In October, a man lost his footing off the side of the New York lever and hung dangling by his harness a quarter hour. As his compatriots were reeling him in to safety, his rope must have rubbed against the timbers and begun to fray; for with what Ben reported as a sickening ripping sound, the harness broke free, and the worker plummeted into the straits. As if by miracle, he survived the impact, but he was knocked senseless and would have drowned had not a passing fishing dinghy heeled about; the fisherman dragged him into the boat and pumped his arms until he vomited up the water. Ben arrived down on the wharf with his legs shaking so badly he could hardly stand; and though he knew the worker only by name, he knelt down to embrace him. Operations on the New York side were called off for a few hours while all the ropes and harnesses were checked. When the news reached the Brooklyn side, Prue thought she should ask Mr. Severn to bless the workers for the remainder of their term. When she told Pearl of this at lunchtime, Pearl volunteered to go and ask him later in the day. Her eagerness for the task nettled Prue, but the blessing seemed worth some annoyance.
In one respect, Severn’s prayer appeared to work: Prue began to think it possible the second building season might end without loss of life. She did not know if this continued success cheered or frightened her, as she suspected that the longer a fatal accident was averted, the more terrible it would be when it finally came. But in other respects, Severn seemed to have little influence with the Almighty. The man plummeting from the bridge made a fine gloomy story in the newssheets; and then in mid-November, Ben discovered the New York lever had deviated seven minutes of arc toward the south.
“That cannot be,” Prue said. The workday was done, and the men had retired to their tents or the taverns. Ben had rushed to the countinghouse with the news. “We have performed our measurements a hundred times over.”
Ben paced the room and would not look at her. “And we should not have commenced building before a hundred and one.”
“The men work with great care,” Prue said. “We supervise them ourselves.” She heard herself pleading, as if a plaintive tone could invalidate what he’d seen.
“It doesn’t matter, Prue. Something went wrong—either the measurements or the work. There is no saying which at this point.”
It was impossible the bridge should fail; her mind could not encompass such a thought. “Can we determine at what juncture the lever diverged? Can we tear it back to that point and rebuild? Seven minutes is far less than a degree; surely the lever is redeemable.”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. He sank down in the nearest chair and took both hands to his head. “Christ!”
“We must seek counsel. We must write Mr. Pope directly.”
“That is the last thing we should do; if we tell Thomas Pope, the governor will know within the week, the New-York Journal within the hour. We must find a solution ourselves.”
Prue went to the shelf and poured two cups of gin. “Ben,” she said as she handed him the fuller one, but she could not think of anything more to say. She trusted in both their abilities, yet felt she understood for the first time how vulnerable their inexperience left them.
He downed his drink and immediately stood to pace again. When he reached the far side of the room, he turned to face her with the china teacup still in his hand. His hair stuck out where he had lifted it with his hands, and his eyes were wide. “It never bodes well when you’re silent, Prue, but I feel we must attempt this on our own. We cannot afford to lose everything.”
Despite that she’d said she would never do so again, and despite her misgivings, she left the rectifying room under Marcel’s command over the next few days as she, Ben, and Adam brought out the instruments and tried to ascertain how to correct their error. At least, she reasoned, the deviation was as small as it was: If the New York lever continued along its current trajectory, the levers would indeed meet midstream, but the New York arm would protrude five feet nine inches on the downriver side and Brooklyn’s would do likewise upriver. Ben determined that rather than dismantle the New York lever, they should change the trajectory of each lever by three and a half minutes as it progressed. This was a difference of a fraction of an inch per timber. He believed the correction would be invisible and would little affect the strength of the bridge.
And there was, at least, no doubt they would be able to continue the work for a third season; they had sufficient funds to continue. Once again, most of the men contracted to return the following April, and some found winter work in Brooklyn or its near environs. The money from the shares Ben and Prue had purchased sat safely in the bank, along with the remainder of the mortgage; and though Isaiah thought they might merely scrape by with the assurance of the state’s money come spring, it seemed likely the bridge would be completed sometime in i Soz. Already each lever covered two thirds of its final span. The bridge gave a clear presentiment of its future appearance, and attracted visitors from far and wide. When Prue gazed out on it from the distillery, she sometimes thought the distance between the ends of the two levers appeared short enough for a man to leap across.
