by Jane Steen
There was one governor—I had seen his name on the list—called Lysander Goodman. Could Lysander be Ly-lee? I watched carefully as twelve men descended, with varying degrees of caution, from the swaying carriages. Was Lysander the portly man with the mustaches? Or the younger one with the curly hair?
My heart gave a small lurch as Hiram Jackson stepped out of his carriage, followed by a frail, white-haired man to whom my stepfather gave his arm. I wondered whether I would get an interview with Stepfather and what I could say if I did. The likelihood of persuading him to let me keep Sarah seemed even more remote now that I saw him in his best suit, laughing and joking with the other men empowered to decide my fate.
Sarah succeeded in grabbing my nose, and I laughed and kissed her. When I looked back out of the window my stepfather had gone inside—but into which building, I couldn’t say. The superintendent’s office was in the Men’s House. I wondered if they were meeting in there.
I saw Blackie making for the Men’s House at a purposeful pace and sighed. Every time I’d tried to get him to speak, he’d shaken his head and said, “A little whiskey, Miss Nell. Just a little whiskey.” He’d been humming almost nonstop lately. Tess said that was because he had a craving for the booze, and I agreed that there was something unusually tense about him. He barely spoke to a soul, and his wheezing laugh was not often heard.
I was on tenterhooks for the rest of the morning, wondering how I would get a chance to talk with my stepfather. I needn’t have worried. He came to me.
I was alone in the workroom with Sarah when my stepfather walked in. I stopped still in the middle of the room, like a rabbit when it knows the coyote is near. Sarah squirmed in my arms and kicked vigorously against the fabric of her gown.
Hiram walked over to me and stared at Sarah with an expression of distaste in his ice-blue eyes. His hair seemed a little longer than before, and the smell of his pomade reminded me of my home. There was only one thing I wanted to know right now.
“Stepfather—” It seemed strange, somehow, to be calling him this, as if I’d suddenly become younger again—”how is my mother?”
“Well enough.” His chin pushed outwards, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “It looks like Red Jack Lillington,” he said.
“She is a little girl.” I tried to keep the indignation out of my voice. “Her name is Sarah. She is your—your granddaughter.”
“She’s the bastard child of an unknown father,” he said evenly. “I hear you haven’t weaned her yet.”
“She’s not ready.”
“You’ll get her weaned before August,” he replied. “You’ll have her ready for adoption. I have been in contact with a Mr. and Mrs. Gray in Springfield. That child will suit them admirably. You will return to your home and be your mother’s comfort and an example of good morals and hard work to your community.” A bland smile spread over his handsome face.
I felt my jaw clench and tightened my hold on Sarah, who squawked and wriggled even harder. “I do not want to be separated from my child,” I said as neutrally as I could. “I will do anything you ask—anything—except for that.”
Hiram’s cheeks darkened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You do not have any choice in the matter. I will not associate with any bastard child, at whatever distance. If you don’t relinquish that brat willingly, it will be taken from you.”
Before I could find the words to reply he stalked out, leaving a smell of pomade and cigars behind him. Sarah began to cry, and I bounced her up and down in my arms, but two tears ran down my own cheeks. I knew Hiram Jackson well enough to know that he would not change his mind. I would have to run, and I didn’t know where to go.
TWENTY-FOUR
In the days that followed, I could not eat or concentrate on my work. It was only after Lizzie gave me a surprisingly sharp talking-to about not having enough milk for Sarah that I began forcing myself to swallow mouthful after mouthful of food at every meal and drink the milk she brought me. I was determined to nurse Sarah for as long as possible. Weaning meant separation.
Tess seemed unhappy too and was quieter than usual. If I had felt more energetic I might have asked her what ailed her, but I was too wrapped up in the prospect of having to flee the Farm before August.
“You are both very quiet.” A ray of evening sunlight made the red tints in Mrs. Lombardi’s hair glow as she stood in the doorway, notebook in hand.
