The Spirit Room (48 page)

“
Be careful out in the cold. It’s frostbite weather. The wind makes it worse.”

When they stepped out the front door, the wind tore right through Clara’s layers of clothing and chilled her, sending goose bumps over every inch of her body. The wind stung like a slap at her face. Her bonnet blew off her head, but the tied strings kept it from flying away.

Mrs. Purcell escorted them over the snow-crusted front path to the street, then kissed them both again. As they set off down toward Main Street, it was so blustery that they had to lean forward and take small steps just to get anywhere at all. Euphora kept repeating, “It’s colder than Sam Hill. It’s colder than Sam Hill.” At the corner of William and Main, they both looked back down the frozen white street. Mrs. Purcell waved farewell, her hand high in the air. Clara felt tears flood up.

Did they really have to do this? Wasn’t there another way to stay with Mrs. Purcell in the cozy, brick house with the gardens? She tried to swallow again. This time her throat performed. It wasn’t safe, though, not as long as Papa was there.

“
I have to stop at the Spirit Room for my savings.”

Euphora’s blue eyes widened with alarm. “We’ll miss the boat. Why didn’t you do it yesterday?”

“
I was afraid Papa might find it. We have to stay quiet so Mrs. Beattie doesn’t hear us.”

When they got to the Spirit Room, Clara directed Euphora with nods of her head and hand signals to clear the furniture away from the secret floorboard. They managed to pry the board out and settle it softly on the floor. Clara reached under and got out the bandbox. Then she opened it and foraged among the ribbons for her gold dollars and began dropping them into her reticule.

“
Where’d you get all that?”

Clara brought a finger to her lips to hush her sister. When she had it all, she stroked the group of uniformed men hauling the fire wagon on the lid, stroked the windows on the pretty house behind them. There wasn’t room for the box in her bag and Euphora was carrying all she could handle. She’d have to leave it.

“
Let’s go. We’ll miss the steamboat,” Euphora said.

<><><>

AS THEY RAN OUT ONTO THE STREET, bags in hand, Clara glanced back at Mrs. Beattie’s shop window and the beautiful hats and bonnets on display. In her mind’s eye, she said goodbye to beautiful Mrs. Beattie, then started down the icy sidewalk toward Long Pier.

From the foot of Long Pier, as far as Clara could see, there was a layer of ice covering Seneca Lake. It had better not be frozen hard, she thought. Everyone always said the lake rarely froze solid. She’d heard the stories about the freeze two years ago. The lake had frozen for three miles at their northern end. Steamboats were laid up and the town made a festival of it with horse racing on an ice track and ice-boat sailing. At water’s edge, where it was shallow, the ice was thick, but how far out was it thick?

Shooting up thick plumes of steam through the single stovepipe into the sky, the Watkins looked ready to go. Seventy or eighty people bundled in scarves, furs and gloves stood in the wind at the end of the dock talking, but none were venturing across the wide gangplank onto the long two-story vessel. Clara scanned the crowd. She knew seven of them from spirit circles. She lowered the brim of her bonnet to hide her face.

“
Why aren’t they boarding?” Euphora asked.

Winding her way through the crowd toward the man in uniform at the gangway, Clara kept her eyes straight ahead.

She sidled close to the narrow young man. “We have our tickets. May we board?” She wanted to charge right past him onto the boat.

“
Captain Tuthill is waiting for a wire. We might have an ice embargo.”

Embargo.
Tarnation
. Everyone said the lake hardly ever froze. Everyone. Seneca Lake was too big, the currents too deep, too wild. A crash exploded at the stern of the boat. Heart flying up, Clara yelped.

“
Just cargo coming off that buckboard.” The narrow man tilted his head toward a wagon down the pier.

Clara caught her breath. “We have tickets for this sailing. We have to go now. It’s a family emergency.”

“
The captain has to decide whether to go. He’s concerned about the ice. He might be able to leave here, but not land at Watkins Glen. He’s got to wait for the message.” His gravelly voice was calm. A scar made a perfectly straight line from his left temple to somewhere in his curly, long beard. “Trust me, Miss. You don’t want to be stuck in the ice in the middle of the lake. There’ll be some delay either way. Go wait with the others.”

For close to an hour, Clara kept her eyes on the foot of the pier watching for Papa. It was still early. It wasn’t likely he’d be down here. He just wouldn’t think of it. Just the same, she kept her eyes peeled. And what would they do if the boat didn’t leave? Would they go home and unpack their things and leave another day? What if Papa saw them come into the house with all their carpetbags? He had already been studying her actions differently since Billy had left.

A bell clanged. Clara jumped. Euphora grabbed her hand. Then the deckhand called out for everyone to board. Clara squeezed Euphora’s hand and led her across the gangway.

Once on the steamboat, they found a gigantic parlor with chairs everywhere, small tables as well as a long one in the middle of the room, and even a big rug, curtains on the windows, and a piano. They sat in Windsor chairs in front of a warm iron stove and dug into Mrs. Purcell’s basket. Euphora ate several biscuits filled with strawberry jam, but Clara just held one in her lap. She had a coiled-up snake feeling in her stomach and couldn’t eat.

“
Are you going to tell me about where you got the money, Clara?” Euphora licked a bit of jam from her lower lip.

“
Not now.”

Could she ever tell Euphora where that money had come from? Probably not. It was too shameful. She’d have to come up with something, though. Clara felt a chill rush up her legs and into her back.

“
We’re sailing,” Clara said. She gave Euphora a smile and held her hand. It was warmer than her own. “Papa won’t find us now.” She glanced around the room. “Look. There’s a little table. Let’s get out the checkers.”

Across the water and ice, Geneva was fading into the distance.

