CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The shouts of children playing drifted up from the playground as Alice made her way to the mill bridge—a careless, exuberant mix of voices that spoke of normalcy and safety, which she usually enjoyed hearing. But they were only faint background noise this evening.

She saw Samuel first. His form was in shadow as he paced back and forth in front of the bridge, hands clasped behind his back. His steps were quick and short, the walk of an impatient man.

It had been so long since they were alone. She felt her breath quicken as they approached each other.

“Hello, Alice,” he said.

The pause that followed was awkward.

“Something bad has happened?” she asked.

“No, on the contrary.” Samuel straightened his back. He must keep this calm. He could not think about more until after this trial.

“I was afraid you would tell me we were losing.” She stopped, watching his eyes shift away slightly, then come back. Something was wrong; there was reason for worry. Why had Albert Greene seemed to give up today? The evidence putting Avery near the crime scene was strong. Wasn’t it enough to convince the jury?

“There are new facts emerging,” Samuel said.

His voice was curiously flat for a man conveying good news. “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked.

“My brother is the missing witness,” Samuel said heavily. He nodded toward a bench by the rushing river. “Sit down, Alice.”

Alice was unaware of holding her breath as she listened, only of the stinging waves of pain radiating up her arms from her tightly clutched hands. She anchored herself on Samuel’s face, noting the stubble on his usually well-shaven chin as he spoke. He held her gaze, never flinching as he told the story.

The always restless Jonathan had been heading for a tavern on the path toward the Durfee farm the day of the murder, when he spied Lovey. Abandoning his original plan, he had approached her and begun trying to coax her into joining him for the evening. But he was greeted with no ready smile, no flirting or teasing. She seemed tense, oddly controlled. “You’re meeting someone else,” he had said, the truth dawning. She nodded, then looked past him and asked him to leave.

At that point, Samuel said, Jonathan saw a tall, thin man wearing green eyeglasses striding toward them, a wary, hostile expression on his face. He almost didn’t hear Lovey’s wry comment: “So the Reverend Avery shows up on time today.”

“What did your brother do?”

“Turned on his heel and got out of there,” Samuel said. “The last thing he wanted was an encounter with some pious fool who might see fit to denounce him to Father.”

“He saw them together? Why hasn’t he come forward to testify?”

“He thought no one would believe him,” Samuel answered. He heard his own voice, watched the impact of his words reflected in her eyes. Could she see it from Jonathan’s point of view? “He wasn’t brave, Alice. Father had already warned him to stay away from the mill girls—told him if he didn’t, if he got into any more trouble, he would cut off his monthly stipend. But he kept pursuing Lovey. He wasn’t wrong about one thing—it would be easy for the revivalists to accuse him of murder. They would celebrate that, oh, quite jubilantly. Anything to taint our family with scandal.”

Alice barely heard him. “He would do that? He would let Avery get away with murder?” She was stunned. All along, through all this pain and grief, it was Samuel’s brother who could have convicted Avery? She stood, unable to sit still. “Greene gave up today. What now?”

Samuel didn’t know why Greene had rested his case, but he hesitated to admit it.

“The trial is far from over,” he said. “We have solid evidence of Avery’s guilt. Don’t discount the fact that Greene always has a backup plan. He knows how to play a jury. And now he has Jonathan as his star rebuttal witness. It will work.” He stood, too, reaching out, then stopping, not sure whether she would welcome his touch. “I want to assure you, Jonathan will testify.” It had taken long hours of persuasion, but it was done.

“And how did you get that promise from him?”

“He gave me his word.”

There was a tightening at the side of Alice’s mouth that he couldn’t fail to notice.

“Are you sure you believe his version of events? There are other stories going around.”

“You’re asking whether or not he could be lying to cover his own guilt.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I know him, Alice—he is my brother. I’ve known him all his life. He is shallow and, yes, vain, but he is no murderer.” For once, Samuel felt he had said the right words to strengthen his brother’s backbone. Jonathan would face his dilemma, finally, like a man. He had mustered the strength to promise he would testify, regardless of the consequences.

“Alice, believe me. He’s not lying. He’s scared to death, but he isn’t lying.”

Relief flooded through her. Still, it nagged; Jonathan had not come forward voluntarily. “What would you have done in his place?” she asked.

“I would be afraid. But I hope I would have the courage to step forward. Look, I promise, we’ll get this done. But we shouldn’t talk about it, not yet. Not until the defense rests its case.”

The conviction in his voice was calming. “You will do the best you can to make it happen,” she managed.

“Yes,” he said, his voice steady. But he couldn’t stop there. “Though nothing is certain except my feelings for you.”

He had shifted the terrain, just like that.

Samuel reached out for her, pulling her gently toward him, inhaling the sweet scent of lemons on her breath. She yielded, resting her head against his chest, and he hoped she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. She lifted her face to his, and his nerves relaxed. It would be all right; she believed him.

Still, he asked, “Do you trust me, Alice?”

“Yes,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Samuel, I do—but anything more for us is an impossibility, and we both know that.” With an effort, she stepped back. “I need time to think,” she said.

