in town. Did you see the way Rose was looking at him last week at church? But he doesn’t even glance at other girls. It’s obvious he worships you.” “He does?” I ask, and Maura nods vehemently.
If my sisters and I were ordinary girls, would I want a life in New London with Paul? He told me more about the city last time he called: the
restaurants with spicy, exotic Mexican dishes; the long rambles he takes along the piers to watch the ships coming in; the zoo full of animals from all
over the world. It sounds grand. Every day there would be an adventure. And he wants to show me all of it.
If I were a brave girl—an adventurous girl, like Arabella—that’s what I’d want, too. It’s what Maura wants. Her eyes lit up like candles when he
spoke of it.
Sometimes I wonder if he chose the wrong sister.
Maura stretches back against the leather bench like a cat. “I see the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. All moony. His eyes
have this sort ofgleamin them.”
“Agleam?” I tease. “Oh, heavens!”
“You shouldn’t laugh, Cate. He’d make you a good husband, I expect. Only—” Maura hesitates. “Areyou in love with him, do you think?” “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I care about him.”
“But does your heart pound when he’s near?” Maura’s blue eyes go dreamy. “In my novels, the heroine’s heart always pounds. Do you feel like
swooning when he touches your hand? Or when he says your name? Do you feel as though you’ll die if you’re apart from him for a single day?” The pragmatic one, is she? I burst into laughter. “No, I can’t say I do.”
She frowns. “Then it must not be love. Not yet, anyway.”
Elena leaps on us the second we get inside, eager to hear how it went. The three of us gather in the sitting room: Elena perfectly poised in the blue chair, Maura bouncing on her end of the sofa as she brags about how popular we were. I collapse onto the other end of sofa, exhausted, but my conscience batters at me until I thank Elena and assure her that we were a credit to her teaching. Maura regales her with the details: how gaudy and grand the Ishidas’ house is, with its silks and chandeliers in every room; how bold and fashionable Sachi’s dress was; how Cristina said she’ll declare her intention to marry Matthew Collier on Sunday at church.
“Soon it’ll be your turn, Cate,” Elena says. “Mr. McLeod stopped by this afternoon while you were out. He was very sorry to miss you.” Maura laughs. “I told you! He’s pining over you!”
“Are you pining, too?” Elena’s eyes feel like searchlights.
I bury my face against the curved back of the sofa and groan. “That’s none of your business.”
“Cate!” Maura chastises. “Don’t be rude.”
I want to point out that it’s Elena’s prying that makes me speak rudely, but she’s hardly the first to ask. Sachi and Rory felt it perfectly within their
rights to question me about Paul; Mrs. Winfield and Mrs. Ishida made insinuations; Maura interrogated me on the way home. I won’t have any peace until I announce my decision. It’s down to ten weeks now.
“It ismy business, actually. Your father hired me to see to it that you girls make suitable arrangements.”Arrangements, she says—notmarriages. But it’s mortifying to have it laid out so plainly. Father didn’t trust me to find my own husband, so he brought a governess aboard to help. “Marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly, Cate. If you’re unsure—we can talk about it. You do have other alternatives. The Sisterhood—”
“I don’t want to join the Sisterhood,” I snap.
Elena leans forward, tapping her nails against the wooden arm of the chair. “Do you want to marry Mr. McLeod?”
“I don’t know,” I say miserably. I raise my eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What else is there?” Maura demands. “You only have—”
“I know!” I shout. “Ten weeks!Do you honestly think I could forget?”
“Cate—” Maura looks shocked. It’s a rare thing, my raising my voice with them.
“Leave me alone, please,” I beg, scrambling out of the room. “I just want to be alone.”
“Cate!” Maura calls after me, but Elena tells her to let me go.
I burst outside without grabbing my cloak. I’m almost running—I don’t know where—there’s nowhere to go. I stumble in my stupid heeled shoes
and wish I could kick them off and run barefoot like I used to. I’m tired of stays and petticoats and heels, of hairpins that bite into my scalp and tight braids that make my head ache. I’m exhausted with trying to be everything—an unassailably polite young lady, a stand-in mother, a clever daughter, an agreeable would-be wife and—
I don’t want to be any of those things! I just want to be me. Cate. Why isn’t that ever enough?
