Spectris Page 11

  9

  Per Plutonis barbam

  By Pluto’s beard.

  I sit at the table between my first love and my husband. It is surreal, and I keep pinching myself to ensure that this is actually happening. I’m awake, all right. That last pinch is certain to leave a mark. Kelly asks Tom about his life in California, the doctor’s arm resting against the back of my chair. As Cordelia fills our coffee cups, Tom finishes his soup and describes his uncle’s cattle ranch. Next he tells us that his father passed away several weeks ago, his heart finally giving out after ailing for so many years. The rest of Tom’s family stayed in California, and he made his return to Stonehenge on horseback.

  “Everything I own is in my saddlebags upstairs,” Tom says, sounding just like the man I once cared for.

  “Then you’re passing through,” Kelly murmurs.

  “No. I’m back for good, Doc. Thought I’d rent a room from the landlady here. It’s obvious she has the space.”

  Tom? Staying at the boarding house with me?

  My legal husband coughs as though he’s swallowed his coffee down the wrong pipe, and Tom slaps him on the back a little harder than necessary.

  “I think I’ll retire,” says Gabriel, rising from the table. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Craddock. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It sounds as though the two men shake hands. “Please call me Tom.”

  Willard has an aversion to drama and leaves as soon as his soup is gone. I wish I could do the same.

  Behind me, I hear the soft slosh of something being poured into a container. Soup? The barley and vegetable blend has a rich gravy smell. After the soup is placed on a tray, Coffee goes into an extra cup. With unusual stealth, Cordelia is quietly putting supper together to take up to the attic for Isaac. To the best of my knowledge, no one else knows he’s there, and I hope to keep it that way.

  Turning my face in Tom’s direction, I attempt to sort through my feelings concerning him. I have a difficult time calling him that name. It belongs to someone else, in my mind. Yet that’s his lawful identity, I suppose. He doesn’t smell of alfalfa anymore. The sweet, gentle fragrance hung about my farm boy long after his chores were through. This Tom has all of my past love’s memories, without the sentiment. They belong to a dead man, not the person who woke in Tom’s body when Kelly pounded on his chest and restarted the silent heart within.

  I drink coffee and listen to the doctor ask more questions of my would-be tenant. A part of me hurts with this imposter in my home. I miss the man I lost, but I don’t think of him as a lover anymore. Haven’t for a long time. All those months in the asylum, I obsessed over him like a green girl—how dark his hair and eyes were, how white his teeth when he smiled. As Heathcliff did for Cathy in Wuthering Heights, I perished for the lack of him. Until I realized it would never have worked out for us in the long run. It was painful when I faced that truth, but I was already suffering in so many ways at Ironwood. When faced with starvation and torture, heartbreak over a failed romance doesn’t seem like the end of the world. The knowledge almost made me feel free, in fact.

  Cordelia returns to the kitchen, and Kelly asks her if she will join us. Their conversation about the future wedding and her gown takes me out of my thoughts. Or rather it focuses them in a similar direction. The doctor offers to refill my cup, but I decline. I get up from the table and rinse out my cup, still reflecting on the past. Unlike Cordelia and Isaac, I didn’t have a whirlwind courtship with the old Tom. We sparked for four years—longer than any of the young folks in town our age—and he still didn’t propose or give me his promise for the future. Didn’t plan to, either—though I would have waited for him. Money was the usual excuse, or my family’s disapproval, or his family’s need.

  Marriage would have required taking a leap of faith with me and breaking away from the Craddock clan. Both of which, he was unwilling to do.

  Since loving Kelly, I’ve noticed the differences between the two men, at least in relation to me. Tom and I were thrown together, because we were called by the immortals to serve the dead. As my Interpreter, Tom protected and assisted me when I couldn’t do things for myself. He’d take me places on his horse, at his convenience, and at the time, that was enough. But then Kelly came into my world and taught me to speak with my hands before my voice was restored, to write, and to ride my own horse, not someone else’s. When I was with the old Tom, I wanted marriage, and now that I am married to someone I adore, I want out.

  Why must relationships, and the timing involved, be so complex?

  Over at the table, Cordelia seems pleased that Tom will be boarding here. “I’ll be happy to have a decent bed rather than camping out on the trail, Miss Collins,” he says.