“And you are tired, Mrs. Lombardi.” Tess stopped sewing and peered over the top of her spectacles. She was right: Mrs. Lombardi’s eyes were dull, and her sweet mouth turned down a little at the corners.
“There is a great deal to do.” The matron moved a pile of pillowcases from the chair nearest to us and sat down. “Without a superintendent, Mr. Schoeffel and I have far more letters to write.” She illustrated the point by holding out her hand, which was smeared with ink.
“And you are unhappy because the governors were cross with you,” said Tess. I held up my hand to prevent her from saying more, but Mrs. Lombardi smiled.
“You are perceptive, Tess. Yes, it has been an ordeal. I have had to admit that I was at fault for not supervising Jo’s departure properly.”
“But you were sick.” I became aware that I was sewing my hem crooked, and stopped to reach for my scissors. My back was aching; how long had I been sitting there? We still had the linen for five beds to finish, and the light was fading. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
Mrs. Lombardi touched my hand lightly. “I came to tell you both to come and have some supper. I saw Lizzie with Sarah in the refectory, and she told me that neither of you had eaten.”
My stomach growled at the mention of supper. Tess, who loved to eat, obediently laid down her sewing and rose from her chair.
“I think the governors are not choosing a superintendent on purpose” was her next remark. “They do not think it is hard work to write letters.”
Indeed, I thought, the governors had seemed to care very little for the affairs of the Farm when they had visited. I had seen them passing through the scrubbed corridors, talking of the political news of the day and only occasionally paying attention to Mrs. Lombardi’s explanations. I had listened hard as they spoke to one another, trying to catch names, and had been disappointed to learn that Lysander Goodman was the frail old gentleman; an unlikely Ly-lee. So I was as much in the dark as ever. And I dared not stay too long in the governors’ presence; Stepfather glanced frequently in my direction and his looks were not welcoming.
The day on which we were to receive our new, privileged residents was almost upon us, and we almost had the linens ready for the rooms. I supervised the hanging of the curtains, relying mainly on Blackie for this task. The bedrooms now looked bright and pleasant, while the padding had been stripped off the walls of the four small cells, and they were being used as storage rooms and utility rooms.
The stain left by Jo’s body worked its way back up through the wood and had to be scrubbed down again before the floor was painted throughout the whole wing. The paint was thick, and nothing more showed; but I avoided the vicinity of that particular room.
On the Saturday before the new arrivals came, I was constantly busy and infuriated that Blackie was nowhere to be found. I muttered imprecations under my breath as I bustled from one room to another, making sure all the bed linens were in place. The windows were open to let out any remaining smells of paint, and the warm air of early summer wafted in with the melodies of birds and the sounds of the livestock in the fields. Also, there was a smell of the hencoop and the manure pile, but I was used to that.
I could hear shouting in the distance; the farm workers must be busy. Lucky to be outside, I thought, instead of shut in as I was. I banged the doors crossly as I carried in yet another pile of sheets—where on earth was Blackie when I needed him? Lizzie came and went with Sarah to show me that her second tooth had broken the skin of her tender gums. The birds sang, and I worked on.
The shouting started up again but nearer the Women’s House this time. Now I could hear the cries of women as well and Mr. Schoeffel’s voice giving directions. I crossed to the window at the rear of the House and looked out.
Four men carried an old shutter on which something had been laid. Something covered with a piece of canvas from one of the barns. Something that resembled a human body.
I shouted, I don’t remember what. A blond head moving alongside the men looked up. It was Donny, and he was crying.
“Donny!” I shouted as loud as I could. “What has happened?”
He raised a hand toward me, and I saw that he was holding a shapeless black hat that shone with the grease of long years’ use. “Blackie,” he said through his tears.
We sat in Mrs. Lombardi’s small sitting room: Mr. Schoeffel, Mrs. Lombardi, Tess, and I. Tess was sitting in a corner on a blanket spread on the floor, watching Sarah who had learned to roll about.
I offered the wineglass to Mrs. Lombardi again. “Please take it,” I said. “You have had a terrible shock.”
