Halfway Home, page 13
Rest assured. How perfectly awful. To be young and dead and forced to rest forevermore.
It wasn’t a very worthy thought, but true, nevertheless. Dead was all very well when one was tired of living, but when one was young, with everything to look forward to, it was a wretched shame, that was what it was.
And then, in that quietest hour of the day, just as the first stars begin to creep out, Sara heard a sound that sent prickles up her spine. Cautiously, she cut her eyes toward the dense stand of oaks nearby, but it was growing dark. The sun was already down, making the shadows all but impenetrable.
Wolves? Bears? This near the swamp, there were bound to be bears. And painters. Merciful saints in heaven, she could be swallowed whole by one of those huge, slinky cats that roamed the dense woods near outlying farms, stealing lambs and calves and chickens.
Lifting her skirts, Sara sailed over the low wrought-iron fence and took off across the fallow field at a run. Next time she visited Louisa, she would bring along a weapon. Or perhaps a nice picnic basket to leave as a bribe at the edge of the woods.
*
By the time she had finished a supper of sugar cured ham, fried chicken, cornbread, collard greens, and watermelon pickles, Sara had more or less put things into perspective. Beware the wild animals in the woods; beware Ivadelle Moyer in the house.
Sooner or later the woman would have to be dealt with, but at the moment it was all she could do to find her way around her new home. The housekeeper would help show her around, but Sara alone was responsible for hanging onto her own temper.
Miss Moyer took her place at the dinner table as if she had every right. With a pinched expression, she mentioned the likelihood of rain. Sara in turn remarked politely on the lovely row of pecan trees lining the driveway.
When that drew no response, she mentioned a newspaper article she had recently read about a college that had opened its doors to both men and women, which was highly unusual—some said immoral.
“I, myself, never held with colleges for women,” said Ivadelle Moyer with a sniff. She did that a lot, Sara had noticed. Sniff. Sara didn’t know if it was an attitude or an allergy.
And then the inquisition set in with a vengeance. Normally as friendly as a Spaniel pup, Sara managed to sidestep the question of how long she had been married, how long she had been engaged, and how she and the captain had first met. Hanging onto her temper by a thread, she introduced the topic of the weather again and the possibility of an early frost.
She was still hanging on by the same thread when her opponent retired from the field of combat. With a look of intense dislike, Ivadelle rose abruptly and stalked from the room.
Alone, Sara dropped all pretense of graciousness. It was a dreadful strain on her system, anyway. She toyed with her dessert and sighed, wondering what kind of briar patch she had landed herself in this time. She might as well have gone back home and taken her chances with Noreen. Without Titus, there was little the woman could do to hurt her. And by now, Titus would have surely had his wings clipped at the very least.
Well. As Maulsie was fond of saying, she had buttered her bread, now she must lie in it. If Miss Renegar could be believed, and Sara ‘was sure the woman was sound as a golden eagle, the Moyer woman had arrived with the overseer and his wife and moved directly into the main house that very day on some pretext about the cottage loft being infested with bats or ants or some such.
“If you ask me, the hussy meant all along to move in here and trick my boy into marriage.” Sara still had trouble thinking of Jericho as anyone’s “boy.” “If that woman wanted herself a husband, why did she have to leave home to find one? Fouled her own nest, if you ask me.”
Sara, by force of long habit, took her own dishes out to the kitchen, placating the indignant housekeeper by saying that she might as well start the tour of her new home there as anywhere.
“Well . . . I reckon we can do that. Just let me set this here kettle on to heat. Her Highness’ll be screaming for bathwater before long.”
Hester Renegar bustled around the large, well-equipped room filling the dishpan, settling the dishes to soak, and refilling the kettle from the rain barrel set conveniently just outside the door. In the process, she muttered about the woman who had moved in without so much as a by-your-leave and made herself right at home.
And while it might not be polite to listen to servants’ gossip, Sara prided herself that she was sensible enough to hear both sides of any issue and make up her own mind.
