Whisper Falls (18 page)

“Please, Susanna. Delilah and Dinah are too slow—”

Her statement was interrupted by a scream.

John.

I raced up the steps and in through the door. Mrs. Pratt stood frozen beside the bench, hands clamped over her mouth. He lay wailing on the hearth, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead.

My heart thumped. Even minor head wounds bled prodigiously, but might this one be truly severe?

“John, don't cry. I'm here,” I said with more calm than I felt and hoisted him into my arms. He rubbed his face against my shoulder and hiccupped.

Mrs. Pratt bustled over. “Mama's here, baby.” She held out her hands.

He shook his head and clung to me. Her lips thinned angrily.

Running footsteps pounded in the yard and stopped in the open threshold.

“What has happened?” Mr. Pratt roared. He stood there, eyes bulging, taking in the scene.

Mrs. Pratt shrank in terror, staggering backwards until the worktable blocked her.

Teeth grinding with rage, he snatched the baby from my arms, shoved him at his mother, and rounded on me. “Did you neglect my son?”

“No, sir, I -”

His hand whipped out before I could raise a defense.

Crack.

Pain exploded in my cheek. I fell to my knees, my eyelids fluttering against the blackness blurring my vision. I braced shaking hands against the floor and tried to push upright.

There were gasps from the front door where Jedidiah and Deborah stood watching. Beside her mother, an open-mouthed Dorcas dashed tears from her cheeks.

“Stupid, ungrateful wench. You injured my son.”

His voice boomed within my aching head. I waited for Mrs. Pratt to correct the misunderstanding.

She said nothing.

“Mama?” Dorcas prompted.

“Hush. This is not your business,” her mother hissed. “But Susanna was in the—”

“Silence,” Mr. Pratt shouted.

My mistress wouldn't accept the blame. Of course she wouldn't. She feared him, as we all did.

I flexed my jaw, to see if it worked. It moved well enough to speak. I must address his false impression. Truly, the undeserved punishment wasn't what bothered me most. It was the very idea that I would have allowed an accident to befall my beloved John.

“I did nothing wrong, sir.”

“My son's blood is staining the hearth and you call that nothing?” His boot flew forward. I closed my eyes as the blow slammed into my hip and knocked me backwards.

What little fight there had been left me. I ached too much to move.

Seconds passed with no sound but Baby John's hiccups and Dinah's sniffles.

Someone knelt beside me. A little hand stroked my hair.

“Children, return to the house.” The click of boot heels crossed the room and disappeared into the yard.

Jedidiah took his two youngest sisters by the hand. Deborah fetched John from her mother's arms, and the children left together—all except Dorcas.

“Susanna,” she said, her voice urgent with fear. Her small fingers stroked my face insistently.

I reached up and laid a hand over hers, halting the motion. The comfort had been kindly offered but did no good. My tongue flicked dust from my swollen lips and tasted blood.

“I think I can stand now.”

Little fingers gripped my shoulders and guided me up. I remained still and waited for the dizziness to pass. “Dorcas,” her mother said, “run along.”

“But, Mama—”

“Now.”

Footsteps dragged dramatically across the floor, thumped down the back stairs, and blended into the outdoors.

A board creaked as soft slippers crept closer. “Susanna?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pratt?”

“I didn't intend for that to happen, but I couldn't risk having his anger unleashed on me.”

“I have noted your delicate condition.”

There was a catch in her throat. “Then you understand why I didn't share the truth.”

“You are wrong. I do not.” I seized the worktable's edge and struggled to my feet. My side throbbed. My thigh burned. It might be hours before I could resume my chores. My master had never hurt me so severely.

“You are a clever girl. Of course you understand.” She sighed. “Perhaps you should rest for the remainder of the day.”

“I accept the offer.”

A rest was more than I had expected. Perhaps my mistress felt a bit of guilt. It could not be a bribe for silence. I wasn't permitted to tell their secrets, anyway, although this particular secret had been written in bruises that were easy to see.

