My heart squeezed to a standstill. “It is, Mother. It’s your daughter.”
“Back from the dead!”
“I am no ghost,” I said through clenched jaw, trying to hold back tears, and as I hugged her, I felt the reluctance in her wiry old muscles melt away. She hugged me back with all the strength left in her, which was considerably less than I remembered.
As we spoke, she, too, wiped tears from her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at my sister, and nodded. “Fetch Nevin.”
My stomach clenched. “Must you, so soon?”
My mother nodded again. “Aye, we must. He’s the man of the house now. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your father is gone, Lanore.”
You can’t predict how you will react to news of that sort. As angry as I’d been with my father and as much as I had begun to suspect that something dire had happened, my mother’s news knocked the wind from me. I fell onto a chair. My mother and sister stood around me, hands clasped.
“It happened a year ago,” my mother said, soberly. “One of the bulls. A kick to the head. It was very sudden. He didn’t suffer.”
But they had, every day since: it was apparent in their hardened faces, the shabbiness of their clothes, and the house’s disrepair. My mother caught my eye roving discreetly.
“It’s been terribly hard on Nevin. He’s taken it on himself to run the farm, and you know it’s too big a job for one man.” My mother’s once gentle mouth had developed a hard set, her way of dealing with the merciless circumstances.
“Why don’t you hire some help, a boy from one of the other farms. Or rent out the property. Surely someone in town is looking to expand,” I said.
“Your brother won’t hear of such a thing, so do not be so reckless as to mention it to him. You know how proud he is,” she said, turning her head so I wouldn’t see the bitterness in her expression. His pride had become their misfortune.
I needed to change the subject. “Where’s Glynnis?”
Maeve flushed. “She’s working at Watford’s now. She’s stocking shelves today.”
“On the Sabbath?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Working off our debt, truth be told,” my mother said, her confession ending in an irritated sigh as she fussed with the potatoes.
Adair’s money weighed in my purse. There was no question that
I wouldn’t give that money to them, and deal with the consequences later.
The door swung open and Nevin stepped into the dim cabin, a hulking dark figure silhouetted against the overcast sky. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust and for me to see Nevin himself. He’d lost weight and gotten hard and sinewy. He’d cut his hair so close to the skull it might as well have been shaved, and his face was filthy and nicked with scars, as were his hands. He had the same scorn for me in his eyes that he’d had the day I left, fueled by his own self-pity at what had befallen them since.
He made a sound in the back of his throat at the sight of me and ducked past to the wash bucket, plunging his hands in.
I stood up. “Hello, Nevin.”
He dried his hands on a bit of rag before taking off his battered coat. He smelled of cattle, dirt, and fatigue.
“I’d like to speak to Lanore in private,” he said. My mother and sister exchanged looks, then began to head for the door.
“No, wait,” I called after them. “Let Nevin and I go outdoors. You stay where it’s warm.”
My mother shook her head. “No, we have chores that need doing before supper. You have your talk.” She shepherded my sister in front of her.
In truth, I was afraid to be left alone with Nevin. His dislike of me was like a sheer rock face; he gave me not an inch in which to begin. I’d be better off walking away, his defiance seemed to say, than to try to find a way into his heart or head.
“So you’re back,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “But not to stay.”
“No.” There was no point in lying to him. “My home is in Boston now.”
He gave me a superior look. “I can guess from your fancy clothes what you’ve been doing. Do you think your mother or me want to know what shameful thing you’ve done with yourself? Why’d you come back?” The question I’d been dreading.
“To see everyone again,” I said, my tone pleading. “To let you know I wasn’t dead.”
“Such news could have been put in a letter. It’s been a long time with no word from you.”
“I can only apologize for that.”
“Were you in prison? Is that why you could not write?” he asked, mocking.
“I didn’t write because I wasn’t sure if it would be welcome.” What could I have said? I had been certain it was best that they never heard from me again and that was as Alejandro had advised. It’s a conceit, or a failing, of the young to think you can excise your past and it will never come looking for you.
