The Companion

by Kim Taylor Blakemore

  Oh! But Tom Knapp worked to tempt us all; he laid a trestle table near the tack room to spread his wares. Suggested buttons and laces for Cook, a Jew’s harp for Mr. Friday, a jackknife for Jacob, a delicate carved bird for me. All the while he sharpened the knives Cook and I had lugged out.

  At her bidding, I counted them all prior to their release into his hands. We inventoried them again on their return. In between, we sat on a hay bale in the barn, both forcefully ignoring the spread of wares sat right next to us.

  “You’ll give us a fair price this season, peddler,” Cook called out.

  “I’ve been none but fair to you in the past, Mrs. Cook.” He pulled a rag from his leather smock to wipe his hands. Then he reached into the knife box, lifting out a cleaver. He held it to the meager light, pointed it straight out like a swordsman, and squinted down its length. His jaw worked side to side, and he gave a click of his tongue. “I can see it’s your favorite, but its life is near complete. I’ve a better one here.”

  “You’ll sharpen it until there’s nothing can be done.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll not put my name to its outcome.”

  “You don’t put your name to any of this,” Cook said, “so I don’t believe it will make a difference one way or the other.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then let out a sharp laugh. “What do you think, Lucy? Are my wares so dismal as to deserve Mrs. Cook’s scorn?”

  I picked up a ribbon of delicate buttons that were meant to be placed along the back of a lady’s garment.

  “That’s fine ivory from Africa,” he said. “And I’ve horn ones from the great llamas of Peru.”

  “Your ivory looks much like New Hampshire birch,” I said.

  Cook gave a snort of approval and settled her hands in her lap.

  “Never mind the buttons, then,” the peddler said. “I have indigo. I have peppermint oil. I have tortoiseshell combs. No? None of the above?” He shrugged, and pumped the grinder’s pedal with his boot until the wheel spun and the cleaver’s edge threw sparks.

  After all were sharpened and laid neat on a cloth for Cook’s recount and blessing, she handed him a small envelope. “You’ll join us this eve, then.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  I wrapped each knife in its linen, and Cook and I lifted the box by its handles. On our way out, we passed John Friday mucking a stall. Strips of hay hung in his hair from the workings of the day. He slid a look in our direction.

  “God’s day to you, Mr. Friday,” Cook said.

  “God’s day to you, Cook.” He returned to raking manure and flipping it to a wheelbarrow outside.

  We dashed across the yard, mud sputtering round our shoes and staining our skirts. As we crossed from barn to kitchen, I glanced up at the windows. Rebecca watched from the second story—was her visage bored? Envious? I could not tell. She kept to the window, one hand resting on her waist, the other absentmindedly stroking the curtain. Then she turned away, saying something to Mrs. Burton that was silenced behind the glass.

  We were all about the table that night, each with a cup of cider, save Mr. Beede, who had his glass of wine left from the Burtons’ dinner. Cook took residence at the head of the table, hands busy with mindless mending. Jacob sat with his elbows splayed and chin resting on his arms. He rolled the cider mug between his fingers and ignored Cook when she spoke to him. Knapp leaned in his chair, his arm encircling the back of mine. He tamped his lips down on an unlit pipe, removing it to the table as he lifted his drink or passed the jug round. My cheeks and nose were numb from the cider; I was not in the habit of it.

  “There’s unrest around, sure,” he said, though I must have missed the preceding words. “Been some blood Kansas way. Over the coloreds. Will it be free soil or not?”

  Cook shook her head. “Who’s to say?”

  Mr. Beede held up his glass, tipping it toward Cook. “A right many people choose to say. Ruffian or Free-Soiler.”

  “A right many people do.” The peddler half stood to grab the jug, and his hand trailed along my back as he moved it from near my shoulder to now quite near my thigh. I shifted away. But not soon enough to escape Jacob’s leer.

  Knapp poured the tawny liquid into his cup and then mine. “But news from closer to home. It’s raining in Boston, Concord has a new manufacture of brass fittings, Althea Brown finally died in Apthorp at the remarkable age of a hundred and one, the sisters Steppenwald took as husbands the brothers Cod, and John Jacob Miner insists he did not poison his wife.”

