by John Smolens
“Come on, child. Tell him how you saw our house guest in the throes of passion in one of our carriages. Tell him how you were so aghast that you ran out of the stable in the pouring rain, spilling the basket of eggs in hand.”
Cedella merely stared at them, horrified.
“In one of my carriages?” Enoch said. “Which one?”
“The diligence,” Miranda said.
“The diligence,” Enoch said, turning to the girl, who nodded her head reluctantly. “She … she was in my diligence with … a man?”
Cedella’s eyes slid toward Miranda, who said, “Go ahead. It’s all right.”
The maid stood up a little straighter, as though she had decided she might as well show bravery in the face of her imminent execution. “I cannot say, Ma’am.” Her voice was unusually loud.
Miranda scrutinized the maid for a moment, then smiled and said, “Well, you’ve got some back to you, don’t you.”
“Cannot say?” Enoch demanded. “Who was the man?”
“Our doctor,” Miranda said.
“Giles?” Enoch glared at Miranda.
“Yes.” Miranda tucked a few strands of hair up into the bun that was piled on her head. “I’m afraid that would be the case.”
“This tea,” Enoch said. “It’s … ghastly.” He pointed an accusing finger at the maid. “Bring me the rum.”
“Sir?”
“Has that lump on your forehead made you deaf?” He pointed to the glass decanters on the hutch. “I want … the rum … here.”
“Of course, sir.”
As Cedella brought the rum, Miranda looked across the table at Samuel, who only glanced up for a moment, his mouth full. “Well,” she said, “I suppose this is shocking news, darling, which requires a drop, or.…” She watched Enoch add rum to his tea. “Here,” she said picking up his teaspoon, “perhaps I could sweeten that a bit.” She stirred in more sugar, and after he picked up the cup and drank, she asked, “Better?”
Enoch looked up at the maid, who obediently took several steps back from the table. He ran his tongue around his lips, looking uncertain, but said, “Yes, I suppose that’s what it needs.” He took another drink of his tea.
Miranda rolled her eyes toward Samuel, who was spreading jam on his toast.
When Enoch put his teacup down, he cleared his throat and spat in his handkerchief again. “Mother, I know what you’re doing.”
She looked at him; his gray eyes were stern, emboldened by the rum. “What do you mean?” she said.
“Sometimes I think you’re trying to kill me.”
The air came out of her as though someone had hit her hard on the chest. “Really.”
Enoch turned to his son and said, “You’re probably in on it, too.”
“Nmm,” Samuel said, as his fingers rooted around in his mouth, and then he pulled out a masticated strand of gristle.
“Don’t contradict me,” Enoch said.
“My dear,” Miranda said pleasantly, “since you were a boy in short pants you’ve been convinced that the world is conspiring against you.”
Enoch leaned back in his chair, parting his coat. Protruding from the waist of his silk pants was the pearl handle of a small revolver, which he pulled out and laid on the table next to the teacup. “We have a guest—a refugee, a royal refugee—from a foreign country in our house. A personage that brings to our humble surroundings a modicum of grace and distinction, and you, both of you, immediately begin to conspire against her—against my wishes.”
“Your wishes?” Miranda’s laugh lilted with sarcasm. “Please, spare me the usual diatribe about how America will never be a great country without its own royal order.”
“One can take this business of democracy too far,” Enoch barked.
“You’re just upset that your delusional designs on that girl have been thwarted.”
“I’ll tell you what’s delusional—it’s Giles being your physician. And you insisted that he treat Marie, and look where they end up—fornicating, in a carriage?” He leaned toward Miranda, leering. “In the French diligence, no less, the one I had shipped over from Lyon?”
“Enoch, really. You would have preferred they had carried on in the hay wagon? No, that would be too democratic. And as for being my doctor, he is my son, after all.”
“But only my half-brother, nothing but a barber surgeon, skilled at extracting teeth.” He picked up his teacup and drained it. And then his gaze became fixated, as he stared toward the light from the windows. “Open it,” he said. After a moment, he glanced at the maid, and said angrily, “The window—open it. Wide.”
