Lyddie

by Katherine Paterson

  Lyddie wrote again that very night.

  Dear Mother,

  You have not answered my letter of some months prevyus. I need to know the total sum of the det. Writ soon.

  Yr. loving daughter,

  Lydia Worthen

  She didn’t take the time to check her spelling. She sealed the letter at once. Then, reluctantly, reopened it to slip in a dollar.

  She awoke once in the night and pondered on what she had once been and what she seemed to have become. She marveled that there had been a time when she had almost gladly given a perfect stranger everything she had, but now found it hard to send her own mother a dollar.

  15

  Rachel

  She told no one about the money. She wanted to tell Diana. Diana, she knew, would rejoice with her, but she decided to wait. She was so close now to having the money she needed, and when she did, she would surprise Diana by signing the petition. Then, not more than a week after Luke had brought the money, she had a second visitor who turned her life upside down.

  She had left the bedroom door open, trying to encourage a faint breeze through the stuffy room while she washed out her stockings and underwear in the basin. Suddenly she was aware of Tim, standing in the doorway. She looked up from her washing.

  “There’s a visitor for you in the parlor, Ma says to tell you. A gentleman.”

  Charlie! She was sure it must be he, all grown up to a gentleman, for who else would come to see her? She could hardly count Luke Stevens. She squeezed the water from her laundry and hastily wiped her hands upon her apron as she ran down the stairs.

  But it wasn’t Charlie waiting in the corner of the dining room that Mrs. Bedlow called a parlor. Nor was it Luke. She wondered why Tim had called him a “gentleman” at all. At first she was sure he was a stranger. He seemed so out of place in the room of neatly dressed, chattering factory girls, this short man, very thin, with a weathered face and the homespun clothes of a hill farmer.

  “Don’t you know your uncle, ey?” the man asked at the same moment she recognized him for Judah, Aunt Clarissa’s husband, whom she hadn’t seen since she was a small thing.

  “Made it in two days,” he boasted. “Slept right in the wagon.”

  She tried to smile, but her heart was beating like a churning blade against her breast. What could have brought him here? Anything to do with Clarissa had always spelled trouble. “What’s the matter?” She spoke as quietly as she could, feeling every eye in the crowded parlor turned their way. “Why’ve you come?”

  He sobered at once, as though remembering a solemn duty. “Your Aunt Clarissa thought you need be told—”

  “Told what?” A chill went through her.

  “Your ma’s never been stout, you know—”

  “The fever? Did she catch the fever?”

  He glanced around at the girls seated in the room, who were pretending not to listen, but whose ears stood up, alert as wild creatures in a meadow. He lowered his voice, tapping his head. “Stout up here, ey?”

  Lyddie stared at him. What had they done to her mother?

  Judah dropped his eyes, uncomfortable under her stare. “So we been obliged—”

  “What have you done to my mother?” she whispered fiercely.

  “We been obliged to remand her to Brattleboro—to the asylum down there.”

  “But that’s for crazy folk!”

  Judah put on a face of hound-dog sorrow and sighed deeply. “It were just too much care for poor Clarissa, delicate as she be.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me? I been responsible for her before. I can do it.”

  He cocked his head. “You waren’t there, ey?”

  “Where’s Rachel? What have you done with the baby?”

  “Why,” he said, relieved to have gotten off the subject of her mother, “why she’s just fine. Right out front in the wagon. I brung her to you.”

  Lyddie brushed past him out the door. The farm wagon stood outside; the patient oxen, oblivious to how comically out of place they looked on a city street, chewed their cuds contentedly. For all the stuffiness upstairs, it was damp and chilly down on the street, and Rachel sat shivering on the bench of the wagon, wrapped in a worn shawl that Lyddie recognized as her mother’s.

  She climbed up on the wagon step and lifted the child down. Rachel was too light. Boneless as a rag doll. As Lyddie went up the steps of the boardinghouse, she could feel her tiny burden trembling through the shawl. “It’s all right, Rachie. It’s me, Lyddie,” she said, hoping the child could remember her.

