Her smile was soft as a shadow. “I came to thank you for what you did today,” she said. Sure, I didn’t know what she was meaning and it must have showed on my face, because then she said, “In thwarting Mrs. Todd’s designs. Your fierce protection is priceless, Maggie.”
“You’re welcome, miss,” I said. “But you should be going back to bed now.”
Instead, she stepped into my room. She was looking all around, as if my simple things were interesting to her.
“How lovely!” she said. She was staring at the rosary hanging on the wall—the one I’d taken to calling Patrick’s because it was himself gave it to me. The beads had caught the lantern light and were winking like tiny amber stars.
She touched it with a finger so the crucifix trembled. “I’ve never seen you use this one, Maggie.”
“No, miss.” I was surprised she noticed, but too tired to be explaining. In truth, I wondered why I still kept it on the wall. “You really should be sleeping now. ’Twas a hard day.”
She nodded. “I shall sleep soon enough,” she said. She was still looking at Patrick’s rosary.
Sure, I was ashamed I said it, knowing how she coupled sleep with death. And she’d just lost her mam. Felt awful, I did. “Oh, miss,” I said, “I’m dreadful sorry. I was only thinking you’re needing your rest.”
She nodded and a sigh came out of her. “It’s all right, Maggie. I know what you meant.” Then she smiled. “I know your heart.”
I was staggered—tears sprang into my eyes. I was desperate to soothe her, to take away the pain. I quick took Patrick’s rosary off its hook and put it in her hand. Didn’t know what else to do.
She stared at it. “Oh no,” she whispered. “You mustn’t—”
“I want you to have it,” I said. “I’ll not take it back. Besides, the beads are the color of your eyes. Now go along to bed.”
She took my hand then with her empty one and folded it into hers. She’d never done that before. “You’re my guardian angel,” she said. Then she left, in that whispery way she had. And I was alone.
Part V
Chambers
Chapter Twenty-Eight
1916
Strange, but it’s easier for me to get a thing done when I’m raging and righteous. It makes me bold and saves me from fretting about what other folks will think. But knowing I need to mend my squabble with Mattie D is giving me qualms. I spend most of a week working up my courage and planning what to be saying so she’ll let me in the door.
It’s Friday by the time I’ve had enough of my own dithering and set my mind to the task. In the morning I make a loaf of gingerbread, wrap it in my best kitchen towel, and tuck it into my market basket. Just after the noon whistle blows, I put on my coat and hat, take a deep breath, and head out the door with the basket on my arm. The day is sunny and warm. The crocuses Nell planted in front of Tom’s porch are blooming and daffodil shoots are poking through the dirt. I spy two robins hopping about on Mrs. Hills’ lawn when I pass. By the time I open the Evergreens’ gate, I’m feeling hopeful.
But when the big front door opens to my knock, it’s not Mattie D standing there—it’s her maid. I’ve not seen the woman before—she’s wide waisted and stern faced with a look telling me I’ve just spoiled her whole day.
“What do you want?” she says, glaring. In truth, she reminds me of myself in the days when I was guarding the Homestead from intruders.
I tell her I’ve come to see Madame Bianchi. She doesn’t ask who I am or if I’ve got a message for her mistress. Just shakes her head and says she’s gone out.
“I don’t know where she’s at,” she says. “So don’t bother asking.” And she swings the door shut, quick as that.
Feel foolish, I do, standing on the doorstep with my gingerbread and nobody to be giving it to. I go back down the walk and feel the pull of the Homestead soon as I come to the path between the houses. Like an enchantment, it is. It takes all my self-control not to hurry over like I did so many times.
Instead I go out the gate and head up to the town center. Figure since I’ve got my basket with me, I might as well do a few errands—stop in at the post office and get some fruit at the grocer’s. Maybe take a look in the new Hastings Store everybody’s talking about. But when I come out of the grocer’s, who do I spy but Rosaleen Byrne? She’s across the street chatting away with two women in front of the Amherst House and she’s surely the last person I want to be seeing this morning. I quick turn right and head up North Pleasant Street.