Cedella quickly went to the nearest window and with some effort pushed the sash up as far as it would go. Enoch picked up his pistol and aimed it at the girl as she turned from the window. She shrieked, falling to her hands and knees, just as he fired. The report was deafening, and there was angry cawing as birds flew up and away from the trees that loomed over the side yard. Samuel bolted out of his chair and fled the dining room, choking on his food. In an effort to maintain a sense of poise, Miranda removed her handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it in front of her face, but it was pointless—the dining room was filled with blue smoke and the smell of gunpowder.
“Crows, they raid the garden,” Enoch said with some satisfaction. “I will not have them on my property.”
After breakfast, Benjamin Penrose told Leander to help him hitch a team to the hay wagon, and then they set out down High Street, heading south toward Newbury. Like his father, he had a ruddy completion from the summer sun and from drink. He often grinned as though he was sharing a joke with Leander, and when he wasn’t talking he liked to whistle softly, which seemed to have a calming effect upon the horses in the stable.
“Where are we going?” Leander asked.
“Just a little errand to Newbury, if we ever get there.” Benjamin clucked his tongue, but the horses refused to pick up their pace. He glanced at Leander. “You have any more trouble with Horseshoe?”
“At table this morning he just smiled at me—those teeth, you know. But some of the others, they treated me … I don’t know.”
“With respect,” Benjamin said. “They won’t say so outright, but they’re glad somebody finally put that bastard down in the dirt. But it’s a delicate thing because he’s one of the few that was born and raised in the Sumner household. That confers a privilege of sorts.”
“Were you born there?”
“No,” Benjamin said. “I came from Rowley twenty years ago, after my mother died and my father lost his farm—she just dropped dead one day in the kitchen. Her heart just give out. I was maybe six.”
Leander studied Benjamin a moment; he was tall and his hands were enormous. “Horseshoe, did he beat you when you first came to the house?”
“No, he never did.” Benjamin slapped the reins on the horses’ haunches, and they picked up the pace for a few strides, before settling into a determined walk. “I’m the only one, I guess. Horseshoe and I are about the same age, and he’s bigger—fatter—but he must have just known he wouldn’t have a chance with me, so he’s left me alone.”
“That’s why—”
“Why, what?”
“Why everyone treats you the way they do. Your father is supposed to be in charge of the stable, but the first thing anyone says is that you really run things.”
“My father has been head groom all these years. When his time’s up, I’ll run the stable, I suppose. A man that runs a stable receives a fair amount of respect, provided he keeps good horses. Say what you want about Mr. Sumner, he keeps good horses.” Benjamin turned and smiled at Leander. “Horseshoe doesn’t like it—being stuck back there working over the hot bellows with his father—but there’s nothing he can do about it. He doesn’t have the brains to run a stable. And he isn’t going to like it when he learns that you’re going to become my assistant.”
“I am?”
“As of today. So you watch yourself, and you do as I say. Agreed?”
“A
greed.”
Just before Newbury green, they were stopped by two guards—farm boys with hunting rifles. Benjamin handed a folded sheet of paper to the taller of the two, who didn’t bother to open it.
“We’re picking up a load at Simon Moss’s farm,” Benjamin said.
“Ain’t you Benjamin Penrose?” the tall one said.
“I am. You’re the Miller boys, right?”
They both nodded.
“I believe you have a sister that’s married to my cousin, Obediah. How is she?”
The tall one tipped the folded sheet of paper and several coins slid out into his palm. “Big as a cow, again.” He handed the paper back up to Benjamin.
“Thanks, boys.” Benjamin handed the slip of paper to Leander and slapped the reins. “Give my best to your sister.”
As the wagon approached the forked road at the head of the green, Leander opened the slip of paper. There was no writing on it.
Benjamin said, “I doubt they can read anyway.”
