Lyddie

by Katherine Paterson

  “And such a skinflint a penny would freeze to your fist before you’d spend it,” the phrenologist snapped. “I give you that reading for free. Not that there’s hope you’d pay.”

  The other girls in the parlor tittered. Even Lyddie tried to smile, but Rachel was indignant. “She’s not mean. She’s going to buy me ribbons,” she declared. “Come on, Lyddie,” she added, taking her hand. “Let’s go read the book you bought me.”

  The girls laughed again, but more gently. They had never cared much for Lyddie, whom they knew to be close with her money and her friendships, but Rachel was rapidly becoming their pet.

  How dry her life had been before Rachel came. It was like springs of water in the desert to have her here. She kissed her head that night before she tucked her in. “You don’t think your Lyddie is a cheap old spinster, ey?”

  Rachel was furious all over again. “You’re the best sister in the world!”

  Lyddie blew out the candle. She lay listening to Rachel’s even breathing and heard in her memory the sounds of birds in the spring woods. If only she could hear from Charlie, Lyddie’s happiness would be complete. The money was growing again. She had nearly caught up with the wages lost by her illness, and even though Rachel made only a pittance, it paid her room and board. She had seldom been happier.

  She woke in the night, puzzled. She thought she had heard Betsy again—that wretched hacking sound that sawed through her rib cage straight into her heart. And then she was wide awake and knew it to be Rachel.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was only a cold. Surely it was nothing. She would be over it in a week. See, the child seemed bright-eyed and lively as ever. If she were sick, really sick … Lyddie kept the knowledge of the night cough tight inside herself, but the fear grew like a tumor. She began to lie awake listening for the awful sound, until finally, she knew she must send the child away—anywhere, just so she was not breathing this poison air.

  It will break my heart to send the child away. Lyddie could not bear the thought. It might break Rachel’s heart as well. She has been sent away too often in her short life. Look, she dotes on me. Me, tough and mean as I be. She clings to me more than she ever did our mother. She needs me.

  Lyddie did not know what to do, and she was too terrified to ask. No one must know. She fed Rachel the pills Brigid had brought her. She had no faith in them, but she must try. She fixed plasters for the child’s chest, trying to turn it into a game, desperate to hide her own terror. And she was succeeding, wasn’t she? Rachel seemed happy as ever and carefree as a kitten. Caught in a spasm of coughing, she made light of it. “Silly cough,” she said. “All the girls have them.”

  Lyddie mustn’t worry. Summer was here. The weather was warm. Rachel would be over it soon. They’d take July off. Go back to the farm, the two of them. But it was a vain dream, Lyddie knew. There would be nothing to eat there. The cow was gone and no crops planted.

  Triphena. She would send Rachel to Triphena. But Triphena meant Mistress Cutler as well as that lonely, airless attic. How could she do to Rachel at eight what her mother had done to her at thirteen? It had been hard even then. And so very lonely. She hadn’t realized how lonely until now—now that she was no longer alone.

  Then one evening in late June—she had just read Rachel to sleep—Tim knocked on the door. “A visitor for you, Lyddie,” he said. “In the parlor.”

  18

  Charlie at Last

  She hardly knew him. He was not so much taller, but bigger somehow, foreign. He wore homespun, but it was well tailored to his body. His brown hair was combed neatly against his head, and a carpetbag hung from his right hand.

  “Sister,” he said quietly, and the voice was one she had never heard before and would not have known for his.

  “Sister,” he repeated, his voice cracking on the words, “it’s me, Charles.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Charles. So—you come.”

  He smiled then. She looked in vain for the funny, serious little boy she knew. He wasn’t thirteen yet. How could he have discarded that little child so quickly?

  He glanced around the crowded room. All the staring faces quickly dived back into their sewing or knitting or conversation. “I took the railroad car,” he said in quiet pride. “The stage into New Hampshire, to Concord, and then all the rest of the way by train.” Then he grinned like a child, but not the child she remembered. Not quite.

  She didn’t know what to say. She cared nothing for railroads, those dangerous, dirty things. It was the farm she ached to know about. “Well,” she said at last, “you must be tired, ey?”

