Whisper Falls (19 page)

It had taken some well-placed video cameras and a YouTube account before the bullies got the justice they'd earned. The memories still left me enraged.

“What did you do?”

“What could I do?”

“Susanna—”

“I did nothing.” She spun around to face me, eyes blazing. “Are you disgusted? I lay on the floor with the entire family present while my master kicked me. Do you wish I had fought back? Are you disappointed I accepted my punishment meekly?”

Where had that come from? “No, I don't think—”

“I tried to share the truth. I promise to you, I did. But the truth is of no consequence when there's blame to be laid.”

“Susanna, stop—”

“In your century, it must be easier for you to seek justice, so do not presume to judge me. You don't know how it feels to be trapped with no recourse. The law is on his side. The townsfolk may disapprove, but they must look the other way. It's the Golden Rule, you see. If they wish to treat their servants as they see fit, they must let Jethro Pratt do the same.”

“I don't judge you—”

“It's a harsh thing to live as I do, loathing my job, treated like the livestock.” Her face hardened. “Papa wanted so much more for me than this. He taught me with the boys. He encouraged my questions. Then he died and everything changed. He would be so ashamed to see what I have become—a house servant who cooks and cleans all day. Yet I cannot yield to anger, because if I do, I shall never stop. And what good would that do? I shall have to wake up the next morning and start all over again. Until October, the Pratts
own
me.”

She clutched my shirt between both hands and yanked me closer. Her eyes were wet and blank, her voice soft and flat. “When he thrashes me, he asks me to lift my skirt. Then there's a long pause, while he looks at my bare legs, picking the spot he'll hit first and thinking about how he'll scar me this time. It's a game, you see. He tries to hurt me so badly I'll weep. But I don't cry. I don't make a sound. It's my only way to win.”

If Jethro Pratt had been within reach, I would've beaten the crap out of him and never had a moment's regret. But he was out of reach—by two hundred years.

Susanna collapsed against me, shoulders shaking and tears soaking my shirt. I rested my hands lightly on her back and racked my brain for some way to help. But what could I say? What had happened to her was evil. She was in an impossible situation, and there was no way out until her birthday.

“I'm here. I'm on your side.”

She coughed. “I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't mean to yell at you.”

“You don't ever have to apologize. I'm different from the Pratts. You can get pissed around me. You can yell and scream and call me names all you want. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.”

Damn. How long had she had that all bottled up? I eased an arm around her waist. When my hand brushed her hip, she flinched.

“Sorry. Does it still hurt?”

“Yes.”

“I can help if you'll let me.”

She nodded.

I knelt beside my backpack and rummaged around until I found my emergency pack of ibuprofen. “This medicine will take away the pain.”

There was a flicker of interest on her face. “Herbs?”

“Nah, we have better stuff now. Pretty much guaranteed to work.”

She looked down at the two orange pills in my hand. “How do they do that?”

“I don't know for sure.” I handed over my bottle. “Hold them on your tongue. I'll give you a swallow of water.”

She took a sip and gagged down the pills.

“Come on.” I took her hand and led her to the deepest part of the cave. “Sit on my lap and let me hold you.”

I could almost feel her blush through the darkness. “I don't know…”

“It'll be okay. No one can see us.” I waited until she sat, then wrapped her in my arms. “The medicine'll take a few minutes to kick in, but the pain'll ease up soon.”

“All right.”

She calmed down in stages.

At first, it was just a wiggling of her head as she relaxed against my chest.

Then her hands stopped fidgeting.

Finally, her body lost its tension.

“Better now?” I asked.

“Better in my body. But my heart grieves at the news you brought. What can I do about my little ones?”

“You're already the best thing in their lives. Just take care of them.” I hugged her more securely. Night had fallen. She ought to leave, but for one sweet moment longer, I intended to enjoy our closeness.

“My mistress expects a child, and now I know it will be a girl.” There was a hint of a smile in Susanna's voice. “Baby Drusilla. Named for her mother.”

“Her mother?” Something tickled at the corners of my brain. “The Mrs. Pratt in the will is not Drusilla.”

Susanna stiffened. “Do you remember her name?”

I nodded. “Phoebe.”

I was living a nightmare. If only I were asleep, so I could awaken and make it end.

After the household settled and drifted into silence, I retired to the attic, stripped to my shift, and lay on my pallet. But rest did not come. Had I truly thought it would? I curled into a tight ball, facing a horror too large to absorb.

I took tiny breaths, stared wide-eyed into the darkness, and refused to think.

The night crept toward midnight. Creatures howled, the roof creaked, and I stirred painfully, as numb things do when they awaken.

Thoughts flooded in despite my efforts to hold them at bay.

Phoebe—my sweet, innocent sister—the wife of Jethro Pratt.

I pieced together the strands of a story that had yet to happen.

Why would my sister agree to become his wife? She was only twelve now. In 1800, she would be sixteen. Why would she marry a much older man—especially one so cruel?

Phoebe would struggle as the Pratts's servant. She would be clumsy and forgetful. Discipline would come at regular intervals. How would she react to the thrashings? To the whispery voice spewing venom?

Grief stung my eyes, my nose, my throat. I wept into my pallet and mourned my sister's bright future. Living with this family would rob her of her finest qualities. I had barely survived, and I was strong.

Was that why Phoebe would agree to the marriage? Would she be beaten so low she believed there was only one path left?

Or worse, would he ruin her, leaving her with no choice but marriage to him?

Where would I be while all of this was happening? Why would I not stop them?

The question lingered in my mind. Crisp. Clear. Bristling with potential. Here was the power of knowing the future. I could change it. I would find a way to keep that beast from putting his filthy hands on my sister.

