The House of Closed Doors (19 page)

“It’s a good place.” Tess was already shaking out the ragged blanket.

I frowned, gazing at the rusted implements leaning against the barn. Perhaps Tess was trying to punish me in some roundabout way for neglecting her. She was definitely acting oddly. I lay Sarah gently on the blanket and drew a corked bottle of cold tea from my basket. Tess pulled a large, unlabeled bottle from hers.

“Beer? Tess, what is this? You are a teetotaler, and I have never drunk beer in my life.” And then the penny dropped. Blackie was shuffling toward us with a purposeful air.

“Oh, Tess.” I sounded indignant and reproachful.

“He said he has things to tell us. We should know. Jo and Benjamin are dead, Nell. Maybe they didn’t die by accident.”

I could not refute the possibility. “But to resort to bribing a drunkard with alcohol… it is wrong, Tess.”

Tess pushed her stubby nose as high into the air as it would go. “Killing is wrong too, Nell. Maybe Jo and Benjamin were killed.”

“And maybe not,” Blackie said softly as he reached down to take the bottle from Tess’s hand. “I ain’t pointin’ fingers. But a deal’s a deal. I’ll tell you what I saw.” He flipped off the bottle’s swing top with one hand and took a long gulp of the beer, then positioned himself carefully at a short distance from us, squatting so that he could talk without being seen from either of the Houses.

“There was a particular man around little Jo two years ago,” he said with a reminiscent grin. “She set her sights on him, see? Got up to all her little tricks. She had these ways of lettin’ men know she was theirs for the having. Actions speak louder ’an words.” He wheezed out so violent a laugh that he was forced to drop onto one knee. He took another long slug of beer before he continued.

“Well, this gentleman‌—‌oh yes,” he said in answer to my quick look and narrowed eyes, “a cut above, this one‌—‌started hangin’ around the barns, all casual-like, inspecting the state of the buildings and askin’ questions about the livestock.”

Blackie’s eyes shone as the beer began to take effect. “Saw him bein’ sinful with himself round the back of the barn that one time, when she’d gotten him all, ah,” he glanced over at Tess, whose eyes were as round as saucers, “bothered up and run off. Don’t think his missus had much warm at home for him, see?”

I wrinkled my nose in disgust but did not miss the implication. A married man with an invalid wife… not an inmate, certainly.

“Well,” said Blackie, finishing the beer in several gulps and eyeing the empty bottle regretfully, “after that I reckon he gave in, ’cause I saw him leavin’ the barns a few times, with her just before him or just after. Didn’t last long, mind. After a bit she got interested in makin’ a man of young Donny, and he ran out of reasons for visiting the Farm. But by that time the damage must have been done ’cause it wasn’t too long before you could see she had a belly on her.”

“You don’t think the father could have been Donny?” I asked. I knew the lad; a gawky, simple-minded boy of about eighteen who was innocently affectionate toward everyone.

“I asked him if he’d done it with her,” Blackie said, “and he swore he hadn’t. And I believe him; the lad’s not one for tellin’ lies.”

“And the name of Jo’s lover?” I felt a surge of impatience to know the truth Blackie held locked in his shuttered mind. “Blackie, in the name of justice, tell me now.”

Blackie stood up, and an obstinate expression combined in his face with an unpleasant leer. “Oh, I know the name… and more besides. Just one bottle, Miss Nell. You’re a clever girl; you’ll find a way to get it. Even half a bottle, if it’s decent whiskey. Make an old man happy, missy, and I’ll give you your justice.” He scratched at his lean cheeks, which were flecked with gray stubble and handed the empty beer bottle back to Tess. “Don’t go gettin’ caught now, little Tessy. I don’t want to get either of you young ladies into trouble.”

He sauntered off toward the Men’s House, for once not humming to himself.

I looked at Tess, who had picked up Sarah. “What should I do, Tess?” I asked. “I don’t want to get whiskey for him. I don’t like him when he’s like that.”

“It’s his demon,” Tess said sagely. “His demon’s not very nice.”

“Maybe there’s another way of persuading him to tell,” I mused.

“Whiskey’s the best way, Nell.”

I looked hard at Tess. I had not known she could be duplicitous; but there was that bottle of beer. “Promise me you won’t give him whiskey,” I said.

“I promise, Nell.”

