The Untold Prophecy (The Last Library Book 1)

by Jill Cooper

  “It’s rule and law,” Poppa agreed as he struggled to sit down on my mattress beside me. “But, the ministers can’t govern our hearts, can they? They try but they can’t take away what it is we feel.”

  I shook my head and wondered what my mother would say to that if she’d heard. “I thought I could save him I thought…it was foolish.”

  “Maybe, but you care. It’s not a crime to care about others…at least not yet.”

  I snorted. It probably would be eventually; that’s how the ministers worked. First it was books, then it was art, then color, then displays of affection…. They took and they took until there was nothing left.

  And we just let them.

  Poppa patted my knee. “We’ll be okay. Momma has talked to a few mothers already. Some up and coming boys would love to be merchants and marry into the family.”

  My eyebrows rose. So, it would be that easy to replace George? My heart disagreed. “Pardon me, Poppa?”

  He nodded as if proud of what he said. “We’ll be meeting one of the boys tonight. I know it’s fast and we’ll give you time to mourn George in private, but we only have six months and we must come to an agreement.”

  An agreement? Was that all it was to him and Momma? Didn’t it matter that George was a person or that I loved him? “Poppa…” I shook my head.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Did you fall in love with Momma after you married?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I can barely remember a time without her. I care for her and do what I can to make life easy for her. We work well together, and we get by. We laugh, on occasion, together. Is that the same as love?”

  I didn’t think so, but I didn’t voice it.

  He patted my knee again and stood up. “Few more minutes of this and then it’s back to work.”

  “Thanks for the talk,” I said flatly. Not like our conversation helped much of anything, but at least he’d tried. “About the rations. I’m sorry I…lost them.”

  Poppa smiled. “Someone saw what happened and brought our portion by. We’re going to be having quite the feast this week. We received cheese!”

  “Cheese.” I scowled. We hadn’t had any cheese for years in Rottenwood. I sat up straighter on the bed. “Who was it that brought it by?”

  Poppa shrugged. “I didn’t see her, but your mother did. Maybe ask her about it.”

  I nodded. I certainly would.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tarnish Rose

  I helped Momma in the kitchen that night. She was quieter and more reserved after our confrontation and I felt bad. But she didn't seem to want to talk about what happened, or about the situation with George.

  Instead, she handed me a knife and pointed to the wheel of cheese. “Will you slice that for me? It'll go well with our dinner.”

  “Sure, Momma.”

  She gave me a sideways smile and I relaxed. Maybe things were all right with us after all.

  I didn't know how we managed to be lucky enough to get a wheel of cheese. I removed the paper parchment from around the cheese and even though it was still incased in wax, I smelled its creamy aroma. As I crinkled up the wrapper, I noticed words were written on the underside.

  “What's that?” Momma asked.

  With wide eyes, I read aloud the sentence that was written on the wax paper. “Be more careful with your rations in the future.”

  “What did you say?” Momma was breathless as she asked. She moved away from me ever so slightly, as if I was something to be feared.

  “Nothing.” I rushed to swallow. “I just…”

  Momma snatched it out of my hands and tore it up before stuffing it down deep into the trash. “Go to your cove. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  I rushed on to apologize. “Momma…”

  “Now!” Momma screamed, her hands running through her hair. “Don’t defy me again today, Abbigail Taylor! Don’t come out until you are called!”

  I tore through the house and ran as fast as I could past Poppa. Momma might’ve been scared of what had happened but so was I.

  Who had written that warning and had it been intended for me all along? It had to be, but it also meant someone out there knew who I was and was watching me.

  ****

  Momma picked a simple blue dress for me with a lace trim along the hemline and collar. With my hair done up in a braid spiral, I stood in front of the mirror near her bed, staring at my reflection. The hairstyle froze me in place because that was the style I had been going to wear when I’d married George; it had been decided months ago.

  Now George was set to be killed and I was back on the market looking for a husband.

