Nearly upending the sugar bowl, Mattie clapped her hands on the edge of the table. "Sweet charity, tell it again, Zora!"
Spooning milk through my tea, I laughed and laughed. Mattie had spent much of the dance in repairs of a torn hem. So, like me, she'd missed the brilliant storming of Zora's dance card by one Mr. Thomas Rea, Division Street.
That's how his calling card read, the one he left in our foyer this morning, inscribed with a handwritten p.r. on the back—pour remercier, for thanks—for Zora, who'd bewitched him til the last of the night.
Playing at a swoon, Sarah batted her lashes and chirped, "'I'm asking for the waltzes.'"
"'All of them,'" I intoned.
Zora bubbled with laughter. "Stop it!"
"How can you ask that of us?" Snapping her fan open, Sarah fluttered it wildly. "This is the most exciting thing that's happened to any of us. I want to live it again and again."
"Well, you know there's always the public dance in Annapolis," Mattie said.
Tea raised to her lips, Sarah stopped before sipping and said, "That's too long a drive if we can't stay the night."
"It's too long a drive without guarantee," Zora agreed. She squeezed the delicate sugar tongs between her fingers, making the silver tick with each compression. "Amelia, tell our fortunes before we resign ourselves to a week-end with cousin Agnes."
A groan went round the table, three voices joined in mutual distress. Quite surprised to be put in a spotlight so suddenly, I looked at them with a helpless smile. "What do you expect me to tell you?"
Zora waved the tongs. "Wondrous things, like last time!"
She was a shameless thing, so I leveled my cup and remarked, "But, Miss Stewart, it's so taxing."
With a distinctly unladylike snort, Zora gave me a poke. "These are our friends. Tax Yourself for our entertainment. Just this once."
"I only saw a dress," I demurred. A sting crossed the back of my neck, and I tried to burn it off with a deep swallow of hot tea. "And a dance. I didn't mean to. It only happened that once."
Too excited now to consider tea or sandwiches, Mattie turned in her chair to offer her hands, to implore me. "Oh, it would be ever so lovely if you tried again!"
Sarah murmured something under her breath, and though I didn't catch it, I noted that it held a hint of derision. It struck a sour note in me, for whispering was rude and deliberately getting caught in a whisper ruder still. Ensuring that the subject of your gossip knew of your disdain was the height of it—even I knew that, country girl that I was.
So despite telling Edwina there was no diversion to be had in my prophesying, I turned to Mattie and squeezed her hands. "For You, I'lltry."
***
Expectant eyes on me, I sat stiffly on a chair in the parlor, taking exaggerated breaths to calm myself. Being watched had the queerest effect—though they expected hysterics, I found myself too embarrassed to provide them.
Shifting my weight from side to side, I folded my hands and unfolded them. I leaned my head back and rolled it all around, but all that came to me was a thin and nervous giggle.
"It's so quiet," I said, then winced with laughter when Mattie jumped. "Beg your pardon."
Sarah held her tight smile, leaning forward to look at Mattie. "Boo, you little mouse."
"I have a nervous constitution. Everyone says so."
"It's all right," Zora said, intervening. She stood up in a flurry of skirts, holding her hands out. "It was a valiant effort, but, alas, our cousin had one sending in her and it was for me. Weep if you must. Try not to hate me!"
As Zora moved to put the room right again, I pulled my chair closer to Mattie's to comfort her. "I'm sure whatever you wanted me to see will come true."
"I didn't know what I wanted," Mattie admitted. So pale, so dear—I wanted to fold her right up and carry her in my pocket, where none of the ugly world could trouble her.
I thought to have a word with Sarah later, for while I appreciated boldness in doses, it was plain to anyone that Mattie did not. Sharp manners and looks only enhanced the tremulousness of her nature, and I thought Sarah's way with her bordered on cruel.
Even now she snapped her fan open and closed, a drumming very like fingers on a board in its repetition. With each furling, Mattie started, little quakes that never entirely subsided, though she knew the source of the sound.
Passing behind her, Zora said lightly, "Then You go away satisfied, don't you?"
"I suppose I do."
