by Jojo Moyes
* * *
• • •
Mrs. Brady visited Margery on the sixth day after she’d given birth, bringing with her a doctor from out of town to check that she was healing properly and that the baby had everything she needed. When Deputy Dulles had attempted to protest, given the absence of slips or indeed any prior warning, Mrs. Brady had cut him down with a look that could have frozen hot soup and announced imperiously that should she be impeded in any way while tending a nursing mother Sheriff Archer would be the first to hear about it, and Governor Hatch the second, and Deputy Dulles should be in no doubt about it. The doctor examined mother and baby while Mrs. Brady stood in the corner of the cell—she had squinted at her surroundings in the half-dark and decided not to sit—and while conditions were far from ideal, the doctor had announced both to be in good health and in as good spirits as could be expected. The men in the nearby cells had a few words to say about the stink of the baby’s soiled diapers, but Mrs. Brady told them to hush their mouths and announced that the occasional brush with soap and water wouldn’t hurt them none either, frankly, so maybe they should put their own house in order before complaining.
* * *
• • •
The librarians only discovered this visit after the event, when Mrs. Brady turned up at the library and declared that, having discussed matters at length with Miss O’Hare, they had agreed that she would step in and take over the day-to-day running of the library, and that she hoped very much this wouldn’t inconvenience Mrs. Van Cleve, knowing, as she did, how hard she had worked to keep things going while Margery was incapacitated.
Alice, while a little taken aback, was not inconvenienced at all. She had been running on empty these last weeks, trying to visit Margery every day, keep the cabin in good order, and run the library, all while dealing with her own complex and overwhelming feelings. The idea that someone else would take over even one of those things came as a relief. Especially, she thought privately, as she would be leaving Kentucky before long anyway. Not that she had told any of the others; they all had enough to deal with just now.
Mrs. Brady removed her coat and asked to see all the ledgers. She sat at Sophia’s desk and went through the payroll records, blacksmith’s bills, cross-checked the wage slips and petty cash, pronouncing herself satisfied. She returned after supper and spent an hour with Sophia that evening checking up on the whereabouts of missing and damaged books, and berated Mr. Gill as he passed the door as to the late return of a book on raising goats. Within a few hours her being there felt unremarkable. It was as if a grown-up were in charge again.
* * *
• • •
In this way, summer inched forward under a blanket of heavy heat and flying bugs, of humidity and sweaty, fly-bothered horses, and Alice tried to live day to day, dealing with the minor discomforts, and without thinking of the many more substantial and infinitely more unpleasant discomforts that were lining up, like skittles, in her future.
Sven resigned from his job: with his shifts he could not make it over to see Margery and the baby during the week, and half his heart, he told Alice, was always there in that damned cell anyway. Hoffman’s firemen lined up with their pickaxes against their shoulders and their helmets pressed against their chests when he told them of his departure, much to the fury of the foreman, who took Sven’s departure somewhat personally.
Van Cleve, who was still smarting from the discovery of Sven’s long-standing relationship with Margery O’Hare, said it was good riddance, that he had been a spy and a traitor, despite there being no evidence for either, and warned that if that snake Gustavsson was seen heading inside the Hoffman gates again he would be shot without warning, just like his godless hussy.
Sven would have liked to move into Margery’s cabin, Alice knew, to be in some way closer to her, but instead, ever the gentleman, he refused her offer so that Alice could escape the censure of those in the town who would have seen something suspect in a man and a woman resting under the same roof, even if it was clear to all that both loved the same woman, albeit in very different ways.
Besides, Alice was no longer afraid to stay alone in the little cabin. She slept early and deeply, rose at 4:30 a.m. with the sun, splashed herself with icy water from the spring, fed the animals, climbed into whatever clothes she had laid out to dry and cooked herself a breakfast of eggs and bread, scattering the remaining crumbs to the hens and the red cardinals that gathered on the windowsill. She ate while reading one of Margery’s books, and every other morning she baked a pan of fresh cornbread to take to the jailhouse. Around her the early-morning mountain rang with birdsong, the leaves of the trees glowing orange, then blue, then emerald green, the long grass mottled with lilies and sage grass, and as the screen door closed, huge wild turkeys rose up in an ungainly flap, or small deer skittered back into the woods, as if it were she who was the intruder.
She turned Charley out from the barn into the small paddock that backed the cabin, and checked the chicken coop for eggs. If she had time she would prepare food for the evening, knowing she would be tired when she returned home. Then she saddled Spirit, packed whatever she needed that day into the saddlebags, slammed the broad-brimmed hat onto her head, and rode down the mountain to the library. As she passed along the dirt track, she let the reins hang loose on Spirit’s neck, and used both hands to tie a cotton handkerchief around her collar. She barely used the reins any more; Spirit would gauge where they were going as soon as she started each route, and stride out, ears pricked, just another creature who knew—and loved—her job.