As soon as the last worker had been paid and the tents stored for winter, Ben set out north to see if he could bargain for a better price with the timber merchant. If not, he would search for a new one, if another could be found with a large enough supply. He was willing to admit the quality of the wood at the center of the span could be lower than at the abutments; it would, after all, bear less weight, and such a compromise might ensure their ability to complete the bridge.
“You will still write me?” Prue asked him before he left.
Ben rubbed her upper arms affectionately. “I gave you my word. And I shall not be gone long. You won’t have sufficient time to miss me.”
Prue raised her eyebrows but didn’t respond. She would miss him if he went up to the Wallabout for the day; but there was no need to tell him this.
The day he left, though bright and unseasonably warm, seemed long and gloomy. Except for the discovery of the error, the entire building season had gone well, she told herself as she went back to the ordinary business of the distillery. If mortgaging their property was not what she would have chosen, it had been a reasonable solution to their problems; and if Ben could account for the misalignment between the levers, it would prove the bridge had some kind of blessing upon it. Prue’s mind was as dark as it ever had been, but this was neither the fault of the bridge nor of Ben’s absence.
“Come,” Tem told her as they stood together in the cooling house at the end of that day. The wort had drained to the fermenting-back ten minutes since, and Mr. Fortune gone to work; but the floor was still damp and smelled sweet. “This distillery was ever your heart’s desire. Surely it can’t be so dull?”
“Not dull at all,” Prue said. “I can’t say why I feel so low”
“You have to cheer up,” Tem said. “Soon enough that bridge’ll be finished, and what will you have to do ever after but make gin?”
Prue didn’t know, but when Tem asked again at dinner that evening, Abiah and Pearl were quick to reach conclusions.
“You’ll find yourself with child before long,” Abiah predicted, “and that’ll lighten your heart.”
You simply miss Ben, Pearl wrote, then put her pencil down to take another forkful of potatoes.
“No,” Prue said. “That is, yes, but I wish I could say that was what troubled me. It could be so easily remedied.”
What, then?
“Have a drink,” Tem said, taking down the decanter and raising it to her. Prue shook her head no, and thought, in passing, Tem was servant to the thing. Tem poured her a dram anyway; and since it was before her, Prue drank it. It was redolent of aniseed and warm in her throat.
“I don’t know, Pearl,” she said. She could say nothing about the difficulty with the bridge. Pearl was as much its architect as she or Ben, but Prue did not believe news of its ailment should travel any farther than was necessary to heal it. “Orders have been down all year; and the mortgage deprives me of sleep.”
“Those things will take care of themselves,” Abiah said.
You shall be abel to pay it back, Pearl wrote. Her face was encouraging. In fact, she looked as well as ever she had. She had spent much of the summer in outdoor leisure, and though the freckles across the bridge of her nose had since faded, all the exercise seemed to have made her limbs sturdier.
“I wish I could trust as easily as you,” Prue said.
It is’n’t v. difficult, Pearl wrote.
Prue had sometimes thought her sister’s life a form of servitude, but really, it was Pearl who was free to do as she liked. She did not have to worry over their finances except in the most general way; now she was a grown woman, she could wander at will and be courted by Mr. Severn in whatever his odd, shy manner. “Perhaps someday you’ll teach me how,” she said, doing her best to brighten her own expression. “I shan’t take any lessons from you, Tem.”
Tem said, “Thank you.”
Ben returned in mid-November. “We shall manage it,” he told Prue, as soon as he stepped off the boat and into her arms. His scent was familiar and sweet, and she could have cried from the sheer pleasure of his proximity. She held him close a long while before pushing him back to examine his face. He looked healthy—not like a man who’d had to make compromises. His time outdoors and upon the water appeared to have fed his spirit.
“You were pleased with the quality of the materials?” Prue asked.
“They won’t be quite so fine as before, but they are solid goods. The timber I’ve ordered will suffice for the courses closest to the arc’s center, and I believe our plan of adjusting the levers will work.” He stroked the side of her head. “Believe me, it would be my preference as much as yours to make no such modifications. But we shall have our bridge.”
“I can imagine the rumors,” Prue said.
