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“Ghosts live in our house,” Emeline says, pausing from her ministrations to look up at Mr. Barrett with solemn eyes. “The whole place is full of ghosts. And goblins. You can’t throw a rock but hit a ghost there.”
“Emeline! He never said that.” I give Mr. Barrett an apologetic look. “She likes to embroider the truth.” Emeline starts to protest but I hush her.
But he hardly hears me anyway, and I dare not say anything else. He stands awkwardly in the silence, taking out a soaked handkerchief from his pocket and then putting it back in again. He runs a hand through his thick hair, shaking out some of the lingering wetness. It’s the same color as the golden fields of shimmering hay, which we passed yesterday on our journey.
“Well, I must go, but you’re welcome to stay and dry off as long as you need. Good day.”
“Wait!” Mr. Barrett stops at my cry, looking at me expectantly. “Your cravat,” I say, raising my bandaged hand as if he would possibly want it back, dirty and bloody as it is now.
He opens his mouth, hesitates and then says shortly, “Keep it.” He gives a brief dip of the head, and then he’s gone.
Catherine and I sit in stunned silence. “John Barrett,” she murmurs. “Why wouldn’t Father have mentioned bringing his family to New Oldbury?”
Why indeed? Father was never much for home life, and that was before the scandal. Now he probably wishes he weren’t burdened with us. No, what’s stranger to me is that Mr. Barrett should look so troubled at our arrival. It would be one thing if it had to do with the scandal, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s not that. He was surprised to learn that our father had a family at all, and that he brought us here. If he had already known about us, then it would follow that he knew about the scandal.
“Well,” says Catherine standing and briskly shaking out her damp skirts, “I can’t believe Father could be so shortsighted. He might have mentioned that his new business partner was young. And handsome.”
I roll my eyes, and the little chill that had settled in my spine dissipates. The sun is inexplicably burning through the clouds, and the air is heavy with humidity. Steam rises from the road and the prospect of walking back in the stickiness is even more daunting than walking back in the rain. Despite that, there’s a nagging tug in my chest, a rough edge that won’t be smoothed down.
5
CATHERINE BOLTS UPSTAIRSto change, and I send Emeline up after her. I hardly care that my dress is torn, that my hand needs to be cleaned; I’m still back at the old mill, lost in the unsettling gaze of Mr. Barrett. I wander through the house, over the wood floors gleaming amber in the afternoon sun, the oriental carpets still crisp in color and soft beneath my feet. Everything is new and expectant, waiting for memories to be made, for stories to be layered down like dust.
When I come to the back hall, I find Mother on hands and knees, a soapy bucket of water beside her. She’s scrubbing the tiles over and over in vicious circles. “Snip had a romp through the house with muddy paws,” she says without looking up.
“Ada will get it.” I help her to her feet. There isn’t a trace of mud remaining, but she casts a remorseful look at the white tiles. Her hands are raw.
I install her in the parlor and fetch her workbasket and she finally notices my dress and hand. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick when Joe was gone so long with the carriage.”
Catherine breezes into the room, Emeline behind her, just as I’m explaining our misadventure in town and chance meeting with John Barrett.
“Mother,” I say slowly, not quite sure what I’m asking, “do you know any reason why Father’s new business partner should be unhappy to learn that he had a family, or that he had brought us here?”
“Unhappy?” Mother echoes the question, picking up her embroidery. “What makes you say that?”
“We really must invite Mr. Barrett over for dinner,” Catherine cuts in, throwing herself down on the yellow-and-pink settee. “Especially if he and Father are business partners.”
Mother watches her with wary eyes over the rim of her embroidery hoop, stabbing the needle through the linen.
“I like him. He helped bring back Snip,” Emeline adds solemnly.
I hold my breath, waiting for Mother’s answer. We used to entertain all the time in Boston. That was one of the hardest parts of the scandal, the way everyone stopped coming around. Cyrus was the last of them. I try not to think about that awful meeting with the man who would have been my husband in the front parlor of our trim brick house. The way time stood still despite the persistent ticking of the clock, him standing not more than a few feet in front of me, but separated by miles. The way he raked his fingers through his dark curls and couldn’t meet my eye. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said. “You know that I am. But you have to see it from my perspective, from my family’s.” All the blood rushing up to my head, my knees weak and insides hollow. “I... I wish you the best.” And then he was gone, the coward, striding out the door without so much as a backward glance. Good riddance.
“Well, yes, I suppose Mr. Barrett must come over for dinner,” Mother says.
Something like relief washes over Catherine, and I can’t figure her out. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she should have an eye for Mr. Barrett; after all, it would be a good sign for our family if she were to become interested in someone. And her inner character notwithstanding, she’s beautiful. The man would be a fool not to notice her.
It’s agreed that an invitation will be sent out to Mr. Barrett for next week, and Mother sends for Joe to deliver it. Just as Joe is leaving, Catherine takes something from her pocket and slips it into his hand with a finger to her lips. Mother is bent over her embroidery, and Emeline is busy giving Snip a stern lecture on running away. It all happens in the space of a second, and then Catherine demurely folds her hands, smiling out the window at nothing in particular.
* * *
It’s a rare evening that Father joins us for dinner, but since we’re entertaining his business partner he’s made an exception from taking his meal in his office. In Boston we all dined together, but that was when Charles was still there, and we women outnumbered the men only four to two. Now that Charles is gone, Father doesn’t find much to draw him to our table anymore, preferring to lose himself in the safety of his ledgers where everything adds up in tidy little columns.
Ada has already helped Emeline dress, leaving Catherine and me alone to finish our toilettes together.
“Move over, Lydia. You’ve been fussing with your hair for almost an hour and I need the mirror.”
I scooch the little stool over so Catherine can lean down to see herself. “What’s gotten into you anyway? You never do anything with your hair besides the same old drab bun.”