  Momma pulled a bobby pin from her mouth and stuck it into my hair, most likely the final one I would need before we set off for the night. “I know this is hard for you.”

  I tried to nod, but instead it looked like a weird stilted movement.

  “But it’s necessary. You need to be married off before you’re too old to do so. Before stares and glances start to be directed at us. Your father can’t afford to lose the seal of the ministers, Abby. That would do nothing but cast suspicion at us.”

  Like they’d ever do anything wrong. “I’m only seventeen.”

  Momma nodded as she put her supplies away. “And the window for marriage is small. Nobody likes a spinster.”

  “I agreed to marry George because I—”

  Momma held her finger up at me. “You agreed to do it because it is what is expected. Nothing more and nothing less. I won’t hear foolish talk. Head downstairs. I’ll be right down.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but it was clear from her pinched lips that she wouldn’t hear reason.

  Downstairs, Poppa stood at the door with his hands in his pockets, gazing out of the window at the city streets. Outside the grey sky had opened up and cast rain down onto the roads. When he saw me, he grabbed the umbrella leaning against the wall, and I hooked my arm through his. Together we stood and watched the downpour.

  “Ready for this?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He grumbled an acknowledgement. “Yesterday things were much different. This situation isn’t ideal, by any means.”

  That was putting it mildly.

  “But we’ll get you through it—that’s what family is for. We’ve lived our lives for this moment, to set you off in the world, raise you right, so you can be a productive member of society. It means everything to us, Abbigail.”

  His words were designed to be kind and supportive, so why did I feel so alone? Why did everything about this feel so wrong?

  “I’m sure she knows that, don’t you?” Momma came up behind us and tugged her jacket down into place before she picked up the pie from the counter. It, too, was apple, just like the pie she had made for George and his family the day before. It was as if everything was on repeat.

  It didn’t matter who I was, who George was, all that mattered was that the ministers got what they wanted. That society continued, be damned of the individuals who got hurt in the end.

  Together we walked under two umbrellas over three streets and then took a left. A few blocks later, we were near a big house and I was surprised how much bigger it was than our shop. Outside was a sign with a needle and thread pictured on it—a seamstress shop—and a renowned one that made things such as heavy jackets and scarfs.

  The very jacket Momma wore that night.

  “I hadn’t realized I was marrying up,” I said with a razor edge in my voice.

  Momma flinched as she grabbed the brass door knocker. “We want to make a good impression, Abby,” Poppa said.

  A woman in a glamorous gray dress with a high, tight collar answered the door. Her sleeves were long and white, and she wore pins in the black and white belt cinching her waist. While her face was beautiful, her nose was pinched, and she wore a forever frown beneath her sky-high cheekbones. “Taylors, it is such a pleasure to welcome you to our home.” With her hand on the door, s
he curtseyed deep and gave a flourish of her arm.

  My mouth went dry and I gazed away, picturing George and his welcoming mother—in the days she had been happy. I didn’t want to be here, and I doubted I could handle a second of it.

  Momma smiled widely. “The pleasure is all ours Mrs. Richardson. I did bake a pie.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have! What kind?”

  “Apple.”

  “Oh, how sweet,” Mrs. Richardson said as she took it from Momma’s hands. “I already made us a banana custard, but this will go well with coffee.”

  “Bananas?” Momma’s voice nearly cracked as her face fell. “Well, by the workmen’s laws, we haven’t had a banana in nearly five years.”

  “Sounds about right,” Poppa grumbled.

  “This will be a fine night then! Come in, come in!” Mrs. Richardson stepped back to allow us entry into her living room.

  It was the finest room I had ever stepped in and probably rivaled that of the ministers’ homes themselves. The dressed mannequins in the display nooks wore the finest clothes my eyes had ever fallen on, and a crystal chandelier with candles hung from the rafters. There were three crushed velvet sofas and a plush rose rug beneath our feet.