BOOK II

Thirty-Five

ON THE WAY TO GENEVA
,
Izzie was nearly senseless with worry. Because of the ice, the train ride had taken three hours longer than scheduled. According to the conductor the trains hadn’t been running at all the day before and now the engineer had to take the rails at a crawl because the brakes were nearly useless. During the trip, she wanted to scream, “Get us there now. Get me to Clara! Please.”

When the train finally arrived at the Geneva depot, Izzie stepped down carefully to the slick ground. There was a carriage for hire, but she decided it was safer to walk to Mrs. Purcell’s. Once the wheels of a carriage or wagon started sliding, it would be hard for a horse to maneuver even the gentle grade up to Main Street or up Castle. It was less than two miles and her valise was light. On her own two feet, she could at least be in charge of her pace.

When she had climbed up the hill and turned onto William Street, she came to a dead halt. A small crowd of twenty or so people hovered on the sidewalk at Mrs. Purcell’s house.
Drat
. Was it something to do with Clara, with the children? What was it? She should have come sooner, should never have listened to Mac about delaying. She ran ahead. About half way to the crowd, her heel skidded and she started to go down, but she caught herself. She skidded again, caught herself again. She forced her legs to slow down to a brisk walk. It was like one of those nightmares, legs not moving when one needed desperately to run.

She approached the crowd. Some were neighbors from William Street, but most she only vaguely recognized from town. Wearing a red cape, Mrs. Beattie the milliner emerged and stepped toward her. Her face was drawn and pale.

“
Oh, Isabelle, it is awful. I am sorry. You better talk to the sheriff.” She pointed a black-gloved hand toward a tall, wide-shouldered fellow at the foot of Mrs. Purcell’s front stairs. He was talking to the next-door neighbor, Nathan Rose. A sharp pain shot down the back of Izzie’s neck.

“
What’s awful?”

“
They’re all gone. Your family is gone, and Emma fell on the outside stairs last night and died.” Mrs. Beattie’s eyes were red. Izzie could see she had been crying.

“
Died?”

Mrs. Beattie nodded, tears welling up.

“
Where are the children?”

Mrs. Beattie studied Izzie a brief moment. “You know Billy ran away a few weeks ago.”

“
No. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Where are the girls?”

Mrs. Beattie shook her head. “No one knows a thing.”

“
But someone has to know something. Where are the Carter spinsters?”

She pointed toward the bystanders. “They say visiting their brother in Boston.”

It was far more dreadful than she had feared. Without Billy around, perhaps Papa had uprooted the girls and taken them somewhere new where his hoodwinking antics would be unknown to everyone.

Mrs. Beattie embraced Izzie tightly. “You’ll find them. Don’t worry. I am sure they are all right.”

Izzie kissed Mrs. Beattie’s chilly, tear-streaked face, then shoved aside a couple of strangers to make her way to the sheriff and Nathan Rose. Clara and Euphora were not all right. Billy was not all right. They couldn’t be all right. If they were, they’d be here, home, upstairs in the Blue Room.

“
Where are my sisters? What happened to Mrs. Purcell?” Izzie dropped her valise at the sheriff’s feet.

Teeth clenched on a cold cigar, the sheriff had been listening to Rose. Lifting a hand out of his coat pocket, the sheriff took the cigar between his two stained forefingers and looked down at her.

“
Who might you be?” His breath vaporized in front of his wide face.

“
That’s the oldest girl, Isabelle, from Rochester,” Rose told him.

“
Izzie Benton MacAdams. Where are my sisters? Where is my father?”

“
I’m Sheriff Swift. Would you wait inside in the parlor please? One of my deputies is looking around the house.” He gestured with the cigar toward the front door. “Don’t mind him.”

“
I have to find my sisters right away.”

“
I understand, but if you’ll wait inside a moment, we can discuss that.”

She barely heard him. She wanted to sit down, but not inside. She wanted to sit right here, on the snow and ice and give in to the flimsy feeling in her legs. She looked up at the front door, then back out across the long narrow front yard. It was all just the same as last winter, but everything was wrong, all wrong, sweet old Emma dead, her sisters and brother gone. Maybe the girls went without Papa to find Billy. Maybe they knew where Billy was and went to join him, maybe in Kansas. Clara would do that. She’d follow her twin. There could be a letter from Clara on its way to her in Rochester right now that would explain it all. She could send a wire to Mac asking him to read Clara’s letter and wire her back.

“
Mrs. MacAdams?” The sheriff’s big round eyes were staring down at her.

Sighing, she picked up her valise and started up the stairs to the porch. The steps were dangerously slick.

“
Mrs. Purcell fell here?” Pausing half way up, Izzie turned back to Rose and Swift. Rose nodded.

“
Old hay bag! Old hay bag!”

Izzie looked out at the crowd to see who was yelling. The voice rang out like it was right there, but not right there. “Old hay bag!” It sounded like Papa. But where was the voice coming from? A memory of Papa like Mac had suggested?

“
Old hay bag!” The cry suddenly struck her with fear. She felt she was being chased. Legs wobbly, she was cold, alone, out in the winter with no winter clothing, no protection. Ice pressing against her skin hurt. A grueling pain gripped her back. Trying to wake herself from the horrible sensations, she blinked and reached around to touch her back. It was fine. No pain, and she was dressed warmly. She had just had a nightmare without being asleep. It was very odd, but she had no time to think about it now. She had to find her sisters.

Below her, Swift and Rose were still chatting. The neighbors, out at the street, were all babbling together, their voices sounding like the voices that woke her in the middle of the night. The voices weren’t distinct and yet she could understand them. They were sorry for her—sad, worried, angry about their friend Emma dying. Each of their faces seemed close to hers even though they were far off, and each pair of eyes—gray, green, blue, tired, nervous, scared—, watched her.