  She carried Rachel inside to where Judah still stood, nervously pinching the rim of his sweat-stained hat. “It’s your sister, Rachie,” Judah boomed out, his voice fake with hearty cheer. A gasp went up from the girls in the parlor. “Like Aunt Clarissie told you, ey? We brung you to Lyddie.”

  “Have you got her things?”

  In answer he went out to the wagon and brought back a sack with a small lump at the bottom.

  “What about my mother’s things?” she asked coldly, no longer caring about the audience and what they heard.

  “There waren’t hardly nothing,” he said. She let it go. He was nearly right. “Well,” he said, looking from one sister to the other, “I’ll be off, then, ey?”

  “I’m coming to fetch our mother, soon as I can. As soon as I pay off the debt. I’ll take her back home and care for her myself.”

  He turned at the door, the hat brim rolled tight and squeezed in his big hands. “Back where?”

  “Home,” she repeated. “To the farm.”

  “We be selling it,” he said, “We got to have the money—for—for Brattleboro.”

  “No!” Her voice was so sharp that the roomful of girls stopped everything they were doing to stare. Even little Rachel twisted in her arms to look at her with alarm. She went close to Judah and lowered her voice again to a fierce whisper. “No one can sell that land except my father.”

  “He give permission.”

  “How?” She was seized with a wild hope. Her father! They had heard from him. “When?”

  “Before he left. He had it wrote out and put his mark to it. In case—ey?”

  She wanted to scream at him, but how could she? She had already frightened Rachel. “You got no right,” she said between her teeth.

  “We got no choice,” the man said stubbornly. “We be responsible.” And he was gone.

  Once more Lyddie was aware of the other girls in the room, who were watching her openmouthed and gaping at the dirty little bundle in her arms. She buried her face in the shawl. “Come on, Rachie,” she said as much to them as to the child, “we got to go meet Mrs. Bedlow.” She straightened up tall and made her way through the chairs and knees to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Bedlow?” The housekeeper was sitting in the kitchen rocker, peeling potatoes for tomorrow’s hash.

  “What in heaven’s name?”

  At the housekeeper’s sharp question, Rachel’s little head came up from the depths of the shawl like a turtle from a shell.

  “It’s Rachel, Mrs. Bedlow.” Lyddie made her voice as gentle as she could. “My sister, Rachel.”

  She could read the warning in Mrs. Bedlow’s eyes. No men, no children (except for the keeper’s own) in a corporation house. But surely the woman would not have the heart …

  “I’m begging a bath for her. She’s had a long, rough journey in an ox cart, and she’s chilled right through, ey Rachie?”

  Rachel stiffened in her arms, but Mrs. Bedlow dropped her paring knife into the bowl of peeled potatoes, wiped her hands on her apron, and put a kettle on to boil.

  It was only after they had both seen Rachel safely asleep in Lyddie’s bed that Mrs. Bedlow said the words that Lyddie knew were on her mind. “It won’t do, you know. She can’t stay here.”

  “I’ll get her a job. She can doff.”

  “You know she’s not
old enough or strong enough to be a doffer.”

  “Just till I can straighten things out,” Lyddie pleaded. “Please let her stay. I’ll get it all set in just a few days, ey?”

  Mrs. Bedlow sighed and made to shake her head.

  “I’ll pay, of course. Full board. And you see how small she is. You know she won’t eat a full share.”

  Mrs. Bedlow sat down and picked up her paring knife. Lyddie held her breath. “A week. Even then—”

  “It wouldn’t be more’n a fortnight. I give you my vow. I just got to write my brother.”

  Mrs. Bedlow looked doubtful, but she didn’t say no. She just sighed and started to peel again, the long coil so thin it was almost transparent.

  “I’m obliged to you, Mrs. Bedlow. I got nowhere to turn, else.”

  “She mustn’t go outdoors. We can’t have her seen about the premises.”

  “No, no, I swear. I’ll keep her in my room. The other girls won’t even know.”

  Mrs. Bedlow looked at Lyddie wryly. “They already know, and there’s no guarantee they’ll keep their peace.”

  “I’ll beg ’em—”

  “No need to coop her up more than necessary. She can come down with me during the day. I’ll have Tim help her with her letters and numbers in the afternoon. She ought to be in school herself.”

