The House of Closed Doors (37 page)

I had absolutely no idea what had happened, but I instinctively knew that one threat to our lives was gone. Time to deal with the other. I was having trouble keeping my footing in the eddying water and had fallen again, bringing Sarah perilously close to the water’s surface. I grabbed her with both hands and pushed my feet through the mud, holding her high above my head. A frightened wail reassured me that she was still alive, and then my whole body fell against the bank, and I could feel that Sarah was on level ground. I let go.

With two hands free, I was able to dig my long fingers like talons into the muddy bank and haul myself painfully upward. My arms and legs felt like India-rubber, and I could feel scratches and scrapes over every inch of exposed skin, but somehow I managed to drag myself forward and up onto the rank, weedy growth of the riverbank. I grabbed Sarah and pulled myself forward another few feet, gasping and sobbing.

I did not have the strength to stand or even sit. I lay with Sarah clutched to my chest, and I could feel her tiny lungs heaving as she screamed loudly at first, then subsided into shivering sobs. My own breath was coming out in shudders, and I was oblivious to everything around us. So when a hand touched my shoulder, I fainted.

S
omeone patted my hand and my cheek. Someone called my name. I knew the voice, but my eyes didn’t want to open.

Then I remembered Sarah. I could not hear her. My eyelids flew apart.

Martin was kneeling on the ground beside me, doing irreparable damage to a rather good suit of clothes. The damage was being compounded by my muddy, gravelly, but wonderfully alive daughter, who had one hand firmly on Martin’s chest while the other grasped a thick stick of rock candy, the end of which was firmly plugged into her mouth. An expression of surprised bliss was in her eyes.

I was aware of a point of acute discomfort somewhere around my waistline. With the help of Martin’s free arm, I hauled myself into a sitting position, my wet skirts impeding every movement. I checked the sore place with my hand and encountered Mama’s purse of silver dollars, still firmly sewn into my dress.

Hiram.
“What happened to Hiram?” I asked, my voice a mere thread of sound.

Martin put Sarah into my arms and shrugged off his ruined jacket, wrapping it around both of us. He gestured toward the bank, which sloped slightly and was covered with sparse growth. The surface was scored by a mark about a foot long, ending at the riverbank.

“He slipped.” His voice was flat. “As simple as that. I saw him running full tilt toward you, and then suddenly his legs seemed to go out from under him. I saw his head hit that”‌—‌he indicated a half-fallen tree that overhung the riverbank‌—‌”as he went in.”

As simple as that. My fate and Sarah’s had been determined by a patch of loose, dry grass. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I believed in a providential God. Not Providence in Hiram’s arrogant terms, but a God of justice.

Martin stood up and moved carefully to the muddy edge where I had dragged myself out, scanning the river. I found the strength to stand and tottered over the uneven ground to join him. Martin raised his right hand and pointed.

About fifty yards beyond the weir was a collection of large rocks, sticking out of the water like a mouthful of teeth. They were a landmark to travelers, marking the beginning of forty miles of smooth sailing. They called the place Durand’s Point after some long-ago fur trader.

Caught in the rocks, bobbing up and down as the foaming current caught and released it, was a dark shape about six foot long. My stepfather had made one last gamble with fate, and this time he had lost.

I
heard shouts and the sound of footsteps crunching on dried leaves. Two men made their way toward us. One of them was perhaps in his forties, with the carefully plain suit and hat of a pastor, and the other was a muscular young man of about twenty, dressed for a day’s labor. Their long, thin faces and scanty blond hair indicated that they were related. The younger man had Martin’s horse by its bridle.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” asked the older man, clearly trying to take in the meaning of my soaked condition and Martin’s comparatively dry clothes.

“My stepfather.” I pointed in the direction of the rocks.

“Dear heaven!” The pastor’s eyes grew round as he saw the body. He swung to face the young man, who was stolidly contemplating the black shape in the water. “Stephen, my boy, as quick as you can. Get back to the farm and call for Nathaniel and Jacob to come back with you. We cannot leave… he will be torn …” He was clearly trying to avoid having to explain the need for urgency in removing the body, but I understood. If they did not get Hiram out whole, pieces of him would eventually wash up by the crossing. I shuddered, and Martin pressed his jacket more closely around my shoulders.

“We will be most grateful for your help.” Martin’s voice was curt.

The pastor stared at us with, I thought, rather a strange expression and then turned to his son. “Go now. Quickly.” The younger man threw the bridle at Martin and set off at a fast clip away from the river.

I shrugged my way out of Martin’s grasp and shoved Sarah at him. Stumbling away as far as I could, I vomited a large quantity of river water into the bushes.

When I returned, Martin and the pastor were still watching Hiram’s body tumble against the rocks. The pastor made a tut-tutting noise as I approached, wiping my mouth feebly. “You are most fortunate your husband was here to help you,” he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“He is not my husband.” Seeing the pastor’s eyes narrow, I hastened to add, “He is a family friend. My husband is‌—‌is dead.”

