“MOTHER, WHAT ON earth are you doing?”
I find her in the ballroom on hands and knees, scrubbing away at the shiny hardwood floor. Despite Catherine’s pledge to take care of all the preparations, the past two weeks have seen Mother in a flurry of activity, doing everything from beating out already clean carpets to polishing silver while Ada helplessly looks on.
She doesn’t look up. “We can’t have a filthy house when everyone arrives tonight. Everything must be clean.”
The ballroom is pristine. I crouch beside Mother, putting a light hand on her shoulder. She gives me a quick, anxious glance, but doesn’t stop what she’s doing. With a sigh, I stand back up. “Where’s Catherine?”
Mother’s face darkens. “In her room, trying on gowns.”
I watch her narrow back, stretching and shrinking as she throws herself into the long, jerking motion of the rag. What happened to my rosy mother who used to sing while she floated around the house, always so quick to smile, so generous with her kisses?
“Please don’t strain yourself,” I say uselessly to her back.
My footsteps and Mother’s scrubbing fill the echoing space. I try to imagine it filled instead with dancing, sweaty bodies tonight and my stomach plummets at the thought. Devoid of any furniture save the pianoforte and some chairs, I’ve rarely found reason to come up to this room before. Mother occasionally uses it for a large quilting project, and more than once we’ve had to make Emeline stop playing boisterous games of chase with Snip. Other than that it’s a sad room. I can’t imagine it ever being one of grandeur.
I’m turning to leave when Mother’s voice stops me. “We’re expecting nearly forty guests,” she says without pausing in her scrubbing. “I don’t want Emeline getting underfoot or causing a scene like...” She trails off, but I know she’s thinking of the night in the parlor with the slamming doors. “Besides, the dancing won’t start ’til well after her bedtime.”
“But she’s been looking forward to this for weeks,” I tell her. “She’ll be crestfallen.”
“She can watch the guests arrive, but then it’s into bed for her.”
I’m ready to argue with her, but she’s wound tight as a coil, and with Mr. Barrett and even maybe even Cyrus coming, perhaps it is for the best if Emeline isn’t there.
With a sigh, I leave Mother to her cleaning, hoping that she’ll stop before exhaustion takes over. I make sure I knock extra loudly on Catherine’s door before entering.
“Oh, Ada, thank goodness. I—” Catherine stops when she sees me. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She hesitates a moment and then pulls me into the room. “I needed Ada to help with my laces, but I suppose you can do it.”
“What an honor.”
Catherine gives me a cool look but turns around all the same and lifts her long hair out of the way. I tug at the laces and she winces.
“Do you want them tight or not?”
“I do,” she whines. “Just don’t be such a beast about it.”
When I’m done I sit on the bed and watch her ease into her dress. Despite the tight laces she struggles to get it on, and she’s in peril of spilling out the top again. I don’t say anything but she gives me a sidelong glance and huffs. “It’s the food here. Ada has gotten in the habit of cooking like a country housewife. All that lard and beef.”
I don’t point out that the rest of us haven’t suffered for Ada’s cooking. Our relationship is a strained bridge, both of us making an effort, but one careless word and the whole thing will crumble down.
“Have you picked out what you’re going to wear?” she asks me without turning around.
“I was going to wear the white one.”
She turns, looking at me blankly. “Which white one?”
My wardrobe is a rainbow of dresses with shades starting at ivory and ending with beige. “I don’t know...it has the darts in the bodice and the little lacy things at the sleeves and hem.”
“You’re hopeless, but I know which one you’re talking about. Good choice,” she adds grudgingly.
We lull into silence as she tries on more dresses, a mountain of silk and calico growing on the bed. I wonder if Mr. Barrett will come, and if he does, what he will wear. Even though he’s not interested in me, I can’t help the mounting sense of excitement as the hour for the dance draws near.
Catherine clears her throat and I snap out of my thoughts. “What?”
“I asked you to pass me those pins over there.”
I follow her pointing finger and hand her the jar full of pearl pins.
“I’ll help you do something with that hopeless hair of yours, if you want.” She gives a practiced flick of her wrist, jabbing a pin into her tight swirl of curls.
I don’t really want or need her help. I don’t care how I look tonight since I’ll just be watching from the side. I can’t imagine anyone will ask me to dance. But she’s watching me impatiently from the mirror and it’s not worth a fight. I give in and let her dress me up and fuss me until I pass for decent in her book.
“You want to look nice for Mr. Barrett, don’t you?” she demands with a small smile as she gives my hairpin a final, wrenching twist.