  “She will be, Mrs. Bedlow. She will be. Soon as I can get things worked out. I swear upon my life—”

  “You need to watch your language, my girl. Set an example for the little one.”

  “I thank you, Mrs. Bedlow. You’ll not be sorry, I promise.”

  She wrote Charlie that night after curfew in the flickering light of a forbidden stub of candle.

  Dear Brother Charles,

  I hope you are well. I am sorry to trouble you with sad news, but Uncle Judah come tonight to Lowell and brung Rachel to me. They have put our mother to the asylum at Brattleboro. Now they are thinking to sell the farm. You must go and stop them. You are the man of the family. Judah won’t pay me no mind. They got to listen to you. I got more than one hundred dollars to the det. Do not let them sell, Charlie. I beg you. I don’t know what to do with Rachel. Children are not allowed in corporation house. If I can I will take her home, but I got to have a home to go to. It is up to you, Charlie. Please I beg you stop Uncle Judah.

  Yr. loving sister,

  Lydia Worthen

  She could hardly keep her mind on her work. What was the use of it all anyway if the farm was gone? But it couldn’t be! Not after all her sweating and saving. And what was she to do with Rachel? The child hadn’t spoken a word since her arrival. She hadn’t even cried. She seemed more dead than alive. And precious time must be spent finding her a place to stay and precious money put out for her keep—more if she was to go to school. Why couldn’t the child work in the spinning room? There were Irish children down there who looked no older than seven or eight. They were earning their own way. Hadn’t Lyddie herself been working hard since she was no more than a tadpole? And doffing wasn’t as hard as farm work. Why those children hardly worked fifteen minutes out of the hour, just taking off the full spools and replacing them with empty ones. Then they just sat in the corner and played or chatted. Sometimes from the window on a clear day Lyddie had seen them running about the mill yard playing tag or marbles. It was an easy life compared to the farm, and still Rachel would be out of mischief and earning her own way.

  As if she hadn’t trouble enough, Brigid was crying again. Lyddie glanced over at the loom. Everything seemed in order, but the Irish girl was standing there, staring at the shuddering machine with tears running down her cheeks. Lyddie quickly checked her own looms before walking over and saying in the girl’s ear, “What’s the matter with you, ey?”

  Brigid looked around startled. She bit her lip and shook her head.

  Lyddie shrugged. It was just as well if the girl learned to bear her own troubles.

  Mr. Marsden stopped Lyddie at the stairs on the way to breakfast. Her heart knotted. How could he have heard about Rachel already? Had one of the other girls tattled so soon? They were jealous of her, Lyddie knew. She was the best operator on the floor. But it was not about Rachel that Mr. Marsden wished to speak, it was about the wretched Irish girl. “You must tell her,” he said, “that she must get her speed up. I can’t keep her on, even as a spare hand, unless she can maintain a proper pace.”

  Why didn’t he tell her himself? He was the overseer. Brigid did not belong to her. She hadn’t asked for a spare hand—hadn’t wanted one—and now he was trying to shove the responsibility off on her.

  She spoke to Brigid after the break. “He says you’ll have to speed up or he can’t keep you on.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in fear, reminding Lyddie, oh cuss it, of Rachel’s silent face as the child sat crouched within herself in the corner of Mrs. Bedlow’s kitchen. “Oh, tarnation,” she hollered in Brigid’s ear, “I’ll help you. We’ll do the five looms together for a few days—just till you get on better, ey?”

  The girl smiled faintly, still frightened.

  “And keep your mind on your blooming work, you hear? We can’t have you catching your hair or being hit in the head by a flying shuttle because you’re being stup—because your mind is someplace else.”

  Fresh tears started in the girl’s eyes, but she bit her lip again and nodded. Lyddie could see Diana smiling approval. Good thing she couldn’t hear me, Lyddie thought wryly. She wouldn’t be thinking I was so kindly then.

  By the seven o’clock bell, Brigid was looking a little less distraught, and Mr. Marsden came past to pat both girls proudly. Lyddie sighed and hardly bothered to dodge him. She had gotten off the fewest pieces in one day since she’d had four looms, and she still had to go home to the burden of silent little Rachel.