  He swallowed all his cider, Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat before settling in the tufts of hair that curled from his collar.

  Cook pulled in a breath. “They say she cooked it into her own tea cakes. He’d mixed it in the flour.”

  “The poor man says he does not even know where the flour is kept. He was convicted last month nonetheless.” Knapp pushed his chair back and moved around the table, mussing Jacob’s hair as he passed. He walked with a rolling gait; I’d grown up seeing men with much the same step. Theirs came from years on the sea, while I think his came from driving Jedd, standing at the head of the buckboard like a captain at his prow. He pulled a thin piece of paper from the inside pocket of his stained coat that hung on a hook near the door.

  “I know you’re fond of the news, Mrs. Cook. I’ve brought you a gift.” He unfolded a penny paper, smoothing it onto the table.

  POISON AND PASSION

  Tea cakes sweetened with MORPHINE!

  Sugar cookies prove the FATAL DOSE!

  John Miner blames mistress!

  The bulk of the page was taken with a drawing: A fire roaring in a hearth. A candle overturned on a table. A man standing over the prone body of a woman, a contemptuous smirk staining his face. A half-eaten cake, a broken plate, a trail of crumbs artfully splayed round her corpse. Her hair spreads in beautiful waves from her head.

  And in the corner of the frame, half hidden in the inked shadows of the dining room door, the corseted figure of the other woman—the mistress—who had, through her charms, pushed poor John Jacob Miner to murder his wife.

  Cook and I were last to bed. I held a stub of candle as she turned the lock on the door, then shuttled the coals in the stove one last time. The space contracted without the peddler and his entertaining stories, as if he folded the wide world into his pocket and we’d see nothing more until his return in autumn.

  Cook hummed as she ambled to the hall, pausing to shift a chair, to look back to the door. “Did you count the cups?”

  “I—”

  “Thieving rascal, he is. I’ll need two psalms just to settle myself.”

  I followed her, holding the candle as she unlatched her door. “If he touches you such again, you’ve my permission to slap him.”

  “Good night to you, Cook.”

  She set a rough hand to my cheek and gave a pat. “God rest, sweet Lucy.”

  I turned—too fast, I think, with too much cider in my belly—losing my step and stumbling toward my room. With a press of my shoulder against the wall, I regained enough of my senses to continue.

  The key stuck in the lock, and it took a sharp twist for the tumblers to release their hold. I gave a sigh as I entered, for the day had been longer than most, and my limbs were listless. I set the candle on the narrow chest of drawers, following the reflection of its sputtering light in the mirror—then turned with a start to the face cast from the shadows beyond.

  “Sweet Lucy,” she said, her voice pitched to a low murmur.

  “Mrs. Burton.”

  “Did the peddler make your day less bleak?”

  She sat on my bed, hands clasped in her lap. She had changed from the puce attire of the morning, clad now in a purple-and-jade shawl over a wide-hooped dress of fine dove-gray wool. Her hair was plaited tight to her head and held in place with an ivory comb. I would give Rebecca that—I had never mastered such intricate designs and was happy if I’d pinned Mrs. Burton’s hair well enough it did not tumble from its mooring
s by noon.

  I felt my heart in my throat, but from the fright or her closeness, I could not ascertain. “Do you require something, Mrs. Burton?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head. She crossed to me, stopping close enough our skirts tangled and loosed. There was a tic in her cheek and the glower of a frown. “I waited for you.”

  My back was to the dresser now. “I couldn’t—”

  Her breath smelled of violets and the sharp sting of wine. Lemon verbena and the ghost of a cologne more masculine. She reached for my arm, running her fingers down until she’d clasped my hand tight in hers. “I waited.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She reached her other hand to my chest, pressing her fingers against the flight of ribs, stroking my neck, then fluttering touches along my jaw and cheek. So close her lips rested on the corner of mine. “You kissed me once before. Will you again?”

  “You remember?”

