At the Water's Edge (24 page)

His words caused a bittersweet lump in my throat, my second of the day.

Although I couldn't see a thing, I knew exactly where he was. I could feel his presence, and for a moment I thought he might reach for me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still, waiting, hoping, yet also fearful.

When nothing happened, I said in a cracked voice, “Angus?”

“Aye?”

For a short time I thought I might say something, even though I didn't have a clue what, but the silence rose and overwhelmed me, a vast, oppressive thing that billowed around me until I was sealed within it.

“Thank you for helping me back to my room,” I finally said.

“I'd best get back to Meg now,” he said. “Sleep well, Maddie.”

A few seconds later, the door clicked shut behind him, and I was left gasping in the dark.

T
he next day, I stopped long enough to gather some clothes off the floor and get dressed before rushing to Meg's room. I was still trying to smooth the wrinkles from my skirt when I got there.

“Sorry I'm so late,” I said, batting at the creased material. “I guess I really did have some sleep to catch up on, but with any—”

I glanced up, expecting to see Anna. Instead, I found an old woman with peppery hair sitting in the chair. She was knitting up a storm:
clickity-clickity-click
went her needles, which were fed by an endless strand of yarn that coiled out from a carpetbag beside her. A sock was forming beneath them.

She peered at me over the top of her wire-framed spectacles. “I suppose you'll be the one from America, the one Anna's been talking about. Maddie Hyde, is it?”

“Yes. That's me.”

“I'm Mrs. McKenzie, Anna's mother, but the folk around here call me Mhàthair. You might as well too. When it comes right down to it, we're all Jock Tamson's bairns.”

I moved closer to Meg. “How is she?”

“Taking a bit of soup when she's awake, and also sipping tea.”

“One of your teas?”

“Aye. I've left some more with Rhona. Try to get as much of it down her as you can. It's for the bruising and swelling, and will only work for the first couple of days. Then I'll bring another.”

Mhàthair's needles never stopped moving, even when she was looking at me. I stared in fascination at the partial sock.

“Where's Anna?”

“At the croft. She'll be back later. Angus said you'd had a rough night, so I stayed on a wee bit to let you rest.”

“Thank you.”

“And now you're to get yourself down to the table. You've nowt on your bones at all. I've seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow.”

It seemed Angus had told everyone about my fainting spell, because minutes after I sat down, Rhona shuffled out of the kitchen with a plate of scrambled eggs, a large slice of ham, and a heap of fried potatoes. She set the plate down, pointed at it, and then pointed at me.

She had just gone back into the kitchen when Hank and Ellis breezed through the front door. They were smiling, freshly shaven, and enveloped in a cloud of cologne. Ellis looked preternaturally pink and healthy—it didn't seem possible given what he'd looked like the day before.

When they headed toward me, my heart began to pound. I felt like my mother-in-law's canary, trapped in its ever-shrinking cage.

“Good morning, darling girl,” said Hank, plopping himself onto a chair. “Did you miss us?”

“Morning, sweetie,” said Ellis, kissing my cheek.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I couldn't believe he thought we could go back to pretending nothing was wrong. Even Hank should have realized that things were too far gone, but he barreled on with whatever silly game he was playing.

“So did you?” Hank asked.

“Did I what?”

“Miss us? You know—because you love us and we spent the night at the Clansman? Don't tell me you didn't notice.” He blinked at me expectantly, then dropped his jaw in outrage. “Oh my God. You
didn't
notice. Ellis, your wife didn't even notice we were missing.”

“I
did
notice.”

“But you didn't miss us?”

“I'm sorry. I was a little busy,” I said.

“Busy
sleeping
is what we heard,” Ellis said with a grin. “We swung by to collect you in the afternoon, but the girl—not the injured one, the slow one from the kitchen—said you were having a nap. Apparently you needed it. You still look a bit peaked.”

I'm sure I did—I hadn't done my hair and face in two days. He, on the other hand, looked like the picture of health. I didn't understand how that was possible. Had he come across someone with nerve pills at the Clansman? Certainly something had happened to restore the apples to my husband's cheeks.

“You didn't miss much,” Hank said, lighting a cigarette. “Its only advantage over this dump was that it was open and we were starving. But wait—what's this?” He looked at my plate in wide-eyed amazement. “Ellis, maybe we should have stayed here after all. I haven't seen a breakfast like this since we were on the right side of the pond.”