  “Well, it won’t do,” said Mrs. Bedlow. “She won’t talk to either Tim or me. Not a word. Just sits trembling in the corner like a frozen mouse.”

  “Did she manage to eat anything?”

  “Did she manage to eat? She eats like she hasn’t had food in a month of Sundays. I fed her with Tim. She out ate him! And he a growing boy. But never a word through it all—just shovels it in like there’ll never be another plateful this side of the grave.”

  Lyddie looked at the housekeeper’s face, pinched with anger, and then down at the top of Rachel’s head. The child was trembling—like Oliver, she thought. Like Oliver.

  For more? That boy will be hung. I know that boy will be hung.

  Oh Rachie, Rachie. I don’t want to think of you hungry. “I’ll pay you more,” she promised Mrs. Bedlow.

  “It isn’t the money …” But it was quite clear to Lyddie that it was indeed the money in addition to the risk, so Lyddie vowed to fetch payment from the bank the very next day. She had to buy time—at least until she heard from Charlie.

  When she had finished her own supper, she fetched Rachel from the kitchen, took her out to the privy, and then led her by hand up the staircase to the bedroom. All of this was accomplished with neither of them saying a word aloud, although inside Lyddie’s head lengthy conversations were bouncing about. As she tucked the quilt about the child, she tried some of her practiced lines aloud. “What did you do today, Rachie?” “Did Tim make you do some schoolwork?” “Ain’t Mrs. Bedlow funny?” “She’s all right, ey, just scared to break a rule … We got to do what the corporation says, you know, ’cause if we don’t we’re out of a job, and then what would we do, ey?” There was no answer. She hadn’t expected any, still … “You musn’t be worried, Rachie, Judah can’t sell the farm. Charlie and me, we won’t let him. We’re keeping it for Papa”—was there a flicker of life in the eyes?—“and Mama—and Charlie and Rachie and Lyddie too.” Did she just imagine the child had relaxed a little against the pillow, or was it a trick of the candlelight?

  Maybe if she read aloud, as Betsy had to her. She opened Oliver Twist and com
menced. When Rachel fell asleep she didn’t know. Lyddie was lost in the comfort of the familiar words. When the bell rang, she blew out the candle and lay in the darkness, feeling the presence of the small body nearby. What could she do? Where could she turn for help? She couldn’t keep Rachel here, and yet she, Lyddie, must live in a corporation house to keep her job. And without her job, what good could she do for any of them? But how could she put this little lost child out with strangers? She cursed her aunt and uncle—what could they have been thinking of to bring the child here? And yet, wasn’t she better off here with Lyddie, who loved her, than with those two, who must not have given her enough to eat? Poor little Rachel. Poor old Lyddie. She heaved herself over in bed. She had to sleep. There was nothing she could do until she heard from Charlie. Surely Charlie could stop Judah from selling the farm, and then, debt or no debt, she’d take Rachel home. Let them try to get her off that land again. Just let them try.

  In her uneasy sleep she saw the bear again, but, suddenly, in the midst of his clumsy thrashing about, he threw off the pot and was transformed, leaping like a spring buck up into the loft where they were huddled. And she could not stare him down.

  16

  Fever

  Taking the money from the bank was like having a rooted tooth yanked from her jaw. Then, the most painful part past, she pressed two whole dollars into Mrs. Bedlow’s hand before going out on the town to buy Rachel shoes and shawl and to order a dress made for her. Having spent that much, Lyddie squandered fifty pence more to get the child a beginning reader and a small paper volume of verses that the bookseller recommended. All told, Lyddie had spent more than two weeks’ wages. There was less than a dollar in her pocket now left from the princely sum she had withdrawn. She tried not to think on it. It was for Rachel, wasn’t it? How could she begrudge the child?

  The very next day Brigid was slower than ever, and it was all that Lyddie could do to keep from screaming. Time after time she took the shuttle from the girl’s clumsy hands, sucked the thread through from the bobbin, and threw it into the race, raging that a machine should stand idle for even a few seconds. Brigid was on the brink of tears all day.