The Giver of Stars

by Jojo Moyes

  She hated those dolls. Like she hated the heavy silence in the air, the endless stasis of a house in which nothing could move forward and nothing could change. She might as well be one of those dolls, she thought, as she walked through the bedroom. Smiling, immobile, decorative and silent.

  She glanced down at the picture of Dolores Van Cleve that sat in a large gilt frame on Bennett’s bedside table. The woman held a small wooden cross between two plump hands and an expression of pained disapproval, which to Alice seemed to settle on the two of them whenever they were alone together. “Perhaps we could move your mother a little further away? Just . . . at night?” she had ventured when she had first been shown their room. But Bennett had frowned, as disbelieving as if she had cheerfully suggested digging up his mother’s grave.

  She snapped out of her thoughts, gasping quietly as she splashed the icy water on her face and hurried into her many layers. The librarians were riding a half-day today, to allow them all some time for Christmas shopping, and a small part of her had to fight her disappointment at the prospect of time away from her routes.

  She would see Jim Horner’s girls this morning. That helped. The way they would wait at the window for the sight of Spirit making her way up the track, then bolt through the wooden door, bouncing on tiptoe until she climbed off the horse, their voices bubbling over each other as they clamored to find out what she had with her, where she had been, whether she would stay for a little while longer than the last time. The way they would hang casually around her neck while she read to them, little fingers stroking her hair or planting kisses on her cheeks as if, despite the slow recovery of the little family, they were both desperate for feminine contact in some way they could barely understand. And Jim, his expression no longer hard and suspicious, would place a mug of coffee at her side, then use the time she was there to chop wood or sometimes, now, just sit and watch, as if he took pleasure in the sight of his girls’ happiness as they showed off what they had learned to read that week (and they were smart; their reading was way ahead of other children’s, thanks to lessons with Mrs. Beidecker). No, the Horner girls were consolation indeed. It was just a shame that girls like them would have so little in the way of Christmas gifts.

  Alice wrapped her scarf around her neck and pulled on her riding gloves, wondering briefly whether to put on an extra pair of socks for the ride up the mountain. All the librarians had chilblains now, their toes pink and swollen from the cold, their fingers frequently corpse-white from lack of blood. She looked out of the window at the chill gray sky. She no longer checked her reflection in the mirror.

  She pulled the envelope from the side, where it had sat since the previous day, and tucked it into her bag. She would read it later, once she’d done her rounds. No point getting worked up when you had two silent hours on a horse facing you.

  She looked at the dresser as she made to leave. The dolls were still staring at her.

  “What?” she said.

  But this time they seemed to be saying something quite different.

  * * *

  • • •

  For us?” Millie’s mouth had dropped so far open Alice could almost hear Sophia warning that bugs would fly straight in.

  She handed the other doll to Mae, its petticoats rustling as it was pulled swiftly into the child’s lap. “One each. We had a little chat this morning and they told me in confidence that they’d be much happier here with you than where they’ve been living.”

  The two girls gawped at the angelic porcelain faces, and then, in unison, their heads turned toward their father. Jim Horner’s own expression was unreadable.

  “They’re not new, Mr. Horner,” Alice said carefully. “But where they come from has no real use for them. It’s . . . a house of men. It didn’t seem right to have them sitting there.”

  She could see his indecision, the I don’t know . . . forming on his lips. The air in the cabin seemed to still as the girls held their breath.

  “Please, Pa?” Mae’s voice emerged as a whisper. They sat cross-legged, and Millie’s hand absently stroked the shiny chestnut curls, letting each one spring back into place, her gaze flickering from the painted face to her father’s. The dolls, having for months seemed sinister, rebuking, were suddenly benign, joyful things. Because they were in the place they were meant to be.

  “They’re awful fancy,” he said finally.

  “Well, I believe all girls deserve something a little fancy in their lives, Mr. Horner.”

  He rubbed a rough hand over the top of his head and looked away. Mae’s face lengthened, fearful of what he was about to say. He motioned toward the door. “Would you mind stepping outside with me a moment, Mrs. Van Cleve?”

  She heard sighs of dismay from the girls as she followed him to the back of the cabin, her arms wrapped around her to keep out the cold, mentally running over the various arguments she would employ to try to change his mind.

  All little girls need a doll.

  They would likely be thrown away if the girls didn’t take them.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake, why must your wretched pride get in the way of a—

  “What do you think?”

  Alice stopped in her tracks. Jim Horner lifted a piece of hessian sacking to reveal the head of a large, somewhat threadbare stag, its antlers thrusting into the air three feet to each side of it, its ears stitched haphazardly to its head. It was mounted on a roughly carved oak base, which had been painted with pitch.

  She stifled the strangled noise that emerged unbidden from her throat.

  “Shot him over at Rivett’s Creek two months ago. Stuffed and mounted him myself. Got Mae to help me send off for them glass eyes on the mail order. They’re pretty lifelike, don’t you think?”

  Alice gaped at the deer’s glassy, overlarge eyes, the left of which had a definite squint. The stag looked faintly demented and sinister, a nightmare beast, conjured in fever dreams. “It’s . . . very . . . imposing.”