Emanuel’s wife, Sameeka, was notoriously beautiful. West Indians were frequently seen about Newburyport’s waterfront, but she had a bearing that caused people to stop and gape as she passed on the wharves or on her way to market. She was tall with a long, slow stride. Her cheekbones were pronounced, her nose broad, and her mouth full and wide. Her dark skin had a polished sheen, and when her hair was loose it fell to her waist.
As she and Marie prepared breakfast together, they spoke French rapidly, laughing often, and the children, wrapped in towels from swimming, hovered about the two women in the galley. When the meal was ready, they all sat at the table and ate fried flounder, porridge sweetened with honey, and black raspberry currant spread on warm flat bread. Strong tea was served in thick clay bowls. Moving back and forth between English and French, the two women talked about food, subjects that Newburyporters never tired of: how to prepare fish, where to dig for shellfish, where the best raspberry and blueberry patches were located. Giles watched Marie and realized that it wasn’t just the change in dress; she was as at home here aboard this old schooner as she was in Enoch’s well-appointed house on High Street.
When she was finished eating, Sameeka began braiding her daughter’s hair.
Marie asked Emanuel, “How did you meet?”
He held up his right arm, the stump wrapped in leather with a protruding hook. “We had a run-in with a British corsair off of Jamaica, and though we were faster their carronade raked us good before we got out of range. I took a big splinter through the hand. It felt like Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, I tell you, and the doctor here removed the problem with a few quick strokes. Eventually we put in at Kingston. Sameeka worked at an inn there, and she kept me from bleeding to death. So I married her and brought her north.”
Sameeka said something quiet in French, which made Marie laugh. Emanuel, who understood, looked embarrassed, but then he rubbed his son’s head and smiled. He turned to Giles and said, “It has already been decided that Marie can stay here with us.”
“You are too kind,” Giles said to Sameeka. He got to his feet. “Now I must go to my rooms for a change of clothes, and get some sleep before returning to the pest-house.”
“I will come by in several hours and go with you,” Emanuel said, and then to Marie, “I am beginning to go a little mad tied up so long here in harbor. Ordinarily, this time of year we would be coasting between Castine and Boston, delivering goods.”
Giles looked at Marie. “When they’re away from port, I nearly starve.”
Sameeka laughed and spoke in French, which made Marie blush, but then she laughed, too. “You need a woman who can take care of you, Giles,” Sameeka said. “You are a hopeless man this way. I do not even know if a good woman can salvage you now.”
“You’re probably right,” Giles said. “But I thank you for the meal, as always.”
He started up the companionway, and Marie followed him. On deck there was a fresh sea breeze coming across the river basin. At the rail, Marie took his hand and stared at him for a moment, her eyes bright, and then she kissed him quickly. He started down the gangplank to the wharf, but paused—he wanted to ask her if she would come back to his rooms with him, despite his exhaustion. But when he turned around he saw that she had already crossed to the port side of the boat, where she opened a gate in the rail. She crossed her arms and drew the gray dress up over her head, and dropped it on the deck. She was naked, silhouetted against the morning sun. Raising her long, slender arms, she bent her legs and dove into the river.
Miranda decided to spend some time in her garden before the day became too hot. She wore her wide-brimmed straw hat and weeded on her hands and knees. She had conscripted Cedella to help, and the girl was working along the fence. After a while, Samuel strolled out from the house and stood at the edge of the garden. Miranda sat back on her haunches and with a handkerchief mopped the perspiration from her face. He didn’t say anything, but just looked at the flowers, his hands in his pockets. It was remarkable that he could look so proprietary yet so utterly stupid at the same time.
“The roses are coming along nicely,” he said.
“Cedella, fetch me a glass of water.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
As the girl got to her feet, she let out a startled yelp.
“What is it now?” Miranda said.
The girl was staring at the ground. Samuel walked over, bent down, and picked up a large dead bird by its feet. The feathers were a glossy blue-black in the sunlight, and there was a bloody, gaping wound in its chest.
“It’s Father’s crow,” Samuel said, incredulous.
“I gather that,” Miranda said. “Must have been sheer luck. Do get rid of it.”