“We’ll quash them. No one will see the deviation, and even if the new wood appears different from the old—and I suspect it may—time’s patina will blur that distinction.”
The news did not console Prue, but Ben’s presence did. She resolved to spend the winter enjoying Ben’s company and solving at last the dilemma of the rectifying. It was a circumscribed sphere of action, but she could make it suffice.
Losee’s final crossing was on the last Saturday afternoon of November, and throngs of his neighbors and loyal customers—nearly everyone who lived within walking distance of what was now called the Old Ferry—gathered on his landing to welcome him home. Though the weather was chilly and damp and night was falling quickly, Joe Loosely had put out torches and three casks of beer, so the mood was festive. Jens Luquer first spied Losee’s dull green boat slipping toward them in the dark water, and he began to whistle and clap, along with his brothers and sisters. Mr. Fischer, in a trim, peacock-blue coat, clapped as vigorously as anyone, though Prue saw him, from time to time, turn to see what Tem was doing. Tem didn’t meet his eye, but neither did she look cross. One of the men from the Long-Island Courier stood at the periphery of the crowd; this, Prue thought, was news. Losee let his boat drift in the current a moment, then worked his left oar to spin himself around. His broad face shone for a moment in the torchlight, his mouth agape with pleasure, before he turned around again and began rowing home with renewed vigor. The crowd cheered when he tossed his rope up, and more loudly still when he hoisted himself onto the wharf “Well, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed as he removed his hat to push the thinning hair back from his brow. He wiped down the sides of his mouth with his fingers, as if his senses might be deceiving him. His flaxen-haired Petra, now grown as high as his shoulder, came out from the crowd bearing a gigantic wreath fashioned of dried Indian corn, which she laid on top of his large head. He stooped to receive it as if it were a military honor, and wobbled under its weight as he stood back up. Everyone laughed—it was an ungainly and odd-looking thing—but as Losee took a slight bow to each direction in it, Prue felt her throat thicken with tears.
“May I have your attention, please?” Joe called from atop one of the pilings, then banged a spoon on a tankard.
Ben wrapped his arm around Prue’s waist and saluted Joe with his free hand. Joe raised the spoon in greeting to him, then hit the tankard again. The sound was low and quiet compared to the general din, but it had its desired effect until someone cried “Loseeee!” and another cheer went up.
“Indeed,” Joe said, and the cheering quieted. “My good friends. Most of you are too young to remember, but for all the years my father ran the Ferry Tavern, Losee’s father, Lo van Nostrand, ran the ferry. Those two were inseparable. They loved their pints, horse racing, and cockfights, and they loved working so close to each other. If they look down on us from Heaven, I think they must be pleased to see us still working in the trades in which they trained us. More importantly, I imagine they’re happy to see us such good friends.”
“God bless old Henry,” Mr. Joralemon said, and Joe paused, a pained smile passing across his face.
“Thank you,” he went on. “My father teased Lo constantly. He called him ‘Ole Charon’ and the water he daily traversed the ‘Squalid Styx.’ ” Prue’s nape tingled when she heard this. “But he knew his friend to have a generous heart. It is no easy lot in life, to be a ferryman. On days a farmer might count his stores or sharpen his blades, the boat keeper still goes out to ply the gray waters. On days mothers keep their children indoors, he puts on an extra muffler and heads out to the wet.
“My father left me a business I can enjoy until my dotage. When I’m half deaf with age, a man’ll still be able to give me the sign he wants his dram; or if I’m blind, he’ll shout his order. Lo van Nostrand left his son a lifetime of toil, which he has performed for more than three decades now, with sometimes not even a rest upon the Sabbath. It’s a miracle he’s kept at it, so uncomplaining and in such good health. Another man would have collapsed under the strain or given up long ago.”
Prue thought of Losee’s son, Piers, who’d been much older than Petra—nearly as old as Ben—and had died of diphtheria in early childhood. Prue had never really known him, but knew how much his death had pained Losee and his wife, now so long dead herself. Perhaps if Piers had lived, or if Petra were sufficiently grown to marry off to some strong fellow, Losee would not have had to sell his business, but would have lived out his days in the house in which he’d been born. It wasn’t meant to be, Prue told herself It wasn’t meant to be, or it would have been.
