“Hey,” he called hesitantly.
“Hey,” Conn replied. “Come on up.”
She scooted over on the swing as he approached.
“You okay?” he asked as he sat down beside her.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Jed fiddled with a loose thread where one of the seams on his overalls was coming apart, winding and rewinding it around his finger as he mumbled, “I’m sorry I ran out on you.”
Conn looked over in surprise. “You didn’t run out on me. You went to get help. What do think you could have done against a shotgun if Miss Molly had wanted to hurt us?”
Jed slumped a little in relief. “Was she scary?”
Conn shrugged and said, “At first she was, but then she took me in her house to put medicine on my leg. She makes all kinds of medicines herself. She was friends with my Nana.”
Jed was staring at her in amazement. “You went in her house? I heard there are bones and dead things in there for her witch’s brews,” he whispered.
Conn laughed. “Where did you hear that?” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. She’s an artist. She does the most beautiful paintings of animals and plants. I think you would like them.” She glanced over at him. “But maybe you shouldn’t tell anyone about this. I think she likes to be left alone.”
Jed snorted. “Who’m I gonna tell? No one ‘round here would believe me.”
“Time to get washed up for bed,” Elizabeth called as she came out onto the porch. “Oh, hello, Jed. I didn’t realize you were here.”
Jed stood. “I was just leavin’, Miz Mitchell. I just wanted to see how Conn’s leg was doin’.” He gave a half wave. “See ya.”
“Bye,” Conn said, getting to her feet, stifling a yawn.
§§§
“Watch yourselves, dears,” said Ellie, her plump bosom heaving as she carried a still-laden tray back into the kitchen. “He’s drinkin’ again. Didn’t eat a lick of dinner.”
Hugh Playfair was not dealing well with his “exile,” as he frequently muttered, especially when he was drunk. For awhile after his father’s departure, he had continued riding out, keeping a close eye on the plantation per his father’s mandate. But within a few months, as summer gave way to autumn, the solitude of his situation began to take its toll. Despite occasional visits from the owners of neighboring plantations, there was no one else at Fair View with whom he could socialize or converse. His wife, the servants gleaned from his valet, had refused to return to America, and his friends were managing their affairs in India or Hong Kong or elsewhere in the Empire.
Batterston did not regain his former level of authority or autonomy as Hugh did not trust him, and spent as little time with him as possible. The one person he seemed to gravitate toward was Orla. He called upon her frequently under the pretext of reviewing the plantation’s accounts, but, once she was in his presence, he usually began speaking of other things.
“I just listen, really,” she said in reply to Caitríona’s queries about what they did in the study for hours. “He’s lonely. He’s not cold like his father. He’s not cut out to be by himself.”
“You like him!” Caitríona said in a repulsed tone.
“No,” Orla protested, but the color rose in her pale cheeks. “Only, I… I feel sorry for him.”
“You feel sorry for the man who keeps us held captive on this cursed plantation,” Caitríona scowled.
“I miss our family, too, but is life here really any worse than it would have been back home?” Orla asked. Caitríona opened her mouth with a retort, but Orla cut her off. “I’m serious. With Mam dead and Da God knows where… I’ll be twenty-one this year. Back home, I’d have who knows how many children of my own by now. Here, we’ve got plenty to eat, work enough to keep us from being idle. We’re not treated as cruelly as others are. Things could be worse for us.”
Caitríona could think of nothing to say, though she would have died rather than admit it. She contented herself with not speaking to her sister for two days.
Despite Hugh’s assurances to his father that America would not go to war, the rumors were becoming more persistent. Every trader, every courier, every visitor brought tidings of the increased tensions between North and South, and there was talk that the South would secede from the Union.
As Hugh felt more isolated, he began drinking more heavily, sometimes not eating for days at a time. He stayed closed up in his study, or up in his room, bellowing at anyone who interrupted him. Except Orla. She, it seemed, was the only one who could penetrate the fog of whisky and melancholy that surrounded him.
