by Jane Steen
My mother looked at me with a shrewd sparkle in her eyes. “You have changed, Nell. You have returned to me as a young woman with a tender heart.”
I looked at Sarah who by now was asleep, her little mouth moving in a sucking motion as she dreamed. “You’re holding the reason for that, Mama.”
My mother’s lips suddenly parted in a broad smile that revealed her snaggled front teeth. “What is her full name?”
I felt a little dismayed; had Mama forgotten my note on Mrs. Lombardi’s letter, giving Sarah’s name? Bet was right, she was getting worse. I took a deep breath.
“Sarah Amelia Lillington.” I could feel my face redden slightly; it was the first time I had given Sarah a surname out loud, and for a second the name “Venton” had tried to force itself onto my lips. I thought suddenly of Jack, making plans for his future with no idea that he had a daughter, and a pang of something like guilt shot through my body. He had wronged me, I was sure of it by now; but I had wronged him in return.
My mother patted Sarah’s back, oblivious to the struggles of my conscience. “Did you ever really consider giving her up?” she asked
“Oh, yes. Until—” I stopped, realizing that of course Mama would know nothing of the events at the Farm. I did not think for a moment that Hiram would have told her. “Until I realized how much I loved her,” I substituted. I let my fingertips brush the warm, silken skin of my baby’s face. “And now I couldn’t let her go for anything in the world.”
My mother looked gravely at me, and her voice took on an edge of steel. “And I will help you keep her, Nell. There are worse things than disgrace.”
Bet entered, carrying a tray with a glass for me and slices of her seedy-cake. Despite the supper I’d eaten with Martin, I was ravenous again. The combination of the caraway seeds in the cake and the cool lemonade was delicious, and I put down my cleared plate with such a satisfied sigh that both Bet and my mother laughed. Bet remained in the room while I ate, looking fondly at the picture made by my mother and her granddaughter.
“It’s a terrible shame Mr. Bratt and me never had any children,” she said. “I always thought I’d have a houseful of boys, somehow. But the good Lord bestows His blessings according to His perfect will.”
“And sometimes the Lord’s perfect will does not conform to society’s dictates.” My mother’s voice was stern, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she regarded her illegitimate grandchild.
I took a big gulp of my lemonade. “Mama, you are a wonder,” I whispered. My mother put out her hand to me. “Can it be possible,” I continued, “that you would go against my stepfather’s wishes and persuade him to let me keep Sarah? His political career …” Although, I thought, perhaps the combination of my mother’s determination and my knowledge of Hiram’s secret would be more powerful than his ambition.
My mother sighed. “We will try to pass you off as a widow, I suppose. That is how these things are usually done.” She laughed at my startled look. “My darling, you will not be the first young woman to return to Victory with a child and a tale of clandestine marriage and sudden widowhood. Eventually, you know, people stop counting on their fingers. If we present a united front, we will ride out the storm.”
“And Stepfather could still become mayor of Victory,” I said.
“That is to be hoped.” My mother’s mouth was primly pursed, but her eyes still held a trace of amusement.
“And as a widow with a small child, it would not be shocking if I were to work to support myself. I enjoyed my work as a seamstress at the Farm, Mama. I know that you would support me.” I laid a hand on her wrist to cut off her protest. “But I wish to be as independent as possible. My work at the Farm made me feel like an adult. I do not wish to return to a state of childhood.”
My mother nodded her head slowly. “In truth,” she said, “I am a little more shocked by the notion of my daughter working for a living than I am about this little one.” She laughed, kissing Sarah who was now thoroughly asleep, a limp bundle against her shoulder. “And yet, of course, your dear father’s sisters were both employed before they married.” I breathed silent thanks to my father for being what my mother called a “rough diamond.”
I did not think at all that Stepfather would readily accede to my plan, but I was holding a trump card. It was a bluff—all I had against him in concrete terms were the word of a lunatic and some hearsay from a drinking session. I was powerless to bring about the justice that Jo and her baby deserved—and possibly Blackie, although there only a coincidence of dates stood against Hiram Jackson—and in any event I could not subject my mother to the scandal and shame of an accusation against her husband.
