Poison to Purge Melancholy (22 page)

“What of last night? How did you get wet?”

“An error in judgment as to the sinking of our costumes. Nothing for it but to wade out as far as I could with yet another brick, to send Will’s britches to the bottom. Come, let’s go ’round by the chimney, where we can see the sunrise.”

“Where’s Jim?” I asked as I followed him.

“Still abed and resolved to stay there another half hour. ’Tis the first night he’s slept through since that croup came upon him, so I had no heart to insist.”

“Dr. Riddick was up when you looked in?”

“Riddick? No. I couldn’t see his bed in the dark, but I heard the ropes of it creak with his weight. Why do you ask?”

I told him what I’d just seen.

Sam leaned his back against the brickwork of the east chimney. “He’s out earlier this time. I suppose I woke him.”

“This time?”

“If you rose at daybreak, Ben, like those of us who work for our bread”—Sam elbowed my arm to show his jest—“and dressing, looked out from our bedroom window, you too would have seen the doctor’s last foray. Since he’s come to Williamsburg, perhaps once each month, though heeding no schedule, he rushes off at dawn, and always to the hospital.”

“The hospital? I thought it closed.”

“It is, but that’s where he goes. He follows a pattern—comes in very late the night before, leaves at dawn and is not seen all the day, then returns late again, with a story of some patient in a far corner of the county. My curiosity got the best of me on the third instance—I trailed him and saw him enter through the hospital’s yard. I’m convinced he uses the place for trysting.” Sam shivered, but not from cold. “What woman would agree to such surroundings? The building’s layered in filth, and on my oath, the wraiths of lunatics still pace the cells.”

’Twas my turn to shudder. Sam noticed and laughed. “At any rate, I’ll wager no woman meets Riddick there twice. As I said, his visits are infrequent, with three to eight weeks between. It takes him that long to woo each—” A shot sounded across town. “Damnation! Someone’s beat us to the punch. A shilling says Will Knox was the man.”

Sam raised his musket and sent back an answering blast, as did I, just as the sun set its first rays upon the pastureland across the creek and marsh to the southeast. Four more shots came in response as other men fired off their Christmas guns.

Sam brought from his pocket two more cartridges. “Fire a second, for good measure. To keep the Devil away all the New Year long.”

A waste of powder, as Jim said the night before, but I took the cartridge and charged my musket. In Norfolk, I’d never been permitted to engage in the practice—nor keep a weapon, for that matter. I’d listen each Christmas morn from the window of Mr. Ivey’s front attic, where I’d shared sleeping space on the floor with a stocky, bewhiskered servant named Evans. Not ’til after I’d met Sam—at Valley Forge, our first Yuletide—did I salute the Nativity thus.

Despite it, the Devil yet pursued me.

Still, I raised my musket, pulled the flint to full cock, and fired. Sam followed suit, and in the calm that ensued, we heard a thumping on the sill above our heads.

“Do another!” young Tom cried with delight, his cheeks flushed as he leaned out of the open window. His waistcoat, not yet buttoned, hung on his shoulders.

“Tom, close that!” his sister commanded from inside, “and go fetch the water before Mother comes back down.” Taking Tom’s place at the window as she tied the last knot to her modesty scarf, she curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Dunbar, Mr. Walker.”

We both bowed, I with tricorn in hand, too late thinking how moth-eaten my cap, and how rough the bristles upon my chin. Polly merely smiled as she lowered the sash.

Sam turned to me. “Here, take my musket in with yours. I must be off to Greenhow’s, for Mrs. Tucker will no doubt come in before devotions, seeking pins or bayberry candles or some such, and would be most disappointed to miss my charming attendance.” He took off at a run straight up the hill, and so I missed my chance to question him.

At the door, I passed Master Tom, buckets in hand, headed for the well at a run. As I turned up the stair, I could hear the welcoming crackle of the fire in the common room hearth and Polly singing snatches of “Sweet Is the Budding Spring of Love” as she warmed last night’s mutton broth for our breakfast. But I would make myself presentable first.

Jim’s door was open and the man himself was slipping into his short coat.

“I thought you’d still be abed,” I said from the doorway.

“With all the household plotting against me?” His voice was clearer than I’d heard it in a week, and his protests evidence that he felt better. “First Sam, then Isaac, then you clodding down the stairs after Isaac, then Widow Carson moving around the next room. And the house has a bad draft this morning and, top it all, I’ve had to borrow a shirt from Isaac for mine yet reeks of that retched perfume—”

“Wait. Mrs. Carson? In Brennan’s room?” I remembered Polly saying, “. . .
before Mother comes back down
. . .” and glanced at the door beside Jim’s. Closed, but the lock was undone.