  She cast about the parlor for two free chairs. At her glance, three girls rose and abandoned theirs in the far corner of the room beyond the dining tables. She thanked them and led him over. It was she who felt the need to sit.

  “Well,” she said, arranging her apron on her lap. “Well, then?” It was as much of a question as she could manage.

  “I got good news, Lyddie,” he said, a little of the boy she knew creeping into his voice. Her heart rose.

  “The Phinneys have taken me on as full apprentice.”

  “Ey?”

  “More than that, truly. They treat me like their own. They don’t have no child but me.”

  “You got a family,” she said faintly.

  “You’ll always be my sister, Lyddie. I don’t forget that. It’s just …” He put the carpetbag on the floor and laid his cap carefully on top. His hands were big now, too large for his body. Finally he looked up at her. “It’s just—I don’t have to worry every morning when I get up and every night when I lie abed. I just do my work, and every day, three times, the food is there. When the work is slack, I go to school. It’s a good life they give me, Lyddie—”

  She wanted to scream out at him, remind him how hard she had worked for him, how hard she had tried, but she only said softly, “I wanted to do for you, Charlie. I tried—”

  “Oh Lyddie, I know,” he said, leaning toward her. “I know. But it waren’t fair to you. You only a girl, trying to be father and mother and sister to us all. It were too much. This’ll be best for you, too, ey. Don’t you see?”

  No! she wanted to howl. No! What will be the use of me, then? But she kept her lips pressed together against such a cry. At last she said, “There’s Rachel …”

  He smiled again, his grown-up smile that turned him into a stranger. “I have good news there, too. Mrs. Phinney asked me to bring Rachel back. She craves a daughter as well. And she’ll be so good to her, you’ll see. She even sent a dress. She made it herself for Rachel to wear on the train. With a bonnet even.” His eyes went to the carpetbag beside the chair. “She’s never had a proper Ma, Rachel.”

  She has me. Oh Charlie, I ain’t perfect, but I do my best. Can’t you see? I done my best for you. She’s all I got left now. How can I let her go? But even as she stormed within herself, she knew she had no choice. Like the rusty blade through her heart she felt it. If she stays here with me, she will die. If I cling to her, I will be her death.

  She heard her own voice, calm as morning after a storm, no, quiet as death, say, “When will you be leaving?”

  “The train leaves Lowell at five minutes after seven of the morning. I’ll come to fetch her at half past six.”

  “I’ll have her ready before I go to work.” She stood. There was nothing more to be said.

  He stood, too, cap in hand, wanting, she knew, to say more, but not knowing quite how. She waited.

  “About the farm …” he began.

  The farm. A few minutes before she had thought it was all she cared about. Now it had ceased to matter.

  “Uncle Judah’s bound and determined to sell.”

  Lyddie nodded. “Well,” she said, “so be it.”

  He grinned wryly. “For a man who says the Lord is set to end the whole Creation at any minute, he’s got a powerful concern for the
vain things of this world.” She realized he was trying to be funny, so she attempted a smile.

  “But I near forgot …” He reached into an inside pocket and took out a sealed letter.

  Lyddie stared at it. “He ain’t sending me money?”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle.”

  “Oh, no, not him. He says anything from the sale is rightly his for taking care of Ma and the babies all this time. No. This here is a letter.” He handed it to her, studying her face the while. “From Luke.”

  “Luke who?”

  “Lyddie! Our friend, Luke. Our neighbor Luke Stevens.” He seemed shocked. He couldn’t know she was two lifetimes away from the day Luke had driven them to the village and at least one lifetime from the day the Quaker boy had stood on the doorstep of Number Five in his peculiar disguise.

  She tucked the letter in her apron pocket. “Thank you,” she said, “and good-bye, I reckon. I’ll not be here in the morning when you come.”

  “It’ll be all right, Lyddie. It’ll be best for us all, ey?” His voice was anxious. “It’ll work out best for you, as well.”

  “You forgot your bag,” she said.