“Some brass, if ye ask me. O’ course, it’s not my place to say it, but I can tell you the Lord’s honest truth, I was that glad when word came this morning that the boy had took hisself a wife.”
Then, as if remembering her place, she said, “We don’t have a cook no more—money’s been hard come by this past year, and now that my boy’s done sold his boat, I ain’t had time to look for one, but this here’s the kitchen, such as it is. New iron stove works real good.”
Maulsie, Sara thought. She was selectively hard of hearing and stubborn as a fence post, but she was a wonderful cook.
Gesturing to a door leading from the kitchen, the housekeeper indicated several points of interest. ‘This here’s the pantry, out yonder’s the well and the cool-house, beyond that there broken-down fence is the kitchen garden. Hog leaned on the boards, and now every deer in Pasquotank County comes a-browsing. I told that carpenter the day he come that as soon as he patches the roof where it don’t leak all over my good floors, he’ll have to mend the garden fence, else there won’t be a collard plant left come first frost.”
Sara made a mental note to set Big Simon to the task of fence-mending as soon as he arrived. It would make him feel more comfortable, knowing that he was needed.
As the kettle came to a simmer, the housekeeper set a fresh pot of tea to brew, then refilled the kettle and plopped it down on the stove to heat. “No better’n she should be, if you ask me,” she muttered, and Sara took they were back to the overseer’s sister.
The woman bustled about getting out cups, saucers, and a fat sugar bowl. Then, turning back to Sara, hands twisting in her apron and a stricken look on her long, plain face, she blurted, “Is it over and done yet? Is my boy hurt bad?”
The duel. “I wasn’t sure how much you knew. Jericho was just fine when I last saw him, right after breakfast yesterday. Ti—the other party had not yet arrived. Mr. Turbyfill had gone to find him, and I think Jericho was expecting them momentarily.”
“Hmph! Weren’t for that man, Miss Louisa wouldn’t by a-lying out there on the hill with her poor ma and papa and them other two young’uns that died o’ the flux before they was a year old.”
“Mr. Turbyfill?”
“Oh, he ain’t the one that put a babe in my little girl’s belly and then beat her so bad she laid right down and died, but if it weren’t for that rackety crowd that comes down to visit him, with their likker drinkin’ and their carryin’ on, my little girl never would’ve met up with that sweet-talkin’ hornswoggler.”
Titus. The wretched scoundrel. It was coming back to Sara now, all the disparaging remarks he had made about the various women he’d been courting, including one down here in Pasquotank County. She had thought at the time that any woman worth her salt would surely be able to see past his pretty face and false charm. Certainly, by the time they were of courting age, all her own friends had known him far too well to be taken in.
As for Rafe Turbyfill, she had only met the man briefly, but he hadn’t seemed all that bad. True, there was something rather rakish about him, but she had found him pleasant enough. Years older than Jericho, of course. And where Jericho was inclined to be sober to the point of grimness, Rafe Turbyfill was just the opposite. The devil was in his eyes, unless she was very much mistaken.
Behind her, Ivadelle Moyer cleared her throat, startling Sara so that she nearly dropped her teacup. In the harsh glare of the kitchen lamp, she didn’t look quite so young. “Yes? Is there something you wish? There’s fresh tea made . . .”
Ignoring Sara, Ivadelle addressed the housekeeper. “I can’t sleep in that back room. There’s drafts, and the stench of smoke makes my eyes burn.”
“Ma’am, I can’t help that. There’s not another room aired out, but I’ll set a bowl o’ vinegar on the washstand. It’ll help chase out the smell.”
“There’s plenty of empty rooms. Why can’t I move?”
Sara’s head swung back and forth, attending the battle of wills between the two women. For that was precisely what it was. “Miss Moyer could have—” she began, when Hester interrupted her.
“The other back room’s mine. Always was, ever since Miss Louisa was a babe in her cradle. Middle room belongs to her, and I ain’t about to move her things out. Your brother’s place is—”
“Is just that much closer to that wretched swamp! If I’d known about those everlasting fires, I never would have come here.”