No, but if I could not bring justice, I could at least acquire my freedom. I was ready to wager my future on the instinctive feeling that my stepfather would relinquish his control over me and my child in return for my silence. I hoped that I was right.
THIRTY-SIX
For a few days my mother played with and admired her granddaughter from breakfast till the time I tucked Sarah in bed, with the exception of the hour or so in the afternoon when she received callers. During that hour, I sat in the kitchen with Bet and Marie. If Sarah were noisy, my mother would explain that Bet had an unexpected visitor in the form of one of her many cousins, who had brought her child. And I had no doubt she carried off the lie superbly.
Martin usually visited in the evening after his day’s business was done and often dined with us; with Stepfather absent, my mother was free to dine late, in the European fashion, as Grandmama had always preferred. Mama, Martin, and I took Sarah upstairs to bed before dinner, and Mama’s face glowed with pleasure as she watched Martin kiss my baby’s soft cheek while I sang a lullaby. She had scolded Martin gently for not being forthcoming about my presence in Victory and then let the matter drop.
I had been a little worried lest Mama imagine that Martin was Sarah’s father, but that thought did not appear to worry her. In fact, I often caught her looking hard at Sarah’s green eyes, but she never said anything to me or even mentioned Jack’s name. I had always thought my mother’s character to be rather conventional and predictable, but I had to admit that now I was seeing hidden depths in her.
The day came when I heard the hired carriage draw up outside the house, and my stepfather’s loud voice ordered the driver to hurry up and unload his trunks. I was changing Sarah’s diaper in our bedroom—now the larger one at the back and not the one I had had since girlhood—and I hastily finished my task. I opened the bedroom door just a crack, my heart thudding.
I strained my ears to hear what was happening, but our house was well built, and I could not distinguish any words. I heard Hiram’s heavy tread as he entered the parlor and thought I discerned the faint tinkling of a bell as my mother rang for coffee.
What were they saying? Had Mama broached the subject of my presence in the house yet, or was she merely inquiring after Hiram’s journey? I worried about the effect of the excitement on my mother’s heart. I felt no fear—killer as my stepfather might be, I did not for a moment think that he would show me any violence with my mother present. Strange to think that such a frail, dainty soul stood between me and the wrath of a murderer.
I could hear Hiram’s voice on occasion, obviously replying to whatever my mother was saying. The minutes ticked by, and I sat perched on the very edge of the chair I had placed near the door, watching Sarah’s attempts to plumb the secrets of a brightly colored ball I had sewn from scraps of fabric. Then, at last, the rumble of Hiram’s voice seemed to take on a more urgent tone, and I heard Bet’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Beg pardon, Miss, your stepfather requires your presence in the parlor.”
I swept Sarah up into my arms and walked a little unsteadily downstairs, my throat tight. Bet opened the door, and I went in.
I was hardly expecting a warm welcome. Hiram stood in front of the empty fireplace, his right hand massaging his lower back and his chin
jutting out several inches. He looked down his nose at Sarah, who sat silently in my arms, as if hypnotized by his piercing eyes.
I was certain that Stepfather had not reported our previous conversation to my mother. Did she even know that he had seen my child? Somehow I thought not.
“Good morning, Stepfather.” I tried to make my voice pleasant and neutral.
“You are looking well, Eleanor.” His voice did not betray any emotion either.
“This is Sarah.” I watched his eyes carefully. No, he had not told her.
He grunted noncommittally.
“I have not returned to make trouble, Stepfather. I am sure that Mama has told you that she wishes me to keep Sarah, and so do I. We will agree to any arrangement—any,” I searched for the word, “explanation you wish to give about my secret marriage and unfortunate widowhood.”
“You disobeyed me.” His voice was mild, but the look in his eyes was pure venom. My mother, seated in her usual chair, could not see his expression.
