The Signature of All Things

  But Alma was also angry with her mother. As she paged through months’ worth of confusing documents, she wondered why Beatrix—knowing herself to be so ill—had not enlisted somebody to help over a year ago. Why had she put documents into boxes and stored them in closets, rather than seeking assistance? Why had Beatrix never taught anyone else her complicated accounting system, or, if nothing else, told someone where to find filed documentation from previous years?

  She remembered her mother’s having warned her, years ago, “Never put away your labors while the sun is high, Alma, with the hopes of finding more hours to work tomorrow—for you shall never have any more extra time tomorrow than you had today, and once you have fallen behindhand in your responsibilities, you will never catch up.”

  So why had Beatrix allowed things to fall so behindhand?

  Perhaps she had not believed she was dying.

  Perhaps her mind had been so addled with pain that she had lost track of the world.

  Or perhaps—Alma thought darkly—Beatrix had wanted to punish the living with all this work, long after she was dead.

  As for Hanneke de Groot, Alma quickly came to understand that the woman was a saint. Alma had never before realized how much work Hanneke did around the estate. Hanneke recruited, trained, maintained, and reprimanded a staff of dozens. She managed the food cellars and harvested the estate’s vegetables as though leading a cavalry charge through fields and gardens. She commandeered her troops to polish the silver, and stir the gravy, and beat the carpets, and whitewash the walls, and put up the pork, and gravel the driveway, and render the lard, and cook the puddings. With her even temper and firm handle on discipline, Hanneke somehow managed the jealousies, laziness, and stupidity of so very many people, and she was clearly the only reason the estate had carried on at all once Beatrix had fallen ill.

  One morning, shortly after her mother’s death, Alma had caught Hanneke disciplining three scullery maids, whom she had backed up against the wall as though she intended to shoot them.

  “One good worker could replace all three of you,” Hanneke barked, “and trust me—when I find one good worker, all three of you will be dismissed! In the meanwhile, get back to your tasks, and stop shaming yourselves with such carelessness.”

  “I cannot thank you enough for your service,” Alma told Hanneke, once the girls were gone. “I hope to someday be able to assist you more with the management of the household, but for now I will still need you to do everything, as I try to make sense of my father’s business affairs.”

  “I have always done everything,” Hanneke replied, uncomplainingly.

  “Indeed, it seems you have, Hanneke. It seems you do the work of ten men.”

  “Your mother did the work of twenty men, Alma—and had to look after your father, too.”

  As Hanneke turned to leave, Alma reached for the housekeeper’s arm.

  “Hanneke,” she asked, exhausted and frowning, “what does one do for a baby who has just swallowed a pin?”

  Without hesitating, or asking why such a question should suddenly arise, Hanneke replied, “Prescribe raw egg white to the child and patience to the mother. Give the mother assurance that the pin will probably slide out the child’s sewer hole in a few days, with no ill effects. If it’s an older child, you can make it jump a rope, to encourage the process along.”

  “Does the child ever die from it?” Alma asked.

  Hanneke shrugged. “Sometimes. But if you prescribe these steps and speak in a tone of certainty, the mother will not feel so helpless.”

  “Thank you,” Alma said.

  * * *

  As for Retta Snow, the girl came over to White Acre several times during the first weeks after Beatrix’s death, but Alma and Prudence—absorbed in catching up with the work of the family business—could find no time for her.

  “I can help you!” Retta said, but everyone knew that she could not.

  “Then I shall wait for you every day in your study in the carriage house,” Retta finally promised Alma, when she had been turned away too many times in a row. “When you are finished with your labors, you will come and see me. I will talk to you while you study impossible things. I will tell you extraordinary stories, and you will laugh and marvel. For I have news of the most shocking variety!”