Most evenings Alice would stay an hour later at the library alongside Sophia, just for the company, and occasionally Fred would join them, bringing food from the house. Twice she had walked up the track and eaten at Fred’s, suspecting she was old news, and that few people were likely to see her make that short journey anyhow. She loved Fred’s house, with its scent of beeswax, and its well-worn comforts, less rough and ready than Margery’s, and with rugs and furniture that told of family money that went back more than one generation.
There was a reassuring lack of ornaments.
They would eat Fred’s food and talk of everything and nothing, breaking off to smile at each other like fools. Some nights Alice would ride the track back to Margery’s and have no idea what they had even said to each other, the hum of want and need in her ears drumming out whatever conversation had occurred. Sometimes she wanted him so badly she would have to pinch her hand under the table to stop herself reaching out for him. And then she would arrive back at the empty cabin and lie under the covers, her mind trying to conjure what might happen if once, just once, she invited him to come in with her.
* * *
• • •
Sven’s lawyer visited every fortnight, and Sven asked if the meetings could take place at Fred’s house, and whether she and Fred would sit alongside him. Alice understood that it was because Sven became so anxious, his leg jiggling with uncharacteristic nerves, his fingers tapping on the table, that afterward he would invariably have forgotten half of what he’d been told. The lawyer tended to speak in the least straightforward way possible, his language ornate and tortured, taking routes around and under what he meant to say rather than just state it outright.
He observed that, despite the unexpected disappearance of the relevant ledger (he left a meaningful pause at this point), the Commonwealth was confident of the evidence against Margery O’Hare. In her initial interview the old woman had placed Miss O’Hare at the scene, no matter what she claimed afterward. The library book, spattered with blood, appeared to be the only possible murder weapon, given there were no gunshot or stabbing injuries. No other of the packhorse librarians rode as far as Miss O’Hare, judging by the other ledgers, so the chances of anyone else using a library book as a weapon at that spot were limited. And then there was the difficult matter of Margery’s character, the many people who would happily speak up about the
long-standing feud between her family and the McCulloughs, and Margery’s habit of saying the least palatable things without considering the impact her words might have on those around her.
“She will need to be mindful of these things when we come to trial,” he said, gathering his papers. “It’s important that the jury find her a . . . sympathetic defendant.”
Sven shook his head mutely.
“You won’t get Marge to be anyone other than who she is,” said Fred.
“I’m not saying she has to be someone else. But if she cannot win the sympathy of the judge and the jury, her chances of freedom are severely diminished.”
The lawyer sat back in his chair and put both hands on the table. “This is not just about truth, Mr. Gustavsson. It’s about strategy. And no matter what the truth of this matter is, you can bet that the other side is working hardest on theirs.”
* * *
• • •
You like it, then.”
“Like what?” Margery looked up.
“Being a mother.”
“Got myself so swimming in feelings I don’t know which way is up half the time,” Margery said softly, adjusting the cotton vest at Virginia’s neck. “Boy, it’s even warm up here. Wish we could catch a breeze.”
Since Virginia’s birth Deputy Dulles had allowed the visits to take place in the empty holding cell upstairs. It was lighter and cleaner than those in the basement—and, they suspected, more acceptable to the redoubtable Mrs. Brady—but on a day like today, when the air hung warm and heavy with moisture, there was little relief.
Alice thought suddenly how awful the jailhouse would be in winter, with its exposed windows and cold cement floor. How much worse would the state penitentiary be? She will be free by then, she told herself firmly. No thinking ahead. No thinking beyond today, this next hour.
“Didn’t think I could love another creature like this,” Margery continued. “Feels like she’s taken a layer of skin off me, you know?”
“Sven is truly besotted.”
“Ain’t he just?” Margery smiled to herself at some memory. “He’s going to be the greatest daddy to you, tiny girl.” Her face shadowed, as if there were something she didn’t want to acknowledge. And then it was gone, and she was holding the baby up, gesturing to her head, smiling again. “You think her hair’s going to be dark like mine? She’s got a little Cherokee in her, after all. Or you think she’ll lighten up, more like her daddy? You know when Sven was a baby his hair was white as chalk.”
Margery wouldn’t discuss the trial. She would shake her head twice, tiny movements, as if suggesting there was no point in it. And despite this new softness, there was something steely enough in that movement for Alice not to try to contradict it. She had done the same to Beth and to Mrs. Brady when they visited, and Mrs. Brady had arrived back at the library quite pink with frustration.
“I was talking to my husband about the trial, and what happens afterward . . . if things do not go the way we hope. He has some friends in the legal world and apparently across state lines there are some places that allow the children to stay with the mother, and matrons to attend properly to the women. Some have quite good facilities all told.”
Margery had acted like she hadn’t heard a word.
“We’re all praying for you in church. You and Virginia. Isn’t she the dearest thing? I just wondered whether you would like us to try to—”
“Appreciate your thoughts, Mrs. Brady, but we’ll be fine.”