“I am sorry, Stepfather. But I find that I do not wish to be separated from my daughter.” I took a deep breath, willing my legs not to shake. “If I could have a few minutes’ conversation with you in private, Stepfather, I believe you would be quite convinced.” I felt rather than saw my mother’s look of surprise and shot her a look that told her to trust me. Then I stared steadily at Hiram, willing him to see the knowledge of the truth in my eyes.
Bet came to fetch Sarah when Mama retired upstairs for her afternoon nap. Hiram and I were left to face each other without the reminder of our object of contention.
We spoke in low voices, fearful of disturbing my mother’s sleep. Hiram began pacing, but lightly and warily, like a cat on a brick wall.
“Do you think you can use your mother against me?” His mouth was stretched into a thin-lipped smile. “She may dote on your brat now, but I can persuade her to see matters from the viewpoint of a respectable woman and the future wife of a mayor.”
I did not agree with him on that, but I let it pass. “I am not simply relying on my mother. I have good reason to think you will accede to my wishes.”
“And that would be?” He smirked confidently.
Better get to the point at once. I drew a deep breath, wished my heart would stop threatening to jump out of my body, and spoke with as much calm as I could muster.
“Why did you shut Jo into that room?”
He stopped in midstride. Pivoting on the foot on which he was standing, he swung round to face me. His eyes were narrowed to icy slits, and there were streaks of dark red on his cheekbones.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Ostrander told me that you shut her in there.”
Hiram laughed, a mirthless sound under his breath. “A driveling madman.”
“And it is public knowledge that you boasted about Jo in the saloon.” Did Martin’s story amount to “public knowledge”? Probably not, but I was going for maximum effect.
It seemed to have worked. He went pale, leaving his cheeks blotched and ugly. His pomaded hair lay limply on his scalp, like the feathers of a rooster when it has been out in the rain.
“Damn that little whore. Damn all of you whores.” His voice was curiously flat.
“Why did you do it?” I asked again. “Jo was being sent away. How could she be a danger to you?”
“She came to me in the refectory and shoved that filthy little infant in my face. ‘Ly-lee bay!’ she said. And the damn thing looked like me.”
“But you needn’t have killed her. She would have lived a thousand miles away for the rest of her life.”
Hiram seemed to gather his wits and resumed his pacing. “You have no evidence. None at all.”
“Very little, I admit. The circumstances were ideal, weren’t they? Mrs. Lombardi senseless with fever, the cart driver drunk and incapable?”
“The keys.” Hiram was talking to himself in a low monotone. “On the ground, right in front of me.”
“And Jo trusted you.” It was hard to keep from screaming. I wanted justice. This admission—this half-admission—was not justice. Perhaps there never would be any, not for those on the outside of our respectable, shut-in world.
Hiram leaned against the window casement, smiling. Outside I could hear the ordinary sound of a carriage making its way slowly along our quiet street, the driver clicking softly to his horse. Hiram glanced out of the window; he must have seen someone he knew, because he motioned a greeting. A respectable man, a prosperous citizen, at his own window. I felt sick.
“Did you poison Blackie as well?” I asked in a very small voice.
Hiram only laughed in answer, and my blood ran chill in my veins. He swung to face me, planting his feet firmly.
“So you think you can accuse me? Let me tell you something, Eleanor. The blessings of Providence follow me in all my ventures.”
What did he mean? His smile seemed to turn inward, and he stared at something I could not see. Was he mad, like Mr. Ostrander?
I asked the question that had burned in my brain ever since I first suspected Hiram. “Why did you send me there, of all places? Did you not realize that a dead body cannot remain hidden?”
Hiram jerked out of his reverie and grinned, looking quite friendly.
“Would I send my own stepdaughter to the scene of my crimes? You see how ridiculous your claims are, Nell. Who could possibly suspect me?” He spread his hands in an expansive gesture.
