She worked by firelight. Gabriel didn't light any candles. They must be precious out here in the wilderness. Perhaps Gabriel hadn't mastered the art of candlemaking. That would have been May's job. Hannah bit her lip to keep herself from crying as she wrung out the rag one last time and wiped down the trestle table.
He took the bowl from her and dumped the water outside. Frosty night air flooded in through the open doorway. Her eyes dropped to the pile of pelts on the far side of the hearth. Bearskins, with deerskins on top. For a moment she thought of the living animals, then of a sharpened knife skinning the hide off the flesh.
Gabriel returned with a fresh bucket of water. "If you need to wash or drink," he said, "here is a dipper." He headed across the room to the wall opposite the hearth and pulled back the curtains on one of the two beds. "You can sleep here." He dragged her trunk across the floor to the bed.
Outside, it was quite dark. Stars shone in the window.
"Anon I go to bed," Gabriel told her. "I rise and retire with the sun."
In the firelight she caught his eye, then looked away in embarrassment. He wanted to undress, she thought. "Where's the privy?" she asked.
He found a candle stub in a brass holder, then opened the door and pointed. "The dogs sleep. I hope they will leave you in peace. But fear them not. They are friendly."
***
When she returned to the house, candle in hand, she found the fire already banked. Scooping water from the bucket with the dipper, she drank. It was so cold, it hurt her teeth, but it tasted pure. After pouring water into the wooden bowl, she plunged her kerchief in and washed her face and hands. Gabriel had already turned in for the night—not to the other bed but to the pile of animal skins on the floor. The firelight caught his long black hair. He lay with his back to her, his face to the wall, his buckskin shirt still on him. Judging from the way his flank rose and fell with steady breathing, he was already asleep.
Taking the candle, she crossed the room to her bed, kicked off her shoes, drew back the bedclothes, hoisted herself on the high mattress, and drew the curtains shut. She stripped down to her shift, then whispered her sister's name and lay herself down.
***
Hours after darkness had fallen, Hannah lay rigid and awake. The night was too loud for sleep. Outside, the owls made as much racket as tavern revelers at home. She buried her head in the musty pillow and listened to her brother-in-law toss in his bed of fur, the floorboards groaning beneath him.
Why did he have to sleep in those skins? Hannah decided that the other bed must have been his marriage bed, where May had borne their child who had not lived, where May herself had drawn her last breath. That meant that the bed where she lay must have belonged to Gabriel's father. This was where Cousin Nathan had died of the flux. The thought made Hannah writhe in the bedclothes. Maybe that explained why she couldn't sleep. Gabriel was right for making his bed on the floor.
If Father only knew how this had turned out, he would die all over again. He would go down on his knees and beg her pardon for sending May across the water. But Father was in heaven with May and her baby. She pictured him with his arms around her sister while she held her infant. No more pain or earthly toil for them. Only we on earth were meant to suffer and grieve.
When she finally slept, she dreamt of her sister. May was as lovely as ever, but she no longer laughed. Her skin had a silvery cast. She had on her wedding gown of green lawn that she and Hannah had embroidered with rosebuds and soft-breasted doves. Sitting beneath the hawthorn tree in Father's garden, May cradled a bundle of bloodstained rags. The bundle became a limp baby with a withered blue face. May's mouth trembled. She threw back her head and wailed. Hannah reached out to embrace her, but her hands sliced through empty air. May rocked the lifeless infant and sang lullabies. I gave my true love a golden ring, and this he loved above all things. The rest of her song was lost as her words ran together into a madwoman's keening. A flurry of brown autumn leaves swept past, obscuring Hannah's view of her sister. When the wind died down, May was gone and the hawthorn was stripped of its leaves. Only blood-red berries remained where the foamy white flowers had been. On the grass beneath the tree were two wooden crosses and two mourning doves.
