light would accompany them wherever they went.
In the afternoons she returned to the house to listen to her husband’s sermon before her meal. He spoke with such passion, such fire, that she couldn’t help but be persuaded by him. Often now she found her father and Lavinia in attendance at the sermons. Sometimes she spoke with them afterward. Her father had never been one for small talk, and always seemed itching to return home, where Kate manned the turnpike alone. He would ask how Amy was, but not how the reverend treated her. Not that she would have told him about her fearful course of purgation. She wished he would have let Kate come in his place, but never seemed to get the opportunity to say so. Lavinia was always there, always ready to interrupt, as if clairvoyant of what Amy wanted.
At night she waited in her room for Fitcher to come. The nights were warm now, and Amy wore only the lightest cotton chemise to bed. She sat in front of the window, holding the egg in her hands. If there was a breeze, she let it blow her dark hair and cool her skin.
He always came in quietly. She almost never heard him arrive. Sometimes he was right upon her before she realized it, and she jumped in terror at the sight of him. Their meeting became a ritual. He would hold out his hand, and, trembling, she would lay in it the marble egg. She would go to her place beside the bed, draw off her clothing, and kneel. The first lash was always a shock. He seemed to withhold it almost as a taunt, infusing the final moments before he struck with terror. She bowed her head and prayed: “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hal-lowed”—the whip would fall—“be thy name.”
Fitcher would ask her to list her sins as he whipped her. She described a lifetime’s worth—secret things, words spoken to her sisters in anger, an episode where she’d touched herself, pretending it was a man, the ways she had manipulated situations to get Vern or Kate into trouble, instances when she’d said aloud she wanted to kill one of them—the list could be made endless. What siblings didn’t, sooner or later, wish one another ill? She withheld only Notaro’s name. That large, final secret sin she would not admit to. She loved him. She would not betray him.
Fitcher's Brides Page 28