After the Frost (7 page)

And then, because he was shaking so hard, he couldn't stay another moment, he turned and vaulted down the steps toward the field, where Sarah and Abby played.

     
T
he ride back to the farm was silent, the Indian summer sun still hot. The dusty air blew against Belle's skin, bringing with it grit that clung to her lips, and the heavy scent of drying corn and manure from the farms they passed. Sarah lay curled up on a pile of burlap bags in the back of the wagon, asleep. Her strange doll had fallen from her fingers to bounce erratically on the weathered boards. Lillian had insisted on sitting in back with her—as though she was afraid any contact with Belle might hurt the child.

Belle pulled down the brim of the rough straw hat to hide her eyes. She was so angry, her face felt tight, and her head ached with the tense clenching of her jaw.

They had lied about Sarah. The realization stunned her. The Rand she'd known had always been brutally truthful. He had never cared about what people said or thought.

But things had changed in six years.

Belle swallowed painfully and looked out at the passing fields. She had not expected much from Rand, but she'd at least believed he would fight Lillian when it came to telling the truth about Sarah. The fact that he hadn't shocked Belle as much as the sight of Sarah's shorn tresses—and infuriated her. He had taken away any claim Belle had to Sarah as neatly as he'd cut their daughter's hair.

Yes, Rand had changed.

His dreams had somehow died; he was locked inside his own world, a world of cornfields and hogs, a smalltown world where Lillian's lie seemed better than the truth simply because it protected him from gossip.

"You were that ashamed of the truth, then?"
The question she'd asked him drifted through her mind. She'd expected him to deny it, expected him to be surprised she had asked such a thing. She'd asked the question only to hurt him and not because she truly believed they were ashamed of her, not really.

So his answer, his simple, quick
yes
, had startled her.

And hurt. Surprisingly it hurt. She had not thought he could affect her anymore, but when it came to this, anyway, she was wrong. It had hurt, and it was that more than anything else that reaffirmed her feeling that she could not leave Sarah here. He was ashamed of her—so be it. If that was true, then it had to color how he felt about their daughter. It meant Rand would try harder to stifle anything of her in Sarah. He would smother Sarah's dreams, her freedom. Belle could not let that happen. She would not allow her child to grow up with nothing to see but Rand's crushed dreams and Lillian's restrictions.

No, her daughter would learn to have dreams of her own.

The resolution made Belle feel stronger. She lifted her chin to steal a glance at Rand, who sat implacable and expressionless beside her on the seat. His large hands held the reins expertly; his broad shoulders shifted beneath the heavy brown coat he wore. They sat as far apart as they could on the narrow seat, careful not to touch each other, and his movements were stiff. In fact everything about him was stiff: his perfectly formed, full lips were pressed together in a hard line, his square jaw clenched. Those deep-set eyes, shadowed by the brim of his hat, stared straight ahead, barely blinking. Even his thick, dark blond hair was stiff where it brushed his collar—too stiff even to curl.

He had changed, but at least she knew how to handle Rand now. He was just like Lillian. And like her mother he had a lot to learn about giving her orders.

They turned into the narrow dirt road that wound past the house to the barn, and Rand pulled up beside the porch and jumped down. Sarah jerked awake at the sudden stop.

"Where are we?" she asked sleepily. "Are we home?"

"Yeah, we're home." Roughly Rand grabbed Belle's carpetbag and tossed it on the porch. It landed with a heavy thud, and he threw her an inscrutable glance. "Anything else?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, that's it."

"Good." He turned to help Lillian and Sarah out of the wagon, and Belle jumped from the hard seat, landing so hard, pain shot up into her ankles. She winced, grabbing the side of the wagon for support, and when she turned around again, Lillian and Sarah were already on the porch.

Rand paused before climbing back onto the seat. "What's wrong?"

Immediately she let go of the buckboard and backed away. "Nothin'."

He nodded stiffly toward the satchel. "If you leave it there, I'll bring it in after I unharness the horses." He spoke as if it was a task just slightly more appealing than beheading chickens.

