and with it her sinecure from Judge Cook. She would be destitute. And yet, as she climbed into the bed beside him and inhaled his still-familiar musk, she felt like singing.
He woke up near midnight, still feverish but
clearheaded, and returned the pressure of her fingers. They stared at each other by the candle’s light. The whites of his eyes were a frightening shade of orange, but Judy smiled into them with such tenderness, the stabbing pains in Cornelius’s back eased a little. Perhaps there was a God, he thought, returning Judy’s steady gaze. How else could he explain the miracle of her presence beside him?
“I must tell you,” he began, but a coughing fit seized him, wreaking new agonies.
“Hush, dear,” Judy urged him. “Don’t tire yourself.
There is no need to say anything now.”
“I have something I have to say to you before I can die. . . .”
She shuddered, but met his eyes and nodded.
Cornelius took a shallow sip of air and began.
“Abraham Wharf was mostly dead when I first saw him.
But the old man still had some life in him. I came upon him in the evening, and he was still warm. When I tapped him on the back, he didn’t wake up. And I left him there.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Save your strength.”
“I could have shaken him,” Cornelius continued, taking breaths between every few words. “I could have carried him inside somewhere. I could have saved him. But I walked away, and I let him lie there, under those stones. Next morning, he was stiff.”
“Oh, Cornelius,” Judy said, stroking his cheek. “It was so long ago.”
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“I went back to make sure he was dead. And then I cut his throat. I did it to keep him quiet in death.” Cornelius spoke this part with his eyes closed, so that he would not have to see Judy’s reaction. “It was a kind of magic I heard from my mother. Wharf was a devil. Blackhearted. Mean.
He knew about you and me. He said he’d turn me over to a bounty hunter. Tell Stanwood. Paint them a picture, he said. Like a bear covering a doe, he said. And worse.”
He groaned. “But that’s not the worst I did, Judy. I am a sorry man. I am a coward,” he said, ignoring her attempts at hushing him. “I used to tell myself I stayed away from you to protect you from the gossip. If Wharf knew about us, I figured it was only a matter of time before others knew.
And you would be ruined.
“But that wasn’t the half of it,” he said. “The truth is, I was afraid on my own account. They kill us like dogs, like nothing. They need no excuse. And you were a fine excuse.”
Tears leaked through his lashes. “But worst is how I treated you. How I never said your name. I knew what you wanted of me, to tell you things. To say your name. I did not even give you that. You were so fine to me, and I was too afraid to tell you. To love you.”
Breathless and worn out by his confession, Cornelius fell into a deep and peaceful sleep that gave Judy a few hours of hope. But the fever returned in the morning, worse than before. With it came waves of pain that he could not beat back without screaming. Easter stopped in but did not stay long.
By the time the afternoon light started to fade, Cornelius was at his weakest. Judy sat beside him, her head in her hands, until she felt his touch on her knee.
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“Talk to me,” he whispered.
She wiped her eyes and rallied. “I was glad to see that you took in the dog, the tan. Oliver says she’s been with you for some time now. She’s still here, you know. Over there by the fire, watching. She’s a nice one, I can tell. Reminds me of my Grey, a little. Did you think of that?”
Cornelius smiled behind his closed eyes.
Judy took his hand and told him about her friendship with Martha Cook, the secret of her illness, and of the Judge’s decency. She recounted Easter’s camel story and described Harriet’s cooking in detail. All through that short winter sunset and deep into the night, she talked. She confessed, to herself as well as to Cornelius, that last summer’s work had been too much for her. Her neck and legs still ached from the long days. She was too old for it.
Judy paused for a moment and stared into the candle.
The silence in the room startled her and she cried,
“Cornelius?”
His eyes fluttered open and met hers.
“Should I go on?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Judy said. But then she began, “When I was a little girl, I used to think that my sister, Priscilla, could do anything.” She was surprised at what her memory washed up, especially since she had never spoken about her childhood. “Priscilla was ten years older than me. She was the pretty one, and the only mother I knew since ours died giving birth to me.
“I don’t remember much from those days,” Judy said.
“I had a doll with a red dress. Priss taught me how to read.
She hogged the blankets at night. And then she left.
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“I think she ran off with a man and I can’t imagine that it ended well or she would have come for me. Or that’s what I told myself. Pa never spoke of her again.
“He broke his leg when I was eight, which is when he bound me out to service, so I’d learn housekeeping. I went to Mrs. Clarkson first. She was a widow with twin sons, thick-waisted boys, walleyed and shy as a couple of rabbits.
“She wasn’t a bad sort,” Judy remembered. “She was, well, disappointed, I suppose is what you’d call her. She took to her bed every evening right after dinner, and stayed there till I made the breakfast. She was a watery sort of person.
She made tea so weak, and soupy stew, and sometimes her biscuits came to the table as gruel.