Mrs. Lombardi took a tiny sip of the brandy and wiped impatiently at a tear that tracked down her face. “I am not usually so emotional.”
“You have been under great strain in the last few months.” Mr. Schoeffel’s deep, German voice was comforting.
“And you were fond of Blackie, I know,” I said, putting the wineglass carefully on the mantlepiece. “We all were.”
Mrs. Lombardi took a deep, shuddering breath and turned to face Mr. Schoeffel. “How did he die?” she asked.
“My friend, you cannot possibly want to concern yourself with that,” Mr. Schoeffel said slowly. “You are already upset enough.” I felt a frown gather on my face. It seemed to me that Mr. Schoeffel was trying to exclude Mrs. Lombardi from their shared responsibility, and that made me indignant. Besides, Blackie was dead—the third sudden death in this place in a matter of months. Was no one else thinking about that?
“I am quite all right. I would like to know how he died,” said Mrs. Lombardi, an edge of obstinacy coming into her voice.
“He was found at the back of the hay barn,” said Mr. Schoeffel. “He was lying face down, and it was clear—forgive me, Mrs. Lombardi—that he had vomited. Other than that, I would say that he died quite quickly. This was found underneath him.”
He crossed to the desk and picked up a bottle he had previously placed there. It was a plain clear glass bottle with a swing top, of the sort that was used for many kinds of liquid. I held out my hand for it, and he gave it to me.
It was quite empty, dry inside, but when I sniffed at it there was a faint smell of alcohol, resembling the kind that was used to disinfect wounds.
“What is it?” Mrs. Lombardi asked.
“I may be wrong,” said Mr. Schoeffel, “but I think it may be dazzle. Which means we need to talk to Joos Vervoordt.”
I knew the name; he was the man who delivered our firewood. “Why?” I asked, puzzled.
“Because he makes it. It’s a kind of moonshine,” said Mr. Schoeffel, his mouth pulled down in distaste. “Nasty stuff. Called dazzle because they say that if you drink a whole bottle, you go blind. Joos got into big trouble with the superintendent once for giving half a bottle to a couple of orderlies. Those men were sick for days.”
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Tess had scooped Sarah up and left the room with her. I turned my attention back to the bottle, which looked so innocuous in the sunlight streaming into the room.
“Do you think it’s possible that he drank too much of it?” Mrs. Lombardi asked.
“Blackie? I’d be surprised,” said Mr. Schoeffel. “He was not so stupid. And Joos is a careful man. He learned his lesson with those orderlies. I don’t think he’d hand over a large enough dose of the stuff to kill someone.”
“We must talk to him,” Mrs. Lombardi said firmly. “It is pointless to speculate. Tomorrow we will give poor Blackie a Christian burial, and then I shall ask my husband to bring Joos here. He knows him well.”
“And the police?” I asked. “The constable should be informed.”
“Of course. And I shall have a physician look at the body, naturally.” Mrs. Lombardi hesitated over the bottle, but then wrapped it carefully in a clean cloth and locked it into a drawer in her desk.
Mr. Schoeffel grunted with apparent amusement, and I felt my resentment grow. “Very correct, my ladies, but when a notorious drunk dies of drink, we do not have to look so far for a cause, nicht wahr? The physician will say drink, and the constable will say drink, and that is an end of it.”
As much as I wished it otherwise, I knew he was right. And nobody but Tess and me realized that the only person who knew the identity of the father of Jo’s child was silenced. And he had hinted at more secrets still. I wondered how much I had lost by not giving him that whiskey.
TWENTY-FIVE
Joos Vervoordt was a young man, tall and raw-boned, with sunken cheeks and eyes and a feral look. He glared at us defiantly as Mrs. Lombardi produced the bottle.
“Is this one of yours, Joos?” Pastor Lombardi’s voice held a stern note.
“I didn’t give it to him,” said Joos. He had a slight Dutch accent and a deep bass voice that was astonishing coming from such an emaciated body.