I wince. “Why should I care what he thinks?”
“Oh, please. You turn wide-eyed and trembling whenever he’s nearby.” She shrugs, as if it’s no concern of hers. “I can see why you like him...he’s just as quiet and sullen as you are.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Oh?”
I know this game. She pretends to be interested and I inadvertently let something slip, and confide in her, give her something she can use against me later. I’ve fallen prey to it more times than I care to admit. And while we might be on better terms right now, I don’t for a moment believe she has my best interest at heart. I won’t make the mistake of giving her ammunition she can use against me later.
“Mr. Barrett is Father’s business partner,” I say, stating the obvious. “He’s very nice but he doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Catherine arches a brow at my reflection in the mirror. “If you say so.”
“Yes,” I say, making a show of inspecting my fingernails. “I do.”
She shrugs again, taking out a little pot of something red and, opening the lid, she dips her finger inside. It smells waxy, with an artificial tang of roses. I watch her with wary eyes, and jump back when she thrusts her finger toward my lips. “What is that?”
“Have you honestly never seen lip rouge before? It gives your lips color.” She gives me a look that is a mixture of impatience and pity. “Really, Lydia, don’t you think it’s time you grew up?”
I hesitate. What if Cyrus comes? For some reason the idea of him seeing me dressed up and painted makes me feel ashamed, as if he could see right through my charade and to the plain girl I am at my core.
“Oh, don’t be such a bore,” Catherine says as she liberally applies some to her own lips. She blots off the excess color with a handkerchief, studying her reflection as she dabs. “You can pretend you don’t want to impress Mr. Barrett all you want, but I know deep down you care.”
I hate that she’s right. “Oh, fine, do what you wish.” I let her smear the color over my lips. When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize the girl with the wide dark eyes and the softly parted pink lips.
“All you need now is a smile,” she says. “Looking miserable isn’t doing your complexion any favors.”
* * *
Emeline intercepts me coming down the stairs. She’s dressed in her best muslin, with an old silk sash of Catherine’s. But she didn’t know how to tie it, and it hangs down past her ankles, threatening to trip her. In lieu of ostrich feathers, she’s arranged two tattered bird feathers in her hair that she must have found outside.
I had been hoping that Mother would inform her of her curfew, and I wince as I realize I have to break her heart. Crouching down beside her, I touch my fingers to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You know that by the time the dancing starts it will be well past your bedtime. Mother wants you in bed after the guests arrive.”
I brace myself for tears or desperate pleading, but Emeline doesn’t move. She stands stock-still, glaring at me from suddenly hostile eyes. “You’re mean, Lydia. You’re supposed to be the nice sister, but you’re just as mean as Cath.”
Standing up, I carefully turn my face away so that she can’t see how much her words hurt me. What has gotten into her? She never used to throw tantrums like this in Boston, but since coming here she seems as on edge as I am, her moods souring in the blink of an eye.
“If you’re going to be willfully contrary, then you had better go to bed right now, and forget about watching the guests arrive. Ada has made up the spare chamber for you, and will help you get undressed.”
Emeline gives me a look of lingering reproach. But at last she turns, and she stomps her way up to the spare bedchamber.
I close my eyes and rub at my temple. I hate having to speak to her like that. If only Mother could find it within herself to gently discipline Emeline. But as I duck into the kitchen to sneak a bit of punch, my heart feels suspiciously light, my stomach free of anxiety. It’s hard not to get caught up in the energy that thrums through the house, filling the expectant rooms and for a moment the scandal, the unsettling dreams and occurrences, are in the past. Maybe this is what the house has been waiting for. All those silent accusations, that cold watchfulness, the restless spirits...it was just the house waiting to be filled with love and happiness. Soon I’ve completely forgotten about Emeline’s spat in my excitement.
In a freshly starched cravat and a waistcoat with shiny buttons fit to burst, Father thumbs through his list of local businessmen attending tonight, oblivious to the flurry of preparations around him. Mother, with some help from Catherine, has had her apron taken away and is in a clean, if not somber, dress. Despite Catherine’s best efforts it still hangs off her slender shoulders, and Mother looks lost and tired. But even she manages a smile. “The house looks clean, doesn’t it? No one can say we live in a dirty house now.”
The first guests arrive by foot, and soon a carriage is rumbling up the gravel drive, discharging its passengers. The door was sticking so badly today that Joe had to go and find a big rock to keep it propped open. Mother worried that people would trip over it, so she’s taken it upon herself to stand post by the door and make sure that there are no stubbed toes.
