Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  With a safe full of jewelry to choose from, her baubles consist of three pieces. The small ruby pendant my father gave her on the day of my birth. A silver bangle that once belonged to my grandmother. And Mama’s wedding rings. The necklace and bangle are quite plain when compared with the elaborate wedding set. Regardless of the difference in cost, each of her baubles meant something significant to my mother.

  I hear the servants downstairs preparing for the passing of their mistress before she is even gone. It is quite an undertaking. They send for the priest to administer last rites and hang black crepe about the windows and doors. Mourning armbands are given to the men as a sign of respect and memento mori, a reminder that all must die. The maids turn the mirrors against the walls, for vanity is not proper now. And also because there is the superstition that a reflection in a house of mourning brings further death. I imagine this would make the Reaper smile. He finds such things amusing.

  Cook brings me a tear-catcher. I run my fingers over the ornate crystal vial and wonder what I shall do with it if I can’t cry. Cordelia asks whether she should cut some of Mama’s hair for a keepsake, but for some reason, I can’t bear the thought of it. I touch one of her long soft waves, pooled on the pillow by her head. It would be a shame to remove even a strand.

  Father and the obstetric doctor come and go but neither bothers to stay until the end. Only Cordelia and I remain, and my companion is snoring softly when Sir Death makes His entrance. He says nothing to me, but steals across the room, that thief of souls, calling my mother from mortality. His voice is hidden by the labored gasps rattling within her throat. She is alive one moment and then, in the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, she’s gone. Her body but a shell upon the bed.

  I hold Cook’s tear-catcher in my hand and wait, dry eyed. Nothing happens until Cordelia stirs and stretches. “Is she… ?”

  Nodding wearily, I cover my mother with a thin lace shroud.

  After another sleepless night, I throw off my covers and dress in a simple day gown. It has one row of buttons on the front that are easy to fasten but my fingers fumble despite this. I walk downstairs, sans corset or petticoats, and listen for Cordelia. Instead, I find Simmons Harrow eating breakfast in the kitchen. He’s helped himself to a roll—tossing the hot bun from one hand to another before dropping it on his plate.

  “There you are, miss,” Cordie says, joining me at the kitchen door. “I brought some clothes down from the attic for the funeral. We should be able to get a dress fitted for you by tomorrow.”

  Thank you, I sign.

  I sit next to Sim while Cordie fetches me a piece of toast. Sipping a cup of chamomile tea, I listen to the staff talk, but Sim’s enthusiastic chewing overrides the surrounding voices.

  Too old for the orphan’s school, he is now employed as my father’s financial clerk and lives in the attic. Father wanted someone with a neat hand and a head for figures post haste. So I had Cordelia gossip with Cook about an educated lad who could be hired on the cheap. Cook then told the butler who in turn passed the news on to his master. Father couldn’t resist. He loves a bargain, especially when it comes to his employees. I’m relieved that Sim isn’t wasting away at the mill, or the button factory, or the mines.

  Solving his problem was easy. Everything else in my life is not.

  Surrounded by hothouse lilies, my mother sleeps in the formal parlor, waiting for her friends to pay their last respects. I’m not required at that gathering, my father told me yesterday. Therefore, Willard is driving Cordelia and me into town. Perhaps we’ll find something special to add to Mama’s funeral attire—new gloves or a fine set of combs. It isn’t necessary, but I know she would like them anyway.

  Cordie is my rock during this undertaking. At each shop, she speaks to me gently and with great patience. “That’s a lovely ribbon, miss, but maybe this one would serve better.” Or … “An embroidered shawl is too much, don’t you think?” I can barely form a coherent thought, and everything Cordie says is right. We return home after a few hours, and I shut myself in my room. Pulling the heavy curtains around my bed, I lie down on the feather mattress. In the past, I could always call out to Tom, and he would be there to help. But the fellow over at the hospital is not my Tom. He’s the polar opposite. What Old Tom once loved, New Tom hates.

  Curse the spawn of Archimendax forever.