“Looks good,” said Ellis, reaching over and helping himself. “Anyway, darling, go pack a few things and slap on some war paint. We're going on a road trip.”

“We're what?” I said.

Hank also snagged some potatoes, popping them in his mouth.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “These are really good.” He licked his fingers and reached for more.

“Anyway,” Ellis continued, “we're going to Fort Augustus. One of the old farts at the Clansman last night told us the abbey there has manuscripts that describe the very earliest sightings of the monster. Apparently one of Cromwell's men saw it around 1650—he recorded seeing ‘floating islands' in his log, but since there are no islands on the
loch, the only possible thing he could have been seeing was the monster—maybe even several of them, which is interesting for all kinds of reasons. There are also Pictish carvings of the beast, which probably contain clues as well. There's obviously some pattern we haven't figured out yet, and it could be something as simple as migratory—it's a bit like code breaking, very complicated, but we're definitely circling it. In fact, we're so close I can practically taste it.”

I stared, unable to believe he'd just compared what they were doing to code breaking, or anything else related to the war.

“I can't go,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because I have to look after Meg.”

Ellis leaned back and sighed. “Darling, you
can't
look after Meg. But if it makes you feel any better, we can hire a nurse.”

“But I promised Angus—”

Outrage flashed across his face. “
Angus?
And when, exactly, did Blackbeard become Angus to you? Good Lord, Maddie. I can't even remember how many times I've warned you about getting friendly with the help.”

“Fine. I promised
Captain Grant
that I would help look after Meg.”

Ellis's expression switched from indignation to painfully aggrieved. He tore his eyes away. “That was uncalled for.”

“How was that uncalled for?” I went on. “He
is
a captain. Which means he's a commissioned officer—hardly ‘the help.' ”

“Regardless of rank, he's a poacher and a common criminal, and I don't understand why everyone around here, including, apparently, my own wife, seems to think he's such a hero,” he said.

“Because he
is
a hero. You know nothing about him.”

“And you do?” he asked.

I stared straight ahead, at the far wall.

Ellis leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table, donning the insufferable face he always did when he decided my opinions were a result of mental frailty.

“I understand that you care about Meg and want to make sure she recovers,” he said patiently, “but there's absolutely no reason you have to do it personally.”

“But I do. She's my friend.”

“She's not your friend. She's a barmaid.”

“Who happens to be my friend.”

Ellis hung his head and sighed. After several seconds, he looked back up.

“I know you're in a delicate state right now, but I wish you could see what is really happening.”

“I'm not in a delicate state. I'm
fine
.”

“But you're not fine, darling,” he said. “You threw out your medication, you're having delusions, you're forgetting your station in life—please don't misunderstand, I'm not blaming you. I know it's not your fault. These are all symptoms of your condition. But these people
will
take advantage of you, if they haven't already, and as your husband, it's my duty to protect you. There's a hospital in Fort Augustus, quite well known, actually…I thought maybe you could check in for a while, just until you're back on an even keel.”

With a bone-deep sense of dread, I realized he was planning to have me locked up. He hadn't just come up with a solution that would provide him with endless pills, he'd also come up with a solution that would dismiss anything I might say about his color blindness—his behavior in general—as a figment of my diseased imagination. As an added bonus, he would appear to be a loyal, martyred husband, deserving of pity and respect.

Poor, poor Ellis, saddled with mad, mad Maddie. The things he must have borne, and he never once let on. Such a shame—it was a love match, you know, against his parents' wishes, and then to have her turn out like her mother…

Everyone would shake their heads, demonstrating the appropriate level of sadness, while simultaneously feeling the thrill of vindication, because they'd all known it was inevitable. And then, one by one, the matrons of Philadelphia high society would make pilgrimages to
the mansion on Market Street to snivel condolences at Edith Stone Hyde, who would hold up admirably, while secretly reveling in having been proved right.

I wondered if Ellis pictured me locked safely in the attic during all of this, like the crazy first wife of Mr. Rochester, except drugged into submission.

The icing on the cake, the sheer beauty of his plan, was that I'd still be alive, so he wouldn't even have to marry again. It would be Hank's turn to put on a show. Poor Violet. I wondered if she'd slip as naïvely into the role as I had, and if she'd ever recognize it for what it was.

But Ellis's otherwise masterfully crafted solution had one enormous flaw: unless the Colonel forgave him, he would not be present at his mother's side to lap up sympathy. Without the Colonel's absolution, he still had nothing. Ellis had more at stake than ever in finding the monster.