  Tom sounds harmless, just a tired cowboy looking for a home. I inhale and use magic to read his emotions. Nothing dark or deadly as far as I can tell. During his recovery after being shot, the new Tom was under James Scarlett’s power, although he later broke free. Is it wise to let Tom stay here now? He doesn’t seem dangerous, but I’ve been wrong before where the judgment of another’s character is concerned.

  I realize he is speaking to me. “Hettie?” Tom asks. “Is it all right if I take the room near Gabriel’s?”

  As a telepath, he could have just spoken to my mind directly, but he chose to use words instead. I’m relieved that he did. It would seem like an invasion, linking thoughts with this stranger. My throat is still tired so I nod and try to smile. What’s he doing here? Why come back now?

  Tom compliments me on a fine meal, when I had nothing to do with it, and heads to his room. Presumably the one where his saddlebags reside. I think I’ll charge him extra, if he insists on staying here, and the arrangement must be temporary. I liked the way my home felt before he arrived, and I want things to return to normal. Two weeks should be enough time for Tom to find himself new digs.

  Cordelia follows the cowboy upstairs, to air out the room and show him where the bed linens are kept, leaving Kelly and me alone in the kitchen. Silence stretches out like a vast desert of words. He clears his throat and says, “Tom needn’t stay here if you don’t wish it. I have an extra room.”

  His offer is surprising. The doctor’s house is spacious and lovely, but I can’t imagine Tom staying there. Kelly has his daughter Alice and a sweet old housekeeper to think of, and he’s asked neither of them their opinion on having a guest over. Then it becomes clear. My husband doesn’t want my former beau sleeping in my home. He’s jealous, thinking that my feelings for Tom might return.

  “Hester, we really must do laundry more frequently,” Cordelia says, entering the room. “We’re out of sheets now that your friend’s here. And I don’t see any hanging on the clothesline. Isn’t it your turn?”

  Yes, I sign. Tomorrow. Promise.

  “I’ll help you, and we’ll get it done twice as fast.”

  More like five times as fast. Not only do I hate the job, I’m not very good at it either.

  She asks the doctor if he’d like anything more to eat. Kelly declines and scoots his chair back from the table. “Thank you for the refreshments, Miss Collins. Best coffee in Colorado.”

  Cordelia laughs, pleased by his praise. “Oh, it’s nothing special, Doctor. Would you take some biscuits home for Alice? Does she like shortbread?”

  “Yes, but it’s dangerous.”

  In the middle of packing biscuits, Cordelia stops. “How is it dangerous, sir?”

  “The word ‘like’ does not do her partiality to shortbread justice. I’m sure to be trampled upon if Alice smells the biscuits before I get them out of the wrapper.”

  “We’ll send extra, then,” she replies, laughing. “So you can sneak a few for yourself.”

  “Thank you, kind lady.”

  “Set your box of shortbread on the table and run. I can’t have a trampling on my conscience.”

  The box crinkles as Kelly accepts his package. “Extreme caution will be taken.”

  I listen to their light banter
, so easy and pleasant. I wish things were like that between Kelly and me on a regular basis. As evidenced in his office a short time ago, we get along well until my actions prove too worrisome. When did communication between us become this hazardous quagmire of expectation and disappointment? Why must every word we speak matter so much?

  As I leave my place at the counter, Cordelia removes her apron and says goodnight. “Safe travels, Doctor. I’ve decided to sit on the back porch and rest my feet now the chores are done. You know where to find me, Hester.”

  Cordelia pushes the screen door open and goes outside. Alone with me again, Kelly doesn’t seem as jovial. I take his hand and hold onto it like the lifeline it is.

  We walk along the hall, toward the front door, where it is less likely we’ll be overheard. A few seconds later, Gabriel comes down the stairs. “I’ve lost my fountain pen, Miss Hester. May I borrow the one from the escritoire?”

  At my nod, the giant enters the parlor and sits at the desk. He begins to write something. Gabriel’s always writing letters lately and consulting his old law books. Possessing a brilliant legal mind, it’s a pity he never had the chance to hang his shingle after passing the bar.