  “It’s my first go. Figured I might set up a trade in them. Do one every few weeks and sell them in town. Help keep us going through the winter months.”

  “That’s an idea. Maybe you could do some smaller creatures too. A rabbit, or a ground squirrel.”

  He mulled this over, then nodded. “So. You’ll take it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “For the dolls. A trade.”

  Alice lifted her palms. “Oh, Mr. Horner, you really don’t need to—”

  “Can’t take ’em for nothing.” He folded his arms firmly across his chest, and waited.

  * * *

  • • •

  What the heck is that?” said Beth, as Alice dismounted wearily, pulling bits of foliage from the deer’s antlers. It had caught on every second tree the whole way down the mountain, causing her almost to fall off several times, and now looked even more bedraggled and wonky than it had on the ridge, strung with a variety of stray twigs and leaves. She walked up the steps and placed it carefully against the wall, reminding herself, as she had now done a hundred times, of the joy on the girls’ faces as they learned the dolls were truly theirs, the way they cradled and sang to them, their endless thanks and kisses. The softening of the planes on Jim Horner’s face as he looked on.

  “It’s our new mascot.”

  “Our what?”

  “Touch a hair on its head and I’ll stuff you worse than Mr. Horner stuffed that deer.”

  “Shoot,” said Beth to Izzy, as Alice strode back out to her horse. “Remember when Alice made out like she was a lady?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Lunch service had nearly finished at the White Horse Hotel, Lexington, and the restaurant had started to thin out, leaving tables scattered with the detritus of napkins and empty glasses as, fortified, the guests wrapped themselves in scarves and hats. They were braced to venture back out onto sidewalks te
eming with last-minute Christmas shoppers. Mr. Van Cleve, who had eaten well on a sirloin steak and fried potatoes, leaned back in his chair and stroked his stomach with both hands, a gesture that conveyed a satisfaction he seemed to feel less and less in other areas of his life.

  The girl was giving him indigestion. In any other town, such misdemeanors might eventually be forgotten, but in Baileyville a grudge could last a century and still nurture a head of steam. The people of Baileyville were descended from Celts, from Scots and Irish families, who could hold on to resentment until it was dried out like beef jerky, and bearing no resemblance to its original self. And Mr. Van Cleve, although he was about as Celtic as the Cherokee sign on the outside of the gas station, had absorbed this trait thoroughly. More than that, he had his daddy’s habit of fixing on one person, then training on them his grievances and blaming them for all that ailed him. That person was Margery O’Hare. He rose with a curse for her on his lips, and he went to sleep with images of her taunting him.

  Beside him Bennett tapped intermittently on the side of the table with his fingers. He could tell the boy wanted to be elsewhere; in truth, he didn’t seem to have the focus needed for business. The other day he had caught a gang of miners mimicking his obsession with cleanliness, pretending to rub at their blackened overalls as he passed. They straightened when they saw him watching, but the sight of his son being mocked pained him. At first he had been almost proud of Bennett’s determination to marry the English girl. He had seemed to know his own mind, finally! Dolores had cosseted the boy so, fussing over him as if he were a girl. He had stood a little taller when he informed Van Cleve that he and Alice were to be married and, well, it was a shame about Peggy but that was just too bad. It was good to see him hold a firm opinion for once. Now he watched the boy gradually emasculated by the English girl and her sharp tongue, her odd ways, and he regretted the day he had ever been convinced to take that damn European tour. No good ever came from mixing. Not with coloreds and, it turned out, not with Europeans neither.

  “You’ve left crumbs here, boy.” He stabbed a fat finger on the table so that the waiter apologized and hurriedly combed them off onto a plate. “A bourbon, Governor Hatch? To round things off?”

  “Well, if you’re going to twist my arm, Geoff . . .”

  “Bennett?”

  “Not for me, Pa.”

  “Get me a couple of Boone County bourbons. Straight up. No ice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bennett. You want to head over to the tailor while the governor and I talk business? Ask him if he’s got any more of those dress shirts, will you? I’ll be there shortly.”

  He waited for his son to disappear from his table before he leaned forward and spoke again. “Now, Governor, I was hoping to discuss a matter of a certain sensitivity with you.”

  “Not more problems at the mine, Mr. Van Cleve? I hope you’re not dealing with the same mess they’re having down there in Harlan. You know they’ve got state troopers lined up to head in if they can’t sort themselves out. There’s machine-guns and all sorts heading back and forth across state lines.”

  “Oh, you know we work hard to keep a lid on that kind of thing at Hoffman. No good can come of the unions; we know that. We’ve been sure to take measures to protect our mine at the very whisper of trouble.”

  “Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it. So . . . uh . . . what seems to be the problem?”

  Mr. Van Cleve leaned forward over the table. “It’s this . . . library business.”

  The governor frowned.

  “The women’s library. Mrs. Roosevelt’s initiative. These women taking books to rural families and the like.”

  “Ah, yes. Part of the WPA, I believe.”