There was an
Aroogah!
from the street.

“That's George. We should go,” said Hank, getting up.

“Please come with us,” Ellis said, looking me right in the eyes. “I'm begging you.”

Aroogah!

“Ellis, we have to go,” said Hank.

“Darling, please change your mind,” Ellis entreated.

I shook my head.

After a pause, he climbed to his feet.

“I hate leaving you like this, even if it's only for a few days. But if you won't come, I have no choice. One way or another, we have to wrap this thing up so we can go home and get a fresh start.”

“Your plan won't work,” I said quietly. “They won't lock me up, because I'm not insane. I never have been.”

He smiled sadly. “I'll see you in a few days, darling. Take care of yourself.”

A few days. I had only a few days to come up with some way of extricating myself from this tangled mess, because despite my bravado,
I wasn't at all sure he couldn't have me committed. And he certainly wouldn't let me divorce him—the proceedings would reveal all kinds of things he'd do anything to keep under wraps.

In the late afternoon, during one of Meg's waking moments, she asked for a mirror.

Anna and I exchanged glances.

“Why don't we give it a few days?” said Anna. “Give Mhàthair's tea a chance to do its work.”

“I want to see,” said Meg. “I already know it's going to be bad.”

Anna looked at me in dismay, and I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't see how we could refuse.

“Well,” Anna said, “in that case, let's get you tidied up a bit.”

She worked at loosening and wiping away the yellowish crust that continued to ooze from the cuts around Meg's mouth and eye. I got my hairbrush, which had softer bristles than Meg's, and ran it carefully over her hair, taking pains to avoid the raw area, trying gently to encourage a wave or curl to form. Anna stood in the background, chewing her nails.

When I handed Meg the mirror, she looked into it and turned her face from side to side. She lifted her fingers to her ruined cheek, tracing the outline of the stitched-up gash, before hovering over the deep new hollow. Then she set the mirror on the bed and wept.

T
wo days later, Dr. McLean decided to replace Meg's morphine with a bright red tonic.

As he put the syringes in a box with the remaining morphine, he paused and knitted his brow. He pushed the ampoules, both empty and full, around with his finger.

“Well, that's very odd,” he finally declared. “I would have sworn I brought more than this. There should be four left. You've not accidentally double-dosed her, have you?”

“I should think not,” replied Angus, with more than a little affront.

“No, of course not,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “I must have miscounted.”

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I knew exactly where they'd gone, and why Ellis had looked so improbably healthy.

When Anna saw the tonic, she nodded in satisfaction. To her, it indicated that everything was just a little more right with the world.

To Meg, it meant she could no longer sleep through the pain. Additionally, Dr. McLean insisted that deep breathing was no longer enough. Now Meg also had to get up and shuffle the length of the hallway twice a day to ward off blood clots.

Meg bore this bravely, but it was clear that every step was agony. Anna and I would flank her, holding her elbows, and giving encouragement. When we got her back to her room, we'd help her into the chair, where she'd sit stiffly until she felt up to the task of lying back down, because lying down required using the muscles in her abdomen and back. Lifting, laughing, coughing, breathing—all of it caused pain.

Rhona had been a constant presence since the morning after Meg's injury, and she and Mhàthair made continuous adjustments to the soup we spooned into her. We consumed it as well, and its ever-changing nature was a source of mystery to me. One time, a pile of tiny lime-green leaves appeared on the corner of the big table in the kitchen. I fingered them absentmindedly, thinking they might be mint. They turned out to be the first spring shoots of stinging nettle, and I had to sit for hours with my hands submerged in a bowl of snow. This amused Anna and Meg no end, although Meg finally called an end to the merriment because she couldn't bear the pain of laughing anymore. What they didn't notice was that my laughing had turned to crying.

There was no getting around it—a few days meant three, four at most. My grace period was almost up.

Four days turned into five, and then six, and there was still no sign of Ellis and Hank. I almost wished they'd return just to get it over with, because a bolt of terror ran through me every time the front door opened.

Nights were even worse. My brain turned and turned, robbing me of sleep, yet I couldn't come up with a single solution. I had no money at all, either in a bank or on my person, so even if I'd known how to
bribe my way onto another freighter, I didn't have the means. I also had nowhere to go at the other end.

Although there was no longer any need, I continued to sleep in Meg's room. I was afraid that Ellis would come back and look for me in mine.

On the seventh day, when Rhona began assembling game pies, I realized Angus was reopening the inn.

