Louisa and Mrs. Burbridge received them with a kindness that shamed her. She hoped Allan had spared them the details of her sordid attack, but they must know something of it, or they would not be so forgiving. Or perhaps he had told them nothing at all. That would be more like him.
She dreaded seeing Allan. Mr. Holmes’s terrible last curse had followed her since the morning he died. It had to be a sin, as her father had said, for Allan to take a life in that way, no matter the cause. Allan must feel the burden as well, and even more heavily than she.
But he seemed quite cheerful, considering. He lay in bed, propped up against a few pillows, a book on the table beside him. A maid poked her head in the room while they were there, but when she saw visitors, she withdrew. Ann’s father sat on the far side of the room and paged tactfully through a newspaper.
“So you will leave me, then?” Allan’s eyes were bright with teasing. “To languish in my boredom while you taste the delights of Rushville society?”
“The delights of Rushville society include tending to cows, horses, and pigs.” She folded her hands in her lap. No matter her inner state, she must be light and respond to his wit in kind. “You are welcome to join me in my social rounds, provided you have appropriate attire. A pitchfork is mandatory.”
He chuckled. “Don’t tempt me. I just might jump aboard a steamboat in a few months.”
She felt herself growing warm and looked for another topic. “Are you certain, Allan, that the Holmeses will not seek legal remedy? I thought they threatened to call down the law on you.”
“No fear of that.” Allan relaxed, resting his head back against the headboard. “The law would ignore them, first of all. Matters of honor are usually kept quiet. But I also informed them as decently as I could of what had led to the duel. They do not want those circumstances made public.”
Those circumstances, in part of Ann’s making, had deprived the Holmes women forever of a husband and father. Guilt robbed her of words for a moment. She adjusted her bag in her lap. “But they are already gone?”
“Yes, they left yesterday.” Thank heaven. She would not be able to bear encountering them on the return steamboat voyage.
After a few more entreaties from Allan that Ann return to see him, they took their leave of the Burbridges. The doctor’s coach took them on another somber, quiet ride through the streets of Pittsburgh. When they arrived back at the doctor’s house, there was nothing left but the last of the packing.
She folded clothing and stowed it in the small trunk. Her sisters were in the library with Dr. Loftin, enjoying their last opportunity for his company. He had grown quite fond of reading to them.
“Ann!” her father called from downstairs. She stood up, stretched her stiff back as well as she could in her stays, and walked out of the bedroom to the landing.
“Yes, Father?”
“I’m finishing some legal matters with the doctor. Will you take a message for me?”
“To whom?”
“Will, the apprentice.” She would have liked to refuse but had no good reason. She could hardly tell her father she felt awkward around the apprentice since their secret meeting.
“Certainly.” She walked down to meet her father at the foot of the stairs, and he handed her a sealed letter.
“There’s another letter inside this one,” he said. “Tell Will to read the outside letter and use the address I’ve enclosed to deliver the one inside.”
“Very well.”
“It’s to our friends in Arthursville. We have good news. The man in the beaver hat—his name is Jack Rumkin—has apparently fled the city.”
That was only partly good news to her. She wondered where he had gone.
As if reading her thoughts, her father added, “That will be wonderful for John and Clara. They can leave the city unnoticed and head north.”
That was some comfort. The memory of their branded and mutilated faces made her sad. They deserved their freedom.
“That is good news,” she said. She turned to the coat hook, donned her cape, and paused at the back door. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you. And tell him not to forget what we spoke of.”
Strange. But she would pass it on.
When she walked out the back door, she heard Lucy the pig snorting uneasily in her pen. The doctor had said over breakfast that he put the pigs inside because the almanac forecasted more snow today. Ann called softly to Lucy, but the pig did not come over to sniff her hand as she usually did. The piglets squealed and trotted back and forth; Lucy grunted and swung her head toward the gray sky. It must be the weather making them restless.
Will stood out by the pump behind the Goods’ house, filling a bucket. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Ann.
“Excuse me,” she said. He stopped working the handle and stared at her. She approached gingerly, extending the letter toward him. “This is from my father. He would like you to deliver the letter inside it, as a favor. We are leaving now.”
His stricken look was quickly hidden, but not before it struck an answering pain in her.
“I will do Mr. Miller any favor,” he said shortly, taking the letter. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” She didn’t know what else to say. “My father said not to forget what he spoke of.”
“Tell your father I thank him. For everything.”
“I will,” she said faintly. She spun on her heel and nearly ran toward the doctor’s house.
Will might not survive his apprenticeship whole—Master Good might scar him somehow, as John and Clara’s master had mutilated them. If his master continued to beat him so savagely about the head, Will might not even retain his reason. How could she leave him to such a fate, having done nothing to truly help? Guilty tears came to her eyes, but she turned her head and let the wind blow them away. If she could not help him, she must forget his plight, for her own peace of mind. It was all too likely she would never see him again.
Eighteen
LUCY HAD ESCAPED THROUGH THE FENCE AGAIN. Will watched her nosing around the edge of the line of trees that began twenty yards from the barn. That section of the woods was all Master Good’s land. The master would be livid—his hidden fury increased with each successive pig invasion.