  Kelly tugs my hand, pulling me through the front doorway to stand on the stoop. He shuts the door behind us and says drily, “Alone at last.”

  Listening to the noisy, bustling thoroughfare in front of the house, I smile at the irony of his words. He puts his hand on the wall behind my head, his back to the street.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Hester. Is it Craddock? Did I offend you when I mentioned him staying with me? Or do you want him here?”

  I lift one eyebrow flirtatiously and sign. Would you mind if I did?

  “Damn right.”

  He sounds tense. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked if he minded about Tom. It was in jest, meant to tease but nothing more. Tom’s gone. Not the same man. I’m not the same woman.

  Kelly makes an exasperated sound. “You have a history. That means nothing to you?”

  Over and done. Like you said, history.

  “How can you turn your feelings off that way? I don’t think I could.”

  Bloody hell, I am only making things worse by trying to explain. And he’s just being tiresome. He knows what I’m trying to communicate.

  Aware of how close we are, I feel Kelly’s breath on my mouth and a flash of heat washes over me. No, indeed. My feelings are not shut off. I want to ravish my husband right here among the crowds on the street and the buggies passing by.

  He’s faster to move than I am and crushes his lips to mine. Not enough to hurt, just the right amount of passion. Then the kiss turns slow, and I press up against him.

  Until some fellow on the sidewalk whistles and claps. Shielding me from our heckler’s view, Kelly pulls away. I am left cold and wanting. He lifts his hand to the man, waving him on. The heckler departs after congratulating Kelly on his good fortune, and the doctor steps back and exhales.

  “So Craddock will stay with me then,” he says, voice gruff.

  Stirred up and irritable as well, I run a hand over my face. Kelly can’t just dazzle me with a kiss and then begin giving orders. I’ll only want to defy them. Two weeks, Noah. Looks for permanent lodgings and goes.

  “There’s no need—”

  Fourteen days. Can’t you trust me that long?

  He stops himself from cursing and says, rather sarcastically, “Trust isn’t my strong suit, is it? Thank you, Hester, for reminding me of that.”

  I take a step back, unhappy with myself for bringing up old wounds. When did I become so unkind? I was never like this before the asylum.

  Kelly leaves me on the stoop and climbs into his buggy. I listen to the horse’s hooves clopping against the cobblestones as he begins his journey to the better side of town. The street lamps hiss and sputter, and I wonder if there are stars out tonight. I’ve seen them in visions, twinkling above, but never through my own eyes. For some reason this makes me feel worse. I desperately long for some light from heaven to guide me on my way.

  I have barely locked the front door when Tom speaks to my mind.

  Why so blue, Hettie? Aren’t you glad to have me back?

  He must have been watching from his bedroom window as I said goodbye to Kelly. A decent man would have turned away or at least kept the amusement of his voice. No, I’m not glad. You should have stayed in California. Why are you here?

  Anger spills from his thoughts to mine. He’s furious with me for lying to him last time we met. James Scarlett had threatened to kill Tom, and I may have suggested that he had been drinking too much when his memory returned all at once, in a flash of dizzying images. Tipsy and bewildered, Tom believed me, thinking he’d gone crazy from too much rotgut. It was a means of getting him out of Stonehenge, away from Scarlett and me, and off to California. Seems he resents my deception.

  You aren’t the only one with a calling, Visionary. I’ve a role to play in this as well. I’m the Interpreter.

  Technically, Tom is right. I clasped hands with the old him and passed my visions through our telepathic link. He saw them exactly as I did, reading the details of the crimes like tea leaves and gathering insights that I lacked. We worked together as a team, but that’s been over for some time. I’ve since learned to function without an Interpreter, and independence has its advantages.

  We’ll discuss this tomorrow, Hettie. You show me the vision, and we’ll hash it out like before.

  Nothing’s like before, Tom. Or whoever you are. How can you expect it to be?

  Di miserentur. Women think far too much with their feelings. This isn’t about your old sweetheart, may he rest in peace. It’s bigger than that.

  Gabriel is still at work on his letter in the parlor. I hear the scratch of his pen on paper, smell the ink. Crossing my arms, I walk down the hall toward my bedroom, wishing I had taken Kelly up on his offer to house Tom.