Joe went on, “I’ve never lived a day of my life without Losee as a neighbor; and frankly, I find it difficult to imagine. I know we shall always be friends, but yet I shall miss him. I am glad, however, that he’s got a few years of the easy life ahead of him; and if I may say so without offending our Winship and Schermerhorn neighbors, I’m glad for Petra to grow up away from the smoke of the manufactories.”
“No offense taken,” Pieter Schermerhorn said.
Even in the torchlight, Prue could see such abject love in the way Ezra Fischer watched Tem, she wondered Tem was not moved by it. Though in part she puzzled over what he saw in Tem, she chiefly wished to know why her sister would so adamantly reject the honest suit of so successful and besotted a man.
“Let us raise a toast to him, then,” Joe said. Those who held cups raised them; many of the rest removed their hats. “To Losee van Nostrand, Brookland’s great ferryman: long life, good health, and rest from labor.”
Some said, “Cheers,” and others, “Amen,” and the cups were passed hand to hand. Prue took her draught before handing it on to Pearl, who drank deeply in honor of the occasion. A passing freighter rang its bell, and a few of the children pushed to the edge to watch its dim form glide past on the dark water.
Mr. Fischer stepped up to Joe, who gave him the tankard. When he touched the spoon upon it, people turned eagerly toward him. No doubt, Prue thought, they wondered what kind of man he was. He seemed mysterious not only because of his faith, but because it was rumored he’d lived all his days in Ulm before immigrating to New York only a decade previously, and yet his command of English was past compare. Furthermore, since Matty Winship had passed on, Brooklyn had lacked a gentleman who cared for his appearance; so Prue felt certain the sheen of Fischer’s coat in the flickering torchlight held its fascination for others besides herself.
“Mr. van Nostrand,” he said, his voice clear, “you have been a noble competitor, and have given me good reason to understand the loyalty your neighbors feel to you and to your business. Now I hope to be able to earn that loyalty myself, and in doing so I shall always use you for my example. Let me say to you, your fair daughter, and all this assembled company, that I shall do my best to provide your friends and neighbors safe and timely passage; and that if I can do so in even the palest imitation of your good spirits, I will count myself a success.”
The cups went up once more, and Losee said, “Thank you, Mr. Fischer.”
“Do you see?” Abiah said quietly to Tem. “You’re a fool to spurn him. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
Tem swatted at her, but then laughed.
Ben and Prue took a number of compliments on their bridge—from that vantage, it was a ghostly structure in the distance, already so vast it made Winship Gin, the Schermerhorn ropewalk, and the houses of Clover Hill resemble so many outbuildings. She saw Will Severn listening in at the edge of their conversations, but in his shy fashion, he averted his gaze whenever Prue chanced to catch his eye.
It was a chilly evening, and Prue thought to be out in gloves must be a hardship for Pearl, as they dulled her voice as a mouthful of cotton would an ordinary person’s. They therefore said their good-byes while there was still quite a gathering upon the landing, and made their way down the open stairs to the Shore Road. In addition to the torches, the waxing moon shone on the water. They had not ventured far before Prue heard a voice behind her call out, “Mrs. Horsfield?”
Prue instinctively looked to see if Patience was nearby, then turned to find Will Severn a few paces behind them, his hat in his hand and his shock of gray hair bearing its impression. Tem and Abiah kept walking.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked.
Ben swung Prue’s hand lightly. “Go on,” Prue said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “We won’t be a minute.” To Pearl she said, “You as well,” and Pearl hissed as she took Ben’s arm.
Severn stood with his battered brown hat against his chest.
“You don’t really want to stand in the road, do you?” Prue asked him.
“No.”
“Come with me to the countinghouse—the stove heats up in an instant. Or have you been out upon the bridge yet? It’s a fine view at night, though it’ll be windy there.”
“I would be delighted, if it’s not too much to ask.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Prue said.
They kept silent as they walked downriver toward the gate, which was tied shut with a sturdy knot. It took a moment to work it open with her cold fingers, and then Prue swung the gate back on its hinges. It moaned as she pulled it.