Velvet and brocade crackled as Zora threw open the curtains. We all three raised our hands, little moles suddenly exposed to the sky. A shot of liquid gold tore through my fingers.
A reverie came fast over me, sunset's glimmering light spilling a stage before me. A swirl of fireflies coalesced into Sarah's form—it had to be her, for she alone had a gown just for archery. Only she pulled back a bowstring with that much accomplishment.
I felt myself rising up, my hands skimming the air to mirror the pull. Closer I came to this gilded image of our sun-swept cousin, until I found myself looking through her eyes. No small amount of pleasure expanded when we took our breath, turned with perfect poise toward the target.
A whip cracked. We dropped to our knees. The crescent shape of the bow quivered as it fell on the remains of a flawed arrow. We pressed our hands to our face. In dusk-drenched gold, there was beauty in the blood that poured through our gloved fingers.
Our admiration breathed once and died when the pain spilled forth after it. A raw, savage agony filled our head. Sobbing, we fell into the cool grass. The sudden, ugly scent of sal volatile burned beneath my nose, and I thrashed.
Gilt gardens melted to the rich mulberry shades of the Stewarts' parlor. Raising my hand to my nose, I cringed away. Three pairs of ravenous, waiting eyes followed me as I tried to find my feet.
"You went insensible;it was amazing," Sarah said, hauling me up on one side.
On the other arm, Mattie asked, "Did You see something for me?"
Trying to find a steady center once more, I freed myself from their grips. Murmuring my thanks, I smoothed my gown and backed away from them. A horrifying pain pressed behind my eye. I wanted to cry.
The first sending had come so sweetly. The message had been so dear that I was happy to carry it. But even as I looked on Sarah and her haughty carriage, I couldn't stand the thought that my own bias had wished an ill sight on me.
She wasn't terrible—she had nothing but kindness for me, and Mattie didn't seem to mind her pecking. Even if she did, no one would deserve such a punishment.
Zora capped the salts, leaving them on the mantel to come to my side. Arms wrapped around me, she murmured, gently reassuring, "I think she swooned, that's all. Too much tea, not enough sandwich."
"Corset's too tight," I agreed.
A bitter guilt overwhelmed me. What if those things I saw were not my heart's desire, but the truth? I owed it to Sarah to warn her against tragedy.
My cheek still stung with the phantom strike, and when I looked on her round face, I saw exactly the course the wound would cross—through her dark, arched brow, across the round of her cheek.
Taken by vertigo, I trembled when I realized that such a wound would sacrifice one of her pretty brown eyes.
I clutched Zora's arm for support and said, "Mind your arrows, Sarah, I beg you."
And then I flung myself toward the kitchen, to be sick in private.
***
Sitting with a basin in her lap, Mrs. Stewart waited for us to twist the eyes from potatoes, then took them to peel. With her apron pinned just so and a cloth draped across her gown, she seemed rather like a nurse.
Well, except that she was missing a white hat and a pocket full of sweets. Oh, and she scolded us instead of petting us, yet again.
"Keeping up this state of high dudgeon plays havoc on a girl's constitution," she said, her knife flashing. "Modern or not, I'm raising ladies here."
Zora kept her eyes down, for I could see that at any moment she migh
t burst out laughing. As I was the one to blame for most of the dudgeon in question, I hardly had room to find delight in the resulting havoc.
"It wouldn't do you a spot of harm to summer in Maine," Mrs. Stewart added. She gently kicked the foot of Zora's chair, reminding her to attend to her posture.
Zora shook a potato at her mother. "Would You risk my going wild just to make a point?"
"I would forget you're all but seventeen and tan your hide!"
For that, I did laugh. I troubled to bury in my hand, pretending to cough. I thought Zora might have a saucy reply, but if she did, a knock at the door cut her off.
The Stewarts only had a downstairs girl on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so Zora jumped to her feet to play the part. After all, there was the odd chance that Thomas might take leave of his senses and drop off another card for her on a day when he'd already left one.