  The next twenty-four hours pass slowly. I don’t know how to behave in a house of mourning. My frequent exchanges with Sir Death never prepared me for this. On a superficial level, perhaps, but not deep enough to truly affect the heart. Father doesn’t handle the situation well either. Between receiving visitors and making plans with the mortician, he drinks copious amounts of alcohol. After supper, Cordelia and I retire early. It wouldn’t do to look haggard in the morning. The Stonehenge elite don’t tolerate women who show real emotion in public, even at funerals. It simply isn’t done. Thankfully, there are no rules to govern the sleep of those who grieve. And I do grieve for Mama. She was the closest thing I had to a parent.

  Next morning, I bathe in the copper tub, and then Cordelia helps me dress. I wear an itchy crepe gown, taken from the steamer trunks in the attic and hastily fitted to my proportions. The crepe distracts me from dwelling on the upcoming funeral, but not for long. Within the hour, Cordie meets me on the landing and hands me the velvet pouch containing Mama’s jewelry. I undo my drawstring purse and slip it inside.

  “Ready, Miss Hester?”

  The heavy, mink cloak that I wear makes my shoulders ache, but I straighten my back and ignore it. Cordelia and I walk down the main staircase, across the foyer, and through the front door. She puts her hand on my arm and describes the inky swags that hang from the carriage, the horses in their black feathers, looking like rich old ladies wearing hats. We climb into the vehicle where my father silently waits. He’s quiet as the grave as we travel into town.

  The funeral director takes my cloak and accidentally touches the back of my neck with his fingernail. A vision forms behind my eyes where a man closes and locks the door to a sleeping chamber. He removes a dead woman’s valuables and then seals the casket. “The dead don’t need gold,” he says. “I do.” I see this scenario repeated with a different corpse each time—the last one is my mother. Is it true? Our funeral director is a thief?

  Well, he won’t rob the dead today. I’ll make certain of it.

  I am expelled from the vision and thrown back to the present. Cordelia and I stand beside Mama’s coffin in a viewing room, Cordie weeping softly.

  Need privacy, I sign to her. Leave. Close door.

  She hesitates a moment. “Are you sure, miss?”

  Yes. Go, please.

  After a few seconds, I hear the door shut and turn back to the casket. Forgive me, Mama. For not honoring your wishes. I reach down and touch the glove covering her hand, trace the wedding set beneath it. Her body feels so strange and cold, but I force myself to pull the glove off. A few tugs, and the rings slide from my mother’s finger and land with a plop in my palm. I tuck them into the jewelry pouch within my purse, and replace Mama’s glove. Not long after, Cordelia knocks tentatively and opens the door.

  “Shall we start with the necklace?” she asks, putting her hand on my back. “Mistress Grayson will look grand indeed.”

  I shake my head firmly. Changed mind, I reply. No jewels.

  “What? But I thought—”

  Don’t argue. Let’s go.

  Regretting my sharpness, I follow Cordie into the chapel. The smell of incense mixed with burning tallow hangs about the room like a dowager’s robe. We wait in the section of the chapel reserved for the deceased’s family and Father joins us seconds before the program begins. We sit through a poetry reading, an address by the minister, a violin solo, and an elegant eulogy, but I am moved by nothing until we reach the final hymn.

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me…

  Breaking my own rule, I remove my glasses in public, and wip
e my eyes. But I can’t keep up with the moisture they manufacture. Where is that damned tear-catcher now? I could fill it to the brim with liquid misery.

  But I sense that Fate isn’t done with me yet. These tears could be just the beginning of what she has in store.

  20

  Facilis descensus Averno.

  The road to hell is smooth—Virgil

  After the entombment at the mausoleum, Father shuts himself in his study with a bottle of scotch and remains there for hours. Why is he drinking so much? There must be more to it than Mama’s passing. I haven’t detected a bit of sadness on him through olfaction. Rage and desperation, on the other hand, are quite evident. Cordelia brings a tray of food to my room, which I consume out of necessity and follow with a nap. When I awaken, the house is filled with men’s voices. My companion taps gently on my door.

  “Sorry, miss, but Mr. Grayson would like to see you.”

