The Giver of Stars

by Jojo Moyes

  “Me and my sister, well, we did warn him in the strongest terms not to set out because the conditions were bad, what with the snow and ice and all, and that he might slip and fall, but he had taken a fair bit to drink and he would not be told. He was insistent that he didn’t want to be late back with his library book.”

  Her gaze flickered around the courtroom as she spoke, her voice now level and certain.

  “So Mr. McCullough set out by himself, on foot, into the snow.”

  “He did, sir. Taking the library book.”

  “To walk to Baileyville.”

  “Yes, sir. We warned him it was a foolish enterprise.”

  “And you never saw or heard from him again?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And . . . you didn’t think to look for him?”

  “Me and my sister, we don’t leave our home, sir. After our mama went our daddy never liked for us to come to town, and we didn’t like to disobey him, what with his temper and all. We went around the yard before nightfall and shouted for him, just in case he had taken a fall, but most times he would just come back when it pleased him.”

  “So you just waited for him to return.”

  “Yes, sir. He had threatened to leave us before now, so I guess when he didn’t return some part of us thought maybe he had finally done so. And then back in April the sheriff came up to tell us he was . . . dead.”

  “And . . . Miss McCullough. May I ask one more question? You have been most courageous making this trip down the mountain and completing this difficult testimony, and I am much obliged to you. One final question: do you remember what book it was that your father enjoyed so much, and felt such an obligation to return?”

  “Why, yes, I do, sir. Most clearly.”

  And here Verna McCullough turned her pale blue eyes on those of Margery O’Hare, and to those nearest it was possible that the faintest smile played around her lips. “It was a book by the name of Little Women.”

  The court exploded into a wall of noise, so that the judge was forced to bang his gavel six, eight times before enough people noticed—or could hear enough—to quiet it. There was laughter, disbelief, and shouted fury from different parts of the court, and the judge, his brows an overhanging ledge, grew puce with anger.

  “Silence! I will not have this court held in disrespect, do you hear me? The next person to make a sound will be in contempt of court! Silence in the court!”

  The room quieted. The judge waited a moment to be sure that everyone had got the message.

  “Now, Counsels, will you approach the bench?”

  There was some muttered conversation, this time inaudible in the court, under which a low hum of whispers had begun to escalate dangerously. Across the courtroom, Mr. Van Cleve looked like he was about to combust. Alice saw him get up once, twice, but the sheriff turned and physically forced him to sit down. She could see Van Cleve pointing, his mouth working, as if he couldn’t believe he, too, didn’t have the right to go up and debate with the judge. Margery sat very still, disbelieving.

  “Go on,” muttered Beth, her knuckles white where she gripped the bench. “Go on. Go on.”

  And then, after an age, the two lawyers made their way back to their seats and the judge banged his gavel again.

  “Can we call the physician back, please?”

  There was a low murmur as the physician was recalled to the witness box. The public gallery was full of people shifting in their seats, pulling faces at each other.

  The defense counsel rose.

  “Dr. Tasker. One further question: in your professional opinion, would it be possible that the bruising to the victim’s face might have been caused by the weight of a large hard-backed book falling onto it? For example, if he had slipped and fallen backward.” He motioned to the clerk and held up the copy of Little Women. “One the size of this edition, for example? Here—I’ll let you feel the weight of it.”

  The physician weighed the book in his hands and considered this for a moment. “Why, yes. I would imagine that would be a reasonable explanation.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  It took the judge two more minutes of legal conversation to conclude. He banged his gavel to quiet the court. Then, abruptly, he rested his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a full minute. When he raised it, he eyed the court with what seemed to be an impossibly weary expression.

  “It seems to me in the light of this new evidence I am minded to agree with the defense counsel that this can no longer be positioned with any certainty as a murder trial. All solid evidence seems to suggest this was . . . an unfortunate accident. A good man set out to do a good deed, and due to the, uh, prevailing conditions—shall we say?—suffered an untimely end.”

  He took a deep breath and placed his hands together.

  “Given the Commonwealth evidence in this case is largely circumstantial, and heavily dependent on this one book, and given the witness’s clear and unwavering testimony as to its prior whereabouts, I am moved to strike this trial and instead record a verdict of accidental death. Miss McCullough, I thank you for your efforts in doing your . . . civic duty, and I wish to convey my public and heartfelt condolences, once again, for your loss. Miss O’Hare, you are hereby free to leave the court. Clerks, if you could release the prisoner.”

  This time the court did erupt. Alice found herself suddenly enveloped by the other women, who were jumping up and down, yelling, tears streaming from their eyes, arms and elbows and chests pressed together in a giant hug. Sven vaulted over the barrier of the public gallery and was there as the jailer undid Margery’s handcuffs, his arms closing around Margery just as she began to sink to the floor in shock. He half walked, half carried her swiftly out of the back exit, Deputy Dulles shielding them before anyone could really work out what was happening. Through it all, Van Cleve could be heard yelling that this was a travesty! An absolute travesty of justice! And those with particularly good hearing could just make out Mrs. Brady retorting, “Shut your fat mouth for once in your life, you old goat.”

