Necessary Evil

by Killarney Traynor

  I tapped the pages against my chin, thinking. Jacob had the slouching attitude of a boy who hadn’t worked in a while; but his face and arms were tanned from being outdoors and he did look strong. I had to admit, having a boy around for even just a few days would ease my work burden considerably. Randall was right. This was as much for his benefit as it was for mine, perhaps more so. Letting him pay the boy wasn’t such a bad idea. It would ease my finances and save me the bother of having to look for extra help.

  Besides, I had no faith in Randall’s abilities to wield a pitchfork or drive a tractor.

  Randall had been looking around the office as he spoke. In the silence that followed, he turned back to me expectantly.

  “What do you say?” he asked, finally. “Let the boy work here? Give us all a break?”

  I hated, hated giving way to him on one more thing. But once again, he presented a wholly logical plan, and it would be foolish to dismiss it simply because I didn’t like the presenter.

  “I’ll give him a week tryout,” I said, and a smile spread across his face.

  “Excellent.” He nodded. “I knew you could be reasonable. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get dressed.”

  He turned and had his hand on the doorknob when I, smarting from that last remark, called out to him.

  “I’ve done a little research of my own, you know,” I said. “On your background.”

  It may have been my imagination, but his spine seemed to stiffen. Nevertheless, his smile was still determinedly intact when he turned to face me.

  “Oh?” he said. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Very. But it did confuse me. I mean, if you are as good as you say you are and as good as they say you are, why are you working for a little nothing university like Hadley? Fifteen years ago, you were getting offers from Harvard, Oxford, and the Smithsonian. Then, suddenly, you just disappeared off the academic radar.” I cocked my head, feigning the same innocent expression he used from time to time. “Jealousy in the ranks, Professor? Anything you care to tell me?”

  There was a moment of silence. When he chuckled and the smile didn’t reach his eyes, I knew that I had rattled the man, if only for a moment.

  “I’ll tell you someday, when I know you better. It has little bearing on our current business dealings. Now, may I go? Or was there something else?”

  “There was, actually,” I said.

  The past two weeks before he’d come had been an experiment in living on a minefield. Aunt Susanna knew about the forged letter, and she no idea who could have done it: she was far too concerned with proving her husband right to worry about it. I was convinced that it wouldn’t take too much detective work on her part to finger me. After all, Randall, who had known neither me nor the exact circumstances of the discovery, had done so rather handily. Randall hadn’t told her yet, but why wouldn’t he?

  I didn’t know what to make of the situation and the suspense was getting more and more difficult to live with. So throwing caution to the wind, I made myself ask him. We could hear Aunt Susanna chatting away with Jacob in the kitchen, her laugh and his echoing off the gray cabinets. There was no way they could hear our conversation, but I still lowered my voice.

  “When you came here the other night, you practically accused me of forging the Beaumont letter. Have you told Aunt Susanna?”

  Even in the process of creating the Beaumont letter, I’d never been able to bring myself to call my act “forgery” before. I’d thought of the process as one would think of installing a security system, and the fact that I was breaking into a house that was not my own to install it had simply been shunted to the side.

  “My dear Madeleine,” Randall said. “There was no ‘practically’ about it. I know you did it. And, no, I did not tell your aunt or her friend.”

  My heart was pounding in my ears and my hands were cold. The accusation was so stark and raw.

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked hoarsely. “You, with your so-called devotion to the truth. Why haven’t you told everyone?”

  “I could, but it wouldn’t help my search very much. Having amateurs underfoot won’t help me anymore than it would you, you know. Besides, I thought there was more to gain by keeping you in my corner. Was I wrong?”

  Again, he wore that innocent look.

  No, he wasn’t wrong. In that instant, I knew I’d do almost anything to keep Aunt Susanna from finding out that I’d tricked her. How Randall had figured that I’d react that way was anyone’s guess, but the second condition was clear: as long as I cooperated, Aunt Susanna wouldn’t learn the truth from him. As long as I cooperated.

  “I understand you perfectly,” I said. If I could have spat venom, I would have, but he would have had to be deaf to misinterpret my tone.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Well, I have to get dressed. I’ll see you later tonight?”

  I didn’t answer, but brushed past him to the kitchen with my heart thudding in my ears.

  Chapter 14:

  Orientation went very quickly. Jacob seemed comfortable around the barn and animals and even correctly identified several pieces of tack.

  “I had to clean them all the time when I worked in Epping,” he told me, as we toured the tack room. “My boss was kind of a snob and didn’t like to ask the clients to do it.”

  “Our students all clean their own tack,” I said, pushing aside the memory of Mrs. Fontaine. “But we help the younger ones.”

  “Like, that’s a good idea, you know? It’s good for them to do it. Keeps you grounded, like my grandmother says.”

  He was brighter and more talkative than I had expected, and in the short space of time proved that he was at least superficially competent with the animals, polite to the riders, uncomplaining about the mucking, and strong enough to heft bales of hay without breaking a sweat. More than once I found myself thinking, Thank God Lindsay isn’t here to see this.