  I climb off the bed and yawn, groggy and disoriented from my first real sleep in days. Cordie hands me my cane, and we go downstairs together. She does not rush me as we walk across the foyer. Any interaction with my father is undesirable, and even more so when he is intoxicated. It sounds as though he has company—five males in all, at my count—discussing the recent drop in the value of silver.

  Our butler is standing nearby and opens the study door.

  “Ah, Hester,” my father murmurs. “Come here.”

  Realizing that I left my spectacles in my bedroom, I pause at the threshold, considering the best course of action to take. Should I return and fetch them? Send Cordelia instead?

  “As I said, gentlemen, she is slow-witted and disobedient.”

  I lean against the door frame, stunned at my father’s words. He describes me as slow-witted? On the day my mother is put in her tomb? This is low, even for him.

  “There are treatments available,” a man replies. “To cure aberrant personalities.”

  I do not know the person connected to the voice, but he is an idiot. I can tell that much already.

  “Exactly, Doctor,” Father agrees. “That’s why I contacted you.”

  The stranger moves to my side, and I catch a whiff of dried sweat and verbena cologne. I feel Cordelia’s body swing toward him. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice strident.

  My father backs away, smelling of hatred, like a vast pool of congealed blood. “Take her.”

  Someone grabs me about the waist, and I cannot manage more than a few poorly aimed kicks. A cold metal band snaps around my right wrist, followed by another on the left. What are they? Handcuffs? No! Please get them off! Cordelia begins arguing with my father.

  “As of this moment,” he announces loudly, “you are fired, Miss Collins. Pack your things and leave my house immediately.”

  My fur cloak is slung over me—I believe it is the butler who does this—and the ribbons at my throat are quickly tied.

  Father’s voice is flat and hard. “I’ve honored your mother’s wishes, but now you’re going where you’ve always belonged.”

  Is this a nightmare? It must be. Wake up, Hester. Wake up!

  A cloth covers my face, held firmly in place by a beefy hand. I scratch and pull at his arm, but I’m overwhelmed by a strange chemical odor. My thoughts grow abstract, and I have the sensation of sinking further into the arms that hold me, of losing the will to fight.

  “See here, what’s all this about?” Sim Harrow cries.

  Help me, Sim. Don’t let them…

  Dizzy and nauseous, I wake up on a smelly blanket. After listening for a few seconds, I realize that I’m riding in the back of a wagon. My hand pushes against a canvas tarp, fastened over the top of the wagon’s bed. The violent bouncing of the vehicle matches the pounding in my skull, and I cannot sit up or move more than a few inches from side to side. More blankets are spread across my body, nearly smothering me, but at least I won’t freeze to death.

  It sounds as though I am accompanied by two men—one is driving, the other riding shotgun. According to my traveling companions, I have slept the night away and it is midmorning. They are disgruntled that someone named Dr. Faust has taken a train while they are forced to plod along with me in the wagon.

  “Will you be adding her to your harem, Roy?” the passenger asks, as though he is bored and making routine conversation.

  He can’t be serious.

  “I am, Titus,” the driver replies. “Never had a rich girl.”

  “Won’t be much different than a poor one. They’re all the same with your eyes closed. When’s it happening? I’d like to make myself scarce.”

  Roy snaps the reins. “Be obliged if you would.”

  The more they converse, the more I hate them.

  “Let’s take a break in that canyon up ahead.” Titus coughs and blows mucus from his nose. “Food first?”

  “Sure,” says Roy.

  I shove the disgusting blankets away and turn on my side, searching for some kind of weapon. There must be something! If I didn’t give myself to Tom, whom I love, I certainly won’t be despoiled by a pathetic deviant smelling of pickled onions. Of course, the two imbeciles pay no attention to my movements under the tarp. They continue to talk. About their wives and children… the pitfalls of working for Faust… saloon rotgut versus home-brew. And Roy’s superstitious fear of his next birthday.

  The wagon turns in a half circle and stops. Titus and Roy climb out, and I hear them shaking something. Heavy fabric? A wool blanket, perhaps? They collect their dinner pails and the tarp is untied and thrown back. I am pulled up by my elbows and then lifted from the wagon. The wind whistles and whines against the mountains and smells of wet sage and mud. It makes my eyes water. I can’t detect any sounds of life or civilization nearby.

