The Vanishing Point (12 page)

Hannah rose shakily to her feet. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Washbrook. I am so sorry."

"No matter," he said tonelessly. "I will leave you here. I have work to do."

Before she could say anything, he had gone. Hannah knelt again on the green mound that covered her sister's body. She clutched handfuls of weeds and pulled them up by the roots. She was tempted to dig into the earth with her bare hands, scratching like a mole until she came to her sister's coffin.
I shall never believe she is truly dead until I see her bones.
In one of Joan's tales, a conjurer gathered a dead girl's scattered remains and played his harp until he charmed the living flesh back on the skeleton and the girl returned to life.

"I will tend your grave," she whispered. She would plant flowers on the mound. Foxglove and heartsease. As long as she lived, she vowed, her sister would never be forgotten.

***

Walking back up the path, Hannah could find no sign of Gabriel. Even his dogs were gone. She cursed herself for her cruel words. The way she had spoken to him was like bludgeoning a wounded man.
May God forgive me for my sharp tongue.

Had there been a funeral for May? she wondered. In her letter, May had written of Cousin Nathan's burial and the scarcity of clergymen.
We did for ourselves. Gabriel read from the Book of Common Prayer.
He must have done the same for May. She pictured him broken at her grave with the prayer book in his hand.

"Gabriel!" She called his name, but he had vanished. There was only the rustle of the wind in the trees, the rush of the river, the harsh music of crows. For some time she followed the paths that sliced through the underbrush. Eventually she discovered a garden enclosed by a fence. Unlatching the gate, she stepped inside. Cabbage, kale, and orange pumpkins held out bravely against the weeds. In her father's botany books, she had read of these large North American gourds and seen pictures of them. She crouched beside one and pressed her fingernail into the hard rind. It barely made a scratch. There were so many New World plants of which she was ignorant. If Father were here, he would send her out to study their properties. Lucy had spoken of powerful physick herbs that were native to this country.

Hannah spun in a circle. She felt a sense of lightness, her sister's presence. The garden was May's handiwork, to be sure, planted from the seeds Hannah had sent along with her. Here were the stalks of foxglove. Its season had passed, but in spring it would rise again. In a sunny sheltered corner, she found a few heartsease flowers still in bloom. Peppermint had completely overrun another corner of the garden, but it was brittle and dormant now.

How late in the year was it? She had lost track of the days. The cloudy sky was full of birds heading south, and the ground was hard. Winter would come soon. Bleakness settled over her again, making her wonder where she would spend the dark, cold months.

Not far from the garden she found two shacks, standing about thirty feet apart, with a clump of trees and bushes between them. They must have been servants' quarters. Both dwellings had dirt floors littered by dead leaves. One was roomy, the other small. On the doorframe of the larger one, someone had carved notches, probably to mark the days.

Hannah was about to return to the house when something drew her toward the smaller shack. Her pulse raced as she stood in the doorway. She couldn't explain why. The hut was empty and bare, not a spoon or rag left behind. The blood rushed inside her ears, rising in a red tide. She could almost hear her sister's voice warning her to be careful.
The rules here are different, love. Watch
your step.
On the lintel someone had carved a heart pierced by three arrows.

A memory came back to her of Joan laying out cards on the kitchen table. The three of spades. She shook her head. What nonsense was this? She shivered, teeth rattling. It was really too cold to be out without a shawl. Lifting her skirts, she ran back to the house.

***

Hannah stood on the porch, one palm on the closed door. "Mr. Washbrook? Gabriel?" There was no answer. If he had work to do, he would be outdoors, not inside the house.

By daylight, the house appeared a different place altogether. Though the benches were battered and the table scored from knives, she was astonished how clean and well ordered it was, especially considering a man lived here on his own. Nonetheless, she found a broom in the corner and began to sweep. Joan, who had never believed in Father's medicine of the humors, had said that keeping busy was the only true cure for melancholy.
The devil gives idle hands work to do.

Once the floor was swept, she decided to search the place for some artifact of May. Surely Gabriel would forgive her. This had been her sister's home, after all, and what a comfort it would be to uncover some possession of hers.