TWENTY-THREE

“W
hy are we doing this?” Tess asked me as she carefully swept under the tables for the fifth time in two hours. It was quite impossible to cut and sew without dropping threads on the floor.

“In case the governors decide to inspect us, I suppose,” I said absentmindedly. I was standing by the window holding Sarah, who was making a determined attempt to pull my hair out of its pins.

“They came to talk about making a new superintendent, not about our workroom,” Tess said huffily.

Our workroom was spotless. For two days inmates and staff had mopped floors, dusted and swept, scrubbed and polished. Now carriages were pulling up between the two Houses, and I watched with interest.

I had studied the list of twelve governors in Mrs. Lombardi’s office for clues as to which one of them could be Ly-lee. If Blackie were telling the truth about Jo’s lover being a gentleman, then it could well have been one of the governors.

I did not know what I would do if I identified Jo’s lover. What evidence did I have other than a name? Certainly no evidence of murder. The likelihood was that Jo and Benjamin would be forgotten before weeds covered their small grave, by all except, perhaps, Mrs. Lombardi, Tess, and myself. And yet I could not let the matter drop; those withered forms still haunted my dreams.

There was one governor‌—‌I had seen his name on the list‌—‌called Lysander Goodman. Could Lysander be Ly-lee? I watched carefully as twelve men descended, with varying degrees of caution, from the swaying carriages. Was Lysander the portly man with the mustaches? Or the younger one with the curly hair?

My heart gave a small lurch as Hiram Jackson stepped out of his carriage, followed by a frail, white-haired man to whom my stepfather gave his arm. I wondered whether I would get an interview with Stepfather and what I could say if I did. The likelihood of persuading him to let me keep Sarah seemed even more remote now that I saw him in his best suit, laughing and joking with the other men empowered to decide my fate.

Sarah succeeded in grabbing my nose, and I laughed and kissed her. When I looked back out of the window my stepfather had gone inside‌—‌but into which building, I couldn’t say. The superintendent’s office was in the Men’s House. I wondered if they were meeting in there.

I saw Blackie making for the Men’s House at a purposeful pace and sighed. Every time I’d tried to get him to speak, he’d shaken his head and said, “A little whiskey, Miss Nell. Just a little whiskey.” He’d been humming almost nonstop lately. Tess said that was because he had a craving for the booze, and I agreed that there was something unusually tense about him. He barely spoke to a soul, and his wheezing laugh was not often heard.

I was on tenterhooks for the rest of the morning, wondering how I would get a chance to talk with my stepfather. I needn’t have worried. He came to me.

I
was alone in the workroom with Sarah when my stepfather walked in. I stopped still in the middle of the room, like a rabbit when it knows the coyote is near. Sarah squirmed in my arms and kicked vigorously against the fabric of her gown.

Hiram walked over to me and stared at Sarah with an expression of distaste in his ice-blue eyes. His hair seemed a little longer than before, and the smell of his pomade reminded me of my home. There was only one thing I wanted to know right now.

“Stepfather‌—‌” It seemed strange, somehow, to be calling him this, as if I’d suddenly become younger again‌—‌”how is my mother?”

“Well enough.” His chin pushed outwards, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “It looks like Red Jack Lillington,” he said.

“
She
is a little girl.” I tried to keep the indignation out of my voice. “Her name is Sarah. She is your‌—‌your granddaughter.”

“She’s the bastard child of an unknown father,” he said evenly. “I hear you haven’t weaned her yet.”

“She’s not ready.”

“You’ll get her weaned before August,” he replied. “You’ll have her ready for adoption. I have been in contact with a Mr. and Mrs. Gray in Springfield. That child will suit them admirably. You will return to your home and be your mother’s comfort and an example of good morals and hard work to your community.” A bland smile spread over his handsome face.

I felt my jaw clench and tightened my hold on Sarah, who squawked and wriggled even harder. “I do not want to be separated from my child,” I said as neutrally as I could. “I will do anything you ask‌—‌anything‌—‌except for that.”

Hiram’s cheeks darkened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You do not have any choice in the matter. I will not associate with any bastard child, at whatever distance. If you don’t relinquish that brat willingly, it will be taken from you.”

Before I could find the words to reply he stalked out, leaving a smell of pomade and cigars behind him. Sarah began to cry, and I bounced her up and down in my arms, but two tears ran down my own cheeks. I knew Hiram Jackson well enough to know that he would not change his mind. I would have to run, and I didn’t know where to go.