As they ascended the ramp, Will Severn’s face shone bright as the evening. Prue enjoyed his expression of delight. “I had no idea,” he said, “how beautiful it would be to stand upon it.”
Indeed, the lights of the gathering on the landing, and those of the visible houses of the ferry district and Olympia, twinkled like fireflies. The river smelled fresh and clear.
“What a wonder,” he went on. “Truly, a miracle.”
“Your praise means much to me,” Prue said. “Thank you.” They continued in silence up as far as possible on the Brooklyn arm. The water glittered like coal beneath them, and Prue wondered if she knew why he wished to speak with her. “If you aren’t afraid of heights, we can go closer to the edge,” she offered.
He looked taken aback by the suggestion. “I admit to you I’ve never been higher than my own belfry.”
“Then let us stay as we are,” Prue said.
The upward slope of the ascending arm felt slight underfoot, but they were now standing high above the water. Though Prue was anxious to hear what she thought would be the good news for which he’d drawn her aside, this was almost secondary to the simple, visceral thrill of standing upon one arm of the bridge she’d dreamed of, and looking out at its dim sister, jutting toward them from Manhattan. The wind had picked up, and whipped against Prue’s limbs.
“I am so proud of you, Mrs. Horsfield,” he said.
Prue let out an awkward laugh. “Why do you address me so formally? I have ever been Prue to you, and you Will to me.”
“But you’re not a girl anymore,” he said, as if this were an explanation.
“No, and I regret it little, except if it means you shall no longer be my friend.” She looked around and said, “If it were still the building season, I could offer you a fancy seat on a spool of rope or a crate of tools, but if you want to sit now, we have only the boards of the roadway.”
“I am fine to stand,” he said. He stood nodding and looking out at the view “I’m sure you wonder what has made me seek you out this evening.” He looked away toward the water, then back to her, his chin tucked slightly beneath his blue muffler. “I desire to marry your sister.”
“Oh, I had hoped it would be so,” she said, and reached out to touch his arm.
When he had recovered from the surprise of being touched, he took her hand in both his own. “You give your permission, then?”
“It is not mine to give.”
“And you know which sister I mean?”
Now Prue began to laugh in earnest, and pulled back her hand. “Do you imagine I could think you meant Tem? Who has turned away every suitor who’s approached her, and would cow you utterly within the week? No, Will Severn. I know which sister you mean.” She was surprised, after all the years in which she had thought little of him, to find her body had been so drawn to his. “You wish to marry my sister Pearl.”
“I do,” he said. “I love her dearly.”
“She has spoken nothing to her sisters about this attachment, but we have both seen the way you look at each other, and I imagine you will be happy together. But are you sure,” she went on, “she is the sort of creature of which one makes a wife?”
“In what way do you mean?” he asked. “She has already accepted me, but I come to you, as her guardian, to ask permission.”
“I simply want it clear between us, Will, that you understand what you would be doing, marrying such an invalid.”
The smile did not fade altogether from his face, but even in the moonlight, she could see it wane. “She is not an invalid,” he said. “She is as healthy as you or I.”
“But she cannot see to your parishioners as a minister’s wife should do.”
He shook his head. “I disagree with you. She can do so as well as anyone. Perhaps better, as unlike many of my parishioners, she has a heart full of compassion.”
Prue felt a vague discomfort at his words, though she could not have said why.
“Prue Winship, I am not a wealthy man, but I love your sister, and I desire to marry her. Please give us your permission.”
“I repeat, I cannot give it. I am not her father. I will speak to my husband and see what he says; and we will bring word to you as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” he said, and licked his small lower lip. “Perhaps, if I may be frank with you, I should indicate it is a matter of some urgency.”
The wind freshened, and the water seemed to be rushing by more quickly. Prue could hear the laughter and the rumble of conversation at van Nostrand’s landing, but could not make out its substance.
“Do you hear me plain?” he asked, and reached over to touch her elbow
Again, she felt the electrical current travel through her, though it felt milder now “I believe I do,” she said. “I will speak to Ben at once.”
“Thank you.” He brought her hand up to his face and kissed it, then let it go.
They walked back down the bridge in silence, and Prue could not feel her feet on the roadbed. She did not know if this was due to the cold or to the shock of what she believed she’d heard him say. He tied shut the gate inexpertly and asked, “Shall I see you home?”