“Tom, let’s get Lucy back to the doctor’s.” Will dropped a log back onto the wood pile.
Tom laid his axe down on top of the old tree trunk. “It’ll be hard to get the piglets without the master hearing. They’re noisy.”
The piglets were wandering around behind their mother, little more than small blobs in the murky half-light that preceded sunrise. “We have to try. It’ll be better if the master doesn’t see them. He may not be awake yet.”
“All right.” Tom started toward the closest of the piglets. It trotted away toward its mother and the tree line.
The back door of the master’s house flew open with a clatter. At the sight of Master Good standing in the doorway, Will stopped in his tracks. Tom moved back to the wood pile and picked up his axe, and Will also began to chop again as if he had not noticed the pigs. The master’s temper would be worse if he could claim that the pigs were distracting his apprentices from their work.
The master cut across the yard, not too near them, but instead went past the barn toward the trees. He had something in his hand, but in the dimness it was hard to make out. Will kept his gaze lowered as he picked a new piece of firewood from the pile. The master was passing closest now, only about ten yards away. Sneaking a glance at him, Will saw that he was staring at the apprentices, as if defying them to speak.
Will drew in a sharp breath. That dark object in the master’s hand was a pistol.
Tom had noticed it too—he turned wide eyes to Will, his face pale.
Will turned back to Master Good. The master’s eyes were noticeably light and deadly even in the gloom, his lips clamped together as if he forcibly contained a stream of invective. But Lucy had disappeared from sight among the trees, and he turned to
follow her, quickening his pace until his figure also melted into the gloom of the woods.
Will dropped his axe and ran for the doctor’s gate. If Dr. Loftin met Master Good in the grove, the master would not dare— A pistol shot cracked through the morning air, leaving a wake of ominous, deep silence.
Will faltered and stopped. What now?
“Psst.” Tom called to him from to the wood pile. “Stay here. You can’t get mixed up in it now.”
He reluctantly returned. “But if I get the doctor, he might still be a witness.”
“It won’t matter. If the master has a brain in his head, he’ll leave through the far side of the woods. There won’t be anything to witness.”
“I need to go see what he did.”
“You know what he did. What if he’s still in there?”
“I don’t care.” Will brushed past Tom and headed for the woods. He slowed as he passed through the trees, peering hard for any sign of movement. There. A few small shapes milling around near a tangled bush. The piglets.
He stepped over fallen branches and frozen dead leaves, his heart thudding. The dawn was coming, turning everything a paler gray. Master Good did not appear to be here. Perhaps Tom was right and he had left through the far side, where the trees opened out onto the road some way past the Loftin home.
A piglet skittered ahead of him. He followed it around the large bush and stopped short.
Lucy’s motionless body sprawled on the hard ground, her legs limp and dangling. Two of her piglets sniffed at her belly. One made a whining noise he had never heard from a pig.
He knelt beside Lucy. “Don’t be afraid,” he said to the piglets, which jumped back. “I won’t hurt you.” He extended his knuckles to one of them. It approached and sniffed his hand, then bumped Lucy with its little nose.
Lucy’s once-bright eyes were fixed and dull, like black marbles. A trickle of blood ran from a hole in her forehead. Master Good must have called her and shot her point-blank.
Will stroked her fuzzy head and her round cheek. His heart was heavy and dull. What a sickening waste. Lucy had been a good mother to her little piglets. He ran his hand over her side as if he could comfort her. The piglet still whined next to her, rooting under her neck as if to wake her up.
He wiped his eyes with cold knuckles and stood up.
When he came out of the woods, Tom was still splitting wood.
“He killed Lucy,” Will said. His blood pounded and his breath came fast. He picked up his axe and vented his wrath on a piece of wood. Splinters flew up past his face, stinging his cheeks. He chopped even harder.
“Where is he?”
“Gone. He must have slipped through the other way, like you said.”
“He knows we saw him. What do you think he’ll do?” Tom hefted his axe and flipped a log over.
A motion by the doctor’s house caught Will’s attention. The doctor himself walked across the yard toward them and lifted the gate latch to let himself through.
“Is everything all right?” Dr. Loftin called from a few yards away. “I heard a shot.” He closed the distance to the woodpile in a few strides. His forehead creased in concern, his white hair rumpled on top.
Will rested his axe head on the ground and looked at Tom. No help there, for Tom’s mouth was half open and he was even more at a loss than Will. Will’s heart pained him as he met the doctor’s worried green eyes. “It’s Lucy.”
“Where is she?” The doctor turned slowly to scan the yard and woods as if to conjure his Lucy into sight. “What happened?”
Will’s mind blurred as he tried to consider what to say, how much to tell or not to tell. “She’s in there.” He pointed to the woods. “See where the piglet is coming out? About thirty paces in.” At the doctor’s confused expression, he dropped the axe and started for the trees. “I’ll show you.”
The silence between them grew oppressive as they entered the shadowy copse. When they reached the bush with the piglets milling around it, Will stopped and indicated it to the doctor. “Behind there.”
