Once inside, in the pantry, I tuck a bit of tea cake into a napkin Geist and I had forgotten all about a proper supper but as I pass through to the kitchen, an obstacle.
Mrs. Sullivan, who’d been sleeping in her chair by the hearth, is awake all at once and snarling like a cur. “You, there! Where’ve you been?”
“Oh…” But she has stumbled to a stand and in the next moment is much too close, her stale ale breath in my face. I draw back.
“Jezebel!” She thumps her knuckles against my shoulder, knocking me back. “Not even out of weeds yet, and look at you! Rushing off into the city, arranging secret meetings. He’ll never do right by you, whoever he is, if that’s the shameful plan you’re hatching. Those sort of cads never ”
“Mrs. Sullivan, you’re wrong ”
“Don’t ever say I din’t warn you! And now I’ll have you know, tomorrow it’ll be my sunrise duty to tell the Missus.”
The very idea of being reported to Aunt for a crime I didn’t commit infuriates me. My face burns and my hands clench, though my answering voice could cut glass. “Report all you like, Mrs. Sullivan. That’s all Aunt Clara needs to turn me out. But what will you do without me? You tell me to be a lady but does a lady beat carpets or polish silver? Does a lady sleep in a garret?”
In the next second I think Mrs. Sullivan might cuff my ear, a talent for which she is notorious. Instead, she glares, but then she steps back to let me pass. I keep my chin set proud, though I stiffen to feel her eyes following me.
Alone upstairs in my room, I turn the lock and sink to my knees. The fire I’d built earlier this evening has died, and my hands tremble so violently with anger and cold that it takes time to light a match. I hardly know why I bother. Warmth never holds in this room. It is as if the walls themselves prefer the chill.
At least tonight the atmosphere matches my mood. How vile to be accused especially by Mrs. Sullivan, whose dimpled face had been some comfort when Mother’s memory feels particularly faint or when Aunt is being loathsome.
The fire catches and blazes. And now I hear the housekeeper’s own lumpish foot on the stairs and the rusty hinges of her door as she retires.
It’s not entirely Mrs. Sullivan’s fault that she croaks and spits at me. The housekeeper uses the same coarse and casual manner not only with Mavis and Lotty, but also with the neighbors’ servants. And while I’m not paid a wage, there is no real distinction between the staff and me. Not anymore. My clothes are thread-worn. The strongest lye can’t rid the half-moons of garden dirt from under my nails or the stink of cod from my palms. My days are filled with chores. I don’t entertain, nor do I receive invitations to be entertained. I am not the lady of this house. Never was. Certainly never will be.
The cord of my purse strings has wound itself tight around my wrist, cutting into my flesh with a sudden fierce intensity, the way Toby and I used to pinch each other to stop ourselves from laughing in church.
But this is hardly humorous, for I can feel the welt rise on my skin.
Hurriedly, I work the strings loose and pull it open. The cry dies in my throat.
It is as if Will’s own hand has squeezed hold of my heart. And as if to confirm it, the fever is upon me at once, the memory of his rage so pure it strikes me to my marrow as I stare at the photograph.
20.
The full moon won’t lie. In a rush, I bring the print to the window.
My eyes aren’t playing tricks. The photograph has changed. Black ink is scratched at my breastbone. A crooked little heart. No prank, no forgery. The print has been in my bag since leaving the studio.
The fever of Will’s anger has passed through me and is gone, leaving me wilted. Despite the cold, my hairline beads with sweat. I crawl into a corner of the sill and offer my ignited cheeks, one and then the other, like hot kisses against the frosted pane, before I compose myself enough to return my gaze to the photograph.
I lick my fingers and rub. The ink is indelible. Furthermore, I know exactly what it means. “I believe in you,” I whisper to the darkness beyond. “I know you’ve come back to me.” And I do know it. Rarely have I been so sure of anything.
My breath has turned the glass opaque, and I wipe away the fog to stare outside, far across the lawn. The tree isn’t visible from my vantage point, and fresh snow is dropping, thick and fast as rain. I want to leave this instant, but I must be sure the house is asleep. The last thing I need is Mrs. Sullivan catching me again.
My bones seem to vibrate under my skin as I draw up my legs and twine my arms around my knees. I am so quiet that a mouse darts across the carpet and stakes its claim to a bit of tea cake crumb that had dropped from my napkin.
A spy must know when and how to turn to stone.
A thousand years pass before I hear snoring proof that Mrs. Sullivan is lost to the sleep of the overworked.
Creeping along the corridor, I freeze at the sound of Mavis muttering in her bed. But no, she’s only dreaming. It turns my heart imagining what rebuke had been meted at Mrs. Sullivan’s ready hand once she’d discovered I wasn’t home and that Mavis had been lying to her.
Dear Mavis, she’s lost half her hearing to Mrs. Sullivan’s punishing blows, and yet when I press her she’ll swear one more knock doesn’t matter. I’ll have to think of a way to make it up to her.
Outside, the snow sticks four inches deep and continues to fall. In seconds my head and shoulders and back are wet. Hesitant to use the lantern, I let the watery moonlight guide me down the lawn. Almost immediately I’m soaked from my slipping, skidding shoes. My feet are two numb chunks of ice wrapped in soggy wool, and there’s hardly any point in lifting my dragging hem, though it seems to catch on every twig. My dress is all but ruined, but nothing could turn me back now. My photograph has given me hope, and I will doggedly cast my last coin in its wishing well.
A spy advances on every opportunity.
The butternut tree marks an otherwise desolate part of the property. Its branches haven’t been climbed in many years. Its knotted rope swing is too frayed and thin to support a body. But it’s not the swing that interests me.
At the base of the tree I drop down to all fours. My blind hands search and find the nicks and grooves where we have carved our initials: T. P. L., Tobias Pritchett Lovell. W. F. P., William Franklin Pritchett. Q. E. P., Quincy Emory Pritchett. J. R. L., Jennie Rose Lovell.
And then, two summers ago, Will had taken his fishing knife and joined his initials with mine, fencing them together inside a single, exuberant heart. I see it now, cut thick like an artery into the wood’s black bark, shaped like a spade with a kited tail.
An identically shaped heart has been inked into my photograph.
The heart that marks the spot.
My hands crawl at the patch of soft soil directly beneath the heart, at the wedge that divides the tree’s two largest exposed roots. I can feel that the earth has been turned over recently. My breath is short, my hands scrape like a dog, raw, burrowing. Grit flies into my eye. I wipe at it, streaking more wet dirt across my face and lips. It leaves an icy taste of mineral. Tomorrow it will be impossible to explain away the state of my clothes and shoes. But I cannot stop until I have found what William has intended me to find.
The physical sensation of pulling it up is not unlike the complicated pull on the tangle of a winter root loosing its grip in the ground. As if it, too, had been connected to the earth and sustained by it.