  Alma could not imagine ever again finding the time to laugh or marvel with Retta, much less to continue her own projects. For quite some time after her mother’s death, she forgot that she had ever had her own work at all. She was a mere quill-driver now, a scrivener, a slave to her father’s desk, and the administrator of a dauntingly large household—wading through a jungle of neglected tasks. For two months, she barely stepped outside her father’s study at all. As best she was able, she refused to let her father leave, either.

  “I need your help on all these matters,” Alma pleaded with Henry, “or we shall never catch up again.”

  Then, late one October afternoon, right in the middle of all the sorting, calculating, and solving, Henry simply stood up and walked out of his own study, leaving Alma and Prudence with their hands full of papers.

  “Where are you going?” Alma asked.

  “To get drunk,” he said, in a voice fierce and dark. “And by God, how I dread it.”

  “Father—” she protested.

  “Finish it yourself,” he commanded.

  And so she did.

  With Prudence’s help, with Hanneke’s help, but mostly on her own accord, Alma polished that study to a state of trim perfection. She put each one of her father’s affairs in order—solving one onerous problem at a time—until every edict, injunction, mandate, and dictate had been addressed, until every letter was answered, every chit was paid, every investor was assured, every vendor cajoled, and every vendetta settled.

  It was the middle of January before she finished, and when she did, she understood the workings of the Whittaker Company from top to bottom. She had been in mourning for five months. She had entirely missed the autumn—seeing it neither arrive nor leave. She stood up from her father’s desk and unwound her black crepe armband. She laid the thing across in the last bin of refuse and discards, to be burned with the rest of it. That was enough.

  Alma walked to the binding closet just off the library, locked herself in, and pleasured herself quickly. She had not touched her quim in months, and the unfettering of this welcome old release made her want to weep. She had not wept in months, either. No, that was incorrect: she had not wept in years. She also realized that her twenty-first birthday had come and gone the previous week without notice—not even from Prudence, who could usually be counted upon for a small, thoughtful gift.

  Well, what did she expect? She was older now. She was the mistress of the grandest estate in Philadelphia, and the head clerk, it now appeared, of one of the largest botanical importing concerns on the planet. The time for childish things had passed.

  After Alma left the binding closet, she stripped down and took a bath—though it was not a Saturday—and went to sleep at five o’clock in the afternoon. She slept for thirteen hours. When she awoke, the house was silent. For the first moment in months, the house needed nothing from her. The silence sounded like music. She dressed slowly and enjoyed her tea and toast. Then she walked across her mother’s old Grecian garden, glassed over now with ice, until she reached the carriage house. It was time for her to return, if only for a few hours, to her own work, which she had left in midsentence the day her mother had fallen down the stairs.

  To her surprise, Alma saw a thin tendril of smoke uncurling from the chimney of the carriage house as she approached. When she reached her study, there—as promised—was Retta Snow, curled up on the divan under a thick wool blanket, sound asleep and waiting for her.

  * * *

  “Retta—” Alma touched her friend’s arm. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Retta’s large green eyes flew open. Clearly, in the first moment in which she awoke, the girl had no idea where she was, an
d she did not seem to recognize Alma. Something awful came over Retta’s face in that instant. She looked feral, even dangerous, and Alma found herself jerking back in fear, as though recoiling from a cornered dog. Then Retta smiled and the effect passed. She was all sweetness again, and she resembled herself once more.

  “My loyal friend,” said Retta in a sleepy voice, reaching for Alma’s hand. “Who loves you most? Who loves you best? Who thinks of you when others rest?”

  Alma looked about the room and saw a small cache of empty biscuit tins and a puddle of clothing piled carelessly on the floor. “Why are you sleeping in my study, Retta?”

  “Because things have grown impossibly dull at my own house. Things are rather dull here, too, of course, but at least there is the chance at times to see a bright face, if one is patient. Did you know that you have mice in your herbarium? Why do you not keep a pussycat in this room, to manage them? Have you ever seen a witch? I confess, I believe there was a witch in the carriage house last week. I could hear her laughing. Do you think we should tell your father? I can’t imagine it’s safe to keep a witch about the place. Or perhaps he would merely think I am mad. Though he seems to think so, anyway. Have you got any more tea? Aren’t these cold mornings unutterably cruel? Do you not long terribly for summer? Where has your black armband gone?”