“Very well.” She cocked her head expectantly. “Are dinner and supper ready? Can you instruct Deborah and Dorcas in how to prepare the tray?”

A spark of anger briefly flared. Why offer me rest and take it away in the next breath? And why pose it as a question? She knew I couldn't refuse.

“I shall wait over there.” I limped to the corner and perched on the bench.

“Excellent. I shall fetch them.” Her slippers shuffled as she walked to the door.

“Mrs. Pratt?”

“Yes?”

“You will need assistance with the new baby in a few months. Have you considered how difficult it will be to replace me from the girls of this town?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I don't intend to replace you, Susanna. I shall persuade you to change your mind.”

I'd kept Susanna waiting long enough. She wanted to know about the Pratt children, and I was going to find out.

Search engines could only show me so much. Since I'd exhausted what the Internet had available, it was time to do research the old-fashioned way. I rode downtown to the government district.

After locking my bike next to the concrete building housing the State Archives, I pulled open a tall glass door and stepped into the narrow lobby. A security guy greeted me, checked out my driver's license, and directed me to the second floor.

Security was even tighter upstairs. I received a visitor's badge, a stern lecture on the privilege I was about to receive, and a locker key. After stowing my backpack, I entered the Search Room.

The space had serious AC, a nice contrast to the heat and humidity outside. It smelled like musty old stuff and was quiet—much quieter than a library. A handful of people dotted the room. I went to the desk.

“May I help you?” The research assistant was a tall, thin, college-age girl with black braids and not-so-invisible braces.

“I need Wake County census records from 1800.”

“Fine.” She pointed to a door behind me. “Microfilm. It's self-service. Do you know how to use the machines?”

“Sure.” I'd never tried, but I was reasonably confident I'd manage.

My confidence was misplaced.

After a couple of screw-ups and whispered directions from the old lady sitting next to me, I fed the 1800 census film into the machine and skimmed along until I found Worthville. I squinted at every page. Every note. Every appendix.

Major problem.

I went to the desk. “I need the names of the children.”

The research assistant shook her head. “You won't find those from the census. They didn't collect names from the whole family until 1850.”

Great. I had expected the hard part to be biking down here. “What do I do?”

“Wills. Guys put a lot of information in their wills.” She slid a call slip across the counter.

I filled in county, document type, decade, and signature and then slid the call slip back.

“Fine. Give me a moment.” She disappeared through a metal door behind the desk.

I waited, tapping my fingers, and looked about the room. I was the youngest person in there, which was no surprise. There were a few old people bent over folders, holding magnifying glasses or snapping digital photos.

“Here you go,” the girl said and handed me a box across the counter. “The rules for handling documents are printed on the top of the box. Read them before starting. If you need something copied, let me know.”

I crossed to a table and flopped onto a heavy upholstered chair. After skimming the instructions, I opened the box. It contained all wills registered in Wake County during the 1790s. There was a folder marked Pratt. I laid it on the table but hesitated to open it. Even though I didn't know these people, Susanna did. She cared about them, and two of those kids were going to die.

I opened the folder and froze as my fingertips brushed a document. I'd known I'd have access to originals, but this was a little freaky. These sheets were more than two hundred years old, and I was holding them. It seemed weirdly trusting for the state government to give the general public this kind of access.

The first page in the folder showed the will for a Mr. George Pratt. He had significant acreage in southeastern Wake County, plus a lot of slaves, horses, and other livestock.

I set aside George's document. The next will belonged to Jethro.

It was a good thing the research assistant could make copies, because I hadn't thought to bring a camera. I'd take her up on her offer. For now, I was consumed by my first real exposure to Susanna's master.

The will had been written in a strong, looping script, faded but still legible. There wasn't much property to pass down. He divvied up the contents of his estate among his wife and children. Even his indentured servant was left her
customary freedom dues
, whatever that meant.