  “The very one. Now, while I’m usually a great supporter of such enterprises, and I absolutely agree with our president and the First Lady that we should be doing what we can to educate our populace, I have to say that the women—well, certain women—in our county are causing problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “This traveling library is fomenting unrest. It’s encouraging all sorts of irregular behavior. For instance—Hoffman Mining was planning to explore new areas on the North Ridge. The kind of thing we’ve been doing entirely legitimately for decades. Now, I believe these librarians have been spreading rumors and falsehoods about it, because the next thing we’ve been hit with is a series of legal orders forbidding us our usual mining rights in the area. Not just one family but a great number of them have signed up to block our path.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” The governor lit a cigarette, offering Mr. Van Cleve the packet, which he refused.

  “Indeed. If they do this with other families, we’ll end up with nowhere to mine. And then what are we supposed to do? We are a major employer in this part of Kentucky. We provide a vital resource to our great nation.”

  “Well, Geoff, you know it doesn’t take a lot to get folk up in arms about mining, these days. Do you have proof it was these librarians stirring things up?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Half the families now blocking us through the courts couldn’t read a word last year. Where would they have got information on legal matters if it wasn’t for these library books?”

  The bourbons arrived. The waiter lifted them from a silver tray and placed each one reverently in front of the two men.

  “I don’t know. From what I understand it’s just a bunch of girls on horses taking recipe cards here and there. What harm are they really going to do? I think you may just have to chalk this one up to misfortune, Geoff. The amount of trouble we have around the mines just now, why, it could have been anyone.”

  Mr. Van Cleve felt the governor’s attention starting to slide. “It’s not just the mines. They are changing the very dynamics of our society. They are fixing to alter the laws of nature.”

  “The laws of nature?”

  When the governor looked disbelieving, he added: “There are reports of our women engaging in unnatural practices.”

  Now he had his attention. The governor leaned forward.

  “My son, God bless him, my wife and I raised him according to godly principles, so I admit he is not entirely worldly in conjugal matters. But he tells me that his young bride—who has taken up work at this library—mentioned to him a book the women are passing among them. A book of sexual content.”

  “Sexual content!”

  “Quite!”

  The governor took a gulp of his drink. “And—uh—what would this ‘sexual content’ comprise exactly?”

  “Well, I don’t want to shock you, Governor. I won’t go into details—”

  “Oh, I can take it, Geoff. Go into all the—uh—details you like.”

  Mr. Van Cleve glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “He said his bride—who was, by all accounts, brought up like a princess—from a very good family, you understand—well, she was suggesting she do things to him in the bedroom that one might expect at a French whorehouse.”

  “A French whorehouse.” The governor swallowed hard.

  “At first I thought this was maybe an English thing. Due to their proximity to the European ways, you know. But Bennett told me she said it was definitely from the library. Spreading filth. Suggestions that would make a grown man blush. I mean, where will it end?”

  “That’s the, uh, pretty blonde? The one I met last year at dinner.”

  “The very one. Alice. Finer than frog hair. The shock of hearing salaciousness proposed by a girl like that . . . Well . . .”

  The governor took another very long sip of his drink. His eyes had gone a little glassy. “Did he give, uh, details of the exact activities she was proposing? Just so, you know, I can be clear on the full picture.”

  Mr. Van Cleve shook his head. “Poor Bennett was so shook up it took him weeks even to confide in me. Hasn’t felt able to lay a finger on her since.
I mean it ain’t right, Governor. Not for decent God-fearing wives to be suggesting such deviance.”

  The governor appeared to be deep in thought.

  “Governor?”

  “Filth . . . Right. Sorry, yes . . . I mean, no.”

  “Anyway. I would appreciate knowing whether other counties are having the same issues with their women and these so-called libraries. I can’t believe this is a good thing, for our workforce or Christian families. My inclination would be to shut the scheme down altogether. Likewise with this mining-permissions business.”

  Mr. Van Cleve folded his napkin and laid it on the table. The governor was still apparently considering this very carefully.

  “Or perhaps you think the best way forward would be just . . . to deal with the matter in whichever way we thought fit.”

  He wasn’t sure, he told Bennett afterward, whether the governor’s drink had actually gone to his head. He seemed markedly distracted toward the end of lunch.

  “So what did he say?” said Bennett, who had cheered up with the purchase of some new corduroys and a striped sweater.

  “I told him maybe I should deal with all these matters how I liked and he just said, ‘hmm, yes, quite,’ and then said he had to leave.”

  Dear Alice

  I am sorry married life is not as you expected. I’m not sure what you think marriage should be about, and you have not given us details of what it is you find so dispiriting, but Daddy and I wonder if we haven’t given you false expectations. You have a handsome husband, financially secure and able to offer you a good future. You have married into a decent family with significant resources. I think you need to learn to count your chickens.

  Life is not always about happiness. It is about duty, and taking satisfaction from doing the right thing. We were hoping you had learned to be less impulsive; well, you’ve made your bed, and you’re just going to have to learn to stick things out. Perhaps if you have a baby it will give you a focus, so you don’t dwell on things so.