“She’s in there now,” Jim said. “Why cleaning it couldn’t wait until we’d all gone to work . . . I haven’t time to wait for breakfast before—”

“Mistress Polly has broth ready. I smelled it as I climbed the steps. Leave enough for me.”

Jim smiled. “I’ll not swear to it. I’m hungry as an ox.” Taking up his tricorn, he passed me and took the steps by twos.

I brought the muskets to my room, hastily tied back my hair, then crossed the hall and opened Brennan’s door. Air as cold as outdoors hit my face.

The room was not tidy—the bed unmade and moldy crusts of bread lay upon the small table. Brennan’s spare shirt and stockings were on the floor by the bed, and his second waistcoat and britches were draped across the single chair. Still, considering a madman had confined himself here nearly a month, it might have been worse.

Elizabeth, with blanket thrown over her shoulders, was on her knees at the fireplace, using a hearth shovel to move the ashes to a tin pail. “Oh, good day, Mr. Dunbar.” She stood to greet me with curtsy and gracious smile, despite the shovel in her hand and smudge of soot on her nose. “You’ve—you’ve forgotten to shave, sir.”

“I thought I felt a draft.” I nodded to the windows of the room, the sashes of which were both raised.

“I’m sorry for that. I opened them last night, fearing miasma. I’d not have my children, nor the rest of you, becoming lunatic as Mr. Brennan did. I’ll close them as soon as I’ve finished cleaning.”

I nodded, now seeing the reason in her action. “So you believe his derangement was caused by unhealthful vapors?”

Elizabeth came around the bed, letting her blanket fall upon it, and stepped out into the hall beside me, closing the door to keep the cold air at bay. “All illness is, else why would so many people become sick in winter, when no fresh air can enter a house, and in summer, when a stink rises from the marshes?” She lowered her eyelids, hesitant. “I daresay Dr. Riddick would call me old-fashioned, with all his talk of body humours and such.”

“I too hold little faith in scientific medicine, madam.” She stood close enough to disconcert me and I fumbled for words. “Someone thought to give you the key to the lock, I see.”

“The doctor, when he brought me the news last night.”

“I should be pleased to help you sort through Mr. Brennan’s belongings and carry them below for you.”

“And I should be glad of your help. I hope to be done with cleaning the room before devotions—will you escort me, sir?”

I rarely missed the chance to hear Mr. Pelham play the organ at Bruton Parish Church, but today I feared Mr. Tyler might also be in attendance. “I deeply regret, madam, that I have an appointment this morning. However, I shall return in time for dinner, for I would not miss your Christmas pies for the world.”

Her sweet smile once more appeared. “Then I shall let you be on your way. But do not forget”—she reached up, stroking her palm along my cheek—“to see to your beard, sir.” With a soft laugh, she let herself back into Brennan’s room, leaving me in the hall with the memory of her hand upon my face.

The day was cold
and crisp, so I was shivering as I followed Hugh’s car out of the drive and left onto Francis Street. Evelyn was behind us in his Beetle, but he turned right. Acey’s friend Sachi had backed her car out into the street so we could get out. A red SUV pulled up behind her, the woman behind the wheel signaling her intention of also turning into the drive. Irene? If so, Foot preferred his blonde and young-looking. Typical man.

I set the fan on my heater up a notch and tested the result by holding my bare left fingers up to the vent, since with the ring, I’d found I couldn’t get my glove on. The vent’s air was still cold, so I put my hand in my coat pocket.

All I knew was that we were headed toward “Tavern Parking,” where Evelyn thought Hugh would have the best luck finding a space. We were also headed in the same direction I’d walked yesterday one block over on Duke of Gloucester Street. In fact, after about two tenths of a mile, I spied the octagonal magazine set back a little ways on my left, with the courthouse a half block behind it. Fewer tourists were mulling around the Market Green than yesterday. I wondered if the holiday or the cold kept the rest away.

Houses dotted the street, but on my left I mostly saw white picket fences and hedges, which I realized were the backyards of the shops over on the main drag. A shingle on one white outbuilding showed where the King’s Arms was. I thought of Zela and suddenly wanted to compare notes with her.

My beloved turned right between a break in tall evergreens. I followed, surprised to find a large parking lot hidden from the street. Hugh drove to the rear, choosing a space away from other cars in a fairly empty row. I pulled in on his driver’s side.

No sooner was he in my passenger seat than I blurted out, “Can we get away for dinner tomorrow night?”

He put on his roguish grin as he shut the door. “You asking me on a date?”

“Sure. You’re easy. See, I already picked you up.”

