A Whisper in Time (14 page)
I had to agree with Phoebe. Jacob had always been the most admirable member of the Worth family. I’d never seen him without a ready smile—except, perhaps, with Deborah. But then, her relentless pursuit of him years ago would have irritated even the kindest soul.
Jacob announced his plans to go to the College of William and Mary in the mournful tones of a man facing prison. When I inquired why he sounded so distressed, he replied that his father wanted him to study to be an attorney while Jacob preferred to pursue the life of a farmer
.
Perhaps if anyone else had said such a thing, I would have been surprised, but it sounded like the most natural desire in the world coming from Jacob Worth
.
We spent a pleasant ride discussing his plans. He would never be permitted to farm Mr. Worth’s land. Solomon Worth had a prior claim as the elder son. Yet Jacob showed little concern. He had no interest in raising tobacco
.
“I should like to try my hand at orchards,” he told me. Jacob remembered his one visit to the mountains as glorious, and longed to return and claim a bit of rich land for growing trees of apples and cherries
.
I told him it sounded quite beautiful, a comment as polite as it was honest, for I did like the sound of mountains even though I knew they were something I was unlikely to ever see
.
Mark loved the mountains dearly enough to want to attend college there. I had seen photographs, and they did look beautiful, but my mind could not conceive of their size.
Truly, the mountains of North Carolina and Virginia were something I didn’t wish to ponder.
As the journal continued, another year passed in my sister’s life—a year of embroidering linens, scarves, and sleeves. A year where her housemaid chores lightened with the arrival of another housemaid.
April 24th, 1800
Mr. William has journeyed home. He arrived on horseback from New Bern, after a voyage aboard a fast clipper ship. Senator and Mrs. Eton are wreathed in smiles to see him. A great family feast was arranged for this Sunday past after they returned from church. Mrs. Cornelia Whitcomb, Mr. John Eton, the Eton daughters, and the grandchildren filled the house with noise and laughter
.
This morning, as I brought Mrs. Eton her tea, I discovered Mr. William had arisen early to join his mother for breakfast. As I served his meal, he asked when I would be leaving their household
.
Mrs. Eton’s response surprised even me. “I believe that today is Phoebe’s sixteenth birthday. We are but a year away from the time I plan to end her indenture.” She went on to say that she intended to assist me in finding a position outside their household—perhaps even with Mrs. Simpson
.
I swallowed a gasp at this statement. To work in Mrs. Simpson’s establishment would be a greater honor than I could have imagined. I would work on beautiful ball gowns. Perhaps, if I were truly fortunate, Mrs. Simpson would permit me to try my hand at elegant headpieces
.
With the tea poured and the dishes laid, I hurried from the room, my mind already dancing through daydreams of my future
.
I paused to reflect on an interesting bit of information that had appeared in this entry. Mrs. Eton would release Phoebe on her seventeenth birthday, not the eighteenth as the contract had been written. That was very kind. I wondered how long Phoebe had known.
July 15th, 1800
Senator Eton hails from Charleston, a city whose citizens hold themselves in higher esteem than they deserve. His sister, who still lives there, has sent her stepdaughter, Miss Margaret Dunwoodie, to stay with the Etons for the summer
.
I do understand why Mrs. Dunwoodie sent her to us. It cannot be pleasant to live with Miss Margaret yearlong. I anticipate that, as the weather grows hotter, we shall suffer ever more greatly from the sharp sting of her tongue
.
* * *
September 25th, 1800
Miss Margaret’s birthday ball is nearly upon us. She has planned each detail and then set them all aside for a new list. Our housekeeper is ever patient and tries to please her, but truly, there is no pleasing that one
.
Her lady’s maid claims that her ball gown is the loveliest ever sewn
.
Snow-white from its neckline to hem, embroidered with whitework fleur-delis, enjoying a train. I cannot believe this claim, though. Mrs. Eton is never outshone
.