“After she passed away, I stayed on and cared for the boys till I was eighteen and I got a place with a family in Gloucester, where I met a boy named Arthur. We used to go walking on Sundays when we should have been in church.
I thought we’d get married, but he got into some kind of trouble and shipped out without a good-bye. That decided me against marriage.
“Not that he ever asked,” she said.
Cornelius raised a finger to signal that he was still listening. “I worked for some other families after that.
None of them were cruel to me. None were all that kind, either. But wherever I lived, I never felt at home. I never had a sound sleep. Even my dreams were full of being told to clean a mess, or haul some more water, or stir a pot.
“But that seems like a hundred years ago,” she said.
“Like I’m talking about a girl in a book someone else wrote.
“Then the day I wandered into Dogtown and stopped at Easter Carter’s house, it was, well, like some revelation.
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There she was, living on her own—that was long before Ruth moved in. Tiny Easter Carter in that big house, all by herself. Bold as brass, and didn’t care who said what about her. I asked her wasn’t she afraid to sleep up there all alone.
She said she liked being where no one else was breathing up the fresh air.
“That planted the seed,” Judy said. “Knowing that Easter would be near helped me get up the gumption. So even if I never stopped being a scullery girl, and even if I was poor, I could be my own mistress in Dogtown. I suppose it was the same for you, too, wasn’t it, Cornelius, dear? You could be your own master there. As much as anywhere.”
Judy put his hand to her lips. He squeezed her fingers.
“You changed that, Cornelius. When you came to my house, to my bed, I was not the mistr
ess of my own heart any longer. And when you did not return to me, I was more alone than ever, even more than when my sister left. I used to think about going to sleep out in the cold like Abraham Wharf.
“I suppose Easter kept me from it. And Greyling. Isn’t it odd how much comfort a dog can be.” Judy stopped, hoarse and exhausted from three days of weeping and whispering.
She watched Cornelius’s chest rise and sink, the breaths shallow and more uneven than before. His skin was clammy, and he was quiet for so long, she wondered if he was past hearing her.
His eyes flew open. “No coffin,” he rasped.
“Oh, my dear,” she said. “I know. I won’t let them put you in a box. Is there something else I can do, anything else?”
“Shepherd,” he croaked.
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“Shepherd?”
“Lord. Shepherd.”
Judy ran to the library and took the large Bible from its stand, riffling through its gilt-edged pages until she found it.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” she read, slowly. “‘I shall not want.’” By “forever,” he was sleeping soundly.
“Shall I read another?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
Judy read the Twenty-fourth Psalm, the Twenty-
fifth, and the rest of them, to the last “Praise ye the Lord.”
Only then did she set the book on the floor and lie down beside him.
When she woke up, he was gone.
There was no funeral gathering for Cornelius, no spirits or biscuits after his cold burial. Even so, Judy was not alone at the cemetery. Oliver and Polly brought their boys, and Natty and David carried giant pinecones to place on the grave. Easter was there with Louisa Tuttle from the tavern.
Four well-dressed Gloucester ladies arrived in a group, old acquaintances of Martha Cook’s, curious to discover if Judy Rhines was really as brazen as the gossip painted her.
Reverend Hildreth’s appearance caused a ripple of surprise among their ranks.
Judy Rhines had called upon the clergyman to ask for his service at the burial, and discovered that despite his Universalist leanings and abolitionist sermons, he had no desire to be seen anywhere near a real African, not even a
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dead one. There were certain members of his flock who barely tolerated his politics, and given the strong smell of scandal that now clung to Mistress Rhines, the minister had been less than gentle in declining her request.
“It is not my practice to provide the sacraments to those who are not of my congregation,” he had said, expecting her to wilt and scurry away. But she had done no such thing.
“Sir, if you do not bring your Bible and lay Cornelius to rest properly,” she said, “I stand ready to call upon your wife and ask if she is aware of your visits to a particular mansion on High Street and of your ministry to the lady of that house. Or perhaps it would be easier if I simply tell certain people that they need not keep this secret close anymore.”
As he began the service, the pastor raised his chin and put his famously resonant voice to good use, so that even the deafest of the ladies heard every word. “‘As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth.
For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.’”
He paused, turned the page, and began, “‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’”
At that, Judy Rhines doubled over and sobbed with such inconsolable sorrow, Natty and David burst into tears as well. Oliver reached out to comfort his friend and found he had to hold fast to keep her from flinging herself into the grave.
“‘Forever and ever. Amen,’” said Reverend Hildreth crisply, snapped his Bible shut, and began shaking hands with everyone in the little circle. Judy turned away from his outstretched hand and walked off, by herself. When she returned to the house, the tan was gone.
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As the winter deepened, Judy found it harder and harder to fall asleep. She’d lie in bed at night, listening to the wind at the windows. Easter was alarmed by her friend’s lethargy and pallor, and visited every morning with a pail of beer and funny stories from the tavern.