  “No, that’s for Rachel.” He picked it up and handed it to her. He put out his hand as if to shake hers, but hers were tightly wrapped around the handle of the bag. She nodded instead. The next she saw him he would be taller than she, Lyddie thought. If there was a next time. She led him to the door. “Good-bye,” she mouthed the words. She couldn’t have spoken them aloud if she’d dared.

  She climbed the stairs like an old, decrepit woman, clinging to the banister and pulling herself up step by step. Rachel was fast asleep. She would not wake her. In the candlelight she studied the lovely little face. Too thin, too pale, the skin nearly transparent. Lyddie brushed back a curl that had escaped its plait and smoothed it against Rachel’s cheek. Any minute she would start to cough, her little body wracked, the bed shaking. Mrs. Phinney would keep her safe. She could go to school. She would have a good life, a real mother. And she will forget me, plain, rough, miserly Lyddie who only bought her ribbons because she was shamed to it. Will she ever know how much I loved her? How I would have gladly laid down my life and died for her? How, O Lord, I am dying this very minute for her?

  She took out the dress. It was a lovely sprigged muslin. It looked too big for Rachel’s tiny frame, but the child would grow into it. She would lengthen and fatten and turn once again into a stranger. Lyddie’s tears were soaking the dress. She wiped her face on her own apron skirt, then laid out the new garments—the frilly little bonnet with ribbons and lace, a petticoat fit for a wedding. A length of pink ribbon was woven in and out all around the top of the hem, wasted, pure waste where no one would ever see it. Except Rachie.

  She packed the bag. It took less than a minute. Rachel had so little. She remembered the primer, and then decided to keep it. Rachel would have a new one, a better one now. She took the book of verses off the nightstand and shut it in the bag, then took it out again. She got her box of writing materials, dipped her pen in the ink, and wrote in painful, careful script on the fly leaf: “For Rachel Worthen from her sister Lydia Worthen, June 24, 1846,” wiping her face carefully on her apron as she wrote so as not to blot the page.

  She lay awake most of the night listening to Rachel cough, the sound rasping and sawing through her own body. But the pain of it was her salvation. She knew, if she had ever doubted before, she was absolutely certain, that Rachel must leave Lowell.

  When the first bell rang, instead of waking Rachel as usual, she waited until she herself was dressed and ready to go. Then she shook her gently.

  Rachel awoke at once, alarmed. “I’m late! Why did you let me sleep?”

  “You got a treat today, Rachie. Charlie’s come to fetch you.”

  “Charlie? My brother Charlie?” She was as excited as if she could really remember him. Lyddie brushed away a cobweb of envy. “He’s come to take you for a visit.”

  “He wants me to visit him?” She was plainly thrilled, but then she caught something in Lyddie’s face. “You coming too, ain’t you Lyddie?”

  “No, not me. I got to work, ey?” The child’s face darkened. “I’ll come later.” She stretched out her hand. “Here, up you go, you got to get ready.”

  Rachel took Lyddie’s hand and pulled herself upright, then threw back the covers. The child always slept under a quilt, even in the terrible summer heat. “How long will I be gone, Lyddie?”

  “I don’t rightly know. We both, me and Charlie, we both think you should stay awhile. Make sure you get rid of that silly cough, ey? The factory is too hot in summer, anyways. Lots of the girls take off, come July.”

  “Will you take off, Lyddie?” She was standing in her little night shift, scratching one leg with the bare toes of the other.

  “I just might. Who knows, ey?” Lyddie wrung out the cloth over the basin and handed it to Rachel to wash.

  “Come with me now, Lyddie.”

  “Over on the other bed is a new dress for you to put on. You got to dress fancy for riding on a train.”

  “A railroad train?”

  “Luckiest girl I know. New dress and bonnet, train ride, holiday with a handsome man …” She took the cloth from Rachel’s hand, tipped up the child’s chin, and began to wash her upturned face. “Now you learn your letters better so you can write me all about that train ride.” The bell began to ring. She turned swiftly, wringing the cloth out over the basin, her face to the wall, lest she betray herself. “He’ll be here to fetch you in a hour or so,” she said brightly. “So get yourself dressed and go down and ask Mrs. Bedlow to give you a extra big breakfast.” She turned only long enough to give Rachel a light kiss on the cheek and then hurried out the door.

