Eventide

by Sarah Goodman

  “Big Tom said maybe two words all morning.”

  “Down from his usual four, then?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “And Hettie cried.” Abel let the statement hang in the hot air. I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. “But don’t fret,” he went on, the hint of a smile poking at the corners of his mouth. “It only lasted for a minute. Then she got mad as a hornet after she decided you’d run off. She’s been hoeing the bean patch like she’s trying to dig a hole to China.”

  The house came into view, and I spied Hettie and Big Tom kneeling in the kitchen garden. With their heads bent, they reminded me of two supplicants bowed in prayer, but their hands were in constant motion pulling weeds from around the squash plants.

  I cleared my throat, then realized I had no idea what to say. I chose a feeble “Good morning.” I immediately regretted how casual the words sounded.

  Hettie sprang to her feet, dark soil showering from her skirt, while Big Tom began the laborious process of getting his large frame back to standing. Hettie darted forward, took my shoulders in a tight grip, and looked me up and down. Her work-weathered features showed annoyance and worry in equal measure. “Where have you been?”

  “This isn’t going to boost your confidence in my good sense,” I began. “But I went into the woods last night. I was chasing my father. I never found him, and then things took a … strange turn.” Big Tom and Hettie listened to my story in tense silence. I knew I’d given them firm grounds for sending me away by disappearing all night without warning.

  “I was on my way back when I met Abel,” I finished. “I’m sorry for the worry I caused. Please don’t write to the Children’s Society. Don’t send me away.”

  Hettie breathed in through her thin nose. “I ought to ship you back north, before you get your fool self killed. That would be the smart thing to do.” Somewhere overhead, a crow rasped a raucous caw. I stared dully at the discarded weeds lying scattered in the garden, their leaves already curling in the blistering sun. “But nobody ever accused us of doing the smart thing,” Hettie said. “We ought to have told you all about the woods.”

  Big Tom cleared his throat. “We’ve never had to tell an outsider about the haints and whatnot in there. Nobody likes to talk about it.” He cast a solemn look toward the woods. “It’s a mercy nothing worse happened to you.” His eyes were soft with relief.

  I swallowed against an unexpected lump in my throat. “I probably wouldn’t have believed they were haunted anyway,” I said. Did I even believe it now? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Hettie broke the uneasy silence. “Traipsing all over creation to find you put us behind. We’ve got beans to can. Come along to the canning shed directly.”

  She and Big Tom turned to go, leaving me standing at the edge of the garden with Abel by my side. Hettie looked back at me, her voice gentler than usual. “Don’t linger too long.”

  An oddly light feeling fluttered in my chest. “I never expected them to be so upset about me being gone.” I picked up a hoe and chopped at a weed near my feet. The lightness turned leaden. What would they think if I took Lilah from Miss Maeve’s home and moved in with the Mayhews? “Big Tom and Hettie were more worried than angry,” I said.

  “I was pretty upset myself.” Abel’s voice was quiet and deep. His wide hand covered mine, stilling my restless work. I looked up, startled. “Something else is on your mind, besides seeing your father and all that stuff in the woods. Something’s troubling you.”

  “How do you know?”

  His callused palm was warm against my fingers. “It’s hard to explain, but I get a feeling what you really want to say is between the words that actually come out.” His face was serious and so, so close. My eyes darted up from his hand to the cleft in his chin, then to his lips. I quickly looked away.

  “The letter you delivered was from my aunt Susan, my father’s sister. I’d written to ask if Lilah and I might have any relatives in the area who could take us in. Together.”

  Abel went still.

  “Aunt Susan told me that, as a young man, Papa lived briefly in Argenta. He met my mother there. Mama never spoke of her parents, but some things my father said when he came to the farm, and a few details in Aunt Susan’s letter…” I took a steadying breath. “The Mayhews might be my grandparents. I think their missing daughter, the one who delivered a stillborn baby and then vanished, was my mother.”