“Heavens, no,” Prue said, thinking all the while she could not make the situation ordinary by pretending it was so. “It’s a short distance.” As he continued to watch her, she said, “We shall seek you out in the morning, have no fear.”
He bowed to her before heading the other way up the Shore Road.
Prue found herself uncertain where to go on the silent road. She had traveled from the works to Joralemon’s Lane on so many occasions, she thought her body should be able to walk the route without her mind’s intercession; but it was her body, at that juncture, seemed outside her control. Her mind was blank as the water she walked beside.
At home, she found a fire blazing in the kitchen, and Tem and Ben sitting before it, apparently in good spirits, and drinking gin.
“Where is Pearl?” Prue asked the moment she had closed the door behind her.
Ben rose to greet her and said, “Christ, you look ill. What did the minister say?”
“Where’s Pearl?”
“She and Abiah are changing her sheets,” Tem said, also rising to her feet.
Prue crossed the room to the half-open door, behind which Pearl was folding back an embroidered sheet over her quilt while Abiah had the turnscrew in the bedpost to tighten the ropes. They had a good fire going in the grate. Prue had never understood the rage that had possessed her father the night he’d dragged Pearl practically by the hair to apologize for the theft of the book; but although she could not explain herself, if she’d held a weapon in her hand at that moment, she believed she could have killed her sister.
“What did he want, love?” Ben asked, coming up behind her.
“Pearl,” Prue began, in as calm a tone as she could muster, “are you carrying the minister’s child?”
Abiah turned dumbstruck to look at Prue, and both Ben and Tem began exclaiming as if she’d gone mad, but Prue hushed them.
“Pearl?” she repeated.
Pearl tentatively raised both palms toward the ceiling, and her eyebrows followed.
Before Prue knew what she was doing, she lunged across the room and slapped her sister’s face. Pearl didn’t try to fend her off, but Ben was on her in an instant, wrapping one arm across her breastbone to pull her back. “Prue,” he said, “what are you thinking?”
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Prue said sharply to Pearl. Pearl recoiled at her tone. Prue had slapped her near her nose, and her left eye began to water, though she wasn’t crying. More quietly, Prue said, “Pick up your book.”
Pearl reached down and opened it, but stood saying nothing. After what seemed an eternity, she wrote a note, then held it out to Prue. I am not certin, it read, but I believe.
“Good Lord,” Ben said softly, and dropped his arm from across Prue’s chest.
Abiah said, “What has she written?” though she must have known the answer.
Tem, who had come into the doorway, said, “She believes herself with child.”
Abiah said, “Mercy.”
Pearl wrote, How does one know, without Fail? and held it out to Prue.
Prue shook her head no and said, “You must have reason to think it might be so?” The idea of Will Severn making sport with her sister was unbearable. She could neither imagine it nor drive it away.
Pearl wiped her nose on her sleeve, wrote, and held the book back up to her. Who are you to ask? it read.
Prue felt the embers of her anger continuing to smolder. “Your sister, and your guardian.”
She took it back to write, & when you & Ben hadyr Pleasure in the Haystacks all the Yeers before you were wed, to whm did you have to apologize? No one answered her, and she flipped to a new page and wrote, I’ve never once prqum’d to tell you how to manage Affqyrs.
“But you are not responsible for me,” Prue nearly spat at her. “You are the one has been marked since birth, and it is my duty to look after your welfare.”
Pearl hissed, and wrote, Mark’d because you mark’d me.
Prue read the words twice before she understood their import. “Pearl,” she said, “you cannot—”
But Pearl gave her a sharp “Ssst,” and went back to writing. Prue could not summon the words to object a second time.
Ben asked quietly, “What is this?” but Prue waited for Pearl’s response.
It came: I know you curs’d me in our mothr’ Womb. Is it not so? Her eye was still watering from the blow, and she brushed angrily at it.