Hannah opened a door that led to a narrow pantry, lit by a high window. Bunches of dried herbs and strings of onions hung from the ceiling. Stoppered clay jars lined the shelves. She lifted the lid of one jar and sniffed a powerful-smelling fat that she recognized from the previous night. Gabriel had used this to grease the pan. The fried fish had tasted delectable, but the fat in its pure state made her slam the lid back down.

In the other jars she found dried beans and peas. There was a barrel of salt pork, another barrel of dry maize kernels, a basket of eggs, three boxes of apples wrapped in straw, two more of some unknown tuber. In the far corner was a butter churn that looked as though it hadn't been used in some time. On the floor, arranged in a row, were pumpkins and gourds. Though the pantry seemed well stocked, she wondered whether there would be enough to get two people through the winter. Gabriel had thought he would have to provide only for himself. If she remained here, she would be a burden to him. He had been hospitable enough, but he had not invited her to stay.

Leaving the pantry, Hannah closed the door behind her. It wouldn't be respectable for a man and a woman to live together, so far apart from society, without even a servant for company. People would surmise the worst. Her reputation would be as ruined as May's had been in their village, even if she remained as ignorant of the whole business as some papist nun. It would do nothing for Gabriel's good name, either. She would have to leave. Where could she go? Back to Anne Arundel Town? If only she hadn't lost track of Lucy and Cassie. They would be able to tell her what a spinster with her education might do.

As long as she was here, she should make herself useful. There was nothing worse than a lazy houseguest. She should wash the window, air out the bed linens and curtains. Hunting for cleaning rags, she went to the chest and opened each drawer in turn. She found a worn pair of men's breeches, two linen shirts with raveled cuffs, a brown woolen waistcoat, and a folded greatcoat. She found a drawer of men's stockings and underlinen. In the very top drawer there were rolled-up maps of the Bay and surrounding plantations, but nothing that could have belonged to her sister. Not even a handkerchief. What had become of her beautiful wedding dress? Her green cloak?

Maybe Adele had stolen May's clothes when she ran away. But when she thought back to her sister's letters, that made no sense. May had praised Adele, saying she was loyal and good, her only friend on this shore. Could that girl have been so treacherous to a mistress so fond of her? The hair on Hannah's nape prickled at the memory of standing before the hut with the pierced heart carved in the lintel. What a tangle. She couldn't begin to comprehend any of it without Gabriel's help. She would have to gather her nerve, question him more closely, even if she risked offending him again. On her own, it was just one big riddle. The deductive reasoning Father had taught her was of no use. Joan could have made more sense of it with her cards.

She reached for the curtains of the bed she assumed had been May and Gabriel's. They were thick with dust and could use a good beating. When she unhooked them from the bed frame, she saw there was no mattress, just the mesh of ropes that had once supported it. Hannah stared at that blank space until her stomach clenched. She thought of May bearing down in childbirth. The mattress had been ruined. Perhaps after her death Gabriel had burned it for fear of spreading contagion.

But where could May's trunk be? It was too large an object to hide, too heavy a thing to be easily stolen. An impulse overtook her. Crouching down, she looked under the bed. Though the bed was high, there was not enough space to conceal a trunk. But some object was stored there. Her fingers grabbed the edge and slowly pulled it out into the daylight. When she saw what it was, she cried more than she had at May's grave. Grief was a terrible trickster, Joan always said. Just when you thought you could live with your pain, grief found a new way to twist its blade into your flesh.

The cradle was veiled in cobwebs, stuffed with stained rags. Though it was built of sturdy planks, one of the side walls was loose. A crack ran down the headboard. Hannah upended the cradle, dumping out the rags. Fetching a clean cloth and the bucket of water Gabriel had left on the table, she scrubbed at the dirt and grime until the grain of the wood was visible. The cradle was made of birch. Joan would be pleased, for she had always said that a birchwood cradle protected by a rowan cross would guard the baby from every evil. It would keep the faeries from stealing the child.

Hannah held the cradle as if it were an infant. Setting it down again, she rocked it gently. She ran her finger up and down the crack, which could be sanded smooth or varnished but never mended.