  Despite his enthusiasm, I didn’t like the idea of leaving Jacob alone on his first day. Leaving him to clean out the empty stalls, I went inside and voiced my concerns to Aunt Susanna. She immediately promised to hobble out to the stables and oversee his work while I was at the vet’s office, and insisted when I hesitated.

  “Professor Randall is going to be reading all day and I’ll just be in the way here,” she said.

  “Did Randall actually say that?”

  She brushed off the remark. “Oh, Maddie! Just go. I’ll watch the boy. It’s a nice day to be outside, anyway.”

  I bit my lip, but there was really no choice. I was already running late. Exacting a promise from my aunt that she would call at the least provocation, I raced upstairs to change and back down to grab my keys from the office desk. I pulled up short when I saw Randall, in dress pants and a button down shirt, sifting through the book shelves. I’d forgotten that I was supposed to pull out Uncle Michael’s things for him.

  Randall had already moved into my office. He’d cleared the big office desk, putting my piles of folders in a stack on the floor, and littering the surface with his own stacks: accordion files with yellowing labels, archival photo albums, a laptop, a netbook, a tablet, and a small sound system. Books were pulled out of the shelves and restacked in messy piles, and his mug of coffee sat on top of the floor safe.

  “I got started without you,” Randall said.

  Since when have you done anything else? Somehow, I managed to keep the thought from verbalizing.

  He was bent over a large green, water-stained hymnal that I recognized. Uncle Michael had bought it at auction, thinking it might have an alternate lyric version of Come, Grateful People, Come. It hadn’t, but it remained in the pile of other books he’d collected from the period. They made an eclectic collection, ranging from the cloth-bound, worn church hymnals to battered prayer and political meeting tracts to personal prayer books like a miniature New Testament or the itsy-bitsy Dew-Drops daily reader.

  I decided not to comment on the state of the desk or the room. I went behind the desk, pulled op
en a drawer, found the filing cabinet key, and went over to lock it.

  “I don’t have time to get the research out for you,” I said. I found that it was already locked, then remembered that I had done so last night, when Aunt Susanna first offered him the room. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I think I can be trusted,” he said, and when I looked at him, he nodded at the filing cabinet.

  Locking it had been instinct - even I wasn’t rude enough to do it so pointedly - but considering my past behavior, it must have looked that way. I flushed, but decided against explaining. It would only sound like an excuse.

  “All right,” I said. I went over to the desk and was about to replace the key when I thought how silly that would look. So I pocketed the key, found my car keys, shut the drawer, and headed for the door, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Aunt Susanna knows where everything is. She’ll be out in the barn with Jacob most of the day, if you need her.”

  I stopped in the doorway, realizing that I had just volunteered her services without qualification. I turned. “But I must warn you – Aunt Susanna is still recovering from surgery, so she can’t be running errands all day. She needs lots of time during the day to rest and relax. And it’s best if she avoids the stairs altogether.”

  “Slavery,” Randall said dryly, “has been outlawed since before the end of the Civil War.”

  “Right…” I said, hesitating. I had to leave, but I felt guilty about doing so. Aunt Susanna was used to a quiet house with little activity and plenty of time to rest and recuperate. How would she handle this first day with guests, especially a potentially demanding one like Randall?

  “Since you are still here,” he said, taking off his glasses and scanning the bookshelves through squinted eyes, “can you point out that diary for me? I wanted to start on that right away.”

  I glanced at my watch, stopped myself from sighing, and went over to the safe. I put my hand on the knob and gave him a pointed look until he turned back to his book. I knew the combination by heart, but some disquiet threw me off and it took me two tries before it opened.

  There isn’t much inside to interest the average burglar. On the top shelf are photos, memory sticks, and paperwork for the few horses we own. But the bottom shelf is stuffed tight with genealogical records that Uncle Michael found too valuable to risk losing in a fire and too useful to tuck away in the bank.

  Among these was Mary’s diary, a small, slim notebook of crumbling black leather and with the vestiges of gold embossing along the spine. How Mary had come to own such a handsome volume was beyond our explanation – but the real gold, as my uncle liked to say, was on the inside. She had filled the book with pages of elegant script in a variety of inks, some as vibrant as the day she touched paper, others so faded it was barely legible.

  Without thinking, I slipped the book out of the bag and tenderly ran my finger down the rough edges of the paper. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see Mary Chase, bent over the book by candlelight, writing while her son played before the fireplace and her husband smoked his pipe. Or did she write during the day, when she and the serving girl worked long hours in the kitchen, while the men were out in the fields or fighting back the ever encroaching forests? Was it a secret hobby, her solace during the long monotonous days, or did her family know and contribute to the journal? Somehow, I always thought the former. Whenever I tried to picture Mary, I saw her as a woman with dark hair and large soulful eyes, ever looking towards a horizon she could never pursue.

