The girl blinked, sending cold drops of water slipping down her pale cheeks, and looked up into the startled eyes staring down. From behind the vivid scarf, the woman uttered a shocked oath and whirled away. She hurried out of earshot, calling for help with every breath.
The girl felt sure the older woman would return with a rope and another set of hands to help pull her from the well. A slithering dread eased up her spine, reminding her of the place of fog and shadow she’d just escaped. Some unnamed, unwanted instinct warned her that she would return there, that she would never be truly free.
For the first time since she’d awakened in the black water, the girl shivered.
11
A persistent thumping under the floor woke me from a fitful sleep. I threw on a housedress and descended to the kitchen. Seeing me, Hettie stopped poking at the ceiling with a broom handle. Sausage links, bacon, eggs, and biscuits sat on the table while a big cast-iron skillet bubbled away on the burner. The Lord might have commanded rest on the Sabbath, but the message hadn’t gotten to Hettie Weatherington.
“Sorry ’bout that,” she said, propping the broom-turned-alarm-clock in the corner. “I’ve got to stay right with these dewberries or they’ll scorch. They’re for the cobbler.” She stirred the contents of the skillet. “You can’t show up to Miss Maeve’s for dinner empty-handed.”
In the confusion of last night, I’d forgotten the invitation. I joined Hettie at the stove to taste a spoonful of the mixture. “It’s sour.”
“Dump in another half cup of sugar and stir it up good until it thickens. Mind it well.” Hettie laid a faded scrap of paper on the counter and untied her apron. “Use this recipe for the crust. I’m going to get dressed for church.” She seemed determined not to mention my father. I appreciated her sparing my feelings, but I felt Papa’s appearance was too shocking to ignore.
I cleared my throat. “About my father…” I hid behind the open pantry door, retrieving flour and shortening. “Thank you again, for understanding. I know it was unnerving. I’m sorry he’s—”
Hettie’s face appeared as the pantry door swept closed. Her brown eyes were fervid. “Don’t ever apologize for your daddy. It ain’t his fault he got sick, nor is it yours.”
I managed a nod, touched beyond words by her kindness. “Papa used to be a fine physician. He was respected, even admired. I was young, so I didn’t really notice the way people tipped their hats to him, or how other men always wanted to shake his hand. Until they stopped doing it, and started crossing the street when they saw us coming.” I shook my head. “I decided when I grew up, I was going to be the new Dr. Pruitt. I would regain that respect for our family.”
Hettie seemed almost as taken aback as I was when she wrapped me in a sudden, bony hug. “You don’t need to do anything for people to respect you except be respectable.” She stepped back, holding me at arm’s length. “As long as you do right, folk around here will treat you right.”
I remembered Sheriff Loftis’s cold black eyes and Katherine Ausbrooks’s hostility. “You might give people too much credit.”
“You might not give them enough. Now, finish the crust and get that cobbler in the oven or it won’t get done before we have to leave for church,” she said, disappearing down the hall to her room.
Abel’s voice came from behind me. “Aunt Het gives the worst hugs. It’s like being squeezed by a rake.” I looked over my shoulder to find him leaning against the kitchen table. “But they’re rare as hen’s teeth, so if you get one, you know she means it.” He removed his straw hat and sat down, drumming his fingers on the table with the sound of galloping horses.
“Big Tom filled me in on what happened last night. We searched the property as soon as the sun was up, but there’s no sign of your father.”
I looked away, unable to meet his worried eyes.
“You could’ve told me about him. About his problems,” Abel said.
“Sometimes people look at me differently when they find out.”
“They shouldn’t.” Abel’s gaze grew thoughtful. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a fine doctor.” He paused, a crooked smile tilting his lips. “Doctors need grit, and you’ve got that in spades. It almost makes me think you’re a Southerner at heart.”
I thought of the people I’d met since coming to Wheeler. Of Big Tom’s steady resolve and Hettie’s determination. Of Della’s good-hearted sweetness and Abel’s open, easy smiles.
“Well then,” I said, stirring the berries one last time, “I suppose that might be all right.”
