Whisper Falls (34 page)

I stood as docilely as a child, eyes shut, allowing myself to enjoy the sounds of the world around me and the long-forgotten feel of my mother dressing my hair.

“Mr. Shaw was most angry to learn we had bound Phoebe out,” Mama said.

Some of the pleasure in this moment faded. “I do hope he recovers soon.”

“He had already promised her to the Pratts.” Betrayal colored her tone.

Despicable man. “She wasn't his to promise.”

“Indeed. Phoebe was to work in their kitchen, and Mr. Shaw would receive his grain milled without cost for the next year.” There was a catch in her voice. “He deceived me.”

It was time to tell my mother the whole tale. I felt relief at the chance to confess. “It is unlikely that Phoebe would have worked in the kitchen. She would have spun thread or made cloth for the Pratts to sell.”

Mama's hands stilled. “That cannot be correct. Phoebe has no such talent.”

“The opposite is true. My sister showed extraordinary promise. The Pratts planned to use her skills for their own profit. My master lied to Mr. Shaw.”

Mama gasped. “Jethro Pratt is a beastly man.”

Her fingers completed the combing of my hair, then quickly switched to plaiting it, her movements quick. She was soon done.

I spun to face her. “I deceived you, too.”

“You knew this all along?”

“I knew of Phoebe's talent, but I kept it from you, fearing you wouldn't let her move to Raleigh. I did not trust Mr. Shaw.” I lifted my chin defiantly. “I shall not apologize. I would do the same thing a thousand times over for my sister.”

My mother regarded me for a long moment, her lips pinched. A breeze whipped a tendril of her hair across her face, and she brushed it away, her gaze faltering. “I should thank you. I
did
trust him, and it wasn't deserved.”

“Hullo,” Mr. Baxter's shout rang across the clearing. “Mrs. Crawford, are you there? It's time.”

“Yes,” she called. “We shall be there shortly.

“He called you Mrs. Crawford,” I said. “Wasn't your wedding this weekend?”

“Mr. Shaw has postponed it until your situation is resolved.”

My mother and I looked at each other. Her eyes skittered away. Unexpectedly, I felt sorry for her. All four of my mother's children lived apart from her—both daughters through her own bad decisions. The realization must cause her great distress.

I would not add to it now. It was time to leave.

“What shall I wear?” I asked, frowning dubiously at my clothes steaming on a nearby rock.

She pointed to a shady spot high on the bank. “I brought fresh things. They wait for you behind those bushes.” Her hand clasped my elbow and drew me up. But she didn't release me immediately, her gaze fixed on my undergarment.

“Your shift is badly mended.”

I froze.

“How did it tear?”

I pulled away from her silently, unwilling to say, the humiliation still an aching knot in my belly.

“Did your master have anything to do with this?”

I gave a jerky nod.

She swallowed hard. “Did he ruin you?”

My eyes stung. “He didn't…” I shuddered to a stop. The experience had been horribly, painfully humiliating, and yet it could have been worse. “He didn't go that far.”

She put a shaking hand over her mouth and turned her back on me. “Dear Lord, forgive me for what I have done to her.” The words whispered past me, so soft I might have imagined them.

Slipping behind the bushes, I found the stack of fresh clothes my mother had brought. After dressing, I emerged to find her with a plate of bread, ham, and cheese.

I devoured the meal in greedy bites. “Thank you.”

She nodded, her face grave. “I shall accompany you to your hearing.”

A crowd had gathered outside the meetinghouse. Mama and I marched solemnly into the building as if they weren't there.

“Mrs. Crawford.” Mr. Shaw detached from the crowd and hurried toward us. “Where are you going?”

“Inside with my daughter.”

“I don't think that's wise.”

“Nonetheless, I shall go.”

The front pew was nearly full. The audience for my hearing would include my mother, the town leaders, Mrs. Pratt, and Deborah.

I was shown to a narrow, high-backed chair on the dais. My master and his uncle waited, side by side, at a table.

Mr. Worth cleared his throat. “Miss Marsh, do you know why you are here?”