  “Yes.” She pulled me tight, arm round my waist, our hands still twined. The candle hissed and spit its last bit of light. “Come with me.”

  I followed her up the narrow staircase where we’d once met and gambled with cards. She held my hand tight. Pointed to the creaky steps. On the second floor, we crept through the serving hall. A slit of light leaked from under a door. The air smelled of pipe tobacco; Mr. Burton would be behind the door. We tiptoed past.

  Mrs. Burton did not slow until we had slipped through her closet and into her room. The curtains were drawn tight, muffling the tap of rain on the glass. She released my hand. Let out a long breath. Moved into the darkness.

  I could barely breathe. Dizzy, uncertain, unsure of where exactly I stood. “Where are you?”

  Behind me then, her lips tingling my neck. The curve of her smile burned across my skin. “You shiver.”

  I could only nod.

  There was a hollow trill—Mr. Quimby’s bell as he crossed the floor.

  “Take my shawl,” she whispered.

  Above us, a tread on the floor. Footsteps.

  “Rebecca—”

  She pressed my hand to the rapid beat of her heart. “Feel.”

  I undressed her, releasing the ties on the hoop skirt, unhooking the stays of her bodice, lifting the thin linen of her chemise. My hands wandered the fabrics, searching for buttons, fingers against ribs. Lifting her arms and sliding the last bit of soft fabric over her head. “I want to see you.”

  “You are,” she said. She clutched my hips, fingers wrapping in the folds of my skirt, and pulled me to her. I heard a rip where the button held at my waist.

  “Please.”

  She released me long enough to open a curtain. The rain had stopped, clouds slipping to reveal a crescent moon. The watery light draped the room and curved over her shoulders, scattering pellets like pearls in her dark hair. Lustered swirls patterned her stomach and hips as she reclined amid the pillows on the bed. “Come.”

  LeRocque’s late today.

  I press my cheek to the bars, peering along the length of whitewashed stone, and I don’t mind the bruising if it allows me another inch of view. How heavy the air is. It makes the lungs work for breath. Matron’s left the outer door open in the hopes of drawing in a draft for me, though it’s just pulling in mist that creeps the walkway and claws my bare feet.

  I’ll give him another ten minutes.

  As if I had a timepiece. As if the time mattered.

  But it does matter; it’s slipping now. It’s hazy like the ground fog, and seeping away into the grates and gullies.

  Mrs. Burton untangled her legs from mine, twisting away with a pull of the sheets. I reached to yank them back against the morning chill. “You need to get up.”

  She rested her hand on my waist, her breast pressed to my shoulder blade. “Darling.” Then her fingers curled and poked my skin as she gave a sharp shove.

  I yawned and clamored round to face her.

  The sky was a dull pewter.

  “Oh God.”

  John Friday would have already delivered rabbits.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Cook would be halfway through the morning routine. She would have checked on me and found the bed quite neat. Untouched.

  “Get dressed.”

  “What am I going to say?”

  Mrs. Burton shook her head, pulled the quilt around her and paced.

  I dressed quickly, rolling my stockings and stuffing them in my pocket, struggling to get my feet in my boots.

  A quick knock at the door stopped us both. “Eugenie?”

  “Take up my things. Take up my things like you’re going to dress me.” She cleared her throat and moved to the door, the quilt sweeping the floor like a gown. Mr. Burton, shaved and neat in his dark suit, flicked his gaze from the paper he held. “I’m off, then . . . What’s this?”

  “I wanted to go to town. I’d like some trifles for Aurora.” Her voice lilted and sparkled. “And I couldn’t rouse Rebecca—you know how she can sleep, and I roused and roused—so Lucy . . . well, who else would I ask for? We can have a nice ride together. I see you so little.”

  “This morning?”

  “Why not this morning?” She smiled, though the brittle edges of it gave away her nerves. “I haven’t been to town since Mary’s . . .” Here she shook her head, closed her eyes against the apparent pain of the memory. “If you’ll wait, husband.”

  “I was going to ride.”