"It's fine," Belle said sharply. "I can get it."

"All right, then." He clicked to the horses, and the wagon moved off, heading down the road to the barn.

Belle took a deep breath. Lillian and Sarah had already disappeared inside the big house, and she stood there, staring at it, feeling unexpectedly uncomfortable. It seemed sinister again, vaguely threatening, neatly wiping away any good memories she had of it, the things she'd thought about—was it only last night? The dark curtains at the parlor windows were drawn together, closed eyes against the world. Beyond the open front door the hallway was dark and somehow menacing.

She didn't want to be here suddenly, had forgotten what moving back into this house would be like. Leave now. The threatening words whispered in her mind like those from a familiar ghost story. Her mouth went dry.

Then, from inside the house she heard Sarah's voice, and Belle's fears lessened. This was why she'd returned. For Sarah. And because of Sarah, Belle wouldn't let memories stop her.

She picked up the satchel, moving purposefully through the front door.

She stood there for a moment. The scent of pears was gone, but the beeswax was still strong, and there was the faint aroma of yeast and the musty smell of the dying mums on the hallway table. The smells were comforting, but the darkness of the hall held a coolness that belied the warmth of outside.

Lillian came out from the kitchen, her face expressionless. "You can use your old room," she said in that chillingly flat voice.

Belle glanced at the stairs. She waited for something more, some other instruction, but Lillian only nodded shortly and turned on her heel, disappearing into the kitchen. Belle heard the murmur of her mother's voice, a soft counterpoint to Sarah's chatter. She was already forgotten. Belle felt a surge of relief and turned to the stairs.

The stairs creaked beneath her weight—they always had—and she hurried up the rest of them, down the long, scarred floor of the hallway and past the half-open doors of the bedrooms until she got to the one at the opposite end of the hall, overlooking the front yard.

The door was firmly closed; there was a key in the lock.

Belle paused and let her satchel fall from her hand. It banged on the floor, startling her with the noise. She licked her lips, feeling like an intruder. It was just a room, she reminded herself, nothing but a place to sleep. Probably it looked completely different from when it had been hers.

But in some small way she hoped it didn't.

Slowly, holding her breath, she turned the key and pushed open the door.

The light blinded her for a moment. The setting sun streamed in through the windows, past the closed, thin muslin curtains, slanting across the floor and the bed shoved against the wall. The room was boiling hot. And empty.

Not completely empty, she amended. The bed was hers. She recognized the fine lathed maple of the headboard, the notches on the bedpost where she'd tied her escape rope so many nights. Beside it was her bedstand, holding a single lamp. But the bedspread was a many- colored, wedding-ring quilt where before it had been just a blue-and-white weaver's blanket, and the tin lard lamp on the table was new. There was no dent in the base, no soot-stained metal.

A rag rug lay on the floor, and she couldn't remember if it was the same rug that had always been there— surely it was? The big maple armoire took up the far wall. It was the same too—her initials were scratched into the fine wood at the base, the same initials she'd been spanked for carving when she was twelve years old.

But other than that the room was without character, and despite the fact that she'd known it would be that way, Belle felt a pang of disappointment. It was her room, but it wasn't, and she felt as much a stranger as she did standing in the hallway downstairs.

She took hold of her carpetbag, walking slowly into the room and throwing it on the bed. Then she went to the window, pushing aside the curtains to open it. It stuck as if it hadn't been opened for a long time, and she smacked the sill with the base of her hand, trying to loosen it.

She was sweating by the time she managed to get it open and the cooling air of evening swept over her, drying the sweat on her face. Belle sank onto the bed and reached for her hat.

Her hand stopped in midair, her breath caught in her throat. On the wall next to the door was the portrait. It was huge—three feet wide and three and a half tall, with a heavy, dark frame, and it showed a portly man with thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The artist had been one of the best—he had captured the stern light in the man's blue eyes, the humorless set of the mouth and the heavy jaw. The fabric of his dark blue coat looked fine and thick, and the patterns in his multicolored waistcoat glowed richly.