“It’s your moonshine,” said Mr. Schoeffel flatly. “I know the type of bottle, Joos. I remember it from when you got into trouble before.”
Joos threw Mr. Schoeffel a resentful look and turned back to the Lombardis.
“I won’t deny it’s one of my bottles,” he said. “And I won’t deny that my liquor was in it. But you’re not holding me to blame for the old bastard’s death. First of all, there was nowhere near enough in there to hurt anyone, especially Blackie. God verdomme, the man had been drinking my stuff for years.”
“Do not blaspheme,” said the Pastor, and at the same time Mr. Schoeffel exclaimed, “Hah! I always thought he was finding some way to drink.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the tall Dutchman. “What kind of verdammte idiot are you that you were giving firewater to Blackie after all that trouble you had before?”
“A hungry idiot,” Joos said sullenly. “You think I make enough to eat by selling wood? The rotgut is how I live. A bit of bacon here, a few coins there, and from Blackie I got good eggs from your hencoop.” He grinned, showing several gaps in his teeth. “Leastways, I mostly got good eggs. That’s why I stopped trading with him for a while, because he gave me three rotten ones. Teach the old bastard a lesson. So I’m telling you, I didn’t give the stuff to him.”
“Who did you give it to, Joos?” Mrs. Lombardi’s voice was gentle. Joos crossed his arms across his sunken chest and seemed to be thinking.
At last he raised a bony hand and pointed in my direction. “I gave it to her,” he said.
I felt a mild swimming sensation in my head. He was not indicating me, of course. Tess had returned with Sarah, and he was pointing straight at her.
I took Sarah from Tess and put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. She was trembling at having all eyes upon her; I felt her small hand reach up to grasp my own.
“Don’t you deny it, now,” said Joos. “Two weeks ago, it was. You were after me for the moonshine for weeks before I gave it you too. But maybe my price was a little high.” He leered at her.
“You are a bad man,” Tess said. “You wanted me to be like a Babylon woman with you. That is not right in God’s eyes.” Her stammer had become much more pronounced, but she held her head high.
The look that Mrs. Lombardi gave Joos should have felled him on the spot. “You asked for… favors?” She almost hissed out the word. “From Tess, of all people? You are disgusting.” She was white in the face.
“And you will never work for us again,” Mr. Schoeffel said. “We will get our firewood from the suppliers in Waukegan. I see you round here again, you better watch out.” His American accent had deteriorated, and the German immigrant was showing.
Joos’s mouth screwed itself into a tight twist of rage and resentment, but he said nothing. I curled my fingers into Tess’s shoulder and said softly, “Tess, you didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”
Tess looked up at me and her almond eyes crinkled into a smile. “No, Nell, I gave him some eggs. I may be an imbecile,” she looked out of the corner of her eyes at our caretakers as she said it, “but I’m not stupid.”
“So it’s true then?” asked Pastor Lombardi. “You obtained some alcohol for Blackie?”
Tess hung her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “I wanted him to tell Nell who made Jo’s baby. He knew.”
“Vas?” cried Mr. Schoeffel, and he went off into a stream of incomprehensible German while the Lombardis both looked at me in astonishment. I nodded sadly.
“I was trying to get Blackie to tell me who this Ly-lee was,” I said. “I don’t think Jo hid herself in that room. I think someone shut her in there and that it was the same person who got her with child. Why else would he want to kill her? I think that he took advantage of your illness to somehow get the key and entice Jo into the insane wing. But without Blackie, I don’t think I’ll ever know who it was.”
“So you really did give Blackie that bottle?” Pastor Lombardi was a genial man in the normal run of things. Now his face was troubled and drawn.
“Yes,” Tess said again. “He was not happy that it was not whiskey.” She glanced at me with guilt written on her face. “You made me promise not to give him whiskey, Nell.”
I hid my face in my hands. We all underestimated Tess, that much was certain.
“But he said it was all right,” Tess continued. “He said I must fetch Nell round to the back of the barn, and he would tell her. He said he must tell her and not me. He said she was the right one to bring justice.”