As long as Prue had lived, she had striven to keep this knowledge from Pearl and from everyone else. She had regretted it as she regretted no other thing, and kept it locked away where not even her husband might know it. To have Pearl bring it out into the open so matter-of-factly, on a cold November evening, seemed strangely familiar—it was the thing Prue had most dreaded, and she had therefore already dramatized this scene in her imagination a thousand times—and yet uncanny, like a voice from the grave. She was horrified to know her sister knew of her crime, but Pearl’s admission also came as a kind of relief. What could Prue not tell her, if she knew this?
“How long have you known?” Prue asked. Though Ben and Tem were quiet, she could feel their confusion in the air behind her.
Always, Pearl wrote. Jobana told me, when I was small.
“And all these years, you’ve said nothing to anyone?”
She shook her head—equivocally, Prue thought—no.
Ben touched the back of Prue’s arm and asked again, “Sweet, what is this?”
“Not to Tem? Not to Mother nor Father?”
“I’ve no idea what you speak of,” Tem said.
Pearl shook her head with greater emphasis, and both her eyes filled with tears.
Prue’s own smarted, as if she were the one who’d been slapped. She looked at her sister, standing there ready to cry and no doubt pregnant, and Prue loved her more than anything in the world. She loved her more than Ben, more than her lost daughter, the distillery, or the dream of a bridge. “I am so sorry,” she said. She longed to pick her up and hold her. “I’m sorry, Pearlie,” she said again, and watched Pearl’s mouth open exactly as it had in the awful dream, and watched her white teeth shine as she cried.
“But what for?” Ben asked.
“I laid a curse on her when she was in the womb.” There was pleasure in saying what all these years she had striven to hide. “You see what was the result.”
“I don’t understand,” Tem said. “Were you five years old when Pearl was born?”
Prue turned and nodded to her. “Six.”
“Well, you can’t have put a curse on her.”
Pearl kept crying.
“Prue, are you listening? You may have wished her ill, but little girls can’t curse their sisters. Believe me, it’s not possible; had it been, I should have done it to you long ago.”
“But you see, it is what happened. I stood at the top of Clover Hill and wished with all my might for the Lord to smite her. And look what came to pass.”
“Lord have mercy,” Abiah said quietly, and excused herself from the room. A moment later, Prue heard the door to Abiah’s bedroom shut behind her. Prue thought she had gone in to pray.
Pearl flipped to a new page and wrote, Will you let me marry him?
“I don’t see I have any choice,” Prue said. “And I wouldn’t keep you from him, in any case.”
Pearl wiped mucus from her upper lip. And will you apologize?
“I have already done so, Pearl. I am sorrier for what I did to you than for any other thing I’ve done in my life.”
“Apologize for slapping her,” Ben said.
“Yes,” Prue said. “I am sorry. I’m ashamed of myself.”
Pearl weighed this a moment, then went to her wardrobe and gruffly unlatched the door.
“What are you doing?” Prue asked, but Pearl simply removed her other dress and a clean chemise, and laid them on the bed for a brisk and sloppy refolding. “Pearl,” Prue said. When Pearl did not respond, Prue grabbed for her arm, but Pearl pushed her off. “I am sorry. I’ve regretted what I did every day of your life.”
Tem said, “You’ve done nothing.”
“I love you more than I can say,” Prue said, but herself could hear how tinny the words sounded.
Pearl balled up a pair of stockings and threw them on top of her clothes. She wiped her nose again brusquely on her sleeve, and began to write. When she had finished the page, she tore it from the book and would have flung it at Prue, could paper be flung. Instead, it wafted to the floor. She continued to write as Prue bent to pick it up.
It read, How dare you acuse me of Immorality, when you yrself are the darkest Sinner in the Room? You might have said a Word,—one Word,—of Apology all this Time, & you’ve skulk’d around, hoping I would’n’t take you to Task. I wo’n’t,—
She tore off a second sheet, and this time held it out to Prue. —accept yr Apology. It is’n’t good enough.
“No,” Prue said, “please don’t go. I am sorry.” She wished there were some other way to phrase it, but it was all she could say. “You don’t know how I have suffered over this.”
Ben had read the notes over her shoulder and said to Pearl, “Please put that down.”
She had bent over for the pillow slip she had not yet worked onto her pillow. It was one she had embroidered herself, with flowers and vines.
Prue said, “I will not have you leave this house,” though she heard this ring false as well. How could she prevent her? Who was she to say?