I come to the little meadow by our barn. I wish I could just hide away somewhere no one can find me.
Inspiration strikes. It’s not proper, but—bother proper.
I bend down, unbuckle my shoes, and kick them off. They land in the shade of the wide, gnarled old apple tree. It’s been years, and I’m not entirely
confident I can still manage this. I launch myself at the tree anyway, grasping the branch next to my head, clambering onto the thick, knotted lower limb. I’m not terribly graceful about it. My stockings tear straightaway, and I almost fall back down because of the weight of my skirts. For a minute I hug the tree, teetering unsteadily, but then I find my balance and turn around and climb higher. I sit astride the third limb on the right, five feet off the ground, legs and skirts dangling. My childhood self would laugh to see me settle for this when I used to climb twice as high.
I pull the pins out of my hair and toss them to the ground one by one. I tilt my head back and look up, up, up through the arching, apple-laden branches at the sky. It’s very blue today—there’s probably a word for this precise blue. Tess would know. I ought to spend less time trying to get a husband and more time studying the sky, learning the names for all the different blues. I laugh, a little giddy.
“Miss Cahill?”
I lean forward, steadying myself with both hands on the limb in front of me, peering down through green leaves, right into Finn Belastra’s astonished face.
A lady wouldn’t be caught dead in this position. But a gentleman—wouldn’t a true gentleman ignore me and walk away, to spare me the embarrassment?
I give him a weak wave.
Finn chuckles. “Are you a tree sprite now?”
“I’m pretending to be twelve again.” I scrape frantically at my hair, wishing I hadn’t thrown all the pins away. I must look a fright. He’s always handsome, even covered in sawdust from the gazebo, with that ludicrous hair and his glasses all crooked.
He sets down the ladder he’s carrying. “Twelve wasn’t my best. Thought I knew everything. Got my arse kicked on a regular basis.”
“Twelve was heavenly!” I protest. “No responsibility. I could do anything I liked.”
“Such as?” Finn asks, leaning against the knobby trunk.
“Running through the fields. Climbing trees. Reading about pirates. Splashing around in the pond, pretending to be a mermaid!” I laugh, remembering.
“You’d make a very fetching mermaid.” His eyes are admiring. “Will you toss me an apple?”
I pluck an apple and throw it to him. He ducks.
“You were meant to catch it,” I point out, swinging one leg over the branch, scrambling to find my footing on the lower limb.
“You surprised me with your excellent aim. It’s—”
I glower at him. “If you say ‘good for a girl,’ I’ll never forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You terrify me,” he laughs.
“Don’t tease,” I protest, hugging the tree trunk again. “I’m mortified enough as it is.”
“Why? Do you need help? Do you want me to catch you?”
“Certainly not,” I say, chi
n in the air. I just don’t want him seeing up my skirts. Or to see me falling on my face, if it comes to that. “Avert your eyes, please.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Finn sounds worried.
“I won’t. This is hardly my first time climbing a tree. Now turn around.”
Finn obediently turns his back, hands shoved in his pockets. I hang on to the branch and let myself drop. The shock of landing sends pain shooting up both my legs. “Ouch,” I breathe.
Finn whirls around. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just—I’m so sorry.” I finger-comb leaves from my hair. My new dress is half ruined, a bit of lace has come loose from the hem, and my stockings are entirely shredded.
Finn leans over and plucks a leaf from my hair. “Why are you apologizing?”
I bury my face in my hands. An hour. I wanted one hour to be invisible, and I couldn’t even get that. “I—well. I’m a bit old to be climbing trees, aren’t I?”
“Are you? It’s your tree, isn’t it; I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t climb it if you like.” Finn sets up the ladder beneath the tree.
“I hardly think the Brothers would approve. I look like a vagrant.”
