Poison to Purge Melancholy (6 page)

“In the front bathroom upstairs. You can fetch it while I show you all around the house.” Still clutching my hand, she turned toward the doorway, so I had no choice but to go with her.

Beth Ann followed on my heels and Horse took up the rear, grinning, but looking less than happy.

“This is the original house,” Glad said as we climbed a single uneven step up into a closetlike pantry, its walls lined with shelves stocked with food boxes and cans, “built by Elizabeth’s father-in-law, Josiah Carson, sometime before 1750. The kitchen wing was added in 1796.”

We passed into the dining room, where she let go of my hand to strike a pose by the hearth. “This would have been the original kitchen. One can imagine Elizabeth here during the war years, cooking, spinning, sewing late into the evening by firelight, keeping her household together, and helping the cause any way she could while her husband Thomas was off with the army.”

And so our tour went. We imagined Elizabeth in her parlor, receiving Generals Washington and Rochambeau after the Yorktown campaign. The room now held a worn sofa facing two matching armchairs that flanked either side of the corner fireplace. Framed paintings leaned against the walls where, I presumed, they would eventually be hung.

No Christmas tree, though. The only decorations were single electric candles in the front windows. I told myself that Glad and Evelyn had just moved in and probably hadn’t had a chance to decorate. Of course, a poinsettia or two wouldn’t have taken any time at all. Then again, some people didn’t decorate or even put up their tree until Christmas Eve. Sure, that must be the explanation.

We traipsed down the hall and imagined Elizabeth in the room behind the parlor, which Glad said might have been used for some of the lodgers Elizabeth had taken in to make ends meet during the war. Beth Ann’s suitcase was here, on a double sofa bed that had already been made up for the night with a faded, multicolored star quilt. Beside the door, a vanity lamp sat on a bureau. Between the two windows was a pyramid of cardboard moving boxes, with labels like “summer clothes” and “photo albums.”

Next we climbed the stairs, imagining Elizabeth doing so to lovingly tuck her children into bed, even while Williamsburg was occupied by Cornwallis’s Redcoats. The wood of the treads was two-tone, nearly black with aged varnish on the edges, but worn down into a tan depression in the middle where centuries of feet had stepped.

Glad led us past a small stair that branched off at the landing, dismissing it with a wave. “Leads back to the kitchen wing. Would have been a solid wall there during the war.”

We were entering the first room at the top of the stairs when I had what I can only describe as a panic attack. So nasty was the feeling of anxiety that came over me, that I looked around the room for something to be afraid of, real or imagined. Martha Stewart might have been horrified by the mismatched double bed and bureau, 1960s Early American and Danish Modern, but I had no such decor sensitivities.

I controlled my fight-or-flight urge by leaning back against the door, ensuring that no bogeyman could get behind me, but I must have looked pretty wide-eyed, because Horse asked if I felt okay. For the first time, he was frowning.

“Just a headache,” I muttered truthfully enough, because the blood pounding in my ears felt like a pneumatic nail gun against my cranium.

“Let’s find that aspirin.” He wheeled around and I followed him across the top landing to the bathroom—a tiny chamber with tile and fixtures from the early twentieth century, the porcelain chipped and rust-stained.

Horse flicked on the light—a single bulb in a metal wall sconce—and tipped down the toilet seat cover, gesturing that I should sit. When I did, he took my head in his large hands, turning my face toward the light, gently pulling at my lower lids to examine my eyes. The panic departed, along with my headache.

Meanwhile, Glad poked her head into the room and continued her lecture. “My grandparents turned this room into a bath in 1918, but of course, originally, it was no such thing. Since it’s so small, Ev says it was probably used for storage. The odd thing is, we found screw holes in an eighteenth century paint layer on the door jamb of the room we were just in, which suggests it may have been kept locked at one time. But if
that
was the storage room, then what was this? A mystery, you see.”

“Ma, please,” Horse said impatiently, opening the wooden, egg-shell-white medicine chest over the sink and taking down the container of Ecotrin that rested between a tall bottle of store-brand antacid and a box of Band-Aids.