He snorted at my excuse. “Did you ever think what effect your silence might have on Mother and Father? It very nearly killed Mother. It was the reason Father died.”
“Mother said he was killed by a bull—”
“That was how he died, for certain. His skull split open by a bull, his blood pouring into the mud with no way for us to stop it. But did you ever know Father to let his guard down around the livestock? No. It happened because he was sick at heart. After he got the letter from the nuns, he was not the same. Blamed himself for sending you away—and to think he’d be with us still if you’d let him know you were alive!” He smashed his knuckles into the table.
“I told you I was sorry. There were circumstances that prevented me—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You say you weren’t in prison. You come back looking like the richest whore in Boston. I’ve some idea how difficult the years have been for you. I’ll hear no more.” He swung away from me, nursing his bloodied knuckles. “I forgot to ask—where’s the babe? Did you leave it behind with your procurer?”
My cheeks were hot as embers. “You’ll be happy to know that the child perished before it was born. A miscarriage.”
“Ah. God’s will, as they say. Punishment for your wickedness, accommodating that devil St. Andrew.” Nevin glowered, pleased with my news, happy to make his judgments. “I never could understand how a smart girl like you could be blind to that bastard. Why didn’t you listen to me? I’m a man, same as he, I know how a man thinks …” He trailed off, exasperated. I wanted to wipe the smug grimace off Nevin’s face, but I couldn’t. He might have been right. Maybe he could see into Jonathan’s mind and understand better than I, and all those years had tried to protect me from temptation. My failure had been his failure.
He wiped his knuckles again. “So, how long are you planning to stay?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks.”
“Does Mother know you’ve not returned for good? That you’re going to leave us again?” Nevin asked, with pleasure in his voice that I would break our mother’s heart again.
I shook my head.
“You can’t stay too long,” he warned, “or you’ll be snowed in till spring.”
How long would it take to convince Jonathan to come to Boston with me? Could I stand a winter sequestered in St. Andrew? It made me claustrophobic, the very thought of the long, dark winter days snowbound in the cabin with my brother.
Nevin dipped his bloody fist into the water bucket, tending his self-inflicted wound while he spoke to me. “You can stay with us while you are visiting. I’d rather toss you out on your ear, but I’ll not be a source of gossip to the neighbors. But you must behave the entire time, or it’s out you go.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll not bring that bastard St. Andrew around here. I’d say you’re not to see him while you’re staying under my roof, but I know you’d go to him anyway and lie to me about it.”
He was right, of course. For now, though, I had to pretend to be contrite. “Whatever you say, brother. Thank you.”
THIRTY-FOUR
That first eve
ning home was difficult. On one hand, I can’t recall a more joyful dinner. When Glynnis arrived home from her day at Watford’s, we had the opportunity for one more reunion, which sparked our hearts anew (except for Nevin, who would never be forgiving). While the biscuits baked, I brought their presents from my trunk, handing out gifts as though I were Father Christmas. Maeve and Glynnis waltzed around with the Chinese silk held up to their bodices, planning the fancy dresses they would make with it, and my mother nearly wept tears of joy over the shawl. Their delight only made Nevin angrier; thank goodness I’d not brought anything for him (knowing he’d only throw it in the fire) or he probably would have boxed my ears and tossed me out on my ass.
We sat around the table after the plates were scraped clean and the candles drew low, my mother and sisters filling me in on everything that had happened in the village while I was gone: failed crops, illnesses, one or two new arrivals. And, of course, deaths, births, and marriages. They lingered over Jonathan’s wedding, expecting I’d want to know all about it, what fancy food was served (not knowing the exotic delicacies I’d consumed), what business associates of the St. Andrews made the arduous trip to attend.
“So sad, the captain didn’t live to see it,” my mother said.
And the baby! The way my mother and sisters spoke of it, you’d think the baby was a joint product of the town. Everyone, except for Nevin, seemed to have a parochial interest in the infant.