  I close the door to my room and ask him one more thing before shutting down our connection. All right, what’s it about then, if you know so much?

  The ghosts, Hettie. It’s all about the ghosts.

  10

  Mea vita est Mors.

  My life is Death.

  I awaken the next morning, lying on my stomach. Sunlight pours through the window, heating my neck and shoulder blades to a steaming degree. It must be late, at least seven-thirty, for the temperature to be this hot. Covered in sweat, I roll over and the sunlight hits my face. For some reason, this makes me sneeze.

  The quilt on the bed is heavy so I push it off and sit up. I turn my head in the direction of the hip bath, longing for a cold soak, but I hear Cordelia in the kitchen. She’s baking bread, if the yeasty, buttery smell wafting through the house is any indication. I should offer to help, such as my cooking skills will allow, or at least make the gesture.

  There’s a pail of water in the corner that Willard brought in yesterday. I pour a little into the chipped basin on the dresser and sigh at the soothing, liquid sound. Using the cake of lilac soap, I lather a fresh washcloth and scrub my face, neck, and arms. The room-temperature water is a delightful shock to the system. It amazes me sometimes when I realize I can wash whenever the mood strikes. In Ironwood, I could not get clean. Ever. Water and soap are blessings that still fill me with wonder and gratitude. I cannot abide feeling dirty anymore, or I start to remember my cell in the Pit, the stench of the asylum guards, the bugs and the rats.

  I rub myself with a towel and wish I could banish my past as easily as I remove the drops of water from my body. After dressing in a fresh set of underclothes, I braid my hair, winding it into a bun at the nape of my neck and pinning it carefully into place. I’ll have Cordelia check my work for neatness later. A front-lacing corset is next, but I barely tighten the stays. My summer frock is lightweight and gauzy—a few thin layers of muslin—though modest enough. At least I think so. It’s another Cordelia cast off, and she’s quite a stickler for propriety.

  “Good morning, sleepy he
ad,” Cordelia says as I enter the kitchen.

  Throat tired, I sign, Morning. Smells good.

  “I’m making potato rolls,” she replies. “There’s a dozen on the table if you’d like some for breakfast.”

  The thought of eating something hot—even her delicious rolls—does not sound appealing. Turning my head, I hear a soft coo. Exactly the sort of sound a baby makes when she’s happy.

  Tabby? I ask Cordelia.

  “Oh, yes. I hope it’s all right if I watch her for an hour or two.”

  Cordelia’s cousin Jane was widowed while in the family way last year, around the same time my mother died. Her baby was born a week after the funeral, the labor triggered by grief. An eight-month-old ball of sweetness, Tabby comes to visit at least once a week, so her mother can go to market, do errands, or have a break. She was christened Tabitha Jane, but according to those who have seen her, the infant’s hair has shades of brown, black and gold in it, reminiscent of a tabby cat. Thus she’s called Tabby for short.

  I kneel on the blanket next to the warm, little body. Touching her face, I feel the soft cheek dimple as Tabby smiles. She takes hold of my fingers and squeezes.

  “Churn up some butter, will you?” Cordelia asks. “I used most of it on the rolls, and the crock is almost empty. You can play with Tabby when you’re done.”

  Blast me. The taskmaster has spoken.

  She knows I’ll agree—making butter is one of my jobs—and has already poured cream into the old wooden churn outside on the porch. In addition, Tabby is in good spirits, and I love playing with other people’s babies, spoiling them a bit, and then handing them back to their parents when they misbehave.

  I walk out to the porch and sit down, reaching out to find the churn. When I first learned how to make butter, I had to wrap my hands with scraps of cloth to avoid blisters, but there’s no need now. My palms are protected by calluses.

  Cream splashes around in the churn as I lift and plunge the paddle. It makes me feel useful, as though I have a connection with all the other women in the world who do this same task for their families. My shoulders grow warm with exertion after a while, and I scoot the rocking chair out of the sunshine. I find a comfortable spot in the shade from the honeysuckle vines growing up the sides of the porch. Leaves blow back and forth in a soft wind. As the butter forms, I think of Isaac stuck in the attic. The poor man must be sweltering.