A jolt of alarm. “Am I not promising what you want?”

She smiled faintly, her voice slightly strained. “I want the man who killed my friend to spend the rest of his life in prison,” she said. “Please make it happen.”

“I will.” It was a vow like none other he had ever made. He pulled her back—one more kiss, deeper this time. And for a long, hungry moment, holding tight, they clung to each other, shielded from care.

Then together, they trudged back up the hill, silent, noting only the sound of crunching gravel under their feet.

Tilda, bundled up, was sitting in a rocker on the porch at Boott Hall when Alice arrived back at the boardinghouse. She looked as tiny as a doll, her chin barely above the cocoon of blankets. Her face was gaunt after all the long nights of labored breathing. There had been less coughing lately, though, a good sign. She had seemed more engaged in the last few days, joking and laughing, playing with Ellie. The doctor had even said she might be able to go back to the looms in another week.

“Tilda, you look like an Eskimo,” Alice teased as she ascended the porch stairs. “Are you warm enough?”

“Of course, I am, I’m bundled up to my eyeballs,” Tilda said. She pointed upward with a hand grown scrawny from her weight loss. “It’s such a gorgeous night, look at all the stars, Alice. How could I stay inside on a night like this? Will you join me?”

Alice sat on the porch rail this time, gazing upward. “I used to sit out here with Lovey every night,” she said.

“I know. I was a little jealous of you both.”

“Really?”

“You seemed so comfortable with each other.” Tilda looked again at the sky. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to fly up there and visit a star? Buzz from one to another like a bee gathering pollen?”

“I love that,” Alice said. “And then we could visit the man and the woman kissing on the moon.”

“You seem happy tonight. Am I guessing correctly as to why?” Tilda said quietly.

She couldn’t share the news yet about Jonathan, not until there was a plan to get his testimony before the court. But that wasn’t what Tilda was asking about. Alice felt herself blush. “Is it that obvious?” she said.

“I think we’ve all seen it. Perhaps even sooner than you did.”

Alice straightened, bringing her gaze back to earth. “It’s true,” she said. “I think about him every day. But there is so wide a gap between us. And with all of what is happening at the mill—” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“You’re fearing disloyalty, Alice. It’s not disloyal to reach for a better life. Do you love him?”

Did she? Oh, it cried out from inside of her: yes.

“I don’t know—I am overwhelmed.” Her words were false; no, they were true. It was hopeless, they were both. How strange to be talking about this with Tilda; she had shared her feelings only with Lovey before.

“Don’t be a coward,” Tilda said. “Take chances. We all have to do that, once in a while.”

There was a sharpness in her voice that surprised Alice. “You are feeling better, aren’t you, Tilda? You’ve been improving, the doctor says. Is it true?” she asked.

Tilda laughed. “You all keep asking that question in various polite ways, and I love you for caring, but I will not answer too politely. I feel closer to those stars tonight than I do to the friends sleeping inside this house, and that’s why I am out here. But that’s just tonight.”

“Should you be going home?” Alice tried to say it gently.

“There is no home to go to. Isn’t that the situation for you, too?”

It was true. She would never go back to the farm, to her father, to his determination to break her will. “Home” was a sentimental idea, no less ephemeral than those stars above her head; she knew that.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“So we need to find new ones.” Tilda pulled her shawl closer and began rocking gently back and forth. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Let us both get going on that.” She sighed. “I love it out here.”

“It’s chilly, let’s go inside.”

“The doctor said if I was bundled well, I could stay out here longer. I love being under the stars.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Alice smiled in the dark. Like most of the girls, Tilda would have it her own way. There was pride in that for all of them.

Samuel walked into the parlor of the family hotel suite and froze at what he saw. Every gas lamp was lit, sending restless shadows licking up against the walls; the room shimmered in heat and sweat. Jonathan was crumpled into a chair, face buried in his hands, not looking up. His waistcoat, the fine silk one of which he was so proud, lay in a lump under his feet. Daisy had shrunk into a corner, staring at their father with frightened eyes.

Hiram, still powerful in frame, towered over his younger son, whirling toward Samuel like a striking snake at the sound of the door opening. He raised his fist, a gesture Samuel had never seen directed at him.

“So there you are, you ungrateful scoundrel—my son? My son has done this?”

“Father—”

“How dare you? You had no right to wrench that useless promise from your brother. How dare you risk everything because of your infatuation with some mill girl? How dare you jeopardize this family’s future? By sacrificing your brother? Who are you?”

Samuel had to steel himself against stepping backward, away from his father’s wrath. He shot a glance at Jonathan. His brother looked like a boy again, his face ashen as he stared at a stack of documents on the table.

Samuel followed his brother’s gaze. On top of the stack was an unfamiliar deposition. It couldn’t be one of the prosecution witnesses; he knew all their names, and he didn’t recognize this one.

“I’ll set your curiosity to rest,” his father said, picking up the deposition and waving it in Samuel’s face. “This is the statement of some chicken farmer near Cooper Island, name of Turnbull, the result of some overzealous witness hunting by our friend Greene. Fortunately I put a stop to it.” He thrust the paper into Samuel’s hands.