“Okay, I’ll play hard to get. Let me think, do I want to spend a Saturday night alone with you or eating leftovers with my weird family? Hmmm.” He was looking out the window with feigned nonchalance, but his left hand crept—
very
chalantly—onto my thigh.

I resisted the urge to climb all over him, figuring I’d get stuck on the parking brake. “I want to go to the King’s Arms Tavern.”

Hugh looked at me then, and I hoped he wouldn’t see ulterior motives in my face, but all he said was, “Oh.”

“You’ve eaten there and the food’s lousy?”

“No. I’ve eaten there, and the food’s great. You’d love it.” His expression went all romantic on me, making me picture him taking Tanya to eat there.

Was I paranoid or what?

Hugh massaged my leg. “I just don’t think I’ll get reservations for tomorrow. You usually have to make them two, three days in advance.” Seeing my disappointment, he added, “I’ll call when we get back to the house. Maybe we’ll luck out.”

In response, I leaned over and kissed him.

His fingers probed their way up under my jacket and his other hand took over thigh duty. “Turn off the car,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

“But the heat finally kicked in.”

“You’ve got me to keep you warm.” He almost took back his words after my frozen left hand met his cheek, but I had to admit, the man was an efficient and eco-friendly space heater.

Unfortunately, Hugh blew it during the first breath break, saying, “I knew Beth Ann would be okay as soon as we were engaged.”

“Say what?” I sat back, the better to look him in the eye without crossing mine.

“You know, my daughter?” Moving his hands to my waist, he tried to coax me back toward him. “She’s been following you around like a puppy today.”

“That isn’t—” I caught myself before mentioning anything about ghosts. But I somehow had to correct his misconceptions. I pushed at his arms to ward off his distractions. “Wait. What did she say when you told her?”

I got a blank look back, confirming my suspicions. “All right, so you didn’t tell her this morning, but you discussed this with her before this weekend, right? She knew you were going to ask me?”

Scowling, he withdrew his hands. “I needed Beth Ann’s permission to propose to you?”

“Not her permission, just—” We were both still in emotion-mode, and his scowls always brought out the stubborn, combative Italian in me. I tried sucking in a cold breath to clear my thoughts. Problem was, we’d done too good a job making the car’s air steamy, as evidenced by my fogged-up windshield. “She’s only fourteen, Hugh, and our getting married will be a major change in her life. She needs to feel like she’s in on the plan.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll talk to her when we get home.” His tone declared the break over and he reached for me once more.

I pushed him away again. “We? No way. You’ve got to talk to her alone. You’re her father.”

“And you’re going to be her mother.”

“No!” I sounded vehement, like I was in total denial. I hunted around my head for why I’d said it, and remembered Beth Ann’s face as she held my hand that morning and stared at the ring. “Hugh, that’s what your daughter’s scared of. Even though Beth Ann can’t remember Tanya, the title of ‘Mother’ is reserved. Seeing this ring on my finger makes her feel like you’ve gone out and found a replacement, the way you would if your TV broke.” That was unfair and I knew it—from what Miss Maggie told me, I was the first woman Hugh dated since Tanya’s death and we’re talking more than ten years. Beth Ann would see that, too, because, as I’ve said, she’s logical. Was the replacement theory her feeling? Or mine?

“I told you,” Hugh said, “if you don’t want that ring, I’ll buy you another one.” The tone of that offer last night had been “I’d do anything for you.” Now it sounded like “I’d do anything to end this conversation and get back to making out.”

Which got my dander up even further. “That’s not the point. Putting another ring on my finger isn’t going to fix everything.” As soon as the sentence left my mouth, I knew I didn’t mean Beth Ann any longer. “You proposed to me the same way you did to Tanya. I bet you even kissed me under the mistletoe the same way, didn’t you?”

His scowl deepened until his eyebrows nearly touched. “So now you don’t like the way I kiss.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It sure sounded like it.”

“Don’t be such a
stu-NAHD
. I only—”

“Don’t curse at me in Italian.”

“That wasn’t cursing. If I wanted to curse—oh, forget it.” I started the engine, so mad I could barely think to crank up the defrosts before trying to drive anywhere.

“Oh, come on, Pat.” He put one of his big paws on my shifting arm, not rough, but not tender either. “What the hell are we fighting about?”

“If you don’t know—”

“I
don’t
know.”

I wanted to curse him out then, for not being able to read my mind when I myself couldn’t put into words what I meant. And for being the only person on earth who could make me cry during an argument. Instead, I bit my lip to cork the tears, then said, “Take your hand off my arm so I can drive.” My voice shook.

He let go, with a testy sigh.