  Abel’s lips parted in surprise. I could practically see the questions forming. “If your daddy has trouble telling reality from fantasy, can you trust anything he said?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to the Mayhews. The reverend wouldn’t be my first choice for a grandfather, but Mrs. Mayhew looks like a kind woman. And family is family. Anywhere I can be with my sister is better than being apart.”

  Abel’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to reconsider his words. “What about Miss Maeve? She cares about Lilah. And Lilah is happy in her new home, don’t you think?”

  Here was the thorn in the rosy plans I’d made. The more I saw Lilah and Miss Maeve together, the harder it was to feel sure pulling my sister away was for anyone’s benefit but mine. Lately, when I thought of returning to New York with Lilah, I had to ask myself: Was it selfish to want my sister back?

  I sighed. “I don’t know. But if the Mayhews truly are our grandparents, they have a right to know.”

  Abel looked down. “We need you here, though. You’re becoming a big help on the farm.”

  I snorted. “That’s a generous fib.”

  He went on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “Is living with the Mayhews together really that much better than living a short way from Lilah, like you do now, and staying with us?”

  “It’s not just that. I was supposed to go to college in New York, then medical school.” I gestured to the open fields. “I can’t do any of that here. I don’t want to leave you and Hettie and Big Tom high and dry, but I want to give up on my dreams even less.”

  He glanced around at the empty landscape, his eyes full of sad understanding.

  “I have to know if the Mayhews are my grandparents,” I went on. “Once I get confirmation, then I’ll figure out the next step.”

  Abel moved closer. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I felt his sigh as a soft stirring against my cheek. Being this near to Abel draped a spell over me. My thoughts went blurry at the edges. I felt myself leaning in, close enough to feel the heat of his sun-kissed skin.

  I drew in a short breath and stepped back. The moment splintered.

  Too much of my future hid in a haze of uncertainty. I needed clarity to see my way forward, and getting involved with Abel would leave me anything but clearheaded.

  “I ought to get to work,” I stammered.

  “Guess I should, too,” Abel sighed. He adjusted his hat and looked down at me, his gaze intense. “I don’t know about you, but I get tired of all these ‘should’s and ‘ought to’s.” His voice was low and rough-edged as he added, “I’ll see you later, Verity.”

  I forced myself to turn toward the dusty path to the canning shed. I glanced back once, to see Abel striding across the sunlit field, straight-backed and strong. It shouldn’t have sent a giddy thrill through my stomach when he looked over his shoulder and met my eyes. It shouldn’t have mattered that he was as unwilling to walk away as I’d been.

  But I was learning it was harder to tell my heart what mattered than I could ever have guessed.

  17

  A hush lay over the woods, just as it had each time I’d entered before. The absence of rippling birdsong—the trills and warbles that so often followed me about my morning work on the farm—felt like an additional warning to stay away. I wound through mossy trunks, a carpet of rotting leaves deadening my steps. I was breaking my promise to Big Tom and Hettie, and to Miss Maeve. Guilt nagged like a slight headache, enough to make me uncomfortable but not so severe I couldn’t carry
on with my plans.

  I had to know if Papa was still here. Maybe I could find the little girl again, and prove to myself she was only an adventurous, wandering child. And a twin desire lurked in my heart: to know if the figure in white still lay by the well. Clearly, it hadn’t been the corpse of Miss Maeve Donovan. But I wasn’t completely ready to accept her explanation of some unhallowed being impersonating her.

  I wanted to see it again. I wanted to see it and understand it. And so, when Big Tom told me to go to the far eastern field and cut a fallen tree off the fence, I’d taken my chance to slip away.

  I patted my pocket, making certain my candle and matches were in place. It was broad daylight, but I’d come prepared should I somehow, by unforeseen ill luck, stay after sunset. A heavy woolen cloak lay over my shoulders, pilfered from among the mothballs in Hettie’s cedar chest. If the cold came for me again, I was ready.

  I made a careful search of the woods, calling Papa’s name as I went. The trees caught and smothered my words. Once, I’d visited Papa at the asylum in a room with padded walls, where our voices had the same empty, deadened quality.