  “Come soon, Lyddie.” Rachel’s voice followed her down the stairs. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Be a good girl for Charlie,” she called back, and rushed on down the stairs with a great clatter to erase any more sounds, any more doubts.

  * * *

  * * *

  Rachel had been gone nearly a week when she found the letter with her name written on it in small, neat handwriting. She had stuffed it into her trunk some days before and couldn’t remember at first where it had come from. She unsealed it curiously.

  Dear Lyddie Worthen,

  Doubtless thy Charlie has told thee about thy farm. Although our father pled on thy behalf, thy uncle could not be moved. Thus our father put down the purchase price himself, as he has four sons and not enough land for us all.

  I have spoken with thy Charlie. He has urged me to put aside my fears and speak my heart plain. Which is that I long to earn from our father the deed to thy farm. Yet thy land would be barren without thee.

  May I dare ask thee to return? Not as sister, but as wife?

  Forgive these bold words, but I know not how to fashion pretty phrases fit for such as thee.

  In all respect, thy friend,

  Luke Stevens

  What had Charlie said to the man to make him dare write such a letter? Do they think they can buy me? Do they think I will sell myself for that land? That land I have no one to take to anymore? I have nothing left but me, Lyddie Worthen—do they think I will sell her? I will not be a slave. Nor will I be his freight—some homeless fugitive that Luke Stevens must bend down his lofty Quaker soul to rescue.

  She tore the letter into tiny bits and stuffed every shred of it into Mrs. Bedlow’s iron cook stove, and then, to her own amazement, burst into tears.

  19

  Diana

  She had been alone before Rachel came, but she had not known what loneliness was—this sharp pain in her breastbone dragging down into a dull, persistent heaviness. My heart is heavy, she thought. It’s not just a saying. It is what is—heavy, a great stone lodged in my breast, pressing down my whole being. How can I even stand straight and look out upon the world? I
am doubled over into myself and, for all the weight, find only emptiness.

  Workdays dragged by with nothing to look forward to at the evening bell. Rumor had it that the corporation had slowed the clocks to squeeze even more minutes out of the long summer shift. From time to time, she wondered why she was working so hard, now that the farm was sold and Rachel and Charlie lost to her. She brushed the question aside. She worked hard because work was all she knew, all she had. Everything else that had made her know herself as Lyddie Worthen was gone. Nothing but hard work—so hard that her mind became as calloused as her hands—work alone remained. She fell into bed exhausted and only felt the full burden of her grief in dreams, which, determined as she was, she could not control.

  The weavers at the Massachusetts Corporation had all refused the agent’s demand that they each tend four looms and take a piece rate reduction as well. They signed a pledge in defiance and none of them backed down. The word went like a whispered wave through the Concord weaving room: “Not a girl has backed down. Not a one.”

  Diana should have been elated. Wasn’t it a victory for the Association? But when Lyddie was finally able to rouse herself from her own pain, she saw that Diana’s face was drawn, the expression grim and set. Since Rachel had gone, whenever Brigid or Diana had tried to reach out to her, she had shaken them off. No one could understand her loss, she was sure. She did not have the strength to bear their vain attempts to comfort.

  Then, suddenly, it was mid-July, and Lyddie realized that Diana was still at work, looking more sickly by the day. It was more than the heat of the weaving room. She’s worried, Lyddie thought, she’s sore troubled, and I, so bent on my own trial, never took it to mind.

  Lyddie tried to speak to Diana on the stairs, but she seemed hardly to hear the greeting. Are they threatening her with dismissal? With blacklisting? A chill went through Lyddie. She thought she had nothing else to lose, but suppose Diana was to go? Diana—the one person who, from her first day on, had treated her like a proper person—the only one who had never laughed at Lyddie’s queer mountain speech or demanded that she change her manners or her mind. All the girls took their burdens to Diana. She was always the one who came to help you. Nobody ever thought of Diana needing help.