I backed my Neon out of the space, thankful for the stripes of clear glass on the rear window. The front windshield wasn’t as accommodating—I swiped off the condensation with my gloved hand. I could feel Hugh’s eyes on me, until I pulled out of the lot, then he turned to look out the window. Neither of us spoke all the way back, me because opening my mouth would uncork my tear ducts.

While Hugh was closing the gates, I parked alongside the fence and ran for the house. The kitchen door was open and the room empty—I caught a glimpse of Glad setting the table in the dining room. She was back in her Marie Antoinette dress, with a fancy bonnet in place of the powdered wig. I dashed for the stairs and was near the top of them when the kitchen door slammed below.
Please don’t let him follow me
, I prayed. All I wanted was a good cry.

Closing the bedroom door behind me, I fell onto my floor mattress and let the sobs come, realizing too late that there wasn’t a box of tissues in the room. I was a few minutes into my orgy of self-pity—done calling myself a complete idiot but just starting where I gave myself a failing grade in Life 101—when I heard the door open and close softly. I glanced over my shoulder, ready to ream out Hugh in a fit of hysterics.

Miss Maggie stood there, looking worried. “Did you tell Hugh about the ghost, Pat?”

“No!” I blubbered.

She sighed, but not, I thought, with relief. “Let me get you some tissues. Here, help me put my suitcase on the bed. And take off your coat.”

Sniffling, I got up to do her bidding, dropping my jacket on the mattress.

As a reward, Miss Maggie gave me a full purse pack of Kleenex. “Hmm. Hugh came in looking like a totem pole and went straight up to his room, and you’re here doing a fair impression of Niagara Falls. If this isn’t about ghosts, then it must have to do with that ring on your finger.” She took hold of my left hand, pack of Kleenex and all, and held the ring close to her eyes. “A real beaut. Old, too. Reminds me of my mother’s.”

“It belonged to Hugh’s Great-Aunt Priscilla.” I felt a lump form in my throat again and more tears streamed down my cheeks. “And to Tanya.”

I was too watery-eyed, and too absorbed in my own misery, to note her reaction, but after a moment she patted the daybed. “Have a seat, Pat.”

I did, hugging my knees in front of me, until my muscles twinged and I had to straighten my legs.

Miss Maggie sat beside me. “Since you’re too sensible to get all het up over a little hunk of metal and stone, I’m guessing this is the tip of the iceberg.”

“He’s been treating me like Tanya,” I blurted out. “Like he doesn’t care that I’m different. Like”—I suddenly recalled Acey’s comments about men—“like he doesn’t care about who I am, as an individual.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He doesn’t
know
much about who you are, any more than you know him all that well yet. Takes more than a few months to figure out a person.”

Was that the whole problem? Did Hugh and I simply need to get to know each other better before rushing into marriage? I voiced the question aloud, more to see how it sounded to myself than to bounce it off Miss Maggie.

Of course, she told me her opinion anyway. “Pshaw! No one would get married in that case. Even after fifty years with Jake, when I thought I had him pegged, he’d up and surprise me, and not always in a way I liked. But that’s one of the things that made marriage interesting.”

“So you think we should just go for it and everything’ll work itself out?”

“Nothing ever works itself out, Pat.” She put her gnarled hands around my left one, which hid the ring. Intentional? Or simply a gesture of comfort and affection? “I won’t say
what
I think you should do—my own selfish motives are bound to creep in—but let me give you a few things to think on. First off, your life changed for the better last May when you came to Virginia. Made you feel good about yourself, maybe for the first time. Part of you, though, is defined by that big Italian family of yours, and you’ve been missing them.”

That scored a bull’s-eye. Right this minute my cousins would all be gathering at their parents’ houses, everyone kissing and hugging. There would be Christmas trees and Nativities lit up, tables set, stereos blaring Perry Como carols, football games on TV, and drool-inducing aromas wafting from the kitchens. Babies crying while the older grandkids try to snitch butter cookies from heaping trays on dining room sideboards. Uncle Mario snitching black olives from the plastic-wrapped antipasto dish. I would have given anything to be there. A few more tears escaped.

“On Hugh’s side of it, well . . .” Miss Maggie let nostalgia glaze over her eyes a moment. “You know he was in my history class in junior high. I had Horse the year before. They looked liked twins back then, so I suppose I expected Hugh to take after his outgoing, class-clown brother. Nope, he was quiet and serious as can be. That was the same year Jake first got sick. I ended up hiring Hugh to come mow the lawn and do some work around Bell Run that summer. He was the only student willing to ride his bike out from town. Came every Saturday during the fall, too, until Gladys moved down here to Williamsburg. Never thought to see him again. But I got an invitation to his wedding, which is when I met Tanya.” Miss Maggie stole a peek in my direction.