Our newest calamity is the weather. Miss Margaret had hoped to set up the refreshments in the garden, but Mrs. Eton has dissuaded her. We have had several uncommonly hard rains of late, and the ground is quite soft
.
Miss Margaret, thankfully, has agreed with the wisdom of this suggestion
.
* * *
September 30th, 1800
My hand trembles to hold the quill, but I am anxious to record my thoughts while they are still fresh
.
Mid-evening, I was pulled from my duties serving food at the ball and ordered back to the kitchen
.
Mrs. Jasper awaited me, her usual unflappable nature nowhere in evidence. With a sharp command, she beckoned me to follow her, explaining that Mrs. Eton had particularly requested my skills with the needle. I changed my apron and hurried to keep up
.
Mrs. Jasper spoke in short, piqued bursts about an unfortunate situation that had occurred only moments before. Miss Margaret’s clumsy dance partner had stepped on her gown and ripped it most dreadfully
.
The housekeeper led me to the family parlor on the ground floor of the main house. Miss Margaret stood near the mantle, the fire illuminating the skirt of her gown, her legs thin smudges of shadow beneath it. The gown had torn near its train, through the heavy embroidery of the hem, a rough tear that rose to mid-leg
.
She frowned at our entrance, hissing that it was time for her birthday dance and for us to be quick about our business. Mr. William was to be her partner
.
I rushed to her side, knelt, and assessed the damage, my heart sinking at the sight. It would be impossible to hide the repair. When I murmured an estimate of ten minutes of stitching, Mrs. Jasper reminded me that excellent work was more important than the clock
.
Miss Margaret had decided, no doubt, that I failed her expectations and stepped out of reach. I hesitated, unsure what to do
.
“What progress has been made?” Mrs. Eton asked as she floated into the room, dressed like an angel in gossamer white. Her gown had been trimmed with golden lace, each swag held in place by rosettes of gold ribbon. It was a glorious garment
.
Neither the housekeeper nor I needed to reply. It was evident from the stiff manner in which Miss Margaret held herself apart that no progress would be made without the intervention of Mrs. Eton. She gestured at Mrs. Jasper and bade her bring white thread, a delicate needle, and pins
.
“Aunt Abigail, why do you let a housemaid touch my gown?”
My mistress chided her niece, reproof clear in her tone. “Phoebe has the most clever fingers in Raleigh. Your gown could be in no better hands.”
Such a remarkable statement from Mrs. Eton. I shall cherish it always.
My mistress perched carefully on the sofa and asked if the repair would be noticeable. When I nodded, the young lady made an undignified squawk
.
Mrs. Jasper returned shortly and handed over the requested items. Her gaze flicked to our guest, her expression strained
.
Mrs. Eton talked lightly with her niece. The young lady’s sulky tone faded away as the topics turned to the success of the ball and Miss Margaret’s glad surprise at the sophistication of the people of Raleigh
.
It took me more time than I’d predicted, no doubt in part because Miss Margaret was incapable of remaining still
.
I had completed the work and was making my final knot when she jerked at the folds of her skirt
.
It was a disastrously timed movement. The needle leapt from my control and plunged into my right thumb. I fell back, cupping my injured hand, lips pressed to hold in my cry of pain. I focused my gaze straight ahead and noted with horror that my blood stained the hem of the dress
.
“Oh, you stupid, stupid girl.”
The young lady’s shrieks only added to my shame
.
“Aunt Abigail, how can you let her take advantage of your kindness? The time you spent pretending to be a maid during the war has made you overindulgent—”
With a sharp word, Mrs. Eton silenced her niece even as she crossed to my side. She took my hand in hers and studied my thumb carefully. Her face reflected her concern
.
The parlor door creaked open to reveal Miss Judith and Mr. William. At the sight of her stepcousins, our guest became all elegant posture and liquid smiles
.
Mrs. Eton wordlessly offered my hand to her son. He considered it a moment with a critical eye. After frowning toward his mother, he murmured that he hoped it would not cause me distress. Mrs. Eton shook her head and vowed to watch the injury for me
.