Samuel tossed the bird over the high, whitewashed fence into the street. “Done,” he said, brushing his hands together as he walked back toward the house.
South of Newbury green, Benjamin and Leander came to the farm owned by Simon Moss. They pulled the wagon inside the barn, and Benjamin instructed Leander to begin loading it with boxes of vegetables and fruit.
Benjamin started across the barnyard.
“Where’re you going?” Leander asked.
Benjamin looked over his shoulder and said, “You are to take your sweet time and stay there in the shade of the barn. Understand?”
“No, I don’t understand.”
“If you’re going to be my assistant, you’re going to have to just do as I say.”
Benjamin continued across the yard to a small outbuilding, and when he opened the door Leander caught a glimpse of a woman with long blond hair. Benjamin stepped inside and pulled the door shut.
“‘Take your time,’ he says.” Leander picked up one of the crates and placed it in the back of the wagon. It was full of carrots—he broke one off a bunch, went over to a pile of hay, and lay down. “I’m taking my time.” He cleaned the dirt off the carrot. “Yes, this is fine. I’ll just eat this nice carrot, then I’ll load another crate, and then maybe I’ll take a little nap. This job could take the rest of the morning.”
As he bit into the hard, sweet carrot he heard a sound from farther back in the barn, and it made him sit up. There were stalls with horses, but this was the sound of footsteps, running footsteps.
Leander got up from the pile of hay and walked back through the barn. Horses gazed from their stalls with large, suspicious eyes. The doors at the back of the barn were open and he could look out on sloping green acres of tilled fields. Miles in the distance was the salt marsh which lay inside Plum Island. Leander stood at the edge of the shade cast by the barn roof, feeling the heat come up off the sun-dried earth. There was no one in sight, no movement other than some birds pecking at the ground.
He turned and went back into the barn, but stopped short—hanging on a peg just inside the door was a leather satchel. He approached and took the shoulder strap down off the peg and held the satchel in his hands. The leather was smooth and nearly black from wear, but the flap was held closed by a ne
w buckle. The old buckle had broken off, and one night last winter Leander’s mother had sewn this new one on—they were her stitches, tight, close together, as familiar to him as her signature. He hung his father’s satchel up on the peg and looked down across the fields again. There was no one in sight.
He started back toward the wagon, but then he stopped at one of the stalls. A bay hung its head out over the stall gate and he fed it the carrot. With his free hand he rubbed the horse’s soft nose, the warmth of her breath on his face. When the horse finished the carrot, Leander turned to go back to the wagon, but through the open gate of the opposite stall he noticed a stack of crates. He went into the stall and lifted the lid on one of the crates. It was full of bottles. He took one out, which had a label that read Quinine. He looked in another crate, which contained bottles filled with powders and pills. They were labeled as well. Calomel, tartar emetic, mercury, castor oil. laudanum. There were a good thirty crates, stacked up in the back of the stall.
Leander returned to the wagon, which he began loading, slowly, with fruit and vegetables.
PART VI
Saints and Salvation
Twenty-Two
THE WOMAN’S SCREAMS COULD BE HEARD THROUGHOUT THE pest-house, relentless, horrific shrieks that became louder than the last until, just as Giles arrived at her tent, she fainted. Dr. Bradshaw continued to tighten the tourniquet, but he could not stop the blood that was spurting from her arm. Giles placed both hands about the incision in her forearm. He squeezed hard, but warm blood only gushed up between his fingers.
“I lanced her other arm this morning,” Bradshaw said, “and had no trouble stopping it.”
Her name was Greta Bundt. She might have been fifty. Her arms were plump and her face was the color of bread dough. Suddenly her body convulsed, two, three times, her arm ripped out of Giles’s hands and blood spewed everywhere—and just as suddenly she sank back on the cot as though pressed down by some enormous phantom weight and she became absolutely still. Soon the blood stopped pulsing out of the wound in her arm. He could feel warm blood running down his face, and below his waxed coat his trousers were soaked. Her eyes were open, unmoving. “She’s gone,” he said.
