Nobody's Secret (15 page)

Emily woke the next morning with the dreaded and familiar cough. She tried to hide it, but Vinnie propped herself up and began scolding. “Emily, you’ve been overdoing it. You should never have gone out in the rain yesterday.”

“I’m fine. Stop coddling me.” But Emily lay back on her pillow, her chest feeling hollowed-out and cold.

Vinnie slipped out of bed and put on her robe. “I was going on a picnic with Jane Gridley, but if you are ill, I’ll stay home.”

“Absolutely not!” Emily cried. “You go and enjoy yourself.” She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. The picnic sounded fun, but Emily had not been invited. “I’ll rest for a bit this morning, then I’ll help Mother.” She had planned to pursue her investigation today, but her duties at home took precedence.

“Well, if you insist, I’ll go,” Vinnie said. She looked as sly as one of her cats with cream dripping from its whiskers. “If you promise to rest, I’ll bring you a clue when I get home.”

“Have you been investigating on your own?” Emily accused.

With a secretive smile, Vinnie said, “I’ve just been doing exactly what I’m supposed to do . . . unlike another sister I could mention. Now sleep, or I won’t tell you.”

Emily rolled over and buried her head under the covers. No sooner had she begun to doze than she heard her mother enter the room. The only thing that could distract Mrs. Dickinson from her own ill-health was the prospect of nursing Emily.

Emily peeked out. “Good morning, Mother.”

Her mother adjusted the blanket at Emily’s feet, tucking it in at the corners of the bed. “Vinnie told me you’re coughing. I sent for Dr. Gridley, but he’s out of town until Sunday.”

“That’s not necessary. I feel fine now.” Emily kicked the blanket loose.

“I thought you might like to speak to Dr. Gridley anyway—about your dead body,” her mother continued, as though Emily hadn’t spoken.

Startled, she glanced at her mother’s pale face. There were shadows under her eyes, and Emily felt as guilty as if she had painted them there herself.

Her mother went on, “Isn’t that what you’ve been sneaking out to do? Wouldn’t it be more convenient if the doctor just came here?”

Emily wanted to pull the too-warm blanket over her head. She had underestimated her mother’s powers of observation. “I found out the dead man’s name,” she admitted. “He can have a decent Christian burial now.”

“That’s admirable, I’m sure. But why was it so important to you?” Emily’s mother sank down on the bed as though her legs wouldn’t support her any longer.

Emily reached out and took her hand. “No one cared except me,” she said.

“You aren’t strong enough for such a crusade.” Her mother’s hand trembled in Emily’s.

“If you keep me trapped in this house, I’ll never get stronger,” Emily retorted. At her mother’s stricken look, she relented. “Besides, you and Father taught me to do the right thing.”

Mrs. Dickinson’s spine straightened and her chin lifted. “I’ve also tried to teach you how perilous the world is. Home is the only place you can be safe.”

Emily felt as though she couldn’t breathe, but it had nothing to do with her weak chest. “Safe—but suffocating.”

“Suffocating?” Her mother pulled away from Emily’s grasp and went to the window that faced the pond. Her back was rigid, and Emily knew she was remembering the corpse floating there.

Emily spoke to her mother’s back. “I want to accomplish something with my life. I’ll probably need to leave home sometimes, but I promise I’ll always return . . . to find myself again.”

“You are not meant to have adventures,” Mrs. Dickinson snapped. “You’re supposed to marry, have children of your own, and keep a beautiful house.”

“What if I want something else?” Emily asked in a defiant voice. “Something that doesn’t require a husband or children?”

“Of course you’ll marry,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Lavinia will doubtless have more suitors, but there are many young men who will appreciate your intelligence, so long as you don’t frighten them away with your odd ideas and your secret notebooks.”

Emily’s hand slid imperceptibly under her pillow, where she touched the reassuring square notebook filled with clues. It felt like a talisman.

Mrs. Dickinson came back to the bed and fluffed Emily’s pillow around her head. “Vinnie is picnicking with that Jane Gridley. I’m not sure she’s an appropriate friend for your sister; Jane is entirely too popular.” She put a hand to her temple. “I’m feeling a headache coming on. I’m going to lie down. You should rest, too. Later, we’ll do the baking.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“While you are lying here, think about what I’ve said. You are almost sixteen. It’s time you understood the importance of doing your duty.” She paused in the doorway. “And if you won’t listen to me, I’m sure your father will be more persuasive.” She closed the door.

“What could be more important than solving a murder?” Emily threw her pillow at the door.

If anybody
’
s friend be dead
It
’
s sharpest of the theme
The thinking how they walked alive,
At such and such a time.

By that afternoon, Emily and her mother had reversed their roles.

“Emily!”

“Yes, Mama?”

“Close the curtains, please. The light is stabbing my eyes.”

Emily hurried into the parlor carrying a tray bearing a glass of water and a bottle of Dr. Gridley’s patented medicine for neuralgia.

“Hurry, Emily.” Her mother lay on the softest sofa, her hand covering her eyes.

Emily pulled the curtains closed, trying not to let her gaze linger out the window. The brilliant August sunshine was a temptation she could not afford to indulge today.

She poured the medicine into the glass and offered it to her mother. “I don’t know if I should take it,” Mrs. Dickinson protested. “It always makes me so sleepy.”

“Mama, it gives you relief.” Emily gently raised the glass to her mother’s lips. Mrs. Dickinson drank deeply, wincing at the sharp flavor of anise. “Sleep is a balm to your pain.”