  I had thought we lived in luxury, but this…I had never seen this.

  Momma’s expression was long and her face was the palest I had seen in a long time. Maybe she felt as out classed as I did. “Well…your home is exquisite.”

  Mrs. Richardson tossed her hand. “Oh please, these sofas are two years old at least!”

  “It’s a beautiful home,” I said as I walked over to one of the mannequins. Her pinstripe dress with a high bustle in the back was at once professional and regal. Upon her stationary head was a black derby hat accessorized with feathers and lace swept up in the back. The finest in funeral wear I had ever seen.

  I stroked the fabric of the dress between my fingers. “This is the fabric the ministers wear. Do you make all their suits for them?”

  Mrs. Richardson nodded proudly. “I carry their seal just as your parents do. Our union makes perfect sense and I don’t know why the ministers didn’t think of it before. I’ll ring Timothy for you, Abby. He’s dying to meet you, as is my husband. Dinner will be set in a matter of minutes.” She smiled before she headed quickly down the long hall like a woman on a mission.

  I stepped up to stare after her. The hallway was covered in black wallpaper while several bronze frames covered the wall. When she disappeared into the kitchen, I saw what could only be described as a house servant working over the hot stove. Slowly, with my hand against the wall, I peered around the corner.

  “That’s not how you do it!” Mrs. Richardson’s voice shrilled out of the shadows. I jumped as I heard a slap. “Never scorch the cream. Do I need to do everything myself around here!”

  “Abby, don’t mess this up, please.” When I gazed back at Momma, she was adjusting her hair, feeling it to make sure her bun was still tight in place. “Not only is this good for you, it’s good for all of us. We need this to work.”

  Tears filled my eyes as I thought of George and how the life we talked about was just over.

  I pivoted on my heel to see who I assumed was Timothy, standing on the grand staircase to my left. He was perfection in his fitted black suit and tie. His brown hair was smooth and his jaw as strong as George’s. His eyes were another matter; they were hollow and flat, as though they possessed no depth at all.

  “Timothy Richardson, I presume.”

  “You presume right.” Timothy smirked as he stepped down the last two stairs. “Abbigail Taylor, the descriptions my mother gave me of you…well…hardly.”

  I bristled and heard Poppa suck in his breath.

  “Easy there, Timothy. Please forgive my son, Mrs. Taylor.” Mr. Richardson entered the room from the hall. He offered me his hand and I shook it. “He has a problem with being blunt.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Richardson. I have a habit of not doing what I’m told,” I said.

  He gave me a subdued smirk and went off to greet my waiting parents. Instead of following him, I stayed with Timothy who offered me a sigh. “Oh, this should be fun.”

  “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot. My friends call me Abby.” I offered him my hand in friendship.

  “Oh please,” Timothy rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, “a child’s name. When we are wed, you’ll call yourself Abbigail Richardson, as is to be expected.”

  “Nothing is decided yet.” I stuck out my chin, trying to control my temper.

  “It was decided the moment your parents agreed to dinner, Abby.” He mocked my name and I rushed with an intense anger. I wanted to pound him into the ground.

  “Well, with your disposition, I can see why you hadn’t been arranged to marry anyone prior to this. And if we are to be married, you’ll find it’ll go a lot easier if we actually like each other.”

  “A plain little mouse like you?” Timothy snorted. “The only reason my parents want me to wed you is to get in with a merchant family. The ministers will throw favor on both of our families. To have a tailor and a merchant joining? We might as well be joining two kingdoms.”

  “If you think I’m going to be a tailor…”

  “It is your name, right?” Timothy laughed at his unfunny little joke while I fumed quietly. “I’ll marry you, I’ll even lie with you to have a child, but to like you? You better learn that a wife does what she’s told. She listens to her husband if she doesn’t want the ministers to come around.”