It’s a grand day—more like the end of April than March—and my walking turns into strolling, the sun and soft air on my face. When I pass St. Bridget’s, I figure it’s time to be heading home, so I cut through West Cemetery since it’s the shortest way.
The grass is starting to green around the gravestones. There’s a riot of daffodils along the fence. I remember Emily once telling me she lived next to this cemetery when she was a girl and it’s easy to picture her walking amongst the stones. “I liked it there,” she said. “It was a soft place. Visited by birds and dreams.”
Her grave is in the middle of the cemetery, a small stone marked EED set beside the Squire’s grand one. I stop in front of it. I haven’t been here in years, though I used to visit quite a bit after Emily died. Many a Sunday I stopped here after Mass to pay my respects and say a prayer for her soul.
There’s a footstep in the duff behind me—I barely hear it, it’s so soft. When I turn I’m face-to-face with Mattie D.
“Miss Mattie!” I feel like my hat’s flown off my head, I’m that surprised. She has a peculiar look on her I can’t read. I try to remember the words I planned while I was walking to the Evergreens, but every one of them is gone. So instead I try being friendly. “A fine spring day,” I say.
She gives me a tight nod. “Maggie,” she says, and steps up beside me to look down at Emily’s stone. Sure, it’s plain she doesn’t think I belong here. I can feel her vexation—like heat rising off a stove. She’s expecting me to leave but she won’t say so—won’t ask. Guess she fancies herself too much of a lady.
I don’t move. Keep trying to think of how to say what I planned on my way to her house, though it seems disrespectful in front of Emily’s grave. I slide a glance at her. She’s still looking down at the stone, but there’s no sign she’s praying. Her eyes wide-open and no sorrow on her face.
“I stopped by the Evergreens to bring you some gingerbread,” I say after a minute. “Your maid said you were out but I didn’t expect to find you here.”
She sighs. “I’m not going to change my mind. I’m selling the Homestead.” She won’t look at me.
I decide to come right out with it. “I know about your husband,” I tell her. “I know he left you and swindled you out of your fortune.” I don’t have the heart to say she’s well rid of him.
She raises her chin, like she’s studying the sky. I’ve seen her do so before when she’s tried to keep tears inside. Even as a girl, she’d look up when I scolded her for stealing a sweet or bothering Emily when she was writing. She takes a breath in, like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. A wee flurry of wind pulls at my hat and there’s a shiver at the top of my spine—as if somebody is standing behind me, laying two hands on my shoulders. Emily?
Mattie D’s shoulders sag suddenly and her face softens. There are tired circles under her eyes and it’s plain she’s suffering. Then she looks at me, and God’s truth, I’m certain she’s seeing Emily’s ghost, her face is so pale.
She closes her eyes. “I don’t know where he is. I’ve heard nothing at all for months, despite begging for word. Even his friends can’t find him. It seems he’s disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“Sure, that can’t be,” I say. But in truth, I know it can—since I was a babby I’ve been hearing about folks disappearing without a trace. Some snatched away by Faeries, some j
ust walking across a meadow into the mist and never seen again.
Tenderness has always been stronger in me than hard feelings. I reach out and touch her arm, very gentle. “I’ll not torment you. I’m here to listen if you’re wanting to talk.”
She doesn’t say anything. Looks the picture of misery—this tall, stately woman standing before me.
“Let’s go sit over there for a bit,” I say, nodding to a wooden bench a few feet away. I loop my free arm through hers and turn her. It’s an old habit—acting bold when a woman’s too stubborn to admit she’s needing help. I used it more than a few times on Emily.
I’m expecting her to draw herself up and tell me to leave her alone. So it’s a surprise when she lets me guide her to the bench and sit her down. I sit beside her. “Why don’t we have ourselves a bite of gingerbread?” I say. “ ’Tis Emily’s recipe and it will do us both good.”
