I was living a nightmare. If only I were asleep, so I could awaken and make it end.
After the household settled and drifted into silence, I retired to the attic, stripped to my shift, and lay on my pallet. But rest did not come. Had I truly thought it would? I curled into a tight ball, facing a horror too large to absorb.
I took tiny breaths, stared wide-eyed into the darkness, and refused to think.
The night crept toward midnight. Creatures howled, the roof creaked, and I stirred painfully, as numb things do when they awaken.
Thoughts flooded in despite my efforts to hold them at bay.
Phoebe—my sweet, innocent sister—the wife of Jethro Pratt.
I pieced together the strands of a story that had yet to happen.
At my urging, Mama convinces Mr. Shaw that Phoebe should not care for his children. He seeks another situation for her.
Mr. Shaw binds Phoebe over to the Pratts. She becomes their housemaid.
Mrs. Pratt dies, leaving behind Baby Drusilla. Phoebe, committed to stay until her eighteenth birthday, is forced to take care of the children.
Three of the Pratt children don’t survive.
Phoebe marries Mr. Pratt.
Why would my sister agree to become his wife? She was only twelve now. In 1800, she would be sixteen. Why would she marry a much older man—especially one so cruel?
Phoebe would struggle as the Pratts’s servant. She would be clumsy and forgetful. Discipline would come at regular intervals. How would she react to the thrashings? To the whispery voice spewing venom?
Grief stung my eyes, my nose, my throat. I wept into my pallet and mourned my sister’s bright future. Living with this family would rob her of her finest qualities. I had barely survived, and I was strong.
Was that why Phoebe would agree to the marriage? Would she be beaten so low she believed there was only one path left?
Or worse, would he ruin her, leaving her with no choice but marriage to him?
Where would I be while all of this was happening? Why would I not stop them?
The question lingered in my mind. Crisp. Clear. Bristling with potential. Here was the power of knowing the future. I could change it. I would find a way to keep that beast from putting his filthy hands on my sister.
The tears dried. My throat stung, awash with the sour taste of bile. Driven by a fierce need for movement, I rose from my bed and paced down the length of the attic, weaving among the cluttered items stored there by the Pratts. With each step, the wisps of grief faded, replaced by raw resolve.
In my pacing, I made an odd discovery. Fury wasn’t hot at all. No, indeed. It was as cold and hard as ice.
He would not have Phoebe.
I weighed my options.
Naturally, I couldn’t count on my brothers. Their wives were reluctant to have Phoebe around.
I wouldn’t ask my mother to plead Phoebe’s case with Mr. Shaw. A woman blinded by the need for a husband wouldn’t risk her betrothed’s wrath.
Nor could I approach Mr. Shaw himself. I only had honor on my side, and he had already proven himself lacking that virtue.
Fleeing was a frightening possibility, but one I must consider. Phoebe and I could run away, to Boston or New York or Charleston, any large city where we could blend in. But that would require Phoebe to keep our secret. It was, perhaps, too much to expect. Nowhere would be secure. Nor did I relish a life of hiding for me or my sister. I would be hunted. Capture brought a fearsome punishment—flogging, chains, and a tenfold repayment of the weeks absent from my master. Running away would be a last resort.
What else could I do to save her?
Unless she had a useful skill, no one else would want her. If only she knew how to spin and make cloth. But for even the most talented of students, it took months to learn.
If only we had more time…
Time. We needed more time.
I knew what must be done. Phoebe would have to learn to spin, and I would have to stay here as long as that took.
* * *
In the stillness of the nursery, I tended napping infants, immersed in my book. It drew me in so deeply I lost my sense of time and place.
Running feet pounded toward the door. “Susanna, look what I brought you,” Dorcas said.
“Shh.” I tapped a shushing finger to my lips. “Don’t wake John or Dinah from their naps.”
“All right,” she said in a loud whisper.
With regret, I closed the book quickly and returned it to my pocket before she could glimpse its cover. Dorcas walked in and solemnly handed me a fistful of wildflowers.
“I picked them for you,” she said.
“Thank you most kindly. Would you like me to plait some into your hair?”
“Would you?” Her eyes shone.
“Indeed, yes.” I patted my lap.
She climbed on, wiggled her hips to and fro, and sighed with anticipation. “Will everyone be able to see?”
“Yes.”
“I shall be the fairest of all.”
I laughed. “Be still, silly. I cannot plait your hair if I must chase it about your head.”
She twisted on my lap and kissed me on the chin. Her breath smelled of blackberries.
Her kiss gave me a pang. The older members of the family rarely showed affection—certainly not to each other and never to me. At nine, Dorcas should have learned this rule, yet seemed oblivious to it. Would her affectionate nature land her in trouble one day?