Glad blinked, at a loss for words. Hurt by his brusqueness? Or couldn’t she imagine Elizabeth taking aspirin?

“Hey,” Beth Ann called from the next room. “A cab pulled up out front.”

“Who could that be?” Glad headed for the stairs.

Horse glanced through the bathroom window as he reached for a Dixie Cup from the short stack that rested upside down in a little dish on one end of the sill. The other end was occupied by a blue nylon shaving kit and another small bottle of antacid, Mylanta this time. Was Glad’s cooking that bad?

“Foot’s here,” Hugh said. “I wonder where his car is. And his wife, for that matter.”

Standing, I craned my neck for a peek out the window. The man getting out of the taxi was tall like his brothers, but thin and dark. A black turtleneck was visible under a long, black overcoat. Black pants and shoes beneath. With one black-gloved hand, he adjusted the black-rimmed glasses on his nose, as if he couldn’t quite bring the house into focus. With all that black and his expression, he had the air of someone going to a funeral.

Horse filled the paper cup with water and handed it to me with the bottle of aspirin. “One now, one before bed. We’ll see if you feel better tomorrow.”

“A variation of ‘Take two aspirin and call me in the morning’?” I gulped the orange pill.

Ignoring me, he asked, “How long have you been getting lightheaded after climbing stairs?”

“I wasn’t lightheaded just now. I had a headache, that’s all.” Feeling afraid of nothing wasn’t a symptom of anything but insanity, so I kept that part to myself. “Though I did get a little winded climbing the hill up to the historic area this afternoon. More than I thought I should have.”

“Yeah?” He crossed his arms and gave me that scrutiny-à-la-Beth-Ann again, which I now mentally labeled the “Lee Analytical Gawk.” LAG for short. I could use it as a verb, the way my old boss used to make up verbs out of every noun he came across. I remember him saying “We need to incent our employees,” meaning “to give them incentives.” I pointed out to him that it sounded more like he was going to torch us.

But anyway, with the LAG on me, I imagined myself with all sorts of horrible medical conditions—gangrene, for instance. “Why? What’s causing the pain in my knees?”

“Hard to say without some tests. If it has to do with the ‘poor circulation’ that runs in your family, aspirin ought to help. If it does, I’ll let you know what to tell your doctor so he can send you for the right—”

“What’s wrong with her?” Beth Ann was back, standing in the doorway, her hands shoved into her sweatshirt pockets, and on her lips, an annoyed pout. A show of concern. I was touched.

“Nothing a little exercise won’t cure,” Horse said. “Maybe a change of diet, too.”

But I
did
exercise, I wanted to say, and my diet was mostly mega-healthy since everything I cooked for Miss Maggie had to be low fat, low cholesterol, and low sodium. He couldn’t expect me to give up chocolate, could he?

I didn’t have a chance to put the question to him because we all heard raised voices out in the street. We crowded the window for a look.

“Uncle Foot’s arguing with the driver,” Beth Ann said, needlessly, because we could see both men standing beside the cab. The driver’s arms were gesturing his outrage. Foot was composed. One gloved hand gripped the handle of a wheeled suitcase—black, of course. The other hand, closest to us, seemed clenched into a fist. Glad stood on the curb, a light cardigan thrown over her shoulders, talking to each man in turn.

Horse interpreted the commotion. “Foot’s come up with a reason not to pay the cabbie. Ma’s begging them not to make a scene in the street. Guess I’d better go fix things.”

He squeezed by me and Beth Ann backed out to let him into the hall. I’d glanced back out the window a moment, then realized Beth Ann had followed him, leaving me alone.

But I didn’t
feel
alone.

Hitting the light switch on my way out, I hurried down the stairs, putting on extra speed as I passed the panic-attack room. I could swear someone was in there. No, some
thing
.

“May grateful omens now appear
To make the New a happy year.”