  “I think the brougham.” She rested her hand on his arm. “If you’d mention to Cook I’ve Lucy here. And we won’t need breakfast.” She turned to me. “You’ll need your coat, though, Lucy.”

  “I’m coming?”

  “Why else would we need the brougham?”

  Mr. Burton tapped his newspaper against his leg. “If you insist.”

  And so I found myself squeezed in a red lacquer brougham with the Burtons, rattling down the hill toward Harrowboro, under the threat of rain and the dour receding image of Cook standing in the drive.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It is deep night, no moon. The dark rolls oily black down the walls of my cell. It spreads in the cracks like the edge of a whisper and oozes toward my mattress in a murmur and sigh. It is not quiet here. I am not quiet. My breath is sandpaper rough. Blood drums my ears and swooshes back to my chest. Knocks against my ribs. When I shift, the straw bedding cracks like lake ice under my weight. There’s a scratch of a creature’s nails at the corner near the door and a hiss of movement as it slips through the bars. I hear the plod of the guards’ boots along the walkways and the troubled hum of the men’s dreams. Two cells to my right, Laura Reed wails. There’s an answering keen.

  It comes from me.

  Mrs. Burton—Eugenie—lived by the intricacy of sound. It sometimes made me pause, this talent of hers. She would slow her voice, cock her head, the garnet bead of her earring swinging. “Ah,” she’d say. “There’s Mr. Beede. He’s opening the wine cabinet.” Or “Jacob winds the clock too tight.” Or “Cook looks for a turnip in the garden.”

  Cook, she told me, moved with a humph and a huff. She bent to the stove with a wheeze and stood muttering a psalm.

  Mr. Beede was simple, for he constantly cleared his throat, and his set of teeth clicked and clattered, particularly over his esses.

  Jacob was like a bull, slam of doors and clomp of boots on the steps. He incessantly snapped his fingers near his thigh when he was restless.

  Her husband’s gait was determined but light. He was, she said, a very fine dancer, and more than one girl swooned when he led her in a mazurka.

  Rebecca? All Mrs. Burton needed to identify her was the turn of a knob.

  “And me?” I asked one night when the air was warm through the tall windows of her room and her hands along my back even warmer.

  “You take the stairs two at a time, and you hold your skirts, not the railing. Quite self-assured.”

  “Only when I’m stealing to see you. What else?”

  “In the kitchen, you sometimes hu
m with Cook, and she corrects the words. I think it’s when you’re kneading bread.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Well, there’s fresh warm bread that night. And the aroma.” She buried her nose in my neck, setting my skin to sizzle. “Nearly as good. I could eat you up.” She curled next to me, soft thigh over the back of mine. Butterfly kisses. I touched each place her eyelashes met my skin. “Listen.”

  The breeze shifted, stirring the leaves on the orchard fruit trees. Eugenie raised to her elbow, one hand lazily circling the small of my back. I closed my eyes, and we listened to the susurration of the land.

  “I think, husband, it is time to find Rebecca a suitor.” Mrs. Burton retied the ribbon of her bonnet and smoothed the front of her dress.

  Mr. Burton had indeed ordered the brougham. Cook had given him my coat and asked that I be back by noontime. I dressed Mrs. Burton in a fumble, my heart in a fisted knot. She found a pin to replace the button on my skirt waist. She lifted her gaze toward the ceiling, toward Rebecca’s rooms above, blowing a breath and hurrying me as I plaited her hair.

  The weather, which had squalled the previous week and through the morning, broke agreeable and bright as we made our way down the hill. The brougham was quite intimate, and my shoulder protested as I was jostled against the watered silk fabric at each divot in the road. Mrs. Burton sat between me and her husband. Both remained straight of back, peering forward in much the same fashion as the framed silhouette profiles that graced the mantel in the drawing room. Mr. Beede rode his gray mare in pace with the trap, slowing and following as the road narrowed. John Friday handled the horses. The leathers of the reins and fittings squeaked and slapped, and his coos and chucks kept the two horses’ skitter of energy in line. He wore a tall beaver hat with a yellow feather at the brim.