"Sit, you," Mrs. Stewart said, handing off the basin and leaving her lap cloth in the chair to answer it herself. One never knew, and she could hardly risk our reputations by letting us loll at the door, talking to boys before dinner.
Moments later when we heard Thomas' voice, Zora and I nearly broke a neck apiece in our attempt to get to the hallway.
Thomas stood in the foyer, hat in hand—proved tall by comparison to the door behind him. Something troubled him, though. His shoulders curled like they had when Miss Burnside remonstrated him. My heart sank. I prayed there would be no trouble between him and Zora—no obstacle put there, either.
Zora pressed her face against my arm, like she had to gather strength just to put eyes on him. Her breath slipped hot through my sleeve as she whispered, "I take one look, and I want to run away with him."
"Where would you go?"
A warm light came on in Zora's eyes. "Anywhere. Anywhere at all. I shouldn't care if it were Shanghai."
When Thomas turned to leave, I shook Zora and spun her to at least look on him before he went. Across Mrs. Stewart's shoulder, they caught a glimpse and clung to that breathless moment for the little time it lasted.
Then the door closed, and Zora and I scrambled back to the kitchen. We were so clever and graceful in our return that we knocked over Mrs. Stewart's chair and lost three potatoes. With no time to retrieve them, we simply acted as though they belonged there when Mrs. Stewart returned.
"Who was that?" I asked innocently.
Mrs. Stewart put her foot on top of a potato, rolling it beneath her shoe. "I think you know."
Picking up the thread I'd stitched, Zora asked, "Was he on business, Mama?"
"You might say."
One by one, Mrs. Stewart snatched potatoes off the floor; our displays of cheek no longer amused her.
As the mood in the kitchen darkened considerably, Zora and I rededicated ourselves to our chore. Never had anyone found rubbing the eyes from potatoes so arduous and exacting work, the way we did while waiting for Mrs. Stewart to speak.
She passed my chair to retrieve hers. When she did, I saw an envelope in her hand—paper of the finest sort, closed with a seal of verdigris green. Would that I could see through parchment!
Mrs. Stewart sat, stiff and formal. "Let it not be said that I came into this agreement to keep you, Amelia, with blinders. I expected a measure of frivolity. I was young once. I anticipated the delights you'd both find in taking license."
My hands stilled.
"Convention may stifle, but it protects young women from their foolish whims."
"Mama," Zora dared, then shut up on receipt of a hard look.
Fanning herself in the heat of the kitchen, Mrs. Stewart became mortal again as she sighed. "You have good natures, and it's man's nature to take advantage of that. There's no boy who ever walked this earth with only selfless intention."
"What about the Lord?" Zora mumbled.
Mrs. Stewart squinted at her. "Do You really wish me to nip your bud, Zora Pauline?"
For me, I wished that this dreadful conversation would fade away. It was clear. The postmaster had mentioned my visit. Or Thomas himself felt honor-bound to report how closely I had danced with Nathaniel. God save me, perhaps both. I swallowed back a sour taste and trembled.
"Against my best judgment," Mrs. Stewart said, producing the letter, "this shall be the first, and only, time I acknowledge attentions made toward either of you out of turn."
Zora swelled in anticipation of taking it. Surprise plucked her brows when Mrs. Stewart instead delivered it to me.
"Wills is a fine boy who knows better," Mrs. Stewart said, reaching for the basin and her knife again. "I bade Thomas tell him he would carry no more entreaties. He can leave his card of a morning, the same as any other caller."
Confusion broke the tensioned air. I hadn't been found out, and apparently I had been called out for a total mystery. Why would Wills go to such trouble for me? We had barely met, and all that stirred me was his fine taste in papers.
Disappointed, Zora tossed a potato in the basin and reached for another. "What's that great auk have to say for himself?" She stared pointedly until I unfolded the letter.
"'Dear Miss van den Broek, forgive me for being so bold, but I've never enjoyed a dance so much as I did the one at Judge Bonds','" I read, a blush starting to light on my skin. "'If it pleases you and Miss Stewart, Mr. Rea and I shall number ourselves among those attending the public ball held by the Sons of Apollo in Annapolis, date and time listed below. The cause is the arts, and I appeal to the philanthropic nature so inborn in ladies of your stature, to humbly beg your kind consideration, should there be none other engagement of previous obligation on this occasion.'"