“And what are they saying about randy Judy Rhines?”
she asked.
“They’ll stop talking about it,” said Easter. “You’ll see.
Soon enough, they won’t give it a second thought.”
But Judy knew better. She would always be a
lighthouse of gossip, a beacon signal reminding people of the shocking tale of Black Neal and his Dogtown mistress.
They might stop snickering into her face. They might forget to curl their lips when they told her they had no green thread in stock when the spool was in clear view. But as soon as she turned the corner or left the shop, an eyebrow would arch and someone would recount the particulars of their shocking liaison, with all kinds of indecent details invented out of whole cloth.
Judy considered moving back to the quiet of Dogtown, fixing up her old house, and living far from the wagging tongues. But that idea made her feel even more like walking off a long pier in the cold of the night.
Six weeks after Cornelius died, Judy went to the study, lit a fire, lifted the covers from the desk, and wrote two letters. The first one was addressed to Judge Cook and covered many pages. She explained the reason for her departure from Gloucester and included a long list of instructions about the care of the house. She concluded with heartfelt thanks, an apology for once having misjudged him, and her best wishes.
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The second letter took only a few minutes, and was addressed to Mrs. Harriet Plant.
A month later, Judy Rhines vanished.
When Easter Carter learned that her friend had left Cape Ann without so much as a word to her, she was frantic, angry, and bereft. It was the first time that anyone had ever seen her weep. Louisa sent for Oliver and Polly, who visited at her bedside, where she spent a week eating nothing and drinking only a little beer.
Oliver accosted everyone who came to the store for word of Judy Rhines, and he discovered that she’d hired a buggy to take her to the Ipswich coach stop, where she’d boarded the carriage for Boston.
Her letter arrived in May.
Dearest Easter:
Forgive me. It was wrong of me to leave as
I did, but I could not face your reproaches or your sadness. I could not bear the weight of my
memories or the hatefulness of my neighbors.
I am not as strong as you.
I am living in Cambridge, where our friend
Harriet gave me refuge and found me a position as housekeeper for another dean at the college. I have a room to myself with a door that leads out to a small cottage garden that is to be mine.
My situation is only a few streets away from Harriet’s, which is a great comfort. She has some acquaintances who have welcomed me into their little circle. They are very patient with me. I find it restful to live without a past. Now that the
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spring has arrived, we spinsters stroll along the river, where there is rowing. It makes a pretty sight.
The Harvard boys are merry and gallant for
the most part. One of the lads is to give me his dog when he leaves at the end of term. It is a tiny little creature named Pip, and as different from our Dogtown crew as a berry from a pumpkin.
Already I am quite the fool for him.
Please do not worry about me. Except for
missing you, Oliver, Polly, and their precious boys, I am rarely unhappy. There is one thing that remains heavy on my heart and makes me dare to ask a great favor of you. By now, you have
discovered the banknote. If you can forgive my leaving without a farewell, you will use this money to place a headstone upon his grave. Have them carve his name so there is at least that much of a token that he lived. Knowing your goodness as I do, I don’t doubt that you will do this thing for me. Just writing these words gives me a
little peace.
I do miss you, my dear Easter. I think of your smile every day. Please show this letter to Oliver and Polly. I promise to write to them soon. Deliver kisses to Nathaniel, David, and little Isaac. (Is his hair still carrot-colored?) Tell them not to forget their Aunt Judy.
I will never forget any of you.
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A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
Amy Hoffman and Steve McCauley are my writing-group partners, and this book would not have happened without their insight, patience, and support. The same goes for Jim Ball, my sweet, indispensable husband.
For expert advice, reading drafts, and loving encouragement, I am indebted to Wayne Baker, D.M.D.; Ellen Grabiner; Valerie Monroe; Judith Paley, M.D.; Barbara Penzner; Sondra Stein; Liza Stern; Joan Thompson; Tom Wolfe; Bob Wyatt; and Ande Zellman. Thanks to Ben Loeterman for the old books, to Lesly Hershman and Maria Campo for their research assistance, to Scott Elledge and Jonathan Strong for many wonderful tramps through the woods of Cape Ann. The librarians at the Cape Ann Historical Society and the Newton Free Library were gracious and helpful. The Diamant family cheerleading squad—daughter Emilia, brother Harry, and mother Hélène—was as terrific as ever. Thanks again to Amanda Urban of ICM and to the Scribner team: Nan Graham, Sarah McGrath, and Susan Moldow.
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A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Anita Diamant is a prizewinning journalist whose work has appeared regularly in the Boston Globe Magazine and Parenting magazine. She is the author of the best-selling novels The Red Tent (named Booksense Book of the Year) and Good Harbor, as well as a collection of essays, Pitching My Tent, and six nonfiction books about contemporary Jewish practice.