“What did Jonathan name her?” I asked, dipping a last crust into a smear of beef fat.
“Ruth, just like his mother,” Glynnis said, eyebrows raised.
“It’s a good Christian name,” my mother chided. “I’m sure they wanted a name from the Bible.”
I waggled a finger around the table. “Not Jonathan, nor Evangeline, I’ll wager—it was all his mother’s doing. You can quote me.”
“Maybe the idea of having a child as soon as possible, maybe that was Mrs. St. Andrew’s idea, too.” Maeve held her breath momentarily, looking at her sister for encouragement, before she continued. “It was a terribly difficult birth, Lanore. They almost lost Evangeline. She’s so wee—”
“And young—”
Nods all around. “So young,” Maeve sighed. “I heard the midwife told her not to have any more babies for a while.”
“It’s true,” Glynnis added.
“Enough!” Nevin hammered the end of his knife into the table, making the women jump. “Can’t a man eat his evening meal in peace without having to listen to gossip about the town dandy?”
“Nevin—,” my mother began, but he cut her off.
“I’ll hear no more about this. It’s his own fault for marrying the girl. It is scandalous, but I expected no better from him,” Nevin grumbled. For a scant moment, I could almost believe that he’d scolded my sisters and mother in order to spare me further talk of babies. He pushed away from the table and headed for the chair by the fire, the place where our father used to sit after dinner. The sight of him in that chair, with Father’s pipe, was strange to my eye.
Judging from the position of the moon in the sky, it was near midnight when I climbed down from the loft, unable to sleep. The remains of the fire decorated the walls with a dancing, lambent glow. Restless, I couldn’t remain boxed up in the cottage. I needed company. Usually at this time of night, I would be preparing for a night in Adair’s bed, and I found, sitting on the settle, that I was hungry—no, ravenous—for physical comfort. I dressed and slipped out as quietly as I could. My driver was sleeping in the barn, kept warm by a mountain of blankets and the heat of a dozen cattle packed with him under the roof. I wasn’t about to saddle the family’s chestnut gelding, rouse the poor old thing from its deserved rest, so I went off on foot in the only direction that came to mind: to town. For anyone else, even a trip this short on foot would be suicidal. The temperature was below freezing and the wind brisk, but I was impervious to the weather and could walk at a smart clip without fatiguing. I reached the houses on the edge of town in no time.
Where was there to go? St. Andrew was hardly the big city. Few lights were visible through cabin windows. The town was asleep but Daniel Daughtery’s public house was still open, light shining through its single window. I hesitated by the door, wondering if it would be wise to be seen about at this hour. Few women went into Daughtery’s, and none would go in by herself. Word could easily get back to Nevin and fuel his conviction that I was a common whore. The lure of those warm bodies inside, the low rumble of talk, the occasional bright spark of laughter was strong, however. I knocked the mud from my shoes and went in.
There were only a couple of customers in the small space: a pair of axmen in Jonathan’s employ and Tobey Ostergaard, poor Sophia’s brutish father, looking like a corpse himself, his skin gone gray and his dead eyes staring at the back wall. Every head turned in my direction as I entered, Daughtery giving me an especially ugly leer.
“A draft,” I called out, though it was unnecessary, as there was only one beverage on the bill of fare.
The public room had once been part of Daughtery’s home, partitioned off (over the objection of his wife) to accommodate a bar keep, one small table, and assorted stools slapped together from odd pieces of wood, one leg shorter than the other two on each and every one of them. In the warmer months, there were games of chance and sometimes cockfighting in the barn, which was separated by a muddy path from the main house. Most patrons didn’t stay but picked up a hogshead of brew to consume at home with meals, as brewing beer was a messy business and Daughtery, it was generally agreed, was the best of anyone in town.
“I heard you was back,” Daughtery said as he collected my coin. “From the look of it, Boston has treated you well.” He made a naked appraisal of my clothing. “What did a country lass such as yourself do to buy such fine apparel as that?”
