The Taker (7 page)

Then I looked sideways down the path—it was the closest I had ever been to the mysterious singular cottage—and I saw Magdalena sitting in a chair on the narrow window box of a porch, a long, blackened pipe clenched between her teeth. She, too, was enjoying the sun, wrapped in a quilt, her hair scandalously loose around her shoulders. The parts of her not covered by the quilt were slender and delicate, the birdlike bones of her clavicle visible under papery skin. She had no powders on her face, just a trace of lampblack smudged at the corner of her eyes, a ghost of stain on her lips.

She was unlike the other women in town. You could tell as much by her very attitude: sitting by herself in the sunlight, enjoying her own company, and not apologizing for being idle. I was drawn to her immediately, though I was also frightened by her. There was something wicked about her. She didn’t attend services, after all; here she was enjoying her Sunday, whereas everyone else in town was inside the church or the congregation hall.

She lifted her hand over her eyes against the sun. “Hello, who’s there?”

I made my decision in that moment. I could have run back to church, but instead I took a few timid steps toward her. “You don’t know me, ma’am. My name is Lanore McIlvrae.”

“McIlvrae.” She weighed the name, satisfying herself that she didn’t know it and, hence, didn’t count my father among her customers. “No, my dear, I do not think I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” She smiled when I curtsied.

“My name is Magdalena—though I suspect you may know that, yes? You may call me Magda.” Up close, she was very pretty. She stood to rearrange the quilt and revealed that she was still in her night stays and a filmy shift of pale linen, drawn low on her chest with a thin pink ribbon. In a practical house such as ours, my mother owned not even one item of clothing as feminine as Magda’s gently shabby shift. I was struck by the combination of her beauty and this pretty item of clothing; it was the first time I’d ever been really covetous of another person.

She noticed me staring at her shift and a knowing smile came to her face. “Wait here a minute,” she said and went inside the house. When she came out, she held a ribbon of pink velvet out to me. You can’t imagine what a treasure it was she offered; manufactured goods were rare in our hardscrabble town, fripperies such as ribbon rarer still. It was the softest fabric I’d ever touched and I held it lightly, like a baby rabbit.

“I couldn’t accept such a gift,” I said, though plainly I wished it weren’t so.

“Nonsense,” she laughed. “It’s only a bit of trim from a dress. What would I do with it?” she lied. She watched me finger the ribbon, enjoying my pleasure. “Keep it. I insist.”

“But my parents will ask where I got it—”

“You can tell them you found it,” she offered, though we both knew I couldn’t do that. It was an unlikely story. And yet I could not make myself give the ribbon back to Magda. She was pleased when
my fist curled around her gift, and she smiled—but not in triumph, more in solidarity.

“You are most generous, Mistress Magda,” I said, curtsying again. “I must return to the service or my father will worry that something has happened to me.”

She tilted her chin up so she could look down her fine nose in the direction of the congregation hall. “Ah, so you are right. You mustn’t worry your parents. I do hope you will visit me again, Miss McIlvrae.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good. Then run along.” I trotted down the path, lifting my skirts to avoid the muddy parts. Before I turned the corner, I looked back over my shoulder to the cottage to see that Magda had settled back in her chair and rocked contentedly, staring off into the woods.

I could hardly wait for next Sunday to steal out during service and visit Magda again. I’d hidden the ribbon in the pocket of my second set of petticoats where I could slip my hand in from time to time and give the velvet a surreptitious stroke. The ribbon reminded me of Magda herself; she was so unlike my mother and the other women in the village and that alone seemed reason to admire her.

One thing about her I thought worth admiring, but did not really understand, was that she did not have a man. No woman in the village lived without a man, and the man was always the head of the household. Magda was the only woman in the village who spoke for herself, though from what I could tell, she did very little on that front. I doubted she went to town meetings. And yet she continued to live on her own terms and seemed to be successful at it, and to a young girl that was a very admirable thing indeed.