  In all the hubbub nobody noticed Sophia quietly leave the colored section of the public gallery, her bag tucked neatly under her arm, disappearing through the door and briskly making the short walk to the library, picking up speed as she went.

  And only those with the very keenest hearing would have heard Verna McCullough, as she was steered out past the librarians, her hand still on the small of her back and her face grimly determined as she muttered under her breath: “Good riddance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Nobody felt Margery should be left alone, so they brought her to the library and locked both doors, mindful that Kentucky’s most widely circulated newspapers, as well as half of the town, suddenly wanted to talk to her. She said barely a word during the short walk there, her movements slow and oddly frail, as if she had been ill, though she did eat half a bowl of bean soup that Fred brought down from the house, her eyes fixed on it as she ate, as if it were the only thing of any certainty around her. The women exclaimed among themselves about the shock of the verdict, Van Cleve’s impotent fury, the fact that young Verna had indeed done as she had promised.

  She had spent the previous night at Kathleen’s cabin, having been walked down on Patch, and even then she had been so nervous at the prospect of facing all those townspeople that Kathleen had been afraid she would find her gone when she awoke. It was only when Fred arrived in the morning with his truck to bring them to court that Kathleen believed they might be in with a chance, and even then the girl was so odd and unpredictable that they had no idea what she was going to say.

  Margery listened to all this as if from a distance, her expression oddly blank, and distracted, as if she found the noise and commotion too much after the months of near-silence.

  Alice wanted to hug her and yet something about Margery’s demeanor
forbade it. None of them knew what to say to her and found themselves talking as if to a near stranger—did she want some more water? Was there anything they could get for her? Really, Margery should only say.

  And then, almost an hour after they arrived, there was a short rap at the door and Fred, hearing a familiar low voice, moved to unlock it. He opened it a fraction, then his eyes fixed on something unseen and his smile widened. He stepped back, and up the two short steps walked Sven, holding the baby, who was wearing a pale yellow dress and bloomers, her eyes button bright and her hands gripping his sleeve tightly in her tiny fist.

  Margery’s head lifted and her hands moved slowly to her mouth as she saw her. Her eyes filled with tears and she rose slowly to her feet. “Virginia?” she said, her voice cracking as if she could barely trust what she was seeing. Sven moved to her, and handed the baby to her mother, and Margery and the child gazed into each other’s eyes, the child scanning her mother’s as if to reassure herself of something. And then, as they watched, the tiny girl took a moment, then let her head come to rest in the space under her mother’s chin, her thumb plugged into her mouth, and as she did Margery closed her eyes and began to sob, silently, her chest heaving violently as if some terrible pain was exorcising itself, her face contorted. Sven stepped forward and placed his arms around the two of them, holding them close to him, his head lowered, and mindful that they were now privy to something that felt beyond the realms of what was decent, Fred and the librarians tiptoed out of the library and made their way silently up the path to Fred’s house.

  The Baileyville WPA packhorse librarians were a team, yes, and a team stuck together. But there were some times when it was only right to be alone.

  * * *

  • • •

  It would be several days before the other librarians noticed the ledger the sheriff had believed missing, disappeared in the Great Floods, stacked neatly with the others in the shelf to the left of the door. Under the date of December 15, 1937, it showed a loan to Mr. C. McCullough, Arnott’s Ridge, of one hardback edition of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott (one page ripped, back cover slightly damaged). Only someone who looked terribly hard might have noticed how the entry sat between two lines, its ink a very faintly different shade from those around it. And only if you were very cynical indeed might you wonder why there was a one-word entry beside it, written in that same ink: unreturned.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Up in this high air you breathed easily, drawing in a vital assurance and lightness of heart. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be.

  • KAREN BLIXEN, Out of Africa

  Much to the disappointment of the traders and bartenders, it took less than a day for Baileyville to empty. After the “NOT GUILTY—SHOCK VERDICT” headlines had been reduced to firelighters and draft-proofing, and the last of the mobile homes had rattled their way back across county lines, and the prosecution lawyer with the three inexplicably slashed tires had managed to get a spare set sent over from Lexington, Baileyville swiftly returned to normal, leaving nothing but muddy tracks and empty food wrappers dotted along the verges to show that a trial had ever taken place.

  Kathleen, Beth and Izzy escorted Verna back to her cabin, taking turns to walk while Verna rode the sturdy Patch. The journey took the best part of a day, and they parted with promises that Neeta, Verna’s sister, would come and find them if she needed help with her laboring. Nobody ever spoke of the paternity of the child, and Verna had once again grown silent by the time they reached the door, as if exhausted by all the unfamiliar contact.

  They did not expect to hear from her again.