  “Calm down,” Titus says. “Stop that kicking!”

  Roy instantly takes charge of me. “Oh, she’ll cooperate. Won’t you, honey?”

  Like hell. I spit at his face.

  He curses and drags me away by the hair. At first I’m shocked by the pain but the rage sets in a few seconds later. How dare this man hurt me? Fear churns in my gut and my scalp blazes, nevertheless I scratch, pound at Roy’s hand. Then I change tactics and make myself dead weight. Roy throws me to the ground. As I kick at him, I scoot back over the snow and grass until I bump into a gnarled tree trunk. It’s dry and brittle—like an old juniper that’s seen healthier days. Roy pins my legs with his knee, unhooks one of my cuffs and attaches it to a juniper branch.

  “Ain’t no point in fighting,” he says, slapping at my boot as I jab the tip at him. “Hear me, wild cat? You’re never going back to how things was.”

  I spit at Roy again, and he leaves in a huff, stomping over to Titus. Breathe now, I tell myself. Just breathe and think of an escape. The guards spread the wool blanket on the ground and open their dinner pails. Titus belches often, giving me an easy reference point for judging distance. Sound waves form a picture in my head, showing me where Titus is seated. He’s seventeen feet away, facing south, and Roy sits across from him at a right angle. Their meal smells strongly of liverwurst and pickles, and I test the branch as they eat. It’s not as solid near the middle—the bark feels bug-ridden, as though termites have gnawed through a few spots.

  Roy gets up from the blanket and walks over. Sweet blazes. Get away, you stinking louse. I lift my chin in defiance when he squats down by my hip. “Got some bottled pears here. Awful sweet.”

  I feel him twist around. “Toss me your knife, Titus.”

  Knife?

  Titus throws the blade to Roy. It hits the ground, bounces twice and comes to a stop. The pears slosh back and forth as Roy spears them in the jar.

  “Try some,” he murmurs, running a piece of the ripe, dripping fruit along my bottom lip.

  I shake my head and move as far from him as my cuffed arm will allow.

  Roy laughs like I’ve made a good joke. “See that, Titus? She don’t want any.”

  “Women never know what they want,” Titus replie
s, rising to his feet.

  He’s tall. Six two? Six three? And the heel of his boot squeaks when he walks.

  “Come on, Roy. You’ll have your fun after we’ve rinsed out these dinner pails. Don’t want them attracting vermin.”

  Too late. The vermin are already here.

  “All right, all right. You sound like my mother, Titus.”

  “Only I’m not as ugly.”

  “No argument there,” Roy says, chucking me under the chin with a callused thumb. “She could scare the stripes off a skunk.”

  He walks over to the spot where he and Titus ate. I hear him rub the knife in the snow, and toss it on the blanket. Then Roy picks up his pail and follows Titus, and his squeaking boot, to the creek. As soon as the men leave, I begin to work on the juniper branch—sitting on it, pulling, even hanging from the thing with my full weight. Damnation! I thought the branch would break at once, but it’s refusing to cooperate.

  Lifting my face, I listen for Titus and Roy. They’re telling obscene jokes and dumping out the unwanted bits of food from their dinners pails. I stop and rest after another attempt at breaking the branch. The two guards have moved on to rinsing out the pails. Given their overall lack of cleanliness, I can’t imagine it will take much time.

  This juniper has my begrudging admiration. Who knew it could withstand so much? My wrist hurts like hell with all the jerking and pulling, but I keep at the branch. A few minutes later, Titus tells Roy he’s going for a walk and strolls off into the wilderness. Roy heads back up the hill. Horrors. It sounds as though he’s unhooking his belt. The clinking of the metal bit makes my heart pound in the worst possible way.

  Hurry up, infernal tree. Break!

  “Be there soon, darlin’,” Roy calls. “Don’t worry.”

  He stops some thirty feet south, and I detect the light splashing of liquid. Is Roy making water? Yes, I believe so. With his back to me if my judgment is correct.

  Crack!

  The branch splits in half sending me sprawling to the snowy earth.