  Alma sat down and pressed her friend’s hand to her lips. It was good to hear utter nonsense again, after all the seriousness of the last months. “I never know which one of your questions to answer first, Retta.”

  “Start in the middle,” Retta suggested, “and then work in both directions.”

  “What did the witch look like?” Alma asked.

  “Ha! Now you are the one asking too many questions!” Retta leapt up from the divan and shook herself awake. “Are we working today?”

  Alma smiled. “Yes, I believe we are working today—at last.”

  “And what are we studying, my dear best Alma?”

  “We are studying Utricularia clandestina, my dear best Retta.”

  “A plant?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Oh, it sounds beautiful!”

  “Do be assured that it isn’t,” Alma said. “But it is interesting. And what is Retta studying today?” Alma picked up the ladies’ magazine lying on the floor by the divan and thumbed through its incomprehensible pages.

  “I am studying the sorts of gowns in which a fashionable girl should wed,” Retta said lightly.

  “And are you choosing such a gown?” Alma replied, just as lightly.

  “Most absolutely!”

  “And what will you do with such a gown, my little bird?”

  “Oh, I had a plan to wear it on my wedding day.”

  “An ingenious plan!” Alma said, and turned toward her laboratory bench to see if she could begin putting together her notes from five months earlier.

  “But the sleeves are quite short in all these drawings, you see,” Retta prattled on, “and I fear I shall be cold. I could wear a shawl, suggests my little maid, but then nobody would be able to enjoy the necklace Mother said I could wear. Also, I wish for a spray of roses, though they are out of season and some say it is inelegant to carry a spray of flowers, in any case.”

  Alma turned around to face her friend once more. “Retta,” she said, this time in a more serious tone. “You aren’t truly getting married, are you?”

  “I do hope so!” Retta laughed. “I have been told that the only way one should get married is truly!”

  “And whom do you intend to marry?”

  “Mr. George Hawkes,” said Retta. “That funny, serious man. It makes me so glad, Alma, that my husband-to-be is somebody you adore so much, which means that we can all be friends. He does admire you so, and you admire him, which must mean he is a good man. It is your affection for George, really, that makes me trust him. He asked for my hand shortly after your mother’s death, but I didn’t want to speak of it sooner, as you were suffering so much, you poor dear. I had no idea he was even fond of me, but Mother tells me that everyone is fond of me, bless their hearts, because they cannot help themselves.”

  Alma sat down on the floor. She had no other choice but to sit down.

  Retta ran over to her friend, and sat down beside her. “Look at you! You are overcome on my behalf! You care about me so!” Retta put her arm around Alma’s waist, just as she had done on the day they met, and embraced her closely. “I must confess that I am still a bit overcome myself. What would such a clever man want with such a silly bit of lint like me? My father was most surprised! He said, ‘Loretta Marie Snow, I always figured you to be the sort of girl who would marry a handsome, stupid fellow who wore tall boots and hunted foxes for pleasure!’ But look at me—instead I shall marry a scholar. Imagine if it eventually makes me clever, Alma, to be married to a man with such a premium mind. Though I must say that George is not nearly as patient as you are, about answering my questions. He says that the subject of botanical publishing is far too complex to explain, and it is true that I still cannot tell the difference between a lithograph and an engraving. Is that what it’s called—a lithograph? So I may end up as stupid as ever! Nonetheless, we shall live right across the river, which will be most fun! Father has promised to build us a charming new house, right next to George’s print shop. You must come see me every day! And we shall all three of us go to see plays at Old Drury together!”