“But who will help you with the baking? There’s so much to be done. I knew I shouldn’t have let your sister go picnicking.”

“Mama, Vinnie has been working so hard while I played truant that she deserves a treat. Dr. Gridley’s daughter was kind to invite Vinnie to join the party.” Emily concentrated to keep the envy out of her voice.

“But you’ve never done all the baking alone. . . . You aren’t ready.”

She laid her hand against her mother’s cheek. “I was trained by the best housekeeper in Amherst. Think of this as my comprehensive exam.”

“You’ll remember to make several loaves of corn bread? And the coconut cake? I promised the Hitchcocks that I would bring some to the tea tomorrow . . .” The doctor’s prescription began to take effect and Mrs. Dickinson drifted into sleep.

Emily stared down at her mother, wrestling with a mixture of irritation and affection. With a shrug, she trudged into the kitchen. Half a dozen pans were out, waiting for batter and baking. She brought out the milk and eggs from the icebox. She compared the number of the eggs with her baking requirements. There wouldn’t be enough.

Slipping wooden clogs over her indoor slippers, she went out to the chicken coop, leaving the kitchen door wide open in the hope that a summer’s breeze might blow out the stifling heat from the oven.

When she returned to the kitchen, a basket of eggs on her arm, she stopped short.

Henry Wentworth was leaning against the battered table in the center of the kitchen. He wore a casual suit, and his wide grin suggested he was confident of his welcome.

“Henry! What are you doing here?” she asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I was coming to invite you for a ride and I spied you heading to the coop. I’m afraid of chickens, so I thought I would wait inside.” His eyes sparkled, as though he were asking her to laugh at him. “I hope you don’t mind?”

Grasping the basket tighter, Emily’s thoughts were racing. When she had seen him last, he had been grief-stricken. Although she had found his tears plausible, she still harbored suspicions that Henry knew more than he’d told her. And now he was acting as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Slowly her feet brought her inside the kitchen, but she left the door propped open. Not meeting his eyes, she untied her filthy apron, stained with the juice of bushels of strawberries from this year’s jam-making. She took Vinnie’s much cleaner apron off the peg and fastened it around her neck.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she finally managed to say. “Won’t you sit down? Can I get you something to drink? Cold water?” She deposited the basket on the edge of the table without her usual care. It began to tip.

“Careful!” Henry caught the basket, rescuing the eggs, and placed it in the center of the table.

“Thank you,” Emily said, her pulse racing as though it were her own body that had nearly crashed to the ground. She was acutely aware that she was alone with him, and that her mother wouldn’t wake up if an earthquake shook the rafters.

“Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I’ll have that water.” Henry pulled his tie loose and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

Emily’s hand flew to her mouth. Mr. Nobody had used that same gesture in the smithy. For a moment it was as if Henry was gone and Mr. Nobody had taken his place.

“Emily? You did offer me water, didn’t you?”

“What?” Emily regretfully returned to the present. “Of course.” She pumped water at the sink into a pitcher and poured a glass for him.

Henry drank deeply. “Miss Dickinson, would you like to go for a drive and enjoy this beautiful day?”

Emily’s gaze went to the rolling hills outside the window, freshly scrubbed after yesterday’s rain. The apples on the trees in the orchard shone, and even the gravestones in the cemetery glistened. The freshness out of doors made the kitchen even more stifling.

He continued, “It would be a kindness to help me take my mind from our family’s loss.”

Emily jerked her attention back to his face, trying to see the truth in his features. Was James’s death the family’s loss or gain? Surely Henry, as charming as he seemed, profited from his cousin’s demise? She might never have another opportunity to find out. What harm could an excursion hold.

But then she looked back at the kitchen table and the never-ending baking. “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said.

Henry glanced around at all the pans. “How much do you have to bake? You look as though you were making enough to feed all of Amherst!”

“Four loaves of cornbread, three loaves of bread, a coconut cake, and a chicken pie for dinner tonight.” Emily counted on her fingers. “Actually, it’s a capon pie. Austin’s rooster finally disturbed my mother’s sleep one too many times.” She gestured to the carcass by the sink, feathers already plucked.

“Who killed the rooster?” Henry asked, staring at Emily as though she had sprouted a second head.

“I did, of course. Vinnie is too soft-hearted.”

“That is unexpectedly ruthless of you,” he said.

“Not terribly. Mother insists that we be as sufficient unto ourselves as we can. But this particular rooster’s sacrifice will be a blow to Austin. I don’t know how I’ll break the news to him.”

“And who is Austin?” Henry asked.

“My older brother. He’s away at school. I miss him terribly.”

He nodded. “When I’m away, I miss my sister. More than I appreciate her when I’m home!.

“Are you and Ursula close?” she asked.

“Close enough,” he said. “I’m the eldest by five years and our parents aren’t very practical, so I’ve always felt responsible for her.”

“Austin tries to take care of me. Vinnie, too, despite that I am the elder. Without them, I would be lost.” Her hands were busy measuring the flour into a large mixing bowl. “But if I’m to be completely honest—I wouldn’t mind losing my way sometimes. One never knows what one will see.”

“I like the way you phrase things, Emily.”

Emily laughed, and she began to relax. After all, hadn’t she deduced that Henry was genuinely shocked when he saw his cousin’s body? Whatever mystery swirled around James’s death, Henry’s part could not be so nefarious. After all, she and Henry had shed tears together.