  In shock, I stood there and stared after him as he left for the dinner table. Had he just threatened me? We weren’t even scheduled to be wed yet and he was already resorting to threats of violence against me.

  “Abby!” Poppa called from the table, bending low to peek through the doorway at me. “Please, come to dinner.”

  I wiped at my eyes even though no tears were yet to fall. If I married this lout Timothy, it’d only be a matter of time before the tears really did start to fall.

  “Coming Poppa! Coming.”

  ****

  The dinner was one of the best meals I ever had. A good thing considering I had nothing to say to anyone. With the pies cut and coffee served, I kept my eyes on the cook, a tall olive-skinned woman who wore a handkerchief over her brown hair. Her skin was perfectly smooth, her face more beautiful than any I had seen. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and she glowed in a way I wasn’t used to.

  Despite her servitude, there was a life in her eyes that sparkled. Her head was bent down low as she walked around the table as if afraid to look at us.

  “Clear the dishes now,” Mrs. Richardson said as she picked up her teacup, “not five minutes from now.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said with her head tucked as deep into her chin as her skin would allow.

  “Does she have a name?” I asked, causing a collective gasp from the table.

  “What does it matter if she has a name?” Timothy laughed. “We wouldn’t use it. She works for us and is lucky we give her a place to sleep and some scraps to eat at the end of the day.”

  I stiffened and glanced at my parents to see if they would retort, but they were busy eating pie; Momma stared straight ahead while Poppa just stared into his caramel colored coffee. They couldn’t be okay with that, could they?

  “I’m a spinster, madam,” the woman said to me, a handful of plates in her hands. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Don’t talk to the guests.” Mr. Richardson’s tone was at least less abusive than his wife’s. “You’re dismissed.”

  I watched her go and wished there was something I could say, something I could do.

  “It’s settled then?” Timothy asked as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Abbigail Taylor and I will be wed?”

  Both sets of parents nodded and silently my eyes pleaded with Poppa, but he wouldn’t look over at me. They would just marry me off like I was a commodity to be bartered and traded.
>
  “It’s settled,” Mr. Richardson said, “and there is much to learn about our life, Abbigail, but I think you’ll make a fine wife and have a beautiful child with our Timothy here.”

  “It’ll be a celebration unlike any other,” Mrs. Richardson agreed and lifted her coffee cup. Everyone followed suit except for me. Momma’s eyes bore holes into me, but there was nothing I could do. My arms felt heavy as stone and I wouldn’t toast being a part of this union. I wouldn’t.

  When Momma put her mug back down, she sighed. “I think it’s best if we head out for the night and allow us to sleep on all that’s happened.”

  “Of course, we can understand this situation is sudden, but it will be for the best, Mrs. Taylor.” Mrs. Richardson smiled at me in a way that turned me to ice, absolute ice. I didn’t like her, and I was on the verge of telling her so. Anyone that could raise a boar of a young man like Timothy had to be a horrible person.

  When Poppa tugged on the back of my chair, I stood. “Thanks for dinner.” I gave a slight bow.

  “Our pleasure. When your chores are done this week, you can come by and we’ll start to teach you the ways of being a seamstress,” Mrs. Richardson said. “I’ll teach you every trick I know. We’ll have a blast, dear.”

  I was surprised she didn’t make her slave do all the work. “I’m sure it is something special, but I’m a merchant’s daughter, that is my chosen profession.”

  Timothy laughed, his hand resting on the back of his chair. “Not for much longer. Soon, everything is going to change, Abby.”

  And it felt like the noose was tightening around my neck.

  “Good day,” I said and bowed quickly—not low or deep—and ran out of there.

  I couldn’t breathe as I ran down the street. My chest tightened, and I felt the walls closing in. If I married Timothy, my life would change. My secret books wouldn’t be allowed, and he’d never let me get a moment’s rest. I’d have to change everything there was about me. I wouldn’t be me anymore.

  And my parents were just going to let that happen.