Sara was about to retort that she’d been given to understand that it was bats in the loft that bothered her, when something in the woman’s face stopped her. For some people—and Sara should know, particularly given her own uncertain position—there was no going back. “I’ll swap places with you,” she said quietly. “The smoke doesn’t really bother me that much. I’ve had time to get used to it.”
She regretted the words almost as soon as they left her mouth, but by the time she heard Hester Renegar’s snort of disapproval and saw the flicker of triumph on Miss Moyer’s flawless features, it was too late. The overseer’s sister would soon be ensconced in one of the two bedrooms that, along with a dressing room and bathing room, made up the master suite. How long would it take her, once the master came home, to cross the threshold into his bedroom?
Sara was no innocent. She knew about such things as mistresses and kept women. She’d heard it whispered more than once that half the men in Norfolk County kept fancy women on the side, and their wives none the wiser.
Oh, she knew all about sex. After all, she herself had done it once and might be with child as a result. The thought of her husband messing around under the covers with another woman was enough to set her blood to boiling, yet there was something about Ivadelle that aroused her reluctant sympathy. Sara knew what it was like to be unwanted in her own home—to be alone, dependent on strangers. Women alone were sometimes forced to make the best of a bad situation, and if Ivadelle’s brother had only recently married, why then, his bride might not be too eager to share her home with a third party, even if she were family.
She would do her best to be patient. For a while, at least.
But her last waking thought that night was not of Ivadelle, but of Jericho. Where are you now? Headed out to sea? Lying wounded, unable to come home? Have you forgotten me already?
*
Hours later, Sara lay awake in the narrow room at the back of the house, listening to the night noises. Strange, how they could be so similar and at the same time, so different. All houses had a tendency to creak as night cooled the timbers. At home, she had fallen asleep to the hum of cicadas, the hoot of a barn owl, and the intermittent shrill of tree frogs from down near the branch.
At the hotel there had been the noise of the nightly carousal from the coarser element, as well as the constant din of traffic, both by road and canal.
Here, the night noises were both familiar and unfamiliar. The same creak of cooling wooden timbers. The call of a whippoorwill. But what was that clicking sound in the hallway outside her door? And the snuffling sound? If she were not of such a sensible turn of mind, she might even think there was a large animal loose in the house.
*
Sometime during the night it set in to rain. Not the driving rain that would quickly flood the creaks and as quickly be gone, but the dismal sort that seemed to hang on for days.
“I swear my head’s fit to bust right wide open,” Ivadelle muttered, coming in late for her breakfast. “If it’s not the everlasting smoke, it’s the rain. And I’m sure I heard that dog last night. Renegar! Did you let that dog in the house? I told you dog hair makes my eyes water.”
Hester Renegar had just brought in a fresh pot of coffee. She sat down at the table, and Sara passed her the rack of toast. Eyeing the housekeeper, Ivadelle snorted her disapproval. She didn’t voice it, but it was clear that she thought a servant had no place at the family table.
“He’s too old to stay out in the shed when it rains. Old bones don’t take kindly to wet weather.” Hester looked pointedly at the overseer’s sister, whose age Sara had underestimated the first time she’d seen her in her pale blue sateen with the black gimp trim.
In the harsh light of the kitchen, she’d looked older. In the gray daylight that spilled in through the tall dining room windows, she looked older still. She wore black. And while the gown was fashionable and her silvery pale hair was dressed to a fare-thee-well, with several dainty tendrils curling about her face, black drained the last hint of color from her pale complexion, showing up the faint furrows between her eyebrows and the drooping lines at the corners of her small mouth.
But oh, my, she was elegant. Like a painted white china figurine. Sara had once aspired to such elegance, but over the years she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never be fashionably pale. Along with her father’s light brown hair and eyes, she had inherited her mother’s golden olive skin. In the summertime, when she worked outside for all hours, she became all one color, which was most definitely not fashionable. Her hands were callused and her hair was too straight and too heavy to do more than twist into a coil and anchor the best way she could.