A doubt assailed me; Hiram must have seen it, because his smile grew wider. “No proof,” he said softly. “If I admitted it out loud in this room—if I have admitted the least thing,” he appeared to be thinking back over the last few minutes, “you still have no proof. All things run in my favor, Nell. I am the one that Providence has chosen for a mighty destiny. Those who would speak against me must fall silent, or the Almighty will confound the speech in their mouths.”
This was insane nonsense. Did he really imagine that God had struck Mr. Ostrander mad rather than have his secret revealed? I had arranged this meeting to reason with Hiram, but his reason was as slippery and contorted as a nest of young snakes.
I decided to try bravado. “If you try to send Sarah away,” I said as firmly as I could, “I will nonetheless go to your political rivals and tell them everything I know and suspect. Even if they think I am a vengeful child or a madwoman, the seed will be planted in their minds.”
“Oh.” Hiram’s mood seemed to shift suddenly, and his face masked itself behind a nauseating expression of concern. I was repelled and fascinated by this man, my mother’s husband with whom I had lived for three years. I did not know him at all. “I did not say I wished any longer to send the child away, Eleanor. After all, it is your dear mother’s desire that she stay. And my darling Amelia’s wishes are of prime importance to me.”
I was confused and thrown off balance by this sudden accession to my request. “She—she may stay?” I stammered.
“Naturally. I will write to Mrs. Lombardi to tell her to ask the Grays’ forgiveness. They will not have their child.” His voice had resumed its usual overbearing tone.
I did not know where I stood. Had I even heard a confession? Were Sarah and I safe? I decided to put one more card on the table.
“Martin knows what I have told you, Stepfather. He has sworn to look after us.”
Hiram snorted. “Young men are fools. Young women too. Martin Rutherford may think he’s your protector, but he’s not your brother, or your lover either, hey?” A sneer settled onto his thin lips. “No woman’s lover, by all accounts.”
I felt an indignant blush creep up my neck and opened my mouth to defend Martin’s character. But my remark was cut short by the creak of the door; my mother came quietly into the room. Hiram went an interesting shade of pale gray, and I could almost hear him wondering if Mama had heard anything of our conversation. But her face was serene, and her blue eyes shone with happiness.
“I peeped
in on Sarah, Nell. She looks like a little angel. And that hair, so much like my dear Jack! Hiram, don’t you think our granddaughter is the sweetest little thing?”
Hiram grimaced a smile as he helped my mother to her chair and grunted assent. I excused myself and returned to my room, where I lay down on my bed and tried to sort through my swirling thoughts.
Hiram had denied nothing and had come to the brink of an admission. I was more certain than ever that he had killed Jo, Benjamin, and Blackie. I was certain, but as Hiram himself had pointed out, I had absolutely no proof in the world.
And yet—he had told me I could keep Sarah. I squeezed my eyes tight shut in joy, listening to my baby’s soft breathing as she slept in her crib. My dearest wish had fallen into my lap without effort, and all because it was Mama’s wish too. As long as she lived, we three would be safe and happy together.
But I would lock the bedroom door when Sarah was asleep and guard her—and myself—vigilantly by day. I was afraid—a little. But if Hiram thought he could wait for Providence to grant him an opportunity to dispose of us, he would discover that I was Red Jack Lillington’s daughter indeed.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Over the next few days, Hiram’s behavior toward me was formal in the extreme. He no longer glared at me or made any remarks about Sarah. He displayed the punctilious politeness he might have shown to a visiting lady, rising when I entered the room, showing concern for my comfort, and asking my opinion on the topics of the day.
My mother was naturally thrilled by the news that Sarah would stay with us and never missed an opportunity to shower Hiram with tokens of gratitude and affection. We were quite the happy family. I did my part by showing Hiram the deference due to a stepfather, but inwardly I was a trapped bird in a cage. It seemed to me that Hiram had made—inadvertently or not—just enough of an admission to give me power over him and to display to me the power he exercised over me: that of a wild creature who could spring at will. We had found some kind of equilibrium, but it was horribly precarious.