“Do you see them?”
I’m on the second-floor landing, leaning out the window. Catherine comes up behind me and cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the arriving guests. “Who?”
“Oh, don’t be dense, you know who.”
At the thought of Mr. Barrett, the bottom of my stomach drops out and the little vein in my neck starts pulsing. Even the possibility of Cyrus showing his face here tonight can’t dampen my spirits.
“Look! There’s Mr. Barrett.” Catherine points down the road. He’s walking briskly, his dark coat flapping behind him. His hat obscures his face, but the broad shoulders and determined gait give him away. She frowns. “He’s alone.”
“Maybe Mr. Pierce is coming separately.” But we both know that he has no occupation, and that he’s been staying with Mr. Barrett. If he’s not with him now chances are he’s not coming at all.
Catherine slams her fist down on the windowsill, rattling the glass panes and I jump. “He has to come! He has to!” Color rises to her cheeks, and are those tears pricking at my sister’s steely eyes?
“Catherine, I’m sure we’ll be seeing him again soon. I—”
“Shut up! Just please shut up! You don’t understand. He needs to be here. I can’t wait any longer!”
Before I can ask what she’s talking about, she’s running to her room, hand to her eyes. I could go after her, but something tells me Catherine has no interest in confiding in me and it will only make matters worse.
From downstairs Mr. Barrett’s baritone floats up as he greets Mother and asks after her health. She thanks him and then their words are lost because more people are coming in and clomping up the stairs.
The meeting takes all of about twenty minutes, Father’s booming voice convincing Mr. Clarke and the others with land abutting rivers that he and Mr. Barrett have grand plans to put New Oldbury on the map as an industrial center to rival Manchester and Waltham. The end is marked by a polite round of applause.
I go to Catherine’s door and knock. “The dancing is about to start. Are you coming?” There’s no response.
Well, let Catherine sulk in her room. One of us needs to make an appearance, so I take a deep breath and grit my teeth.
The ballroom has transformed from the lonely, echoing sun-filled room into a space bubbling over with the rustle of gowns, chatter and the scent of women’s perfume. As I take up a corner on the far side of the room, I can’t help but feel angry that this was all for Catherine in the first place, and she won’t even show her face.
“Miss Montrose.”
A warm tingle runs through my body at the sound of his voice. He’s standing right behind me and I don’t have time to prepare myself. I had wanted to be across the room, to watch him first before deciding what I’d say. I had crafted a few neutral sentences but now that he’s right here they all fly from my head.
“You look...” His clear eyes are burning through me and I feel as naked as a rose in January, and every bit as exposed. I know how I must look to him in my lip rouge, the dress showing too much of my skin thanks to Catherine’s adjustments. He clears his throat, as if coming back to himself. “You look much recovered.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to the day at the pond when I nearly fainted from a mixture of heat, anger and jealousy. Has it really been weeks since I saw him last? “Yes, thank you.” I struggle to keep my voice impassive, reserved. It comes out muddled and fast, half my mind determined to snub him because of his preference for Catherine, but the other half of me is shamefully excited by the prospect of being close to him. Just his familiar scent unearths that comfortable, safe feeling deep inside me again. I tighten my grip on my glass, willing myself to keep my guard up.
“I’m glad to see it. I’ve been worried about you since that day at the pond. And of course I was glad when Catherine let us know that Emeline had been found safe.”
The punch glass sweats in my hand and I don’t know where to look. He’s being polite, but he’s already looking around the room, gesturing with cup in hand and making strained small talk about the various guests. He says something about Mr. Pierce and I snap back to attention.
“Pity he couldn’t come, but his mother took a turn for the worse so he’s gone back to Boston to attend her.”
“Oh, how sad.” I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, swirling it gently side to side.
“I understand these scares are something of a regular occurrence when it comes to his mother,” he says. “All the same, August thought it best not to leave it to chance.” He glances around the ballroom, now filled with guests itching for the music to start. “He asked me to send Catherine his particular regards, but...is your sister unwell, Miss Montrose?”
“Er, yes,” I say, scrambling to think something up. “She has a headache.” It’s a flimsy excuse, but I can’t tell him that she’s throwing a tantrum because Mr. Pierce didn’t come.
Perhaps Mr. Barrett was relieved when he found out his friend wasn’t coming, knowing that Catherine would turn her attention back to him. I haven’t forgotten the notes I’ve seen Catherine passing to Joe to deliver, and I haven’t forgotten the white rose in Mr. Barrett’s buttonhole.