The minister screwed up his face, apparently thinking hard, but then seemed to relinquish the effort and addressed me with a small bow. “A deplorable situation in any event. But,” he added, seeming to recall where we were, “you are cold; let us take you to a warm fire and give you whatever aid we can offer. My son, Stephen, works on a farm close to here, and they can certainly make you and your‌—‌oh my, yes, your child,” his eyes focused on Sarah, a limp, wet bundle in Martin’s arms, “clean and comfortable. Perhaps, sir,” his eyes lifted to Martin’s face, “I could prevail upon you to take the young lady on your horse?”

“I have a horse and cart of my own, back there. Please, look after the poor animal; don’t leave him tied up there.” I pointed back along the trail.

After some discussion about who would do what‌—‌a ridiculous waste of time while I stood shivering despite the hot wind‌—‌Martin handed Sarah to me and swung his long legs over his horse’s back. The pastor and I watched Hiram’s body tumble in the turbulent water until I, in danger of being sick once more, was forced to turn away. I kept my eyes tight shut and hugged Sarah to me until Martin returned, leading my horse by the bridle with Hiram’s animal tied behind the cart.

At last we turned away from the riverbank. Behind us, the black shape rose and fell in the foaming waters, striking the rocks as it rose to the surface.

FIFTY

N
o more than an hour later I sat by a freshly lit fire, wrapped in several blankets. An intermittent plashing sound indicated the filling of a large tin bath in the next room. I still smelled of the river and had mud in my hair, but Sarah had needed a much smaller quantity of warm water to restore her to her sweet baby smell. She had nursed lustily and then fallen asleep in the crib Martin brought in from our cart.

“I hope she will not become ill from having swallowed all that water.” I peered at her anxiously, but her cheeks were rosy and her breathing regular.

“And mud.” Martin sat opposite me in his shirtsleeves, having completely abandoned his ruined jacket. His face was troubled. “What do we tell people about Hiram’s death?”

“What’s wrong with the truth?” I was sure that my face reflected the anger that had been slowly burning within me since I recovered my wits enough to think. “He threw‌—‌he threw her, Martin. You didn’t see it. My baby. A tiny baby, and he threw her‌—‌“ I could not continue because my throat was constricting with rage and the effort to keep my voice down.

“It was a good thing I decided to head up the road to meet you, my dear. You were late, you know.” Martin reached out to my hand and then seemed to recoil from the idea. “But Nell, think. The pastor is already suspicious of the two of us‌—‌have you not realized that yet? He thinks we are lovers, I believe.”

I felt my face flame up with a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and some other emotion I could not, at that moment, identify. “On what grounds?”

“You were fleeing from your stepfather to meet me. With a baby. And he only has to ask a few people in Victory about the husband that nobody has ever seen and that nobody can quite bring themselves to believe in.” Martin’s smile was grim. “Of course, my own reputation would be immeasurably improved by the notion that I am your lover.”

My hands curled into fists, and I could feel my fingernails digging into my palms. I spent a few moments staring into the spitting fire, but my mind seemed to be moving with extreme slowness. Finally I looked up at Martin who was waiting patiently for my answer, the reflection of the flames turning his white-blond hair to an orange hue and darkening his pale skin.

“What would you have me do?”

Martin’s face was grave. “We must take a risk, Nell. Do you think anyone in Victory knows he had come after you?”

“I’m not sure.” I thought hard. “He said that he saw me leaving. Do you think he would have shown much emotion as he began to follow me? I think not, Martin. Hiram always tried to hide his emotions.” It was so strange speaking of my stepfather in the past tense. “It is possible he simply rode off quite calmly.”

“If that is the case, then you should say that you and he were riding together to meet me. Tell them‌—‌the pastor, I suppose, and all the others who will want to hear the story‌—‌that you foolishly took Sarah near to the river edge to see the water and fell in. And that Hiram was trying to save you.”

I felt a cold lump grow in my belly. “Then Hiram would look like a hero.”

“If we try to make him look like a murderer‌—‌“

“Which he is,” I interrupted.

“‌—‌Which he is, yes, but if we accuse him, we will have to show some evidence. Do we have any? If he is a hero, the town will be too busy lauding his name and commiserating you on his loss to enquire much further.”

“But‌—‌another lie, Martin.” I bit my lip. “Even a lie told for a good purpose has a way of perpetuating itself, doesn’t it? Look at all the trouble I caused by refusing to tell the truth about Sarah’s father.”

A small smile curved Martin’s lips, but then a thought struck him and he looked anxious. “Did you refuse to tell because it would ruin the man?”

I grimaced and glanced over at the young woman who had just come from tipping another large quantity of water into the tub. Our conversation had been in whispers, and we were obviously arousing her curiosity.

“Not at all, Martin. He was perfectly free to marry me. I did not wish it, is all. I wished for him to continue his own path and me mine. He does not even know.”

Martin’s frown deepened. “That is also an injustice, Nell. A man should know his children.”