Pearl shoved her clothes in the pillow slip, and took her extra pencils from her table and crammed them in on top. She was still crying, and obviously annoyed at herself for it. She twisted the bundle closed and held it against her chest.
“Put that down,” Prue said, and felt a new surge of anger when Pearl did not comply. “I demand that you put it down,” she said more forcefully, then grabbed for the bundle.
With one hand Pearl continued to grip tight to her possessions, and with the other she struck out at Prue with the blind viciousness of a cat. Her mouth was wide open, and she let out a rasping cry. When Prue tried to contain her, Pearl kept striking at her until at last she pushed her with enough force to send Prue stumbling a few steps back. Whether from the force of this exertion or simply from rage, she collapsed onto her mattress with her pillow slip in her arms, and continued to make her awful, inarticulate, nearly soundless howl. The fire continued to crackle, and the floorboards creaked as Prue resettled her weight, but a terrible silence seemed to reign in the room as Pearl gave vent to her anger and frustration. Prue did not know what to do or say. She did not want to see Pearl thus, yet could not avert her eyes from the spectacle. When she looked to her husband and to Tem, they appeared equally watchful and uncertain.
After a few minutes, Tem said, “Pearl? It won’t be so bad, you know. It isn’t so bad.” But when she tried to move closer to comfort her, Pearl’s hand shot out in warning, and Tem backed away.
Her howling soon subsided into sobs, and Prue longed to gather her into her lap. She knew Pearl would still fit; she knew comfort still resided in such an embrace. But she could not approach her. As the minutes passed, Pearl gradually gained control of herself, and drew her handkerchief from her pocket to blow her nose. Her face was red as blood, her eyes accusing. She took up her pad to write again, and for an agonizing moment everyone in the room was still. Then she returned the pencil to its hasp, stood slowly, and shook her fingers at Tem to ask her to move from the doorway. Without a word, Tem stepped aside.
“Please don’t go, Pearl,” Prue said, following her into the kitchen. She felt desperate—felt she would grab her and throw her down if she had to; but in the moment, she did not.
Pearl took the tinderbox their father had given her from the mantel and placed it inside her bundle. Then she pulled on her boots, took Tem’s coat from its peg, wrapped it over her shoulders, and walked out, leaving the door open behind her.
Abiah came out from her bedroom, and they all stood in the doorway, watching her cross the dead grass in the moonlight. Prue expected her at least to turn back to look at them, but she did not; she walked with a firm stride out into the Ferry Road, and was soon lost to sight.
Ben said, “Should I run after her?”
But Tem answered him, “I don’t see what good it would do if she wants to go.”
“She won’t stay away,” Ben said. He shepherded them all back in and shut the door against the November air. As they were all looking at him quizzically, he said, “This is her home.”
“I think she’ll go to him, Ben,” Prue said. “I reckon she’ll stay.”
“She’ll at least return to let us marry her from this house,” he said. Prue hoped he was correct.
“Why did she take my coat?” Tem asked. “Her own hangs there beside it.”
Prue looked at Pearl’s gray coat. She had thought it serviceable, but perhaps, on reflection, it was wearing thin at the seams. “She might have thought yours would be warmer,” she said, “or was a better coat,” and Tem shook her head.
They sat down to wait, as if there were any real possibility she would turn back. In the worried silence, Tem began pouring out gin; and when they had finished it all, she set out for the storehouse to bring up more. She had been gone only a few minutes, however, before she returned. “What’s wrong?” Prue asked. Her heart was in her throat, and though she tried to tell herself there was nothing over which to panic, she couldn’t calm herself.
“My keys were in my coat pocket,” Tem said. “I can’t get into the storehouse.”
Prue could not express her gratitude there was no worse news, though she could not imagine what it might have been. “Mine are on the peg,” she said, and Tem took them and went back down.
When she returned, they continued drinking; but Prue thought they could never distill a gin strong enough, nor could she drink sufficiently of it, to bring her the oblivion she sought. She wanted to obliterate everything: her queer reaction to Will Severn and his proposition; the way she had slapped Pearl; the curse she’d laid on her in the first place, and the horrible disposition that had led her to do so. She wished she could tear her own personality out by the roots. No liquor could make that possible.