The picture was of her real father, John Calhoun, and like the rest of the room the portrait was the same but it wasn't. The feathers and dried flowers she'd pasted over his sanctimonious face were gone, leaving only a wispy frond of feather, a glue stain by his eye and another on his pristine white cravat. But he was unchanged, a whole presence now that the guise was gone, unadorned and glowering, just as he'd been for years and years and years.

"Well, well," Belle muttered finally. "Damn me to hell if it isn't Jesus John." And then she started to laugh uncontrollably, until it seemed the walls were shaking with the sound.

Chapter 6

B
elle woke early. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was, and she blinked groggily at the armoire, confused and disoriented. But then she remembered, and the realization that she was home again brought her wide awake in seconds. The spicy, thyme-heavy scent of sausage drifted from downstairs, along with the aroma of coffee. Murmurs of voices—Rand's deep baritone, her mother's measured tones—came muffled from the kitchen along with the heavy tread of footsteps.

It felt familiar—too much so. Belle pushed back the blankets and swung her feet over the floor. The morning was chilly—she could feel the cold from the boards before her feet even touched them—and she hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to huddle back under the covers and wait for Rand to go out to the fields and Lillian to the garden.

Yes, now that she was safely in the house, maybe it would be better to wait and face them on her own terms. Later this afternoon perhaps.

She frowned at the door, inadvertently glancing at the portrait sitting in judgment nearby. Belle stiffened. She had almost forgotten about him, had forgotten how much she hated him. Her father had died when she was two, and the painting had hung in her room since, a constant reminder. Not that she stood a chance of forgetting him, Belle thought resentfully. His spirit had been a living, breathing presence in her Aunt Clara's house in Columbus—the small home where she and her mother had lived until Lillian married Henry Sault. And even if it hadn't been, Lillian would never have let Belle forget her father or what a paragon of virtue he'd been.

"Your father would be so ashamed of you . . .""Oh, Belle, what would your father say?"
Her mother's words rang in her mind. Even after all these years the painted face of John Calhoun still filled Belle with the urge to get down on her knees and atone for her sins. It was that more than anything else that made her push aside the blankets and get out of bed. If nothing else, she didn't want to have to look at him all morning, didn't want to hear the imaginary sermons coming from a mouth permanently painted closed.

Hurriedly Belle combed out her hair, braiding it again before she slipped into an old brown calico work dress, and shoved her feet into a worn pair of boots. Then, steeling herself, she started down the stairs. The old wood creaked and groaned under her footsteps.

"There you are." Lillian stepped from the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on the heavy twill of her apron. "So you haven't decided to lie abed all day. Good. There's work to be done."

Belle paused on the bottom stair and gave her mother a sarcastic smile. "Good mornin' to you, too, Mama. You didn't have to wait around just to tell me that."

"I didn't." Lillian turned, walking back into the kitchen. "I want to talk to you."

Belle's smile faded. She felt the telltale tightening in her neck, her jaw. Still, after all this time, the anticipation of talking with her mother made her edgy. Her steps were wooden as she went down the hallway into the kitchen, and the bright morning sun and the cool air from the open back door only increased her tension. The room was cheerful, though she felt anything but. The familiar scents of sour milk and yeast nearly choked her.

Lillian began scrubbing the dishes. Breakfast was over; the only thing left was the coffee steaming on the stove and part of a buttermilk pie.

Belle forced herself to relax. "Nice of you to leave me some breakfast," she said, pulling out a chair. "Pie looks good."

Lillian didn't spare her a glance. "If you want to eat, be up when the rest of us are."

"I'll remember that." Belle went to the stove, easing past her mother without touching her, and poured coffee into a thick yellowware cup. The pottery was hot, nearly burning her hands as she hurried back to the table and set it down, taking a seat herself. At least there was a place setting there for her, she noted, grabbing a spoon and pulling the cream and the sugar bowl toward her. That was something, anyway.