“You look beautiful,” he disagrees. This time his blush spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. “The Brotherhood would suck all the color and joy out of the world if we’d let them.”
I’m silent, fascinated. He rakes a hand through his tousled copper hair. “I—now it’s my turn to apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.”
The grass is cool against the soles of my feet. “But you did. Is that what you really think?” I ask, voice low.
Finn turns back to me, his brown eyes serious behind his glasses. “I don’t think the Lord wants us to be miserable, Miss Cahill. It’s not a prerequisite for our salvation. That’s what I think.”
CHAPTER 8
I’M NOT NERVOUS. NOT UNTIL I push open the heavy door to Belastras’ bookshop the next morning. Then I’m struck with the sudden, ridiculous urge to pick up my skirts and run. I glance back at the carriage, but having seen me safely inside—or close enough—John’s already driving away toward the general store. It would hardly be appropriate for me to run down the street after him.
I’m meant to be having a lesson in watercolors at home, but I informed Elena I wasn’t inspired by the basket of fruit and asked to paint the garden instead. When she agreed—landscapes are apparently all the fashion now—I sneaked over to the barn and asked John if I could ride along into town. There was one name, besides Zara’s, that came up again and again in Mother’s diary. One person she trusted with her secrets. Marianne Belastra.
“Could you shut the door, please?”
That’s Finn’s voice. Drat. I assumed he would be working on the gazebo.
I step all the way in.
Belastras’ is a fire warden’s nightmare. Labyrinthine bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling. The shelves always seem to be full, no matter how
many books are banned or censored by the Brothers. The place smells like Father’s study: sweet pipe smoke mingled with woodsy parchment. Dust motes sail in on sunbeams at the front, but the back of the shop hovers in shadow.
I have never felt comfortable here. I can’t understand the way Maura and Father can linger for hours, stroking spines with loving fingers, paging reverently through old texts, mouths and eyes moving in silent worship.
I don’t understand their church any more than I understand the Brothers’.
Finn Belastra strolls out from behind a row of bookshelves. He’s wearing a proper jacket today instead of shirtsleeves. “Can I help you find—oh, good day, Miss Cahill.”
I shrink back toward the door, feeling shy after our arboreal encounter yesterday. “Good day, Mr. Belastra. Is your mother here?”
Finn shakes his head. “She’s feeling poorly. Headache. I’m looking after the shop for her. Is there something I can help you with?” He sorts through a stack of books on the counter. “We don’t have a package for your father. Did he have something shipped?”
It’s been difficult to slip away from my sisters and Elena’s interminable etiquette lessons to see Marianne. It never occurred to me that when I finally got up the nerve and the opportunity to ask, she wouldn’t be here to answer my questions.
“I’m not here for Father.” I fidget, trying to tamp down my irritation. It’s not Finn’s fault that his mother’s ill, or that today is unlike any other day I’ve set foot here.
“Oh.” Finn gives me that winsome grin of his. “Have you come looking for Arabella?”
“No. I’d hoped—is there any chance your mother could come down and see me, just for a moment? It’s important.”
Finn pushes his spectacles up his nose. “I know you lack confidence in my skill as a gardener, but I can assure you I’m a very good bookseller. What is it you’re looking for?”
I can’t ask him for books on magic. But if I turn around and leave, my trip will be a waste. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to come into town without my sisters?
“I’ve heard you keep a register of trials.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think of the consequences. What if Finn doesn’t know his mother keeps it?
He squints at me. “Where did you hear that?” There’s a touch of iron in his voice. “And even if we had such a thing—what would a girl like you want with it?”
“A girl like me? What sort of girl would that be, exactly?” I ask, hurt. “A girl who doesn’t go around with her nose stuck in a book all day? I’m not allowed to have an interest in—in local history?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Finn says hurriedly. “It’s not something we go lending out on a whim, is all. Why do you want to see it?”
“I had a godmother,” I say slowly. “She and my mother were school friends. But she was arrested for witchery. I wanted to read about her.”