And that was it, Mrs. Brady said, throwing her hands into the air. “It’s as if she’s burying her head in the sand. Honestly, I don’t think she can simply rely on the idea of getting out. She needs to plan.”
But Alice didn’t feel that optimism was at the heart of Margery’s behavior. It was one of the many reasons she felt increasingly anxious with every day that the trial grew closer.
* * *
• • •
Exactly one week before the trial was due to start newspapers began to speculate on its suspect. One had got hold of the picture of the women from the Nice ’N’ Quick, and cropped it so that only Margery’s face was visible. The headline read:
THE LIBRARIAN KILLER: DID SHE MURDER INNOCENT MAN?
The nearest hotel, in Danvers Creek, swiftly found itself with every room booked, and there was talk that some neighbors had tidied up back rooms and put beds in them to house the reporters who were also coming to town. It seemed that Margery and McCullough were all anybody talked about, except within the confines of the library, where nobody talked about them at all.
Sven headed to the jail in the height of the afternoon. It was an excessively warm day and he walked slowly, using his hat to fan himself, and raising a hand in greeting to those he passed, his outward demeanor revealing nothing of what he felt inside. He handed the tin of Alice’s cornbread to Deputy Dulles, and checked his pockets for the clean vest and bib that Alice had folded neatly for him to bring. Margery was in the holding cell upstairs, feeding the baby, seated cross-legged on the bunk, and he waited to kiss her, knowing as he did how easily distracted the baby was. Usually she would raise a cheek for him but this time she kept gazing down at the child, so after a moment he sat down on the stool nearby.
“She still feeding all night?”
“Much as she can get.”
“Mrs. Brady said she might be one of those babies needs solid food early. I got a book about it from the girls, just to read up a little.”
“Since when have you been chatting with Mrs. Brady about babies?”
He looked at his boots. “Since I quit my job.”
When she stared at him, he added: “Don’t worry. I’ve not been out of work since I was fourteen years old. And Fred is letting me stay in his spare room so I’m good. We’ll be good.”
Margery didn’t speak. Some days she was like this now. Would barely say a word the whole time he was there. Those days had grown fewer since Virginia arrived—it was as if she couldn’t help but talk to the child, even if she was feeling down, but Sven still hated to see them. He rubbed at his head. “Alice said to tell you the chickens are doing fine. Winnie laid a double-yolker. Charley’s getting fat. Quite enjoying the rest, far as I can see it. We’ve got him turned out this week with Fred’s young ones and he’s showing them who’s boss.”
She looked down at Virginia, checking that she had finished, then adjusted her dress and placed the baby against her shoulder for burping.
“You know, I was thinking . . .” Sven continued. “Maybe when you come home we could get another dog. There’s a farmer over at Shelbyville got a hunting bitch I’ve fancied for a long time that he wants to put to pup. She’s got a sweet nature. It’s good for a child to grow up around a dog. If we get a puppy, he and Virginia could grow up together. What do you say?”
“Sven . . .”
“I mean, we don’t have to get a dog. Could wait till she’s a little older. I just thought . . .”
“You remember I once told you I would never tell you to leave me?” Still she kept her eyes on the child.
“I do indeed. Almost made you write it on a piece of paper for proof.” He raised a wry smile.
“Well . . . I made a mistake. I need you to go.”
He leaned forward, his head cocked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“And I need you to take Virginia.” When she finally looked up at him her eyes were wide and serious. “I was arrogant, Sven. I thought I could live as I wanted, long as I didn’t hurt nobody. But I’ve had time to think in here—and I worked it out. You don’t get to do that in Lee County, maybe not in the whole of Kentucky. Not if you’re a woman. You play by their rules or they . . . well, they squash you like a bug.”
Her voice was calm and even, as if she had rehearsed the words in her many silent hours. “I need you to take her far away, to New York State or Chicago, maybe even the Wes
t Coast, if there’s work. Take her somewhere beautiful, somewhere she can have opportunities and a good education and not have to worry about whatever shitty scars her family left on her future before she was even born. Take her from people who will judge her for her name long before she can even spell it.”
He was nonplussed. “You’re talking crazy, Marge. I’m not leaving you.”
“For twenty years? You know that’s what they’re going to give me even if I get manslaughter. And it’ll be worse if it’s murder.”
“But you didn’t do nothing wrong!”
“You think they care a whit about that? You know how this town works. You know they’re gunning for me.”
He looked at her as if she were mad. “I’m not going. So you can forget it.”
“Well, I’m not going to see you any more. So, you don’t get a say.”
“What? What are you talking about now?”
“This is the last time I’m going to see you. It’s one of the few rights I get in here, the right not to see visitors. Sven, I know you’re a good man, and you’ll do anything to help me. And, by God, I love you for it. But this is about Virginia now. So I need you to promise me you’ll do as I ask, and never bring our daughter back to this place.” She leaned back against the wall.