A beauty she was not. Oh, she might pinch her cheeks and splash herself with the scent Maulsie made for her from lemongrass and rose petals, but she had long ago come to terms with the fact that her true value as a woman lay in her frugality, her sensibility, and her willingness to work hard.
No, indeed, Sara told herself, she was not without value. She had always been of a cheerful nature. Somewhat inclined toward a quick temper, but she was working on that failing. A few years ago she had taken great pride in the fact that she could curl her tongue against her two little fingers and let loose a whistle shrill enough to break glass. And while it was not a particularly ladylike talent, it had once earned her a great deal of admiration among the neighborhood boys.
The three women ate silently. Outside, the rain continued to fall relentlessly, hiding all but the nearest of the pecan trees along the driveway. Sara heard the same clicking sound she had heard in the night and glanced around in time to see a big, shaggy red dog appear in the open doorway.
“Botheration!” said the housekeeper. “Set, Brig. I’ll let you out in a minute.”
The dog sat, and Sara thought, so this is Brig. He was not a friendly creature, according to Jericho. As if to underline that description, the animal curled his lip and growled.
Immediately, Sara recognized the sound. It hadn’t been a bear or a painter she’d heard, only poor Louisa’s dog guarding his mistress’s grave. She determined to make friends with the poor creature, but slowly. Trust couldn’t be won in a day. Meanwhile, she had enough sense not to make any sudden moves.
Not so Ivadelle. With another of her loud sniffs, she flung down her napkin and glared at the dog. “If someone doesn’t do something about that filthy animal, I’ll have Hiram take care of him! Decent people shouldn’t have to be exposed to the filthy parasites those creatures carry!”
Parasites? The dog looked clean enough to Sara, but then, what did she know about dogs? The only dog she had ever owned had been the poodle her father had given her the year before he’d died. Within a week, the poor pup had turned up missing. Days later, she had found his ears and his tail nailed to the wall of Titus’s tree house.
She had never said a word about it and neither had Titus, but she knew. What’s more, Titus had known that she knew.
She shuddered just as someone pounded on the front door. Brig glanced over his shoulder and then turned his small yellow eyes back to the three women seated around the oval mahogany table.
Ivadelle stared right back, but she looked frightened. Sara couldn’t much blame her. The dog must weigh well over a hundred pounds.
While Hester Renegar hurried away to answer the door, Sara gazed from Ivadelle to Brig, and was amazed to discover a very real similarity in expression between the furious woman and the massive red Chester duck dog. Either, it occurred to her, might make a formidable enemy.
Chapter Eleven
Rafael Turbyfill strode into the dining room, looking dark, dangerous, dissipated, and disheveled. With a small yelp, Sara rucked back her chair and raced around the table to grab him by his velvet lapels. “Tell me!” she demanded. “Is he—?”
“Jericho’s fine,” Rafe assured her. Gently removing her clutching fists, he patted her hands and then smoothed his wine-colored coat back into place. “Leastwise, not precisely fine, but I left him still among the living.”
Far from satisfied, Sara had to know every detail. “Where is he? When is he coming home? How badly is he hurt? Is a doctor with him?” And then, grabbing him by the lapels again, she cried, “Rafael, is he outside in your carriage? Oh, mercy, why didn’t you say so?”
She was halfway out the door when the words stopped her. “No, Sara, he’s still back at the hotel, in no condition to be moved. To answer your other questions, he was knifed in the back, but the blade was partly deflected by a bone. He lost a great deal of blood and he’s in considerable pain, but the physician, who was about half sober when he examined him, is of the opinion that he’ll likely heal without too much permanent damage, long’s he don’t take a fever and die first.”
Sara moaned. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to think of all that needed doing before she could go to her husband. If she had been in any doubt as to her feelings—and she had, for the very last thing she’d ever expected to do was develop tender feelings toward a perfect stranger—it took only the thought of losing him to bring home the truth.
