Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  I don’t have many possessions to pack. Besides the new dress I’m wearing, I have a second-hand night gown, a few toiletries, under clothes, and an extra pair of wool stockings. Truth be told, I wish I could sneak away unnoticed. I hate goodbyes. But I can’t remain any longer and involve Kelly and Alice in my conflict with James Scarlett. I would never forgive myself if harm came to them.

  I carefully fold my petticoat into a neat square and place it in the suitcase. My hair brush, a set of combs, and a cake of soap soon follow. Last of all, the night gown.

  “You don’t need to go,” Kelly says. He is just outside the door. I lift my head and smile at him.

  Yes, I sign. I do.

  The doctor crosses the room and sits on the bed. A small, soft thud comes next, like a leather flap dropping into place.

  Closed my suitcase?

  “I meant what I said. Don’t go. Stay with me.”

  Reopening the bag, I feel a tingling warmth begin at my hairline and move downward. I haven’t been embarrassed in some time, certainly not around Kelly. Next to Cordelia, his housekeeper, and a few other females, this doctor’s viewed more of my body than any being on earth. I’ve vomited all over him and shown him the worst side of my character. Why am I discomfited now?

  Kelly closes the suitcase again, and reaches for my hand, grazing me with his fingers.

  Stop!

  “Which?” He laughs lightly. “Shutting the bag or touching you?”

  Both.

  The doctor grabs a handful of my skirt and hauls me into his arms. “Stay, and don’t sign the word annulment again. Not this time.”

  I feel like one of the waterfowl that Alice so admires, when it’s caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle.

  “I’m not him, if you’re pining for Tom,” Kelly murmurs. “Hell, he’s not even him at present. The boy you loved is gone.”

  Anger pulses through me as I pull away and reach for my luggage. Tom may be a troubled, dissolute rogue, but I won’t hear him disparaged.

  “That’s what he is, you know—a boy. Whether you realize it now or not, Craddock was never your equal.”

  My spine goes ramrod straight. Watch what you say.

  “You mistake my candor, madam. I mean no offense to your friend—rather, I think so highly of you that I deem most men your inferiors.” Kelly exhales and steps back. “Forgive me, Hester. For pressing you with another proposal at such a difficult time.”

  Cursing myself, I realize I’ve done what I hoped never to do.

  I’ve hurt Noah Kelly.

  33

  Aequat omnes cinis.

  Ashes make everyone equal—Seneca

  Jupiter is eating oats when I arrive at the house on St. David’s Street. I hear the horse blowing softly into his feedbag as he chews. Resident handyman and new tenant, Willard has converted the old shed behind the garden plot into a chicken coop, but the hens are outside scratching dirt, searching for feed. I purchased quite a few birds from Hollister’s and plan to sell the excess eggs back to them. In addition to the chickens, I have a young milk cow. A gentle bovine, Molly is near the fence, working her cud with her teeth.

  These common sounds are a symphony to my ears. I hope to leave the day-to-day management of the animals in Little Hawk’s capable hands, but I think I will enjoy having the creatures about.

  “Here we are, Hester,” Kelly says. He climbs from the wagon and helps me down. “Would you like to open the front door or shall I?”

  Me.

  My newest cane swishes back and forth just ahead of my feet. It came from the dusty lost-and-found collection in Kelly’s office on Black Swan. The handle is carved with oak leaves and acorns and there are nicks in several places at the tip. Seems rather adventurous, like the cane of an alpine hiker, and I feel the shocking urge to purchase lederhosen.

  Kelly and I take the short pathway to the house. Inside, the scent of polished wood and fresh paint lifts my spirits. All thanks to Cordelia Collins! Her parents, a cousin, and a couple of aunts live a block from me, and she enlisted their help. They opened the stale-smelling house and prepared it for my arrival—going above-and-beyond the call. What have I to give in return? Fresh milk and eggs, I suppose.

  I cross the parlor to the kitchen. The table is made of rough pine, and I touch the corner carefully, afraid of splinters. What is that smell? Freshly baked bread? I discover a warm loaf sitting near me on the table, covered with a tea towel. What a lovely surprise. Upon further inspection, I also find a crock of butter, preserves of some kind, a corned beef, and an apple pie. Kelly reads the names from the tags attached to each gift. I don’t recognize even one.