A fever moved through her. Before she took the curtains out to air, she had to find something else, another clue. The dresser contained only crockery, knives, and spoons. The oak box on top of the chest of drawers housed the family Bible and the Book of Common Prayer.

She climbed the ladder to the trapdoor. To open it, she had to push with both hands. After several attempts, she finally heaved it so that it fell on the attic floor with an explosion of dust that left her coughing. Climbing up the ladder, she poked her head in the opening. It was the darkest attic she had ever seen, no window to pierce the gloom. The light coming from below wasn't strong enough to illuminate more than what lay in the immediate vicinity of the trapdoor. The air was stale and smelled of mildew.

Backing down the ladder, she found the candle stub she had used the night before, lit it from the hearth embers, and picked her way back up the rungs. The ceiling slanted sharply on either side, but it was high enough in the middle to allow her to stand. She held out the candle in different directions. Indistinct shapes covered the floor. Sleeping pallets? The candle flame revealed cobwebs, thick as carded wool, that coated the eaves. Gritting her teeth, she took a few steps. A scuttling noise made her think of beetles rushing for cover. Her foot caught on some object. As she fought to keep her balance, her free arm flailed and brushed the cobwebs. Spider silk coated her hand.

She stopped short, trembling. What would Gabriel think if he knew she was groping around in his attic like a thief? She couldn't get down that ladder fast enough. Back in the main room, she snuffed out the candle and put it away.

***

Hannah washed her hands. She took down the curtains from the other bed and stripped off the linens. Carrying them outside, she shook out the dust until her arms ached, then hung them over bushes to air. She swept and scrubbed the floor, finding only a chamber pot beneath the bed where she had slept. She carried the furs Gabriel slept in to the porch and shook them out, too, then put them back, careful to make them appear as if they had not been disturbed. The skins still had an animal scent clinging to them. Or maybe it was Gabriel's smell, the piny odor of male sweat. She ran to the river to fetch fresh water, scrubbing down the table and dresser. Then she swept the pantry and wiped down the shelves. Last she washed the windows, hung the bed curtains back up, and made her bed.

When she had finished cleaning, she unpacked the bar of lye soap from her trunk, took the bucket, and headed for the river. In a sheltered place surrounded by bushes and pines, she filled the bucket, then stripped and soaped herself. The cold water ran in rivulets down her goose-pimpled skin. Joan would say she was courting sickness. Even Father would disapprove, but somehow, after seeing her sister's grave and the crack in the cradle, she felt dirty and had to be clean.

She dried herself on the cloth she had brought with her, then dressed again as quickly as she could. The blinding sun descended toward the treetops. It was much later than she had thought. There were so many narrow paths cutting through the woods, she was afraid of losing her way in the twilight. The forest echoed with noises she could not identify. Creatures slithered in the fallen leaves. Things crashed through the underbrush. A blurry shape came toward her. The bucket fell from her hand as she screamed. The thing grunted and squealed, dashing across the path. Hannah let out a long breath. It was just a pig, left to forage in the woods. But it could have been a bear.

If May were here, she would laugh at her for being so afraid. Hannah picked up the bucket. She should fill it up again. They would need water for cooking. Shoulders rigid, she forced herself back to the river.

The full bucket was heavy and slowed her progress. When the handle cut into her palm, she switched to the other hand. May was made of tougher material than she was. Her sister was bigger, stronger. She was brave. But had her fearlessness been her downfall? Hannah wondered as she trudged up the path. If May had been a more timid, careful soul, would she still be alive? Setting the bucket down, she rubbed her sore palms on her skirt. Nonsense. May had died after giving birth. That had nothing to do with being brave or cowardly. Then Hannah considered. Gabriel hadn't actually told her how her sister had died. She would have to ask him. As May's sister, she had a right to know.

***

A few yards from the house, she came to a halt, water sloshing from the bucket and wetting her skirt. Gabriel sat on the porch while his dogs watched him intently. When they tried to edge closer, he scolded them. Deep in concentration, he did not seem to know she was there. Even the dogs ignored her. Before she could announce her presence, she saw the knife in his hand.