Finn comes closer. “And I can trust you with it?”
I throw my hands up into the air, frustrated. “Yes! I trust you not to go murdering my flowers, don’t I? We all take our chances.”
Finn tilts his head and studies me for a long minute. Evidently, I pass muster. “All right. Wait here.” He opens the door beside the stairs and disappears inside the closet. A moment later, he emerges with a ledger, the sort used to keep records in a shop. “Follow me.”
I follow him down the twisting rows of books, nerves swarming like butterflies. He stops before a desk in the very back. “Do you know what year she was arrested?”
“No. Well—less than sixteen years ago, but more than ten. If she was my godmother, she would have been present at my christening, but I don’t remember her at all.”
“The entries are chronological, of course,” Finn says. He leans against a bookshelf while I situate myself in the desk chair.
“Of course,” I mock. I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”
“Your hair.” My hood’s fallen off, revealing the braids wound around the crown of my head. Maura did them for me this morning, practicing one of the styles in Elena’s fashion magazines. “It’s pretty. That style suits you.”
“Thank you.” My eyes fall to the ledger, my cheeks burning. “Are you going to hover? I promise I won’t run off with this.”
“No, I’ll leave you to it.” But he hesitates. “Mother would prefer the Brotherhood not know about this record. If the bell above the door rings, you might put it in the drawer and occupy yourself with something else. For your own safety, as well as ours.”
“I—yes. Of course. Thank you.”
I wait until his footsteps have receded to the counter. I can hear every step of his shoes against the creaking wooden floor. It’s so quiet in here, I can barely think—not like the quiet of outdoors, where there are always insects buzzing, birds singing and scolding, and wind rustling through the trees. This is an eerie, dead silence.
When I flip open the book, the cover falls back against the desk with a sharp crack. I page b
ack sixteen years to 1880 and scan the list of names in the left-hand column.
Margot Levieux, aged 16, and Cora Schadl, aged 15,the first entry reads.12 January 1880. Crime: caught kissing in the Schadls’blueberry fields. Accused of deviance and lust. Sentence: Harwood Asylum for both.
Sent to Harwood for the rest of their lives for kissing another girl? That seems unduly severe.
This register is fascinating! I’ve never seen the Brotherhood’s accusations and judgments laid out plainly before. Normally they’re shrouded in mystery and spoken of only in whispers, like bogeymen under the bed.
Halfway through 1886, I find the name I’m looking for.
Sister Zara Roth, aged 27. 26 July 1886. Crime: witchery (known). Accused of possessing forbidden books on the subject of magic and spying on the trials of the Brotherhood. Accusers: Brothers Ishida and Winfield. Sentence: Harwood Asylum.
It’s no more than what I discovered at the Ishidas’ tea. My godmother managed to smuggle a letter out of an asylum for the criminally insane. Only —how did she know that we’re not safe? Unless—did Brenna predict something?
I continue my reading. Mrs. Belastra writes about the sentencing of girls here in Chatham and also notes what she hears of trials in nearby towns. The vast majority of girls are transported to the coast and put to hard labor. A few, like Brenna, are sentenced to Harwood. A few more are dismissed with only warnings, and Mrs. Belastra notes that all of them subsequently moved away or disappeared.
What happened to those women? Living in Chatham after a trial would be difficult, knowing the Brothers’ vigilant eyes—and spies—are everywhere. Did the women flee to a bigger city, where it might be easier to slip into the crowd unnoticed? Or did something more sinister befall them?
Mother noted in her diary that there was no discernible pattern to the sentencing, and as far as I can tell, that still holds true. Women who steal bread from shops or take a lover are sentenced to backbreaking years at sea, whereas some women accused of witchery are found innocent and dismissed outright. How is that possible, with all the Brothers’ paranoia about magic? Unless—unless they aren’t as oblivious as I thought, and they know how rare true witchery is. That’s almost worse. It would mean the increase in arrests isn’t due to any wrongdoing at all; it’s only meant to keep us frightened.
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