I didn't see how he could. Even if Rhona prepared all the food, Meg was weeks away from being able to carry trays, and Rhona was simply too frail. Angus couldn't possibly serve and clear tables as well as tend bar.

When I came downstairs, he had the front door propped open and was taking down the sign, collecting the tacks between his lips.

“Is everything all right?” he mumbled, glancing at me.

“Yes. Everything's fine. I just wanted to ask something.”

“Ask away.”

“I notice you're reopening the inn, and I wondered if I could help. It's too much for one person, and Meg says she'll be all right on her own for a few hours, as long as I leave her with a book.”

Angus spat the tacks into his hand and shut the door.

“And what do you think your husband would make of that?”

“He'd hate it. In fact, he'd forbid it. But he's out of town.”

“I had actually noticed that,” he said with a quick laugh. “But for how long?”

“I'm really not sure,” I said. “I thought he'd be back a few days ago.”

“And if he were to come back and find you behind the bar?”

“There would be a scene, but I'm afraid that would be the least of my worries.”

Angus dropped the tacks onto the nearest table and looked at me.

“Maddie, is there something I should know? Because I can't help if I don't know.”

I wanted to tell him, but there was nothing he could do.

There was a long silence as Angus continued to stare at me, his hands on his hips, his expression stern.

“It's complicated,” I finally said, “and when it comes right down to it, I don't think anyone
can
help me.”

“You're sure, are you?”

I nodded and said, “I'm pretty sure, and in the meantime, I'm trying not to think about it. So what do you say? Can I distract myself by helping with the dinner service?”

“I'd be grateful for the help,” he said, his voice still serious. “And if you change your mind and want to tell me what's going on, you know where to find me.”

A few minutes before six, when I was expected downstairs, I paused at Meg's door. I'd helped her move to the chair a little earlier, when she'd decided to read. Apparently sitting ramrod straight was more comfortable than being propped up in bed.

“I'm going down now. Do you want me to get you anything first? Touch up your tea, or move you back to the bed?”

She looked at me over the spine of
Died in the Wool
, then set it facedown in her lap.

“Is that what you're wearing?”

“It was,” I said, glancing down at myself. I was in a navy blue dress that I hoped would be forgiving of stains, and shoes that were low enough that I probably wouldn't trip.

She tsked and frowned. “You look like you've come from a funeral, for goodness' sake! You're supposed to lighten their mood, not darken it—change into something more appropriate, and then come back.”

“But they'll start arriving any minute,” I protested.

“Angus can pull pints while you make yourself presentable,” she said firmly. “At least you've done your hair and makeup,” she added in a mutter, returning to her book.

I stood in front of my closet and considered my options. I picked
out a periwinkle rayon dress with a pleated skirt and matching belt, and a pair of shoes whose heels were high enough to lengthen my calves, but that I hoped would not hinder my balance or speed.

Moments later, I stood in Meg's doorway with my hands on my hips.

“Will I do?” I asked.

I meant it rhetorically, but she ran a critical eye over the whole of me, from my hair to my toes and back again.

“Turn around,” she said, stirring a finger in the air.

I obliged, even as I heard the first customers arrive.

“The lines up your legs are a little crooked,” she said. “But otherwise, you'll do nicely.”

Although I had visions of china crashing to the floor and dinners sliding into laps, I was not a complete disaster. It was certainly awkward: everyone who came in was clearly taken aback at finding me behind the counter. I'm not sure they quite realized what was going on until they saw Angus tutor me on pulling pints and measuring drams, and I was the one to deliver them. In the moments between orders, I didn't know what to do with my hands, or even where to look. I felt like I'd been thrown naked onstage and forgotten all my lines.

When the curious and mischievous among them began placing orders with me directly, they addressed me as Mrs. Hyde, even though Angus was openly calling me Maddie. It was a strange night for names all around, because when the lumberjacks finally began to trickle in—they usually arrived in a raucous crowd—they were subdued and addressed Angus consistently as either Captain Grant or Sir. I thought they must be testing the waters, to see if they were still welcome.

Willie the Postie was the only one to make a direct comment. He came to a dead stop just inside the door when he saw me. Then he marched up to the bar.

“What's this, then?” he said, looking me up and down. “Are my eyes deceiving me?”

“What'll it be then, Willie?” said Angus, ignoring the question. “The usual?”

“Aye,” Willie said, continuing to eye me suspiciously.