“I do.”

“So you're aware that you're accused of running away?”

I nodded.

“Answer out loud, please.”

“I'm aware of the charge.”

Mr. Pratt pounded his fist on the table. “This is the second time she has attempted to run away.”

Mr. Worth frowned at his nephew. “When was the other time?”

“On July first.”

“I see.” The magistrate scratched a note in his journal.

My mother stood. “Pardon me, Mr. Worth?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford?”

“Susanna was in my company on July first. She drove me to Raleigh and back again.”

“Indeed. Did you know that she had no permission to leave Worthville?”

“She had permission to visit her mother. That is what she did.”

I looked at my mother, outwardly calm but inwardly smiling. What had come over her? Today she had done more for me than in all the years since I had left home.

“Very well, Mrs. Crawford. I accept your story. Miss Marsh?” The magistrate's gaze bore into mine. “Did you attempt to run away three days ago?”

“I was discovered standing on the banks of Rocky Creek near my master's property. I should be a very poor runaway to make the mistake of not running.”

Mr. Worth looked toward the front row. “Can any of you confirm Miss Marsh's statement?”

The town leaders nodded. Every one of them.

Mr. Worth's lips thinned, and his gaze swung back to me. “So, you left your master's property despite his express commands otherwise?”

“Yes.”

As each moment passed in this interview, my anxiety eased. With no proof and the town leaders listening, Mr. Pratt and his uncle would have to treat me justly.

“You know this to be deliberate disobedience?”

“I do.”

“Why did you go to the creek?”

“To check the water level. It was low.”

Some of the townsfolk snickered.

My master's jaw hardened. “Susanna wasn't alone in her flight from home. She had assistance from Mr. Lewis of Raleigh.”

Mr. Worth's eyebrows arched with censure. “You were aided by a gentleman?”

It was shocking how comfortable I had grown with deception. “I did not flee. Therefore, I was not aided.”

“Are you saying that Mr. Lewis didn't help you escape?”

“Mr. Lewis didn't help me escape.”

“Mr. Pratt, did you see Mr. Lewis with Miss Marsh?”

My master's lips barely moved. “No, I did not.”

Mr. Worth looked again to the town leaders. “Did any of you see him?”

A muttered chorus of “no” rang out.

“I see.” Mr. Worth scowled.

My master's fingers tapped impatiently. “Deborah saw him. She came to tell me the news before I left for the mill, and I instantly started the search. But the boy was nowhere to be found.” When my master nodded at his eldest daughter, she stood.

“They were together,” she said, her voice high and strained. “Mr. Lewis and Susanna talked at the edge of the woods and then ran down the path.”

Mr. Worth tugged at his beard, then jotted a few words in his journal. “You are certain it was Mr. Lewis?”

“Yes, Uncle Worth, I am certain.”

“How? Did you speak to him yourself?”

I watched Deborah curiously. Of course, she had had a conversation with Mark. She had fetched me to his side. Mr. Pratt's fury would be fearsome if he knew.

She looked at me with pleading eyes.

“Mr. Worth,” I interrupted—although she and I had never been friendly, there was no use in both of us suffering—“Deborah was never close enough to speak with Mr. Lewis. He found me in the kitchen. I walked with him as far as Rocky Creek.”

The magistrate swiveled his gray head to peer at me. “You admit that he was there?”

Tension built inside, but I forced it down. As much as I might wish not to implicate Mark, Deborah's testimony required otherwise.

“Yes, he was there, but he did not help me escape.”

“Where is he now?”

“Back in Raleigh, I presume.”

The magistrate dropped his quill, folded his hands before him, and allowed his expression to set grimly. “Is Mr. Lewis your suitor?”

The unexpected question surprised a bark of laughter from me. “No, indeed. I have no interest in marrying at present.”

“A truth you made completely clear to my son.” Mr. Worth spoke in a lazy voice, but remembered anger glittered in his eyes.

Mr. Pratt sneered. “Solomon deserves better than her.”

“Indeed.” The magistrate rapped the table. “I've heard enough. Without any evidence that Miss Marsh was running away…”

My master glared at me, lips pinched.