The tears dried. My throat stung, awash with the sour taste of bile. Driven by a fierce need for movement, I rose from my bed and paced down the length of the attic, weaving among the cluttered items stored there by the Pratts. With each step, the wisps of grief faded, replaced by raw resolve.

In my pacing, I made an odd discovery. Fury wasn't hot at all. No, indeed. It was as cold and hard as ice.

He would not have Phoebe.

I weighed my options.

Naturally, I couldn't count on my brothers. Their wives were reluctant to have Phoebe around.

I wouldn't ask my mother to plead Phoebe's case with Mr. Shaw. A woman blinded by the need for a husband wouldn't risk her betrothed's wrath.

Nor could I approach Mr. Shaw himself. I only had honor on my side, and he had already proven himself lacking that virtue.

Fleeing was a frightening possibility, but one I must consider. Phoebe and I could run away, to Boston or New York or Charleston, any large city where we could blend in. But that would require Phoebe to keep our secret. It was, perhaps, too much to expect. Nowhere would be secure. Nor did I relish a life of hiding for me or my sister. I would be hunted. Capture brought a fearsome punishment—flogging, chains, and a tenfold repayment of the weeks absent from my master. Running away would be a last resort.

What else could I do to save her?

Unless she had a useful skill, no one else would want her. If only she knew how to spin and make cloth. But for even the most talented of students, it took months to learn.

If only we had more time…

Time. We needed more time.

I knew what must be done. Phoebe would have to learn to spin, and I would have to stay here as long as that took.

* * *

In the stillness of the nursery, I tended napping infants, immersed in my book. It drew me in so deeply I lost my sense of time and place.

Running feet pounded toward the door. “Susanna, look what I brought you,” Dorcas said.

“Shh.” I tapped a shushing finger to my lips. “Don't wake John or Dinah from their naps.”

“All right,” she said in a loud whisper.

With regret, I closed the book quickly and returned it to my pocket before she could glimpse its cover. Dorcas walked in and solemnly handed me a fistful of wildflowers.

“I picked them for you,” she said.

“Thank you most kindly. Would you like me to plait some into your hair?”

“Would you?” Her eyes shone.

“Indeed, yes.” I patted my lap.

She climbed on, wiggled her hips to and fro, and sighed with anticipation. “Will everyone be able to see?”

“Yes.”

“I shall be the fairest of all.”

I laughed. “Be still, silly. I cannot plait your hair if I must chase it about your head.”

She twisted on my lap and kissed me on the chin. Her breath smelled of blackberries.

Her kiss gave me a pang. The older members of the family rarely showed affection—certainly not to each other and never to me. At nine, Dorcas should have learned this rule, yet seemed oblivious to it. Would her affectionate nature land her in trouble one day?

With the plaiting done, I slid her from my lap and picked up a broom. While I swept, Dorcas admired her reflection in the window, twisting her head from side to side to inspect her hair from every angle.

A squeaking sound drew my attention. Dinah rolled off her pallet onto the floor and blinked up at me sleepily. “Nana,” she said.

“Your nap is over too soon, little one.” I put away the broom, lifted her to my hip, and brushed the damp curls clinging to her face.

A wail from the other end of the pallet revealed that the second of my tiny charges had awakened. I lifted John, as well.

Dorcas tugged my petticoat. “Papa says Dinah is too old to be carried. He says a girl of two should be doing chores.”

“Perhaps we should find one for her,” I said. My sweet and unspoiled Dinah wouldn't live to her sixth birthday. I had no interest in making her perform chores. “Your mother might wish Dinah's help with the spinning.”

Dorcas giggled. “You are teasing. My mother would never let a baby near her wheel.” She planted herself in my path, beaming. “Mama has shared some excellent news. She says she'll teach Phoebe how to spin.”

“Your mother's skill is extraordinary. We are most grateful.”

“And you will stay with us even after the tutoring ends.”

“I shall, indeed.”

Mrs. Pratt had driven a hard-fought bargain, a skill learned, no doubt, from her husband. Phoebe would receive lessons four days each week. Mrs. Pratt would keep any thread Phoebe spun or cloth Phoebe wove. And I would work an extra day—without pay—for each lesson my sister received.

“So you won't leave on your birthday.”

“I shall remain here throughout the winter.”

“I am so happy you will stay.”

I knelt on the floor and included all three children in a hug. Even though it had been crushing to delay my freedom, more time with the children eased the disappointment.

* * *

The sun bore down on the village, relentlessly bright. I visited the drooping garden in the afternoon. Heat rose in waves and, with it, the scent of baking manure and rotting vines. I gathered yellow squash and tender peas. None of it would entice the appetites of the family.

Supper would consist of stewed squash with bacon and cornbread. There would be reproachful sighs, but I could not change the lack of variety. We were, to put it simply, running out of food.

Perhaps it was time to unveil the apple butter. I had been saving it for a special occasion, but it might be wise to share some at supper. It would be an unusual accompaniment to cornbread, but no one would complain.

I entered the pantry to retrieve the hidden jar.

Someone rapped on the threshold behind me. I turned to see who it was and stiffened with dismay.

My master filled the doorway, a heavy sack slung over his shoulder.

The sight of the flour relieved me. The sight of him did not.

“Thank you, sir. I shall bake wheat bread tomorrow.”

He lowered the bag to the floor and nudged it to the side. “I have heard good news. You will stay with us.”

“Yes, sir.” I turned away from him and straightened the other supplies, the very picture of efficiency.

“Your decision pleases me.”

My hands stilled. “I hope to be of service to Mrs. Pratt as she approaches her confinement.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “You are lying.”

A flush rose from my neck to cheeks. He was right, but until Phoebe was no longer in danger, I had to ensure the conversation never mentioned her.