The House of Closed Doors (38 page)

“And the lie of omission that I decided upon will doubtless follow me wherever I go.” I squared my shoulders and looked Martin in the face. “It would not… I mean, the time for writing to him is past. He is engaged to be married.”

Martin opened his mouth as if a thought had just struck him, but a cough made us both look up.

“Miss?” The young woman, one of the farmer’s daughters, was standing at the door. “You should come and wash now. Your friend”‌—‌indicating Martin‌—‌“brought your trunk in from the cart, so all your clean clothes will be ready for you. It’s not next to the fire, but we thought you’d rather have a bit of privacy; anyways, it’s warm enough in there.”

Martin stood and held out a hand. “Up you come. Go and make yourself clean and presentable, and we will tend to Sarah if she wakes. And then I will take you home.”

B
y the time I emerged from the room‌—‌clean, dry, and respectably dressed once more‌—‌Sarah was awake, and Martin was playing with her. Also in the room was the pastor, and his manner had quite changed.

“My dear young lady,” he said as I entered the room, “why did you not tell me that your noble stepfather lost his life trying to save you?”

Martin forestalled my answer. “She has had a terrible shock, Pastor. I do not believe even now that she is able to speak of this day’s events.”

I nodded in silence, responding to Martin’s warning look.

“Let me assure you, Madam, that we have retrieved the poor man’s, er, mortal frame and will transport it to Victory for you.” The pastor hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was going to make a speech. Realizing that my legs were barely supporting me, I sat down and Martin immediately leaped to his feet, causing Sarah to coo with delight at the movement.

“I must take her home, my dear sir. I owe you a debt of the deepest gratitude for your help, but now Mrs. Govender needs rest and quiet.” Handing Sarah to me, he steered the pastor out of the room, talking to him in a low voice. The preacher may not have realized how his voice carried, because I heard him say, “Well, you must look after her. Obviously she is not very careful for her own safety.”

I swallowed abruptly, tears stinging my eyes. No, obviously I was not. I saw again my baby, her arms flailing as she flew through the air. I saw pale blue eyes shining out of an empurpled face. And then I began at last to cry, holding Sarah tightly to me, feeling the reassuring warmth of her tiny body against mine.

FIFTY-ONE

T
wo days later I stood staring into the hole that held my mother and which was now to receive Hiram. A layer of earth covered Mama’s casket, of course, but it was so soon after her own burial that I could still see stray petals from the flowers that had decorated her grave. Martin held my arm; as I was the only family of my mother and stepfather, he had insisted that, as my oldest friend, he would stand by my side. Bet was on the other side of the hole, sniffling noisily into a black-bordered handkerchief, and the rest of the mourners‌—‌Hiram’s political cronies, Mother’s lady friends, and a host of store-owners and other respectable citizens of Victory‌—‌milled around at the end of the grave, nodding to acquaintances and exchanging remarks on the sadness of the occasion.

The service at the church had gone on for what seemed like a thousand years. As Hiram’s friends had sung his praises for rescuing me from the river, I could feel my jaw clench, and it was all I could do not to shout out the truth right there in the church. And then the endless line of people offering their condolences‌—‌Martin stood to one side and slightly behind me, just, as he said, to catch me if I fainted. That remark had brought a smile to my lips, but it was the only one that day.

I hated, hated, hated that my mother was buried with Hiram, in sight of my father’s grave. If the good people of Victory knew the truth about Hiram, I thought as I stared down into the chasm of brown clay and tried not to think of Mama in her coffin, they would bury him in the weediest, most neglected corner of the burial ground, along with the illegitimate children and suicides. They would spit on the mound and place no flowers there. Hiram deserved to become a legend of evil, a cautionary tale of how Victory nearly elected a murderer as its mayor.

But I remained silent. I let them believe that Hiram was a hero who had rescued me and my child from the river and lost his life in the deed. Nobody asked where we had been going that day, and neither Martin nor I volunteered any information. To speak of any of the true events of that day would unravel the whole fabric of lies that my life had become since the day I began flirting with Cousin Jack Venton. And I chose to stay snug inside that cocoon of lies, protected by the reticence that prevailed in this respectable town against gossiping, against prying, against inadvertently encountering the truth.

At long last it was over. No wake had taken place; Hiram was in no fit condition to be put on display. In lieu of entertaining half of Victory to a mourning feast for the second time in a month, I had made a donation to the Society for the Relief of the Deserving Poor.

“I
will tell Mrs. Lombardi the truth.” I was sitting on the red settee, staring at Mama’s chair opposite. The home I thought I had left forever was now, presumably, mine; in the next few days I would have to meet with Hiram’s lawyer and sort through the tedious details of his life, matters about which I was entirely in the dark.

Martin was perched on the very edge of Hiram’s chair as if he barely wished to associate himself with it. I would have to have those chairs replaced, I thought. Then I realized that I was thinking in terms of staying in Victory. Did I really want to do that and face down the gossips and the rumors as Sarah grew older?

“I will still go to Chicago, Martin. Mrs. Lombardi will be there by now and will stay for at least two weeks, she said. So I will visit her there, tell her the truth, and ask her advice. Somebody other than you or I should know the truth about Hiram.” I felt my jaw tighten. Twice in the last two nights I had woken up whimpering in fear, feeling sure that Hiram was in the house with me and would break down my door to kill me and my baby. I was sure that these fears would pass, but… I looked around the excessively elaborate parlor with its heavy furniture and multiplicity of knickknacks, antimacassars, lace curtains, and all the trimmings of respectability and felt more trapped than I ever had at the Farm.

I leaped to my feet and headed to the window, staring blindly out of the panes at the quiet street beyond. I heard Martin move behind me, and then he was gently turning me to face him, grasping my wrists and moving his thumbs along the backs of my hands in a way that made me feel quite peculiar, as if I were once more gasping for air in the river.

“Nell …” The word hung suspended in midair for a moment, and then Martin took a deep breath and smiled, kissing my forehead gently. “You are a brave woman. Yes, by all means talk with your Mrs. Lombardi. I would quite like to meet her‌—‌shall I come with you? Whatever you decide, my dear, I will help you to carry out your plans.”

I smiled, but my heart was not in the smile. I had complicated my life terribly, hadn’t I? The simplest course of action seemed to be to start again, and a new life would not include the man who was standing before me, dearer to me than a brother.

I shook myself mentally, withdrawing my hands from Martin’s and crossing to the bellpull to ring for Bet. “Will you take tea with me, Mr. Rutherford?”

Understanding that I needed to change the mood, Martin grinned and bowed with an ironic air. “Certainly, my dear Mrs. Govender.”

“And another thing.” I put my hands on my hips. “Whatever happens, I will get rid of that stupid name. I will be Nell Lillington or nothing.”

FIFTY-TWO

T
he direction my life would take was decided for me the next day.

Leopold Buchman, Hiram’s man of business, had only just returned from a month’s visit to Baltimore and had missed the funeral. He duly presented himself at my mother’s‌—‌my‌—‌house on October the sixth and was shown into the parlor. I came in a few minutes later, having handed Sarah over to Marie, straightened my mussed hair and wiped a few baby-related stains from my black dress.

Mr. Buchman greeted me with a quaint European bow and handed me to a chair. He was a small, slender man, with pale skin and tight black curls of hair surrounding a bald pate. He had a metal box with him, marked “H. Jackson, Esq.”