13. The Crack in the Cradle
Hannah
SHE AWOKE TO THE SMELL of frying eggs. Dressing behind the closed bed curtains, she made herself as decent as possible, combing her hair with her fingers. But she couldn't coil her hair and cover it, having lost her linen cap the day before. Her hair tumbled loose, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She imagined she must look like a ghoul with her eyes swollen from too much crying. Opening the curtains, she stuck her feet into her shoes and made her way to the trestle table.
Gabriel's face was taut and drained, his eyes shadowed. He, too, must have had a hellish night. Without speaking, he passed her a trencher of fried eggs and cornbread, and a cup of milk. At least he still had hens and a cow, she thought, until she tasted the milk, which was so strong and musky it could only have come from a goat. She made an effort to empty her cup. Even goat's milk was too precious to waste.
This was her husband, Hannah thought as they ate in silence. This was the table where they supped together. She looked down at her own hands and saw May's hands. Finally she spoke.
"Will you take me to the graves?"
***
After feeding the dogs, he led Hannah down a narrow path through the trees. There was only room for them to walk single file. He spoke in a hollow voice with his back to her.
"My father thought he was clever, coming here to start his own plantation. But the land was too wild for him. Killed him, it did. Just like it killed your sister and the child."
His pace accelerated to a march. Hannah struggled to keep up. Then he stopped so abruptly that she bumped into his back.
"There you see them." He pointed.
On a grassy knoll near the river were three weedy mounds, each with its own wooden cross. The first cross was the biggest, made of two sanded oak planks neatly nailed together.
HERE LYETH NATHAN WASHBROOK, ESQUIRE
PLANTER
1639–1690
R.I.P.
Each letter had been carved with precision. Hannah imagined Gabriel patiently working the wood with chisel and hammer. By contrast, the other two crosses were made of rough planks lashed together with rawhide. The epitaphs were scratched in the horizontal plank, as crudely executed as paupers' graves at home.
Here lyes Hannah Washbrook, aged 7 days
1690
R.I.P.
Plainest of all was May's grave.
Here lyes May Washbrook
Hannah dropped to her knees in the long grass. Tears stung her eyes. When she found her voice, it came out like acid. "This does not look like the grave of a cherished wife." She swung around and looked Gabriel in the eye, not caring if she offended him. She thought of her parents' tabletop grave at home, the marker as enduring as the stone from which it had been hewn. These two flimsy crosses looked as if they could barely last through one more winter.
Gabriel recoiled. The muscles in his throat twitched. "It is true I am a poor engraver, but I did my best."
She looked at him in confusion. "But your father's grave..."
"Not my handiwork." He turned away. "One of the servants did carve his marker. A lad called James. My father favored him." Something in his voice sounded devastated. Three deaths in the space of a year.
Hannah rose shakily to her feet. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Washbrook. I am so sorry."
"No matter," he said tonelessly. "I will leave you here. I have work to do."
Before she could say anything, he had gone. Hannah knelt again on the green mound that covered her sister's body. She clutched handfuls of weeds and pulled them up by the roots. She was tempted to dig into the earth with her bare hands, scratching like a mole until she came to her sister's coffin. I shall never believe she is truly dead until I see her bones. In one of Joan's tales,
a conjurer gathered a dead girl's scattered remains and played his harp until he charmed the living flesh back on the skeleton and the girl returned to life.
"I will tend your grave," she whispered. She would plant flowers on the mound. Foxglove and heartsease. As long as she lived, she vowed, her sister would never be forgotten.
***
Walking back up the path, Hannah could find no sign of Gabriel. Even his dogs were gone. She cursed herself for her cruel words. The way she had spoken to him was like bludgeoning a wounded man. May God forgive me for my sharp tongue.
Had there been a funeral for May? she wondered. In her letter, May had written of Cousin Nathan's burial and the scarcity of clergymen. We did for ourselves. Gabriel read from the Book of Common Prayer. He must have done the same for May. She pictured him broken at her grave with the prayer book in his hand.