  I wasn’t the only one who waxed poetic about the diary. Next to Alexander’s letter, it had been Uncle Michael’s most prized possession, and he treated it with as much respect as one would the Declaration of Independence. Holding it in my hand, tasting the scent of wood fires and old paper, I could almost hear his low, booming voice:

  Think of it, Maddie! We have access to the thoughts of a woman who died almost a hundred years before I was born. Through her writings, we can touch the past, and learn about people who would have been long forgotten if not for her. That’s the power of the written word – it bridges time and brings back those who are gone.

  I wish it could, I thought, my eyes suddenly moist. Oh, how I wish it could.

  “Have you read it?”

  Randall’s voice sliced through my reverie, pulling me back into reality with a wrench. He was crouched beside me, so close that the cover of the book in my lap was reflected in his large glasses. I felt as though I’d revealed something, and embarrassment washed through me.

  “My uncle did, several times,” I said, getting to my feet quickly. “He knew parts so well he could quote them to me. He thought there might be something in it that would clear Alexander. I don’t know why he thought that. It ends before the incident. At best, it’s a character study.”

  “How about you?” He tapped the book gently. “What did you think when you read it?”

  “I haven’t. Not the whole thing, anyway.”

  “No?” Randall sounded surprise.

  “No. Some of us live in the here and now. The past is interesting, but it’s dead.” Slipping the book back into the bag, I held it out to him. “And there’s little practical value in the dead.”

  He took the bag, his eyes strangely concerned. “There are many who would argue that point.”

  “Probably,” I said. “People who have little else to do but dig up the bones of the buried. Those of us with responsibilities cannot afford the time to play in the past, Professor. The living must take priority. I have to go. If you need me, you have my cell phone.”

  “Oh, I shall be quite comfortable here,” he said, as I headed for the door. “When will you bring me that letter of Alexander’s?”

  I paused in the doorway. “When I have time,” I said. “You have enough to keep you busy here for a while, don’t you?”

  “Oh, indeed, but the letter – the letter is key. The sooner I have that, the sooner we’ll have the solution.” He smiled knowingly at me. “The sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I drummed my fingers on the doorframe, reluctant to make promises, but having to admit that the latter was an enticing idea.

  “If not today, then tomorrow.” When he turned away, satisfied, I added, “You take care of the diary. That is a very valuable and irreplaceable old book. It requires delicate handling.”

  He looked at the book in his hands, startled, then a slow smile spread across his face as he recognized his own phrase.

  “I will,” he said. “It’ll be returned unharmed.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” I warned. Then I hurried out into the hall. Once again, I was late for work.

  Excerpt from Mary Chase’s Diary

  June 1st, 1858

  Another letter from Alexander. He reports that he is well, yet his writing isn’t as lively as it is when he is happy. I think this is because he knows that it is not only I who reads his letters and he is naturally cautious. Doubtless he knows, without my telling him, that I write with the same restriction. How hard it is to shape one’s mind and words to the rule of another! It is only in this book that I feel the freedom to express myself as I truly desire.

  I cannot say this to anyone, but I often long for Alexander’s return. I love Avery as a son, and O., of course, but they have their work and I have mine, and the two spheres are worlds apart. I long for my son, who understands me as no one else seems to. Our minds, hearts, and tastes are so alike that we can speak volumes without saying a word and yet words are as comfortable and easy as walking. But I should not complain, for that is being ungrateful. Life is a hard thing and not many have the advantages that I do.

  He is working for a merchant and reports that the work is good, the pay fair, and he is comfortably situated, except that he has not time to read as he used to. He misses his books, though he will not say so. I am arranging to send him a parcel with a few volumes in it, including a new copy of the little prayer book that has brought me so much comfort – God willing, it will rea
ch him without damage. I’m ashamed to say that it is a wrench to part with the books. With hard times falling on the farm, O. will not replace them and without good books, I feel as though my soul will starve. But perhaps I can borrow some from my kind neighbors and, in any case, God will provide, if only I am wise enough to wait for His providence…

  Chapter 15:

  Despite my misgivings, the rest of the week passed quietly. Randall burst in on my dinner that first night to inform me that he’d just received a series of extensive revisions from his editor and he would be forced to attend to those first before pursuing the Chase matter any further. My lack of enthusiasm seemed to goad him until he finally cut himself off in mid-sentence with a frustrated, “Am I boring you?”

  “I’m just wondering when I asked you to keep me informed about your schedule,” I said. I was sitting at the table with my shoes off, a half-eaten sandwich on my dish, and a magazine open in front of me. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but then, I rarely was anymore, unless it was to Joe Tremonti. “Honestly, I don’t really care what you do or when you do it, so long as you keep out from under my feet and out of the way of my clients.”

  “Oh,” he said, then again, “Oh! Well, I can promise that.”

  “Excellent,” I said and turned a page in my magazine.

  A moment went by before he went back into the office, shutting the door behind him.

  According to Aunt Susanna, he spent the majority of the week in there, locking himself in with his research materials and coming out only to help himself to coffee and to pace the front yard. He didn’t eat much, talked less, and seemed, to her mind, to be wrestling with some terrible inner demon. She became so concerned that she called me at work and left a message with my co-worker, Che Che.