She looks puzzled but doesn’t stop me when I set the basket on my lap and fold back the towel. The loaf is still warm, so the dark-ginger-and-molasses smell is strong when I break off a chunk. I cast a glance her way. As a girl she loved gingerbread. All the neighbor children did, but Mattie was the first to come knocking on the back door whenever Emily made it. As if she could smell it baking no matter where she was.
I hand her the piece and break off another for myself. And there we sit, filling our mouths with sweetness and neither of us saying a word.
* * *
“I’ve been thinking,” Mattie D says after a while, her voice riffling the quiet. “Aunt Emily should have a more attractive stone. One that represents her as a poet.” She’s looking over at the stone. “I’ve been reading some of the family papers. Her last letter was a note to Fanny and Louisa Norcross. Called back is what she wrote. That’s all. It’s so like Aunt Emily.” She turns her head and looks at me. “What do you think? Wouldn’t it be appropriate for her stone? Just her name and dates and the words called back?”
God’s truth, I can’t believe she’s asking my opinion. Isn’t like her one bit—nor like any of the Dickinsons except Emily herself. I look at the Dickinson plot set on its little hillock.
“Aye,” I say, nodding. “It sounds exactly like Emily. Called back would be fitting, to be sure.”
“I’m glad you think so,” she says. For a minute I wonder if she’s mocking me. If this chat is just an entertainment to her. But then she gives me a kindly look. “I’m also planning to write a book about her—a sort of biography using the family letters Mother collected. There’s been quite a lot of interest since The Single Hound was published.”
This is good news—makes me happy for Mattie D—and for Emily too. I think about the three volumes of Emily’s poems Mabel Todd printed—and how that woman traveled around, giving lectures on Emily. How so much of what she said was pure blather.
“ ’Tis a grand idea—writing a book,” I say. “There’s a lot of rumor and nonsense bandied about. Would be nice if somebody who knew herself set the record straight.”
Mattie D nods. “You knew her,” she says as if the thought just came to her. “Quite well, I suspect.”
“I did indeed.” In truth, I’m surprised she knows.
“I have some questions that you might be able to answer,” she goes on. “Perhaps you’ll have tea with me some afternoon and we can chat.”
Now I’m staggered. Never once did anybody from the Amherst gentry invite me to tea. And the last person I’d expect it of is Mattie D. “Sure, it sounds lovely,” I say. “I’ll be happy to help. All you have to do is ask.” Comes right out of my mouth, like I’m talking to a friend.
“I’ll do that,” she says as if she’s feeling the same. “And thank you for the gingerbread. It does take me back.”
I can’t help smiling. “I thought it might. I remember the times Miss Emily took you down cellar to her baking cupboard and fed you her sweets. Thrilled you same as Christmas morning, I’m thinking.”
Mattie D nods and she’s smiling too. “Aunt Vinnie warned her over and over that gingerbread was too rich for children, but she might have been talking to the sky, for all the notice Aunt Emily took of it.” Her face has gone soft. “Do you know Ned used to call her gingerbread a rich?”
I nod. “I do, to be sure.”
Seems the both of us are warm with memories, and we go on for a while. There’s a comfort in how our talking reminds me of chats I had with Emily. The thought startles me—because of course it’s not the same. But I’m even more surprised when she asks if I’ll do her a favor.
“Aunt Emily spoke more than once about your sound judgment,” she says. “ ‘Maggie has a stern good sense,’ she used to say. l met a man last week who wishes to buy the Homestead and he’s made a compelling offer. He seems pleasant enough but I would hate to sell it to someone who’d dishonor the place. I’d appreciate knowing what you think.”
“Me?” God’s truth, I’m stunned. She might not be thinking my judgment’s so good if she knew what I was thinking of her just a week ago. “Is it somebody I’d be knowing?”
“I doubt it. But perhaps you could contrive a way to find out about him.” She has a hopeful look in her eye. “He’s the new rector at Grace Episcopal Church—Reverend Hervey Parke. I’d be most grateful for your opinion.”