  * * *

  • • •

  That first night Margery O’Hare lay in her own bed facing Sven Gustavsson in the near dark. Her hair was soft and clean from her bath and her belly was full, and out of the open window she could hear the owls and the crickets calling into the darkness of the mountainside, a sound that made the blood slow in her veins, and her heart beat with an easy rhythm. They watched the tiny girl who lay between them, her arms thrown back in sleep, her mouth making soft shapes as she dreamed. Sven’s hand rested on the swell of Margery’s hip and Margery relished the weight of it, the prospect of the nights to come.

  “We can still leave, you know,” he said quietly.

  She lifted the child’s cotton blanket, tucking it under her chin. “Leave where?”

  “Here. I mean, what you said about your mother’s warning, and getting a fresh start. I’ve been reading up on places in northern California where they’re seeking farmers and homesteaders. Think you’d like it up there. We could make a good life.”

  When she said nothing he added: “Doesn’t have to be in a city. It’s a big old state. People go to California from all over so nobody looks twice at someone from elsewhere. I got a friend with a cantaloupe farm says he’ll give me work while we find our feet.”

  Margery pushed her hair back from her face. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, we could look at Montana, if you prefer the sound of it.”

  “Sven, I want to stay. Here.”

  Sven propped himself up on his elbow. He studied her expression as best he could in the dim light. “You said you wanted Virginia to have freedom. To live however she wanted.”

  “I know I did,” said Margery. “And I do. But it turns out we have real friends here, Sven. People who have our backs. I’ve thought about it, and as long as she’s got those, she’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

  When he didn’t speak, she added, “Would that . . . be agreeable to you? If we just . . . stayed?”

  “Any place that has you and Virginia is agreeable to me.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I love you, Sven Gustavsson,” she said.

  He turned toward her in the dark. “You’re not getting sentimental on me, are you, Marge?”

  “Didn’t say I was going to say it twice.”

  He smiled and lay back against the bolster. After a moment he reached his hand across and she took it and held it tight in her own, and that was how they slept, for a couple of hours at least, until the baby woke again.

  * * *

  • • •

  It had been shocking to Alice how quickly her feelings of delight and elation at Margery’s return home had turned to cold stone as she grasped that this meant there was no longer a single obstacle left to her own immediate departure. That was it. The trial was over, and so was her time in Kentucky.

  She had stood among the librarians and watched Sven drive Margery and Virginia up the road toward the Old Cabin and felt herself begin to calcify by inches as she realized what it meant. She managed to maintain her smile as they all drifted away, exclaiming to each other, hugging and kissing, had promised she might see them at the Nice ’N’ Quick later for a celebration. But the effort was too great, and even as Beth kicked her cigarette butt into the road and gave a cheery wave, she could feel something hard settling in her chest. Only Fred caught it, something in his expression mirroring her own.

  “Would you care for a bourbon?” said Fred, as they locked the library door and walked slowly up to his house. Alice nodded. She had just a matter of hours left in the town.

  He poured two tumblers and handed her one and she sat down on his good settle with the buttoned cushions and the patchwork quilt over the back, the one his mother had made. It had grown dark outside and the balmy weather had given way to a brisk wind and fine, spitting rain, and Alice was already dreading heading out in it again.

  Fred reheated the rest of the soup, but she had no appetite, and, she realized, nothing to say. Alice tried not to look at his hands, both of them conscious of the clock ticking on the mantel and what it meant. They talked of the trial, but even though they painted it in bright colors, Alice knew that Van Cleve would be even more furious now, would no doubt redouble his efforts
to ruin the library, or make sure her life was as uncomfortable as it could be. Besides, no matter what Margery had said, she couldn’t stay in the cabin any longer. They all knew that Sven and Margery would need time alone and it was telling that when she told them she had been invited to stay at Izzy’s that evening their protests had been half-hearted.

  “So what time is your train?” said Fred.

  “A quarter past ten.”

  “You want me to drive you to the station?”

  “That would be kind, Fred. If it’s no trouble.”

  He nodded awkwardly and tried to raise a smile, which slid away as quickly as it arrived. She felt the same residual pain she always did at his discomfort, knowing that she was the cause of it. What right had she had to make any claim on this man anyway, knowing it was impossible? She had been selfish to allow his feelings to come anywhere near her own. Sunk in misery that neither of them felt able to articulate, their conversation had swiftly become strained. Alice, sipping a drink she could barely taste, wondered briefly if it had been a good idea coming here at all. Perhaps she should have gone straight to Izzy’s. What was the point in prolonging all this heartbreak?

  “Oh. Got another letter this morning at the library. In all the commotion I forgot to give it to you.” Fred pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. She recognized the writing immediately and let it fall to the table.

  “You not going to read it?”

  “It’ll just be about me coming back. Plans and suchlike.”

  “You read it. It’s fine.”

  While he cleared the plates she opened the envelope, feeling his eyes on her. She scanned it swiftly and shoved it back inside.

  “What?”

  She looked up.

  “Why’d you wince like that?”

  She sighed. “Just . . . my mother’s manner of talking.”