—Carrier verse from the
Massachusetts Spy
, 1771

December 4, 1783—Mr. Akers in Richmond Road

Upon closer inspection, some
small distance from Brennan’s snuffbox, I espied his cloth pouch, still a quarter full of his blend. This I returned to the ground, for as I’ve said, his snuff was of the poorest tobacco, weakened by the addition of mint, and perhaps other herbs, since fine white particles were mingled into this batch. Moreover, the snuff had been ruined by the damp of the grass. The box, however, I pocketed, thinking it might collect a good price.

Perhaps I should have weighed at greater length why John Brennan discarded his two most constant companions, but my mind soon turned to other concerns. The first was the purchase of a penny loaf from a peddler at the college corner, so that I might break my fast as I walked. Then, afraid the cold air might snap my fiddle strings, I paused to open the case and loosen the pegs. Soon after, my attention was set to keeping my footing upon Richmond Road, still slippery in places with mud from the rain of Friday past. In the best of weather, a swift walk of little more than an hour should bring me to Fair Grove, the Akers’ farm. This day my journey would take half again as long.

In the drier spots, the face of Thomas Carson the elder seemed to float before my eyes. His children both favored him. A kind face, as I’ve said, until contorted in death. A result of cramp colic, so our company doctor had pronounced. Would that it had been so.

Troubled, I bent my musings to the more agreeable matter of which ditty to teach Mistress Polly at her lesson. By the time I’d come to Fair Grove, I’d settled upon “Sweet Is the Budding Spring of Love,” as fitting her range and tone, and having a lyric harmonious to her youth.

Noah Akers greeted me at his doorstep, seeming abashed that his garments were finer than my own, though his smile was broad. “Good to see you, Ben. And as usual, never without your fiddle. Beer for you?”

“I’d best take small, thank you. If I down strong beer before we commence, I should make no sense of your ledger.” I knew I should address him as “Mr. Akers” now that he’d become my employer, but I could not bring myself to do it. Noah had been one of my messmates during the last campaign, and we’d been through much together. Moreover, at eighteen years of age, he was a half decade my junior. But a fine lad he was—honest, stalwart, and loyal to his friends.

“Here are my sire’s papers,” he said, bringing me into his dining room, where he had spread the accounts of his estate upon the table. “Sit, Ben. I’ll fetch the brew and we’ll begin.”

Setting my case upon a chair, I surveyed the room while he was gone. The wallpaper, furniture, and draperies were all lesser mimics of those I’d seen in more affluent houses. His mother’s hand, no doubt.

While Noah was in the army, his sire had made shrewd gains, not the least of which had brought the family a parcel of land, the recompense of a gambling debt by a Tory departing posthaste for England. The elder Akers had perished during this last month, and his son had become a new, ill-prepared landowner, with a mother and three young sisters to support. Noah was better suited to the plow than the pen, and so had asked my assistance in the sorting out of his father’s business.

When he returned with brimming tankards, I asked, “One favor, sir?”

“Name it, Ben.”

“The Widow Carson believes I’ve come here to give you a lesson of introduction upon the violin. As new gentry, she presumes you would be in earnest to learn the arts of music and dance.”

He frowned as he set his burden down upon the table. “Mother has said I ought as well, but the price of tobacco was too low this harvest—”

“Yes, I know. The Virginia market is in excess and all export must sell through Robert Morris.”

“As you say,” he agreed, though in truth, Noah had little understanding of trade. As I said, better suited to the plow. “At present, all else is too costly. I’m sorry, Ben, but perhaps next year I should afford your instruction.”

“You mistake my purpose. I am well aware that no music master can now make a living, save among the very rich, who already employ their own masters. I have no intention of starving while trying to pursue an unprofitable trade. Yet, I desire Mrs. Carson to
think
I pursue it.”

“Ah.” Noah’s smile was restored, with a knowing glint in his eye. “I prefer younger maids myself, though for a seasoned woman, the widow is very handsome. All the more so for owning a house, eh?”

“She is, though I fear she abides my company because she believes me to be a music master. A mere clerk is not invited to fancy balls, you see.”