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Father is the first to speak. He clears his throat and glances around. “Must be the wind,” he mumbles. “You think you have a house built new and it wouldn’t be full of drafts and loose doors, but I suppose there’s no such thing as peace of mind in New England construction.”
Mother is quick to agree with him, and Mr. Pierce gives a dubious nod. But we all know that there was no breeze, that it’s been so still that a feather would have hardly quivered, let alone two doors slamming. No one wants to say so though at the risk of frightening Emeline.
Then, without warning, Mr. Barrett goes to Emeline and, dropping to his knee, puts his hands on her shoulders. He peers at her curiously, and when he speaks, it’s slow and gentle, so soft that I have to strain to hear him. “Your mother’s right, Miss Montrose. It’s late and I’m sure that it’s almost my bedtime as well. But perhaps you’ll be so kind to invite August and myself back soon, and then we could have the pleasure of being escorted around the grounds by yourself. And your sisters,” he adds, glancing at me. His blue-green eyes still hold a note of sadness, but there’s no trace of anger or bitterness. With Emeline’s outburst, my blunder must have been forgotten, or at the very least, forgiven.
I catch my breath. Emeline looks unsure, her bottom lip trembling. But ultimately she nods, even going so far as to brush his cheek with a kiss. He gives her a faint smile in return before standing and passing her off to Mother, who ushers her out of the parlor to Ada.
Despite Father’s assurance that it must have been the breeze, an uncomfortable pall hangs over the rest of the evening. There are a few false starts in conversation as we struggle to fill the void, but it’s eventually Father, who has looked exceedingly uncomfortable throughout this whole exchange, who picks up the conversation with Mr. Barrett again as if nothing happened. He has found a great friend in Mr. Barrett, who can rattle off figures and calculate the profit in a spool of wool or a cord of lumber just as easily as he. They’re engrossed in a debate about the merits of some new kind of waterwheel, so neither notices the very friendlytête-à-têtethat has resumed in the corner.
The lamplight illuminates Catherine’s hair, giving her something of a halo. She’s laughing behind her hand, eyes sparkling. She hangs on Mr. Pierce’s every word as if he’s the most interesting person she’s ever met. I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s Mr. Barrett or Mr. Pierce that’s paying her attention, so long as someone is.
And August Pierce is very handsome, I’ll give Catherine that. He must know he is too, judging by the way he’s always smiling, almost smirking, at nothing in particular. I doubt he takes anything very seriously in life, including himself.
I’m not the only one watching Catherine. Mother is feigning interest in her syllabub, pushing it around with her spoon, but I see her studying her eldest daughter. Why doesn’t she say something? Catherine’s behavior is bordering on the improper, and the last thing we need is more fuel for rumors and gossip. But then Mother catches my eye. I’ve never seen that expression on her before, one of trepidation, cautious optimism and, most of all, relief. Then it dawns on me: Mother thinks that perhaps Catherine might be married after all.
And if Catherine could be married, then I could as well.
6
IT MIGHT BEthe heat, or that I can’t get the image of Mr. Barrett’s sad eyes gazing at me unstuck from my head, but I can’t sleep that night. When I can’t stand the scratchy feel of my eyelids anymore or the sheets sticking to the backs of my thighs, I get up from bed and pour myself a glass of water from the ewer in the corner. Opening the window, I slowly drink my water, hoping for a scrap of a breeze blowing in from the yard. But the night is still and unyielding.
I’m just about to turn from the window and go back to bed, when a movement in the yard below catches the corner of my eye.
At first it looks like a bird taking wing into the night, a pale splash of movement. But when I look harder I see that’s not a bird, but a person. A woman. I’m still drowsy, so it doesn’t seem so ridiculous that perhaps it’s Ada out in the garden, though doing what I can’t imagine. But then the clock in the hall strikes three. What on earth would she be doing out there at this time of the morning?
I put down my glass and press myself against the edge of the window frame, peering out from the side so that I can’t be seen from below. Maybe it’s a vagrant, hungry and in search of food. But the garden is barren, and they’ll find no food there. Or perhaps it’s someone with more sinister motives, here to rob us.
But the woman seems no more interested in the house than the contents of the garden. She’s wearing a billowy, pale dress, which floats about her as she slowly moves one way, then turns and moves the next. Up and down the length of the garden she goes, but every time she turns, it’s with her face away from me so that I can’t tell if she’s young or old, a stranger or someone I might know.
The longer I study her, standing there with a hand curled around the windowsill, the more something doesn’t seem right about the way she’s moving. It takes me a few more moments to place it, and when I do, I catch my breath.
She’s gliding.
She moves as if she were walking on air. It’s not a natural movement, and my skin prickles. The shopkeeper’s sensational warning about ghosts suddenly doesn’t seem so silly or impossible.
I watch her another few moments, holding my breath. That’s all she does, glides back and forth, back and forth, the pale silk of her dress billowing out behind her despite the lack of breeze.
My legs are jelly and my heart pounding, but I won’t be able to go back to bed and sleep a wink so long as I know she’s out there. I have to go out and set my mind at ease.
Silently, I tiptoe through the house and to the back door. I take a deep breath before pushing the door open. Tentatively, I step outside and peer into the thick night air.
There’s nothing there. The garden, just visible in the moonlight, with its thirsty shrubs and prickly flower stalks sits benignly in the yard, returning my vacant stare in equal measure. But there’s no woman.
My knees go weak with relief and I have to brace myself against the door. I could laugh. It was someone snooping about, and they heard me coming and fled. In the morning I’ll have to let Joe know that we might need a guard dog, or at the very least, a fence. I go back upstairs, climb into my bed and, with a body made weary with relief, drift off to sleep.
* * *
I don’t know who’s more excited to hear Mr. Barrett’s light knock at the door the next day. Snip howls in delight and skids through the hall, circling Ada’s heels as she tries to open the door, Emeline trotting close behind with her half-braided hair falling out of its ribbon.
Catherine lays aside the limp roses and lilies she’s been arranging and passes a light hand over her curls. Sitting up a little straighter, I put my book down. I wish Mother had asked me to do the flowers. I always make a mess of them, but at least it would be me looking flushed and pretty when Mr. Barrett is shown in, a white rose stem in my hand. As it is, I’m bone tired from my bad dream last night. Because that’s what it was, I’ve decided—a dream. Somewhere in that hazy margin between sleep and wakefulness, I must have thought I saw something. In the light of day and now that Mr. Barrett is here, it all seems faraway and unimportant.
He’s not hugely tall, but when Mr. Barrett walks in it feels as if the walls and ceiling fall away around him. He fills the room with his quiet force, as electrifying and still as the moment before a storm breaks. Even Snip feels it, for he stops his nervous circling and sits patiently beside Mr. Barrett’s leg, looking up and waiting to be petted.
Emeline is already prattling on about the pond and mermaids and even faeries, which are a new interest. He nods down at her politely, not saying anything.
“Emeline, for goodness sake, take a breath. Didn’t Mother ask you to help her with the blackberries in the kitchen?”
This morning I had wanted to talk to Emeline about her tantrum the night before with the slamming doors, but when it came down to it I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to say. So I settled with, “Emeline, have you been feeling quite all right lately? You like it here?”