With the plaiting done, I slid her from my lap and picked up a broom. While I swept, Dorcas admired her reflection in the window, twisting her head from side to side to inspect her hair from every angle.
A squeaking sound drew my attention. Dinah rolled off her pallet onto the floor and blinked up at me sleepily. “Nana,” she said.
“Your nap is over too soon, little one.” I put away the broom, lifted her to my hip, and brushed the damp curls clinging to her face.
A wail from the other end of the pallet revealed that the second of my tiny charges had awakened. I lifted John, as well.
Dorcas tugged my petticoat. “Papa says Dinah is too old to be carried. He says a girl of two should be doing chores.”
“Perhaps we should find one for her,” I said. My sweet and unspoiled Dinah wouldn’t live to her sixth birthday. I had no interest in making her perform chores. “Your mother might wish Dinah’s help with the spinning.”
Dorcas giggled. “You are teasing. My mother would never let a baby near her wheel.” She planted herself in my path, beaming. “Mama has shared some excellent news. She says she’ll teach Phoebe how to spin.”
“Your mother’s skill is extraordinary. We are most grateful.”
“And you will stay with us even after the tutoring ends.”
“I shall, indeed.”
Mrs. Pratt had driven a hard-fought bargain, a skill learned, no doubt, from her husband. Phoebe would receive lessons four days each week. Mrs. Pratt would keep any thread Phoebe spun or cloth Phoebe wove. And I would work an extra day—without pay—for each lesson my sister received.
“So you won’t leave on your birthday.”
“I shall remain here throughout the winter.”
“I am so happy you will stay.”
I knelt on the floor and included all three children in a hug. Even though it had been crushing to delay my freedom, more time with the children eased the disappointment.
* * *
The sun bore down on the village, relentlessly bright. I visited the drooping garden in the afternoon. Heat rose in waves and, with it, the scent of baking manure and rotting vines. I gathered yellow squash and tender peas. None of it would entice the appetites of the family.
Supper would consist of stewed squash with bacon and cornbread. There would be reproachful sighs, but I could not change the lack of variety. We were, to put it simply, running out of food.
Perhaps it was time to unveil the apple butter. I had been saving it for a special occasion, but it might be wise to share some at supper. It would be an unusual accompaniment to cornbread, but no one would complain.
I entered the pantry to retrieve the hidden jar.
Someone rapped on the threshold behind me. I turned to see who it was and stiffened with dismay.
My master filled the doorway, a heavy sack slung over his shoulder.
The sight of the flour relieved me. The sight of him did not.
“Thank you, sir. I shall bake wheat bread tomorrow.”
He lowered the bag to the floor and nudged it to the side. “I have heard good news. You will stay with us.”
“Yes, sir.” I turned away from him and straightened the other supplies, the very picture of efficiency.
“Your decision pleases me.”
My hands stilled. “I hope to be of service to Mrs. Pratt as she approaches her confinement.”
He chuckled low in his chest. “You are lying.”
A flush rose from my neck to cheeks. He was right, but until Phoebe was no longer in danger, I had to ensure the conversation never mentioned her.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You have realized you cannot bear to be separated from us.”
A bubble of laughter at the absurdity of his claim rolled from my belly to lodge in my throat. I coughed into my hand and strained to resist the smile tugging at my lips. Could he truly be so deluded?
“While there is much to recommend steady employment,” I choked out, “I do expect to leave this household by next spring.”
There was a brief silence, then he came farther into the tiny space and braced his arms on the shelves on either side of the pantry, blocking me in. I sobered instantly.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No, sir.”
I backed up a step. He followed until his neckcloth brushed my sleeve. He was a tall man and strong after years of lifting large bags of milled grain. Leaning closer, his chest trapped me against the wall, his labored breaths disturbing the tendrils escaping my cap.
“In recent weeks, you have developed a most unpleasant insolence.” His voice was soft and venomous. “How do you account for that, Susanna?”
Mark. I had indeed changed. Our conversations had loosened my restraint, the banter sharpening my mind and tongue. Strange that being a better person made me less desirable as a servant. But I could say none of these things to my master. It would be wisest to play innocent.
“I work as hard as ever.”
“It is not your work I fault. You do not respond to discipline as I had hoped. Indeed, your behavior worsens. Perhaps I shall have to find new ways to teach you a lesson.” He tugged a loose strand of my hair and then trailed the back of his fingers down my neck.
I stood my ground. If he was trying to frighten me, he would see no evidence of it in my demeanor.
He eyed me grimly. “Do not challenge me, Susanna. In any battle between us, we both know who will win.”