* * *
As soon as we walked into church, Della linked her arm in mine. “You’re with me today, and I don’t want to hear any fussing about it.” I smiled in spite of myself as she tugged me along. Della Loftis was a crashing wave of friendship, and there was no fighting the riptide.
Congregants packed the little church like sardines in a tin, and I didn’t spot Miss Maeve and Lilah until the service was over. The teacher lifted a slim hand in greeting, and started in our direction, pausing to speak with everyone she passed along the way. Lilah broke free and hurried over, making sure not to full-on run in my direction. Before, she would’ve pelted pell-mell without a thought.
“You’ll love our house, Very,” she said, slipping her arm around my waist. “I could stay there forever.” Her attention shifted to Della, standing by my side. “I’m Lilah, Verity’s sister. How’d you get your hair so fancy?”
Della patted her soaring locks and smiled. “Practice.” Lilah nodded appreciatively. “And I think I could do something with your sister’s hair, if she’d let me,” Della said, brown eyes alight as she examined me. “Verity, how do you feel about curling tongs?”
“How do I feel about heating metal rods in the fireplace and placing them inches from my scalp? I’m against it.”
Della waved a dismissive hand. “They’re just the thing to take that kink out. I’ve used them lots and only ever burned myself twice. The second time didn’t even leave a scar.”
Lilah shot me a look of wide-eyed amusement.
“I think Verity is quite pretty, just as she is,” Miss Maeve’s silvery voice said. There was something odd in her tone, but I couldn’t say what. Her pale eyes wandered across my face, and I felt myself flush under her attention. “We’re happy to have your company for Sunday dinner, Verity. Lilah has talked of nothing else all day.”
On the church porch, Abel spoke with a short, thin woman who looked so much like Hettie I decided this must be her sister, Mrs. Atchley. A passel of children ran circles around her feet, making it hard to tell exactly how many offspring she had. “A lot” seemed a decent estimate. There was a solemn-looking girl of about thirteen at her side, but Clara, Abel’s sister who was in the family way, was noticeably absent. Abel leaned down to kiss his mother on her worn cheek, then came over, the dewberry cobbler I’d made balanced carefully on his wide palms.
“Don’t want to forget this,” he said, handing me the dish. “You know, it’s partly my doing.” He held up a hand, the tips of his fingers faintly purplish. “Hettie made me pick the berries for her yesterday.”
“Don’t be pitiful,” Della said. “I can’t count how many times you’ve made me come along to gather berries. I always end up with briars stuck in my arms, and when we picked the patch down by the creek, I got poison ivy on my face.” She dropped her voice, adding darkly, “And other places. You can’t imagine how that stuff spreads. What kind of gentleman would ask a young lady to come along on such a fool’s errand?” From her barely concealed smile, I knew she would’ve followed Abel through a briar patch in the pits of Hell if he’d wanted her to.
Abel fished a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and waved it like a tiny flag of surrender. “Hold your fire, Miss Loftis.”
Miss Maeve watched the little exchange. “You two should join us for dinner. Abel earned it with the sweat of his brow. And I’m sure he’d appreciate it if Della came along.” Miss Maeve looked to me, e
xpectantly. It seemed my reaction to this invitation was of great interest to the teacher.
“The more the merrier,” I said.
“Wonderful.” She smiled to herself, absently smoothing the tumbling heap of ribbons atop Lilah’s Sunday hat. “We’ll wait while y’all get permission.” Abel and Della walked away, laughing together in their easy manner. I watched them, realized I was frowning, and quickly looked away to find Lilah waving excitedly at a skinny, redheaded boy.
“Cecil!” she called. “Your agate marble is mine come Monday. I’ll win it just like I did the cat’s eye.” A competitive gleam sparked in her hazel eyes.
“Oh yeah?” the boy said, grinning as he came over. He pulled a shiny marble from his pocket. “We’ll see about that.”
“Maybe I’ll take it right now,” Lilah boasted. She grabbed the boy’s hand in hers.
“Doubt it,” Cecil retorted. He trapped both their fists with his other hand and tugged her toward him, laughing. “Got you now,” he said while Lilah giggled.
“Let her go.” Miss Maeve’s voice was clipped and cold.
