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He doesn’t answer me, just launches into an intense fit of coughing. Blood and soot come up, which he spits on the ground. I flinch. Then he turns a terrible grin on me. “You should go away from here and leave John alone. You should go away and never come back.”
“Why, Moses?” My voice is steady and even, but my heart is pounding against my ribs.
He laughs again. “Ask John. Ask John what he did and then you’ll see.”
Before I can ask him what he means, he’s gone. He disappears in the time it takes me to blink. I stand there for another moment, the air around me heavy in its stillness.
I sprint the rest of the way to the pond, tripping once and clutching the bundle tighter, scraping my palms against an outcropping rock as I brace my fall. Ignoring the stinging, I hang on and keep going. I don’t look back until I reach the clearing, my breath coming in painfully shallow gulps. Moses is nowhere to be seen, and again I almost wonder if it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me, a product of my overburdened mind. I never seem to sleep soundly anymore so it wouldn’t be any wonder. But by now I know that it’s not my imagination, that nothing that has happened to me at Willow Hall has been my imagination. The sooty boy with blistered burns and lidless eyes was as real as what I carry under my arm.
The pond is visible only by the smallest reflection of clouds on the glassy surface. Before I go any farther I poke around in the dark, and my hand closes around a small rock, then another. I plunge them into the silk folds of the bundle, praying that my hand doesn’t touch what lies within.
One thing, I tell myself. I just have to do this one thing and then this nightmare will be over. Mr. Barrett will come on Friday and Catherine won’t have reason to interfere anymore. It will all be over.
I take a deep breath and wade out into the blackness, the icy water nipping my ankles but somehow making me warm. There’s no siren call from the willow this time, no Moses watching me, and when the water reaches my knees, I stop. The air is so thin, so devoid of life that you could hear a lone bird sigh a hundred miles away.
Carefully, I take the bundle out from under my arm and, closing my eyes, toss it out in front of me. The splash echoes off the trees and rocks, the blanket of clouds. When I open my eyes, only the faintest ripple on the inky black surface betrays that the water has accepted its offering.
Tuesday
By some miracle Catherine is already awake the next morning when I stagger downstairs to breakfast. Her face is drawn, her eyes vacant. Her dressing gown hangs limply from her shoulders, and with dawning horror I realize that she’s still wearing her shift from yesterday under it, blood specks visible around the hem when she leans for the teapot.
I glance at Mother and Father to see if they notice, but Mother is listlessly studying the enamel grapevine border on her plate while she pushes her creamed wheat around with her spoon. Father is buried in his paper, blindly groping for his plate from behind it. If ever there was a day when I wish I could slip into the panoramic wallpaper and its world of gentle sloping banks, carefree ladies in rowboats and picnicking children, it’s this morning.
“Look here,” Father says without emerging from his newspaper fortress, “the Boston Manufacturing Company is buying up more land in the Merrimack Valley, and they’re paying out dividends of over 27 percent to the investors. Twenty-seven!”
No one responds, and he goes on muttering to himself, exclaiming that he’ll have to watch those slick Lowell city men in the future.
Mother catches my eye. “You look pale, Lydia. Did you sleep poorly?”
“Do I?” I make a bright show of smiling and taking an extra helping of bacon. It doesn’t help that the crisp meat reminds me of Moses and his burned face. I force myself to swallow a tiny piece and almost gag.
“Catherine, your color is low too. There’s a fever going round the town, widow Morton has it too. I wonder if I shouldn’t call the doctor.”
Catherine’s head snaps up and we both exclaim in unison, “No!”
“Really, we’re fine,” I hurry to reassure Mother. “Just a touch of a sore throat from our walk yesterday. Catherine was saying she had one too, weren’t you, Cath?”
Catherine raises her gaze slowly to mine, and I give her a weary smile. If nothing else we’re in this together now.
But instead of understanding, or a silent look of thanks, her eyes meet mine with a malice so intense that my blood instantly goes cold.
I silently mouth “What?” but Catherine turns her nose up and looks away.
Mother sighs. “I hope it’s not catching. I’ve been feeling rather tired lately.”
Father finds her hand from behind his paper and gives it a pat. “You really ought to rest, my dear. No more of this calling on sick widows, it isn’t good for your constitution. Why don’t you go have a nice lie-down?”
Mother opens her mouth as if to say something, but closes it and nods. “Yes,” she says, pushing her chair back. “Perhaps that’s a good idea. Excuse me.”
“I’ll bring you up a cup of tea soon,” I tell her, thinking of the mint I harvested and how that might be a nice addition to a hot drink. She gives me a thin smile before disappearing to her room.
Catherine glares at me from across the table. “You and your tea.”
“What?”
She flickers a glance to Father who’s still absorbed in land deals and dividends, then scrapes her chair back and stands. Her arms are wobbly and she has to brace her weight against the table. “Don’t play stupid with me, Lydia,” she hisses.
“What are you talking about?”