So the next Sunday I contrived to be excused from service again (though with stern looks from my father) and ran to Magda’s cottage. And there was Magda, standing on her porch this time. Her casual air was gone. She was dressed in a pretty striped skirt and wore a fitted woolen jacket in purple heather, an unusual color. The entire effect
seemed calculated to delight, as though it was her intent to impress me. I was flattered.

“Good day, Mistress Magda,” I said as I ran up to her, slightly out of breath.

“Well, good Sabbath to you, Miss McIlvrae.” Her green eyes sparkled. We chatted; she asked about my family, I pointed in the direction of our farm. Just as I was thinking I should return to service, she said shyly, “I would ask you in to see my home—but I suppose that your parents would not approve. Seeing as who I am. It wouldn’t be proper.”

She must have known I’d be curious to see the inside of her cottage. Her own place, the seat of her independence! I felt a tug to return to church, to my waiting father … but how could I turn this down? “I have but a minute …,” I said as I followed her up the steps and through the door.

It seemed to me like the inside of a jewel box, but in actuality, it was probably quite tumbledown and makeshift. The tiny room was dominated by a narrow bed covered with a beautifully embroidered quilt of yellow and red. Glass bottles lined the sill of the one window, sending slivers of green and brown light to the floor. A few pieces of jewelry rested in a ceramic bowl painted with tiny pink roses. Her clothing hung on pegs by the back door, an assortment of full skirts in a variety of colors, trailing sashes, the frill of petticoats. Not one but two pairs of delicate women’s boots were lined up by the door. My only disappointment was that the room was stuffy, the air heavy with a musky scent I didn’t yet recognize.

“I would love to live in a place such as this,” I said, making her laugh.

“I’ve lived in nicer places, but this will do,” she said as she sank into a chair.

Before I left, Magda gave me two pieces of advice, woman to woman. The first was that a woman should always put by some money of her own. “Money is very important,” she said to me, showing me
where she kept a pouch full of coin. “Money is the only way for a woman to have any true power over her own life.” The second was that a woman should never betray another woman over a man. “It happens time and again,” she said, sounding sad. “And it is understandable, seeing that men are given all the worth in the world. We are made to believe that a woman’s only worth is that of the man in her life, but that’s not true. In any case, we women must stand by each other, for to depend on a man is folly. He will disappoint you every time.” She ducked her head but I swear I saw tears in her eyes.

I was rising from the floor to leave when there was a knock at the door. A burly man stepped in before Magda could answer; I recognized him as one of St. Andrew’s axmen.

“Hullo, Magda, I figured you’d be alone and wanting company, as everyone else is in church this morning … Who’s this?” He stopped short when he saw me and an unpleasant smile spread over his wind-burned face. “You have a new girl, Magda? An apprentice?” He put his hand on my arm as though I were not a person but a possession.

Magda stepped between us and deftly ushered me toward the back door. “She’s a friend, Lars Holmstrom, and none of your business. You can keep your clumsy hands off her. Get along, now,” she said to me as she pushed me out the door. “Perhaps I will see you again next week.” And before I knew it I was standing in a pile of dead leaves, fallen branches crackling under my feet, the plank door shut tight in my face as Magda went about her business, the price of her independence. I crashed through the underbrush and onto the path, running back to the congregation hall as parishioners were spilling out into the sunlight. There would be hell to pay with Father this time, but I calculated it was worth it; Magda was the custodian of the mysteries of life and I sensed that whatever it took to continue learning at her knee was worth it.

SIX

O
ne summer afternoon in my fifteenth year, the entire town gathered in the McDougals’ pasture to hear a traveling preacher speak. I can still see my neighbors making their way to the golden field, tall grass glinting in the sun, plumes of dust rising from the winding trail. By foot, horseback, and wagon nearly everyone in St. Andrew made their way to the McDougals’ that day, though not from any excess feelings of piety, I assure you. Even itinerant preachers were a rarity in our neck of the woods; we would take what entertainment we could get to fill the dreariness of a long summer day in that desolate place.