  Last December, I considered St. David’s to be the slum of Stonehenge. Was I really so ignorant and callow?

  “Miss Collins left a note,” Kelly says and reads it for me. “She fixed your room herself. For old time’s sake.”

  He leaves me in the kitchen and looks over my main floor bedroom. “Nice,” he calls out. “Dresser, curtains, a pitcher and basin.” I hear Kelly circle the space. “Rather impersonal as yet, but you’ll have a cozy home given time.”

  After putting my suitcase down, he returns to the kitchen. “You’re sure about this?”

  Yes, I sign. Sure.

  “That’s what you told me when I left you at The Revels. Can I trust your judgment?”

  No choice. Not my boss.

  Kelly laughs. “Well, legally I am your husband. I could always throw you over my shoulder and lock you in the attic at home.”

  He says this in good humor and to most people it would have been funny. But I was locked up too long in Ironwood. I can’t even pretend to smile. No. You wouldn’t do that.

  He sobers instantly. “You’re right, sweetheart, I wouldn’t.” The doctor coughs, and turns toward the kitchen door. “I’ll have a word with Little Hawk. He’s in the garden, I believe.”

  We stroll outside together and find Willard planting potatoes. I rather like their starchy, home-cooked meal smell. Kelly reminds the handyman to check on me from time to time during the day.

  “Let me know,” he says, “if she needs anything.”

  The doctor wipes his feet on the mat at the door, and I follow him back inside. “All right then. Good luck, Hester.”

  He doesn’t want to leave. I sense his distress, smell the sharpness of worry. He’ll miss me. I’ll miss him, too.

  I take off my spectacles and put them on the kitchen table. Then I reach over and hug Kelly. We pull apart when Willard enters the room. He takes some food from the table and goes back outside to eat.

  Thank you, Kelly, I sign. For saving me, for seeing who I am, for loving me.

  The doctor is quiet for a moment. “Perhaps we can resume our lessons, Hester. After you’ve had time to settle into your new home, of course. Those Braille manuals are still on my desk, just waiting to be read.”

  Dear man, ever the taskmaster.

  Wouldn’t miss it.

  I smile and walk with Kelly to the door. Once he’s gone, I decide to explore the garden out back. Willard comes out of the shed-turned-coop, carrying something in his arms. “Make yourself useful, Silver Eyes,” he mutters and shoves a basket at me. “Feed the chickens.”

  The corn is hard and dry and has a dusty fragrance. I take a small handful and throw it into the dirt and gravel. A group of birds come over and peck around my feet, clucking and cooing. I listen to the intermittent patter of falling corn and flapping wings. A sense of correctness expands within me, and I know I’ve found my place. I can belong here.

  Kelly’s right. I will have a cozy home, given time.

  Willard and I share a quiet meal. He tells me to expect a visit from Mary Arden and resumes eating, saying nothing more. At all. Even when I write questions on my slate asking the date and time, his impressions of the witch hermit, etcetera.

  Don’t know…Don’t know…Don’t know.

  Getting details from Willard is like squeezing blood from a turnip. He, alone, could
have stymied the entire Spanish Inquisition.

  If the conversation leaves much to be desired, at least the corned beef and bread are tasty. I linger over the apple pie with a cup of tea, long after the handyman retires to the basement bedroom. I am just finishing my last bite when there is a knock at the front door. Taking up my cane, I leave the kitchen, cross the parlor, and open it.

  “I’d like to rent a room,” the man says. “Have you any to spare?”

  That distinctive, almost musical voice. I know this person. How could I not, we went through hell together. It’s Gabriel, my arch angel! And he isn’t crushed under the rubble at Ironwood but standing right here on my stoop.

  Gabriel seems as surprised as I am by our unexpected reunion. “Hester?” he asks. “Is it really you?”

  I smile and nod, gesturing for him to enter the house.

  “They told me at Hollister’s that I might find lodging here, but I expected an old widow.”

  Using the chalk and slate, I write—JUST MOVED IN. SO GLAD YOU ARE WELL.

  “And you? I heard of what you endured from Faust. All to expose his depravity and free the inmates.”