“…her only crime was to disobey her master's order to stay on his property. I lengthen her indenture by ten days.”

I looked at him with calm disdain. It was unusually harsh for disobedience, but this sentence didn't concern me, for a far worse punishment awaited me before September first.

“Miss Marsh, have you nothing to say?”

Was this my moment? Dare I take the opportunity?

I would, indeed—and God protect me from what might happen later. “Throughout the eight years of my indenture, Mr. Worth, you have seen my bruises, burns, and cuts.” I rolled back my left sleeve, exposing the red, puckered scar. The townsfolk in the pews gasped. “There has been clear and constant evidence of cruelty. If my scars have not spoken loudly enough already, then no, sir—I have nothing further to say.”

Mr. Worth's gaze dropped to his journal. His quill scratched across the page.

My master glared at me, retribution in his eyes. “Uncle, what about my damages? Shouldn't she compensate me for the trouble she's caused?”

“No more,” the magistrate said. “Ten days is enough.”

“What of the boy?”

“I find Mr. Lewis guilty of trespassing. If he's captured, he'll pay a five-pound fine or spend three days in jail.”

Their words flitted about my head like so many bees. My arms and legs quivered from fear released. I would leave the meetinghouse and return to my job. I would watch the horizon for storms, and I would count the days until August third.

But I wouldn't be flogged or returned to the jail. The sentence was tolerable. I looked at my mother and nodded. Her lips curved slightly. Thanks had been offered and received.

Mr. Pratt thumped the table with his fist. Everyone jumped.

“Uncle, I wish to put Susanna in shackles.”

“No.”
The denial rushed hoarsely through my teeth.
Dear Lord, please, not shackles
.

They were great, heavy things. I had seen them only once before on a slave, cutting into his ankles, humbling his walk and rendering pain with every step. “Please, no.”

Mr. Worth didn't look up from the scratchings in his journal. “Explain your purpose.”

“If she has willfully left my property twice, she'll do it again. The shackles will prevent her disobedience.”

The magistrate sniffed. “Shackles are fair.”

It had been a week since I'd seen Susanna, and it was going to be a lot longer. There hadn't been a drop of rain, and the forecast didn't give me any hope.

Not knowing how she was doing drove me crazy. I could barely eat or sleep. I couldn't concentrate. Other than cycling and lawns, I was worthless.

Had they flogged or jailed her? Had she been punished in other ways? Was she still…healthy?

I wanted answers.

“Mark?” Mom shouted up the stairs. “Dinner's ready.”

“Okay.” I stared blindly at the computer screen, propped up by pillows against the headboard of my bed.

“Are you coming?”

“No.”

Her footsteps charged up the stairs and stopped at my bedroom door. “Mark, you need to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

There was a long pause. “Have you heard anything from Susanna?”

“No.”

She came in and sat at the end of the bed. “So, what can you do to find out what's happened to her?”

“Nothing. It's impossible at the moment.” I snapped the lid down on my laptop and slumped deeper into the pillows. If I was lucky, Mom would take the hint and go.

“Have you checked with the police?”

“Can't.”

“Is her sister somewhere safe? Can you talk to her? Maybe—”

“Mom. Please.”

“Leaving now.” She squeezed my bare feet—which was as weird as it was comforting—and walked out.

But I wasn't any happier after she'd left. Being grumpy with my mother was better than worrying about Susanna.

There had been one thing to try, but I'd already tried it. On Tuesday, I'd ridden down to the Archives, ignored the suspicious glares from the research assistant, and asked to see Jethro's will and Joan's indenture. The documents had looked exactly the same. Susanna's failed escape hadn't changed history.

How would it happen—illness or injury?

The tombstone hadn't changed dates—but what did that mean? Did the actual event take place on August third? Had an injury already happened and she now lingered on, unable to recover?

God, I couldn't stand thoughts like that.

It was times like these that I wished Carlton and I were still friends. I wouldn't have been able to tell him the details, but it would've been good to hang out with someone I trusted.