  Alma, still sitting on the floor, had no capacity for speech. She was only grateful that Retta’s head was tucked against her chest as she chattered away, so the girl could not see her face.

  George Hawkes was to marry Retta Snow?

  But George was supposed to be Alma’s husband. She had seen it in her mind so vividly for nearly five years now. She had conjured fantasies of him—his body!—when she was in the binding closet. But she had cherished more chaste thoughts of him, as well. She had imagined them working together, in close study. She always pictured herself leaving White Acre, when it came time to marry George. Together, they would live in a small room over his print shop, with its warm smells of ink and paper. She had envisaged them traveling to Boston together, or perhaps even beyond—as far away as the Alps, climbing over boulders to hunt for pasqueflowers and rock-jasmine. He would say to her, “What do you make of this specimen?” and she would say, “It is fine and rare.”

  He had always been so kind to her. He had once pressed her hand between his hands. They had looked through the same microscope eyepiece so many times—one after the other, then back again—trading on and off with the marvel of it.

  What could George Hawkes possibly see in Retta Snow? By Alma’s recollection, George had barely ever been able to look at Retta Snow without baffled embarrassment. Alma remembered how George had always glanced over to her in confusion whenever Retta spoke, as though seeking help, relief, or interpretation. If anything, these little glances between George and Alma about Retta had been one of their sweetest intimacies—or at least Alma had dreamed that they were.

  But apparently Alma had dreamed many things.

  Some part of her still hoped this was just one of Retta’s strange games, or perhaps a deluded flight of the girl’s imagination. Only a moment earlier, after all, Retta had claimed there were witches living in the carriage house, so anything could be possible. But, no. Alma knew Retta too well. This was not Retta at play. This was Retta in earnest. This was Retta chattering on about the problem with sleeves and shawls in a February wedding. This was Retta quite seriously worrying over the necklace her mother planned to lend her, which was quite valuable, but not entirely to Retta’s liking: What if the chain is too long? What if it becomes tangled in the bodice?

  Alma stood suddenly and pulled Retta up from the floor. She could not bear it anymore. She could not sit still and listen to another word of this. Without a further plan of action, she embraced Retta. It was so much easier to embrace her than to look at her. It also made Retta stop talking. She held Retta in such a firm press that she h
eard the girl’s breath intake sharply, with a surprised squeak. Just when she thought Retta might begin speaking again, Alma commanded, “Hush,” and grasped her friend more securely.

  Alma’s arms were extraordinarily strong (she had a blacksmith’s arms, just as her father did) and Retta was so tiny, with the rib cage of a baby rabbit. There were snakes that could kill this way, with an embrace that only grew tighter and tighter until the breath stopped completely. Alma squeezed tighter. Retta made another small squeaking noise. Alma grasped harder still—so hard that she lifted Retta right from the floor.

  She remembered the day they all had met: Alma, Prudence, and Retta. Fiddle, fork, and spoon. Retta had said, “If we were boys, we would have to fight now.” Well, Retta was no fighter. She would have lost such a battle. She would have lost badly. Alma compressed her arms even tighter around this tiny, useless, precious person. She clenched her eyes shut as hard as she could, but tears bled from the corners nonetheless. She could feel Retta going limp in her grip. It would be so easy to stop her from breathing. Stupid Retta. Cherished Retta, who—even now!—successfully resisted all efforts not to be loved.

  Alma dropped her friend to the floor.

  Retta landed with a gasp and very nearly bounced.

  Alma forced herself to speak. “I congratulate you on your happiness,” she said.

  Retta sobbed once, and clutched at her bodice with trembling hands. She smiled, so foolish and trusting. “What a good little Alma you are!” Retta said. “And how much you love me!”

  In a queer touch of almost masculine formality, Alma extended her hand for Retta to shake, managing to choke forth just one more sentence: “You are most deserving.”

  * * *

  “Did you know?” Alma demanded of Prudence not an hour later, finding her sister at her needlework in the drawing room.