He did not want to see Dr. Loftin’s reaction, so he pivoted and walked quickly away. Nonetheless, he heard the doctor’s choked cry of shock. A lump came to his throat. He hurried back to the woodpile and attacked the logs again with fervor. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tom watching him with trepidation, flinching as the chips and splinters sprayed up. Will ignored him.
After a few minutes the doctor came out of the woods, his shoulders drooping, his white head bowed. Dr. Loftin made his way toward them, and Will saw that the doctor’s eyes were moist.
“Young men, this is a very serious matter,” he said. “Is your master at home?”
Will shook his head.
“I suspect you know who shot Lucy.” The doctor’s voice shook, whether from anger or sorrow, Will couldn’t tell. But then his tone became firmer. “It’s a base act. And I’m quite sure neither of you is responsible. But I’m afraid I will have to ask you to do something for me. I will need you to witness to a judge.”
Tom went sheet-white, and Will was sure he must look the same, as a frisson of fear traveled down his neck.
The doctor looked at Will. “Don’t say anything, now. Before you say a word, I want you to think about the consequences. You know better than I what they may be. I don’t want you suffering on my behalf.” A muscle tightened and firmed the line of his jaw. “But I don’t want the devil to have free rein either. Someone has to stand against cruelty, eventually, or it will continue.” He cleared his throat. “So think carefully, both of you. The decision will be yours.”
The image of John Simon, branded but resolute, flew through Will’s mind. “I’ll witness for you, sir,” he said.
“Take time to consider first, Will.”
“I’ll do it, sir. I don’t need time.”
The doctor ran his hand through his mussed hair and sighed. “I’ll be indebted to you, young man. I take this harder than I should, perhaps . . .” He trailed off and brushed past them, shoulders curved, headed for his home.
They continued to chop wood until the wheelbarrow was full of kindling. Tom was pensive and silent. That suited Will, as he was also in no mood for talk.
As night fell and time for sleep neared, Master Good still had not returned. Mistress Good was surly and ordered Will and Tom out of the house after another meager meal. Will led the way to the barn, and once in the saddle shop, he raked the pile of straw from the corner. They always piled it closer to the coal firebox at night and slept there, huddled back-to-back to keep from freezing as the temperatures dropped.
“Will, are you really going to speak against the master?” Tom’s voice was hushed, though Will felt it vibrate through his back as they lay there in the darkness.
“Yes. I’ve had enough. What’s the worst he can do?”
“Kill you.” Tom sounded unhappy.
“I don’t think he will. And besides, I don’t think my life means much.”
“It means something to me.”
“It’s worthless if I can’t be decent or honest.” Will heard a rustling in the straw, and Tom’s back moved away from his. He turned his head to see that Tom was sitting up, facing him.
“But all you have to do is wait another year.”
“I can’t wait.”
Tom leaned down, whispering urgently. “I don’t think I can witness. I can’t do it.”
Will pushed himself up on one elbow. “You have to make your own choice. I can’t decide for you.”
“I want to stand up with you, but I’m afraid I won’t be able when the master’s standing there watching. He makes me lose my nerve.”
Will burrowed down into the straw with a sinking feeling. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. All I know is that I will not lie to a judge. Especially not to save the master’s pride . . . or his purse.”
“I’m sorry, Will. I’ll do my best.”
Will was quiet, wishing Mr. Miller were still there. The saddler would approve o
f what Will had decided to do. But Mr. Miller and his daughter are gone. He opened his eyes in the darkness. The straw prickled through his clothes, and even their two blankets together were too thin. I will have to stand up alone before the judge.
He still had Tom, but he and Tom were in the same miserable plight. Mr. Miller was different. Behind his quiet ordinariness was a cloud of something otherworldly. Will had seen it looming and billowing in his eyes, blowing through his words. Perhaps it was sent from God. Perhaps it would come to Will, if he prayed for help. He envisioned a cloud descending on him in the courtroom, protecting him from the master.
A cloud went with them by day . . . The voice of his father rumbled low in his memory; Will saw his brothers and his sister sitting in the firelight at his father’s knee, the pages of the Bible ivory in the lamplight.
He had not thought so much of his family in a long time. It hurt too much—and yet, as their faces lingered in his mind’s eye, a faint flicker of light within him grew steadier, spreading into dim recesses and long-forgotten dusty corners. He remembered his mother walking through the field toward him, holding his little brother. Johnny wrapped his arms around her, his dark curls tumbling over his fat cheeks, as he called Will’s name in his baby voice. I will write to Johnny, if the doctor will give me paper and ink.
But what would he tell his brother? That he was still bound to a tyrant? That he had stained the honor of an innocent girl? The acrid smoke of burning pitch poured through him again. He gritted his teeth and fought back.
I will marry Emmie. If she’ll have me. As soon as my indenture ends.
The smoke rolled back, a fringe of darkness on the edges of his consciousness, though he sensed it waiting there for its first opportunity to return. You will not win, he told it. I will marry her and put things to right.
Tom sighed and his body crunched the straw.
Will murmured to him without moving. “I’m going to marry Emmie.”
“Now?”
“No. When I’m free from the master.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to make right from the wrong I’ve done.”
Fairer than Morning Page 14