Sure, I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered she’d be trusting me, though I don’t know how my view of the man will make a difference. I study her face. Surely she knows I’m not disposed to liking anybody who’s after buying the Homestead. But God’s truth, I’m curious. And I’m always willing to help a friend. Seems to me Mattie D’s become one.
“I’m glad to be helping you,” I tell her. And next thing I know she’s reached over and is squeezing my hand.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
1883
I didn’t see Patrick’s rosary after the night I gave it to Emily. I didn’t expect her to use it. But she’d admired it, so I thought she’d be hanging it on her wall or keeping it on her mantel, where she could look on it from time to time. God’s truth, I was glad it was gone from my wall, though. Ever since Patrick left, seeing it hanging there had made me sad, reminding me how my future changed in an afternoon. Giving it away helped put those feelings behind me.
But things started happening that made me worry it had been a mistake—giving the rosary to a Protestant. Patrick came creeping back into my dreams at night. I’d wake up longing for himself. Wondering where he was, hoping he’d found a clean boardinghouse or rented an apartment with a nice view. One that didn’t look out over railroad tracks or factories.
I got a letter from him—a short one on clean paper. His handwriting was crooked, but I had no trouble reading the words. He wrote he was sorry for keeping secrets from me, that it wasn’t too late if I wanted to change my mind and join him in Brooklyn. He still loved me. I wrote an answer, short as his own and meant to hurt, but I stopped myself from posting it. He wrote again, but after the third letter came and I still didn’t answer, he stopped writing.
When I saw a column in the Boston Post about making dynamite, it felt like Patrick had laid his hand on my shoulder. I read it all the way through, though I couldn’t understand the half of it. It was too confusing with all its particulars. I clipped it out of the paper and hid it in my chest of drawers with his letters, but it gave me a sad shiver whenever I glimpsed it.
Later, I began seeing news about dynamite bombings in England—attacks on police barracks and government buildings and explosives hidden on ships. It was Fenians doing it, so the papers said. And the Fenians weren’t denying it. Felt sick to my stomach, knowing Patrick was the one likely teaching those lads how to make the bombs.
I never told a soul about the Dynamite School. Thought it better to be keeping that sorry news to myself. But it made its way into the Springfield paper and Tom put two and two together and figured out why Patrick had moved. Of course he told Mary a
nd it was herself who outright asked me one Sunday afternoon while we were washing dishes.
“That Dynamite School’s where Patrick Quinn went off to, wasn’t it?” she said, looking troubled. “I knew he was a rascal, but I didn’t think he was a murderer.”
“He didn’t murder anybody,” I said, though I wasn’t as sure as I sounded.
“Teaching other lads to murder’s the same as doing it yourself,” Mary said.
“It’s not, surely,” I said. But it wasn’t the first time I’d had the same thought. I felt the tears coming on, and Mary saw them even before they started falling. Next thing I knew, she had her arms around me and was patting my back like I was one of her own babbies. God’s truth, I surely felt like a babby that day.
“You’re still loving him, aren’t you, dear?” Mary said.
I shook my head but she paid me no mind. Made me sit down while she wet a new pot of tea, as if tea would cure my ailing heart.
* * *
Whenever there was word of Judge Lord in the papers, Emily grew lively. She’d read the reports to me out loud, going over every word as if it were a riddle to be solved. When the Judge visited, the two of them didn’t try to hide their kissing and cooing, and I did my best not to think about what was going on when they were alone. Emily glowed and giggled all day. Wasn’t herself at all.
And didn’t she smile and laugh when she got his letters? She spent hours writing back, page after page. Her envelopes were so fat I feared the seals would pop. I don’t know what they wrote to each other, but I’m guessing there was some wickedness in them. He was a witty man with a tongue saucy as her own.
Then came a cold morning when I went in to light her fire and found her propped on her pillows wide awake.
“I have a secret for you,” she said, her eyes glinting. She was smiling like a cat with its eye on a saucer of cream. “But you must promise not to breathe a word. Not even to Vinnie.”
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