"Gabriel!" She called his name, but he had vanished. There was only the rustle of the wind in the trees, the rush of the river, the harsh music of crows. For some time she followed the paths that sliced through the underbrush. Eventually she discovered a garden enclosed by a fence. Unlatching the gate, she stepped inside. Cabbage, kale, and orange pumpkins held out bravely against the weeds. In her father's botany books, she had read of these large North American gourds and seen pictures of them. She crouched beside one and pressed her fingernail into the hard rind. It barely made a scratch. There were so many New World plants of which she was ignorant. If Father were here, he would send her out to study their properties. Lucy had spoken of powerful physick herbs that were native to this country.
Hannah spun in a circle. She felt a sense of lightness, her sister's presence. The garden was May's handiwork, to be sure, planted from the seeds Hannah had sent along with her. Here were the stalks of foxglove. Its season had passed, but in spring it would rise again. In a sunny sheltered corner, she found a few heartsease flowers still in bloom. Peppermint had completely overrun another corner of the garden, but it was brittle and dormant now.
How late in the year was it? She had lost track of the days. The cloudy sky was full of birds heading south, and the ground was hard. Winter would come soon. Bleakness settled over her again, making her wonder where she would spend the dark, cold months.
Not far from the garden she found two shacks, standing about thirty feet apart, with a clump of trees and bushes between them. They must have been servants' quarters. Both dwellings had dirt floors littered by dead leaves. One was roomy, the other small. On the doorframe of the larger one, someone had carved notches, probably to mark the days.
Hannah was about to return to the house when something drew her toward the smaller shack. Her pulse raced as she stood in the doorway. She couldn't explain why. The hut was empty and bare, not a spoon or rag left behind. The blood rushed inside her ears, rising in a red tide. She could almost hear her sister's voice warning her to be careful. The rules here are different, love. Watch your step. On the lintel someone had carved a heart pierced by three arrows.
A memory came back to her of Joan laying out cards on the kitchen table. The three of spades. She shook her head. What nonsense was this? She shivered, teeth rattling. It was really too cold to be out without a shawl. Lifting her skirts, she ran back to the house.
***
Hannah stood on the porch, one palm on the closed door. "Mr. Washbrook? Gabriel?" There was no answer. If he had work to do, he would be outdoors, not inside the house.
By daylight, the house appeared a different place altogether. Though the benches were battered and the table scored from knives, she was astonished how clean and well ordered it was, especially considering a man lived here on his own. Nonetheless, she found a broom in the corner and began to sweep. Joan, who had never believed in Father's medicine of the humors, had said that keeping busy was the only true cure for melancholy. The devil gives idle hands work to do.
Once the floor was swept, she decided to search the place for some artifact of May. Surely Gabriel would forgive her. This had been her sister's home, after all, and what a comfort it would be to uncover some possession of hers.
Hannah opened a door that led to a narrow pantry, lit by a high window. Bunches of dried herbs and strings of onions hung from the ceiling. Stoppered clay jars lined the shelves. She lifted the lid of one jar and sniffed a powerful-smelling fat that she recognized from the previous night. Gabriel had used this to grease the pan. The fried fish had tasted delectable, but the fat in its pure state made her slam the lid back down.
In the other jars she found dried beans and peas. There was a barrel of salt pork, another barrel of dry maize kernels, a basket of eggs, three boxes of apples wrapped in straw, two more of some unknown tuber. In the far corner was a butter churn that looked as though it hadn't been used in some time. On the floor, arranged in a row, were pumpkins and gourds. Though the pantry seemed well stocked, she wondered whether there would be enough to get two people through the winter. Gabriel had thought he would have to provide only for himself. If she remained here, she would be a burden to him. He had been hospitable enough, but he had not invited her to stay.
Leaving the pantry, Hannah closed the door behind her. It wouldn't be respectable for a man and a woman to live together, so far apart from society, without even a servant for company. People would surmise the worst. Her reputation would be as ruined as May's had been in their village, even if she remained as ignorant of the whole business as some papist nun. It would do nothing for Gabriel's good name, either. She would have to leave. Where could she go? Back to Anne Arundel Town? If only she hadn't lost track of Lucy and Cassie. They would be able to tell her what a spinster with her education might do.