Like my brother, Daughtery must have guessed—they must all have guessed—what had happened to make a wealthy woman of me. Daughtery was the first to accuse me outright, showing off for his customers. Still, what could I do under the circumstances? I gave him an unreadable smile over the rim of the mug. “I have done what countless others have done to better their lot in life: I have associated myself with people of means, Mr. Daughtery.”
One of the axmen left shortly after my arrival but the other came over to ask me to share his table. He’d overheard Daughtery’s mention of Boston and was anxious to speak to someone who’d been there recently. He was young, perhaps twenty, sweet-tempered and clean looking, unlike most of the St. Andrew hired hands. He told me he came from a humble family who lived outside of Boston proper. He’d come to Maine for work. He made good pay but the isolation was killing him; he missed the city, he said, and the options for entertainment. His eyes teared as I described the public garden on a sunny Sabbath and the shiny black surface of the Charles River under a full moon.
“I’d hoped to leave here before the snows,” he said, gazing into his mug. “But I heard St. Andrew needs hands to stay on through the winter and will pay well. Them that have stayed for the winter shift say it’s terrible lonely, though.”
“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.”
Daughtery banged a mug against the maple counter of the keep, startling us both. “Finish up. Time to go to your respective beds.”
We stood outside Daughtery’s bolted door, huddled together to cut down the wind. The stranger brought his mouth close to my ear so the heat of his words made the tiny hairs on my cheek stand at attention, like flowers stretching toward the sun. He confided in me that he’d not had the companionship of a woman in a long time. He confessed to having little money, but asked if I might be willing nonetheless. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous about your profession,” he said with a nervous smile. “But when you came into Daughtery’s by yourself …” I couldn’t protest: he had me dead to rights.
We stole into Daughtery’s barn, the animals so used to nighttime visitors from the bar that they made no fuss. The young axman adjusted h
is clothing, unbuttoning the fall of his breeches and placing his cock in my hand. He melted at my ministrations, soon lost in his own thick cloud of unbearable pleasure. It must have been the return to St. Andrew and seeing Jonathan again that made my blood rich with passion. The axman’s hand might have been on my flesh but it was Jonathan who was on my mind. I was reckless, letting myself think of Jonathan, but that night, the combination of flesh and memory gave me a taste of what it could be like and made me hungry for more. So I pulled the young man to me and settled one foot on a bale of hay, the better to give him access under my petticoats.
The young man rocked into me, sweet firm flesh and gentle hands, and I tried to pretend he was Jonathan, but I could not make the illusion stick. Maybe Adair was right, maybe there was something to be gained in making Jonathan one of us. A terrible hunger told me I had to try or be dissatisfied for the rest of my life—that is to say, eternity.
The axman stuttered a sigh as he came, then drew out a handkerchief and offered it to me. “Pardon my bluntness, miss,” he whispered hotly in my ear, “but that was the most amazing fuck I have ever had. You must be the most talented whore in Boston!”
“Courtesan,” I corrected him gently.
“And I don’t pretend to be able to compensate you in the manner to which you are undoubtedly accustomed …,” he said, rooting in a pocket for his money, but I placed a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Never mind. Keep your money. Just promise me you’ll not say a word of this to anyone,” I said.
“Oh no, ma’am, I won’t—though I will remember it for the rest of my life!”
“As shall I,” I said, though this sweet-faced boy would be only one of a succession of many—or perhaps the last one, to be replaced by Jonathan and only Jonathan, if I were lucky. I watched the young axman stumble out into the night, heading toward the road that led to the St. Andrews’ property, before I wrapped my coat tightly and started off in the opposite direction. His warmth trickled down the insides of my thighs and I felt a familiar stirring in my chest as well, the satisfaction I felt whenever I’d held a man helpless in sexual thrall. I looked forward to experiencing that pleasure with Jonathan and to surprising him with my newly acquired skills.