I looked up, surprised. Cecil dropped Lilah’s hand and stepped away. He glanced at Lilah, who flushed with embarrassment.
“They’re just playing, Miss Maeve,” I said, rankled by the overreaction to a harmless crush.
“No,” Lilah said. “Mama’s right.” I felt my shoulders stiffen. Miss Maeve was already “Mama”? “A young lady should conduct herself with discretion,” she said, as though reciting from memory.
The tension dissipated from Miss Maeve’s face. “We should always be on our best behavior, especially on the Lord’s day.” A warm smile crossed her lips, but in the shade of her hat brim, her eyes remained chilly.
“Run along now, Cecil. I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” Miss Maeve said. The boy nodded and scampered away. “I’ve left the yeast rolls rising, and they should be just about ready to bake by now,” she added, her composure restored.
We traipsed after her to where Reuben Lybrand sat waiting in his car. Della swished over to say Abel had gone on ahead with Merlin, leaving room for the rest of us in the vehicle.
There was a good deal of “No, you sit up front,” with some “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” and a smidge of “Can we all just hurry up and go?”—that was from Lilah—before we all settled in.
Despite my best efforts, I ended up in the front next to Mr. Lybrand. “I’m looking forward to visiting your home,” I said, raising my voice over the growl of the car’s engine.
“Delighted to have your company,” he replied, with all the delight of a man about to have a molar extracted. His fingers in their fine driving gloves tightened on the steering wheel as we pulled out of the churchyard and headed away from the town.
We sped along the road that skirted the woods. Pleasant conversation not being an option, I lapsed into silence and studied the passing trees. Today, they struck me as peaceful, even lovely. Sunlight skipped through the breeze-tossed upper branches. I had a fleeting idea that the woods beckoned, calling me into their shadowy embrace.
I shook my head, scattering the fancy. Perhaps the little girl in the woods had felt a similar tug, tempting her to come play there. The trees whipped by as we sped along, and I strained to catch a glimpse of her. The child never appeared, but something else caught my attention.
A thick layer of fog hovered near the ground at the edge of the tree line. As I watched, it swelled, rising like a tide. The fog swirled about, lofting and diving as if in the power of a strong breeze. I turned to see if anyone in the back seat had noticed the unusual sight, but they seemed intent on their own conversation. Behind the steering wheel, Mr. Lybrand’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, his bulldog jaw set. When I looked back into the black crush of trees for any sign of the roiling mists, they’d already thinned to tattered wisps. Within seconds, the fog had evaporated to nothing.
Mr. Lybrand turned onto a short drive, grassy from infrequent use, taking us closer to the forest. I chewed at my left thumbnail, still trying to understand what could’ve caused the fog.
Miss Maeve noticed my fixation. “We aren’t going into the woods, exactly, just to the edge,” she said. “Uncle Reuben built the house many years ago. Had I been living with him then, I would’ve suggested we settle right in town, so we’d have close neighbors. But he’s never cared for the busy town life.”
I pushed away a smile at the idea of Wheeler, Arkansas, ever being considered busy, and turned my attention to the grand house rising before me.
Mr. Lybrand’s home was a stately, three-story affair painted a deep gray and trimmed in white. Black shutters framed picture windows along a wraparound porch. A widow’s walk ringed the upper balcony beneath turrets that gave the place a castlelike appearance. But anything of the imposing man’s taste ended with the architecture. The rest had to be Miss Maeve’s handiwork.
The porch dripped with hanging baskets of petunias in shades of purple and lavender. Hydrangea bushes drooped with clumps of sky-blue blossoms along one side of the house. A dozen crepe myrtle trees bordered a brick pathway through well-tended grass, white petals dropping from their branches like errant snowflakes. One entire wall of the house supported a trellis of dainty cream-colored rosebuds, and a towering magnolia with glossy leaves and pearly blooms stood sentry over all.
Mr. Lybrand parked the car in a carriage house nearly devoured by climbing roses. Lilah had the car door open before we even stopped rolling. “Isn’t it pretty here?” Her short skirt lifted as she leapt out.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, noting Miss Maeve’s proud posture as she took Lilah’s hand.