  A prickly feeling raced along my spine, intensifying the closer I circled toward the center of the woods. Brambles snagged my skirt. A branch snapped somewhere in the gloom. My heart galloped as I strained to locate its source, but I saw nothing, and heard no other sound.

  At last, I reached the middle of the forest with no sign of Papa. He’d disappeared from the woods as completely as the ghosts that supposedly haunted this place. Now I faced the other desire that had driven my return: confronting the well.

  I pushed aside a drape of ferns. My feet dragged to a halt when I saw it. The well stared into the sky, a black, unblinking eye. I forced my attention down to the ground at the base of the rock ring. Stomach churning, I braced to see the pale figure of a woman laid out on the ground.

  But the place beside the gray stone was empty.

  Relief and disappointment clashed. I’d expected to find something here. If not the woman, then perhaps the silent little girl. Snugging my cloak tighter, I looked for any signs to indicate that a body had lain here. I came around to the side where I’d seen her—it?—and studied a depression in the leaves. Did I make out a space the size and shape of a body? I couldn’t be sure. My fingers trailing through the damp earth stirred a musty scent of decayed plants. I crushed a fistful of dirt and let it crumble away, no closer to understanding what I’d seen here. The woods kept their secrets.

  Dissatisfied, I rose to brush the rich, dark earth from my skirt. This had been a waste of time. If I hurried, I could clear the fallen tree from the fence and be back at the farm before I was missed.

  Something moved at the edge of my vision. A flicker of black, like a tongue of dark fire, darted by. My head snapped to the left. Meager light struggled to reach the forest floor and lost its battle with the gloom. I peered into the dimness between the tree trunks, fixated on one large oak where the shape—had it been the hem of a garment whisking out of sight?—had disappeared. The rich scent of pines lay heavy in the still, silent air. I drew in a breath and held it.

  Slowly, a small, white hand slid into view.

  My breath cut off. Watching the pale fingers clutch at the bark, I couldn’t think or move. I stared at the little hand and the face that gradually came into view above it.

  The dark-eyed little girl leaned around the tree trunk, her black hair hanging over her shoulder. Her shadowed stare fixed on mine. Cold fog climbed up from the ground. Shivering, I looked down to see it snaking around my ankles. Chill seeped through my stockings. I expected to find the little girl gone when I looked back, but she remained.

  A profound sadness hid behind her blank expression. The mists rose to the hem of her black dress, washing up her body like a wave of storm clouds. Before her face disappeared into the mists, she withdrew back behind the tree. Through the gray, I could make out the small hand letting go and slipping from view.

  “No! Wait, please!” It was as if a trap that held me sprang open. I leapt into motion. She wouldn’t escape this time. Cloak flying, I ran toward where the little girl had vanished.

  And I found what I’d somehow known I’d find. Nothing.

  No shaking leaves marked her passing, and the ground was free of prints. I ran my trembling hand along the tree where her fingers had been and found no hint of their warmth. I searched for a hollowed log, a hidden ditch or spring bed. Any place she could’ve ducked away to hide. Overhead, leaves whispered. I couldn’t see any branches low enough for the child to pull herself up. My ears pulsed with the absolute silence.

  Then, behind me, a branch broke.

  My hand flew to my throat. I spun around to find myself facing—

  Katherine Ausbrooks.

  She froze in the middle of darting behind the well. A stricken expression flickered over her thin face. She hesitated, then threw back her shoulders and stepped boldly into view. Katherine regarded me with narrowed eyes, an open burlap sack dangling from her right hand.

  I went to her and, before she could react, wrapped my fingers around her wrist. I had to know if it was really, truly Katherine. Her skin felt warm, and with her shout of alarm, her pulse picked up.

  “Good God, are you mad?” Katherine wrenched her arm away, and the sharp motion sent a plant tumbling from her bag. The blossoms were an unappealing greenish shade that faded to bruised purplish black, growing from a stalk with dirt-smeared roots still attached. Katherine snatched it up and shoved the whole mess back into her bag.