I got so that I could pull a pint without half of it being foam, and tried to remember what Meg did when there was a lull. I topped up the water pitchers, took empty glasses back to the kitchen, and wiped the bar until my wrists ached, but what Meg did that I couldn't was chat and flirt and anticipate orders.

There was not a single local who didn't ask after her, although they did it individually and discreetly. It was clear they knew what had happened, although Rory's name was never spoken. Angus simply said that while she was improving, she was still feeling poorly, and that he'd pass along their good wishes. To a one, they responded with serious nods and expressions that underscored a wordless rage.

The lumberjacks did not ask, and their discomfort increased as the night wore on. It seemed to me they were trying to figure out if they should leave, and probably would have been relieved to do just that.

Conall was at his usual place by the fire, and by his hopeful look I realized he expected me to join him. His eyes followed me wherever I went, and over the course of the evening—when it finally dawned on him that I wasn't coming to sneak him bits of my dinner—he lost faith and dropped his head on the stones. It was all I could do to not take him a little something. We had a pact, and I felt terrible about breaking it.

When all the tables and stools were occupied, and I was running back and forth between the front room and the kitchen, the hours began to fly. Before I knew it, everyone had eaten, I'd cleared the tables, and hadn't broken anything. I'd spilled just two drinks, and only one of them had landed on a customer—the piper, Ian Mackintosh, who was entirely gracious about it.

When nine o'clock rolled around, and Angus tuned the wireless to the nightly broadcast, I paused in the doorway to listen.

The Red Army was drawing ever closer to Berlin, and had cut railway lines and roads that led to the city. Dresden may have already been reduced to rubble, but the Allied Forces continued to bomb Germany “night and day,” in the words of the announcer. British troops had taken Ramree, an island in Burma, and an important battle had begun on Iwo Jima, an island close to mainland Japan.

I slipped away before I could hear the number of casualties.

Rhona had the dishes stacked next to the sink, and I stood beside her to help. She seemed to have shrunk over the course of the evening, and was moving even more slowly than usual. If we'd shared a language, I'd have suggested that she rest her feet and let me do the dishes.

Conall had slipped in behind us, and when the last plate was washed, he heaved a heartbroken sigh and collapsed by Angus's bed, as though my cruelty had deprived him of the energy to even jump up.

If I'd done the dishes on my own, I would have let him lick a few.

After everyone left, I took a bowl of the latest incarnation of soup upstairs, along with a half pint of beer.

“Knock, knock,” I said, although Meg's door was open. “I brought you a little something.”

She'd made her way back to the bed and lay facing the far wall.

“Unless it's morphine, I don't want it.”

I put the bowl and glass down and sat next to her. She'd lost what little color she'd had earlier in the day.

“What happened? I thought you were feeling a bit better.”

“I was,” she said. “I think I overdid it.”

“I brought you some soup. Do you want to move back to the chair?”

“No. I think the chair is what did me in.” She raised herself onto an elbow, slowly, haltingly. It was painful to watch. “Just stick a pillow behind me. So, how did it go downstairs?”

“I think it went fine,” I said. “I only doused one person.”

I held the soup under Meg's chin and fed her half a spoonful. She
winced, manipulating her jaw carefully. Earlier in the day, Rhona had added finely diced pieces of potato and leek, along with a few other vegetables.

“Do you want me to pick the vegetables out?”

“No. I can mush them around. I just have to be careful.”

“Have a sip of beer,” I said, putting the soup down and handing her the glass. “Someone wise once told me that it builds blood.”

“Maybe she wasn't so wise after all,” Meg said with a wry smile. She took a swallow and gave it back. “So, when I asked how it went, what I really meant was…”

She fell silent. After a few seconds, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

I finally comprehended what her earlier surge of liveliness and corresponding collapse had been about.

“No, he didn't come, and I don't think he will. I don't think he'd dare.”

She nodded and blinked. Her eyelashes were moist.

“I'm so sorry, Meg.”

“Aye,” she said, sniffing. “I suppose I knew that, and I suppose it's for the best, but God help me, in spite of everything, I still love him. It's not something you can just turn off.”

I held her hand.

“So you really don't think you can fix things up with your husband?” she asked.

A sickening feeling spread through me. “I beg your pardon?”

“Anna said you were getting a divorce. Please don't be angry—it's just she's never met a divorcée.”

“She still hasn't! And she probably won't, because I'm not getting one!”

“You're angry!” Meg said with a sudden sob. “I shouldn't have said anything.”