“I’ve always wanted to see where you lived, Miss Maeve,” Della admitted, drinking in the scene as we strolled the neatly groomed lawn. “I’d heard Mr. Lybrand had a nice place, but this is … it’s…” She turned a full circle, as if the right description might be hiding behind her.
“I’d say vibrantly verdurous,” Abel said, appearing from the stables.
Della sighed. “You and those five-dollar words.”
Lilah walked backward, pointing out her favorite spots. “I helped trim the dead blooms off the roses,” she said.
“Sounds better than picking bugs off the potato plants and dropping them in kerosene to kill them,” I said. “That’s the sort of gardening I’ve been doing at the farm.” Lilah lolled her tongue out in dramatic disgust. I knew she was impressed.
Miss Maeve led us across the wide porch to massive double doors. She pushed one open to reveal a soaring foyer. “Welcome to our home,” she said warmly. “I hope you’ll treat it as your own.”
“And take that for the polite bunkum it is, not an invitation to move in,” Mr. Lybrand groused as he brushed by and marched down a hallway. The rest of us filed in, our steps echoing off the polished hardwood floors. I ran a finger along the patterns of twisting leaves and vines swirling through the burgundy wallpaper. I hadn’t been in a place this grand since I was a little girl.
Lilah charged up the stairs, calling down that she was going to put her hat away.
“Change out of your church dress, too,” Miss Maeve said, hanging her own hat on a stand. Light spilled in from a transom window high overhead, turning her hair to shining platinum. “Uncle Reuben’s probably in his study, third door on the right,” she said. “Why don’t y’all sit and visit while I set the table?” She vanished through an open door into a formal dining room.
“I’d like to help you, if that’s all right,” I called after her.
“Me, too,” Della added quickly. We exchanged a knowing look. Neither of us wanted to visit with the charming Reuben Lybrand.
“I’ll go keep Mr. Lybrand company, then.” Abel passed between Della and me, giving us each a gentle jab with his elbows. “Thanks a lot,” he whispered.
In the dining room, Miss Maeve swept a sterling pitcher of iced tea from a credenza and poured six glasses, placing them on a large oval dining table that gleamed with a mirror-finish s
hine. Della and Miss Maeve talked comfortably as they laid fine bone china on the table. When Lilah returned, she set to work folding napkins with intense concentration, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.
I did my best to help, but my focus was drawn to the clawed feet of the dining room chairs. The fairy tale of Baba Yaga and her rooster-footed house in the woods flashed through my mind, dragging along thoughts of my father’s bizarre visit.
“Are you all right, Verity?” Miss Maeve asked, dumping a spoonful of extra sugar into a glass of tea. She gave it a stir and handed it to me with a concerned look.
“Fine, thank you,” I said with a start. “Maybe just a little tired.” I sipped the syrupy drink. “We spent the day at the fair yesterday. I saw you and Lilah as I was leaving.” I took a sip, not wanting to mention that I’d purposefully avoided them. The caffeine in the tea must’ve been stout as a draft horse. Already, I felt a little better. “Abel and I had to leave early for chores.”
“We didn’t stay long, either, I’m afraid,” Miss Maeve said. “Uncle waited in the car, so we had to hurry.”
“I don’t care to travel after dark.” Mr. Lybrand’s imperious voice came from the doorway. “My niece and I spend our evenings at home.” Miss Maeve’s smile tightened around the edges as her uncle spoke.
“I’d like to say grace,” she said, sending a quick look at Mr. Lybrand, who scowled.
We took our seats and bowed our heads. Through one squinted eye, I watched Lilah’s primly clasped hands creep apart. Sneaky fingers eased toward the plate of rolls until, with a lightning-fast strike, she snatched one and shoved the entire thing in her mouth. To my right, Abel made a sound suspiciously like a laugh pretending to be a cough. Miss Maeve’s head stayed bowed with perfect piety.
Sipping my tea, I found myself relaxed and happy throughout dinner, something I’d never imagined possible. For me, small talk had always been the social equivalent of breaking out in hives—it made me feel itchy and squirmy and all-around bad in my own skin. But Miss Maeve was a charming hostess who made everyone feel welcome.
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