This particular preacher had come from out of nowhere, apparently, and in a few short years had built a following, as well as a reputation for fiery speech and rebellious talk. There were rumors he’d divided churchgoers in the nearest town—Fort Kent, a day’s ride to the north—setting traditional Congregationalists against a new wave of reformists. There was also talk of Maine becoming a state and freeing itself from Massachusetts’s proprietorship, so there
was a frisson in the air—religious and political—pointing to possible revolt against the religion the settlers had brought with them from Massachusetts.

It was my mother who’d convinced my father to come, though she would brook no notion of converting from Catholicism: she’d only wanted an afternoon out of the kitchen. She spread a blanket on the ground and waited for the preaching to commence. My father took the spot next to her, hanging his head with a suspicious air, glancing about to see who else might be there. My sisters remained close to my mother, tucking their skirts primly under their legs, while Nevin had taken off almost as soon as the wagon came to a halt, eager to find the boys who lived on the farms neighboring ours.

I stood, shielding my eyes against the strong sunlight with one hand, surveying the crowd. Everyone in town was there, some with blankets, like my mother, some with dinner packed in baskets. I was looking for Jonathan, as usual, but he didn’t seem to be there. His absence was no surprise; his mother was probably the most hardened Congregationalist in town, and Ruth Bennet St. Andrew’s family would have no part of this reformist nonsense.

But then I spied a shimmer of black hide between the trees—yes, Jonathan, skirting the edge of the field on his distinctive stallion. I wasn’t the only one to see him; a palpable ripple went through parts of the crowd. What must it be like to know dozens of people are watching you raptly, eyes following the line of your long leg against the horse’s flank, your strong hands holding the reins. So much suppressed lust smoldering in the bosom of many a female in that dry field that day, it’s a wonder the grass didn’t catch on fire.

He rode up to me, and kicking free of the stirrups, vaulted from the saddle. He smelled of leather and sun-baked earth and I longed to touch him. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking off his hat and running a sleeve along his brow.

“You don’t know? A visiting preacher’s come to town. You haven’t come to listen?”

Jonathan looked over my head, assessing the crowd. “No. I’ve been out surveying the next plot we’re to harvest. Old Charles doesn’t trust the new surveyor. Thinks he drinks too much.” He squinted, all the better to see which girls were looking his way. “Is my family here?”

“No, and I doubt your mother would approve of your being here, either. The preacher has a terrible reputation. You could go to hell just for listening to him.”

Jonathan grinned at me. “Is that why you’re here? You have a desire to go to hell? You know there are much more pleasant paths to damnation than listening to devious preachers.”

There was a message in the glimmer in his deep brown eyes, but one I couldn’t interpret. Before I could ask him to explain, he laughed and said, “Every soul in town looks to be here. More’s the pity that I won’t be staying, but as you say, there’ll be hell to pay if my mother finds out.” He steadied the stirrup and swung back into the saddle but then leaned over me, protectively. “What about you, Lanny? You’ve never been one for preaching. Why are you here? Are you hoping to find someone here, a particular boy? Has some young man caught your fancy?”

That was a complete surprise—the coy tone, the probing look. He’d never given the slightest indication that he cared if I was interested in another. “No,” I said, breathless, barely able to stammer out a response.

He took up the reins slowly, seemingly weighing them as he might weigh his words. “I know the day will come when I’ll see you with another boy, my Lanny with another boy, and I won’t like it. But it’s only fair.” Before I could recover from shock and tell him it was within his power to prevent that—surely he knew!—he had turned the horse and cantered into the woods, leaving me to stare after him in confusion yet again. He was an enigma. For the most part he treated me as a favorite friend, his attitude toward me platonic, but then there were times I thought I saw an invitation in the way he looked at me or a wisp of—dare I hope?—desire in his restlessness. Now that he’d ridden away, I couldn’t dwell on it or I’d go crazy.