Samuel stared at the page: Charles Turnbull had seen two men with a young woman on the path leading to Durfee’s farm on the day of the murder. One matched the repeated descriptions of the Reverend Avery. The other man had stayed but a moment with the girl and Avery and then quickly walked away. Mr. Turnbull was ready to swear that the man who walked away—often seen at neighborhood taverns—was Jonathan Fiske.

It was exactly what Jonathan had told him. “This is just what we need; it strengthens Jonathan’s story,” Samuel exclaimed, looking up in confusion. “Why wasn’t he called to testify? He’s a perfect backup witness; he’s been there all the time. Jonathan, we have an agreement—”

“Like hell you do,” his father cut in. “If Jonathan testifies, he will be vulnerable to everybody—the newspapers, the mill workers eager for an excuse to attack us, and every damn Methodist in New England. And if they go after him, they do it to the whole family. Are you out of your mind?”

“But Jonathan’s testimony is crucial,” Samuel shot back.

Hiram slammed his fist onto a table next to him so violently it seemed it might break in two. None of his children had ever seen him so angry. “My own son would do this,” he roared, shaking his head.

Samuel looked at his brother, the whole truth dawning. “When did you tell him?” he asked.

“This morning. Samuel, I’m sorry. I had every intention—” Jonathan stopped talking, an image of dejection.

“So that’s why Greene wrapped up the prosecution today,” Samuel said, stunned, looking now at his father. “You told him to.”

Hiram had regained some of his composure. His eyes narrowed; he didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said. “And I will make sure the defense gets no wind of this. Rumors will be squelched; the people mumbling them will be fired or run out of town. Those ignorant preachers will do anything to shift the blame to someone else. We are not going to be smeared by this, Samuel. No matter what.”

“And Greene did your bidding—even if it might mean he loses his case?”

Hiram’s smile was controlled. “Of course,” he repeated. “He may still win. But there’s more to his career than convicting this pathetic excuse of a preacher for the murder of a mill girl.”

The words sank in, leaving indelible tracks as Samuel stared at his father. Hiram’s skin burned with blotchy color, and his eyes were flat as slate. He would have his way, and none would challenge him. Samuel had always been proud of his father’s force and determination. This was the deeper level, served bald.

He had no excuse to be surprised. Without Hiram’s iron control, there would have been no comfortable, privileged life for any of them, no travel, no expensive schools, no servants, no shield against loss and poverty. Oh, something magnificent had been built, quite assuredly. Hiram and his partners had made it possible for people like Alice and her friends to carve out better lives for themselves. Samuel was proud of this, he was still proud of it, but it was going to end. He could see it now. His father thought power was his trump card. He could make men bend to his will, he could threaten ruin for those who didn’t, he could silence Jonathan, he could let Avery escape the law. But he couldn’t stop the shifting ground under the surface, nor the unrest of faceless people at the mill.

“You can’t squelch everything,” he said to his father. “It’s wrong.”

“Just watch me, Samuel.”

“You can’t hold back evidence,” Samuel said. “I’m going to Greene—”

“He does my bidding, and you know it.”

“I’m going to fight you; I don’t know how. But I will.”

“Foolish words. You’ll harm yourself, son.”

“Maybe. But no matter what happens, the blade will cut both ways,” Samuel said.

Dawn was breaking when Alice’s eyes flew open. She turned onto her back, pulled up the covers, and tried to court sleep, but it would not come. She wouldn’t be hurrying to the courthouse this morning, not until Monday. She stretched her toes, enjoying the moment of lazy luxury. She wasn’t sure how it would work, but she felt more hopeful that Samuel would seal the case against Avery. That strange, cruel man would not escape. She yawned and turned again. Perhaps she and the others could go into town today, walk together, visit the store. Maybe they could coax Tilda to go with them.

Tilda.

Alice sat bolt upright. The incessant wheezing from Tilda’s bed had stopped.

She jumped up, shoving her feet into her shoes, which felt cold from the night air. She scanned the room; Tilda’s bed was empty, neatly made, obviously not slept in last night.

Well, of course, she had been so content on the porch; she had probably stayed there all night. Alice pulled on a sweater and, stumbling in her haste, hurried out of the room, through the parlor to the porch. She was there, there she was, bundled tight into her circle of blankets, only tousled hair showing. Really, she should wear a cap, she might catch cold, but she was still asleep, what a relief.

“Tilda?” Don’t yell; she’ll jump, Alice told herself.

No response.

“Tilda?” A second time. She tiptoed forward, a tingle of fear moving down her spine. She reached out her hand. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said.

Nothing. Alice, wondering now if she had slipped back into a dream, carefully pulled back the blanket covering Tilda’s face. She must be deeply asleep.

No.

Alice sank to her knees next to the rocker and began to sway slowly back and forth. She was dimly aware of a wailing, keening sound spiraling upward from the porch, curling into the morning air, shaking the leaves in the trees. Not until she felt Mrs. Holloway’s arms pulling her up, gathering her in, did she realize that despairing sound was coming from herself.