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“Let me get that for you, miss,” Joe says coming up behind me.
I stand there stupidly, staring as he whisks the bolt away into the carriage before it can stain.
How can Catherine be so careless with her reputation after all that we’ve been through? A fresh wave of anger washes through me and I give the wooden hitching post a good kick, and then another and another.
“Miss Montrose? I thought that was you! Heavens, what are you doing to that post?”
I take a deep breath before turning around, sending up a silent prayer for strength.
“Mrs. Tidewell,” I say, mustering a polite smile. “How lovely to see you.”
She gives me a lingering glance of concern. The daughter—whose name I can’t remember—is hanging shyly behind her, looking, if I’m not mistaken, a little relieved not to be the object of her mother’s attention for once.
“Well, Abigail and I were just taking some air and I thought I saw you and your sister, but I wasn’t sure because a young man was blocking my view. I said to Abigail, ‘Why, that must be the Montrose girls,’ and then of course she said that it was and I knew that we must come over and say hello and thank you for the lovely dance at Willow Hall last month. And of course to pass along our deepest condolences on your family’s loss. Didn’t I say that, Abigail?”
Abigail opens her mouth to reply, but Mrs. Tidewell is already turning back to me and giving me a detailed account of all the minutiae of her daily existence from the past few weeks.
The last time I saw her in our ballroom I had the general impression that she was a woman of means, but in the daylight the jewels jammed onto her stubby fingers and hanging from her ears are a dull, cloudy paste, and some of the gold plate has worn off, exposing the metal underneath. Her cheek rouge is applied too heavily, giving the appearance of two red apples bobbing up and down every time she laughs. The lace at the cuffs of her emerald green dress is yellowing, and even as she goes on about how accomplished her Abby is with a needle and thread, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her.
She catches my eyes taking in these details and quickly says, “The weather took such a sharp change the last few days, didn’t it? It’s all I can do to pull out last winter’s clothes until I can have something new made up.”
This must remind her of why they’re here in the first place, because she acknowledges her daughter again by saying, “Abby, go in and ask Mr. Anderson about a wool delivery.”
Abigail hesitates, darting her glance between Mrs. Tidewell and me before saying, “But Mamma, remember last time we were here Mr. Anderson said we had to pay the last sugar bill before we placed any more orders.”
I feel rather than see Mrs. Tidewell stiffening, heat rising to her cheeks. She turns back to me, forcing a light laugh. “Tradesmen are always so eager to shake you down for one more penny, when they know quite well that all the best sort of people live off credit.” She gives a disdainful sniff. “It’s vulgar really. When my husband was alive Mr. Anderson wouldn’t dream of harassing me for money, but I suppose a widow makes for easy pickings.”
I can’t help but feel bad for her, and give her an encouraging smile. “What was it that your husband did?”
Her eyes briefly flash with gratitude before resuming their usual haughty squint, and she settles into her favorite subject of herself again.
“Mr. Tidewell? He was a cooper by trade, but made a fair bit of money on cattle.” She gives a little sigh as if to say that if Mr. Tidewell were considerate he might have done a good deal better before dying. “I might not be so grand as some of the ladies in Boston, but I can hold my head high knowing that my daughters have immaculate reputations and will make good matches.”
I let her meaning go by without fight, and Mrs. Tidewell for her part seems content to ramble on about the shortcomings of all the other citizens of New Oldbury.
My head snaps up and I stop her midsentence. “What did you say?”
She looks a little taken aback. “Mrs. Barrett. I said she was the only other lady in New Oldbury that was really of any quality.”
I take a dry swallow. “Mrs. Barrett? John Barrett is a...widower?”
She laughs, an unpleasant sort of gurgling sound. “Mercy! Mr. Barrett a widower! No, his mother, God rest her soul. Very kind lady, she was, though with such a cold air about her. She often would send a basket round to our house when I was nursing the girls. Of course, these days I would never accept that kind of charity,” she hastily adds. “We keep our own cook now, though of course her mutton is so dry that Abby has too—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “But...Mrs. Barrett. When did she die? Was Mr. Barrett very young?”
I suppose it’s all the same to Mrs. Tidewell whether she talks of the personal lives of her neighbors or her cook’s shortcomings. She transitions easily back to the former, positively glowing that someone has recognized in her the mark of an expert.
“Well now, let’s see. The fire was in what, ’02? ’03? No, that can’t be right. Ginny was colicky that winter, which means that it couldn’t have been more than—”
“Mrs. Tidewell,” I say trying not to let my irritation creep into my voice. “What fire?”
She looks at me as if I just asked in what country we’re standing. “Why, the old house. Surely you knew that your property used to belong to the Barretts?”
“Well, yes.” That day at the pond Mr. Barrett said something about that. “But what do you mean, the old house?”
Linking her arm in mine like we’re old friends, she begins walking toward the green where stone benches are arranged around a plaque commemorating the town’s first settlers.
“The first Barrett house used to stand right where yours does now,” she says, vaguely gesturing to the road that leads to our house. “But after the fire Mr. Barrett—that is, the senior Mr. Barrett—had a new house constructed on the other side of their property. That’s the house that stands there today. Just as well, if you ask me. The old thing was a shabby little affair. Not nearly as grand as Willow Hall,” she reluctantly concedes with a sniff.