  “Did you see where she went?” I asked.

  She darted a worried look into the shadows. “Who?”

  “The little girl in the black dress,” I said. “I was following her when I heard you behind me.”

  Katherine shook her head. “I’ve seen no one in the woods but you.” She peered over my shoulder, gnawing at her bottom lip, looking about with the same jittery worry I felt. Whatever brought her to the woods today, she didn’t relish being here. She caught me watching her, and the unease shifted to haughtiness. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  I opted for a partial truth. “When I came through the woods the other day, I saw a little girl. I wanted to find out if she was still around.” I pointed to the bulging bag she carried. “And what about you? Doing a little amateur botany?”

  “I’m gathering plants for our flower bed.” Her eyes were shifty. Katherine was a terrible liar, but I doubted I’d get anything else out of her.

  A shaft of warm sunlight broke through the canopy, incongruous with the gray fog that had so recently swarmed along the forest floor.

  “Did you see the fog then?” I asked. “It came out of nowhere.”

  “Of course I did.” She sniffed. “It probably had to do with air-temperature changes near the well. The spring water down inside is cold, the air up here’s much warmer. Nothing special, really, now that I think on it.” She sounded just like I had, the first time I’d seen the fog—like someone trying too hard to convince herself that nothing had unexpectedly come along to upend her views. “But there most certainly wasn’t a little girl standing here. I would’ve seen her.” Her conviction was sturdy.

  I shook my head, equally as certain of my truth. “She was here. I’ve seen her three times now.” How was it possible for Katherine to have seen the fog, but not the child in the middle of it? She’d been only a handful of yards away when I’d watched the writhing mist pour over the ground to rise and swallow the girl.

  Katherine seemed to waver, and for a second I thought she might actually believe me. Then she crossed her arms, suspicion all over her face. “We’re too old for stupid little pranks. Shouldn’t you be at the farm, doing your job instead of poking about in the woods? You know, my father’s on the adoption committee with Sheriff Loftis.” Katherine gave me a superior smile, and I felt my hands ball into fists. “One of his responsibilities is to call round to the families who got the orphans, make sure they’re satisfied with their new
wards.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hope you turn out useful to the Weatheringtons. It would be a shame if you got shipped off wherever they send the ones nobody wants.”

  “Oh, Katherine, bless your heart.” I’d stolen the phrase from Della, but where she used it with genuine warmth, my voice was frigid. “It’s kind of you to be concerned. But my stay here is temporary. I’ll return to New York in a few months and carry on with my plans.”

  Katherine tried to hide it, but I recognized the emotion that flickered across her face. Pure, wrenching jealousy. Katherine wanted to be the one leaving Wheeler for good. The mayor’s daughter wasn’t nearly as content with her small-town world as her brother or Della.

  “I’ll be sure to send a postcard,” I said, turning on my heel and leaving the girl in the shadows.

  18

  The days wore on with no opportunity to go visit Lilah or arrange a trip to Argenta to see the Reverend and Mrs. Mayhew. Papa’s whereabouts remained a mystery. In every idle moment, I speculated on where he could be, what to make of the strangeness in the woods, and how to account for Katherine’s unexplained presence there. But those moments were few and far between.

  The hay was ready to be cut and baled, and it took all of us—Big Tom, Hettie, Abel, and me—working together to accomplish the task. Long, sweltering days of forking hay into the press, helping tie it into bales, then lugging the cumbersome square bundles to the barn left me little time to do anything except eat, sweat, and sleep.

  One evening, as I was feeding the chickens and stewing on how to approach my unsuspecting grandparents, the racket of hooves on gravel sent the hens into a flapping uproar. Abel galloped into the yard on Merlin, his voice carrying over the squawking hens. “I just came from Mama’s place. It’s Clara. The baby’s coming, and Mama needs help. Get Aunt Hettie and come on.” He wheeled and rode away without waiting for an answer.