***
Caitríona waited until everyone scattered after supper. Orla had not returned from taking Hugh’s tray to him, but that was not unusual lately. She hugged the shadows as she made her way through the grounds to the gazebo. It was an unexpectedly warm evening for October as she waited in the shadows, listening to the frogs down by the water. Just as she was beginning to think Hannah wouldn’t be coming, she saw a shadow of movement approaching in the dark.
Hannah was breathless when she got there, the moonlight slanting into the gazebo illuminated the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“What’s wrong?” Caitríona asked, pulling Hannah down to sit beside her.
It was a minute or two before Hannah could speak. “William asked me to marry him,” she said.
Caitríona’s breath caught in her throat. She turned away, staring toward the stream. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Hannah answered.
Caitríona felt as if her heart was being ripped from her chest. For a long time, she had known that her feelings for Hannah had changed, though she hadn’t put a name to those feelings – until now.
“Don’t do it,” Caitríona whispered.
“Why not?”
She could feel Hannah’s gaze, though she refused to meet it.
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t marry him,” Hannah insisted, leaning toward Caitríona from her perch on the bench.
The blood was pounding in Caitríona’s ears so that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear her own voice. “Because I love you,” she said softly.
For long seconds, Hannah said nothing. Flooded with shame at admitting her feelings, Caitríona lurched off the bench, preparing to flee, but Hannah caught her hand and held it fast. Caitríona stood, not sure what Hannah’s gesture meant, but reveling in the feel of Hannah’s warm hand in hers. She could feel Hannah rise to stand next to her.
“I love you, too,” Hannah said.
Caitríona turned to look at her. “You do?” she asked doubtfully.
Hannah smiled, and Caitríona thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. “Yes, Miss.”
Caitríona laughed and pulled Hannah into her arms. With Hannah’s body pressed into hers, she thought she could have died contented that very moment. She had no idea how long they stood thus, holding each other, neither willing to let go, but eventually, they did. Caitríona was surprised to find that it was still hard to meet Hannah’s eyes, only now it was because she was afraid the intensity of her feelings might scare Hannah away.
“I have to get back,” Hannah said reluctantly.
“Me, too.”
They walked together down the gazebo steps, but before they parted, Caitríona asked, “So, what will you tell William?”
Hannah smiled. “I’ll tell him no.”
Caitríona kissed her impulsively, surprising Hannah as much as herself. Laughing, she ran lightly back to the house, feeling more like she was floating. She slipped quietly through the empty kitchen and up the servants’ stairs. She fell giddily onto her bed and wrapped her arms around herself. As Orla wasn’t yet upstairs, she took out her journal and made a hasty entry. She changed and got into bed, sure she would never be able to fall asleep, but she was awakened sometime in the middle of the night by Orla slipping quietly into their room. Within seconds her giddiness soured.
“What’s wrong with you?” Orl
a asked the next afternoon as she and Caitríona cleaned the dining room. “You’ve been grumpy as a goose all day.”
Caitríona flared at once. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me,” she spat. “I could smell him on you when you came in! And I could smell you in his room when we cleaned it this morning.”
Orla did not attempt to deny it. Her cheeks burned scarlet, but she bravely faced her sister and said, “I love him.”
Caitríona’s jaw dropped. “You love him! He’s married, you fool! You’ll never be anything to him but a… but a whore he can bed when the mood strikes.”
In a flash, Orla’s eyes blazed with a temper equal to her sister’s. “At least what I’m doing is natural,” she shot back.
Warily, memories of last evening with Hannah racing through her mind, Caitríona asked, “What do you mean?”
“Do you think I’ve not seen the way you look at Hannah? How stupid you are when she’s about? You’re a… you’re… unnatural!”
Without thinking, Caitríona slapped her sister hard across the face. The red outline of her hand burned on Orla’s cheek.
Orla’s eyes filled with tears. “I hate you,” she whispered, raising her hand to her cheek.