Mrs. Stewart said to no one in particular, "Fancy that. Who knew Wills could pen such a pretty letter?"
I shuffled the pages, and a sharp breath caught in my chest when I found not a closing, but an epigraph, written in a fine hand in the middle of the page. At once, the richness of bay rum cologne rushed up to torment me, stirred into the ink.
"And he signs his name, that's all," I lied, stuffing them into my polonaise. The letter needed no signature for me to understand. Thomas would no doubt attend the Sons of Apollo ball, but I would not find Wills there in search of me.
"Please, Mama," Zora said, already begging.
Whatever Mrs. Stewart's answer, I didn't hear it. Her voice drifted away from me—Zora's, too. I heard nothing but the echo of my own name. Pressing my hand to my breast, to the letter safely tucked away, I burned knowing how the letter truly ended.
Was it enough to wear the night with me just once, Amelia? I am unsatisfied.
Yours, obediently—
Nathaniel Witherspoon
Oakhaven Broken Tooth, Maine Autumn 1889
Ten
HAS SHE BEEN at that window all day?" August asked when he came in.
He brought autumn with him, a crisp scent of dried leaves and fires burned down in the village. Once the scent of wood smoke had delighted me, but no longer. Now it brought a low, slow throbbing to my brow.
Lizzy deflected the question. "She went out and picked morels this morning."
"She's gone mad," I said, stretching my arm across the windowsill, "not deaf."
The floor shook beneath August's boots. Bending down, he came so very close that I could see nothing but the reflection of my eyes in his. Catching my chin, he refused to let me look away. "I'm quite determined to put you straight, Amelia."
Forcibly, I broke his gaze and applied myself to the study of the seasons again.
Funny how our trees usually burst out in shades of flame come fall, but this year they had nothing but endless shades of dun and dark. I wondered if some tragedy had stolen all their colors, too.
"So they're not enough for stew," Lizzy said, picking up her thought as easily as she picked up her next stitch. "But perhaps dressing, if we've got any oysters. Or maybe you could bring some home tomorrow, Gus."
"What difference does it make," August asked, the question trailing behind him down the hall, "if she refuses to eat dressing or r
efuses to eat stew? I should like stew myself. It's my house, isn't it?"
"Spoiled," Lizzy murmured, an indulgent tone meant to curry my agreement, but I had no answer.
Every day felt like drowning to me. I woke and took a single, useless breath, then sank into the deep again. Every shape was shadows;every flavor, dust. What did it matter if I spent my days at the window or beneath the ground? I'd still destroyed Zora. I'd still burned Baltimore to the ground.
In the end, it was all the same.
Except the wonderful detonations that came when I crossed August. He shouted from his study, and soon thereafter he carried his storm back to the kitchen.
"What is this?" he demanded, slapping papers on the table. He raised his voice when I failed to raise my head. "I will have an explanation, and I will have it now!"
Reaching for one of the sheets that had drifted to the floor, Lizzy kept silent as she read. I traced her figure in the glass, the tips of my fingers marking the pretty curve of her cheeks as they turned from blush to ash.
August tapped a finger against the page. "Now You see, Elizabeth. Now You see, don't you?"
"That's enough," Lizzy murmured. But she folded the paper in half and fed it to the old iron stove. At once, she gathered her sewing and swept from the kitchen. For all the effort it took me to look after her, I only managed to see the hem of her skirt disappear around the corner.
I slipped my fingers in my hair, twisting and twisting at the braids looped there. "Oh, Gus, for shame. Look what you've done."
"Burn them all," he told me. And then, admirably, he went after his wife.
I didn't leave the chair so much as slip from it. Unboned and weak-muscled, I melted across the floor and came to sit against the wall. When I strained, I caught a few scattered pages. Straightening them in my lap to consider, I sighed. My handwriting drifted in a slope across the page.
Today in the vespers, I hear two boys drowning when the current calls them to sea.
The Vespertine Page 8