  GETTING BETTER NOW.

  “That is a relief to know,” Gabriel says. “I’ve never forgotten how kind you were to me at Ironwood. I’m a stronger man because of it. Less aches and pains, fewer sorrows.”

  He sounds bemused, as though the times that I healed him still remain a mystery. Gabriel’s just too polite to have me explain how the miracle occured. Caught up in the happiness of our reunion, I push the chalk too hard against the slate and it squeaks.

  Gabriel laughs, but my face flushes while I write. DO YOU LIVE IN STONEHENGE?

  “In the woods just outside of town.”

  WOODS?

  “I left Ironwood City and wandered for a time, until I took work at the forge here. I’ve tried to find accommodations, but people fear my face.”

  Again I scribble quickly on the slate. WELCOME TO STAY, GABRIEL.

  “You may wish to reconsider. I don’t want the townspeople to shun you for housing me.”

  NONSENSE. COME LOOK AT THE ROOMS.

  Gabriel follows me to the stairs. We reach the second story landing, and he sets his luggage on the floor. “I’ve always wanted to ask,” he says. “How did you know that my name is Gabriel? Everyone called me Lazarus at Ironwood.”

  I am slow to write an answer now, wondering how to explain about magic and ancient powers. The tiny space allotted me on the slate would not do such a message justice.

  GOOD GUESSER?

  Gabriel laughs. “No one is that good.”

  WOMEN’S INTUITION?

  Another chuckle. “Never mind. Keep your secrets. I trust you.”

  I offer him his choice of the four rooms upstairs. Mrs. Woodrow, the former owner, left behind some pallets and mattresses. They are broken in places, and a little saggy, but Gabriel doesn’t care. He is happy to select the bedroom with northern exposure—even if we do need to carry in another mattress and frame to oblige the length of his legs.

  I go downstairs and take one of the blankets from my bed. It is soft and smells of lavender. My new tenant is delighted. ARE YOU HUNGRY? I ask him.

  “No, thank you, madam.”

  My fingers are growing stiff after all this enthusiastic chalk work. BREAKFAST AT SEVEN. HOPE YOU LIKE OATS.

  Gabriel steps into his room. “There’s nothing better in the morning,” he replies before closing the door.

  Willard sits down next to Gabriel, a bowl of hot oatmeal before him, and begins muttering holy words in Arapahoe. A shaky start, but I’m sure it won’t take long for Little Hawk to warm up to our new roommate.

  The afternoon is chock-full of housewifery. It is a success, excluding the temporary misplacement of my cane, tripping over a chair, and a kitchen towel catching on fire. Carver, the old gambler ghost, fades in and out for several hours. I enjoy his visit, despite the fact he’s mourning the loss of his favorite deck of invisible cards. At my urging, Carver summons his ghost-sight and I make him tour my new home. Looking at the rooms through his eyes, I’m rather pleased overall. The house is a little run-down, but it has potential.

  I haven’t seen Carver for some time, although this isn’t unexpected. It’s feast or famine with the old gambler—he’s either constantly underfoot or completely removed for months. Where does the ghost go? Is there another Visionary in his life?

  An hour before supper, Kelly shows up, claiming he needs a cup of Earl Grey above all else—although I know it’s really to check on me and confirm the latest gossip.

  “He really does look like Frankenstein,” Kelly says after Gabriel goes to his room.

  I act as though I didn’t hear that and sip my tea.

  “Is it wise, having him around? What do you know of the man?”

  Quite a lot, I sign and pour him another cup.

  Fortunately, Kelly moves on to a different topic. “Have you heard that Miss Collins is now engaged to Mr. Baker?”

  Lovely!

  “I noticed the announcement in the Gazette—wedding’s in September.” The biscuit jar rattles as Kelly pilfers it. “Oh, and I saw the mysterious Mary Arden as well. First sighting I’ve ever had of the woman.”

  Mary Arden? In town? It’s taken her long enough.

  I sense a sudden reticence in the doctor, as though his thoughts have veered in an unpleasant direction. What’s wrong?.

  He takes a bite of the oatmeal biscuit. Chews slowly.

  Well?