Caitríona turned and stalked upstairs. She gathered up her few possessions and clothes, tore her bed linens from the mattress and carried them all to another room in an otherwise empty wing of servants’ rooms. There, she threw her clothes onto one bed and began making up the other. “I… hate… you,” she seethed in rhythm with her vicious tugs on the sheets.
§§§
Conn awakened to night sounds as crickets chirped and, far off, an owl hooted. A near full moon was lighting her room as she lay there, feeling a powerful sense of exhilaration. She had always, from the time she was little, insisted that she would never marry. She never questioned how she knew it; she just did. But now, feeling Caitríona’s love for Hannah….
She was filled with a fierce joy at the realization of this kind of love. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a boy. And she felt fiercely proud of her connection to the line of women who had descended from Caitríona. This, she now knew, was what she would feel someday. She knew it as certainly as she knew her name.
CHAPTER 22
“Don’t you let him ride too fast and get tired out,” Elizabeth cautioned as she gave her permission for the children to take their first bike trip to town since Will’s illness. “And don’t forget, your leg is still healing.”
A few minutes later, they were coasting down the dirt road into Largo, small rocks squirting out from under their bicycle tires as they rolled over the hardpack. They pulled up at Walsh’s and parked their bikes along the far side of the porch.
“Hello, children,” Mr. Walsh called out as they entered the store. He was restocking the shelves with canned goods while Mrs. Walsh abruptly ceased whispering to a woman Conn recognized as one of the women who had ignored her mother the last time she’d been there.
“Here’s your mail, Wanda,” Mrs. Walsh said, a little too loudly.
Will immediately went to the candy counter while Conn wandered back to the fishing equipment.
“Hi, Mr. Greene!” Conn heard Will say as the bell tinkled.
Conn was on her way up front to greet Abraham when she heard Mrs. Walsh say, “What can we do for you, Abraham?” There was a coolness in her tone that made Conn stop in the maze of shelves and listen.
“Let’s see,” came Abraham’s deep voice. “I need a couple of pounds of two-penny nails, five hundred feet of twelve gauge wire and some groceries,” he said.
“Sorry, but we’re all out,” said Mr. Walsh.
Conn frowned, looking down at the large barrel of two-penny nails standing beside her.
“Excuse me,” said Abraham, “but, you’re out of what?”
“Everything on your list,” Mr. Walsh said.
“Everything on my list,” Abraham repeated in a flat voice.
Conn edged to the end of the aisle where she could see Abraham and the Walshes.
“If we’re not sold out, it’s been spoke for by other folks,” Mrs. Walsh said as the woman named Wanda stood nearby watching everything.
“I see,” Abraham said, his jaw clenching. Even from a distance, Conn could see that his scar had turned red. He refolded his list and tucked it back into his pocket as he turned toward the door. “Good day, William.”
The store’s screen door swung shut as Conn stomped, fuming, up to Will. “Come on,” she said, staring daggers at Mrs. Walsh.
“But I wanted –”
“No,” Conn cut him off. “We’re not spending another penny in this store.” She took Will by the hand and led him out onto the porch just in time to see Abraham’s truck pull away in a cloud of dust.
Forgetting that she wasn’t to tire Will, and ignoring the pain in her cut leg, Conn pedaled furiously, Will following as best he could, so that they both arrived home red-faced and winded.
“Well, that was a quick trip,” Elizabeth called from the sitting room as she heard them storm into the kitchen. She looked up from the clean laundry she was folding as they rushed in, sweaty and hot. “What’s wrong?”
Quickly, Conn relayed the encounter at the general store, Elizabeth’s dark eyes becoming stonier and her face flushing angrily as she listened. “Those people,” she muttered.
“What’s Mr. Greene going to do?” Will asked worriedly.
Elizabeth blinked down at him. “He’ll have to drive to Marlinton for his shopping. And we will do the same. No more shopping at Walsh’s.”
“What about the mail?” Conn asked.