My ears are pounding and I don’t want to be here. No, that’s not true. I want to be near him. I’m painfully aware of him, the dark fabric of his waistcoat, of his gestures, the way his eyes wander over the room before settling deeply on mine. I wonder what his hands would feel like, wrapped around my waist the way Cyrus’s were, and I sway ever so slightly. I need to get away. There’s no use torturing myself with what will never be mine.
He must have read my mind. “Well, I’ve monopolized your time long enough. No doubt you must welcome all your guests.” His voice is clipped and I know I’m being terribly rude, standing there mute and staring just past his shoulder.
“Yes, of course.” But I don’t move away. I don’t know any of the people gathered here save for a couple of familiar faces from Mother’s calls. They might as well be miles away; the only other person in the room is him.
Mr. Barrett doesn’t move either. People flow around us, a lady’s hair feather brushing my bare shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. “Miss Montrose...” He looks uncomfortable, turning his glass in his fingers over and over, looking everywhere but at me. “I feel I must explain about—”
Just then a matronly woman glides up and puts a doughy gloved arm through Mr. Barrett’s and the little bubble around us shatters. Her mouth is already moving before she’s even come to rest.
“Mr. Barrett! You wicked man.” She’s dripping in jewels, her face plastered with makeup. She looks like one of those actors who perform Shakespeare at the Federal Street Theatre in Boston, and speaks just as loudly. “We’ve hardly seen anything of you at Oakridge these past months and the girls have been asking after you, especially Abigail.” She gestures to a tall, slender girl across the room watching the exchange from beneath heavy lashes, which she drops with a shy smile when Mr. Barrett looks at her. “I remember how you loved our Abby’s boiled mutton last time, and you announced that you would take up residence at our house indefinitely if only to have her mutton every day. Now don’t tell me you don’t remember that! Abby certainly does and she will hardly leave me alone asking when you’ll be by.”
Color rises to Mr. Barrett’s cheek but he takes the woman’s hand and lifts it to his lips in a polite gesture. “Mrs. Tidewell, nothing would give me more pleasure.”
I shift my gaze swiftly away, having been caught in that unpleasant role of unintentional eavesdropper. Now would be my chance to escape, but the ample Mrs. Tidewell is blocking my exit.
“You must join us for supper one of these nights. Now I won’t take no for an answer,” Mrs. Tidewell scolds with a playful rap of her closed fan upon his arm.
Mr. Barrett catches my eye and quickly looks away, embarrassed. His jaw tightens, but Mrs. Tidewell is blissfully unaware of his discomfort. “Yes, of course. Time has gotten away from me lately what with the mill and—”
“Oh, you men and your work.” Mrs. Tidewell leans in toward me conspiratorially, for some reason deciding to include me in the conversation. Her breath smells like onions, and I wonder if it’s from Abby’s boiled mutton. “Whenever you want something from them it’s work work work, but put a pretty girl in front of them and they forget about it all soon enough, eh? And my Abby’s the prettiest in New Oldbury.” She turns back to him. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Barrett?”
I don’t know if she’s staking a claim, or merely clueless as to the effect of her words. Mortified, I open my mouth, but Mr. Barrett swoops in before I can say something I’ll regret.
“Certainly, madam. New Oldbury is lucky to boast so many lovely young ladies, Miss Montrose of course being the latest arrival.”
When my eyes fly to meet his, there’s a glint of amusement in them, but also something questioning. My body flushes hot. He’s just being polite, gentlemanly. His words mean no more than the kiss he gave Mrs. Tidewell’s hand.
Mrs. Tidewell lets her gaze run over me, making little effort to mask her thoughts. “Yes, I’m sure,” she says, her tone frosty.
She’s moved out of my way, her grip tightening on Mr. Barrett’s arm, and I seize my chance. “I should go...greet the other guests,” I mumble.
“Miss Montrose...” He moves to catch my arm, but Mrs. Tidewell holds him fast and I slip by him.
The fiddle is tuning up and couples begin taking the floor. Father has some local businessman cornered as he talks his ear off about the rising price of cotton, the poor man looking longingly at the dance floor. Mother nurses a cup of punch amid a clump of women chattering on about some provincial scandal involving a runaway farmhand.