  Kelly washes down his biscuit with tea, and sits back in his chair. “Apparently, the Craddock’s have lost their ranch. That’s what the rumor mill is saying anyway. The whole family is moving to California to live with relations.”

  The whole family? Does that mean Tom’s leaving? I spill my entire cup of Earl Grey and Kelly begins mopping it up with a napkin. He takes the sodden table cloth to the sink, giving me a moment to myself. I cross my arms, imagining a life without Tom’s presence. Though we are not now what we once were, it has been a comfort knowing he lives nearby, alive and well but for the drinking. I can’t imagine not hearing his voice again, not passing him in town by chance. Yet those are selfish reasons to keep a man around, because he reminds you of his former self. Perhaps it’s best Tom go to California. If he leaves town, Scarlett may forget about him and leave his poor mind alone.

  Kelly returns to the table, sits down quietly. Thank you, I sign. Didn’t know.

  “You’re welcome, Hester. Though I dislike causing you pain.”

  It isn’t long after Kelly leaves that I hear chickens flapping around the back yard, making a terrible ruckus. A fox, perhaps? No. Sounds bigger. Maybe it’s Mary Arden.

  I wait for Willard to go outside to check on the poultry but he doesn’t. Did the handyman leave while I was having tea with Kelly? Gabriel doesn’t stir from his room either. After a tiring day at the forge, he often takes a nap before supper. The snoring has already begun.

  Stepping out onto the back porch, I listen, but the rain from this morning makes it difficult to deduce much from a person’s footsteps. Who is it? The wind gathers force and the shutters slam against the house. I cover my ears with my hands. Something flies through the air behind me.

  I wake up in the arms of a stranger. The fellow is walking at a fast pace, as though carrying an unconscious woman is no trouble at all. “Scarlett’s leaving on the last train,” he says. “We’re to drop her in the box and put the lid on. Clean and simple. Insisted it had to be done tonight.”

  Drop who in the box? Me?

  Another man is walking on the right. He smokes cheap cigarettes, and the odor of old tobacco smoke has permeated his being. “Well, I prefer a bit of notice,” he says. “Professional courtesy and all that. What if I had plans for the evening?”

  “Exactly right. Our personal lives count for something, don’t they? We’re more than just hired muscle.”

  Sensitive hoodlums. Men like these bring out my violent tendenc
ies. I punch the face of the one holding me prisoner and kick at his side. It doesn’t seem to bother him a bit. What in tarnation? A right cross is usually quite effective. Without breaking stride, the oaf adjusts his grip on my body, pinning my hands against his chest.

  “A little she-devil, ain’t she? A regular hoyden.”

  “At least this one can’t scream,” the other criminal replies. “I hate when they do that. My ears ring for a week.”

  “You really should think about using cottonwool plugs. It’s changed my life as far as work is concerned.”

  “Would the boss spring for them? Since it’s a job-related expense?”

  I sigh to myself. Must I always get the stupid kidnappers?

  A long drawn-out creaking hits my ear, as though an old door is being pulled open. We enter a building that smells of dead flowers and incense. Even though I fight them, Scarlett’s men follow his directions to the letter, and drop me into some kind of box. My head hits the bottom, and I lose consciousness once more. Yet the cold stone under my body revives me. Marble, I think. I slide my fingers along the sides of the box, only to discover a heavy lid above. I push and push to no avail. How I dislike being confined. Especially since this isn’t actually a box—it’s a sarcophagus. An above ground coffin kept in a crypt, usually locked away and forgotten.

  James Scarlett, I despise you. Loathe you to eternity. You’re a vile, monstrous creature!

  Oh, stop ranting, Hester. Think while the oxygen lasts. Where are you? Stonehenge only has one cemetery with a crypt. Holy Trinity. Am I in the Grayson death chamber? If so, Mama is just across the room in her own marble box. And I must be trapped in the one meant for Father—unless the bank has foreclosed upon it.

  Damned irony. Is there any other kind?

  Growing light-headed, I pound my fist against the stone, livid once more that this, my murder, has played out so conveniently for Scarlett. And with so little respect. Couldn’t be here to kill me himself. Oh no, he has a train to catch. I’ll slap Death in the face when He comes for me —