“I don’t think even Mrs. Walsh would tamper with the mail. She could get in too much trouble with the government,” Elizabeth replied. “Come on, I want you both to splash some cold water on your faces and let’s get some lunch.”
“I don’t understand,” Will spluttered through the water he was splashing on his face in the bathroom. “Why did the Walshes do that to Mr. Greene?”
“I think they’re trying to punish him for not staying in his place. For having dinner with us, things like that,” Conn said.
Will looked up from scrubbing his face with a towel, his cheeks still flushed. “But we like him. He’s nice.”
“You’re right. He is a very nice man,” Elizabeth agreed. “And I am so proud of both of you for walking out of the store. Maybe we can’t change how people around here think, but we don’t have to go along with it, either.”
Conn picked at her food during lunch, still upset to think of how Abraham had been treated. Suddenly, she looked up. “May I go visit Miss Molly today?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Elizabeth replied. “But you ask her when you get there if this is a good time so you’re not a bother.”
“I will,” Conn grinned, wolfing down the rest of her sandwich.
***
A little while later, Conn pedaled up to Molly’s gingerbread cottage. Lowering her kickstand, she parked her bike under one of the hemlocks and climbed the porch steps. Her knock brought an outbreak of startled barking from Vincent. A moment passed, and then Molly opened the door.
“I thought I might be seeing you again,” she said. Though she wasn’t exactly smiling, there was a twinkle in her eyes that let Conn know she wasn’t unwelcome.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” Conn said. “I can come back another time…”
“No need,” said Molly, standing back to let her in, though Vincent’s enthusiastic welcome made it difficult to get through the door.
“Come on to the kitchen,” Molly said, leading the way.
Conn wrinkled her nose a little as she followed. “What are you making?” She sincerely hoped it wasn’t something she would be invited to eat.
“It’s a kind of tea,” Molly explained, stirring whatever was simmering in the large pot on the stove. “It will make a poultice to draw out infection. One of my brother’s cows got cut on some barbed wire and her leg is infected.”
“Do all your medicines have to smell bad to work?” Conn asked hesitantly, afraid Molly might be offended, but Molly burst into a hearty laugh.
“I suppose it seems that way, doesn’t it?” She glanced over. “How’s your leg doing, by the way?”
Conn held her leg out so Molly could see. “Almost healed,” she said. The cut was still shiny and pink, but was nearly closed up.
“Good,” said Molly. “We can’t have you laid up now, can we?”
“What do you mean?” Conn asked.
Instead of answering, Molly said, “Pull one of those chairs over here, would you?”
Conn did as she was asked. Molly handed her the wooden spoon. “Keep stirring this while I get the last ingredients.”
Conn climbed up onto the chair. “‘Double, double, toil and trouble; fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble’,” she intoned as she stirred the thick brown liquid bubbling in the pot.
Molly chuckled as she brought a fistful of crushed black leaves and a small piece of some type of bark. She dropped both into the brew. “Keep stirring now,” she said.
Conn was surprised to see the mixture begin to turn green within a couple of minutes. “What’s happening?”
“The willow bark and the leaves are releasing their chemicals into the tea,” Molly replied.
“How did you learn all this?” Conn asked in wonder.
“My aunt taught me, and her aunt taught her, back and back,” Molly said.
Conn bit her lip. “Back to Caitríona Ní Faolain?”
Molly looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “That far and beyond.”
“How do you know?” Conn asked excitedly. “That your ancestor knew Caitríona, I mean.”
Molly ladled some of her tea into a couple of canning jars and screwed the lids on tightly. “They told me,” she said mysteriously.
Conn tilted her head. “Told you? How?” She wondered if there were more ghosts than just Caitríona.
“There are letters and journals,” Molly said.
“Really?” Conn’s eyes lit up. “May I see them?”
Molly pursed her lips for a moment as she put the jars in a basket with a towel tucked around them to prevent their tipping over. “Yes, I think you should,” she said at last. “They may help you.”
Miserere Page 16