If a researcher had been looking at the document, it would've seemed like the perfectly ordinary will of a perfectly ordinary guy. Jethro had done the right thing by his family—which was good for them, but pissed me off. His one connection to history was positive.

Okay, time to find out the information that brought me down here. I read the names of the four children.

Susanna would be half happy.

* * *

I loaded my backpack with water, snacks, and copies of Jethro's will. By the time I left the house, it was late enough that the greenway was already deserted.

Susanna huddled in the depths of the cave, more like a lightening of the shadows than an actual visible person. Motionless as a statue.

The curtain of water had narrowed. Lack of rain slowed everything. Even the creek was sluggish. I swung my backpack through, to make sure it could pass. It did.

I stepped through the falls sideways and ducked under the lip of the cave. She sat on her rock, watching me from the shadows. Sorrow surrounded her like a mist. I was about to make things worse.

“Hey,” I said, sitting beside her.

She stirred slightly. “Hello.”

The whole mood was unsettling. The moist, eerie cave. The gray of twilight. Susanna's distress—as if she'd become one with the gloom.

I reached inside my backpack and tried to keep my voice steady. I was the bearer of bad news—not a role I was used to. “Here's something you'll be interested in.”

“What is it?”

I held it out. “Jethro's will.”

She stood stiffly and limped toward the mouth of the cave.

Limped? Something was wrong. I must've learned to read her body language because, although she was often quiet, today it went beyond her normal attitude in a way I couldn't identify.

She tilted the paper, frowning. “Where should I look?”

I walked up behind her and pointed to a name in the middle. “Dorcas.”

Her hands seemed to spasm, crumpling the document. “Dorcas lives.”

“Yes, she does.”

Susanna swayed. I shifted, feet planted, ready to catch her. She made a sobbing sound and mopped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. “That is good.”

Now for the sad stuff. I took the sheet from her and smoothed it out. “Jethro Pratt mentions bequests to four children: Jedidiah, Deborah, Dorcas, and Drusilla.”

“Dinah and Delilah are not there.” Her voice thickened.

“Nor John.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Merciful heavens.” Her arms dropped and her mouth opened as she panted. “My babies.” The last word was drawn out in a low, wavering moan.

Her
babies. Did she really think of them that way? Not surprising, actually. I could easily believe those two parents had done little more than contribute genetic material.

I waited in silence, watching her shoulders heave, not knowing what to say or do. I lifted my hands a couple of times. To hold her. To steady her. Would she accept my touch? I had no clue how she felt. Did she need to grieve without my clumsy efforts getting in the way?

I let my hands fall again.

She took a deep breath and held up the document again. “Is an indentured servant included?”

I frowned at the loops and swirls. “Yeah. Lydia Hinton.”

“That is excellent news.” She stared at the faded handwriting, rolled up the document, and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you, Lord.”

Not sure why the name Lydia made her happy, but I wouldn't pursue it for now—something else distracted me. There were muddy-looking stains on the shoulder of her shirt. Splotches and dribbles. I circled around to her side, fighting off a growing tension at what the stains suggested. It had to be blood, lots of blood, all over the front of her shirt.

I glanced up to say something and gaped in shock at the sight of her face, revealed by the faint light. “Oh my God. What happened?”

She pursed her lips. Her puffy, split lips. “It's Baby John's blood you see on my shoulder. He was injured this morning.”

John—one of her favorites. “And whose fault was that?”

“My mistress.” Her eyes shimmered in a bright pool of tears. But they didn't fall, as if held there by the sheer force of her will. “I received the punishment.”

“Clearly.” Anger left a metallic taste in my mouth. “Where was your mistress when your master was throwing punches?”

“Watching.”

Bitch. I shook with the urge for violence, something I'd never experienced before, not in all the time the bullies had beaten me up around school. There were plenty of kids who had watched and done nothing.