As long as she was here, she should make herself useful. There was nothing worse than a lazy houseguest. She should wash the window, air out the bed linens and curtains. Hunting for cleaning rags, she went to the chest and opened each drawer in turn. She found a worn pair of men's breeches, two linen shirts with raveled cuffs, a brown woolen waistcoat, and a folded greatcoat. She found a drawer of men's stockings and underlinen. In the very top drawer there were rolled-up maps of the Bay and surrounding plantations, but nothing that could have belonged to her sister. Not even a handkerchief. What had become of her beautiful wedding dress? Her green cloak?
Maybe Adele had stolen May's clothes when she ran away. But when she thought back to her sister's letters, that made no sense. May had praised Adele, saying she was loyal and good, her only friend on this shore. Could that girl have been so treacherous to a mistress so fond of her? The hair on Hannah's nape prickled at the memory of standing before the hut with the pierced heart carved in the lintel. What a tangle. She couldn't begin to comprehend any of it without Gabriel's help. She would have to gather her nerve, question him more closely, even if she risked offending him again. On her own, it was just one big riddle. The deductive reasoning Father had taught her was of no use. Joan could have made more sense of it with her cards.
She reached for the curtains of the bed she assumed had been May and Gabriel's. They were thick with dust and could use a good beating. When she unhooked them from the bed frame, she saw there was no mattress, just the mesh of ropes that had once supported it. Hannah stared at that blank space until her stomach clenched. She thought of May bearing down in childbirth. The mattress had been ruined. Perhaps after her death Gabriel had burned it for fear of spreading contagion.
But where could May's trunk be? It was too large an object to hide, too heavy a thing to be easily stolen. An impulse overtook her. Crouching down, she looked under the bed. Though the bed was high, there was not enough space to conceal a trunk. But some object was stored there. Her fingers grabbed the edge and slowly pulled it out into the daylight. When she saw what it was, she cried more than she had at May's grave. Grief was a terrible trickster, Joan always said. Just when you thought you could live with your pain, grief found a new way to twist its blade into your flesh.
The cradle was veiled in cobwebs, stuffed with stained rags.
Though it was built of sturdy planks, one of the side walls was loose. A crack ran down the headboard. Hannah upended the cradle, dumping out the rags. Fetching a clean cloth and the bucket of water Gabriel had left on the table, she scrubbed at the dirt and grime until the grain of the wood was visible. The cradle was made of birch. Joan would be pleased, for she had always said that a birchwood cradle protected by a rowan cross would guard the baby from every evil. It would keep the faeries from stealing the child.
Hannah held the cradle as if it were an infant. Setting it down again, she rocked it gently. She ran her finger up and down the crack, which could be sanded smooth or varnished but never mended.
A fever moved through her. Before she took the curtains out to air, she had to find something else, another clue. The dresser contained only crockery, knives, and spoons. The oak box on top of the chest of drawers housed the family Bible and the Book of Common Prayer.
She climbed the ladder to the trapdoor. To open it, she had to push with both hands. After several attempts, she finally heaved it so that it fell on the attic floor with an explosion of dust that left her coughing. Climbing up the ladder, she poked her head in the opening. It was the darkest attic she had ever seen, no window to pierce the gloom. The light coming from below wasn't strong enough to illuminate more than what lay in the immediate vicinity of the trapdoor. The air was stale and smelled of mildew.
Backing down the ladder, she found the candle stub she had used the night before, lit it from the hearth embers, and picked her way back up the rungs. The ceiling slanted sharply on either side, but it was high enough in the middle to allow her to stand. She held out the candle in different directions. Indistinct shapes covered the floor. Sleeping pallets? The candle flame revealed cobwebs, thick as carded wool, that coated the eaves. Gritting her teeth, she took a few steps. A scuttling noise made her think of beetles rushing for cover. Her foot caught on some object. As she fought to keep her balance, her free arm flailed and brushed the cobwebs. Spider silk coated her hand.
The Vanishing Point Page 9