I nodded, awed by her generosity on my behalf
.
Briskly, she asked me if anything could be done to hide the blood stain on the dress. I assured my mistress that, indeed, with a bit of white ribbon, I could add the same type of rosette that adorned her gown
.
For the first time all evening, Miss Margaret expressed delight
.
And so the incident ended, with light praise from my mistress and a smile from her son
.
I did not care for Miss Margaret’s airs, but I could not suppress a sigh of pride at my handiwork on her gown
.
Phoebe had written in a larger script, no doubt attributed to her injury, and it took up a page and one-half of the journal. By contrast, the following pages held short entries.
October 3rd, 1800
Three days have passed and still my thumb aches. It is swollen and hot. Even Mrs. Eton’s ointments and soothing teas have not helped
.
I fear that something is wrong
.
The pain makes my hand tremble. I shall perform no more delicate work until this affliction has passed
.
* * *
October 6th, 1800
The prick from the night of the ball will not let me go
.
Tonight, as I was leaving the dining room with a tray of soiled dishes, my mistress beckoned to me from the parlor doorway
.
I obeyed but stayed out of view of the family
.
“I sense great pain, Phoebe. Are you using my remedies?” At my nod, she took my hand. “Despite our efforts, an infection has taken hold. We must do something before it is too late.”
She asked advice from Mr. William, and he suggested bleeding the finger. Mrs. Eton will hear none of it. Instead, she has given Mrs. Jasper another stronger remedy to aid me.
I do not know what to do. I can barely hold the quill
.
On the next page, I was shocked by what I saw. Huge letters, punctuated by large blots, each letter formed more like carvings than writing.
The meaning of the words was far more ominous.
October 9th, 1800
My thumb has swollen to the size of a fat sausage. It oozes dreadfully. The quill slips so that I cannot hold on much longer
.
Mrs. Eton has given me fearsome news. The infection has spread disastrously. Even now, it pushes me along the path toward death. The remedy is to sever my thumb
.
I must decide now. Tonight
.
It is a simple enough decision. I shall, of course, trade my finger for my life, although it appalls me to form the words of assent
.
Mrs. Eton has asked Mr. William to perform the amputation. I am glad it will be he, for I have known and admired him all of these years. He will do his best to save as much of my hand as possible, of this I have no doubt
.
Oh, dear Lord, I am frightened. My hands are my voice—the only way I can sing.
What will become of me?
I snapped the lid down on the laptop and hopped to my feet. Tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall.
Yet, my sister’s own question spun through my mind. What became of Phoebe?
There were a few images left on the DVD for that final journal, but I knew great reluctance to read them. Phoebe’s once-bright future had dimmed at the twitch of a skirt.
I left the apartment and tiptoed down the steps. On swift feet, I crossed the green velvet of the back lawn and tread on the prickly pine straw at the greenway’s edge until I reached the muddy trail. Careful in the faint gray light of dawn, I picked my way through the trees, ignoring the thump of my heart as I approached Rocky Creek.
It was my first visit since the day of my escape. The early hour made it difficult to see clearly. I had to experience this place instead with my other senses. The earthy scent of free-flowing water, musty rock, and decaying leaves. The heavy coolness of the forest. The muffled murmurs of the night creatures.
As I had throughout my youth, whenever I needed solace, I returned to the falls.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
C
OLORED
BY
THE
E
MOTIONS
I’d been a complete dick to Susanna last night, and I wanted to make things right with her before I left for school. I cut my early-morning training ride short to give us a few extra minutes together at breakfast. After showering and changing, I hurried to the kitchen, but there was no sign of her. Biting back disappointment, I went carefully upstairs to the apartment, not wanting to awaken her if she slept.
Her door was ajar, only Susanna wasn’t inside. It was neat as always, yet it had an abandoned feel.
I crossed to the back window. She wasn’t sitting in Mom’s garden.
She must be seriously upset if she wasn’t in the apartment or the back yard. I called the lake house.