A wave of melancholy washes over me and takes root in the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t matter that I knew that Mr. Barrett wasn’t interested in me and was hoping that Catherine would be here, I had still built up fantasies of us swirling together on the dance floor. And even if he wasn’t in love with my sister there are still a bevy of country girls who would love to be Mrs. Barrett, not least among them the lovely Miss Tidewell. I hope he chokes on her stupid mutton. I sigh. No, I don’t really hope that. For a moment Cyrus’s proposition doesn’t seem so ridiculous, so insulting.
And as if I had summoned him with my mind, that’s when I see him.
Cyrus has come after all. He’s dressed impeccably, scanning the room with one disdainful brow arched. My stomach tightens. Of course he would have heard about the meeting if he’s been in town nosing around about a mill site, but I had held out hope that he wouldn’t have the audacity to show his face after his bungled proposal.
I duck behind two women engrossed in conversation, waiting for Cyrus to move away from the door. He sees Mother, and pasting a disarming smile on his face, bows over her hand, murmuring some comment that’s too low for me to hear. Quick as lightning, I dart into the hall.
I had thought that this night couldn’t get any worse, after Catherine abandoning me and Mr. Barrett’s polite but stilted conversation, but how wrong I was. With heavy feet, I drag myself down to the second floor. I’m in front of Catherine’s door and before I know what I’m doing, I knock. Nothing feels right. I’m restless, unable to settle. I try not to think about Cyrus and Mr. Barrett being in the same room together, of their paths crossing and Cyrus somehow divulging our history. I knock again before Catherine throws the door open and glowers at me, eyes red and puffy.
“I’m not coming up, Lydia, so spare me a lecture about how this night was supposed to be for me.”
“Can I come in?”
She stares at me for a moment, then moves aside. The room is stuffy, the faint smell of sickness filling the air. Damp handkerchiefs cover the bed, and aborted letters, splotchy with ink, litter her desk. She hastily pushes them into a drawer as I sit on the bed. “What do you want?”
“There were too many people up there,” I say. I can’t tell her that my jealousy drove me away, nor that Cyrus is on the prowl for me, with who knows what intentions.
She just stands there, looking at me as if I didn’t say anything.
“John says that Mr. Pierce went back to Boston to attend his mother.” I don’t know why I use his first name, but it just slips out. “Apparently she’s not doing well. That’s why he didn’t come, not because he had some other engagement.” At the very least I can rest her mind on this matter.
“John said that, did he?” Catherine crosses her arms. Her look is all venom. “I wasn’t aware you were calling each other by your Christian names now. Does Cyrus know? Don’t think I didn’t see him here the other week, sniffing around. I swear, Lydia, for a girl who spends so much time in her books, you can be quite the little minx when you put your mind to it. Can we expect a wedding soon? But who will be the groom? So many choices! Perhaps it will be Mr. Pierce when all is said and done!”
She’s pacing up and down, one hand on her stomach, the other fanning herself. Her face is ghastly white and I’ve never seen such malice, such despair in her pretty green eyes before.
“What are you talking about?” I grope for words, I don’t even know where to start. “Mr. Pierce? You don’t think that I—”
“I don’t know what to think with you sometimes!” She leans against the wall, massaging her brow and staring at me accusingly. “Why are you here anyway? Why aren’t you upstairs with your precious John?”
“He’s not mine, you know that.” I burn just saying the words. “What’s this all about? I was willing to put Charles, Boston, all of it behind us and start fresh with you. I thought earlier this evening that we might be friends...why can’t we be friends?”
“Friends?” She laughs, a joyless sound. “We can never be friends.”
Something isn’t right. Her hand is clutching her stomach, and her face is pulled tight with pain.
I move toward her but she shrinks against the wall like a cornered animal. “Catherine? What’s wrong?”
“Do you really want to know what’s wrong? You say that you want to be friends, but if I told you what’s wrong you would be sick, like you and Mother and Father and the whole world is already sick at me. How come I never hear a word about Charles? Why is no one as sick with him as they seem to be with me?”
“The rumors? Catherine, we all know that they weren’t true. No one is sick at you.”
She’s raving, not even looking at me as she paces, talking to the walls, the ceiling. The little gold C necklace around her neck glints in the lamplight. She compulsively twists the chain round her finger. “Well it doesn’t matter, does it? Soon everyone will know and if you thought we were pariahs now, just wait until I hold the squalling truth in my arms in five months.”
My blood goes cold. “Catherine,” I whisper, afraid that I already know the answer. “What are you talking about?”
She finally stops and levels her gaze at me, as if seeing me for the first time since I came in. “I wonder how you can be so blind, Lydia.” She smooths down the front of her dress, framing the small round of her stomach with her hands. “I’m with child.”